My Lady Judge

by Cora Harrison

‘Hugh,’ said Mara earnestly, ‘if you don’t admit to the murder it is classified as a secret and unlawful killing and the fine is double what it would have been. You know that, Hugh, so tell the truth now.’

  ‘He didn’t kill him, Brehon,’ said Fachtnan. ‘He told me that he was nowhere near when it happened.’

  ‘But your knife is in him, Hugh!’

  ‘I know, but I didn’t kill him. He took my knife. He took it as soon as we started to climb the mountain. He had it in his hand.’

  Mara frowned. Perhaps this was the truth. Perhaps Colman had confiscated it.

  ‘We met Hugh at the bottom of the mountain after everything was over, Brehon,’ said Fachtnan. ‘He was crying. He told me that Colman ordered him to wait for him while he talked with some people. Eventually, after the bonfire was lit and everything, Hugh went to look for him and he saw him, and he saw his own knife sticking out of the side of his neck and he guessed that he was dead. He touched him and then he knew for sure. He wasn’t breathing. And then he panicked and started to run down the mountain. And he told us the whole story when we met him. He was upset,’ finished Fachtnan. ‘I thought we’d better get home as quickly as possible.’

  ‘All right, now let’s go down,’ said Mara. Hugh’s full story could wait. Now she had to get the body off the mountain as quickly as possible. The rites of the church and the law would have to be observed. She got to her feet with a quick last glance of enquiry at Hugh. He did not respond.

  He was a tense boy, over-indulged by his wealthy father who, nevertheless, laid the burden of his great expectations on his child’s shoulders. His mother’s death had made Hugh very dependent on his father. Hugh would not want to do anything that would jeopardize his father’s affection, so confession would be difficult for him. Boys younger than Hugh had killed. She had known of cases. This was a warlike society. If, for some reason, Colman had dropped the knife and then bent to pick it up, Hugh could have forestalled him, snatched the knife and slashed Colman across the back of the neck. She would try one last appeal.

  ‘Hugh, will you swear to me on your father’s honour, that you did not kill Colman?’ she asked, looking at him intently.

  He did not hesitate but said solemnly, ‘I swear on the honour of my father’s face that I had nothing to do with Colman’s secret and unlawful killing, Brehon.’

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ said Mara, grasping the edge of the rock and lowering herself down. Hugh and Fachtnan followed her.

  When they reached the first terrace the king came striding over to Mara, reaching up a hand and bracing her for the last step down on to the flat, rocky surface.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, clearly relieved to see her.

  Mara turned and faced them, the king and his two bodyguards, the four law school scholars, Murrough and the eight narrow hairy faces of the wolfhounds.

  ‘Colman, my assistant, is dead. He is lying up there in Wolf’s Lair. I’d say that he has been dead since Thursday night.’

  ‘Dead!’ echoed Murrough. Turlough Donn said nothing, but his blue eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared from his genial face. He put out his hand and took hers. It was only when she felt his warmth that she realized how cold she had become on this hot morning. She left her hand within his for a moment and then withdrew it. She could not indulge in any weakness for the moment. There was too much for her to do. She looked around. Everyone was looking at her, waiting for her instructions. She went through her list of tasks.

  ‘I think we’ll have to postpone the wolf hunt,’ she said firmly. ‘Murrough, I think you had better take the wolfhounds home. Fachtnan, Hugh and Shane will go with you to help you with them, if that is all right by you?’

  Murrough nodded mutely. He looked shocked.

  ‘Fachtnan, take Shane and Hugh back to Cahermacnaghten when Murrough has no further use for you. Wait there until I come.

  ‘Moylan, you fetch Malachy the physician,’ she continued. ‘Enda, go to Glenslade Castle and ask Donogh O’Lochlainn to send some men and a leather litter to get the body down from the mountain. Ask him, also, if we could borrow a cart to take the body back to Colman’s mother and father. Donogh knows the Lynch family.

  ‘Aidan, go and fetch Father Conglach. He will want to give the last rites to the body.’ She briefly remembered that Aidan had been in some sort of trouble with Father Conglach, so Father Conglach might decide to ignore his summons, but then dismissed that from her mind. Aidan was the least reliable of all the boys and she didn’t care whether Father Conglach arrived or not – the other tasks were of more importance.

  ‘Now, all of you,’ she said emphatically, ‘when you have finished your errands, return to Cahermacnaghten. Go now, make haste, but go carefully. We don’t want any more accidents.’ And if that left Murrough thinking that it was an accident, that would be all to the good, she thought. He was a nice man, but a terrible one for gossip. Her own lads, she knew, would say nothing. Their loyalty to each other was that of brothers. No one would want to implicate Hugh.

  ‘My lord,’ she said formally to the king. ‘I regret the spoiling of your day of pleasure. You may wish to go straight back to Thomond.’

  Turlough Donn shook his head. ‘No, Mara, I’ll stay here with you,’ he said with the easy charm which was part of the man, but behind the words there was an iron core of support and Mara was grateful.

  ‘Let’s go up and have another look,’ he suggested when they and the two bodyguards were left alone on the terrace. ‘We’ll leave Fergal and Conall here. They’ll let us know if anyone is coming.’

  He reached out a hand to her again and she took it. She felt rather ashamed, but his hand was very welcome at that moment. His grasp was warm and firm and her legs had begun to tremble again. Without a word they scrambled up the steep cliff to Wolf’s Lair. Bran followed behind, but now he was mute, inured to the fact that one of his pack was lying dead on the mountainside.

  Mara immediately crossed the small space and knelt beside Colman’s body. ‘Poor child,’ she said pityingly, reaching down to smooth the fair hair from the pallid forehead. ‘You know, he was unfortunate. He was gifted – I don’t think I have ever had a student who learned as well as he did — but he was never at ease, never happy with himself. Perhaps he never had enough; he valued money, valued goods, too much. He thought that they would make him happy, but they didn’t; they only made him want something more.’

  ‘Why was he killed, do you think?’ asked Turlough Donn, watching her closely.

  ‘I think he was killed because he got too greedy,’ said Mara, staring down at the ornate hilt of Hugh’s silver knife sticking out from the thin neck of the young man.

  ‘Too greedy?’ echoed the king.

  ‘Blackmail, I think,’ said Mara. Briefly she told him Diarmuid’s story about Lorcan and the secret borrowing of the white bull.

  ‘That’s a very fine knife,’ said the king, looking down at the body. ‘It should be easy to trace the man who owned a knife like that.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Mara bleakly after a few minutes’ thought, ‘that the knife was his own. I think that Colman owned it at the time of his death.’ It was not a complete lie, she thought; Colman had perhaps owned it if Hugh had been forced to give it to him. She did not wish to mention Hugh’s name even to someone she trusted as much as the king.

  Turlough Donn frowned, looking closely into her face, but he did not question her further. He knows me well, she thought. He even knows when I am not telling the full truth; not many people have ever been able to read me as well as that. She resolutely turned her face away from Turlough Donn.

  Hugh was of more importance to her now than any king, than any lover. She had to protect him until she knew the whole truth. During her fifteen years as Brehon of the Burren she had learned to keep her own counsel, to trust only herself and to politely exclude all others from her thought processes. She got to her feet decisively.

  ‘If it was Colman’s knife,’ said Turlough after a
minute’s silence, ‘someone must have wrestled it from him; we should find some traces of a struggle.’

  ‘We should,’ said Mara, but her mind was still occupied by thoughts of Hugh and it was the king who found the trampled violets, their intense blue-purple now just a stain on the rock.

  ‘Two men wrestled here,’ he said with certainty in his voice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mara and suddenly courage flowed back into her. ‘Yes, you are right.’

  The damp, mossy hollow, facing north, still retained the heavy dew of the night. The earth was moist. Not only the violets bore testimony, but also the earth itself held the imprint of several large feet. Mara picked a twig and carefully measured Colman’s feet. One of the imprints was definitely his, but another was larger and some more were still bigger.

  ‘A few men have been here at the entrance,’ she said. ‘But it seems as if only two men were here where Colman’s body is.’ She paced the entire area, looking very carefully for something that she did not want to find. She did not want to find it, but all of her training, all of her courage, all of her respect for the law made her look for it. She looked for a pair of small footprints – Hugh was small for his age; only the other day Brigid had remarked on the size of his sandals, compared to ten-year-old Shane’s.

  Throughout the length and the breadth of Wolf’s Lair hollow there were no signs of Hugh’s feet. It was not proof positive – his feet were small and his weight was light – but if there had been a struggle they would have left some mark. It was enough for the moment. Mara took a deep breath and her legs stopped trembling.

  ‘How much strength would it have taken to drive a knife in like that?’ she asked, staring down at the silver hilt protruding from Colman’s neck. Turlough Donn was not a physician — this was a question that she would also ask of Malachy – but from his youth he had been engaged in clan wars; he would have seen many a dead man, and would undoubtedly have inflicted death, also.

  ‘Depends,’ he said sombrely. ‘Depends on whether a bone was struck and it depends on how much he struggled. It doesn’t take much strength to slice through flesh – if you are lucky enough to find the right spot, I suppose a blow like that would kill instantly. Odd that there is no blood, isn’t it? Will you bury him here on the Burren, or send the body back to Galway?’

  ‘Send him back to Galway,’ said Mara. ‘His parents should have him back to their own church and their own burial ground.’ She said no more. Years of practice of keeping her own counsel made her cautious even of the king. Her unvoiced thought was that the sooner the Burren was cleared of all memory of Colman, the sooner matters would settle down again. For a while there would be a period of speculation and suspicion; perhaps even accusations, perhaps hot-tempered quarrels flashing up between young men from rival clans, as often happened in the case of an unexplained killing, but once the murder was solved everything would settle down.

  ‘There is no doubt that this will be a secret and unlawful killing,’ she said bleakly. ‘More than twenty-four hours have gone by since the death occurred, so the time has passed for anyone to confess and to pay the éraic.’ In the past she had occasionally bent that law a little where she was fairly certain of the culprit and could extract a confession, but this death puzzled her. There were only two names in her mind: Hugh and Lorcan. Hugh, and the hold that Colman seemed to have had over him, she had to puzzle about in private. She would not mention his name to the king unless she had to. Lorcan, however, she could speculate about.

  Turlough Donn read her thoughts. ‘What about that man Lorcan, the man that stole the cow, is he a possibility?’

  ‘He could be,’ admitted Mara, ‘but somehow it doesn’t seem like him. He doesn’t have the courage or the strength of purpose. Colman was clever. I think he didn’t ask for more than Lorcan could just about manage to give. The question is, was he blackmailing someone else and, if so, what hold did he have over him, or her? I suppose there are many people who might have a guilty secret,’ she added. During her fifteen years as Brehon she had known many secrets, as had her father before her. Her mind went through the people of the Burren, weighing possibilities, moving them around like figures on a chessboard.

  EIGHT

  CÁIN ÍARRAITH AND CÁIN MACHSLECHTA (THE LAW OF CHILDREN)

  A child under the age of fourteen has no legal responsibility for any misdeed.

  Liability for a child’s offence is borne by his father or by his foster-father if he is in fosterage.

  A dependent child is classed as a táid aithgena, thief of restitution, from the age of twelve to seventeen. If he steals something it has to be restored and no penalty need be paid.

  MALACHY WAS THE FIRST to arrive. Mara and Turlough had climbed down two of the terraces to wait next to the bodyguards when Mara heard his deep voice, followed a minute later by Nuala’s light, clear voice. They were arguing. Despite her anxieties Mara couldn’t hold back a smile.

  ‘But how can I ever learn if I am not allowed to help you?’ Nuala was shouting passionately. ‘What’s the point of me staying at the bottom of the mountain while you dress wounds a hundred feet above my head? I’m coming, Father, no matter what you say. I am your pupil. I have a right to be with you.’

  Turlough Donn went to the edge of the terrace and peered over. ‘Nice to be so young and fit that you can climb and shout at the same time, isn’t it?’ he said with a grin.

  ‘She’s coming up, then?’ asked Mara. For a moment she was sorry, but that was illogical. Nuala was almost a woman. If she were old enough for a marriage to be arranged, then she was old enough to examine a dead man. Malachy could not protect her against death. She had seen her own mother’s dead body and had had the strength and maturity to realize that it was a merciful release from agony.

  ‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Malachy,’ Mara said, moving over to the edge of the terrace. She said no more until he had scaled the last steep ledge. Nuala was slightly ahead of him, her léine well hitched up to knee-length by the leather belt, her long legs tanned to a deep brown, showing that this was the way she wore it normally.

  ‘There’s been an accident, Moylan told me,’ said Malachy.

  ‘It’s really Colman?’ enquired Nuala. She didn’t sound as if she cared too much, thought Mara.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is Colman. His body is lying in Wolf’s Lair. I think he has probably been dead since Bealtaine Eve, Malachy, but you will be able to confirm that.’

  She felt a faint repugnance at the idea of going up there again – she had been glad to move further down the mountain on the pretence of guiding everyone to the right spot – but now she put her feelings aside. She had a last duty to Colman. She had failed him in all the years that he had been at her law school. She had failed to teach him a respect for the law and a respect for the community that he served. She would not fail to ensure that his remains were treated with as much dignity and respect as possible. Quickly she led the way up. Nuala moved up ahead of her, but Malachy stayed behind. He said no more to Nuala; knew it was useless, thought Mara. Behind them came King Turlough, breathing heavily. This time the two bodyguards came also, their iron-nailed boots ringing on the rough limestone.

  Malachy’s examination was quick and thorough. He turned the body on its front, chest down, with one cheek resting on the rock. Nuala knelt behind him, her face slightly pale, but her demeanour calm and composed. She opened the medical satchel that Malachy always took with him, handed her father his knife and Malachy slit the back of the léine, baring the narrow neck. The king and the bodyguards stood with stern, reserved faces and a pair of grey crows flapped languidly above. Mara sat on a rock and wished with an aching intensity that she could close the staring eyes.

  ‘Was it his own knife?’ asked Malachy.

  ‘I think so,’ said Mara briefly, trying not to meet King Turlough’s penetrating gaze.

  Malachy picked up the right hand and examined it, moving it towards the knife handle in the neck.

  ‘I�
��m just testing whether the victim’s own hand could have dealt the fatal blow,’ he said.

  ‘Strange that you can move the body so easily,’ said Nuala. ‘I would have thought that rigor mortis would be present.’

  ‘Not after twenty-four hours,’ said Malachy. ‘Rigor mortis disappears after that time. This means that he has been dead at least twenty-four hours,’ he said, looking over at Mara.

  ‘There are bruises on his arms,’ pointed out Nuala. ‘And an abrasion here on his hand,’ she added, bringing out the word ‘abrasion’ with professional pride. ‘Look how the skin of the right hand has been torn as the knife was wrestled from his grasp. He couldn’t have done that to himself.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Malachy grimly. ‘Let’s see the wound.’

  Nuala leaned over and peered, but carefully avoided touching anything. Mara got up and walked over. Nuala was right; there were bruises and abrasions. She drew in a long breath of the cool morning air and then let it escape in a sigh of relief. Even if it were possible for Hugh to have knifed Colman, he could never have wrestled the knife from his grasp. Colman was nineteen and Hugh only twelve. No, she was certain now; someone else committed this murder.

  ‘I’m going to take the knife out,’ said Malachy calmly. ‘I’ll be able to tell then if it severed the spinal cord. If it did, this explains the absence of blood, as death is instantaneous once that happens. The knife can be cleaned up then and given to Colman’s parents. That looks like a very valuable knife.’

  He compressed his lips, leaned backwards a little and pulled the knife out in one smooth motion. The wound did not bleed – despite Malachy’s words, Mara had almost expected that it would gush – but the blade was sticky with a white fluid. Flies started to buzz around it, and Malachy plunged it into a thick sod of grass between two rocks and dipped it in and out for a few minutes. Nuala handed him a bundle of bog cotton and he took it without a word, wiped the knife clean and held it out to Mara. The king stepped forward, took it and gave it to one of the bodyguards. His face was impassive, but Mara knew that he had done it to save her having to touch the knife and she was grateful. Her belief in herself was shaken by this untimely death and the crimes that had preceded it.