‘Very cordial of your cousin from Aran,’ said Mara, sipping the hot wine. It was delicious, she thought, though perhaps slightly too sweet. She could have done with half the amount of these molasses.
‘Very cordial,’ agreed Turlough with a grin. ‘I wonder what he wants. I never trust Brian the Spaniard. No doubt, I’ll hear as soon as we land on Aran tomorrow. I wish you were coming.’
I don’t, thought Mara, but there was a wistful note in Turlough’s voice so she just smiled at him and reminded him that she had the murder of Eamon the lawyer and an almost fatal attack on Muiris to solve.
‘I wish that I could help you with that,’ said Turlough eagerly. ‘I’ve been asking Ulick and two boys whether they saw any stranger on the mountain. None of us saw anyone except Ardal O’Lochlainn – we kept a distance from him in case the dogs would frighten his flock – oh, and Donán thinks he saw a stranger over near to the flax garden, but that’s probably just Donán, he likes to make himself interesting. I wouldn’t take much notice of that if I were you. He thought it looked like your scholar Fachtnan, poor lad, but you and I know that is impossible. If Fachtnan were . . .’ He hesitated and then continued hurriedly, ‘. . . if Fachtnan were anywhere near, then he would immediately join you, not skulk at a distance on the hills.’
If Fachtnan were alive, that’s what he was going to say, thought Mara, but there was no sense thinking along those lines so she said idly, ‘And what about Seamus MacCraith, the poet. Didn’t anyone see him?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, we all saw Seamus – striking attitudes against the skyline, thinking deep thoughts, no doubt.’ Turlough laughed with nervous relief at the turning of the conversation from the missing Fachtnan. ‘Calls himself a poet, but can’t even produce a few verses about hunting. Not the man that his father was, that’s for sure.’
‘They say the same about your son, Conor,’ said Mara quietly. ‘You’ll have to look after yourself. The clan cannot do without you. Don’t take any chances on those mountains. You don’t want to break a leg, or your neck for that matter.’ Something occurred to her and she slipped a question in quickly while he was blustering about how strong he was and how he had many long years of life still ahead of him to enjoy the company of his wife and his new son and how much more energetic he was compared to Ulick Burke who spent half the day stretched out asleep on a patch of heather. ‘And I am as sure-footed as any of the young men,’ he finished.
‘I hope you all had sticks with you on the mountainside, did you?’ she asked her question as nonchalantly as she could manage.
‘Yes, I think so,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘Anyway, there’s always a barrel of those iron-tipped sticks in the guardroom so anyone who broke a stick the last time could help themselves. I seem to remember telling someone to help himself – no, I can’t remember who,’ he added as he saw the question in her eyes.
So, no clues there, thought Mara. It would have been one of the guests – the guards would have armed themselves – but which one? It could have been any of them. Donán thought he saw a man; Ulick was wandering around by himself; the poet, Seamus MacCraith, was loose on the mountainside for most of the day, and during that time a strong, energetic, quick-thinking, courageous man like Muiris was assaulted and left for dead.
‘We’d better be going downstairs,’ she said with a sigh. ‘The others will be waiting for us.’
The Great Hall was looking magnificent for the last ceremonial meal of the king’s visit. Twenty-foot boards, covered with snowy-white bleached linen cloths, were set on trestles in the middle of the room. The amount of food was astonishing. Silver bowls and platters were edge to edge in the centre of the table, filled with every delicacy that the king’s cooks could devise. This was going to be a seafood evening. Already, large pink crabs had been positioned by every place and scarlet lobsters lined the centre of the table. Great bowls of green samphire, of carrageen moss and of sea-lettuce were there for those who liked their seaweeds; carrots, turnips and dried mushrooms for those who did not. As soon as the king took his place at the top of the table, Mara sat down beside him. She felt too tired and too discouraged to do her normal arranging of the guests. The few guests left would just have to sort themselves according to their inclinations.
Which they did. Ulick claimed a place beside Fiona, cold-shouldering Seamus MacCraith so adroitly that the poet almost overbalanced. Turlough called to Conor to sit beside him, assuring himself that his delicate son was not tired after the day in the open air. Donán, after a moment’s thought, took the place on the other side of Fiona leaving Mara to entertain Seamus MacCraith.
‘The salmon! The king of fish!’ exclaimed Turlough.
‘Remember the old legend about the salmon of wisdom that we were all told when we were young? Burn your thumb on the side of it and acquire the wisdom, my lord,’ said Ulick languidly. ‘Or perhaps we will allow our young poet to be the one to do that. He is more in need of wisdom than you and I, my lord. We have acquired wisdom on the battlefield of life.’
Seamus MacCraith gave him a contemptuous look and turned his attention to Mara who asked him whether he had a fruitful day.
‘Alas, no,’ he shook his head. ‘There is a certain monotony about the Aillwee Mountain. Just white everywhere. It lacks the sculptural sweep of Mullaghmore Mountain. I don’t find it inspiring.’
Mara gazed at him. Was it possible that any man could be so completely self-centred? ‘I don’t think that it was a monotonous week on the Aillwee Mountain,’ she said drily. ‘You do realize that one man has been killed there and another man almost killed – he may well die tonight.’
‘Oh, that.’ He waved his hand dismissively in the air. ‘I spoke only of the scenery.’
‘I’m glad to have an opportunity to speak to you,’ said Mara and then paused while a portion of salmon was ladled on to her plate and next on to Seamus’s. It was not ideal to be cross-questioning a witness at a dinner table, but Ulick and Turlough were shouting witticisms at each other across the table and little could be heard above the two battle-trained voices.
‘I wanted to ask you if you saw anyone that you didn’t know on the mountainside.’
He had seen several but by the time Mara had elicited, word by painful word, some vague descriptions of what these, uninteresting to a poet, strangers looked like, she decided that they were probably Ardal O’Lochlainn and his shepherds.
‘And you saw no one else, outside of the flax garden, I mean.’ She hesitated, unwilling to put words into his mouth but judging by his abstracted air he had already lost all interest in the subject so eventually she was forced to ask him straight out whether he had seen a woman anywhere near to the flax garden or to the quarry.
‘I saw Fiona, of course. I could see the sun shining on her hair.’ He gazed fervently across the table at Fiona’s lovely face.
‘And me,’ suggested Mara.
He looked at her with astonishment as if he had only just noticed her. ‘Oh, and you, of course,’ he said hastily and his eyes went back to Fiona, who had thrown her head back and was laughing heartily at one of Ulick’s jokes.
‘Red lips . . .’ he murmured.
‘Have some more wine,’ said Mara signalling to an attendant to fill the glass. ‘Now, tell me exactly how you came to discover the body of Muiris.’
He had little to tell. He had been wandering around aimlessly, getting tired of the monotony of sun on white stone, had wandered into the quarry in search of something that might look different or might inspire him. He hadn’t really noticed anything else, but the buzzing of flies had attracted him towards the corpse, as he put it, and Mara did not contradict him – for all she knew Muiris might by now be dead. She would not trouble the family tonight, but would send a messenger tomorrow morning to find out how he did and whether Nuala needed any supplies.
Seamus MacCraith had turned a delicate shade of pale yellow at the thought of the corpse and the flies buzzing in the blackened blood, so she decided to
get rid of him. He had pushed away his platter of uneaten salmon and the servants were busy clearing off the first course and replacing it with clean plates and new dishes. She lifted a finger and beckoned to Turlough’s son-in-law, Donán O’Kennedy.
‘You go and entertain Fiona with some young company,’ she said kindly to the poet. ‘I want to have a word with Donán.’
Ulick gave her a grin and she knew that he had overheard, but she didn’t care. If it were not for Turlough’s sake Ulick would not receive any invitations from her, though she supposed that from now on, as godfather, he would have to be included in Cormac’s birthday celebrations. In any case, he was three times Fiona’s age and should have more sense than to be flirting so outrageously with her.
‘Did you have a good day?’ she asked Donán once he had taken his place beside her. He considered the matter in his pompous way and she ate some bread to conceal her impatience. Why on earth had Turlough picked out this dull young man to be a husband to his daughter?
‘There was no sport to be had,’ he said eventually. ‘We didn’t kill a single wolf.’
‘I suppose it was rather dull,’ she conceded. ‘You would have plenty of time to be looking around, scanning the mountainside for any sign of wolves. Turlough was telling me that you thought you saw a man. It wasn’t Seamus MacCraith, was it?’
‘No, everyone would recognize Seamus in that madder-red cloak of his. No chance of missing him.’ His voice was scornful.
‘Who do you think it was?’
‘I have no idea, Brehon. He was wearing a bánín cloak.’
Mara sighed. The fact was that most people of the kingdom wore the undyed wool cloaks unless it was a grand occasion when yellows, greens, reds and even purple cloaks made an appearance.
‘It couldn’t have been my scholar, Fachtnan, could it?’ She asked the question with little hope. ‘Would you know his appearance? He was here at the feast last Friday night.’
‘Was he the one with the pimples?’ asked Donán sounding bored.
‘No, that’s Aidan.’ Mara felt irritated with him. Donán was typical of a man with a grudge against life. He lived in a castle provided by Turlough, his servants and men-at-arms were Turlough’s, his children’s foster fees were paid by Turlough; not an enviable position for any man, but he did nothing to try to regain his own lost inheritance.
‘So there is nothing that you can help me with, nothing you saw or heard today?’
Donán crammed his mouth with honey cake and nodded languidly, his eyes on Ulick Burke. He had nothing to say and did nothing to entertain his hostess.
Mara turned to Turlough and he immediately bent his head towards her. ‘What is it?’ he asked and the concern in his voice almost brought tears to her eyes.
‘Nothing. I’m tired. I think we should all have an early night. You, Ulick, Donán, Conor and Brian Ruadh will be off early in the morning.’
‘That’s right,’ he said looking anxiously at her. ‘I’ve given orders that I am to be woken quietly. I won’t disturb you. We’ll go off very quietly and you have a good sleep in and a good rest. You’re looking tired.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Mara. She concealed a smile at the thought of Turlough doing anything quietly. On the other hand she might accept his offer. There was no point, really, in accompanying him and his companions to Doolin harbour and hanging around there waiting for the tide to turn and the boat to be ready. It would be a slow and tedious proceeding with plenty of drinking at the alehouse and silly jokes from Ulick. She would make her farewells to Turlough in private and stay in bed until they had moved away from Ballinalacken. Then she would get someone to saddle her horse and go straight over to the law school, and try to get this matter solved. In the meantime, there were a few other matters to uncover first from the house guests before she turned her attention to the inhabitants of Aillwee.
She looked around the table. O’Brien of Arra had finished his food and she smiled an invitation to him.
‘Come and sit by the fire with me,’ she said, standing up and moving close to him. ‘This has been a terrible day.’
‘Terrible,’ he echoed, following her. ‘Dreadful shame about that man, the farmer.’ He hesitated a moment, taking his seat and leaning forward to poke the fire before saying, ‘I wonder what he might have offered for the lease.’
‘I have no idea.’ Mara tried to make her voice sound soft and regretful, having suppressed her first instinct, which was to give him a tart reply.
‘Nothing we can do now.’ O’Brien of Arra heaved a sigh.
‘No, indeed.’ Mara decided to come quickly to the purpose of her interview before they were interrupted. ‘I saw that you had signed the document, and that Cathal had made his cross – no doubt in your presence.’
‘That’s right.’ O’Brien of Arra looked slightly embarrassed. ‘We should, of course, have waited for you, but you had gone off with young Seamus MacCraith and Cathal O’Halloran was very insistent. You can understand, after all that had happened before.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s all perfectly legal. Your signature acts as witness that Cathal made his mark. I’ve countersigned it and will deliver it to the O’Hallorans to keep until next year. There is no problem with it at all.’ Mara hastened to assure him. It was interesting that Cathal, even with the alarming report of a dead man lying nearby, had taken the time to ensure that the deed was signed and witnessed.
‘I wanted to ask you whether you saw anyone that you didn’t know when you were on your journey up the mountain – that is apart from the men with the flock of sheep,’ she asked.
He started to shake his head and then paused. ‘I think I may have seen someone. A tall young man, dark, curly hair, wearing a bánín cloak. Do you know,’ he went on, ‘I have a feeling I might have seen this young fellow before – about this time last year. You sent your two eldest scholars to me with the flax garden deed for signature. I think it might have been one of these.’
‘Fachtnan and Enda,’ said Mara. ‘But Enda had blonde hair.’
‘That’s right. He’s the young man who works for the king, isn’t he? I’ve seen him recently. No, it’s the other one that I meant.’ He looked around the room. ‘I don’t see him here today. Is he back at the law school?’
‘No,’ said Mara. ‘Fachtnan has been missing since last Saturday. Do you think it was he that you saw?’
He shook his head. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘And yet . . .’ He looked up and narrowed his eyes. The door had opened and a tall, middle-aged man, well dressed in a blue woven cloak, had come in and stood hesitating at the door.
‘But that is my steward,’ he said. ‘There must be some business for me to attend to. Will you excuse me, Brehon?’
‘Ask him to have a meal and to stay the night,’ said Mara hospitably. ‘In fact, there is no reason why he should not stay here at the castle until you arrive back from Aran and then you can ride back together across the Shannon. I’ll send an order to our steward and he will arrange matters.’
When he left her she heaved a sigh. From time to time it appeared as if she were about to solve the mystery of the missing Fachtnan but hopes always ebbed away. Was it possible that he was still alive?
Seventeen
Bretha Déin Checht
(The Judgements of Dian Checht)
Every injury brings with it its own fine. There are six different fines for an injury to teeth with the largest sum given for an injury to a front tooth as that exposes the victim to ridicule for ever afterwards.
A Brehon must not be too hasty in giving judgement in the case of any injury as the physician’s report must be awaited and the long-term effects of the injury calculated.
The amount of compensation will be a set fee for the injury and an additional fine which will take into account the honour price of the victim.
Mara slept little that night and once dawn arrived she abandoned the effort and slipped out of bed, being careful not to disturb Turlough. She dressed qu
ietly and then stole down the stairs, startling the night guards.
‘You’re never tempted to sleep?’ she asked them with a smile as they jumped alertly to attention, greeted her and then at her request undid the massive bolts of the huge oak front door of the castle.
They both looked shocked at the idea. ‘What, with O’Kelly just ten miles away?’ one exclaimed.
Mara tried to look shocked, too. She had been hearing about the threat from O’Kelly since the time that she had first invited Turlough to her house and the man had never materialized. No doubt he would marshal his men if the Great Earl, the Earl of Kildare, gave the order, but in the meantime he stayed peacefully in his good, fruitful limestone land east of Galway. She had begun to wonder whether she would ever see the man or whether he would remain as a distant bogeyman, used by mothers and foster mothers to frighten badly-behaved children.
The morning was still grey when she came out and the ocean was a sombre purple-blue. Turlough and his companions would have a calm day for their crossing to Aran, she thought as she went down the steep bank towards the kennels and stables. There were no lights in the cabins where the attendants slept and no sound from the stables. A dog barked as she approached the kennel door, but she spoke quietly to Bran, her own dog, and his whine of welcome reassured the other wolfhounds.
Bran was a beautiful dog. He was very large, a good three feet high at the shoulder with a noble head, small pricked ears, and a slim muscular body. Most wolfhounds were grey, or brindle, but Bran was pure white, his rough coat matching the limestone on the hills. He was the son of a dog that Mara had grown up with, her father’s dog, and he was a magnificent creature. He was utterly devoted to his mistress and so intelligent that he hardly needed a command to do her bidding.
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