NINE
AN SEANCHAS MÓR (THE GREAT ANCIENT TRADITION)
The éraic, or blood price, for killing a person is fixed at forty-two séts, twenty-one ounces of silver or twenty-one milch cows.
To this is added the honour price oƒ the victim.
An unacknowledged killing is classified as duinetháide and this doubles the fine to eighty-four séts.
‘I HAVE SENT ZEÁN with a message to all the churches to sound the bell at two o’clock this afternoon,’ said Mara to her scholars on Saturday morning. Her voice was grave and they looked at her with quick attention.
‘You’re summoning everyone to Poulnabrone?’ questioned Moylan. Poulnabrone was the name of the ancient dolmen in the centre of the High Burren. It had been the place of judgement and of law courts since time immemorial.
‘Because of Sorley’s death?’ Fachtnan’s voice was quiet and matter-of-fact.
‘You think it wasn’t an accident, then, Brehon?’ asked Shane.
‘Murder,’ said Aidan with relish. ‘Duinetháide, secret and unlawful killing!’
‘Can it be duinetháide? Is it forty-eight hours yet?’ questioned Hugh. ‘This is Saturday morning at nine o’clock. What time did you find the body on Thursday, Brehon?’
‘It must have been just after noon,’ said Mara.
‘So you have to wait until noon today before it can be declared to be duinetháide.’ Twelve-year-old Hugh said the words with satisfaction and a sidelong glance of triumph at Moylan who was two years older.
‘That means that if someone admits to the crime this morning then he saves himself half of the éraic,’ said Fachtnan lightly. Fachtnan was very good with the younger boys; he always tried to avert arguments between them if possible.
‘The fine for duinetháide is eighty-four séts, forty-two cows, or forty-two ounces of silver, twice the fine for an acknowledged murder,’ chanted Shane.
‘So if a few thousand bees come in the door now, waving little white flags, then they will only have to pay twenty-one cows,’ said Aidan with a smirk.
By the time Mara and her scholars had reached Poulnabrone at three o’clock that afternoon, most of the people of the Burren had gathered in the field that surrounded the ancient dolmen. Traditionally, they had come here to listen to the judgement of cases by their Brehon: the guilty to receive fines, the injured to gain compensation. There were no prisons, no savage punishments. The Brehon delivered judgement; the fine was paid. The clan tradition of responsibility for the family ensured this obedience from its members.
This ancient system of Celtic laws was already over at least a thousand years old, perhaps two thousand years, thought Mara, looking around at the assembled crowd who had come here from the four quarters of the hundred-square-mile territory of the kingdom of the Burren. The laws of property – theft, damage, inheritance – the laws pertaining to children, the laws of livestock, the laws of marriage and of divorce, the laws of injury to persons – killing, wounding, disabling – all these laws were in place when St Patrick came to Ireland over a thousand years ago. The oldest manuscripts had been written at the time of St Patrick, but the laws had existed probably for a thousand years before he arrived in Ireland to try to convert the people from their worship of the sun, the fire, the water in spring wells and the earth that they tilled, to a belief in one God.
It was a dramatic spot, this ancient judgement place at Poulnabrone. The dolmen itself was constructed from four huge upright slabs, each of them the height of a man, supporting the soaring capstone of rough lichen-spotted limestone. The field around it was paved with limestone clints, the grykes between the clints filled with ferns and curling strands of purple vetch, and the dolmen stood high above their heads, silhouetted against the sky. In the background, behind a large hollow, was a towering cliff, now bright with clumps of pink and purple heather, that rose a good hundred feet above the level of the field. When Mara began to speak she automatically half turned towards this cliff. She, and perhaps hundreds of Brehons before her, had learned that this rocky cliff face enhanced the human voice and bounced the sound back so that it could reach the farthest person in that crowd.
It was the custom that each household send at least one person to these summonings at Poulnabrone. Mara’s eyes searched the crowd. Neither Una nor her mother Deirdre was here, but Daire and Rory were, and so was the steward from Newtown Castle. Cathal, the sea captain was here and by his side, Giolla the beekeeper. Toin, understandably, had not made the journey but he, also, had sent his steward.
Mara greeted the people and the murmured blessings came back to her. There was curiosity on each face. This was a specially convened court so no other cases were waiting to be heard. The news of Sorley’s death was probably not yet widespread; he had been a man from Galway, not a member of one of the four dominant clans: the O‘Briens, the O’Lochlainns, the MacNamaras and the O’Connors. Few, except for the small community at Rathborney, would have met him.
Mara took the scroll from Fachtnan, unrolled it, glanced at the details mechanically and then rolled it up again, holding it in her hand like a rod of office.
‘On Thursday morning, shortly after noon, Sorley Skerrett, silversmith, silver merchant and mine owner, of Newtown Castle on the Burren, and of Galway city, was killed.’ Mara automatically paused after each few words and allowed the sonorous rocks to echo her words. There was an air of interest in the faces before her, but no sorrow, no appearance of worry. This was a close-knit community here. An unlawful death normally involved the members of one clan or more; a relation, a friend or a neighbour would be implicated and the repercussions considered. The killing of a silversmith from Galway would be different; it was unlikely to involve many of them.
‘I have considered this matter very carefully,’ went on Mara, waiting until the last syllable of the word cúramach had ceased to ring. ‘These are the facts as they occurred. The man, Sorley, was in the ruins of the old church at Rathborney, when a hive of bees was knocked over, just behind where he sat. There is no doubt in my mind that the action was deliberate. Grievous bodily harm was intended, at the very least, and the law tells us that if this results in death, the crime is murder.’
Mara paused while the swell of words rose and fell; this would give everyone something of interest to discuss. Most kept bees so their habits would be well known. She could see the tall figure of Ardal, chieftain of the O’Lochlainn clan, bending down to discuss the matter with his steward, Liam. Ardal was always interested in legal matters. Several heads turned in the direction of Giolla whom many would have recognized from his honey stall at the Noughaval and Kilfenora markets.
‘I now call on the person responsible for this crime to accept responsibility and pay the fine,’ continued Mara after a minute. She waited calmly looking from face to face. There would be no answer, of course. If anything were to be confessed, it would be in private and after much thought. She was prepared to wait, but the formalities had to be gone through with. I give them sixty seconds, her father used to say, and she counted the numbers carefully through in her mind before lifting her hand to silence the murmur of conversation.
‘Forty-eight hours have passed since this crime and no one has acknowledged it,’ she said. ‘I now declare the killing of Sorley Skerrett to be a case of duinetháide, an unlawful and secret murder. The éraic, or blood price for this is eighty-four séts, forty-two ounces of silver, or forty-two milch cows. Added to that is the honour price of the victim. Sorley, as a silversmith, had an honour price of seven séts so the total fine for the murder is ninety-one séts or forty-five-and-a-half ounces of silver or forty-six cows.’ Again she paused and then added, almost perfunctorily, ‘Has anyone anything to say?’
‘I have.’ Muiris stepped out of the crowd and stood sturdily in front of her. All heads turned towards him with interest.
‘Yes, Muiris?’ Mara kept her voice and expression neutral.
‘I understand, Brehon, that the murder of Sorley the mine owner, t
ook place just before the burial Mass for Father David.’
‘That is correct.’ Already several eyes were turned towards Rory the bard. Muiris had obviously been sharing his suspicions.
‘So it might be of interest to you to know the names of any who came late into church?’
‘Any information about that time and day is of interest to me,’ said Mara warily.
‘Well, I was standing at the back. I’m not from the parish myself, but like a lot of other people on the Burren I had reason to be grateful to Father David. He baptized and buried my first child, and my wife and myself will always remember his kindness, then.’
There were nods from all around. Father David had been a popular priest, always ready to give credit where there was doubt as to whether a child had been alive for a hasty baptism and whether a suicide might just possibly have been an accidental death.
‘So, not being of the parish, I didn’t want to push myself forward,’ continued Muiris, gaining in confidence. ‘I came in early, but I stood at the back. I watched the people coming in and …’ Here he stopped and when he spoke again his voice was hard. ‘I saw Rory the bard come in late. He wasn’t the only one who came late, but I watched him rub his wrist during the service and I saw a big red swelling on it.’ Muiris waited for a moment and then added, ‘it looked like a bee sting to me.’
‘I see.’ Mara increased the power of her well-trained voice to drown out the surge of comments and exclamations. She looked enquiringly towards Rory, but he shook his head firmly. It was his decision to answer the accusation, here in public or in private to her afterwards. On the whole, she thought he had made the right decision. ‘Thank you, Muiris,’ she continued rapidly. ‘I was just about to ask if anyone who was present at the church that day would come forward. My scholars will take your evidence,’ she quickly improvised, ‘I won’t need to delay anyone else, so if no one else has something to say in public, I will bid you now to go in peace with God and your neighbours.’
They didn’t, of course, she thought with a suppressed grin. This was far too interesting; there would be plenty to discuss and the day was crisp and sunny. They all stood around in groups chatting and eyeing those who were coming forward. Some perched themselves on several of the huge boulders that seemed to have been deposited in the field by some giant hand of the past, others sat on the clints or leaned against the gnarled trunks of the few wind-deformed hawthorn trees that grew in a large hollow while some of youngsters started a quick game of handball with slíothar from someone’s pouch.
Many, however, left their friends and relations and started to line up near to the dolmen itself, whispering to each other with a lot of looking over shoulders and nodding wisely. Rory the bard stood irresolutely at some distance, and then, as if suddenly conscious of his isolated position, hastily joined the queue. Mara turned to her assistant.
‘Have you got a horn of ink and some pens, Fachtnan?’ she whispered, delving into her own satchel. ‘Oh, good, at least I have three quills as well as my ink horn.’
‘I’ve got a set of two large and two small quills as well as an ink horn, Brehon,’ said Enda. He handed them and some small pieces of vellum to Fachtnan and then said in a low murmur, ‘You don’t think that I should have come forward about the swelling on Rory’s wrist, do you, Brehon?’
‘No, Enda,’ said Mara. ‘You did the right thing. That is not really evidence. I suppose it’s past the season for midges, but that swelling could have been a flea bite or something like that. I think I’ll keep that bit of evidence safely shut up in my mind.’
‘Oh good.’ He looked relieved. I wouldn’t have called him, anyway, thought Mara. Rory had been a near neighbour to the boys at Cahermacnaghten law school. They had hunted together, gone fishing, danced at céilís, had picnics, played hurley, celebrated festivals and been companionable together. She would not have asked him to give evidence against a friend, unless the matter had been of vital consequence.
‘Shane and Hugh, you are responsible for lining up the people who want to give evidence,’ she said, as her four older scholars seated themselves on the flat clint at the foot of the dolmen. ‘Make sure that no one comes near enough to overhear the one that has gone before,’ she added. It didn’t matter really as everyone would probably tell everyone else what had been said, but the boys enjoyed a bit of secrecy and she was always careful to give Hugh and Shane their fair share of the law school work.
She stood and watched for a while. To her surprise it seemed as if about thirty people were there in the queue. There must have been a very large crowd at Father David’s burial Mass. The two young boys had efficiently divided them into four lines, though Mara noticed with interest that, when their backs were turned, Rory moved himself from Fachtnan’s line to Aidan’s.
Mara felt proud of her scholars. Each was showing himself to be sensible and adult in front of the huge crowd. Enda was demonstrating to Moylan and Aidan how to tabulate the answers and Fachtnan, with his beaming smile and his gentle voice, was extracting a lot of information from the mother of the boy Marcan, who had been accused of overturning the bees. Marcan, himself, was saying very little, she noticed. He looked overawed, which was probably not his natural state. Mara made a mental note to check on his evidence afterwards. Boys like that were often quick at noticing things and had good memories. These lists would be invaluable. She would study them later that night and plan the work for next week.
‘Brehon, could I have a quick word with you?’ Daire was there, looming over her, his shadow huge on the grass.
‘Certainly,’ she turned to face him. She had been aware of his presence and was glad he had not attempted to talk to Aoife. Muiris’s public announcement had probably made his daughter feel sorry for the young bard. Daire would be best to bide his time until another rebuff from Rory convinced Aoife that she had no hope of him. The young silversmith would suit her better, but it would take time to get over an infatuation that had lasted over a year.
‘How is everything going at Newtown Castle?’ she asked and he seized on her words with an air of relief.
‘Well, that’s just it, Brehon. Things are not going too well. There seems to be quite a bit of trouble brewing.’
‘Between Una and her mother?’
Daire smiled. ‘They’re a match for each other and as far as I am concerned they can fight it out between them,’ he said tolerantly. ‘The problem is that Una has said that neither Deirdre nor Cuan have any right to be in the castle; that it is her house and she did not invite them. Deirdre took no notice of that, but Cuan got straight up from the table and walked out. I heard him going down the stairs and I followed him, but he had taken his horse and he was out the gate before I could say anything.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Mara. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’ He’s not much more than a child, she thought indignantly, picturing the woebegone figure. What a hard-hearted woman that sister of his was. After all, she must have been about ten years old when Cuan was born. Normally you would expect, with that age difference, the girl to be maternal towards a much younger brother. And what about the mother of the boy? Why didn’t she interfere? There was no doubt of Deirdre’s affection for Cuan. However, she had been exiled, herself, for almost ten years and perhaps she felt for Cuan’s sake, as well as her own, she should stick grimly to her rights to live in Newtown Castle.
‘So what’s your understanding of the position, Daire?’ she asked eyeing him cautiously. ‘Was it generally considered that Una was going to be her father’s heir? Had he mentioned anything to you about this?’ She was curious to know whether this betrothal was just a spur of the moment decision evoked by the presence of Lawyer Bodkin on the night of 30 October.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Daire cautiously, ‘but I do know that a week ago Rory got very drunk and he hinted at it. He had just come out of a conversation with Sorley,’ he added with a quick glance to where Rory was giving his evidence to Aidan.
‘Well, thank you for telli
ng me about the unkind treatment of Cuan, Daire,’ said Mara, resolving that she would not let another day go by without solving this problem at least. She gave him a quick nod and then moved slightly apart. She would stand there and wait. Somebody else might wish to talk to her; this would be their opportunity. Cathal, the sea captain, was standing in the queue ready to give his evidence to Enda. She was glad of that; Enda was quick and clever; she would not be able to rely so well on Moylan and Aidan. Cathal was at the back of her mind; undoubtedly he would have been aware of the silversmith’s malevolent intentions. That cask of silver belonging to Sorley would have been worth more than the value of his boat itself.
Hugh and Shane were beginning to look bored; their duties were over as the queues were now diminishing to small manageable lines. They were watching enviously Marcan who, while waiting for his mother, chatting animatedly to some other women, was occupying his time in hurling some small pieces of limestone at a disdainful hooded crow that perched on top of the cliff. Mara approached her two young scholars.
‘Go and have a chat with Marcan,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Ask him about the morning when Sorley was found dead. See if he saw anything of interest. He’d be more likely to tell you than me, especially now that he’s away from his mother.’
‘Shall we tell him that you said to ask?’ Hugh was always timid and unsure once the support of the older boys was withdrawn, but Shane was made of a tougher material.
‘We’ll just ask him to tell us what Sorley looked like when he was found dead,’ he said with relish. ‘I was wondering about that myself and whether he was really blue, like they said.’
Mara stifled a laugh. Shane was a bright boy; that approach would immediately focus Marcan’s interest, where an adult’s questions would probably cause him to clam up. She watched as Shane picked up a few stones himself and began joining in on the onslaught of the hooded crow. After a few minutes of this the crow departed with languid sweeps of his large dark wings and the three boys began to chat animatedly. From what she could see, Hugh hung back while Shane was asking all the questions. He was like Enda, she thought, the one was dark-haired with an olive complexion, the other golden-haired and fair-skinned, but they were both quick and clever. She hoped that Shane would not be as awkward to deal with as Enda had been during his early adolescence.
The Sting of Justice Page 12