Chain of Evidence, page 13
‘Let me tell you about Stephen Gardiner,’ she said rapidly.
‘Seemed a nice fellow,’ he said idly. ‘A lawyer, isn’t he? You and he should get on well.’
Mara pressed her lips together. ‘I’m glad you liked him,’ she said demurely, lowering her eyes over her glass and taking a sip to conceal the smile that she could feel tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘He came over here from Cardinal Wolsey, chancellor to your fellow king, Henry VIII.’
‘That’s right; one of your lads was telling me. Writing a book, so young Shane said . . . Clever fellow I’ll be bound. More your type than mine.’ Turlough was no scholar and seldom looked at a book, but regarded Mara’s collection, most of which had been handed down to her by her father, with great respect.
‘As a matter of fact, he came to the Burren, on the advice of O’Donnell, the Earl of Tirconnell, to inveigle Garrett MacNamara into giving up his loyalty to you and bowing the knee before the king of England. In return, Garrett would, too, have been an earl – the Earl of Castletown, and his son Peadar would have been Lord Mount Carron and the automatic inheritor of earldom from the moment of his father’s death,’ said Mara and then sat back and waited for the explosion.
‘There’s one thing that puzzles and worries me,’ she said when he had run out of steam and vented his feelings on the treachery of the late taoiseach and had consoled himself with another glass of wine. He looked at her enquiringly.
‘I’m just wondering about Stephen Gardiner,’ she said. ‘I think that Garrett’s death came as a nasty shock to him – and that is understandable. After all, the work that he had put in was now come to nothing – and even if Peadar, or rather Rhona, his mother, had been part of the plot, Peadar was now discarded by the clan and Jarlath, I imagine, would not have been interested in being an Englishman and an earl. But I’m just wondering about Stephen. You see when he heard the news that Jarlath had refused the position, he looked odd, you know, Turlough; he looked to me like . . . Well, I keep wondering why did he look like a man who was thinking intensely . . .’ She hesitated and then went on: ‘Really like a man who sees an opportunity opening up – I could see his eyes flying from Tomás to the other clan members and then to Jarlath . . .’
‘Troublemaker, they’re all troublemakers,’ said Turlough in an agitated tone of voice. He never liked the feeling of being betrayed, of his vision of Gaelic society being disturbed. ‘I remember my father, Teige of Coad, God have mercy on him,’ he continued. ‘I remember him talking about the time that the Duke of York came over to Ireland – the duke was fighting with the king of England at the time – one of the Henrys – the sixth one, I think – and he tried stirring up trouble over here in Ireland. Putting father against son; that was what he spent his time doing while he was over here. Pretended to care about Ireland, but his thoughts were all for England and how he could get an army together and get rid of whichever Henry was on the throne then. Sooner we get rid of that Stephen Gardiner, the better, if that is his sort.’
‘We’ll do that,’ said Mara calmly. She was suddenly conscious of receiving a huge insight and she smiled at him gratefully. He might not be reckoned to be very clever, but he had a sensitivity, an almost animal instinct, that scented out trouble. She hated to see him disturbed out of his flush-left routine. He was, she thought, looking at him dispassionately, one of the ancient race; one of the Irish kings of gone-by ages. Times had changed; she knew that, but she hoped, intensely, that this husband of hers would be able to live out his life according to the simple and honest rules that he had set up for himself.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ll handle Stephen Gardiner. I know his sort. I’ll leave you now for a little while – perhaps you would go and see Cormac and then have a rest – or the other way around. But I do want Nuala to see the body as soon as possible and tell me what she thinks.’
Nuala, she thought, had advanced hugely in confidence. She was, according to Turlough, the prize pupil and then assistant of the chief physician in Thomond – O’Hickey, the healer. He had a son, Mara knew, a son who was winning himself the renown that had previously been his father’s, but Nuala spoke little of the young Donough O’Hickey and when she did so it was in tones that revealed to Mara that her interest in the young man was professional only. From time to time, her dark brown eyes wandered towards Fachtnan; however, she was no longer a child, wearing her heart on her sleeve, as Brigid would phrase it, but a controlled, thoughtful young woman.
‘What do you think?’ asked Mara and Nuala smiled at her impatience.
‘I can’t tell until I see the body, Mara,’ she said. ‘At least,’ she amended, ‘I can’t tell you anything other than what your own commonsense and experience will already have told you.’
And with that they all had to be content.
‘I’ll tell you everything I can once I have examined the body,’ was all that she would say to the eager questions from the scholars as they rode in a group across the valley and then up the steep slope towards the castle which had been the pride and joy of Garrett MacNamara and his wife Slaney.
‘No one around,’ called Moylan as they breasted the last slope.
‘I suppose everyone is waiting for the burial to take place,’ remarked Shane, looking around at the empty roads and the quiet fields.
‘They can’t be still holding the wake,’ muttered Shane. ‘They’d all be as drunk as March hares by now if they were still at it in the castle.’
Nevertheless, they were all still there. As the party from the law school dismounted they could see that the stables were still full of horses and many strange grooms, who did not seem to recognise the Brehon, came to help her dismount with a surly air.
‘Heavy drinkers these men from Thomond,’ said Aidan. ‘Not the ladies, of course,’ he added with a quick look at Fiona who tossed her head and was unsure of whether to be pleased, or whether to assert that ladies could drink as much as men.
‘You’d think that they’d have gone back home to see to their farms, by now,’ said Moylan disapprovingly. ‘I don’t think many of the clan that we saw the last time we came here were from this kingdom.
Moylan is right, thought Mara as they stood in the small entry passage. In fact, I hardly recognise anyone. The man who took the message to Tomás was definitely a stranger and the guards’ chamber flush-leftly occupied by one man, was now full of about ten war-like looking individuals, dressed in quilted leather jerkins who were all engaged in sharpening their throwing knives under the eye of one authoritative-looking man who barely acknowledged her greeting.
From Thomond, definitely, she thought.
But why had Tomás seen fit to bring men-at-arms over from Thomond to his new residence in the kingdom of the Burren?
Eight
A Statute of the Fortieth Year of King Edward III, enacted in a parliament held in Kilkenny, A.D. 1367, before Lionel Duke of Clarence, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland
XV. Also, whereas the Irish agents who come amongst the English, spy out the secrets, plans, and policies of the English, whereby great evils have often resulted; it is agreed and forbidden, that any Irish agents, that is to say, pipers, story-tellers, bablers, rimers, mowers, nor any other Irish agent shall come amongst the English, and that no English shall receive or make gift to such; and such that shall do so, and be attainted, shall be taken, and imprisoned, as well the Irish agents as the English who receive or give them anything, and after that they shall make fine at the king’s will; and the instruments of their agency shall forfeit to our lord the king.
The man servant who took the message to Tomás did not reappear for a long time. Mara sighed impatiently. It happened so often that she was detained while the master, or mistress, of the house went to change their clothing for something more suitable for receiving an important guest such as herself. Or a hasty order might be sent to the kitchen for refreshments to be supplied and laid out ready for her when she entered the room, or else a treasured cushion disinterred from the darkness of a wooden press and placed ceremoniously on the best chair in the house.
Aidan and Moylan had begun to shuffle their feet; Hugh and Shane had retired to the window seat and Fachtnan had gone in search of stools for Fiona and Nuala by the time that the man came back. He came down the stairs so slowly that, impatiently, Mara was already on her feet and had actually placed her foot on the lowest step by the time that he spoke.
‘The taoiseach is very busy at the moment,’ he said without any note of apology in his voice. ‘He asks if you would wait for some time, mistress, and then he will attend to you.’
‘Brehon,’ said Mara with a note of steel in her voice. ‘You address me as Brehon, not mistress. I am the king’s representative in this kingdom and am here on the king’s business. Kindly conduct me to the presence of Tomás MacNamara.’
She would not give Tomás the title of taoiseach – that was for the king to grant and for her to ratify at the ancient place of judgement at Poulnabrone.
‘I have been told to see to it that refreshments are brought to you and to your young friends,’ he said nervously.
‘Unnecessary,’ she said tersely. She gave a glance around at the startled faces of her law school and the amusement in Nuala’s eyes.
‘Wait here,’ she said to them all and brushed past the servant and was halfway up the stairs before he recovered himself.
‘Mistress,’ he said imploringly and then as she continued to climb, ‘I mean, Brehon. I meant no disrespect. I’m just not used to a woman being a . . .’
Mara ignored the agitated voice and rounded the corner, continuing to climb until she reached the large wooden door leading to the great hall. The whole company was in there, she reckoned by the murmur of voices. By the time that she had her hand on the door latch, however, that murmur had ceased and only one voice prevailed. A strong voice, a voice that was trained to reach to the furthest corner of a hall or a court . . . a voice speaking, not in Gaelic, but in English.
‘About this question of the murder of your former chieftain, or captain, as we English prefer to call him, well, according to the law in England, which, according to the Statutes of Kilkenny in 1366, the fortieth year of the reign of Edward III, is also the law of Ireland—’
Mara pushed open the door and strode into the hall. A trestle table, the length of the hall, had been set up and every seat on either side of it was occupied. At the head of the table stood Stephen Gardiner, emissary of the court of London and by his side stood Tomás MacNamara, no doubt ready to translate the words into Gaelic. The table was laden with platters of food – large dishes of smoking beef, pork and mutton, intersected with tall flagons of foaming beer and dark red wine. No one was eating or drinking, though. At her entrance all heads had been turned towards Stephen, but now they swivelled around to watch her with astonished eyes. Mara looked back coldly. Most were unknown to her. She did not pause, but walked resolutely forward until she had reached the head of the table. Then she turned to face them, holding her hands straight out on each side of her and gesturing to the two men to step back.
‘The law of Ireland,’ she said in Gaelic, ‘existed when England was ruled by the Romans and long before that. When the blessed St Patrick came to this country he saw the wisdom and nobility of our Brehon law and he confirmed them as is written in Seanchus Mór.’ She half-shut her eyes and recited: ‘ “And nine people were appointed to arrange this book of ancient laws. These were the three bishops: Patrick, Benen and Cairnech; the three kings: Laeghaire and Corcthe and the three learned men: Rósa MacTrechim and Dubhthach, both doctors of Brehon law and Fergus a poet. And the name of the book is Nófis because it was arranged by nine people.” And,’ Mara opened her eyes fixing them sternly on the men and women seated around the table, ‘and,’ she repeated, ‘its laws have been the laws of the people of Ireland ever since. Your king, Turlough Donn O’Brien, rules the three kingdoms of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren by Brehon law and I am his representative here in the Burren. Any talk of law in this kingdom,’ she continued emphatically, ‘is to be spoken by me or by the king. No one else has the right.’
And then she turned to Stephen and translated her last sentence to him, finishing with the words: ‘We have extended hospitality to you, young man, but do not confuse hospitality and good manners with a licence to disrupt our society.’
She gave him a moment to absorb this before she turned to Tomás. ‘You have not thought fit to invite the MacNamaras from the Burren to your gathering,’ she mentioned mildly. ‘Several names come to my mind: Fintan MacNamara, the blacksmith; Niall MacNamara, the miller; Eoin MacNamara, the sheep farmer – I could name many more,’ she told and watched for a guilty flush.
It did not come, however, and the brown eyes that met hers were hard and opaque so she continued on.
‘Perhaps you should give orders for your followers to eat their meal or else it will be cold,’ she said watching the fat congeal on the wooden platters. She deliberately walked away from him and touched Stephen on the sleeve.
‘A word with you, Stephen, if I may,’ she said. Probably few people there understood English, but she took the precaution of withdrawing into a window embrasure with him. Not too much older than Jarlath, she guessed, as she looked at the smooth cheeks above his neatly trimmed beard and tiny moustache. Ambitious, though, she reckoned. There was a sharp look in his grey-blue eyes.
‘You were talking about the law of England,’ she reminded him.
‘Just spreading the gospel,’ he said lightly, but she did not smile.
‘I am the law enforcer in this kingdom; I will have no other law uttered in this place.’ She gazed at him sternly and he essayed a small smile.
‘ “I am the lord thy God; thou shalt not place strange gods before me”,’ he murmured.
‘Tell me your message now, before I call the king’s soldiers to usher you straight out of this kingdom,’ she said fiercely and purposely looked over her shoulder at the window behind her.
He cast a quick glance through the window, but she did not bother to try to ascertain what he could see. These windows were tiny; for all that he knew she might have a whole troop of men, standing outside the castle, at her call.
‘It’s Tomás,’ he said, spreading his hands in a deprecating way. ‘He feels that his honour is concerned in punishing the killer of his cousin, Garrett.’
‘I see. And why are you involved in this? You may be a lawyer, but you have no jurisdiction in this country, and certainly not in this kingdom.’
He made no reply to this.
‘Take care,’ she said warningly. ‘I have found the letter that Garrett wrote, at your dictation, no doubt. Perhaps you wish to make a convert of Tomás, also. You have appealed to the dark side of his nature. You have dangled before his eyes the false gold of an English earldom and automatic succession to the title for his fine young son and his son after him. In return for this he follows your bidding to try to establish English law here in the Burren. I will not have it. I am Brehon of the Burren and I am the king’s representative and I speak in his name. You are no longer welcome here in this kingdom. I give you forty-eight hours in which to leave. You may go to Dublin and join your fellow Englishmen who still occupy that part of Ireland, though century by century their presence here in Ireland has diminished. You may go to Donegal and tell the O’Donnell that you have failed, or you may go to Galway and find a ship that will take you back to England. The choice is yours, Stephen, but the decision is mine. Go.’
And with that she turned her back on him and went across to where Tomás sat, not eating, but whispering into the ear of his tall son who bent down to hear him. About eighteen, the boy was, she thought. Just the right age for ennoblement, Tomás must have thought. He, not Peadar as Garrett had planned, would wear the title of Lord Mount Carron, if Stephen persuaded Tomás to give up his allegiance to King Turlough Donn and to bend the knee in front of the English King Henry VIII. And the price would be the rejection of Brehon law and the establishment of laws of England.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your meal,’ she said once she had compelled him to stand up by gazing at him in stony silence until he did so. ‘I presume that this meal is part of your wake ceremonies and I come to tell you that, once my physician has finished the examination of the body, the burial can take place tomorrow morning. Indeed, it should not be left any later,’ she added when she saw him open his mouth. ‘I shall send messages to those of the MacNamara clan in the Burren who will want to pay their last respects to Garrett, God have mercy on him. I propose to read the will this morning so perhaps after the physician has made the examination then you could make sure that as many people as are concerned in that matter will be present for that ceremony, including, of course, the son of Garrett and his mother, and also Jarlath MacNamara.’
He bowed stiffly, but a glint of interest was in his eye and he offered no objection. People always love to listen to a will, reflected Mara.
‘You do not need to send a servant with me to the room where the body of Garrett lies,’ she informed him in kindly tones. ‘I remember the way and I possess the key.’
And that seal had better be unbroken, she thought as she made her way alone back down the stairs to the entrance hallway.
It was more crowded than when she had left it. Rhona was chattering about the highlands of Scotland to Fiona while her son Peadar, the silent, awkward fifteen year old, was interrogating Nuala with eyes blazing with excitement and a slight flush on his freckled face. As Mara drew near she could hear him say, ‘I acted as a servant boy to the monk who was the physician to the Maclean. I am skilled in herbs and I wanted . . . I wanted . . .’ He stumbled over his words.
‘You wanted to study, was that it?’ asked Nuala looking at him with interest.
