An Unjust Judge

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Let’s go for a walk, Niall.’ Mara seized the opportunity. He was looking dismayed at the prospect of being pushed into this scrubbing and brushing that was going on around him. There was no sign of Orlaith so either she had not turned up or else Brigid had rapidly got rid of one whose standards of housekeeping and cleanliness had fallen so far beneath her own.

  ‘Ríanne should have seen to all that,’ muttered Niall as they walked across the grass. It was still thick and green and their feet made track marks on its mist-covered surface. ‘That was her place.’ He sounded defensive and annoyed.

  ‘Or you, perhaps, or Brehon O’Doran. I suppose you were both older than Ríanne,’ said Mara. He seemed taken aback at that so before he recovered she said rapidly, ‘You don’t like her much, do you?’

  He turned to face her, almost defiantly. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘She’s stupid.’

  ‘But you grew up together. You must have been friends at some stage. And,’ added Mara with a smile, ‘you told me she was quite clever.’

  ‘When we were young.’

  Mara did not smile. There was something false about his manner. She caught his sidelong glance at her. He was trying to gauge the effect of his words. She kept her face blank. He was older than Cael and Cian, too old for a silly statement like that. And he would not be stupid. The MacEgan law schools had a reputation for very high standards and, judging by what she had heard, they were quick to weed out any unsuitable boys at an early age.

  ‘I don’t have too much to do with her these days,’ he added after a few moments. He was one who liked to fill a silence, she noticed. A sign of guilt, sometimes, but, on the other hand, the boy was young and it had been a difficult few days for him. She would reserve judgement until she probed a little deeper.

  ‘You must have got a terrible shock when you discovered the body,’ she said sympathetically. ‘It was quick-witted of you to see that the man was dead. It must have been difficult with that seawater pouring down like that.’

  ‘Oh, it was dead tide, then,’ he said. ‘There was no water coming from the blowhole. It only comes out when the tide is in.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Mara, exasperated with herself. ‘I hadn’t realized that. No one has mentioned that before. So it only spouts out at high tide.’

  ‘About an hour each way,’ he said relaxing a little at the prospect of enlightening her. ‘The tide turns every six hours, in and out, so you get a high tide every twelve hours,’ he explained.

  ‘So on Friday night, on the night when Brehon O’Doran was murdered, what time was high tide, on that night?’

  ‘Eight o’clock,’ he said promptly. ‘Just about the time that bells rang for compline.’

  ‘How are you so sure?’ she asked. She had thought of suppressing the question but then decided to ask it. It would be interesting to see how he accounted for his knowledge.

  He looked a little taken aback. ‘We, I … well, there wasn’t anything to do so I used to walk up to the cliffs and have a look at the blowhole. I’d never seen anything like it. I’ve seen the sea at New Ross and at Waterford, but it’s different here. Much wilder, the waves are much higher and more violent and there aren’t those big holes in the cliffs, back in Ossory. Not so windy, either.’

  He was talking for the sake of talking, Mara decided. Again the comments were naïve, were those of a younger child. Was the flow of remarks an attempt to cover up the word ‘we’ that he had used?

  ‘When you say “we”, do you mean yourself and Ríanne?’ she asked.

  He thought about that for a moment and then said hesitantly, ‘I meant myself and my master, Brehon O’Doran.’

  Unlikely, thought Mara. Somehow she could not imagine Gaibrial O’Doran wasting time looking at the tide. From what she had heard, he had spent that week talking to people, accumulating cases for his first judgement day.

  ‘Let’s walk down to Bones’ Bay,’ she said. ‘I want to see how Fergus is getting on. The king said that he was very upset after the judgement day. People will carry stories to him as though he were still the Brehon and could do something about it. It upset him badly, apparently.’

  ‘He’s doddering, isn’t he? Does he ever make sense these days?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ she answered the question but felt that he might have been better not asking it. ‘In fact,’ she went on, ‘there are times when he can be very sensible. He forgets so much, but some things stick in his mind. I’ve been surprised from time to time about how sharp he can be.’ She looked sideways at Niall. ‘I’m sure that I have no need to tell you to treat him with the utmost respect.’

  ‘I think that I’d throw myself over the cliff if I were he,’ he muttered and she pretended not to hear him. Honesty compelled her to admit that she shared his feeling. However, Turlough, a sensitive man despite his loud voice and blunt manners, thought that Fergus was, in the main, happy. He has changed into a different way of life, was how Turlough put it. He had become fascinated and thrilled by wild flowers, by the herbs that grew on the wayside, by the tiny birds that sang in the hedgerows and the jolly little puffins that nested in Crab Island just across from the house where Turlough had placed Fergus, just above the small bay. The woman who looked after him encouraged him to go out for daily walks, to gather leaves from the bushes, herbs from the cliffs, berries to make into preserves, nuts from the hazel grove in a hollow near to Fisher Street and seaweed to boil for winter coughs and colds.

  ‘Be polite and courteous to him when you talk with him,’ she said sharply. ‘Remember that he was a highly esteemed Brehon for many long years, not just before you were born, but before I was born. He deserves our respect now, as well as our protection.’

  No need to lecture Ríanne, she thought with satisfaction when they went into the small cottage overlooking the bay. The girl was sitting, literally at Fergus’ feet, her large dark eyes fixed on him, her hands folded on her knees as he chanted.

  Refection according to rank,

  Contention in the host,

  Cudgels in the alehouse,

  Contracts made in drunkenness,

  And then, Fergus, not even noticing the arrival of Mara followed by Niall, leaned over and said confidentially in Ríanne’s ear, ‘Of course, you must remember that this doesn’t count when they are making a contract to help each other with the mowing. Everyone is always drunk then!’

  Ríanne giggled appreciatively at this and Fergus sat back in his chair with a pleased smile on his face.

  ‘This is the best scholar I’ve ever had,’ he said to Mara. He showed no surprise at her presence and seemed to think that she had been there for some time.

  ‘Passed every examination with top marks,’ he continued beaming proudly at Ríanne. ‘Tell …’ He hesitated for a moment, staring intently at Mara, and a distressed look passed over his face. He had obviously forgotten her name. He whispered in Ríanne’s ear.

  ‘Mara is her name,’ said Ríanne with a beaming smile and then a slightly apologetic look. ‘I call her Brehon, of course.’

  ‘So, you’re learning the law, Ríanne,’ said Mara, seating herself. There was no sign of the couple who looked after Fergus, so she supposed that he had been left in the care of Ríanne for the moment. She had thought to ask the girl to accompany them back to the Brehon’s house, but it appeared that would not be possible, just now. Fergus might not be safe to be left alone with a fire burning in the hearth, although, from what Turlough had told her, the old man was still able to go on unaccompanied walks. Perhaps, she could put a few questions here, but she would have to see how talking about the murder would go. Ríanne might be upset and that would upset Fergus, also. For the moment, however, she would just chat to the girl.

  ‘Yes, Brehon MacClancy is teaching me a lot,’ said Ríanne and Mara warmed towards the girl. ‘We’ve been going through all of the wisdom texts and I am remembering more and more of them, aren’t I, Brehon?’ she leaned across and touched his hand. Dear old Fergus was beaming with delight
. ‘Though I did know some law already, didn’t I?’ she added. Niall gave an amused snort of laughter and Ríanne’s face changed. ‘Though Niall will probably tell you that I am stupid and know nothing.’ She looked with dislike at the boy and he scowled back at her.

  ‘No, you don’t know much law. You’re just making it up,’ he said angrily.

  ‘The penalty for a secret and unlawful killing is twelve séts, or six ounces of silver, or six milch cows, in addition to the honour price of the victim,’ she said. She uttered the maxim, not in the sing-song manner of a scholar, but slowly and deliberately, looking not at Fergus, but straight at Niall’s eyes.

  He flushed angrily. ‘And how about the penalty for telling lies about someone,’ he said.

  ‘What’s he saying to you? What’s he doing? He’s upsetting you, isn’t he? Where did that boy come from? Get out of my house,’ roared Fergus and Niall started with alarm. Mara placed a soothing hand on the old man’s sleeve.

  ‘No, Fergus, don’t distress yourself. These two are friends. They were brought up together. You know the way that scholars just make jokes and tease each other. Don’t let it bother you. Niall, why don’t you go for a walk on the beach for a little while?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Ríanne impatiently. ‘Can’t you see that you are upsetting him? It’s just like you to stay where you are not wanted.’

  ‘You’re one to talk,’ scoffed Niall, but Fergus rose up from his chair and Niall moved quickly to the door.

  But before he reached it, the door swung open and in came – not Gobnait nor her husband, as Mara was hoping – but Boetius MacClancy.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ snapped Mara. She was alarmed to find him confident enough to stride into the old man’s house without even the courtesy of a knock. Fergus was in no condition to defend himself from his grasping and devious nephew.

  ‘I’ve come to see my dear uncle,’ said Boetius smoothly. ‘You do remember that he is my uncle, don’t you, Brehon?’

  ‘I remember everything about you, Boetius,’ said Mara eyeing him steadily. ‘I remember your conduct, I remember how you allied yourself with the enemies of Ireland and of your king. And I remember that I banished you from the kingdom.’

  ‘Ten years ago,’ said Boetius. ‘And, may I remind you, ten years have now passed. So here I am again, coming for what is owed to me. I am the only living relative of Fergus. I should have been summoned before now to take command of his affairs.’ He cast a look, half-pitying, half-contemptuous in Fergus’s direction. Niall had, by now, sidled out of the doorway, going, no doubt, in search of Gobnait and her husband. Fergus gazed back placidly at his nephew. The presence of Boetius had not disturbed him in the way that the presence of Niall had interrupted his peaceful time with Ríanne.

  ‘You see,’ said Boetius, assuming a false air of puzzlement, ‘you see, I must acknowledge myself to be bemused. You, Mara, are the wife of the king. But you are also Brehon of the Burren, one of the three kingdoms of King Turlough Donn. Now, no doubt because the people of the Burren had known your father and were prepared to accept his heir, even though that was a mere daughter …’ Boetius eyed Mara, but she gazed back at him steadfastly. Nothing that man can say will move me, she promised herself, thinking back to that terrible time when Boetius had had her at his mercy.

  ‘As I say,’ resumed Boetius, ‘it does seem very strange to any student of ancient laws that you can be both the wife of the king and his servant the Brehon. After all, it was always said that if the Brehon gave a false judgement, then the people could appeal to the king.’ Boetius paused dramatically and then said in a loud clear voice, ‘Appeal to the king against his own wife! Expect the king to give judgement against one that shares his bed and his board? Surely that is inconceivable!’ He gazed at her with triumph and Fergus looked from one to the other with a bewildered expression.

  ‘But, when it comes to taking command of the land of Corcomroe, of the ancient territory where the MacClancys fulfilled the laws of their king, right back into the ages, well, now, I, Boetius MacClancy, nephew of the last Brehon, descended from the same great-grandfather, now I say, this Brehon of this land here is a MacClancy and I, the heir to the MacClancy clan, say that you, Mara O’Davoren, are a usurper in this land. What do you say, Fergus?’ he said turning to his uncle. ‘I am right, am I not? The MacClancy clan have been and are the lawful Brehons in this land of north-west Corcomroe.’

  ‘You’re right, indeed,’ said the quavering voice of Fergus. He was looking at Boetius with a slavish smile of admiration.

  ‘And I am your heir, am I not?’ questioned Boetius.

  ‘You are my heir, Boetius,’ confirmed Fergus.

  ‘You see, Brehon,’ said Boetius, ‘there is no coercion, no force, no bribes. Fergus, my uncle, a man without wife or without sons, he confirms that I, Boetius, son of his late brother, am now the lawful heir to his goods, his lands, and his position as Brehon of north-west Corcomroe.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Fergus, nodding his head. ‘It goes down from father to son,’ he explained to Ríanne, ‘and since I have no son, so it goes sideways to my nephew Boetius.’ Once again he beamed happily at Boetius. ‘I’d trust him with my life,’ he said.

  ‘There you are, my lady judge,’ said Boetius grinning maliciously at her. His small green eyes twinkled and his red beard, cut into the spade-like shape popular among the English, jutted forward aggressively. ‘There is no reason why you cannot tell the people of the kingdom that I am now their Brehon, is there, Fergus?’

  Fergus looked a little puzzled but nodded obediently.

  Ríanne looked from one to the other, her eyes sharp with interest.

  Niall said, ‘But …’ And then stopped.

  ‘Don’t worry about anything, Fergus,’ said Mara trying to keep the note of anger from her voice. ‘You know that the king will settle everything. You do not need to concern yourself.’

  ‘I assure you that the king is perfectly happy that I take over the legal affairs of this place.’ Boetius continued to smile.

  ‘I don’t believe that the king has said a word on the subject,’ said Mara stonily, though the recollection of the way in which Turlough had filled the vacancy for Brehon by appointing Gaibrial O’Doran made her slightly uneasy. But then she remembered.

  ‘The king told me himself that he had rejected your application,’ she said.

  ‘The king!’ Boetius raised the almost invisible pale ginger lines of his eyebrows. ‘The king!’ and then with a false laugh, he said, ‘Oh, you are talking about your husband, your bedfellow, Turlough Donn. “Captains” they are called now. We don’t call them “kings”. No, I was speaking of His Grace, the King of England, Henry the Eighth.’

  ‘King of England,’ said Mara vigorously, ‘but no king of here. Whatever he might pretend to lay claim to in the way of lands in the east of Ireland, we here in the west have our own kings, our own kingdoms and our own laws. Now that the Brehon of north-west Corcomroe, Gaibrial O’Doran, has been secretly and unlawfully killed, then it is up to King Turlough Donn O’Brien to appoint his successor. That’s right, Fergus, is it not?’

  She expected him to agree with her immediately, but he turned large wistful eyes towards his nephew.

  ‘Blood is thicker than water,’ said Boetius. ‘That’s right, Fergus, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ echoed Fergus obediently.

  He had been working on the old man, thought Mara with a flicker of annoyance. Why had Gobnait allowed this to go on? Perhaps she hadn’t really listened. Or perhaps she didn’t think that it was her place to check a fine gentleman like Boetius. She would probably have only taken notice if Fergus had become upset.

  ‘And you’ll start up that … what do you call it …? You know what I mean … you know that … you’ll start it up again …’ Fergus’ voice quavered as he sought for an elusive word.

  ‘The school, that’s right. You want the law school set up again, don’t you? Never you worry, Fergus,
I’ll see to that, too.’ He nodded towards Niall. ‘This young man can be the first pupil.’

  Niall said nothing. Somewhat surprisingly he made no mention of King Turlough’s offer to send him back to Ossory. He looked across at Ríanne and for a moment Mara thought she saw the beginnings of a grin twitch at the girl’s lips. A moment later, her face grew solemn and sweet again and she leaned over and picked up the rug that had slipped from Fergus’ knees and replaced it tidily. The sunlight from the window lit her face and Mara could see that there was a purple and yellow bruise on the girl’s face, just under her left eye, an old bruise, fading back into the tanned skin around it, but the mark was still there. It must have been a heavy blow, Mara thought. Not Niall, she reckoned. The girl’s attitude to him was quarrelsome, but there was no fear in it.

  No, it was probably the husband.

  Gaibrial O’Doran, when alive, had possessed a cold eye and an autocratic manner. Ríanne might have challenged his authority and he would not brook that. Mara wished that she could have had him up before her in her court. A heavy fine and a lecture from her, as well as an explanation of the rights of a wife to look for divorce, might have dissuaded him from this form of bullying. She looked a little more sympathetically at Niall. A man who treated his young wife, little more than a child, like that, would have no compunction about beating a scholar. Niall had a wary look.

  But the man was now dead and her task was to solve this murder. She had to admit to herself that she would prefer the perpetrator to be Boetius. He was the man who had most to gain if greed were to be a motive. He had been rejected once by Turlough, but Mara knew her husband well enough to know that he would have cloaked his refusal in several kind words about Boetius who might then have been hopeful that if the first choice of the king were to be found dead, then a man like himself, well-qualified, the nephew to the former and most popular Brehon, might well be the king’s second choice.

  Possible, but would Boetius have risked it? Would he not, rather, have returned to London where he was probably still in the favour of Stephen Gardiner, secretary to Cardinal Wolsey of England? It was possible, but she doubted that he would have risked Turlough’s anger for a second time by becoming involved in a murder.