Chain of Evidence, page 19
‘I’ll get through this as quickly as possible – skip a few of my ancestors,’ whispered Turlough, but Mara frowned at him.
‘Do it right and in a couple of hours we’ll be sitting by the fire and you’ll have a bottle of the best burgundy you’ve ever tasted – a present from the mayor of Galway himself,’ she murmured, keeping her face solemn and dignified as they emerged from the path.
The small valley was crammed with people, all in their best clothes and all getting very wet. In front of them was Tomás MacNamara, dressed in a white léine and a mantle made from pure white lamb’s wool. His face bore a look of almost saintly dedication with his brown eyes bent onto the ground. His wife, Cait, stood well back from him, but oddly her eyes were not on her lord, but on the prettily-flushed, petulant face of her eldest son who stood beside her. The boy, Mara noticed with a slight flicker of malice, was looking worriedly at the harm that the rain was doing to his finery and more interested in that than in the ceremonies.
Tomás was led in procession to the cairn and he stood there, calm, and impassive, seemingly unaware of the rain which had now begun to fall heavily again, splashing in small runlets down from the stony hillside, spraying on to the golden celandines and the delicate petals of the wood sorrel. Turlough, never one to mind the rain, stepped forward and stood out in the open, impervious to the downpour, while others moved as near to the overhanging rocks as they could or shrank back into the pine-covered pathway. Fintan MacNamara, the blacksmith from the Burren, approached Turlough and handed to him the ceremonial rod – a newly-peeled, straight, narrow branch from the nearby ash, a tree that was sacred to the MacNamara clan. A very ancient right, that of handing the rod to the king would have come down to Fintan from ancestors – perhaps going back to the distant past of legends. It showed, thought Mara, that the MacNamara clan were Burren in origin and she felt even more regretful that so many of the clan members now lived outside the kingdom.
When Tomás reached the foot of the cairn, King Turlough Donn touched him on the head with the white rod.
‘Do you swear to be my vassal?’ he enquired in a pleasant, conversational tone that seemed to imply that a negative answer could be received as easily as an affirmative.
Tomás, however, rose to the occasion. He had a pleasant voice, with a good timbre in it and he pitched it carefully to fill the whole valley as he swore on his hand to be the king’s vassal in accordance with the ancient Brehon laws.
‘And I swear to maintain my lord’s boundaries,’ he said, paused, looked around.
‘And to escort my lord to public assemblies,’ he continued.
And then, with war-like emphasis: ‘And I promise to bring my own warriors to each slógad and to support my lord in the uprising.’
And then he dropped his voice slightly and said with emphasis, ‘And in the last hour of my lord, I will assist in digging his grave mound and will contribute to the death feast.’
Turlough heard this unmoved, though Mara usually could not repress a slight shudder. Today, however, she was absorbed in watching Tomás’s face, while Turlough enumerated his ancestors from the great Brian Boru down through the following four centuries. Was it the face of a man who had finally attained his dream; the face of a man, perhaps, who would be willing to kill in order to find himself in the position where he was at this moment? But his face told her nothing. It was calm and dignified.
Then Tomás bowed to King Turlough Donn and encircled the cairn three times, sunwise, before climbing solemnly to the top of the mound. He lifted up the white rod and held it high above his head. There was a great shout of ‘the MacNamara’ from the clan of MacNamara. This was the naming ceremony and without this he would not be the taoiseach of the clan.
Tomás allowed the echoes from the rocks around to die down before holding out the white rod for silence and then in a sonorous voice he swore to serve his people and to protect them in return for a just rent and a fair tribute. Thus was Tomás MacNamara inaugurated as taoiseach of his clan, only four years after the inauguration of the murdered man whose body still remained to be buried. He waited for a moment for the cheers to die down. This was the moment when Mara expected to see him look at his wife, Cait. But his eyes were turned in a different direction and were fixed on the impassive face of Jarlath who was standing at the back of the crowd, half-hidden by the immense bulk of the blacksmith. Mara’s eyes followed his but Jarlath did not return the gaze, only stared straight across the small enclosed hollow, appearing to fix themselves on a small crop of pale-green sheath-like leaves from the deadly nightshade plant.
And then Tomás looked back again at his clan and this time he spoke with a note of iron in his voice.
‘And on this day, a day that will always be sacred to me, I swear to the MacNamara clan that whoever was responsible for the secret and unlawful killing of the last taoiseach, my cousin, Garrett MacNamara, then that person will be pursued and will meet with the full penalty of the law.’
There was a buzz of conversation from the listening people as he stepped down and moved away from the cairn. Several faces were turned towards Mara and with difficulty she preserved an impassive face. How dare he take my office upon himself, she thought but said nothing. He had not even looked towards her and may not have meant an insult, she told herself. In any case, now was not the moment to quarrel with a newly elected taoiseach.
Mara waited for a moment until Tomás stepped forward to speak informally to Turlough and then she went across to Jarlath and smiled at him in an easy way.
‘Any regrets?’ she asked as she had done before and he answered her with a broad smile.
‘Not in the least,’ he assured her.
‘You looked pensive for a moment,’ she said, probing a little more.
‘I was thinking about the sea,’ he said. ‘There’s a nice wind getting up. Coming from the south-east, too. Just the wind that I want. I could almost feel how good it would be to be out there on the ocean. Too many people around here; I feel hemmed in.’ Jarlath looked around him with an air of restless dissatisfaction. ‘Everything is the same as when I was a boy. It wouldn’t suit me. I like new places, new sights, and meeting new people.’ He glanced down at her with a smile. ‘You should try it yourself sometime, Brehon; you would enjoy it, I think. Come with me on a voyage.’
‘You’re only saying that because you want to conceal that you are secretly wishing to get away from me and my questions as soon as possible.’ Mara laughed as she spoke, but she watched his face narrowly and thought that he looked slightly taken aback as though she had uncovered his thoughts. ‘I don’t think that I want to get any wetter than I am at the moment,’ she went on, smoothly covering her words of any covert intention. ‘Is the burial going to be straight away?’
‘Straight away,’ Jarlath assured her. ‘Tomás has given orders that the coffin is to be taken to the churchyard on a turf cart. It will be waiting for us there.’
On a turf cart! Mara stared at him with astonishment. Even the lowliest cottager in the kingdom would have a better burial than that. When the father of Garrett and Jarlath had been buried, men had fought for the privilege of carrying the coffin. And so many had there been to share the burden that the little piles of white quartz stones, placed by the mourners at the traditional stopping places down the steep hillside, still appeared like a long line when seen from the valley below. But to be conveyed to the burial place on a turf cart! What an end to a man’s life, she thought. Not a bad man, either, just awkward and ill-at-ease with his fellow creatures – married to a different woman he might have eventually become well-liked and esteemed by his clan. A surge of anger filled her. Immediately she stepped forward and took her place at the foot of the cairn. Instantly every eye went to her and then conversations finished and there was silence except for the trilling of a pair of tiny gold crest birds.
Mara waited until all were looking at her and then said in low, but clear tones, ‘Now we need to honour the dead and to escort the body of Garrett MacNamara to his final resting place.’
Keeping her head high, she put her arm into Turlough’s and turned down the path.
‘Don’t slip,’ said Turlough as she strode out, almost dragging him in her eagerness to get to the road and to save Garrett’s body from the final indignity. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, always sensitive to her moods.
Tomás has arranged to have Garrett’s body awaiting us at the churchyard – carried there by a turf cart – and Jarlath, Garrett’s own brother, told it to me without a qualm, she almost replied, feeling her anger almost choking her. But she closed her lips firmly. Before Turlough had become king of the three kingdoms, there had been constant wars, clan were set against clan, all of them warring to become the most powerful. The MacNamaras were the second most powerful clan in the three kingdoms and there had been battles between them and their overlords, the O’Briens. Since the inauguration of Turlough the enmity and rivalry had become dormant; it was not for her, the wife of the king, to fan the hidden flames. She would do her best for Garrett, try to ensure a dignified burial, solve his secret and unlawful killing, but she would do it herself and not involve Turlough more than was necessary.
The body was already at the small graveyard at Carron when they arrived. And yes, it lay on a four-wheeled turf cart, the coffin perfunctorily covered by an old tarpaulin. There was a fair attendance of farm workers, though none, which Mara could see, of the indoor servants. No doubt they were back at the castle preparing a celebration feast.
Among the farm workers was Brennan the cowman, who was standing beside the coffin, and Mara went forward to greet him.
‘A sad day,’ she said. She had been to so many of those burials that the conventional words flowed from her lips without any thought of hers. She was touched by his presence, though. After all, he had been dismissed from his position as chief cowherd by the man whom he now came to honour. The place beside the coffin in the churchyard should surely have been Jarlath’s but he kept his distance, talking to Father MacMahon in an animated fashion.
Brennan said something but she could not understand it. He seemed to be gobbling his words more than when she had met him with Cumhal. What an affliction it must be to have been born with a mouth that was unable to shape the sounds of speech adequately. Mara, who used a quick and clever tongue to steer her way adroitly through the potential flare-ups of a volatile and war-like people, found she could hardly bear to envisage a time when words would not work for her.
‘I didn’t quite catch that,’ she said smiling at him in a friendly fashion. ‘This rain makes such a noise . . .’ She cast a look up at the purple sky and the large drops that were beginning to bounce upon the stones. It would get worse before long, she thought, and was glad that she had worn boots rather than shoes and had put on an extra pair of woollen stockings.
He repeated his remark patiently. He must be used to that, she thought, feeling desperately sorry for him and impatient with herself for not being able to understand. There was something about ‘cows’, she thought and she seized on this word and talked for a while telling him of Cumhal’s high opinion of him and then, to her great relief, Rhona came forward. Neither she nor her son Peadar had been at the inauguration so they must have come down from the castle to accompany the body.
‘Has Brennan told you the news, Brehon?’ she asked; her hand on the man’s arm and her broad-cheeked face lit up by a gap-toothed smile. ‘The new taoiseach has given him his position back as chief cowherd – couldn’t do without him, that’s right, isn’t it, Brennan?’
Brennan grinned bashfully, saying something, and Mara bit back an exclamation of pleasure as she picked out the words ‘told her’ from his mangled speech. Instead she turned to Rhona and repeated all of what her farm manager, Cumhal, had said in praise of Brennan.
‘Se . . . cow.’ Brennan indicated Rhona with a smile that stretched his misshapen mouth and caused Mara to feel intensely sorry for him. The pulled back lip gave him something of the look of a seven-year-old displaying new, large teeth. She wished she could understand him better but refrained from looking for help.
‘What did she do?’ she asked with a friendly smile, nodding at Rhona and his own smile widened.
‘No . . . fri . . . bull,’ he said eyeing Mara anxiously to see whether his words would be understood.
‘You’ve been tackling a bull!’ exclaimed Mara, turning a look of mock-horror on Rhona. ‘What! You, Rhona! Or was it your son, Peadar!’
‘Peadar!’ said Rhona. ‘He’s no cattleman; nothing interests him but herbs and medical matters. I was brought up with cattle; I was the only child of a cattle dealer. Not that there were any problems with this bull, were there, Brennan? He’d just got a bit above himself having run free for a few miles with all the cows. We got him back into the cabin, poor fellow, didn’t we? He’ll stay there until August when he can run free with the herd again. Good bull, isn’t he?’
Brennan said something and Rhona nodded sagely, ‘Yes, I thought that you would have had a hand in choosing him. Reminds me a bit of our Galloway cattle. Good bone.’
‘I must go and see Father MacMahon,’ said Mara, feeling that it was necessary to pull this burial party into order and at least to consign Garrett’s body to the earth with dignity. Ardal had been as good as his word and there was an enormous mound of earth beside the grave and a collection of the highly valued quartz pebbles to place on top of all when the grave had been covered again. ‘Goodbye, Brennan; I’m so pleased that you are now chief cowherd of Carron, again,’ she said, making her escape quickly before there could be any more talk about cows.
But while making easy conversation with Father MacMahon she found herself wondering why Tomás, with all that he had to do, should have found time to reinstate a disabled cowherd. It showed, she thought, an unexpected side in his nature. She frowned slightly, turning to look at the threatening sky to explain her preoccupation when the priest looked startled. It was not of the rain, though, she was thinking. There was something strange about this. Unless, of course, Rhona had interceded on Brennan’s behalf. That, however, was unlikely, thought Mara. Was there a chance, perhaps, that Tomás feared that Brennan might have seen something? After all, his cottage was not far from the spot where Garrett’s body was found. She decided to postpone her thinking to the time when she was warm and dry and turned to see what the stir of people from the gate might mean.
‘The O’Lochlainn must have sent him,’ muttered Niall MacNamara. There was a look of shame on his face, and on the faces of the other MacNamaras from the Burren. Where was the MacNamara piper? wondered Mara, watching with approval as O’Lochlainn’s own personal piper came through the gates and went up to Tomás. Probably back at the castle preparing jubilant melodies to celebrate the inauguration of the new taoiseach.
‘Shall we gather around the graveside, Father?’ she suggested to the old man. ‘Perhaps you would consult with Tomás about who should share the honour bearing the coffin with himself and Jarlath.’
Without waiting for an answer, she just glanced over her shoulder to make sure that he spoke to Tomás and then she went up to Fintan. ‘You, as bearer of the rod, should be one who will carry the coffin to the graveside,’ she said firmly. ‘Let me go with you to Jarlath.’
In a few minutes she had it all arranged; it was only in the sudden silence after the piper ceased its wail, when the coffin had been successfully lowered on ropes into the grave and before the priest had begun to intone the words of the great psalm De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine, that her mind suddenly cleared. And it was only then that she fully understood how Garrett MacNamara had lost his life on the evening of the cattle raid of Bealtaine.
Twelve
Bretha Déin Chécht
(Judgements of Dian Checht – a mythological physician)
A physician needs public recognition before practising in a kingdom. He must be learned in the ways of the body; must know the twelve doors of the soul – the twelve ways in which life may be extinguished; he must know the seven most serious bone-breakings; and be able to classify teeth and find an answer to their problems.
A physician’s house should be free from dirt, should have four open doors, and should have a stream of water running across it through the middle of the floor or else nearby. It needs to be set in a quiet place with no noise from talkative people, from fools quarrelling or from dogs barking.
‘I’ve made up my mind.’
Mara turned a distracted face towards Nuala. Turlough had left at noon to go to another inauguration in Ossory. She had given herself and her scholars time to get warm and dry and to have their usual midday meal and then she had resumed teaching during the afternoon, but with only a quarter of her mind on the task. The other three-quarters ranged over the situation at Carron. What was best to do? It had always been her philosophy to take full responsibility for any actions of hers – and that now involved carefully thinking through consequences before making any accusations. In the end, she dismissed her scholars to have half an hour’s exercise before their evening meal, thankful that she had Fachtnan to take charge of them. Now she looked unseeingly at Nuala who had followed her over to the Brehon’s house and then was aware of the silence and the puzzled look on the girl’s face as she waited for an answer.
‘You’ve decided,’ she said. Earlier in the day Nuala had been talking to Brigid about a new gown for a celebration at Thomond to celebrate the birth of one of Turlough’s latest grandchildren. ‘So did you decide on green or saffron?’ she asked, trying to force her voice into a note of enthusiasm.
