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Authors: Cora Harrison

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective

BOOK: The Sting of Justice
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‘Imagine not seeing the sea until you were fourteen years old,’ said Mara. She looked all around and took in a deep breath of the salty air. The mountains of Cappanabhaile on their left and of Moveen on their right gleamed silver in the sun and the sea was a deep blue, as blue as the sapphire in Turlough’s ring. A sturdily built ship, with sails of bleached linen, moored by the pier, rocked gently and a fishing boat steered for the harbour followed by a cloud of hungrily squawking seagulls. She narrowed her eyes. There was a man walking down the small narrow street that led to the harbour. His back was turned but there was something about the rolling gait and the squat figure that was familiar.
‘Cathal,’ she called and he turned instantly, a squarely built man, with weather-stained clothes and a very brown face.
‘How are you, Brehon?’ he said, crossing the road and standing by her horse. ‘My lord.’ He made a deep bow in the king’s direction.
‘How is everything going, Cathal?’ asked Mara.
‘Very well.’ He hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘I was going to come to see you tomorrow. I wanted your advice.’
‘Well, you can have it now if it won’t take too long,’ she
said good-humouredly. In her hard-working, overcrowded life she had early learned the value of never postponing anything that could be dealt with instantly. ‘Do you want to see me privately?’ she asked with a quick glance at the king.
‘No, no, nothing private about it at all.’ Cathal was relaxed and affable, a man who was sure of himself and of his place in his world.
‘Is that your ship down there?’ asked Turlough. ‘I’ll just ride down and have a look at it. Looks a fine vessel.’
‘The king will enjoy looking at your boat,’ said Mara reassuringly, seeing that Cathal looked rather concerned. Like most men of the kingdom he was a courteous man with a high regard for the king. He would not have liked to inconvenience him in any way. ‘What was it that you wanted to ask me about?’
‘Well, it’s to do with the man who died, Sorley the silversmith.’ He hesitated and Mara nodded.
‘You were there at the church, of course, weren’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ Cathal eyed her a slightly apprehensive way. ‘I had nothing to do with the bees going after him, though,’ he said bluntly.
‘No, no, you were seen going into the church while Sorley was still alive. You were just in front of a woman called Deirdre.’ She waited for a moment, but he said nothing. That meant little, though. He would probably not have known her so would have taken no notice of a middle-aged woman behind him. ‘I just wanted to ask you whether you could remember anyone coming in late. You were at the back of the church, weren’t you?’
‘I remember the young bard, Rory, isn’t it? I remember him coming in late.’
‘Do you remember whether he had his hood up or down?’ asked Mara.
‘Up,’ said Cathal confidently. Mara nodded. This was a useful confirmation.
‘I wonder why he had the hood up coming into the church – especially as it was so fine.’ Her tone was conversational, but Cathal gave her a keen look.
‘Well, you know these young lads, Brehon,’ he said tolerantly. ‘He pulled the hood down and then that gave him a chance to comb through his hair and show all the young maidens his golden curls.’
Mara laughed. ‘But you wanted to see me
is it about the silver that was lost? I know about this troublesome affair, Cathal,’ she added quickly as she could see him trying to marshal his thoughts to explain the whole matter to her.
‘It’s just that I wondered, now that Sorley is dead, should I approach the son and ask for more time, or is it the daughter who is the heir?’
‘I think,’ said Mara thoughtfully, deciding to ignore the last question, ‘it might be best if you left the matter to me. Would that be all right, Cathal? Would you be happy for me to handle it?’
‘More than happy,’ said Cathal gratefully. ‘I was talking to Toin the
briuga
– I’m going to bring some goods over for him when I return from my next voyage so I went to tell him that I would be leaving in about ten days’ time
and he suggested that I have a word with you about it. I’ll leave it to you then, Brehon, and I’m sorry that I interrupted
your Sunday ride with the king.’ His eyes went to Turlough who had handed his horse to one of the bodyguards and was now walking up the gangplank closely shadowed by the other bodyguard.
‘I’ll ride down and look at your vessel, too,’ said Mara, ‘though we mustn’t be long as we’ve promised to have dinner with the abbot and the sun is going around; it will soon be noon. So you’ll be staying around here for a while, will you?’
‘Yes,’ said Cathal. ‘I’m picking up some flagstones from Doolin in about ten days’ time and taking them over to the north of France. That will be my outgoing cargo.’
 
 
The king’s cousin, the abbot, was pacing the fine green grass of the garth outside the guesthouse of the abbey when they arrived. He was not alone, but was deep in conversation with his brother, Mahon O‘Brien. Mara was struck by the resemblance between the three cousins as Turlough dismounted from his horse and greeted them. This resemblance was particularly strong between Mahon and Turlough who shared the same heavy build and height as well as the high-bridged O’Brien nose and lofty forehead.
However, it was not the royal cousins that engaged Mara’s interest as she handed her reins to the porter, but a young, fresh-faced man who leaned against the stone wall of the cloisters, smothering a yawn. His eyes brightened when they saw her and he took a few eager strides forward.
‘Brehon,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘it’s good to see you again.’
‘Cormac, how are you? I don’t need to ask – you’re looking wonderful. How was Cork?’
‘Good,’ said Cormac. ‘I got a lot of experience there, then I had a few months as an
aigne
in Oriel and now here I am.’ He turned to smile politely at the stately figure of the abbot.
‘Well, Brehon, it’s good to see you. You are well?’ Father Donogh O’Brien, abbot of St Mary of the Fertile Rock, the Cistercian abbey in the north of the Burren was the king’s cousin. Like him, and yet quite unlike him Mara always thought. She made suitable replies to the queries and listened respectfully to his plans for the wedding on Christmas Day while all the time she was wondering how to get Cormac to herself.
‘And now you will wish to see Conor,’ the abbot was saying to Turlough. ‘I’ll escort you to the guesthouse.’
‘I’ll wait here with Cormac,’ said Mara quickly seizing the opportunity. ‘We don’t want to be all crowding in on an invalid at the same moment. I’ll join you in a little while, my lord.’
Without waiting for an answer, she seized Cormac by the arm and led him into the enclosed cloisters’ garth.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ said Cormac when they were alone. He opened his satchel and she could see inside it rows of scrolls all tied neatly with the legal pink linen tape. ‘I heard that you were investigating the murder of the silversmith. Well, believe it or not, all of these are to do with cases that Sorley the silversmith brought to the court at Kinvarra. He seems to have been a great man for the law,’ Cormac lowered his voice and added, ‘and by some
strange coincidence things always seemed to go his way.’ He gave a quick look at her face: ‘That doesn’t surprise you, Brehon, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t, Cormac,’ said Mara shaking her head wryly. ‘I understand that there was some very fine silver at the Brehon’s house in Kinvarra, also.’ She spoke lightly, but there was a deep distaste within her for a Brehon who could be bribed and would betray his oath for some silver.
‘Hmm,’ said Cormac with a grin, ‘well, an innocent young lad like myself would know nothing about that sort of thing. Anyway, this may be the scroll that you are interested in.’ He had it out before she replied and had begun unwrapping it.
‘This is the divorce of Sorley from his wife Deirdre; I just made a few notes here to save you time.’ He gave a quick glance around. Mara nodded. She understood. Cormac was newly appointed; he would not want to offend Mahon O’Brien in any way by appearing to question the judgements of his successor.
‘Just keep an eye on the gate to cloisters like a good boy,’ she said as she quickly scanned down through the pompous legal phrases and then looked at Cormac’s note. She nodded with satisfaction as she read that. ‘Neat, succinct and to the point,’ she commented. ‘Remind me again: who taught you?’ He grinned at that and she handed him back the scroll. ‘Just tie that up again and put it away,’ she said. ‘Your notes are all that I need.’
The notes were clear, concise and informative. The husband had made the accusation; no witnesses were called. Deirdre’s testimony was not asked for and the judgement had been delivered without any defence or denial being entered.
‘You are a simple man,’
one Brehon had remarked, perhaps rather impatiently, to a victim,
‘but fear not; the law
is
greater than any of us and it will protect you.’
The law had manifestly not protected Deirdre on that occasion, but Mara was determined that justice would ultimately be done.
GÚBRETHA CARATNIAD
(THE FALSE JUDGEMENTS OF CARATNIA)
There are seven things which a husband may cite if he wishes to divorce his wife:
1.Unfaithfulness
2.Persistent thieving
3.Inducing an abortion
4.Smothering her child
5.Bringing shame on his honour
6.Starving her child
7.Absconding from the marriage home
 
 
‘T
HERE ARE MANY DIFFERENCES between English law and Brehon law,’ Mara informed her scholars. The boys were finding it hard to concentrate. It had rained
heavily all day on Monday so they had no fresh air and exercise yesterday. It had still been raining this morning so even their midmorning break had to be spent indoors. An hour of Latin, followed by an hour of Greek and then an hour spent memorizing pages of the thousands of judgement texts meant that they were all now tired and looking sleepy. ‘I was thinking about this on Sunday,’ she went on, ‘when I was riding home from my visit to the abbey with the king. I met Cormac there – you all remember Cormac – and he was telling me the details of Deirdre and Sorley’s divorce. Sorley divorced Deirdre for infidelity. It appeared that she made no defence and no witnesses were called. I found that strange, don’t you?’
‘You mean he gave no proper evidence?’ asked Moylan, abandoning his attempt to carve something on his desk and looking at her alertly.
‘None.’ Mara nodded.
‘So she was convicted on his word.’ Enda looked thoughtful.
‘Perhaps she had a baby and he wasn’t around to … well, you know …’ said Aidan.
‘I wish you’d learn to put matters into words, Aidan,’ said Mara crisply. ‘Words are the tools of a lawyer, just as a chisel is the tool of a stonemason.’
‘He was absent at the time of conception,’ said Enda primly and Mara nodded gravely in acknowledgement.
‘I don’t know whether he was absent, or not,’ she said, ‘but there was no baby. Deirdre had two children, only two. One, Una, was born, I think, shortly after the marriage. The other, Cuan, that lad we met on Saturday, Fachtnan; well he was born about nine years before the divorce. There were
no more children and according to Toin, Deirdre has lived alone, ever since.’
‘So why were you saying about English law and Brehon law being so different?’ asked Shane.
‘Well, I was thinking that Brehon law allows for a wife to divorce her husband and to retain her bride-price and a share of his property. It will not allow a husband to put aside his wife for no reason.’
‘But it did in this case, is that right?’ queried Shane.
Mara shook her head. ‘The law didn’t; the man who administered the law was at fault. The law is quite clear. Deirdre should have had a chance to bring her own evidence, to make a protest.’
‘So it’s better for a woman to live under Brehon law than under English law,’ said Hugh thoughtfully.
‘And of course, Brehon law also allows for women to have a profession such as being a lawyer or a physician,’ Mara agreed. ‘Can anyone remember what Fithail says on this subject?’
‘A woman physician is a glory to the kingdom,’
Fachtnan recited with a quiet smile.
‘Nuala keeps telling him that,’ Aidan smirked.
‘But English law allows a girl to inherit if she has no brothers, and Brehon law doesn’t,’ said Fachtnan hurriedly, propping his chin in his hands to hide his burning cheeks.
‘Well, yes, and no,’ said Mara. ‘You see it’s a question of clan territory.’
‘So if Mairead O’Lochlainn didn’t have any brothers and Donogh, her father died, then she would only get land fit for seven cows,’ said Aidan with a quick glance at Enda.
‘And her house,’ replied Enda, calmly ignoring the jibe.
‘But,’ said Mara, ‘if it’s not a question of clan territory, and the wealth has been earned by the individual, then he or she can make a will leaving it to anyone. Sorley, the silversmith, mine owner and merchant, made, according to his daughter Una, a will leaving all his possessions to her and excluding his divorced wife, Deirdre, and his repudiated son, Cuan.’
‘Well, lucky old Rory,’ said Moylan enthusiastically. ‘I was wondering why he gave Aoife the push for the sake of Una who’s got a face like a mountain goat.’
Mara raised her eyebrows admonishingly, but stifled a laugh. Moylan, it was to be hoped, would learn some diplomacy before he was released to the world as a Brehon.
‘Ah, but the will can’t be found,’ said Fachtnan. ‘When the Brehon and I were there on Saturday, Una searched everywhere and so did Rory. There was no will, so now the wealth goes to the son.’
‘So Una will have nothing and Rory will have nothing, either …’ Moylan broke off with a glance at Bran who had stood up, his long thin tail wagging.
‘There’s Rory now,’ said Aidan, standing up and peering out of the window. ‘He probably wants to talk to you privately, Brehon, about the will. I think I smell dinner, would it be all right if we went to eat now and that would leave you in peace?’ he finished helpfully.
‘Well, don’t get in Brigid’s way if she’s still preparing the meal,’ Mara warned them tolerantly.
‘We can play hurley if the field has dried a little,’ said Moylan joyfully.
‘If I may, I’ll just borrow
Cáin Lánamna
about the laws of marriage, Brehon. This is an interesting case about Sorley
and his wife, Deirdre,’ Enda said. He returned Aidan’s stare of amazement with a superior look as they strolled outside.
‘Shall I tell Rory to come in, Brehon?’ asked Fachtnan.
‘Yes, please, Fachtnan.’ What did the young bard want? she thought. Her mind went to the discovery she had made in the graveyard yesterday.
Rory looked troubled and hesitant when he came in. He made a few uneasy remarks about the weather and enquiries about her journey yesterday and fidgeted with his fingers until Mara, worried that he would never get to the point, asked him bluntly: ‘Well, what brings you over here, Rory?’
‘I wanted to talk to you, Brehon,’ his voice was hesitant, but his eyes were assessing her.
‘Yes, Rory.’ He was a handsome boy with some musical ability, she thought. It was a pity that he had not stayed longer at bard school and qualified as
a file
(poet). As it was, he had left once he had attained the lowest qualification and had spent a couple of years idling, living in an old house in Dooneyvardan, the fort or
dún
of the bard, selling songs or his services as musician at fairs and festivals, dining with whosoever would give him a meal, and perhaps a bed for the night. He had little prospects ahead of him; it was no wonder that he had succumbed to Sorley’s offer. The sight of all that ostentatious wealth would have seduced a stronger character than his.
‘You see I am a bit worried about something that I saw on Thursday, the day of Father David’s burial.’ His tone had a rehearsed sound; the words, even the slight hesitation after the word ‘worried’ flowed like the words of a well-practised tale.
Her interest sharpened. She had thought he was about to talk of Aoife.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Well, I walked across from Newtown Castle with Sorley on that morning,’ he said. ‘He wanted to go early, wanted to see the bishop. He tried to hurry Una but she wouldn’t be rushed so I said I would go with him. I was fond of him, really. I liked to please him.’
Making sure to ingratiate himself, Mara thought cynically. Or had he some other idea in his head? In any case, he was trying to convince her that an affection existed between himself and his future father-in-law, looking at her appraisingly, trying to see how his words impressed her. She said nothing, looked back at him with a blank, though interested, face, so he continued.
‘We walked across and then he delayed a bit so that he was waiting at the gate when the bishop arrived on his horse. Sorley made a big thing of helping the bishop off his horse. He handed the reins to me as if I were a servant.’ Now there was a genuine sound of indignation in his voice. She believed that; he had probably been made to suffer many humiliations during his stay at Newtown Castle. Sorley would take the view that he had bought Rory and he would extract due payment from him.
‘So what happened then?’
‘Oh, Sorley was just chatting to the bishop, introducing himself, telling the bishop about the communion cup that King Turlough Donn had purchased for him as a gift to the abbey. Described what it looked like and the jewels in it: he did that sort of thing very well,’ said Rory, a certain note of
admiration creeping into his voice. ‘I could see the bishop wondering whether to order an even more splendid one for the cathedral at Kilfenora.’
‘And then he left the bishop?’ queried Mara. It occurred to her that no one yet had given a detailed account of the movements of the murdered man on that Thursday morning so she sat down on her chair and prepared to listen patiently.
Rory perched on Enda’s desk and shook his head. ‘No. Well, I don’t know, really. The horse was getting restless, tossing his head and sweating, Bishop Mauritius told me to take him over to the stable at Father David’s house. He even told me to rub the horse down and give him a good drink. He just waved his hand at me.’
‘And did you do that?’
‘No,’ said Rory indignantly. ‘I’m not a groom. I met Toin’s servant and he pointed out Father David’s man to me so I handed the horse over to him.’
‘And when you returned, did you go back to Sorley and the bishop?’
‘I’d had enough of that,’ said Rory resentfully. ‘I just waited at a distance until they finished talking. The bishop went to the vestry to robe for the service so I joined Sorley.’
‘And stayed with him.’ Mara allowed a note of puzzlement to enter her voice.
‘I talked with him for a while, but then he seemed restless. He got out his wax tablets and started sketching a communion cup – I suppose he thought that if he had a design ready for the bishop when he met him after the service, then he might get an order there and then. Anyway, he said that Una would be coming and that I should escort
her into the church. Sorley was always very anxious that I did everything for Una, not that she ever seemed to notice or bother doing anything to please me.’ A note of resentment had crept back into Rory’s voice and Mara suppressed a smile. As she thought, this proposed marriage was more Sorley’s idea than Una’s.
‘Well, this is what I wanted to tell you about, Brehon,’ said Rory. His eyes were a very dark blue, now, very focused as if they followed some inward script. ‘When I turned to go I thought I saw a head over the ruined wall of the old church. Do you know the one that I mean?’
‘I do,’ said Mara. ‘It’s not very high, is it?’ She pictured the two heads, one black and one red, of ten-year-old Shane and twelve-year-old Hugh, appearing over the top of it.
‘That’s right,’ said Rory eagerly. ‘That’s what caught my attention. It wasn’t someone just strolling along the pathway in the way that the people were doing, going into the church for the service. It looked like someone was ducking down behind the wall, trying not to be seen.’
‘So you were curious.’ Mara always found it best to keep these confidences flowing by interjecting little remarks.
‘Well, I just went to the end of the wall and had a look,’ said Rory. He sounded more confident now. His voice was fluent and assured. ‘I must say that I wasn’t surprised when I saw who it was; poor fellow he’s always hanging around trying to have a word with his father.’
‘Was it Cuan, then?’
Rory nodded, ‘Yes, it was.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
Rory shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said. He made his voice sound low and miserable – a fine performance,
thought Mara. ‘I keep thinking that I wished I had. I could just have gone over to Cuan and shook his hand, chatted with him, taken him into the church, but you know it’s stupid, but I got the feeling that he resented me. There I was, a stranger, living in his father’s house while he was stuck out on that terrible little farm on the mountainside. I suppose it wasn’t very fair on him, though Sorley was always full of complaints of him, and I think that, to give the old man due credit, he did try to teach Cuan something of the silversmith’s trade and then when he couldn’t master that, he tried him in the mine, but nothing worked.’
‘So you didn’t say anything to him?’ Rory was building a case rather cleverly and certainly artistically against Cuan. He had obviously decided to give up casting suspicion on Daire. But why try to cast suspicion on anyone? After the accusation that Muiris made at Poulnabrone, it was understandable that Rory would feel threatened but could there be a more sinister reason?
‘No, I didn’t. I was pretty sure that he hadn’t noticed me as he was concentrating on peeping at his father, so I just crept away.’
‘And went straight into the church.’ Mara watched Rory carefully as she said this. Muiris, after all, had given public testimony to the late arrival of Rory in the church.

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