Mara shook her head. ‘The priest was guilty of the crime of violent rape of a young girl,’ she said quietly. ‘That was his sin, and that was his crime; the other crime cannot be laid at his door.’ She stopped for a moment, thinking of that terrible night when she was trapped in the cairn with the priest and, despite the heat of the fire, she shivered.
‘Are you sure?’ asked the king. He frowned in puzzlement.
‘So who did it? Do you know yet? Why not Father Conglach?’
Mara smiled then. ‘I would have liked to pin that crime, too, on the priest,’ she admitted, ‘but I could not see it happening. The priest didn’t do that. He didn’t have the strength to wrestle the knife from Colman. He probably didn’t have the courage, either. It was a different matter blindfolding and raping a child like Nessa but no, the priest did not murder.’
‘Who was it, then?’ asked Turlough. ‘Was it Lorcan? I always suspected him.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Mara firmly. ‘Would Lorcan have committed a secret and unlawful killing just to stop the O’Lochlainn knowing that his bull had been borrowed? I asked myself that question, but it was too trivial a matter. Ardal would have brought the case before me at Poulnabrone, of course, but everyone on the Burren would just have laughed. I can imagine the jokes! The O’Connor clan would probably have got together and paid Lorcan’s fine just for the sake of the fun everyone had. No, the man who committed this crime on an open hillside within earshot of the whole kingdom would have had to be desperate; it would have had to be done because of a secret that could not be forgiven or recompensed.’
‘And what about that lad from Corcomroe?’ asked Turlough eagerly. He leaned forward with the look of a man hot on the chase.
Mara smiled indulgently at him. I’m always happy in his company, she thought. I’m always happy and relaxed with him. Her mind went briefly to the decision that she knew would be required of her that night and then turned back to the murder case again.
‘Oscar O’Connor?’ she queried.
‘Yes, the stone-cutter. Was he the guilty one?’
Mara shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was a possibility, and I suppose that it would have been welcomed by the community. The outsider is always a welcome scapegoat. But no, it wasn’t Oscar. For one thing, Gráinne MacNamara told me that Oscar had led Feirdin away from the bonfire – the boy panicked and Oscar took him down well before the fire was lit. Apparently, Oscar had been with him for some time before and had helped Feirdin to gather stones. For another thing, Diarmuid told me that he was left-handed. I guessed then that he could not have struck the fatal blow. You remember, don’t you, how Malachy drew the knife out with his own right hand? We all saw then how the knife had gone in. It was a right-handed man who struck the fatal blow. I was certain of that,’ she said firmly. The scene on the side of the mountain on that sunny Saturday morning would be engraved on her memory for ever, she thought, and judging by Turlough’s thoughtful face, it was in his mind’s eye, also.
‘Strange, wasn’t it, that no one saw the body that night out there on the mountainside? Think of all the people there …’ He reached forward to pour her a generous cupful of the deep red wine. Mara swallowed a little and then put the cup down. Spanish, she thought, why doesn’t he buy French, it’s so much better. ‘Someone must have seen him. They all had torches, didn’t they? Why did no one tell you about the dead body on the mountainside?’
‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that Colman was blackmailing many people. I think that probably most people on the mountain that night knew of some victim of his. I realized how unpopular he was during judgement day at Poulnabrone that afternoon, but I didn’t know why. Yes, of course the body was seen by many as they came down the mountain. But no one wanted to be the one to find it, so everyone looked the other way in the fear that a neighbour, friend or relative may have been involved. That’s the way things work in the Burren,’ she added firmly.
‘Boirenn, that means “the stony place” in old Gaelic,’ he said with a smile. ‘You breed a tough, silent race there among your mountains and your rocks.’
‘I think many people recognized Hugh’s knife, also,’ she said, returning his smile, ‘and, as a matter of courtesy to me, they decided to say nothing. As well as being tough and silent, they are a very courteous people, the people of the Burren,’ she added lightly.
She said no more for a moment, just sipped her wine and looked into the fire. Then she took from her pouch a last leaf of vellum and handed it to him. ‘This is the fourth case,’ she said quietly. ‘These are the case notes and my judgement of the matter of the secret and unlawful killing of Colman, aigne, from Cahermacnaghten, on Mullaghmore Mountain at Bealtaine Eve.’
He took it in his hand with interest. He did not read it aloud, though, as he had done before. He read it to himself, his lips moving as he read, and when he had finished, he read it through again. He looked up and the shock on his face was almost comical.
‘Him! Well, he was the last person that I would have suspected. What on earth made you think of him?’
Mara considered this. ‘Well, I suppose the roots of the matter were seeded in the past,’ she said eventually. ‘There was a death which was a secret and, I suppose, unlawful killing. But that secret and unlawful killing was done with the purest of motives and I felt no necessity to intervene.’
Turlough said nothing; he poured himself another cup of wine, but she placed her hand over her cup. She needed to keep her mind clear; she needed to explain everything to him.
‘You see, this happened over a year ago,’ she said carefully. ‘I guessed – well, it was fairly obvious, really. But I kept quiet over it; no one was injured by this secret and unlawful killing; no one except the man himself. The man eventually struggled out of the black pit of despair and began to rebuild his life. For his sake, and for his daughter’s sake, it seemed best to say nothing.’
The king remained silent. Mara tried to read his face; it was inscrutable. It was impossible to know whether he was shocked, or horrified, or disgusted, whether he felt that his Brehon had betrayed her office and his trust in her. She said nothing for a while, either. In her mind she carefully reviewed her decision taken over a year ago, and then gave a slight nod. Yes, it had been the right decision.
‘I felt,’ she said, choosing her words carefully, ‘that no harm, but a great mercy, had been done. I felt that this man would not offend again.’
‘But you were wrong, weren’t you?’ said Turlough, his voice flat and hard. ‘The man did offend again; he killed your young assistant, Colman.’
Mara bent her head and looked into the fire. For a moment the flames blurred in front of her. She had not expected this; she had relied on his support and his understanding. Carefully she blinked the tears from her eyes and waited until they dried before looking at him. His face wore a stubborn, hurt look.
‘You think I should have consulted you,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Yes,’ he said bluntly, ‘I think I should have been consulted if there was to be any bending of the law. And, I still don’t understand everything.’ He picked up the leaf of vellum again, studied it and put it down. ‘This does not tell the whole story,’ he said.
Mara gazed down at the sheet of vellum.
CASE NOTES AND JUDGEMENT TEXTS FROM MARA,
BREHON OF THE BURREN, 25 MAY 1509
judgement day: tenth day of May 1509. I judged the case
between Séan Lynch, merchant, of Galway city and Malachy
O’Davoren, physician, of Kilcorney in the kingdom of the
Burren. Malachy O’Davoren confessed to the secret and
unlawful killing of Colman Lynch, aigne, late of
Cahermacnaghten in the kingdom of the Burren, son of the
aforesaid Séan Lynch. The fine for this secret and unlawful
killing, the éraic, together with the victim’s honour price,
is ninety séts. Because the victim bears some guilt as he had
<
br /> blackmailed the aforesaid Malachy O’Davoren, the fine is
reduced to forty-five sets, or twenty-two and a half ounces of
silver, or twenty-three milch cows, to be paid within five days.
‘He means a lot to you, this physician, this Malachy,’ said Turlough quietly.
‘No,’ she said, startled, ‘no, it’s not that. I cared for his wife and I care for his daughter very much – I care for him, but only in the way that I care for everyone on the Burren. He’s a distant relation of mine, of course, we both share the name of O’Davoren, but this had no bearing on my judgement.’
‘I think,’ said Turlough, ‘that you had better tell me the whole story.’
‘You remember Mór O’Davoren, Malachy’s wife?’ asked Mara.
‘Yes,’ said Turlough readily. ‘I remember her. She was a beautiful woman. She was sister to the O’Lochlainn, wasn’t she? The sister of Ardal and Donogh O’Lochlainn?’
‘That’s right,’ said Mara. ‘And in a way, that was part of the problem.’
The king frowned and made a quick gesture with his hand. She continued, still speaking slowly and carefully.
‘Mór O’Davoren had a malady in her breast,’ said Mara, looking at him very directly. ‘She had found a lump a long time previously. She told me about it, but she would not tell Malachy. Her own mother had died from a lump in the breast and Mór was convinced that she would die as her mother died. She didn’t want to tell Malachy, she feared he might want to try to cut it out, and then if she died from that operation he would feel that he had taken her life. I tried to persuade her to tell, but she would not. He discovered it himself eventually, but by that time the lump was large and there were more lumps under her arm. She was in terrible pain.’ Mara stopped for a moment, remembering the anguish of husband and wife and the uncomprehending terror of the child, Nuala.
‘Well, she got worse and worse. There was no respite from the pain. Even the poppy juice that Malachy brewed for her had little effect other than to make her mind cloudy and confused. She could not sleep; she could not eat. She was dying slowly and painfully. I came to see her every day. One day when I came she was shrieking with pain, screaming with it. I could hear her as I crossed the fields. Nuala was in the garden crying. She had her hands over her ears, I remember. I pulled her hands down and asked where her father was. “In his still room,” she sobbed. I went into the house and just as I began to open the door to the still room, Malachy came flying out. He almost knocked me down …’
‘And …?’
Mara paused. Had she the right to tell the rest of the story? Could she trust this man with the secret that had lain hidden in her mind for over a year? She looked at him. His florid face was still heavy and dark with suspicion. Then suddenly she understood. He was jealous of Malachy. She had not taken his earlier question seriously. She put her hand on his.
‘Turlough,’ she said earnestly. ‘I would rather resign my position as Brehon of the Burren, and you, of all people, know how much that means to me …’ She stopped for a moment and then continued firmly, ‘I would rather resign than bring shame and sorrow to that child, Nuala.’
‘And her father?’
‘He matters to me, too,’ said Mara boldly, ‘but not in the way that you matter to me.’
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t go on until I get your assurance that what has been a secret to me will remain a secret to you.’
He smiled then. ‘I think you have gone too far now,’ he said. ‘I think I can guess the rest of the story.’
‘You may guess,’ she said, ‘but it will remain just a guess. I’ll say no more until you give me your word.’
He looked at her. There was a struggle on his face. His own good nature, his affection and trust in her, struggled with feelings of jealousy, consciousness of the dignity of his kingship. She waited and she watched until she saw that the struggle had been overcome.
‘Go on,’ he said again, leaning back in his chair. ‘Tell the rest of your story. Your decision, as Brehon of the Burren, stands.’
She nodded gratefully. Her mind went back to the scene that day at Caherconnell. She shut her eyes for a moment, hoping to make him see what she could never forget.
‘Malachy had a flask in his hand. He rushed past me. I stood for a few minutes there, looking into the still room. I don’t know why I was looking. I think I was just trying to gather up my strength to go and say the right thing to Nuala. I could see the table where Malachy mixes his potions. He had left everything scattered there. The mortar had some black seeds left in the bottom of it and there were even some left on the end of the pestle. There was a small pot there and it was labelled “Digitalis”. I knew the seeds, though, so I hardly needed to read the label. I had helped Nuala to gather them the summer before from the foxgloves in the valley. She had told me all about them.’ Mara stopped as she remembered the eleven-year-old reciting: “The seeds of the foxglove are excellent for the failing heart when given in tiny quantities. It is a medicine to be used with care as it can kill.”’
‘And what did you do?’ asked Turlough.
‘I shut and locked the door of the still room. I put the key in my pouch and I went to Nuala and took her for a long walk down the road towards Clerics’ Pass, and when we got back her mother was dead.’
‘And you didn’t feel that it was a matter Malachy should have acknowledged at Poulnabrone?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said decisively. ‘It could be that the matter would be considered fingal. After all, he had killed his kin, his closest relation, his wife. I might have considered it, with his permission, if it were not Ardal O’Lochlainn’s sister who was the victim. Ardal has very firm ideas, very lofty ideas, about right and wrong. It would mean little to him that his sister was released from agonized pain. He is a man who lives by the letter of the law, not by its spirit.’
‘So, how did Colman know?’ asked the king. ‘You say the secret stayed with you. Did you write it down?’
‘No,’ said Mara. Her mind was still with Nuala and Malachy on that day and his question had jolted her. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I never write anything private or secret down. I keep it in my head. Colman …’ She stopped for a moment and reached into her satchel. ‘You see, Colman made this list of cases in the judgement texts at Cahermacnaghten … cases that he could possibly use to blackmail people. He even had the impudence to have my divorce case on his list. He lacked the courage to try anything with me, though.’ She looked at him then and saw a smile pucker the corners of his mouth. He knew about her spectacular divorce; that was obvious. She grinned back at him, but then grew serious again as she thought of the human tragedies in some of those cases. She put the list back into her satchel. She would burn that leaf of vellum tomorrow, she thought.
‘There was one number on that list that puzzled me for a moment, because it wasn’t a judgement text; it was just a yearbook, just the book that is always kept of births, marriages and deaths in the kingdom of the Burren. I looked through it for a while before I guessed. There was nothing there to form a reason for blackmail except that one death. I wondered then whether, because Malachy had been drinking so heavily, he had let something slip, or whether Colman had just guessed.’
‘So that led you to challenge Malachy?’ asked Turlough. Mara said nothing. Her interview with Malachy, after the priest had been taken away, had been painful. The physician had looked so well after all those weeks of suffering the fear of betrayal and the days of guilt for Colman’s death. He had taken it for granted that the priest would be blamed for the murder, also. As a physician, he had been experienced enough to know that the man had fallen into the dark pit of madness and that his word would never be believed even if he ever managed to climb out of insanity. Malachy had stitched up her wound with a smile on his lips and a ring to his voice. He had even joked about her beauty being spoiled. She had taken a small cup of brandy and had pressed some on him as well and it w
as only when he was ready to go that she had told him that she knew the truth about the murder of Colman on the night of Bealtaine Eve.
He had not begged for mercy. He had listened quietly and bowed his head, but his lips had gone white and his black eyes had appeared sunken into pits on his blanched face.
‘What must I do now?’ he had asked.
‘You must tell the truth to the people of the Burren,’ she had said steadily. ‘This duinetháide, this secret and unlawful killing of Colman, must remain a secret no longer.’
‘If it were not for Nuala, I would have told the bastard to go to hell,’ Malachy had said bitterly. ‘I could not bear the idea of leaving her with neither father nor mother. I am not much of a parent to her, but at least I am here with her, not lying in the graveyard at Kilcorney like her mother. I swear to you that this mattered more to me than my own life. If I were on my own, the O’Lochlainn could have had his revenge for the killing of his sister. They could have put me in a boat with no oars and pushed me out to sea and I would have lain there and given up my life.’
And it was at that moment that Mara had placed her hand in his and had said softly: ‘The killing of Mór was no crime in my eyes, Malachy, and there is no reason why anyone other than you, me, and King Turlough, if you agree to that, should know about it. You will confess to the murder before the people of the kingdom and I will say that blackmail by Colman was the reason for the murder. You will pay the fine to the Lynch family and that will be the end of the matter.’
He had stared at her then and the look of despair struggling with an emerging gleam of hope had reminded Mara of a sheep she had seen being rescued from a crevasse.
‘What made you finally kill Colman?’ she had asked with sudden curiosity. ‘Presumably he had been blackmailing you for quite some time; I noticed how ill and worried you looked, but you must be a rich man; you could have paid what he asked.’
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