A Secret and Unlawful Killing

by Cora Harrison

  TWENTY-ONE

  MÍASHLECHTA (SECTIONS ON RANK)

  The king’s justice is the most important thing in each kingdom. If the king is just, his reign will be peaceful and prosperous, whereas if he is guilty of injustice, the soil and the elements will rebel against him. There will be infertility of women and cattle, crop-failures, dearth of fish, defeat in battle, plagues and lightning storms throughout the land.

  MARA THOUGHT THAT POULNABRONE had never looked so beautiful as it did on that afternoon of 11 October. There had been a shower of rain and the pavements shone as if they had been polished. The low sun of an autumn afternoon etched sharp black shadows of sculpted rock over the smooth surface of the clints; and the waterworn grykes, between the slabs of grey stone, were filled with the glowing plum colour of the burnet rose leaves and the silver latticework of the carline thistles.

  She took her place silently beside the great dolmen and ran her hand for a moment over the rough edges of the giant capstone. How long had it been here, she wondered, and how much longer would it last? It had seen so much in its lifetime. Would anyone ever be able to unlock its secrets?

  The six scholars arrived and bowed to her. She bowed back gravely, but did not speak. Normally she moved amongst the crowd before the court began, but today she did not. She just stood there impassively, holding the scroll of vellum in her hand. There were three large leaves rolled up inside it. She would deal with the cases one by one and she would do justice to all.

  Turlough came just as the bell sounded for vespers. He was alone except for his two bodyguards. She looked keenly around after him, but Murrough was not there. She had half hoped, half feared that he would come. Would Turlough have felt humiliated if Murrough had made full confession, she wondered, or would he have been proud of his son? The king made his way through the crowd, who drew back to allow him past. He ignored the four taoiseachs, the O‘Lochlainn, the O’Connor, the O’Brien and the MacNamara. They all had advanced towards him to meet and greet him as usual, but then they withdrew, seeing that he had no mind for conversation. Turlough bowed to Mara stiffly and she returned the courtesy. His face was set in strong, heavy lines. Suddenly he looked old.

  Mara moved forward, greeted the crowd, paused for a second while the traditional blessing came back from them, and then unfurled the scroll. She selected one leaf and handed the other two back to Fachtnan.

  ‘The first case today deals with the inheritance of Niall MacNamara. The case is that …’

  As she read from the scroll, she glanced occasionally at Garrett MacNamara’s face. He looked ill at ease and from time to time he licked his lips nervously. Slaney was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Niall can not be here today as he has had an accident,’ finished Mara, rolling up the scroll again. She slightly emphasized the word ‘accident’. No doubt there would be all sorts of rumours circulating about Niall’s non-appearance. ‘However,’ she went on, ‘on his behalf, I will call the witnesses. Who here can give evidence that Aengus MacNamara, the miller of Oughtmama, recognized Niall as his son?’

  Instantly Ardal O’Lochlainn moved forward.

  ‘Aengus MacNamara bought land from me a few years ago. He bought it to give to Niall on his eighteenth birthday. It was land sufficient to give Niall the status of an ocaire, such as a father would give to his son on attaining manhood. I certainly understood that Aengus was buying it for a son.’ Ardal’s voice was clear and full of authority. Mara glanced from him to Turlough, but the king’s face bore no trace of interest. She looked back at the crowd.

  ‘The O’Lochlainn has given his evidence. Is there anyone else wishes to say anything to support or to deny the assumption that Aengus acknowledged Niall as his son, born of the union between the miller and his servant, Cliodhna, now dead?’

  There was no movement from any of the MacNamara clan and Garrett, their taoiseach, just gazed ahead as if he had little interest in the affair. Had he found out about Slaney? wondered Mara. If so, he would be quite within his legal rights to divorce her. Would he dare? Mara was so interested in this thought that for a moment she hardly heard a voice saying: ‘I have some evidence to give.’ And then her eyes were caught by the stocky figure of a young man pushing his way to the front.

  ‘Yes, Brian?’ she said encouragingly. Brian O’Lochlainn was one of the shepherds that worked for Ardal. He was a young man, only about nineteen, she thought. He was blushing furiously now with the eyes of the crowd upon him and she hastened to put him at ease by moving slightly so now he faced her and had his back to the crowd.

  ‘You tend the sheep for the O’Lochlainn?’ she asked. ‘Do you work on the mountains above Oughtmama?’

  He seized on her words gratefully. ‘That’s right, Brehon. We run the sheep on the mountain and just bring them down to the valley at shearing time. About a year ago, in early June, I was bringing down the sheep and I wanted someone to lift the sluice gate by the stream at Oughtmama, just where it enters the mill race. We always do this when we bring down the sheep. It saves breaking down the walls and having to build them up again, you see, Brehon,’ he said earnestly.

  Mara nodded. ‘I can see that,’ she said. ‘And of course, at that time of year the water would be flowing slowly, so the sheep would easily be able to walk down the stream bed. So what happened then?’

  ‘Well, I went in to ask Aengus and he was busy weighing sacks of flour so he said to me, “Ask my son, he’s here today. He’ll help you.” And then he shouted down for Niall and Niall came up from the yard and held the gate for me.’

  ‘And these were his very words?’ asked Mara carefully. ‘He said: “Ask my son, he’ll help you.” And he shouted for Niall, not Balor? There was no chance that he might have meant Balor?’

  ‘These were his very words, Brehon,’ said Brian emphatically. ‘Balor was nowhere to be seen. He had gone to work for Fintan, the blacksmith, by this time.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara. Once again she cast a glance over towards Garrett, but he did not look at her, or even seem to be interested in the evidence.

  ‘Thank you very much, Brian,’ she said. ‘That is very valuable evidence.’ She turned away from him quickly. She would prefer it if he did not blurt out any unwise disclosure such as that he had been asked by his taoiseach to do this. Ardal, of course, was the soul of honour, he would never ask a man to lie, but it had been quick-witted of him to think of Brian. There was no doubt that the shepherd would have had plenty of contact with the mill. It was typical of Ardal’s efficiency that he would have gone up the mountain one day during the week and interviewed Brian, arranged for a substitute shepherd and made sure that Brian was present at Poulnabrone at the correct time. In her mind, Mara saluted his enterprise but she did not want any link between himself and Brian to be uncovered, so she spoke rapidly now.

  ‘Has anyone got any more evidence to put forward on this case?’

  Once again she looked at Garrett, and once again he avoided her eyes. It was obvious that he had decided not to contest this case. She looked towards Turlough; as king, he should now at least be giving a nominal sign of having come to a conclusion, but he still seemed wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts so she concluded the matter, saying briefly, ‘Well, in that case, I find that Niall MacNamara was recognized as the son of Aengus the miller and that he inherits his father’s goods and he has the permission of this court to uncover his father’s hearth.’

  Mara turned towards Fachtnan, holding out her hand, and he gave her the second leaf of vellum. She unscrolled it, read it through briefly and then rolled it up again.

  ‘This matter deals with the murder of Ragnall, steward to the MacNamara, in the churchyard at Noughaval on Michaelmas Day, at, or around the time of, sundown. Ragnall was killed by a blow to the forehead, from a small stone cross. Has anyone any knowledge of this affair?’

  ‘I have, Brehon,’ said Donal O’Brien, coming forward steadily and taking his place beside her. His colour was high, but his eyes were steady with courage. H
is father, Teige, stood up and deliberately moved closer to his son and then sat down on a low boulder nearby. He said nothing, but the show of unity was unmistakeable.

  ‘I hit Ragnall on the side of the head with my fist,’ said Donal. ‘I knocked him unconscious and I went away and left him there. I admit the crime of assaulting an old man and then abandoning him.’

  ‘Was Ragnall still alive when you left him?’ asked Mara.

  Donal met her eyes. ‘He was, Brehon,’ he said. ‘He was unconscious, but he was definitely alive. He groaned just before I left. I thought he was coming to and I left quickly so that I would not lose my temper again.’

  ‘So you are telling me that you were not the man who struck the blow with the stone cross?’ asked Mara. She tried to make her tones sound both probing and sceptical, but already her mind had left this case and had gone ahead to the second murder.

  ‘I am sure that he was alive, Brehon,’ said Donal respectfully, ‘and I am sure that I only hit him with my fist. He was an old man and he was the father of the girl that I love. I deeply regret what I have done and I am willing to pay whatever fine you impose, but I did not kill the man.’

  ‘Has anyone else anything to say?’ asked Mara looking around.

  ‘I would like to say that Donal came to me immediately and told me what he had done,’ said Maeve, stepping forward bravely. ‘I believed what he said and several times, during the next hour or so, we kept listening for my father. When he didn’t come, Donal went back. If he were still unconscious he was going to carry him back and help me to tend him. When he found that someone had killed my father, I was the one who persuaded him not to say anything. I was afraid that he might be blamed. The fault is mine as much as his.’

  ‘No, the fault is mine,’ insisted Donal, looking fondly at his beloved.

  I’d better put a stop to this, thought Mara. Aloud she said, ‘Thank you, Maeve, you may return to your place. Has anyone else anything to say?’ She looked around but no one moved.

  ‘Donal O’Brien,’ she said, ‘I find you guilty of assaulting Ragnall MacNamara, steward, and causing him grievous injury on the evening of Michaelmas Day. I find you not guilty of Ragnall’s murder. I examined him myself and I saw that two blows had been struck: one was probably with a fist and the other, the blow that killed him, was struck with a stone cross. This crime was the work of another man and it appears very likely that the crime was committed by a man who is now dead.’

  All the time that Mara was allocating the fine to Donal and listening to his formal expression of regret, her mind was on Turlough. His behaviour was strange. What was going to happen? Was Murrough going to turn up and defend himself, or was Turlough hoping that the case would not be mentioned, or that he could forbid the discussion of it? And then the matter was finished. Donal returned to his place and still there was no move from the king.

  Mara waited for a moment. There was an audible murmur of appreciation rippling through the crowd. Donal’s open confession and expression of regret would stand him in good stead in the future with the people. There were many smiles of sympathy as Maeve slipped her hand into his as he returned to his position by her side.

  Mara allowed the murmur to die down before signalling to Fachtnan. He handed the final leaf of vellum to her. She glanced through it for a moment, less to familiarize herself with its contents than to give herself an extra moment before facing her ordeal.

  ‘Last case,’ she said then, her voice crisp and unemotional. She rolled up the vellum and held the scroll lightly in her right hand. ‘Aengus MacNamara, miller, of Oughtmama, was slain on the eve of Michaelmas.’ She paused and looked around at the crowd. All eyes had now left hers. Startled, she followed their direction and saw that Turlough had risen to his feet and was striding towards her. He bowed stiffly to her, but did not meet her eyes.

  ‘My lady judge,’ he said formally. For the first time since she had met him, his tone had all the regal tones of a king of three kingdoms. ‘With your permission, I would wish to speak on this matter.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’ Her tone was as steady and formal as his own. Her eyes met his and they did not waver. She hoped that she had conveyed to him the strength of her purpose. Then she moved away and sat on the boulder from which he had risen and turned her face attentively towards him. There was a long moment before he spoke, but when he did, his voice rang out like that of a chief on the battlefield.

  ‘My friends, for almost ten years I have been coming here to judgement days at Poulnabrone on the Burren. During all of these ten years, I have just sat here and listened to your Brehon. Throughout the whole of that time, I have never felt that I needed to intervene, that I needed to take matters into my own hands. Every case has been dealt with by Mara, the Brehon of the Burren, showing the wisdom that understands the law and the compassion that understands the person.’

  He stopped for a moment and looked around. His eyes did not meet Mara’s, but she knew that he had made eye contact with many of the crowd. Every face was intent upon him.

  ‘So you will ask me why I am intervening now, why I am speaking to you about this second murder in your community, the murder of an elderly man on the eve of Michaelmas.’

  Again there was a pause, but no one moved and no one spoke. Turlough turned over one large hand and examined the palm as if to read something from the lines engraved upon it.

  ‘I come from a warlike race,’ he said suddenly, raising his head proudly. ‘My great ancestor, Brian Boru, named Brian of the Tributes, slew many men in his time, and so did the sons and the grandsons and the great-grandsons that came after him. Their names and their deeds will be well known to you; the bards and the fíles have repeated them in song and stories. And so have the names of the other O’Briens been renowned: my namesake, Turlough of the Triumphs, son of Teige-of-the-Narrow-Waters; Dermot, son of Turlough; Brian-of-the-Battles, his grandson; Donough-of-the-Chessboard; and then there was Teige the Bone-splitter; his grandson, Teige of Coad, my own father, son of Turlough Beg; and then my father’s successors, my uncles, Conor na Sróna, he of the big nose; and The Gilladuff – all of these men have fought with sword in hand from the age when they could first heft the weight of a weapon, but none of them …’

  Here he smashed down a large fist on the capstone of the dolmen and raised his voice from the low steady tone to a warlike shout.

  ‘Not one of them, I say, would have murdered an old man who had seen him bedding a harlot. Not one of them!’

  Mara tried to look at Garrett MacNamara without turning her head and then realized that everyone else in the large assembly was doing the same. It appeared that Niall had confided in Maol and the word had spread rapidly through the Burren. This accounted for Slaney’s absence today. Hastily, Mara turned her eyes back to Turlough. He had paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead and now his voice was very low.

  ‘And not one of them,’ he repeated, but this time so quietly that the crowd strained to hear his words, ‘not one of them would have tried to place the guilt of his crime upon the innocent shoulders of his young cousin.’

  Suddenly came the bell-like beating of the wings of ten great white swans, flying east above the heads of the crowd. Everyone looked up. Those swans would not be seen again until spring. Turlough watched them for a moment until they disappeared and when he spoke again his voice was still low, and now broken with sorrow.

  ‘Now I name him to you, I name this man who is the secret and unlawful killer of Aengus MacNamara, the miller of Oughtmama: it is Murrough Mac Turlough, Mac Teige, Mac Turlough Beg, descendant of Brian Boru, once my son, but now a son no longer. He has fled to England, and the kingdoms of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren will know him no more. Today here, before you all, I declare him to be a man without honour.’ He paused for a moment, his eyes bent on the ground and then he raised them and said slowly and heavily: ‘That man has lost his honour price.’

  Then there was a murmur from the crowd. It was a terrible thing for anyone
to lose their honour price. The lóg n-enech, the price of his face, was the most important possession of any man in the Gaelic kingdom. Without that, he was as nothing, just a cu glas, a homeless and landless cur. The people of the Burren glanced at each other with horror on their faces. There was compassion in their faces, also, but the compassion was for the father.

  ‘Now go in peace,’ said Turlough in broken tones. ‘And in your charity, pray tonight for your king who has one son dying and the other lost to him forever.’

  He watched them as they went, moving quickly and silently as if they sought the shelter of their own homes and fireplaces as a refuge from such heavy sorrow. Rapidly they left the townland of Poulnabrone, walking across the great stone slabs in twos and threes, heads together, no loud voices, just the swelling of a shocked murmur, and the king watched them until the sound of their words ceased and all were gone. Then Turlough crossed over and sat beside Mara.

  ‘Say something to comfort me,’ he said with all the childlike simplicity which was so much part of the man. He held out his large hand to her.

  Mara took his hand and laced her long fingers in between his.

  ‘With the help of God and of the Blessed Mary, Mother of the Holy Child,’ she said, ‘I will give you a son to be proud of.’

  Also by Cora Harrison

  My Lady Judge

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A SECRET AND UNLAWFUL KILLING. Copyright © 2008 by Cora Harrison. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  First published as Michaelmas Tribute: A Burren Mystery by Macmillan, an imprint of Pam Macmillan Ltd