A Fatal Inheritance

by Cora Harrison

  And while they were waiting, she could be carrying on with the affairs of the kingdom.

  By now her eyes had, once again, become accustomed to the dim light. She could see Fachtnan lying there under Domhnall’s cloak, breathing a little easier now, with the occasional groan, but not tossing or turning. She could examine the rope that dangled down from the broken top of the cave. The little section where they sat was a high point, she reckoned. On both sides the ground sloped steeply downhill. It would probably be flooded down there, but here it was relatively dry. She and the unconscious Fachtnan could wait here in comparative comfort until the rescue party arrived.

  But opposite her sat the small thin figure of the herdsman, Aengus, and she could not shirk her duty.

  He could, she thought; leave whenever he felt like it. She would not put him into an intolerable position; weigh him down too much with guilt for something that perhaps had been almost involuntary. In the past she had put herself into danger by questioning a suspect who had thought that all suspicion would end with the death of the Brehon. Now she realized that had been foolhardy. Without vanity, she weighed the consequence for the kingdom of her death in counterbalance with the conviction of a murderer who probably had not meant to kill, and who, in any case, had been pushed beyond all reasonable bounds. The ancient laws of Ireland could, and would, she thought, take into account the mental state of the accused, would weigh in the balance of his crime the crimes that had been committed towards him, would estimate the provocation, take evidence of words and deeds. The reputation of the dead woman would not, could not, be spared when it came to a trial. De mortuis nil nisi bonum had said one of her scholars, but the living had rights, also. She would be gentle and careful with this man who must have suffered greatly, behind the screen of blank incomprehension that he had presented to the people of the kingdom.

  No direct questions, she thought. Nothing that would provoke him to violence. She would not be misled by his apparent fragility. This was a man who climbed mountains almost every day of his life, who lifted waterlogged sheep and carried them to safety, a man who had sixty years of hard work to tone every muscle in his body. There was a business-like knife at his belt, also.

  ‘You’ve had a bad time, Aengus,’ she said gently. ‘I wish that you had come to me and I wish that I had approached you. There were measures that I could have taken, ways to make things more bearable for you.’ She thought through all of the contents of Heptad 33 that listed verbal assaults such as mocking a person’s appearance, publicizing a physical blemish, coining a nickname that sticks – all of these could be punished by a heavy fine. And, of course, there was worse. She remembered Cian and how he had aroused the wrath of this poor man before her.

  ‘You were angry with one of my scholars when he repeated Clodagh’s words,’ she said softly. She could guess the taunt that his wife had flung on him and was only sorry that any scholar of hers could repeat them. There were times when Cian seemed to betray a hidden anger that just seemed to have to erupt. She wondered whether he had heard somewhere of his father’s ignoble death, though she had planned to keep it secret until the twins were sixteen years old. I shall have to keep an eye on Cian, she thought and then switched her mind back to her present problem.

  Aengus was staring at her blankly. His face bore a look of total incomprehension. It was as though she were speaking some foreign language to him.

  ‘I wish you had come to me,’ she said. She spoke, she knew, with the greatest sincerity; she could have done something for this man. The hell that he lived within might have been a joke to young and old, but it was no less real for that. It should not have been allowed to continue. The law, she thought, was right to punish satire, even taunting, with the greatest severity, exacting a full payment of the victim’s honour price. Words could sometimes hurt more than blows. They could destroy the spirit.

  Fachtnan stirred and groaned and she leaned down and touched his face. He was quite warm. She took his wrist in her hand and tried to count the beat of his blood as Nuala had taught her and it seemed to be quite strong and regular. He, she thought, was not her worst problem at the moment.

  ‘You had grounds for divorce, Aengus.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could recall them, but she knew that they were worse than useless. It was too late now for him to have redress to the law. He had taken the law into his own hands, had silenced the woman who had tormented him. And yet he must have heard of cases of divorce in the community, must have known that the possibility existed for him. The word ‘divorce’ had taken his attention. He had turned to look at her. Her sight had adjusted to the light so well by now that she could see tears flood into his faded old eyes.

  ‘I wouldn’t have done that to her, Brehon,’ he said piteously. ‘I wouldn’t have shamed her. I wanted her to be happy. I thought that we might be happy together, but I wasn’t right for her. She was the one who was going to divorce me. She was going to shame me in front of the people of the kingdom. She had learned about a law from Brehon MacClancy. She had gone to see him to find out if she could get rid of me. She wanted a fine new husband, she told me. I was no good to her. She was going to be rich and she was going to have a fine house and a fine husband, not a useless old fellow like me.’ Mara heard him sob, heard the few broken words, words that were almost lost in the hands that he had placed over his face. She understood, though. Clodagh had learned the law well from poor old addle-witted Brehon Fergus MacClancy. She was going to sue for divorce on the grounds of impotence and attribute her childless state to her husband’s lack of ability to perform his marital duty. An unpleasant woman, she wished to enjoy her newfound land without having to share it – perhaps hoping that it might give her back her youth and the love that she had evoked back in the days when her red tresses and cloak of many colours had lit up the stony valley.

  ‘I wish that you had spoken to me, Aengus; I might have been able to settle matters quietly, persuade her. I’m here for everyone in the kingdom that has a legal problem. You shouldn’t have kept all of this to yourself …’ Mara felt so distressed that even a groan from Fachtnan went almost unnoticed by her.

  ‘I spoke to the taoiseach a few days ago. I thought that I should tell him of my shame before it was known throughout the kingdom. He said that he would speak to you,’ said Aengus with a simple dignity that she found almost unbearable.

  ‘I wish that he had told me.’ But as she spoke she reflected that it was probably just the day before the murder that Aengus had told his pitiable tale to his taoiseach. Ardal had said nothing about it during their meeting that evening, but Clodagh was by then dead. Ardal would have reasoned that he could not betray what was said to him in confidence. His clan was his life; their concerns were his.

  Mara thought hard for a moment. She had all the information that she needed. Motive; yes, of course: Clodagh had made the man’s life a misery and was planning to shame him in front of the kingdom. Means: he could certainly have strangled her; she would have had a great contempt for him and would have not feared any danger from him. Opportunity: she had thought that was lacking, but she had not known of the possible descent from Ballynahown into the Moonmilk Cave and then the hidden way through caves and underground passageways until he reached the cave of Sionnach MacDara beside the church. From the cave it was only a few yards to the pillar of stone, the figure of the Fár Breige, the god of evil. Not knowing about all of that, she had dismissed him from her mind, and thought that he had lacked opportunity, since he had been seen to leave the area as dawn broke. But now with that knowledge, she could see that it had been easy for him. He could have made his way carefully, possibly waiting behind the thick barrier of blackthorn until the mist was at its thickest. She looked across at him, conscious that the silence had gone on for a long time. He was no longer looking at her, but glancing over at the unconscious figure of Fachtnan.

  And then he had taken his knife from his belt.

  It was a long knife, long in the handle, lon
g in the blade. To her it looked wickedly sharp, but he held it out and scraped it against the rock edge, turning and twisting it, making sure that both sides were whetted to a keen edge. It had a long point on it, and she could imagine how he might plunge it between the ribs of an unwary fox.

  Or, perhaps, into the heart of anyone who threatened him.

  Mara felt her mouth grow dry, though there was no threat uttered, no angry glances, just the relentless scrape of the knife. She held her breath until eventually, with a quick puff of air along the blade, he held it out to the light that filtered down from the broken rock face above them and examined it carefully.

  And then he got to his feet. Mara stayed very still. The moment for doing anything had passed. He stood above her, holding the sharpened knife in his hand.

  ‘You’ll excuse me if I leave you for a moment, Brehon,’ he said.

  She nodded. She could not trust her voice to be under her control. There was nothing to do, she thought, and wished that she believed in prayer.

  For a moment after he had left her she eyed the rope above her head, but she knew that she was incapable of leaving the unconscious Fachtnan behind her. She would have to rely on her wits and on her tongue; she would have to control her fear and preserve a friendly and unconcerned attitude. How long had it been since Ug the dog had gone flying across the rocks to fetch his master?

  And then she heard the footsteps. Aengus was coming back very quickly. What had he gone to do? Perhaps to check that the rescue party were nowhere in sight; that would be sensible. He appeared around the rock face, not looking at her, his eyes on the man on the ground. He was carrying a short, stout stick of a willow bush and as she watched, her mouth dry, he knelt down beside Fachtnan, measuring the stick against the broken leg and trimming it to size with his sharp knife. When he was satisfied with the length, he took a hank of twine from his pouch and bound the stick against the leg, winding it around and around, knotting the loops from time to time and then finishing off with a double knot.

  ‘Just as well to keep it steady while they are lifting him onto the stretcher,’ he remarked.

  Mara did not trust her voice to say anything, but she nodded weakly. She was conscious of a great feeling of shame and surreptitiously unclenched her fingers.

  ‘They’ll be here soon,’ he told her in a reassuring way. ‘I saw the dog running ahead of them. Very clever dog, that fellow, Ug.’

  ‘He is, indeed,’ said Mara weakly. She bent over Fachtnan, busying herself with feeling the pulse of blood that beat in his wrist, tentatively touching the clotted blood on his hair.

  ‘He hit his head when he fell,’ she said to fill the silence and waiting anxiously for the bark of the dog.

  ‘He’ll come around soon, don’t you worry, Brehon. He’s better off as he is until they get across the rocks.’ And then when she didn’t reply, he said, ‘I broke my leg once up on the hill. I had to crawl back down to the hut, but there was a sally bush outside and I had my knife and I tore a strip from the bottom of my léine and I bound up the leg and waited until someone found me. The taoiseach, God bless him, was very good to me; he sent someone up twice a day with food and drink for me. I mended well, not even a limp. He’s a great man, the taoiseach; he’d do anything for his people. He was very kind to me when I told him about the divorce. He said that he’d take care of it and that I wasn’t to worry any more about it. I felt better about it all once I told him. Be easy now, poor man, be easy now, we’ll soon have you right.’

  Fachtnan had groaned loudly and Aengus stroked his forehead. ‘I hate to see things suffer,’ he said simply. ‘Even an old sheep with a broken leg; I’d stay up all night to give her company, not let her to herself in her pain; I’d talk to her, sing to her sometimes, just to be with her.’

  Jesus, himself, thought Mara, had asked for no more. ‘Could you not watch one hour with me?’ was what he said to his disciples. This man was willing to sacrifice his night hours of sleep in order that a sheep would be comforted.

  ‘Listen, did you hear that?’ In a moment he was on his feet and left the cave. He must have great hearing, she thought, telling herself that she would stay with Fachtnan, but glad of the excuse to sit quietly for a few minutes. Her mind was very busy, weighing up motive, means and opportunity, reviewing the evidence. The motive; well, that was obvious. The means – Aengus was a man that had worked with animals all of his life. Despite his size he would be strong with well-trained muscles. And the rope above her head, and the knowledge that the network of passages beneath the ground would lead him to the cave that stood so near to the Far Bréige, all of these things told her that she could have come to the end of her quest to find the murderer of Clodagh O’Lochlainn.

  Facts, logic, reasoning; all those things she valued, but she had been Brehon of the Burren for nearly thirty years and during that time she had investigated many crimes, judged many motives, talked with the innocent and the guilty. Her long years of experience had taught her not to devalue facts, not to skip one single step in the gathering of information, but at the same time to trust to that accumulated wisdom, an instinctive certainty; this man, she said to herself, is not a killer.

  Aengus, as her son had told her, was a gentle, kind man. Aengus was fond of children, fond of dogs, even fond of elderly sheep. His were not the hands that had choked the life out of Clodagh O’Lochlainn after forty years of marriage, forty years of forbearance.

  And then suddenly, everything slotted into place like the threads on a weaver’s loom. The bishop! Why had she not seen the significance of that? She had been looking in the wrong direction, had been misled completely. But now her thoughts were moving so rapidly that by the time the light from a lantern shone on the wall opposite to the entrance, she had come to her conclusion and stood up to welcome the rescue party.

  ‘Aengus bound his leg to that stick,’ she said as Nuala knelt on the stony floor beside her husband, touched his cheek for a moment and then signalled to Dinan to shine the light on the leg. Strangely unemotional for a wife witnessing her unconscious husband, but perhaps just now Fachtnan was a patient to her. When she spoke her voice was business-like as usual.

  ‘Made a very good job of it, too. Well done, Aengus. We brought a stick, but this is fine, I’ll just move that bone a little, tighten this here.’ As she spoke, Nuala removed Domhnall’s cloak, and then opened Fachtnan’s own cloak, spreading it widely, like a blanket, on the rock face. ‘Put down the stretcher, Pat, just here beside the cloak. Now, Brehon, could you take the lamp and the four of us will lift him, each take a corner; get comfortable everybody. We can do this quickly and easily, there’s plenty of room, thank goodness. I’ll give the signal.’

  Mara held her breath for a moment, but it was quick and competent. All knew what they were doing. Broken legs were well known in this stony part of the world. In a moment, Fachtnan was placed on the stretcher; a minute later he had been bound to it by long strips of linen; and then Domhnall’s cloak was spread over him. Mara held the lantern high, shining the light so that it lit up walls and ceilings. Illuminate, she thought. Lumen luminis, that was one of the names of God Almighty in the doxology and it was, indeed, a divine gift to be able to illuminate matters, to see the truth. She was glad that she had had that long quiet time with Aengus. It had saved her from making an error, from accusing him directly, had allowed the light of truth to shine into his childlike soul. Let him stay with the feeling that the gods had killed his wife, for the moment. The truth would have to be known to everyone quite soon.

  As soon as she got back to Oughtdara she would get that priest into a room by himself. She would take no denial, listen to no nonsense about supernatural forces and, above all, any mention of the Fár Breige would bring forth from her a storm of rage which should shock him out of his self-indulgence and bring his wits back to him. She had no patience with that sort of nonsense.

  By one means or another, she would force Father Eoin O’Lochlainn to shed the light of truth upon this matt
er of the murder of Clodagh O’Lochlainn.

  The priest was basking in front of the fire when Deirdre, rubbing some life into her hands red with the cold, ushered Mara into the cosy room. He had been sitting on the cushioned settle and had slipped sideways, his grey hair falling over his forehead with his cheek resting against the soft lambswool covering, his eyes shut and one hand dangling downwards towards the floor. For all of his sixty-odd years, he had the appearance of an exhausted child.

  And sitting opposite him, on the other settle, was Dinan who rose to his feet as soon as Mara entered.

  ‘Sit here, Brehon,’ he said hastily. ‘I was just waiting for his reverence to wake up.’

  Mara took his seat with a nod and a smile, but did not speak. Was there any polite way of getting rid of him? It was difficult to send a man out from his own brother’s house without some good excuse.

  Unfortunately Dinan seemed pleased to see her. ‘I promised Deirdre that I wouldn’t wake him,’ he said in a penetrating whisper, ‘but I just wanted to talk to him about the Fár Breige. Deirdre says that he keeps muttering about the god, but she can’t make head or tail of it. She says that it’s just some old rameish.’

  Mara muttered something, but Dinan wasn’t to be deterred.

  ‘You see I’m finding out that we know very little about the Fár Breige – even a scholar like yourself, Brehon, you don’t know much, do you? And think of all the stories about the Morrigan – I could write a book about her, that’s if I could write.’ He gave a short laugh and ran his hand through his hair, gazing down at the sleeping priest with an air of exasperation. Mara nodded sympathetically, moved by his frustration at his illiteracy. Why should Dinan not write a book as good as Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, she thought. It would be much more thrilling, much more vivid, more tightly constructed. Dinan was a born storyteller; a man who knew how to hold an audience spellbound.