Mara frowned. ‘Give a name to them?’
‘No, no, not that.’ He was taken aback. ‘You could say that you are not at liberty to disclose the name until the matter is dealt with at Poulnabrone. You could just imply, not say anything . . . just imply . . .’
‘I don’t think that I would do that.’ Her tone was decisive. He was the king, but she was the Brehon. The law was her business and the law said that no suspect should be named in public until he or she had been given a chance to admit to the crime and to promise to pay the fine. As Brehon she was not going to play games with the islanders and allow wrong conclusions to be drawn.
Turlough said nothing. He did not look angry, just disappointed and her heart melted.
‘Turlough,’ she said, ‘at this moment there is probably only one name on the lips of every islander. If the people of Aran think that I am certain of the truth and that I am not naming this man because he is a friend and ally of yours, then things may get violent. I would not like to encourage any private vengeance or any public outcry for a blood feud.’
‘You mean Ardal.’
Mara nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘But that’s ridiculous.’
‘You say that only because you know Ardal and you trust him. Otherwise it is not ridiculous. Look at the facts. This young man from Aran turns up claiming to be Ardal’s son. Ardal does not believe that Iarla is his son; does not believe the mother’s sworn deathbed statement. He does not want this lad. What is more probable, to anyone that does not know the man, than that Ardal is the murderer of Iarla.’
‘And of the uncle.’
‘And of Becan,’ agreed Mara. ‘It would be very easy to make the case, as we say at the law school. Becan could have seen something, could have known something, could perhaps have confronted Ardal with his suspicions and then he in turn was murdered.’
‘But you can’t believe that.’
Turlough sounded so aghast that Mara found it difficult not to smile.
‘As soon as I am certain of the murderer, I will talk to that person, ask for an admission of guilt. Whether I obtain that confession or not, I will then go to Poulnabrone and tell the people of Burren the truth.’
‘And then?’
‘And then go, or send a messenger, to Aran to tell the islanders the truth.’
Turlough nodded resignedly and she gave him a quick kiss while no one was looking. For a man who ruled three kingdoms, he was a very easy-going, pleasant husband, she thought.
‘Tell me about your cousin Brian,’ she said. ‘How do you get on with him?’
‘Not exactly a cousin. He’s just one of the Mac Teiges.’
‘Which Teige?’ The O’Brien family seemed to lack imagination when it came to picking out names. Down through the generations there were Teiges, Turloughs, Diarmuids, Murroughs and Conors, with the occasional Brian thrown in. No wonder there were so many nicknames among them.
‘Teige the bonesplitter,’ said Turlough with a grin. ‘They all took after him too. No one messes about with any of the Mac Teiges.’
‘A very dark man, isn’t he, this Brian?’ Mara’s voice was thoughtful. On her visit to the island she had not formed any great liking for the Lord of Aran. He had been dark of hair, eye and skin, but there had been something dark about his personality too.
‘Mother was Spanish,’ said Turlough, signalling to his bodyguard, Fergal, to bring over his horse. The soldiers immediately leaped on to their horses and formed a line on the road outside the law school.
‘Really? I thought his father was married to one of the MacNamaras.’
‘He was, but this Brian is the result of a marriage of the fourth degree. His mother was originally the wife of the captain of a Spanish ship that Brian captured. He took the cargo off the ship and then gave the captain the choice between having his ship back and leaving his wife, or of losing everything. The Spanish captain decided that he’d prefer his ship and the lady herself was quite willing to stay on Aran apparently, so that’s where Brian comes from. Brian the Spaniard, as he’s known, but not to his face. He doesn’t like the name.’
‘I see,’ said Mara.
She wanted to ask whether Brian the Spaniard was, like his father, a pirate, but Seán had just pushed the wagon so that was drawn up by the gate and Donie was harnessing two horses to it.
‘Run down to the crossroads, Aidan,’ she called as he and Fachtnan emerged from the kitchen house, wiping their mouths. ‘See if Nuala is coming.’
‘Here’s a bite for the boys to eat.’ Brigid came bustling out with a basket full of honey cakes and flat slabs of oatmeal bread. Hugh and Shane followed with some leather flasks of buttermilk and Moylan had a string bag of wrinkled apples. Brigid was not going to allow any of them to go hungry, thought Mara with an amused smile. She was about to get into the wagon when she saw Cumhal had drawn away from the busy scene around the gate and was standing at some distance with his eyes fixed on her.
Immediately Mara went over to him. She knew from his expression that he had something to tell her.
‘I just thought you might like to know that the O’Lochlainn and Liam the steward passed here about an hour ago, Brehon,’ he said. ‘They had the two coffins on the cart.’
‘Thank you, Cumhal.’
Mara was glad that he had not said that in front of the boys. Their spirits were high and she loved to see them like this, laughing and joking. The real purpose of their visit would come when they arrived, but she knew that she could trust them to behave decorously at the burial of the two islanders. It was good to know that there had been no problems with the lifting of Iarla’s coffin from the graveyard.
‘You go first, my lord,’ she called to Turlough. ‘We’ll wait for Nuala and follow you.’ Just as well, she thought, to have the boat with the two coffins go first. This would announce their arrival to the islanders and give Brian the Spaniard time to prepare for their arrival. She felt sorry that she was not there to break the news to Becan’s widow, but no doubt the Aran man with the boat would be able to do it better. These islanders were very close-knit, reserved people; to them she would be just an outsider.
Nuala arrived just as Mara was beginning to think that they would have to go without her. Despite the sun, it still was only March and the journey would take at least four hours. It would be essential for them to arrive in time for the burial and that would have to take place before daylight ended.
‘Sorry,’ Nuala said briefly as the eager shouts summoned her to the wagon. She handed her pony to Donie and clambered into the wagon, stepping over the boys’ satchels and seating herself between Fachtnan and Shane. Mara cast a quick concerned glance at her. Nuala’s dark-brown eyes were deeply shadowed and she looked as though she had slept badly. I’m glad I thought of inviting her, thought Mara, she isn’t having a very pleasant life these days. A day out in the boisterous company of the law scholars would do the girl good.
‘What do you think will happen at Aran, when we have to tell them that Becan was murdered, as well as Iarla, Brehon?’ asked Enda.
‘I’m not sure, Enda.’ Mara always liked to be frank with her scholars. If they, in their turn, became Brehons they would have to deal with situations where they would have to probe to find the perpetrators of crimes. They would have to cope with doubt and uncertainty and still hold fast to the principles in which they were educated. ‘I’ve prepared a few things to say in my mind,’ she added, ‘but I will have to wait until I see what their attitude is before I finally decide what I am going to do. Whatever happens, the more information that I can gain about Iarla and Becan, the better my chances are of solving this murder.’
‘You remember we did wonder about Becan,’ mused Enda. ‘Well, it’s unlikely that he murdered Iarla now, isn’t it?’
‘I’d say that Becan was murdered because he found out something about the murder of Iarla, perhaps even found the murderer and accused him.’ Moylan leaned over to join in the conversation.
‘Coul
d be.’ Mara’s tone was reserved and she said no more. Enda and she had been speaking in low murmurs, but once Moylan with his loud, adolescent, uncontrolled voice joined in the conversation, everyone would hear. Discussing suspects in the privacy of the schoolhouse was one thing; here on the open road with Cumhal and Nuala listening was another.
‘What about a song?’ she enquired after a few minutes.
Fachtnan, always a sensitive boy who could interpret silences as well as words, immediately raised his voice in the words of Is Trua Gan Peata Mhaoir Agam (‘Tis a pity I haven’t the Steward’s pet).
The blackthorn is out here earlier than it is in the Burren, Mara thought, listening to the singing as the wagon trundled its way along the muddy roads of Corcomroe. Nearer the sea, of course. She admired the tiny snow-white blossoms that almost completely masked the black twigs of the bushes. When the wagon paused to allow a man on horseback to cross the road in front of them, she reached out and pulled a cluster off and held it close to her nose. The scent was very faint, quite elusive, but it smelled of a promise of spring. The petals were soft and immaculately white. Unlike the hawthorn, where the cream was mixed with tiny antlers of red powder, these were pure and velvet soft. And then her mind went back to the subject of Becan. Undoubtedly he was killed because he knew too much. But how was it that he had spotted the murderer when she herself was still uncertain. Her mind went back to Enda’s evidence from the priest’s housekeeper. What had Becan discovered from the cave on that day, she wondered? Judging by the clay on his boots, it was obvious that he had gone into it.
‘I see the sea,’ shouted Shane as they rounded the corner.
They were back on the limestone land now, with the fields paved with the huge slabs of dark-grey stone and the grykes between the clints crammed with frilly yellow primroses and a few dark-purple violets. The wind was to their backs; nevertheless, the salt tang of the seashore was unmistakable. Even the birds were different; instead of blackbirds and thrushes there were the soaring pale-grey seabirds and the red-legged choughs shouted greetings at each other.
‘They’ve got sail up,’ shouted Shane. He lived near to the shores of the Great Lake in the north of Ireland and his summer holidays seemed to be mostly spent in a boat.
That would be the coffin boat, decided Mara. It skimmed lightly across the waves, making little of the weight of the two well-built bodies that lay on its deck. She was glad that it was well ahead of their boat.
‘Sit down all of ye.’ Cumhal’s order was sharp and the boys all obeyed him instantly. ‘They’ve got the king’s flag up and flying on the ferry, Brehon.’
‘So they have!’ Mara smiled as she saw the three lions stretch and snap in the fresh sea breeze. That would have been Ardal’s idea, she guessed; Turlough, the most unassuming of men, would not have bothered.
Ardal was still there on the seafront when Cumhal pulled the wagon to a halt. He was talking to Turlough while Liam walked his mare, and Liam’s own cob, up and down the path. The men-at-arms and all of the horses had already been loaded on to the boat. They both turned at the rumble of the wagon’s wheel and came over towards her.
‘You’re going to have a great day for your trip, Brehon,’ said Ardal as Turlough carefully handed her down from the wagon. She smiled at him, noting the regret in his voice, but she did not speak. There was nothing to be said; Ardal was an intelligent man and she was sure that he had understood her reasons for refusing his offer last night. She stood for a moment, looking around at the busy pier where men loaded baskets and seagulls cried overhead, conscious that feelings of pleasure and of excitement were buoying her up and swamping the tiredness which had so often engulfed her in the last week or so.
‘It looks a fine ship,’ said Mara.
‘It’s a caravel,’ said Aidan.
‘Looks more like a cog to me,’ said Shane. ‘That’s what we call them on the Great Lake. Look, it has only one sail.’
‘It’s a cog, all right,’ said Ardal, smiling at Shane. ‘I’m thinking of buying one and getting into the fishing business myself. Liam and I have been talking about it. He’s not as keen as I am, but I plan to make a few enquiries.’
‘Let’s go on board,’ said Mara.
Aidan was muttering something uncomplimentary about Liam and his weight to Moylan, but they would be distracted once they were on board. Apart from Shane they were all from inland homes and this was going to be a rare treat for them.
‘We’ll hoist the sail once we are out of the harbour, my lord,’ said the ship’s captain to Turlough. He bowed to Mara. ‘We could rig up a shelter for you on deck, Brehon,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a spare sail here.’
‘No, no,’ said Mara. ‘I’d prefer to be out in the open. I’ll just sit here on the sail locker and I’ll be quite comfortable.’
Turlough eased himself down beside her cautiously. Fergal and Conall took up their guarding positions right behind him, each with a hand on their swords.
‘Oh, go and look after those boys and stop them falling overboard,’ said Turlough irritably. ‘These are my own people in this boat. Do you expect one of the O’Kellys or the Great Earl himself to land on the deck disguised as a seabird?’
From the corner of her eye, Mara could see Conall grin at Fergal, but they both chorused a ‘Yes, my lord,’ and took themselves off to the other side of the ship.
‘Hope I’m not sick,’ said Turlough apprehensively.
‘We’re still in the harbour,’ pointed out Mara, eyeing him with amusement. ‘And it’s a very calm day.’
‘There’s always a swell in these parts,’ grumbled Turlough. ‘Look at those rocks over there. Imagine being thrown up against them! That group over there is called Hell’s Kitchen. Imagine being caught among them.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Mara, exasperated, ‘let’s just take pleasure in the journey. Look, they’re putting the sail up now. The boys are enjoying this.’
The captain had given each boy a rope and they were all pulling lustily, Shane shouting orders at the others and revelling in the unusual position of being the most knowledgeable of the scholars.
The sail had originally been a dark colour, but rain and strong sunlight had leached the colour from it and now it was as white as the tops of the waves. Mara could see the places where it had been patched and mended. The salt waters and the strong winds would give these linen sails a short life.
‘I never get used to this journey,’ muttered Turlough.
Mara gave him another amused glance.
‘Brehon, look at the currach over there.’ Shane was pointing out to the distant horizon.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ shouted back Turlough. He stood up, almost lost his balance and then sat down quickly again as the boat lurched and then slipped over the top of a wave.
‘Nothing’s wrong, it’s just that they’ve stopped fishing and gone over to that other cog, the one that went ahead of us, the one with the brown sail. Look, they’ve left their fishing nets and they’ve gone speeding over.’
‘Wanted to find out the news from Corcomroe,’ suggested Enda as Mara and Turlough made their way to the prow of the ship.
‘That’s what it will be.’ Turlough’s ruddy colour was beginning to return to his cheeks, Mara was glad to notice. It reinforced her belief that seasickness didn’t occur if people kept their mind on something else.
‘Is that the ship that is carrying the coffins, my lord?’ asked Fachtnan. He had taken off his cloak and draped it around Nuala who was looking pale and cold.
‘That’s it,’ said Turlough briefly.
‘They’ll know why we’re coming then,’ said Aidan alertly. ‘Look, someone on board is leaning over the rail, shouting down to them.’
‘He’s pointing back at us,’ chimed in Enda.
‘The currach is hoisting a sail now.’ Nuala had a little flush in her cheeks and was looking a little better now and she, like the boys, was leaning over the rail.
‘Funny little sq
uare sail,’ said Shane disapprovingly.
‘You’ll be surprised to see how fast that little currach can go,’ said Mara.
‘That’s right. They’re just made from hazel boughs covered in ox skin, so they’re really light.’ Aidan obviously felt that Shane should be put in his place as the youngest scholar.
‘Bet we can go faster,’ said Shane. ‘Look at the size of our sail.’
‘Can we go any faster?’ appealed Enda as the captain came up to the prow.
‘Well, you hang on to the rudder there, keep the currach in your sights and you won’t go far wrong. The rest of us will spread the sail a bit wider.’ The captain was willing to entertain the boys, but Mara doubted that he would overtake the coffin ship, and certainly not the light little currach that was skimming across the waves towards the distant bulk of Inisheer Island. Still, it was keeping them all occupied and excited with their eyes fixed on the horizon. Already they had begun to adapt themselves to the rise and fall of the boat as it climbed each wave and then went down into a trough before climbing up again. Even Turlough was looking a little better with the excitement of the race.
‘The currach is turning again,’ shouted Nuala.
‘It’s not going to the island after all. It’s heading for that ship out there.’ Aidan’s eyesight was keen.
‘That’s a galley,’ yelled Shane.
‘A galley, eh.’ Turlough leaned over the rail, narrowing his eyes. ‘I can’t see it very well, but I’d say, by the flag, that is my relation, the O’Brien of Aran. That’s the man who’s going to put us all up, that’s if we arrive safely. Please God,’ he added piously.
‘Is he out fishing, then?’ Shane climbed up on the rail and stood fearlessly with one hand on the rope that led from the mast to the rudder.
‘I’d say that he’s patrolling.’
‘Get down, Shane,’ said Mara. ‘Patrolling?’ she queried with a lift of her eyebrow towards Turlough.
‘He gets paid by Galway merchants to stop pirates attacking their ships,’ explained Turlough.
Eye of the Law Page 18