Mara glanced around again. The custom was that the dead person’s relatives were the first to follow the coffin, but Father David had only the people of the parish to mourn him. Probably Sorley Skerrett, silversmith and owner of the nearby Newtown Castle, the most important person in the parish, should be first, but he did not appear to be in the church. This was odd; surely he had not gone home once he had finished talking to the bishop. Bishop Mauritius O’Brien, cousin to the king, had a quick eye that would immediately notice his absence from the service. Sorley’s plain-faced daughter, Una, was there in the front bench, as was his apprentice, Daire, and their guest, Ulick Burke, Lord of Clanrickard in the county of Galway, but Sorley, himself, was nowhere to be seen.
Quietly Mara got to her feet. As the king’s representative, responsible for law and order in the kingdom, there was no doubt that, although only present today because of her affection for Father David, she was the person of highest status in the church. As soon as she moved, others stood up also and began to form an orderly line behind her, filling the middle aisle of the little church.
The key grated in the lock of the south door and the coffin bearers bent their heads in preparation for stepping through its low arch. The sacristan lifted the latch and then there was a pause. No one moved. Mara peered around the bulky form of the bishop. The sacristan’s face was red as he put his weight behind the door and endeavoured to push it. Mara concealed a smile. No doubt, no one had thought of checking that the ancient door, part of the old ruined church, was still in working order. Perhaps it had swollen, or more likely, since the weather had been very dry, a giant stone had fallen from the old arch above it and had blocked it.
‘Excuse me, Brehon, excuse me, my lord,’ Daire pushed his way past both of them and put his powerful shoulder to the door. It opened, slowly and gradually, with no sound of stone grating on stone. As soon as there was a gap large enough, Daire squeezed through and stepped into the ruins. The crowd in the church shuffled impatiently, whispers grew louder, but then stopped abruptly as Daire stepped back into the church, closing the door behind him. His face was white and his pale blue eyes wide with shock. He hesitated for a moment, passing his hand through his silver-blond hair, while he looked around the congregation and then his worried gaze found Mara. Her reactions were swift; she moved forward and joined him. He said nothing, just turned and she followed him, squeezing through the door and then stopped.
Now she could see what had blocked the door. A body lay there. A heavy body, fallen on his back with his face upturned to the open sky above the ruined church. Mara took in a deep breath, looking at the man on the ground with a feeling of sick dismay. The rich velvet tunic, the opulent, fur-lined cloak were just the same as she had seen them less than half an hour ago, but the face was almost unrecognizable: awful, congested, and blue, with a swollen, purple tongue and frightful staring eyes as green and protruding as boiled gooseberries.
Sorley Skerrett, silversmith and mine owner, one of the richest men in the kingdom, was lying dead on the flagstones of the ruined church.
TWO
MACCSHLECHTA (SON SECTIONS)
There are seven categories of sons who are ineligible to inherit from their father:
1. The son who is conceived in the bushes
2. The son of a prostitute
3. The son of the road (given sbelter, but not formally adopted)
4. The son of a woman having a sexual relationship with two men at the time of the conception
5. The proclaimed or outlawed son
6. The son who attacks his father
7. The impious son who neglects the care of an aged parent
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE death of Sorley Skerrett, his great hall had been perfumed with the sweet smell of honey. Over a hundred beeswax candles, yellow as butter, burned in stately silver candelabra, or from within the shelter of ruby-coloured Venetian glass goblets. Each polished surface, of silver or of oak, reflected back the tiny triangular orange flames; purple velvet cushions glowed in their light and the pale blue silk hangings shimmered on the walls.
Mara, Brehon and lawgiver of the kingdom of the Burren, had stood inside the doorway and looked around the hall while the servant went to fetch his master. It was an unusual room, placed at the top of Newtown Castle, its octagonal shape fitting snugly into the rounded walls of the exterior. It had two wide, stone-mullioned windows at the west and north-west sides of the room and, twenty feet above their heads, a wooden gallery ran around the wall. A woman was up there; she did not raise her head or show any interest in the guest below, but stayed bent over her embroidery frame, a heavy woman, middle-aged, thought Mara, wondering who she was – her host, Sorley, did not have a wife, as far as she knew.
‘Brehon, you are very welcome. It’s good of you to come.’ Now Sorley Skerrett, native of Galway city, silversmith and mine owner, immensely fat, immensely rich and dressed in the most opulent silks and velvets, was bustling out of a small room at the side of the staircase, greeting her noisily. Mara inclined her head. Sorley had owned this castle on the north-western side of the kingdom of the Burren for over twenty years, but had spent little time in it, so Mara hardly knew him. Her smile broadened though when she saw the burly figure of King Turlough follow him out.
Turlough Donn had become king of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren ten years ago, in the year 1499. He was a heavily built man – about fifty years old, with the brown hair, which had given him the nickname of ‘Donn’, just turning grey, light green eyes and a pleasant open face. A pair of huge moustaches curving down from either side of his mouth gave his face a warlike look, but his eyes showed the essential gentleness and amiability of the man. Mara was betrothed to him and they planned to be married at Christmas.
‘Mara!’ Turlough was not inhibited by the presence of Sorley and he gave her his usual hearty hug. She released herself after a minute and greeted Sorley with a pleasant coolness. She didn’t like this silversmith. For Turlough’s sake she would get this supper over and then there would be no more friendly visits, she resolved. What business did Turlough have with him, anyway, she wondered? Why had he urged her so strongly to come on this evening?
‘Una,’ called Sorley and the woman above put down her needle and slowly and heavily descended the gallery stairs and came through the open door to the landing outside. ‘My daughter, Una.’ Sorley made the introduction perfunctorily and Una barely acknowledged Mara’s greeting. Sorley whispered in her ear and she went to have a quiet conversation with the servant before returning to them.
‘We’ll sit at the table, I think, and have a glass of wine while we are waiting for the others.’ Sorley was busy indicating chairs. ‘My lord, will you sit here between me and my daughter. Brehon, you sit opposite. Ulick Burke and Lawyer Bodkin from Galway will be here in a moment and they will keep you company.’ Busily he ushered her to a space between two empty chairs.
‘What a splendid room,’ murmured Mara. ‘You must be very proud of it.’
‘I am, indeed,’ he gazed around him with satisfaction and then his face took on a flicker of malice as the door opened and a small man in his middle forties entered quietly. ‘See how I am honoured today,’ continued Sorley with a chuckle. ‘Not just a king to dine with me, but also Ulick Burke, Lord of Clanrickard! Ulick, you will entertain the Brehon on your side of the table and my daughter, Una, will entertain King Turlough on this side.’ There was a heavy note of irony in his voice as he looked from his guest to his plain-faced, silent daughter.
Mara glanced across the table. Una’s pale, heavy features were suffused with an ugly red flush and her eyes flashed. Turlough looked a little annoyed at not being seated beside his betrothed lady. She gave him a reassuring smile and turned to Ulick. Ulick, of course, was his usual imperturbable self as he greeted her warmly. Things could have been worse, Mara thought with an inner chuckle. She could have been placed beside her host and have had to endure his interminable stories of his latest triumph of salesmanship or sharp pract
ice. Ulick, at least, whatever his reputation, was always fun. How many wives had he had, she wondered? He married and then divorced with dizzying rapidity. Was it four wives, or five? She surveyed him. He had become taoiseach over twenty-four years ago and must now be a man of fifty at least, but he didn’t look it. His blond hair was slightly greying, but his skin was smooth and lightly tanned and his blue eyes seemed to caress her subtly as he raised his glass of mead, nibbled on an almond from the silver dish in front of them and smiled sweetly at her.
‘How is your wife?’ she asked politely. It should be safe to assume that he had some wife, or other, she thought, but he shook his head firmly.
‘Still living in sin, Brehon,’ he said loudly and merrily. ‘I haven’t the least notion of how any of my wives are and I have no intention of finding out.’
Turlough gave an amused bark of laughter, but then politely bent his head to examine a piece of silver that Sorley had brought over from the window ledge.
Mara raised an eyebrow. ‘Still living with … ?’ she queried.
‘With the wife of the O’Kelly. Living in open adultery, as the O‘Kelly keeps telling everyone,’ said Ulick with relish. ‘I must be getting old,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘We’ve been together now for four years, since the battle of Knock-doe, in fact. I suppose since her husband fought against me then, it has made me more inclined to hang on to her. Still, sometimes I wouldn’t mind something younger, do you have any ideas?’ He looked at her with a sweet smile, and then glanced across the table where on the right hand of the king, in the place of honour, sat Sorley’s daughter.
Una glared at Ulick and then got up abruptly, leaving her drink untasted and walked towards the door.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Ulick imperturbably, though he lowered his voice. ‘Do you think I’ve upset her? Would you think that she is a virgin? Probably. She has no chance, poor girl. Look at the father! Could you get a more ugly face than that? And the mother, too! Very, very plain, my dear Brehon. Still this Una may be her father’s heir – she seems to be an only child – and that would compensate, wouldn’t it?’
‘Is Una’s mother dead?’ asked Mara, keeping her voice low, but deciding that to discuss Una’s mother was probably more suitable than discussing Ulick’s amours.
‘No, no, Brehon! Of course, you probably don’t know them well. Sorley hasn’t been here in the Burren too often in the last ten years or so. He spends most of his time in Kinvarra. No, the mother isn’t dead. He divorced her about eight years ago. Toin the hospitaller told me that. Lucky woman, I suppose, to get away from him.’
‘Shh,’ murmured Mara with an eye towards Sorley.
‘Oh, don’t worry about him, Brehon; like all bullies, he’s quite a coward. I’ve seen him turn to a quivering jelly when a few bees flew near to him. Though, to be fair, it appears that he swells up like a balloon if he gets stung. Anyway, you’re right. I must keep him sweet. Who knows – he may be my father-in-law at some stage.’
‘Indeed.’ Mara took a sip of wine and sat back, wondering what to do with this man. In a moment, Ulick would be overheard by his host and that would lead to trouble. As Brehon of the Burren, she was responsible for maintaining law and order in the kingdom and she could not afford to gossip in public. ‘Beautiful silver, isn’t it?’ she murmured holding up her goblet and admiring it by the light of the eight-branched candelabra in front of her.
To her relief, he followed her lead and called out noisily, ‘We’re admiring your silver goblets, Sorley. Beautiful, my dear fellow, beautiful.’
Sorley’s fat face creased in a smile, and Ulick turned back to Mara.
‘Well, that will keep him happy for a while, won’t it? Now what shall we talk about? You’re looking very, very attractive, you know. I love that green gown – it goes so well with your beautiful black hair and your lovely hazel eyes. You don’t look a day over twenty.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mara sweetly, trying to conceal her amusement as his gaze subtly flattered her, sweeping from the top of her head, down over the sheen of expensive blue-green silk from her new gown. It had been made by an expert seamstress in Galway and fitted her like a glove, tightly laced at the bodice and flowing out from the waist. The long loose sleeves, laced to the gown at the shoulders, fell to her wrists in a cascade of shimmering pale green. She knew she looked well and she also knew that Ulick certainly didn’t believe that she was twenty; he had been a friend of King Turlough from the days of their youth and had known Mara for at least ten years. However, she had no intention of bothering to inform him that she was thirty-six so she just returned his smile.
‘And how thrilling to be getting married to the king! You must tell me all about your courtship. I hope you ask me to the wedding. I always enjoy other people’s weddings. I have even enjoyed all of my own.’
‘What time is dinner, I’m hungry?’ asked Mara. Obviously dinner wasn’t going to be served for some time; Una had gone back up to the gallery and had seated herself at her embroidery frame. Mara’s eyes followed her and she saw a well-dressed young man come out of a door and seat himself beside her. She frowned with surprise.
‘Is that Rory the bard?’ she asked and Ulick nodded vigorously.
‘Yes, he’s been staying here. A neighbour of yours, is he not?’ A slight frown creased his face as he added, ‘He’s the life and soul of the party here. Pity he can’t play a little better.’ The young bard had begun to strum a soulful love song on a zither, the silver plectrum flashing on his thumb, and Ulick’s eyes flickered maliciously as he bent to whisper in Mara’s ear.
‘I suspect that the bard is making love to the daughter of the house. What do you think? Should I try to cut him out? She’s plain, but think of the money!’
‘As far as I know, Rory is in love with Aoife, the daughter of Muiris O‘Heynes, a farmer at Poulnabrucky,’ said Mara mildly. ‘Anyway, he’s a bit young for her.’
‘She looks about fifty, of course, but she’s probably only about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and as for your farmers’ daughters, which one of them would have the wealth of the silversmith’s daughter? Sorley is immensely rich, you know. It’s not just the silversmith business. He has that mine, worked by all those poor Welsh miners, on the slopes of the mountain above our heads,’ he pointed towards the silver heights of Cappanabhaile that could be seen through the western window, before continuing. ‘Yes, I think I’ll cut the bard out. Do you think that Sorley would be happy for me to marry his daughter? It would bring a bit of the good blood of the de Burgos into the family, wouldn’t it, my dear Brehon? And I don’t suppose that I would have to see too much of her.’
‘Mara,’ called Turlough from across the table and she turned to him with relief. ‘I was talking to this lawyer from Galway. I told him that you would be here. It will be interesting for you to meet him.’
‘I’ve placed him next to you at table,’ said Sorley, with an oily smile. ‘I hope you both will help me to solve a little problem. There’s a small dispute between myself and Cathal the sea captain.’
Mara bowed gravely and took another sip of wine to hide the flash of irritation that she knew would show in her eyes. So that was it. Sorley had been very insistent on Turlough bringing her to supper here this evening. Now he was going to get two legal opinions, one of Brehon law and one of English law. He had a reputation for using either law as it suited his purpose. If she had known about this she would not have come, but for Turlough’s sake, she would not make a fuss now.
‘Of course he usually uses the Brehon of Kinvarra,’ whispered Ulick, as Sorley started to explain to Turlough about the boatload of silver that he had lost in a storm. ‘What I would call a pliable man, my dear Brehon! Shame he died last week. A great loss to Sorley! He’s wondering whether you are going to play ball, now. I can see it in his little piggy eyes. You know about Sorley and the Brehon of Kinvarra, of course?’
‘I understand that Sorley’s principal place of residence is the tower house of Dunguaire at Kinvarra so
of course he would have consulted the local Brehon,’ said Mara in a non-committal way, but she knew exactly what Ulick meant. There had been ugly, distasteful rumours of bribery attached to that particular Brehon. She turned her shoulder to Ulick and looked enquiringly across the table at Sorley who was leaning across the table towards her.
‘But before Lawyer Bodkin arrives there is something I want to show you, Brehon.’ Sorley left the room hastily.
‘Sorley was telling me that he has sold Dunguaire at Kinvarra to my cousin, Mahon O’Brien,’ remarked Turlough as the door closed behind their host and his assistant.
‘So now he is going to be based at the Burren,’ mused Ulick with a smile hovering around his lips. ‘Well, it will be interesting to see what he is going to show you, Brehon. A little present, perhaps. A goblet …’
‘Lawyer Bodkin, he must be from one of the merchant families of Galway,’ said Mara, adroitly avoiding the subject. ‘There are the Lynches, the Skerretts, the Bodkins, the Blakes, the Martins and the Joyces …’
‘All newcomers, my dear Brehon, the de Burgos were there before any of them.’
‘And the O’Connors and the O‘Flahertys before the de Burgos.’ But Turlough said it with a smile. He was fond of the little man and amused by him.
The Sting of Justice Page 2