Verdict of the Court (23 page)

Enda worked like a demon. He had brought with him an iron poker and he continually prodded the tar and relit the candles until it flowed like honey and completely coated the tips of the spears. The day was still and what breeze there was hardly stirred the flame of the candles and behind the half-closed steel shutter of the lantern the flame of the large candle burned steadily. Mara hoped with every fibre within her. If only they could damage the trebuchet. That was the real problem. The castle had a well; it was richly provisioned with food-stuffs; they could withstand a siege more easily that the attackers could stay out in the wet and the cold of mid-winter.

But wasn’t it unlikely that the Knight of Glin would allow his trebuchet to be set up within reach of throwing spears or knives?

‘Three,’ said Turlough, folding down the third finger and Mara realized that she had missed one of the minutes. Time was going faster that she could cope with. There was a feeling of unreality about the scene.

The declaration of ‘four’ came more quickly. All now was in readiness, so Mara guessed that Turlough was counting more quickly. Fifteen men stood with spears coated in liquid tar and tiny flames were beginning to flicker from the iron bucket. The captain had returned, though not the two men who had accompanied him.

And yet something was happening outside. There had been a few shouted commands and then many footsteps had thudded on the stairs, coming up, a sound as though something was being dragged around the spiral staircase. And there had been an angry exclamation. And then the men had reached the doorway, but had not come in. They were waiting outside the door, she thought and wondered why.

‘Five!’ shouted Turlough. ‘And rot in hell the whole breed and seed of you all!’ and then he stood back. From where she stood, Mara could see that the white flag lowered and the men begin to pile more stones in the sling of the trebuchet. The castle and its occupants might now be fated. She felt a sense of relief that Turlough had not surrendered to them, but puzzled at his sudden change of attitude.

‘Go on, lads!’ said the captain. Four men dashed to the embrasures between the four upright merlons and launched their flaming spears. Three fell short, but the fourth, thrown by a very tall, very powerful-looking man, reached the small crowd near the trebuchet and scattered them. There was a shout, and a yell of pain which brought a grim smile to the men’s lips, but no great injury, thought Mara, as she noticed one man leave his post and dip his arm into the river.

‘And again!’ shouted the captain, while the first four went back and picked up new spears. By now the routine of setting them afire had been established, but Mara’s eyes went to the pile of spears in the corner and she wondered how much time this could gain them. She had little hope that the trebuchet could be injured. Some of the Knight of Glin’s men had run forward and held up shields, English shields; long, heavy shields, unlike the small round shields of the Irish; each one of these shields was about the size of a man. They held them up in front of the trebuchet, the deadly besieging weapon. Just two of the third lot of flaming spears pierced the wood shields, but they were easily plucked out and thrown into the river to quench the flame. The other two fell short and blazed uselessly on the marshy ground. The attackers began a scornful chant in English and Turlough stood very still in grim silence.

When there were no more spare spears left, he made a signal to the captain, who brought forth a piece of torn white material – rather like what Shona had been using down in the great hall for bandaging wounds. He handed it to Turlough, who waved it aloft. Instantly there was a wild cheer and faces appeared from behind the huge shield; even a few wounded men, lying on the bank, raised their heads and supported themselves on an elbow.

‘Knight of Glin,’ roared Turlough. The cheers and catcalls were cut off at a signal and a squarely built, short man stepped forward.

‘I am the Knight of Glin; what do you wish to say to me,’ he said in English.

Mara quickly translated.

‘Lived in this country for the whole of his miserable life and doesn’t speak a word of the language,’ said Turlough with disgust. Once again he spoke but this time to Mara’s astonishment he quoted in Latin from the Bible.

‘
But thou, O God, shalt bring them down into the pit of destruction: bloody and traitorous men shall not live out half their days.
’

There was a puzzled silence from the attackers. Heads turned. The Knight of Glin conferred with his captain. Turlough stood very still and said no more, just gazed straight ahead and down at the River Shannon which had kept the castle at Bunratty safe for over seventy years.

And then the door behind Mara opened and a cluster of men came in, dragging something amongst them.

For a moment Mara thought that they had captured one of the attackers – a medium-sized man, his face bleeding, his lips drawn back over his teeth – and then she realized that this was Maccon MacMahon. One of the men held a rope coiled in his hand – and the other end of the rope was around the neck of the prisoner. Mara stared in horror. Turlough’s face was a grim mask. He watched as MacMahon, chains on both hands and feet, noose around his neck was dragged roughly forward. The captain made a neat loop on the free end of the rope and slung it over one of the merlons and forced the man to stand beside the embrasure. The sun struck that spot, illuminated the bowed figure, the noose and bore down on the bald patch in the middle of the man’s head. Somehow there was something about that bald spot, almost a tonsure in shape and size, which seemed to make the situation almost unbearably pathetic.

Mara took an impulsive step forward. ‘Turlough,’ she said softly, ‘you can’t do this. The man has committed a crime, but he must be tried for that crime and the verdict of the court must be accepted – if guilty he will be punished. You cannot do this deed. It goes against every tenet of the law that we both believe in.’

But Turlough did not even look towards her. He stood, immoveable, at the battlements and gazed down. Rosta, the cook, white-faced but seeming unaware of his injury, looked from Mara to his master. Then he looked back at Mara and slightly shook his head.
Leave him alone
the gesture seemed to say and Mara closed her mouth on the legal argument that she was about to utter. Somehow, here in the middle of the bloody battle scene, there was, she knew, a feeling that what had this man had done, in betraying his King and in betraying all the clans who owed allegiance to this King of the three kingdoms, what this man had done was beyond forgiveness; that there was only one possible penalty and that was the biblical one – a life for a life.

But the Bible was full of savagery and Brehon law respected life and sought to avoid bloodshed.

And every fibre within Mara cried out against this deliberate killing of a man of the kingdom. She had spent almost her entire life – ever since the age of five – in the study of a law which had been drawn up in order to keep peace between neighbours and members of the same kingdom by providing a bloodless penalty for every possible crime. What this man had done was wrong, evil, and he and his clan should pay for that. There should be a heavy fine, but not a death. She could not countenance that; but could she help it? And she felt suddenly quite sick and powerless. There was a tense silence now from the attackers, no whistles, no cheering. The Knight of Glin gazed upwards and although Turlough spoke in Gaelic now, his gaze and his words were directed at that stocky figure of the Knight of Glin. And it seemed as though their meaning was instantly understood. The Knight looked upwards, and his very stillness and the angle of his gaze seemed to ask for more information.

‘The man, your agent, this renegade MacMahon, will be hanged – his troubles will be over quickly,’ continued Turlough, ‘but yours are only beginning. What do you think will happen to you? Will any other clan leader be willing to join with such a treacherous race as the English and their bastard half-castes?’

There was an angry murmur of talk after that. The man who had spoken first was at the Knight of Glin’s ear. He must be translating Turlough’s words into English. Mara strained her ears but could not hear much that made sense to her. They were perhaps wondering whether Turlough was bluffing, whether he would, in fact, carry out his threat to hang a friend, a tenant, a man whose family and clan were related to the O’Briens, bound to them by ties of blood and of marriage. The MacMahons had given their allegiance to the O’Brien kingship from time immemorial. They were descended from the brother of their great ancestor, Brian Boru. And through the five centuries that had elapsed since then, the bond between the MacMahons and the O’Briens had remained, had grown stronger and firmer.

Mara looked down on the attackers. The buzz of words rose louder and she prayed for the words to continue. While they were talking, no action would be taken. She had a great belief in words.

Let’s hope it all spends itself in talk, she thought. She hoped that Turlough had not given offence by his reference to bastard half-castes. The Knights of Glin, under English law, were descended from an illegitimate line of a previous Earl of Desmond. Brehon law, of course, took no notice of such things – a son, no matter who was the mother, once acknowledged by his father, according to the law, had equal inheritance rights with all other sons. The English, however, had different views and Turlough’s sneer was probably deeply insulting to the Knight of Glin. There had been a tense silence after those words. Mara moved a little closer and gazed down. The group of men seemed to be talking together, seemed to be arguing. From time to time their glances went up to the tower roof – they did not appear to be looking at Turlough, but at the rigid and immobile figure of the man who had betrayed him to the English foe. Maccon MacMahon was a traitor and a money-hungry blackguard, but he was no coward and he stood, very straight, looking down at the River Shannon, thinking, no doubt, how that river flowed in front of his own castle in west Thomond. Did he think about his motherless children, she wondered – about Shona, who had been neglected and abused by a man who should have cared for her, about the intelligent, angry Cael and Cian, who hung around stables and got little attention from his father? Did he ever regret that he had betrayed the man who had been his friend for almost forty years – and his King for twenty of these years? Nothing could be told from that immobile figure.

Mara moved restlessly. The tension had broken in the group behind her. Some sort of decision had been taken. The movements and gestures of those on the ground had been read and a verdict was anticipated.

From the corner of her eye Mara saw the captain speak softly to the group of men. One by one they slid out of the door; even Enda went with them, leaving on the tower roof only Turlough, the captain, and herself – and the man with the noose around his neck.

There had been no dramatic counting of the minutes this time. And yet it seemed as though both parties were working to an invisible clock, because suddenly everything began to happen. The attackers loaded rocks onto the trebuchet and Turlough’s men burst from the tower, running at full tilt and launching knives flaming with pitch at the enemy. It was a brave try, thought Mara, watching with clenched hands. They hoped to surprise the enemy, but the guns were aimed at them almost instantly. The shots rang out and Mara saw two men fall.

And then her eyes went to her husband. He was not looking downward. As soon as his men burst out from the gate and had begun to run towards the river, Turlough had lifted his hand in a signal. Mara looked towards him, horrified.

‘Turlough, no!’ she exclaimed.

(sections on rank)

The King’s justice is the most important thing in each kingdom. If the King is just, his reign will be peaceful and prosperous, whereas if he is guilty of injustice, the soil and the elements will rebel against him. There will be infertility of women and cattle, crop-failures, dearth of fish, defeat in battle, plagues and lightning storms throughout the land.

A
nd then, suddenly, it appeared as though something cracked within the immobile figure standing by the rampart, his hands bound and the rope slung around his neck. He turned his head and looked into the eyes of his King.

‘Spare me, Turlough,’ he pleaded. ‘I will never do such a thing again. It was just concern for my daughter. She wished so much for this match with the son of the Knight of Glin. I could not bear to deny her, to ignore her pleadings, her tears. If you pardon me this one time, then I will be your most fervent follower and most faithful servant for the rest of my life.’

He paused and began to sob brokenly. Mara looked around at the faces on the castle roof. Not one of them showed any sign of being moved by the appeal. Most looked contemptuous. Turlough’s face looked like an effigy from the tomb of one of his ancestors – colourless, carved from limestone. There was a dead silence. Mara could hear the pulse of blood in her ears, her hands clenched and unclenched. She moved a little closer to her husband and murmured his name.

‘Turlough,’ she said and then when he made no response she touched his hand. ‘Turlough, you cannot do this,’ she said quietly. ‘The law does not permit the taking of the life of a clan member for any reason. The final judgement is God’s, but the law …’

And then Turlough moved. He walked away from her and towards the edge of the rampart so that he took his place beside the condemned man.

‘No!’ he said loudly and vehemently, and she did not know whether he spoke to her or to Maccon MacMahon. The man turned his face away from his King in a gesture of despair and Mara could see that tears now coursed down his cheeks. She followed her husband to the rampart.

‘Turlough, I beg you,’ she said, but she had the feeling that her words were wasted.

‘Let me at least have a priest.’ Maccon’s voice was high and almost unrecognizable – its pitch shrill as that of a child in pain.

‘I’ve no priest for you,’ growled Turlough. ‘I’ve a basement filled with bodies of the dead and a hall of wounded men where many may still die. If there was a priest available I would not want a single word to be omitted, a single prayer from the sacred anointing to be hurried through for these loyal friends of mine, just because there is a traitor on the roof here who is afraid to face the death that his sins merit. Say a paternoster if you wish to make your peace with God. You can say nothing to me that will influence me one jot.’