‘Thank you, Brehon,’ he said eventually, though he still looked puzzled.
‘Thank you, Brehon,’ said Enda radiantly. He cast a triumphant glance at fourteen-year-old Moylan.
Fintan, the blacksmith, lived on the road between Noughaval and Kilcorney. The place was called Lios na nGabhain, its name revealing the fact that smiths had lived and worked here for hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of years. It was a bare, open spot on the High Burren — a flat tableland of fields paved with great stone clints, broken into irregular squares and oblongs by the flower-filled grykes. No trees, not even bushes, grew there. On winter days it was a bleak, cold spot, but now, in autumn, the ground was glowing with pale blue harebells, bright magenta cranesbills, radiant little yellow suns of the carlines and tiny purple flower heads of the scented thyme, all set against the background of sparkling-white limestone flagstones. The air was crystal clear and the mountains gleamed silver in the sunlight.
There was smoke coming from the forge as Mara, with her scholars riding demurely two by two behind her, approached Fintan’s home. No doubt he was making up for lost time during the day and then he would go to the wake later in the evening. She had relied on that. Most people found that the drink flowed faster and that tongues were less inhibited as the evening wore into night.
Balor came to the door enquiringly when she dismounted. He was a huge young fellow, one of Aengus the miller’s two illegitimate sons. It had been kind of Fintan to take him on at the forge when his own father had found him too tiresome and without the judgement and skill necessary to work the mill. Balor was immensely strong. He was carrying a heavy iron gate now as if it were the weight of one of the harebells that were sprinkled through the grass. He opened his mouth apprehensively when he saw her and backed away, still carrying the gate.
‘Master,’ he shouted. He cast an anxious look towards the forge and was obviously waiting until Fintan appeared before saying anything else. He was probably about eighteen, she thought, casting her mind back. He had been the son of a middle-aged woman who worked for Aengus at Oughtmama. She had died in giving birth to this late and unexpected arrival.
Mara greeted him gently and was glad to see that none of her boys sniggered or averted their eyes. Hugh gave him a shy smile and Shane, with the usual unselfconsciousness of a ten-year-old, called out a brisk blessing.
‘Take the Brehon’s mare,’ said Fintan coming out of the forge, a large blacksmith’s hammer in one hand. Mara had begun to dismount as soon as she saw him coming and signalled to the boys to do the same. Balor backed away nervously, but Fachtnan, with no fuss, took Mara’s mare and held both sets of reins in one large capable hand.
What was wrong with Balor? Mara was puzzled. Obviously he could not be frightened of horses: he worked with them every day of his life. She watched him carefully from the corner of her eye. He had given her a quick, nervous glance but then had sidled up to Fachtnan. He was now stroking Mara’s mare with every appearance of appreciation and enjoyment.
‘Balor is frightened of you, Brehon,’ whispered Shane, looking up at her, and she gave him a quick nod.
‘Just go and talk to him for a minute while I talk to Fintan,’ she murmured. There was something badly wrong with Balor and Fintan’s eyes looked wary.
‘I thought I would drop in on the way to the wake at Carron, Fintan,’ she said briskly. ‘This is just a quick sketch of the way I would like the bench to look. Do you think that it looks possible?’
Fintan took her hasty sketch in one large sooty hand and studied it carefully. Mara waited patiently. From behind her she could hear Shane’s high, light voice and Fachtnan’s lower deeper tones. They were talking to Balor about her mare and Shane was telling him about it being a present from the king. Balor seemed relaxed now. She even heard him say: ‘She’s mighty,’ which was obviously high praise from him.
‘Yes, Brehon,’ said Fintan eventually. ‘I think that would work out very well. The only problem would be with the holly leaves — if they are to look natural, then you would have to have the prickles sticking out and that would be uncomfortable for your back. I think it might be best if I made two wreaths, perhaps made them to look like moss, and had the holly leaves sunken into them.’
Mara nodded. This man is an artist, she thought. ‘That sounds wonderful, Fintan,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave it entirely in your hands. I know you will make me something that I will love.’
She moved to go back towards her mare and then turned back: ‘Oh, Fintan,’ she said in her usual clear carrying tones, ‘your taoiseach is happy for you to have the candlesticks. I have persuaded him that Ragnall had no right to take them in your absence.’ Although she was not looking at Balor she could not miss the convulsive start that he gave.
‘That’s good,’ muttered Fintan.
She said nothing, but waited. The boys stopped talking, also, so there was silence for a moment. Fintan looked around and then seemed to gulp.
‘I mean it will be good to get them back,’ he said.
Mara raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘the taoiseach understood that you already had them. They were not in the cart.’
‘Well, I don’t have them,’ said Fintan defiantly. He did not, noticed Mara, look at Balor when he said that. She tried to see Balor’s expression, but he had his face turned away and he was blowing gently into the mare’s nostrils.
‘You’re sure that they weren’t returned, one way or another?’ she asked quietly.
‘You can come in and look, Brehon.’ His tone was respectful, but there was an underlying note of truculence in it.
‘No, Fintan,’ she said firmly. ‘I will tell the MacNamara that you don’t have the candlesticks. It’s for him to make enquiries now.’
‘Did you believe him, Brehon?’ asked Enda as they all dismounted to open a gate and take a short cut to Carron across the fields.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Mara honestly. ‘What did you all think? You were watching.’
‘He was sweating,’ observed Moylan.
‘So are you,’ said Aidan.
‘I’m not,’ contradicted Moylan.
‘He’s not, that’s just grease on Moylan’s nose and forehead,’ said Shane. ‘It’s too cold to be sweating.’
‘But Fintan works over a hot fire,’ said Hugh.
‘Yes, but he wasn’t sweating when he came out,’ argued Enda. ‘Moylan’s right. He started to sweat when the Brehon asked him about the candlesticks. I think what happened was that he went back and had a quarrel with Ragnall and biffed him. He might not even have meant to do it, but once he had done it, he took the candlesticks.’
‘How did Fintan get Ragnall to go into the churchyard?’ asked Shane. ‘Ragnall must have been in the churchyard when he was murdered. No one could have murdered him in front of all of the people at the market.’
‘That’s easy,’ said Enda scornfully. ‘He just hung around until Ragnall went in of his own accord to … Well, you know,’ he finished with a quick glance at Mara.
Mara considered this. Of course, that was the most likely way that things had happened. It was unfortunate, but true, that most people at the Noughaval market used the churchyard, with its sheltering trees and bushes, as a private place to urinate. Up to now, she had assumed that Ragnall had withdrawn into the churchyard to meet his murderer. If it were true that it was just by chance, then the killer might possibly be Fintan. He would be a man who would find it hard to judge the strength of a blow. But would he have picked up the stone cross? Wouldn’t he be more likely to use his own powerful fist?
‘How were the candlesticks stolen then?’ she asked. ‘The cart remained in the same place, in the corner of the market-place, until Niall MacNamara arrived to take it away.’
‘What about Fintan getting a few people to help him?’ asked Shane. ‘Three or four of the clan could have stood around the cart to hide someone else who could slip the candlesticks into a bag or something.’
‘Yes, no one would have t
aken any notice of MacNamaras around the cart,’ said Enda enthusiastically. ‘I vote that we consider him a suspect … in the privacy of this field, of course,’ he added hastily.
There was a stream of people on horseback, or on foot, winding their way up the hill towards the MacNamara castle when they arrived at Carron. Mara noticed the tall figure of Ardal, taoiseach of the O‘Lochlainns, beside the small round figure of Teige O’Brien. Teige’s son, Donal, was not with them, she noticed. It was a couple of months since she had visited this castle, the home of the chief of the MacNamara clan, and she looked at it with interest. There seemed to be very little difference on the outside; it was still rather grim with its tiny windows and its castellated roof. The limestone blocks in the walls were carelessly hewed and were irregular and propped up by numerous small stones. It was no wonder that Garrett’s new wife desired to make changes.
The small entry passage, with the guard’s chamber leading off it, still looked the same as well. There was no new oaken furniture, nor wall hangings to soften the cold grey of the stone. The spiral staircase had been hollowed with the tread of many feet, and the icy chill in the air of this late September evening moistened the stone walls with winding rivulets of condensation.
The great hall, however, glowed with the warmth of braziers filled with orange and black heaps of burning charcoal. These walls were covered almost entirely with painted leather hangings, and a new dais had been built at the top of the hall with a magnificent oak table running the length of it. The benches on either side of the table were covered with heavy linen cloths and at the head of the table were two magnificently carved oak chairs, heaped with velvet cushions. The new wife, Slaney, had certainly begun to make an impression on this run-down castle of her husband’s. Mara looked around her with interest, but of Slaney herself nothing was to be seen. Rumour told that she spent much of her time in Galway, visiting her family and inspecting goods from merchants.
The body of the steward, Ragnall, was laid out on a trestle table at the far end of the hall, away from the braziers and the rich furniture. His face showed a strange brooding dignity in death which he had not displayed during his lifetime. There were no mourners beside the body. On a bench by the wall, his pretty little daughter Maeve, encircled by Fionnuala’s motherly arm, held a linen handkerchief to her eyes from time to time, but the handkerchief seemed to be quite dry.
Then the priest from Carron took out his rosary beads and others in the hall joined in. There was a movement and shifting in the crowd as all the servants and men-at-arms in the castle stepped forward. Mara glanced guiltily at her scholars. She had forgotten to remind them to take their beads and only Fachtnan seemed able to produce the circlet from his pouch. Aidan took something out and showed it to Moylan. However, even from a distance, it looked to Mara more like a fishing spool than a rosary and Shane was stifling a giggle behind his hand. Mara sent them a warning glance, but then forgot them as she noticed the tall, dark-haired figure of Donal O’Brien standing behind one of the pillars in the upper portion of the hall. So he was here after all! His eyes were fixed on his beloved Maeve and his face seemed full of pain.
Mara watched him intently. Did he look like that because he couldn’t bear to see the girl cry, or was there some other reason for the look of brooding sorrow? Could it be guilt? Perhaps he felt that he should have protected his beloved’s father against an assault. Or did he commit the murder himself? Was that, perhaps, the only way that he could get his heart’s desire and marry the girl that he loved?
‘Brehon, you are very welcome.’ Garrett came sailing up fussily, waving a servant to bring mead and another to bring a stool.
‘We won’t stay long, Garrett,’ said Mara, touching her lips to the mead and then holding it in her hand. Its honeyed sweetness was not to her taste. She preferred the subtleties of a good French wine. ‘We’ve just come to pay our respects to Ragnall.’
‘There’s a good crowd here,’ said Garrett, with the satisfaction of a host who has put on a successful feast.
‘Aengus the miller isn’t here.’
‘No, he isn’t.’
There had been a slight question in Mara’s voice, but Garrett had not picked that up so she continued. ‘Are you expecting him?’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Garrett readily. ‘But he will probably be in a bit later. It’s a fair journey from Oughtmama.’
‘You don’t think that the trouble there was between them is keeping Aengus away?’ asked Mara, looking at him closely.
Garrett looked startled. ‘Surely not,’ he said in a pious tone. ‘The man is dead; no grudge travels beyond the gates of death, Brehon.’
Mara accorded this pompous aphorism a moment’s respectful silence before continuing.
‘By the way, Garrett,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Those candlesticks that are missing; well, Fintan declares that he has not got them.’
Garrett raised his bushy eyebrows with an expression of disbelief. He looked around. The priest had finished the rosary and everyone was rising to their feet, looking around for something to eat and drink. Men and women servants hurried to and fro with trays. Garrett beckoned and Niall MacNamara came hurrying over.
Mara studied him with interest. He bore little resemblance to his brother Balor, or even to his father Aengus. Of course, Niall must have been born at least five years earlier than Balor. Aengus had been kinder to his elder son than to Balor. Though he had never acknowledged him openly, he had not denied the relationship and had given him some land near Noughaval. Niall had done well with it.
‘Niall, the candlesticks were definitely missing from the cart, weren’t they?’ questioned Garrett.
Niall nodded firmly. ‘And they could not have been taken from my yard,’ he said quickly. ‘The cart was locked into the barn and the dog was loose in the yard outside.’
‘And you thought that Fintan must have taken them when you saw that they were missing?’ persisted Garrett.
‘It did come into my head,’ said Niall uncomfortably, with an awkward, shamefaced glance at Mara.
‘Fintan says he did not take them,’ stated Mara.
Garrett gave her a quick glance and then turned back to Niall. ‘And did Fintan, or anyone else, come to your house or yard that evening?’
‘Not a soul nor a sinner,’ said Niall promptly. ‘We went to bed early and I only unlocked the yard when the Brehon came back with me that time to see the cart.’
‘So the candlesticks must have been taken some time at Noughaval market when there was no one with the cart,’ said Garrett. ‘Who could have done that?’
‘Unless it was that cheating linen merchant, Guaire O’Brien from Corcomroe,’ said Niall. ’If Fintan says that he didn’t, then he didn’t. I’d trust Fintan to tell the truth always.’
I trust no one to always tell the truth, not even myself, thought Mara. There will always be an occasion when a lie serves the purpose better than the truth. ‘I must leave you now, Garrett,’ she said smoothly. ‘My scholars and I will say a prayer for the deceased and then we must depart. There is much to be done.’
From the corner of her eye she could see Moylan making urgent signs to one of the servants to bring them some mead, so she rapidly swept her scholars up and had them on their knees in front of the open coffin in a couple of seconds. As her lips moved automatically with the well-accustomed words of the prayer for the dead, her mind focussed on the problem ahead of her. If it were a hasty blow triggered by anger and resentment, then the normal practice would have been for the crime to be admitted and the fine paid.
Who had killed Ragnall?
And why was it kept a secret?
And where was Aengus?
Was it embarrassment, because a man he had quarrelled with was now dead, that had kept him hidden in his mountain home?
Or was there a more sinister reason?
SIX
CRITH GABLACH (RANKS IN SOCIETY)
A taoiseach has an honour price of fourteen séts. He
should have a retinue of six persons on state occasions. He has a wife of equal rank to his own and five horses, including a saddle horse with a silver bridle. His house must contain at least eight bed places.
THE BURIAL OF RAGNALL MACNAMARA, steward to the MacNamara clan on the Burren, was a magnificent affair. It was as if Garrett had spared no effort to impress the importance of the MacNamara clan on those who attended. The morning of Thursday 2 October was dry and frosty and filled with the sweet chirp of speckled fieldfares. The midday sun shone with a clarity that turned the black sloes in the hedgerows into mysterious purple jewels and set a few red butterflies flirting among the flowers in the grykes. The scent of the last stalks of frothy meadowsweet in the ditches sweetened the air.
Ragnall was laid to rest in the little mossy churchyard of the stone church of Carron. It was no morning for death, thought Mara, and all the trappings of white horses groomed and hung with gold and silver, all the lines of men-at-arms and the wild music of the pipes and the cries of the professional keeners seemed to diminish rather than honour the dead man. The pipes finished and then the MacNamara bard stepped forward and spoke the words of the lament to the gentle notes plucked from a small harp. The last notes of the harp now faded away and the bard was silent. And then the horn sounded. The slow, mellow notes, sad and yet defiant, filled the air. Then came the voice of the priest intoning the words of the great psalm: ‘De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine.’
Mara looked around. This would be the moment for tears and sobs, but there was no trace of any sorrow from the MacNamara clan. Even the dead man’s daughter just dabbed at her eyes in a perfunctory fashion.
‘Aengus MacNamara is still not here, Brehon,’ whispered Fachtnan in her ear.
Mara’s eyes searched the crowd and then she nodded slightly. It was true; there was no sign of Aengus. She would definitely have to go up to Oughtmama. There was something very wrong. It was unheard of for a man not to attend the burial of another clan member.
A Secret and Unlawful Killing Page 8