Eye of the Law (23 page)

It was not often used, but every autumn Cumhal painted it with a dark-red lead paint and now it gleamed in the early spring sunshine. Mara put her hand on it. Although it was only March, the sun had already warmed the timber.

‘I’ve put a cushion on the seat for you, Brehon. I hope it will be comfortable enough for you.’ Cumhal sounded concerned.

Mara hastened to reassure him. However, only half her mind was on the soothing phrases because the other half was busy thinking about what Turlough had said.

Ardal had been disappointed not to be able to accompany his king to Aran, but what about Teige? Why had Teige not offered to be one of the party? He, after all, was Turlough’s cousin.

‘Mara, is there anything you can tell the Aran Islanders about your investigations into these two murders?’ Turlough had waited until Cumhal had gone over to the stables and they were standing outside the gate of the law school. His voice had changed from the playful, light-hearted tones of a few minutes earlier and now there was a deep note of anxiety in it.

Mara made no reply. She stretched up and touched a small bunch of yellow catkins that swung above her head. Her touch was light but a shower of golden dust sprinkled down on to the back of her hand.

‘Brigid would say that is good luck,’ she said lightly, showing him her hand.

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said.

‘Only because I was thinking that a belief in good luck is a very useful thing. It can help you to sail through difficult situations when too much thought can weigh you down.’

‘I was thinking –’ Turlough eyed her tentatively – ‘Well, I was just wondering if you could say that you had someone in mind.’

Mara frowned. ‘Give a name to them?’

‘No, no, not that.’ He was taken aback. ‘You could say that you are not at liberty to disclose the name until the matter is dealt with at Poulnabrone. You could just imply, not say anything . . . just imply . . .’

‘I don’t think that I would do that.’ Her tone was decisive. He was the king, but she was the Brehon. The law was her business and the law said that no suspect should be named in public until he or she had been given a chance to admit to the crime and to promise to pay the fine. As Brehon she was not going to play games with the islanders and allow wrong conclusions to be drawn.

Turlough said nothing. He did not look angry, just disappointed and her heart melted.

‘Turlough,’ she said, ‘at this moment there is probably only one name on the lips of every islander. If the people of Aran think that I am certain of the truth and that I am not naming this man because he is a friend and ally of yours, then things may get violent. I would not like to encourage any private vengeance or any public outcry for a blood feud.’

‘You mean Ardal.’

Mara nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘But that’s ridiculous.’

‘You say that only because you know Ardal and you trust him. Otherwise it is not ridiculous. Look at the facts. This young man from Aran turns up claiming to be Ardal’s son. Ardal does not believe that Iarla is his son; does not believe the mother’s sworn deathbed statement. He does not want this lad. What is more probable, to anyone that does not know the man, than that Ardal is the murderer of Iarla.’

‘And of the uncle.’

‘And of Becan,’ agreed Mara. ‘It would be very easy to make the case, as we say at the law school. Becan could have seen something, could have known something, could perhaps have confronted Ardal with his suspicions and then he in turn was murdered.’

‘But you can’t believe that.’

Turlough sounded so aghast that Mara found it difficult not to smile.

‘As soon as I am certain of the murderer, I will talk to that person, ask for an admission of guilt. Whether I obtain that confession or not, I will then go to Poulnabrone and tell the people of Burren the truth.’

‘And then?’

‘And then go, or send a messenger, to Aran to tell the islanders the truth.’

Turlough nodded resignedly and she gave him a quick kiss while no one was looking. For a man who ruled three kingdoms, he was a very easy-going, pleasant husband, she thought.

‘Tell me about your cousin Brian,’ she said. ‘How do you get on with him?’

‘Not exactly a cousin. He’s just one of the Mac Teiges.’

‘Which Teige?’ The O’Brien family seemed to lack imagination when it came to picking out names. Down through the generations there were Teiges, Turloughs, Diarmuids, Murroughs and Conors, with the occasional Brian thrown in. No wonder there were so many nicknames among them.

‘Teige the bonesplitter,’ said Turlough with a grin. ‘They all took after him too. No one messes about with any of the Mac Teiges.’

‘A very dark man, isn’t he, this Brian?’ Mara’s voice was thoughtful. On her visit to the island she had not formed any great liking for the Lord of Aran. He had been dark of hair, eye and skin, but there had been something dark about his personality too.

‘Mother was Spanish,’ said Turlough, signalling to his bodyguard, Fergal, to bring over his horse. The soldiers immediately leaped on to their horses and formed a line on the road outside the law school.

‘Really? I thought his father was married to one of the MacNamaras.’

‘He was, but this Brian is the result of a marriage of the fourth degree. His mother was originally the wife of the captain of a Spanish ship that Brian captured. He took the cargo off the ship and then gave the captain the choice between having his ship back and leaving his wife, or of losing everything. The Spanish captain decided that he’d prefer his ship and the lady herself was quite willing to stay on Aran apparently, so that’s where Brian comes from. Brian the Spaniard, as he’s known, but not to his face. He doesn’t like the name.’

‘I see,’ said Mara.

She wanted to ask whether Brian the Spaniard was, like his father, a pirate, but Seán had just pushed the wagon so that was drawn up by the gate and Donie was harnessing two horses to it.

‘Run down to the crossroads, Aidan,’ she called as he and Fachtnan emerged from the kitchen house, wiping their mouths. ‘See if Nuala is coming.’

‘Here’s a bite for the boys to eat.’ Brigid came bustling out with a basket full of honey cakes and flat slabs of oatmeal bread. Hugh and Shane followed with some leather flasks of buttermilk and Moylan had a string bag of wrinkled apples. Brigid was not going to allow any of them to go hungry, thought Mara with an amused smile. She was about to get into the wagon when she saw Cumhal had drawn away from the busy scene around the gate and was standing at some distance with his eyes fixed on her.

Immediately Mara went over to him. She knew from his expression that he had something to tell her.

‘I just thought you might like to know that the O’Lochlainn and Liam the steward passed here about an hour ago, Brehon,’ he said. ‘They had the two coffins on the cart.’

‘Thank you, Cumhal.’

Mara was glad that he had not said that in front of the boys. Their spirits were high and she loved to see them like this, laughing and joking. The real purpose of their visit would come when they arrived, but she knew that she could trust them to behave decorously at the burial of the two islanders. It was good to know that there had been no problems with the lifting of Iarla’s coffin from the graveyard.

‘You go first, my lord,’ she called to Turlough. ‘We’ll wait for Nuala and follow you.’ Just as well, she thought, to have the boat with the two coffins go first. This would announce their arrival to the islanders and give Brian the Spaniard time to prepare for their arrival. She felt sorry that she was not there to break the news to Becan’s widow, but no doubt the Aran man with the boat would be able to do it better. These islanders were very close-knit, reserved people; to them she would be just an outsider.

Nuala arrived just as Mara was beginning to think that they would have to go without her. Despite the sun, it still was only March and the journey would take at least four hours. It would be essential for them to arrive in time for the burial and that would have to take place before daylight ended.

‘Sorry,’ Nuala said briefly as the eager shouts summoned her to the wagon. She handed her pony to Donie and clambered into the wagon, stepping over the boys’ satchels and seating herself between Fachtnan and Shane. Mara cast a quick concerned glance at her. Nuala’s dark-brown eyes were deeply shadowed and she looked as though she had slept badly. I’m glad I thought of inviting her, thought Mara, she isn’t having a very pleasant life these days. A day out in the boisterous company of the law scholars would do the girl good.

‘What do you think will happen at Aran, when we have to tell them that Becan was murdered, as well as Iarla, Brehon?’ asked Enda.

‘I’m not sure, Enda.’ Mara always liked to be frank with her scholars. If they, in their turn, became Brehons they would have to deal with situations where they would have to probe to find the perpetrators of crimes. They would have to cope with doubt and uncertainty and still hold fast to the principles in which they were educated. ‘I’ve prepared a few things to say in my mind,’ she added, ‘but I will have to wait until I see what their attitude is before I finally decide what I am going to do. Whatever happens, the more information that I can gain about Iarla and Becan, the better my chances are of solving this murder.’

‘You remember we did wonder about Becan,’ mused Enda. ‘Well, it’s unlikely that he murdered Iarla now, isn’t it?’

‘I’d say that Becan was murdered because he found out something about the murder of Iarla, perhaps even found the murderer and accused him.’ Moylan leaned over to join in the conversation.

‘Could be.’ Mara’s tone was reserved and she said no more. Enda and she had been speaking in low murmurs, but once Moylan with his loud, adolescent, uncontrolled voice joined in the conversation, everyone would hear. Discussing suspects in the privacy of the schoolhouse was one thing; here on the open road with Cumhal and Nuala listening was another.

‘What about a song?’ she enquired after a few minutes.

Fachtnan, always a sensitive boy who could interpret silences as well as words, immediately raised his voice in the words of
Is Trua Gan Peata Mhaoir Agam
(‘
Tis a pity I haven’t the Steward’s pet)
.

The blackthorn is out here earlier than it is in the Burren, Mara thought, listening to the singing as the wagon trundled its way along the muddy roads of Corcomroe. Nearer the sea, of course. She admired the tiny snow-white blossoms that almost completely masked the black twigs of the bushes. When the wagon paused to allow a man on horseback to cross the road in front of them, she reached out and pulled a cluster off and held it close to her nose. The scent was very faint, quite elusive, but it smelled of a promise of spring. The petals were soft and immaculately white. Unlike the hawthorn, where the cream was mixed with tiny antlers of red powder, these were pure and velvet soft. And then her mind went back to the subject of Becan. Undoubtedly he was killed because he knew too much. But how was it that he had spotted the murderer when she herself was still uncertain. Her mind went back to Enda’s evidence from the priest’s housekeeper. What had Becan discovered from the cave on that day, she wondered? Judging by the clay on his boots, it was obvious that he had gone into it.

‘I see the sea,’ shouted Shane as they rounded the corner.

They were back on the limestone land now, with the fields paved with the huge slabs of dark-grey stone and the grykes between the clints crammed with frilly yellow primroses and a few dark-purple violets. The wind was to their backs; nevertheless, the salt tang of the seashore was unmistakable. Even the birds were different; instead of blackbirds and thrushes there were the soaring pale-grey seabirds and the red-legged choughs shouted greetings at each other.

‘They’ve got sail up,’ shouted Shane. He lived near to the shores of the Great Lake in the north of Ireland and his summer holidays seemed to be mostly spent in a boat.

That would be the coffin boat, decided Mara. It skimmed lightly across the waves, making little of the weight of the two well-built bodies that lay on its deck. She was glad that it was well ahead of their boat.

‘Sit down all of ye.’ Cumhal’s order was sharp and the boys all obeyed him instantly. ‘They’ve got the king’s flag up and flying on the ferry, Brehon.’

‘So they have!’ Mara smiled as she saw the three lions stretch and snap in the fresh sea breeze. That would have been Ardal’s idea, she guessed; Turlough, the most unassuming of men, would not have bothered.

Ardal was still there on the seafront when Cumhal pulled the wagon to a halt. He was talking to Turlough while Liam walked his mare, and Liam’s own cob, up and down the path. The men-at-arms and all of the horses had already been loaded on to the boat. They both turned at the rumble of the wagon’s wheel and came over towards her.

‘You’re going to have a great day for your trip, Brehon,’ said Ardal as Turlough carefully handed her down from the wagon. She smiled at him, noting the regret in his voice, but she did not speak. There was nothing to be said; Ardal was an intelligent man and she was sure that he had understood her reasons for refusing his offer last night. She stood for a moment, looking around at the busy pier where men loaded baskets and seagulls cried overhead, conscious that feelings of pleasure and of excitement were buoying her up and swamping the tiredness which had so often engulfed her in the last week or so.

‘It looks a fine ship,’ said Mara.

‘It’s a caravel,’ said Aidan.

‘Looks more like a cog to me,’ said Shane. ‘That’s what we call them on the Great Lake. Look, it has only one sail.’

‘It’s a cog, all right,’ said Ardal, smiling at Shane. ‘I’m thinking of buying one and getting into the fishing business myself. Liam and I have been talking about it. He’s not as keen as I am, but I plan to make a few enquiries.’

‘Let’s go on board,’ said Mara.