Chain of Evidence, page 18
‘Could you take the scholars back to the schoolhouse, Fachtnan,’ she said. ‘Go over that passage from Cicero with Hugh, will you? Moylan, Aidan and Fiona, I want you to study that case I left ready for you. Discuss it and determine what the judge’s verdict will be and what the fine should amount to; Shane, I want you to go through the law books and find out as much as you can about “sick maintenance”, especially what the law says about the physician’s house for those who are seriously ill. Nuala, will you come with me?’
Nuala watched the scholars go with an amused smile on her face. ‘I suppose when we come back I’m going to be asked to admire Shane’s work,’ she remarked. ‘Now, don’t try to look innocent, Mara. Remember that I’ve known you all of my life. I know how you like to get your own way. You want to see me installed at Rathborney and caring for my heritage. Anyway, how are we going to find the king and his visitors? Search the one-hundred-square miles of the Burren?’
‘Easy,’ said Mara. She bent down, picked a flat blade of grass, held it between her hands and blew a penetrating musical note. ‘Don’t tell Brigid,’ she said, her eyes scanning the flat grykes of gleaming limestone. ‘She’s been forbidding me to do that since I was five years old. Ah, here he is. Here’s Bran. Can you see him? Yes, I thought so – they’ve gone over towards . . .’ She had been going to say ‘Caherconnell’ but then she stopped herself. Caherconnell had been Nuala’s home, the place where her mother had died and her father had been murdered; the place which should have been hers, but which was now occupied by her stepmother’s son. With a glance at the girl’s face she said gaily, ‘Bran will lead us to them.’
‘He looks so extraordinarily beautiful bounding across the grykes, doesn’t he?’ Nuala, also, did not want to talk about Caherconnell and the snow-white wolfhound seeming to almost fly across the gleaming silver of the limestone made a good alternative subject for conversation until he arrived panting, his long sleek tail wagging vigorously and his brown eyes full of love for his mistress.
‘Do you remember his mother;’ said Mara, patting the big dog’s shoulder and stroking his narrow head. ‘She was my dog and his grandmother was my father’s dog. They were both the usual grey in colour, but when Conbec had a litter of puppies, her last litter, one of them, the biggest of them all, was snow-white and that was Bran. And, do you know, she was enraptured by him. It was no wonder that he grew bigger than the rest; she favoured him all the time. All the other puppies went to new homes but I felt that it would break the old girl’s heart if I gave away Bran, so he stayed. His mother used to lie on the rug in front of the fire just watching him play – Shane and Hugh were young at the time and they would roll on the floor with him and she would watch him with big soft eyes. I’ve never seen a dog with so much love for her offspring.’
‘Mother love; you’re brooding on mother love, aren’t you?’ remarked Nuala shrewdly. ‘You’re thinking about what the boys said of Cait, aren’t you?’
‘Tell me about that blow on the head,’ said Mara. ‘You were so busy explaining medical features in such detail to Peadar that I didn’t take everything in. Could that blow have been dealt by a woman?’
‘By Slaney, or by Cait?’ asked Nuala.
‘Either.’
‘Difficult to be certain,’ said Nuala thoughtfully. ‘Slaney has the weight and the height to deliver a blow like that, but I wouldn’t be certain about Cait, though sometimes these small, thin women are quite wiry and she might be a lot stronger than she looks. A blow on the head, anyway, doesn’t necessarily mean that the victim was standing up. She could have dropped something, asked Garrett to pick it up, then hit him quickly as he bent down. It was a single blow and I fancy he died instantly from it.’
‘I miss you and your brains when you are not here,’ said Mara with an appreciative smile and then decided to say no more. Nuala was intelligent and independently minded. She would make her own decisions despite what Mara or her uncle Ardal O’Lochlainn might urge. It was best to leave her to think over the possibilities of setting up a school and a hospital for the sick at her property at Rathborney and to weigh that up against the prospect of journeying to Italy again and becoming more learned in her profession. So she resolved to keep silence until Nuala herself spoke, but when she did so, after they had walked in silence for about five minutes, it was only to point out that she could hear Turlough’s voice.
‘He’s telling them about the battle of O’Briensbridge,’ said Mara. ‘That means he’s in a good mood.’ Turlough, of course, had a great trust in those over whom he reigned and so far he had never made a mistake. She hoped that Tomás would prove worthy of that trust.
It would be very embarrassing if he were designated as chieftain of the clan on one day, and arrested for murder on the following day.
Eleven
Di Dliguid Raith & Somaíne
(On the law relating to the fief and profit of a lord)
All clients of a lord must pay an annual rent: in the case of a lowly farmer this may take the form of an animal; a two-year-old bullock from an ocaire (small farmer); and a milch cow from a bóaire (substantial farmer). In addition each client pays a food rent which consists of fixed quantities of bread, wheat, bacon, milk, butter, onions and candles. He swears to provide hospitality for his lord and to join a reaping party if he is required and at the hour of his lord’s death to dig the grave mound and to contribute to the death feast.
‘So, he talked you over.’ Mara set her heels to her Arab mare, Brig, and drew level with Turlough as they rode together up to Carron to take part in the inauguration of the new taoiseach and the burial of the former one.
Tomás and his son had been invited back to supper and Teige O’Brien and his eldest son had joined them. Turlough had come to bed in such good humour and so full of love for her that she had not liked to spoil the atmosphere by hinting that he should have waited to consult her before agreeing so readily to the inauguration before the burial. And then on the following day he had gone hunting with Teige.
The king looked at her uneasily. ‘Seems like a good fellow, Tomás,’ he said tentatively.
‘As long as I don’t need to accuse him of the murder of the former taoiseach,’ agreed Mara. She said no more. There was little use since all had been agreed between the two men.
In any case her mind was preoccupied with the news that Cumhal had given her just before she set out. Setanta, who fished from the port of Doolin in the neighbouring kingdom of Corcomroe, had sent news that Stephen Gardiner was now staying there. Setanta had seen him talking to Cait, the wife of Tomás, who had come to select fish for the inauguration feast. Strange, thought Mara – still, perhaps there was nothing in it. Cait might be the sort of woman who felt that she had to oversee all household matters. But, as for Stephen . . . In her mind she composed a message to the Brehon of Corcomroe, informing him of the trouble which Stephen Gardiner had tried to stir up in the kingdom of the Burren. She would have to be tactful; relationships between herself and Fergus MacClancy, the elderly Brehon of Corcomroe, had not been cordial since the time when she had dismissed his nephew, Boetius MacClancy, from her law school.
The day was as cold as the preceding ones but she was warmly dressed in a robe of thick purple wool over her white léine and her cloak was double-lined. A sudden shower burst through soot-black clouds and stoically she pulled up the hood and patted her horse consolingly. The double ceremonies of inauguration of the new taoiseach and the burial of the former one had to be got through and then they could both get back indoors, Brig to the warmth of her stable and Mara to pick up the threads of her investigation again. At least, she thought, I can plead that I have much work to be done and so avoid all the merry making.
‘You don’t suspect him, surely.’ Turlough sounded shocked.
Mara sighed. Tomás had been labelled by her husband as ‘a good fellow’ and now he could do no wrong in Turlough’s eyes. ‘I am convinced that someone killed Garrett MacNamara and left his body to be trampled by the stampeding herd of cattle,’ she pointed out and, when he muttered something about the O’Donnell and his marauding scoundrels, she continued, ‘Turlough, this is not a crime that you can lay at the door of the O’Donnell, or of any of his henchmen. Someone here in the kingdom of the Burren killed Garrett, and the probability is that they killed him for gain, for his wealth, or for his position.’
‘Here’s Ardal,’ said Turlough with relief. ‘Don’t worry, Mara. Bet you will find that it was one of the cattle raiders; it stands to reason,’ he added before hailing the O’Lochlainn with a voice reminiscent of a bull. ‘Nuala, here’s your uncle,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘You can’t have her back, Ardal,’ he joked, ‘she’s much too useful to us at Thomond. Did I tell you what Donogh O’Hickey said about her? He rates her as highly as his own son and that’s something coming from O’Hickey – the foremost physician in Europe,’ he boasted.
‘Nuala is her own mistress,’ said Ardal. There was a hint of frost in his voice. He had never approved of his niece Nuala and her studies and would have preferred to keep her at his castle of Lissylisheen after the death of her father. His idea was that Nuala could be a hostess and mistress of the castle until he could arrange a good marriage for her.
‘Ride with me, Ardal,’ said Mara, allowing Nuala to take her place beside Turlough. He was as fond of the girl as if she were a daughter of his and she would keep the king amused during the short ride to the inauguration place of the MacNamaras and really, she told herself, there was no point in her repining over this decision of Turlough’s. Tomás MacNamara would be inaugurated, whether she liked it or not. But then her work had to recommence. Chieftain or no chieftain, the truth about the death of Garrett MacNamara had to be uncovered and then it had to be laid bare before the people of the Burren.
‘ “Crime must be followed by retribution”,’ she murmured and then smiled as Ardal looked at her in a startled manner. ‘One of the sayings of the mighty Fithail,’ she said lightly. ‘We’re off to the inauguration of the new taoiseach for the MacNamara clan.’ Her eyes invited him to explain what he was doing on the road to Carron. This ceremony would be attended only by members of the clan.
‘I thought I would go to the graveyard at Carron,’ he said, looking a little embarrassed and then when she looked at him with curiosity, he said uneasily, ‘my steward tells me that there aren’t many preparations made for the burial of Garrett – just a small hole dug – no pipers, nothing.’
‘A small hole,’ repeated Mara. Her scholars behind her had fallen silent at Ardal’s words. This was unprecedented. She looked over her shoulder at her scholars. ‘Who can remember what it says in Di Dliguid Raith & Somaíne about the death of a lord?’ she asked and brooded on burials that she had attended. When Garrett’s father had died, the clan had shown their love and respect by excavating half of the hillside and covering the enormous mound with stones of white quartz.
‘I have a few men lying idle at the moment,’ said Ardal in a low voice to Mara after he had listened with grave courtesy to Moylan’s repetition of the law, emphasising the size of the lord’s grave mound. ‘I thought I would lend a hand with the grave and the burial mound. We’ll be out of the way by the time that you all come back from the inauguration. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, perhaps the new taoiseach didn’t know . . .’ And then he said no more.
Mara wished that she could ask his opinion of Tomás but she was conscious that to do so would seem to undermine Turlough’s opinion. She trusted Ardal more than she trusted most, but as Brehon of the Burren she knew that every single one of her words bore weight and that her opinions could be tossed from mouth to mouth and gain momentum and different shades of meaning on their journey. So she murmured, ‘That is good of you,’ and then changed the subject. Ardal, she knew, never had men lying idle. All work was meticulously planned and checked and the schedule announced at the breakfast that he held every morning for his workers. If he spared workers for this act of charity it was because his soul was appalled at the lack of respect for the former taoiseach of the MacNamara clan.
‘My boys are very envious of that horse young Adair MacNamara was riding,’ she said lightly. ‘Moylan thinks it is the one that he tried out for you a little while ago.’
‘Yes, I sold it the very next day,’ said Ardal readily. ‘Tomás sent word down from Carron – you know the clan had gathered there when the news that the old tánaiste, God have mercy on him, was nearing his end. I invited him to bring the lad down and to take his pick. I always like to match a horse to a rider.’ Ardal’s eyes wandered to the rough pony from Connemara that Fiona was riding. He opened his mouth and then shut it again.
Mara noted the look, but she had other things on her mind than Ardal and his interest in Fiona. So Tomás had bought that horse, splendid and expensive, she was sure, for his son well before there were any prospects for him to become taoiseach. Unless, of course, he thought that he would be elected tánaiste. That office, however, had no monetary value. The clan paid tribute to the taoiseach only.
‘Was Jarlath home at that stage?’ she enquired and Ardal looked surprised at the change of subject.
‘Yes, he was; in fact, he came with them. Nice fellow, Jarlath,’ he said with more enthusiasm than he had shown when discussing Jarlath’s cousin, Tomás. He looked over his shoulder and smiled tenderly at Fiona, though his words were addressed to Moylan.
‘Any time that you scholars have some leisure you are welcome to come and try out my horses. I’ve just finished training some young ones.’
‘Good breeding?’ enquired Moylan.
‘Certainly, a couple of young stallions and one beautiful mare, a Spanish jennet, a lady’s horse – you wouldn’t be interested in her, Moylan.’
‘You could get Fiona to try her out,’ said Moylan innocently, and Mara suppressed a smile. In Moylan’s eyes, Ardal was an old man and could have no interest in Fiona. Fachtnan, however, might be more percipient. Mara hoped that he was not hurt. He was a modest young man and would not fancy his chances against the wealthy and prestigious chieftain of the O’Lochlainn clan.
But Tomás! Mara forgot about the tangled love affairs around her and concentrated on her task of solving the murder of Garrett MacNamara. Tomás bought an extremely expensive horse for his son – and he, apparently, had six other sons. How could he have afforded to do that unless he had known that he had glittering prospects opening out in front of him?
And Jarlath? Mara had not realised that he had arrived a week before. And so, of course, had the others; including Stephen Gardiner. There had been plenty of time for Stephen to have played his little game, to have worked on Garrett, and probably on Slaney; to have held out the prize of an earldom, a visit to London probably where Slaney could refresh her wardrobe and meet the handsome young king and his beautiful Spanish wife. London would have suited Slaney. She had made no secret over the last four years of how much she had hated the countryside. Rhona may have kept in the background until Stephen had done his work, perhaps she had stayed elsewhere for a while. Mara had a strong notion that Garrett had only just met his son; it would have been impossible not to have noticed the likeness instantly.
Jarlath and Tomás; it’s interesting, thought Mara, how both of them had got what they wanted. Tomás was now taoiseach and Jarlath was the sole owner of the fleet of merchant ships.
And why had Jarlath sold his ship to O’Donnell? Did he plan that he would buy a splendid new ship within a short period of time? Was Garrett’s silver still carefully locked away in the strong room of the castle, or had the key been found and the stores rifled? And how much was Garrett’s share in the merchant ship business worth to his younger brother, Jarlath?
‘Ardal,’ she said, interrupting his enthusiastic description of his little Spanish jennet, ‘tell me something, Ardal.’
Always the soul of politeness, he moved back up beside her and she put her question to him.
‘Immense!’ he exclaimed. ‘I envy Jarlath. The world is opening up. There was a time when trade was just with England, France and Spain and even then to have a ship was to be rich, but now! There’s the Spice Islands – ships are criss-crossing the oceans laden with goods from there. And the last time that I was in Galway there was talk of a sea route to China. Think how easy it would be to bring back silks by sea than with the long years of travel across land. That young man will make a fortune, Brehon, or I will be most surprised.’
‘I see,’ said Mara. Now that she had her information, she wanted to spend the rest of the journey to Carron with only her thoughts for company. Over her shoulder she said, ‘Shane, do you remember how, when you were younger, you always wanted to go to sea? Well, you must hear what the O’Lochlainn has to say about the exploration of the oceans.’
The ancient inauguration site of the MacNamara clan was in a strange hidden site. Mara was not fanciful, but the place always seemed to have an eerie atmosphere of primeval times long passed. It was in one of those hanging valleys which slotted into the limestone hills around and appeared even more secret and verdant because of the smooth shining stone surrounding them. One by one the party from the law school dismounted and tied their horses to the ancient large low-branched ash tree at the entrance.
Theirs were the only horses there, but a subdued murmur of many voices from above them told Mara that the clan had arrived. No doubt those from the Burren had either walked or left their horses at the castle above.
‘You go first, Shane; the rest of you follow him,’ she said in a low voice. It was fitting that the king should be the last to arrive. She tucked her arm into his and held him back while Fachtnan ushered the scholars along the narrow path of deeply scored limestone which descended into the small valley. A strange and eerie place, she thought, as she paced beside her husband; some pine trees grew on either side of the path, their enormous roots, swelling like claws from the stony ground, their grey-blue branches meeting overhead and casting a deep gloom over the passageway. A tiny stream twisted its way down beside the path leaving small islands and promontories for the ferns which grew in clumps beside it. A pretty place on a bright spring day, thought Mara noticing some pale yellow primroses nestling among the glossy green of the hart’s tongue fern’s strap-like leaves, but today in the dark and the rain there was something eerie about it. She had pushed back her hood to do honour to the occasion but was aware of steady drips going down the back of her neck from the spiky foliage overhead.
