Verdict of the Court (12 page)

She saw the glow of assent in his eyes and finished, ‘A girl like that might have got into some sort of trouble …’

… might well have become pregnant, born a child to a man who would, in her father’s eyes, and also in the eyes of her foster-father and of the rest of the clan, seemed completely unsuited to the daughter of a taoiseach …
Mara’s thoughts ran on as she watched him carefully.

Enda’s eyes were now shuttered, the lids dropped down over their burning blue. His hands clenched and unclenched, but he said nothing.

‘I think that a young man who truly loved her would understand that what had happened was not her fault, that if all her guardians, those who should have had her welfare at heart, would keep quiet about the past, then a girl like this, with all the good qualities which made her worthy of love, could go ahead to a bright future.’

‘But if those that should have been her protectors turned blackmailers …’ said Enda in a harsh voice which broke over the last word.

‘Exactly!’ Mara nodded her head. ‘I’m not sure what comes next,’ she said with great honesty. ‘However,’ she continued, ‘I do understand that if someone whom you love has been badly treated, then a great wall of hate can build up – and perhaps that hate can turn into something self-destructive and evil.’ She watched him carefully, but then he turned away. She could see the struggle in his face and then his lips tighten. She had a sudden memory of Enda as a quite young boy, only about nine years old. She had been questioning him about some idiotic behaviour of the scholars which had resulted in the burning down of a tree in the woodland beside the law school. Enda on that occasion had suddenly become very distant, tightened his lips in the way he had done just now and had said, with great dignity: ‘It’s not my secret, Brehon.’

Then, as now, she had acquiesced in the justice of this and had told him he could go, and in almost the same words now she said, ‘Well, Enda, if there is anything that you feel you can tell me, or anything else that you know about this very serious and difficult matter, do come and find me instantly.’

When he had left she searched the Brehon’s press more thoroughly. The scrolls relating to the next judgement day were certainly not there but there could be other clues. She remembered Enda’s words about MacClancy collecting evidence and went methodically through the four sections of the cupboard again.

This time she found something that she had missed on the first search. Underneath the rolls of unused vellum, she found a tin box. She thought it contained quills, lying packed in bundles, ready to be sharpened into pens, but when she opened it, she found that there were rolled sheets of vellum and parchment inside it. She pulled out the top scroll and unfolded it. Her eyes widened. The vellum was of superfine quality, but that was not what had startled her.

It was a letter, a letter written in English, not the straightforward English of the people of Galway, but the flowery, multisyllabic English of the King’s court. She glanced at the seal at the bottom of the letter and saw that it bore the name of one of Henry VIII’s ministers.

‘My lord,’ it began and then went on to several effusive compliments and wishes for the reader’s good health. And then came the bit that made her stare in astonishment. ‘I can confirm that your surmise is correct. His Majesty has been pleased to confer the Barony of Moyarta on Turlough O’Brien.’

Turlough! Made Baron of Moyarta! But Moyarta was just one small western portion of the lands possessed by her husband.

And then Mara’s mind cleared. Of course, she should have guessed.

The O’Brien lineage from Brian Boru was an ancient one. Time after time she had heard the great names of its chieftains, down through five hundred years to the present day, recited by poet and bard. And each time her mind lost itself among a sea of Turloughs, Donoghs, Teiges, Conors and Murroughs – the O’Briens were mighty warriors but they were singularly lacking in imagination and extremely conservative when it came to naming their children. There were at least ten kings who had been named Turlough which she could recollect offhand, and, of course, they all had nicknames. Her husband was Turlough Donn, because of his brown hair, his kingly uncle had been simply called the
Gilladuff
, the dark lad, and then there had been Turlough of the Chessboard and Turlough Mór – a man of great height – and many others.

So when the grandson of Turlough Donn, Conor and Ellice’s eldest son, was born, he was named Turlough through family custom. But after a few years when he showed signs of a plump, broad, heavy figure, he was nicknamed Raour and had been Raour ever since.

Mara stared down at the letter. So Raour, who had been sent to London to invite his uncle Murrough to the celebrations of the twentieth anniversary, had transacted some business on his own account.

Was it the young man’s own idea, or had the title been given at the request of Murrough? To be Baron of Moyarta was not a title of any great consequence. Mara guessed that Murrough had a much greater title in mind for himself if the English ever managed to get control of the three kingdoms. However, if his nephew adopted an English title then that would undermine the position of his father, Conor, and of his grandfather, King Turlough Donn.

Turlough, thought Mara, would be furious and extremely wounded if he had heard of what his grandson had done behind his back.

And if Brehon MacClancy told the King of Raour’s treachery, then it would spell an end to any chance of the young man being elected as
tánaiste
or heir to the kingship of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren. Turlough was fanatically hostile to anything English, whether their laws, their way of dress, or their customs – and especially angry at the efforts they were making to extend their influence over Gaelic Ireland and reduce his native country to the status of an offshore island, subject to a master race of England. He would not remain quiet under any action of his grandson that appeared to uphold the English ambitions.

Deep in thought, Mara replaced the document and resolved that she would take this box into her own custody. There was nothing else of interest there: just some bills of sale for copious amounts of salmon – fruits from the river by Urlan Castle, perhaps, she thought – and also an account book detailing payments to a fisherman – probably the one who supplied the salmon. There was nothing in the cupboard which could relate to Fionn O’Brien. Mara had wondered about him. The heiress, the woman who had provided the castle which was now his place of residence, had a tough look about her. If Fionn was to offend her in any way then a divorce would quickly result and divorce under Brehon law, was, as Mara well knew, very easy to obtain if a wife felt ill-used or swindled by her husband. She decided to have a word with Turlough. He was no gossip, but he usually knew what was going on in his kingdom.

Mara placed the box in her satchel, closed the cupboard door and went out of the Brehon’s room.

So far, she thought, it appeared as though MacClancy might have been killed by someone who had been a victim of his blackmail. At the moment it appeared as though Aengus MacCraith, Raour, and either Enda or Shona could possibly be the murderer. Leaving out the seven children, there were thirteen others, all adults, moving around and dancing in that dimly lit hall during the time that Brehon MacClancy was stabbed in the back. Conor and his wife Ellice – no motive that she could imagine. Herself and Turlough – no; Turlough had been either by her or within her sight the whole of that time. Maccon MacMahon – unless it was something to do with Shona, she could see no possible motive. Fionn O’Brien might be a possibility – though she could see no motive for his wife Aideen. The physician, Donogh O’Hickey, and the harpist, Brian MacBrody, were men, like Aengus MacCraith, who were part of the four officers of Turlough who lived cheek by jowl with each other. There were possibilities for strain and jealousies to arise between them all, particularly as the dead man seemed to be in such a vindictive and malicious mood. Their names could be added to the list, but at the moment she could not see any further than Raour, Enda, Aengus MacCraith or Shona.

And of these, perhaps Raour had the most to lose.

(Laws concerning noble or professional people)

A king should have many servants and these should be chosen carefully:

A steward who arranges seating, lying and food for all.

A carver who divides the food and should have a keen eye and a steady hand.

A cook who will guard the king against poisoning.

A cup-bearer whose qualifications are filling, emptying and self-control.

T
he noise from the solar was attracting the attention of the workers in the kitchen as Mara came up the stairs of the north-western tower. Rosta’s chief assistant had a slightly worried look on his face as he stood outside the kitchen and looked upwards.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mara imperturbably. ‘They are just debating legal matters.’

As she spoke the door opened and Cormac shot out and came down the stairs, leaping exuberantly and burst into the kitchen, red-gold hair tousled and green eyes gleaming with excitement.

‘Have you got anything to eat, Rosta, I’m starving. Any of those cakes?’ he said with the confidence of the petted child of the castle.

‘I was thinking that I needed to bring supplies – it sounded like as if there was a siege going on up there. How many of you are there – seven, isn’t it?’ Without waiting for an answer, Rosta poured some elderberry cordial into a flagon, placed seven goblets onto a tray, and signalled to his assistant to take something out of the iron pot standing on small legs at the back of the fire.

‘
Ionach!
’ exclaimed Cormac. ‘My favourite plum cake! Don’t cut it, Rosta. Let me.’ He grabbed the sharp kitchen knife from Rosta’s hand and bestowed a beaming smile on him.

‘And “thank you”,’ reminded Mara, though she could see how everyone was smiling at the nine-year-old. Cormac, she thought, had all of his father’s charm. It was a good thing that he was brought up in the strict discipline of the law school – if he lived here at Bunratty Castle he might grow up spoilt and over-weight. Her mind went to Raour. As the grandson of the reigning King, and the son of a father who had looked for most of Raour’s lifetime to be unlikely to live, the clan member who had fostered him may have curried favour with the boy by allowing him to do and to eat exactly what he wished. And to have a title from the English King might have seemed to be a sweetmeat to which he could not say no. The thought of Raour brought her mind back to the time at the Christmas Eve meal when Conor had been boasting about his son to Aideen, Fionn O’Brien’s wife. She had noticed, then, the woman’s eyes looking apprehensively down the table at the unattractive form of Brehon MacClancy. It had puzzled her at the time, and now it made her think hard and resolve to find out more.

It had to be faced up to – the body of the dead man had to be examined as soon as it was possible. She could not shy away from this any longer.

With a feeling of shame at her squeamishness and neglect of duty, she mounted the stairs, following in Cormac’s footsteps and was glad to hear that the angry voices immediately ceased at the sight of what he was carrying.

‘Everything all right, Domhnall,’ she said in an undertone as the other six picked up the generous slices which Cormac was cutting from the cake made with dried plums.

‘It’s that girl,’ he said explosively. Unusually for him his cheeks were flushed a deep red and his dark hair was untidy. ‘She just thinks that she must be in charge.’

Mara concealed a smile. Domhnall normally held an almost effortless sway over the law-school scholars. Cormac was usually the only one who would challenge him and faced with the united front of Domhnall and Slevin he always backed down. Cael, obviously, was made of tougher material. Mara sat down at the top of the table, refused the cake and the cordial, but remained sitting, determined that Domhnall’s authority was not going to be undermined by this badly behaved little –
Amazon
, she concluded in her mind, remembering her reading of the Greek historian Herodotus.

‘Now could you explain to me what you’ve all decided, Domhnall,’ she said as soon as she saw that he had finished his slice of cake. The twins, a very thin pair of children, had each taken a second slice and she thought that might occupy them fully for the moment.

‘I’ve used ink, instead of charcoal, Brehon, because the carpenter said that he would have to sand it down afterwards, in any case – I borrowed some of the paper so that I could rub out the writing before I returned it to him.’ Domhnall, as always, was forward-thinking and methodical.

‘But it was my idea,’ said Cael with her mouth full of cake.

‘We’ve all worked on the idea,’ said Domhnall repressively. ‘This sheet of wood is to represent the hall and you can see that I’ve divided it into three sections – the dais, up here, the portion of the middle of the hall, between the two top windows, is here, and the end portion, between the two end windows, is here.’

‘I see,’ said Mara. Complicated, she thought, but waited for the next.

‘Slevin had the really good idea of using the pieces from the chess set,’ said Domhnall with more enthusiasm. ‘Explain, Slevin.’

No wonder that Domhnall had such influence over the boys, thought Mara. He had an instinct always to give praise and responsibility to those younger than he. If only Brehon MacClancy had behaved like that with Enda … And then she shut down her thoughts quickly. She had been on the verge, she realized, of concluding with the words
then this murder might not have happened.

‘Go on, Slevin,’ she said aloud as he stood expectantly in front of her with the box of chessmen in his hand. One by one he took them out and placed them on the dais section of the board, naming them as he went. They had used the white king and queen for herself and Turlough, the black king and queen for Conor and his wife, Ellice. The white bishop was for Enda and the black bishop for Raour. Macon was the white knight and his daughter, Shona, the black knight. The four castles stood for the four professionals: the harpist, the poet, the Brehon and the physician. Five white pawns represented the law-school scholars and two black pawns the MacMahon twins. The set of figures was a large and elaborate one carved from wood, and plated with a thin layer of silver for the white pieces and copper for the black pieces. Each of the figures now bore around its neck a small scarf of vellum where the name was written in tiny but distinct capitals.