But why did he come? That was the main question now. Oisín had made it clear that Niall Martin had only one interest, one commercial involvement, and that was in gold. He bought gold and he sold gold. There was a possibility that he had heard a rumour that there was a gold seam in one of the strips of quartz that ran like white veins here and there through the black limestone of the coast, but somehow Mara intuitively felt that from what she had heard of Niall Martin, he would not have wanted to engage in a huge industry of breaking up the stone and mining the gold from it. She took a sudden decision and turned aside until she was opposite to one of the neat gaps which Cumhal had built into the wall where one of the giant leaning slabs had been replaced with a small, almost square stone, which still kept the herringbone framework of the wall intact, but allowed a human, turning sideways, to slip out onto the roadway, without permitting the escape of the cows.
The tower house of Lissylisheen, the home of Ardal O’Lochlainn, taoiseach of the powerful O’Lochlainn clan on the Burren, was the nearest residence to the law school at Cahermacnaghten. Thirty years ago Mór O’Lochlainn, sister of Ardal, had been Mara’s dearest friend and, after she married Malachy O’Davoren, the mother of Mara’s goddaughter, Nuala. They had remained friends until her early and tragic death from a lump in her breast. Mara had mourned her bitterly, but her relationship with Mór’s brother, Ardal, had endured and she relied on his common sense and his loyalty.
Ardal was a man of wide knowledge, a man whose judgement Mara trusted and, above all, he was a man who had extensive commercial interests taking him to Galway City and beyond. If anyone could advise her, then he was the man.
It was late, she knew, but lights still shone from all three storeys of the tower house. Ardal was a hard-working man and as she came through the gates and into the courtyard, he emerged from his barn in conversation with his steward.
‘Brehon,’ he said with what sounded like a genuine pleasure. ‘Come in and have a cup of wine.’
‘It’s late for a call,’ said Mara, allowing herself to be ushered up the stairs, ‘but I’ve come to pick your brains.’
It was, she thought, typical of Ardal that he made no queries, just busied himself with getting her a comfortable chair by the window, pouring wine from a flagon, and then joining her peacefully relaxed on a low bench.
‘You heard about the body at Fanore,’ she said and he nodded. She knew that he would have heard. He made it his business to hear everything and to say little unless his opinion was asked for.
‘It came in from the sea in a boat with no oars, but I believe that it was a murder that was made to look like a case of fingal,’ said Mara. ‘It’s a strange case,’ she went on, finding that as usual she talked freely with Ardal and the less he said, the more that she said. ‘I had three queries in the beginning’ she continued. ‘Who was this man? Why had he come to the beach of Fanore? And, of course, who had killed him? I think I might have found the answer to one of the queries. It does look as though he was a merchant from Galway City, a man called Niall Martin.’
‘Niall Martin, the gold merchant.’ Ardal’s response bore a note of interest and Mara looked at him hopefully.
‘You know him, knew him?’ she asked and he nodded.
‘I’m not sure that I can help you very much,’ he said, ‘but I am not altogether surprised that the man came to Fanore.’
‘Had he links there? Contacts? People that he knew in Fanore?’
‘All I can tell you is that he had an interest in the place,’ said Ardal. ‘I went in there, into his shop, fairly recently. I was going up to Connemara to visit the mother of my son. I went in to buy a present – I wanted a gold bracelet.’ Mara nodded in a matter-of-fact way, but it was a long time since he had spoken of his son and of the woman who had lived with him for a short while at Lissylisheen tower house, before returning to her family and friends in her native Connemara, north of Galway. The boy, she realized with a feeling of shock at the passing of time, was older than Cormac. If anything happened to Ardal, then this boy, as his acknowledged son, would inherit his personal fortune. It was time, perhaps, that he came to live with his father although, no doubt, this would cause trouble with the O’Lochlainns’ present tánaiste, Ardal’s brother, Donogh O’Lochlainn.
Ardal flicked a glance at her as though he could read what was going on in her mind, but went back to his story.
‘When I went into the shop, Niall Martin was there – he may have been a little deaf, because I don’t think that he heard me, but he had a map open, a large sheet of vellum, and it was, I would swear, a map of the beach at Fanore – I recognized the curve of it, and the river, the Caher, was clearly marked. He was completely absorbed in it until my shadow fell across the sheet and then he gave a little jump and he rolled up the map and put it away. I did my business with him, but before I left, he said something strange …’ Ardal paused and Mara knew that, meticulous as the taoiseach of the O’Lochlainn clan was, he was making absolutely sure that he recalled the exact words.
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘he said to me: “You come from the Kingdom of the Burren, don’t you? Could you tell me why Fanore has that name?” Well, I must say, Brehon, I was puzzled. I told him that it was two words in the Gaelic; that fán meant “slope” in English and that ór meant “gold”. And when I said that to him, Brehon, well he just nodded his head at me, and said: “Yes, but the sand is not golden there, is it? It’s the colour of a dirty orange, that’s what it is.” And, you know, Brehon, when I came to think of other beaches along the coastline, An Leacht in Corcomroe, for instance, well they are golden, but Niall Martin is right. The sand at Fanore is not really the colour of gold.’ Ardal paused and looked at Mara expectedly and she nodded.
‘So that means that he had visited Fanore and had looked at it carefully – and, of course, he is right. The sand at Fanore is mixed with that streak of black limestone that goes through the middle of it – it is not gold, but a dirty shade of orange.’
‘So, you think that his question was a good one?’
Mara nodded again. ‘The question is a very good one and I don’t know the answer to it. As far back as I can remember it has always been called that, and no one, in my hearing, has wondered why it got that name. It has taken a gold merchant from Galway to bring up the question.’
‘There is another thing, also, Brehon,’ said Ardal. ‘As I said, he rolled up the map when he saw that he was not alone, but just before he did so, I noticed something on it. As I was telling you, the beach was drawn, and the sea was marked at what looked like low-water mark, just little wavy lines, and the rocks were marked, and so was the river – clearly labelled “The River Caher”, but that was not all. On either side of the river, on the sand, looking as though they had been cast out by the river when it was in flood after a rainstorm, were some shapes. They were beautifully drawn,’ said Ardal, drawing out his tale with the skill of a professional storyteller, ‘I could recognize what they were immediately. They were old ornaments, gold, I’d say, there were bracelets, rings, torcs – you know, Brehon, those ancient necklets.’
Mara drew in a deep breath. Despite the seriousness of the matter she could not help smiling.
‘Well, Ardal,’ she said. ‘I think this will be of huge interest to my scholars. Can you imagine any better treasure-hunters than the seven of them? They won’t leave a stone unturned, will they? How many pieces were marked on the map, can you recollect?’
Ardal thought seriously about the question, half-closing his blue eyes and running his fingers through the greying red-gold of his hair, then he opened his eyes and said with his usual decisiveness: ‘I would have thought that there could be as many as ten.’
‘Ten! Well, it’s no wonder that he came over to Fanore to see for himself, is it?’
‘Fishermen would have brought in those things, one by one, perhaps over a period of years. The price of one of them would be worth a month’s fishing out on the ocean.’ Ardal stated the fact with the ind
ifference of a man who is so rich that he probably did not know on what to spend his own gold, but Mara thought about the huge pleasure that must have given to the man or his wife who found the precious object. There must have been knowledge of the gold merchant from Galway City. Of course, these fishermen would often sell their catch at the fish market and would soon be able to find their way to the shop in Red Earl’s Lane.
‘Ten,’ she said aloud, ‘well, Ardal, unless one man, or one family, was extremely lucky, this means that a considerable number of the fishermen must have known who Niall Martin was, and would have known what brought him to Fanore.’
She got to her feet, thanking him very sincerely for his help. Ardal did not urge her to stay. He knew her well, and would know that now she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
As she walked back along the familiar road Mara’s mind was very busy. Now she could understand what had happened. The gold merchant had become greedy. He was no longer willing to pay the fishermen for the pieces of treasure which they picked up on the beach. He had decided to come to see for himself. And was there any significance in the fact that the evening he chose was probably the evening after the storm? She brought her mind back to the towering strength of the waves on that Monday morning when she had come out from the mountain pass and had first seen the sea. But there was something else, other than the thunder of the Atlantic breakers, there had also been the roar of the small Caher River in full flood sweeping down its stony passageway on its way to the sea.
Before she went to bed that night Mara busied herself with pen, inks and a piece of vellum and from memory she sketched out a map of area, the mountains, the beach and the river that ran down the northern side of the steeply sloping beach.
Of course, she said to herself as she worked on the drawing, of course, Ardal was right. The name Fanore did not refer to the dark, almost dirty orange colour of its sand, but to the rumours and occasional finds of gold ornaments. Fán Or meant ‘the slope of the gold’ – the slope where the golden ornaments were discovered.
Six
Bretha Comaithchesa
(Laws of the Neighbourhood)
Grazing rights of the shore for cattle belong to the owner of the land adjacent to the shore. The owner of any other cattle found on the shore will be deemed guilty of ‘shore trespass’.
All seaweed found on the shore is the property of the finder but a whale washed onto the beach is the property of the whole clan whose lands adjoin the shoreline.
‘Brigid, I want to set off early and get to Fanore before the boats set out. Will it be a nuisance for you to serve breakfast to Oisín and to the boys quite soon?’ Mara was not surprised to find Brigid, though now in her late sixties and with several girls to assist her, up and bustling around the kitchen at half past six in the morning. Already the porridge oats were bubbling in the cauldron slung from the iron crane above the fire, and Cumhal and one of the lads had just brought in the milk.
‘Not a trouble in the world,’ said Brigid, as she tilted more milk onto the oats. ‘You’ll be in plenty of time, the boats will be going out on the tide, so Cumhal says – and he says that will give you another couple of hours. You’ll be busy there all the day, I suppose.’ It was a hint, but only a hint, for information. Gossip was Brigid’s lifeblood, though when asked to remain silent she would faithfully do so. However, the news had spread far and wide by now, Mara reckoned, so there could be no harm in talking it over with her housekeeper and farm manager.
‘You heard about a body being found, washed in from the sea,’ she said and was surprised that even the voluble Brigid said nothing in reply to this. She even looked slightly uneasy. Of course both Cumhal and Brigid were of the O’Connor clan and clannishness was a very strong instinct in the people of the Burren.
‘It looks like it’s a man from Galway,’ continued Mara and was amused when Brigid snapped out, ‘Nothing to do with us, then.’ It was exactly what the other members of the clan, the fishermen of Fanore, had been saying yesterday. ‘Still,’ she went on, ‘you enjoy yourself, Brehon, it’s a lovely day for the sea.’
‘Why don’t you come with me,’ said Mara on impulse. There had been a hint of envy, a shade of longing in Brigid’s voice – a woman who always loved to be in the thick of affairs. And, thought Mara, looking back into the past, Brigid was a fisherman’s daughter. Perhaps someone reared by the sea had the sea in their veins and always wished to be back with the sand between the toes, the smell of the seaweed, the noise of the waves and the high, lonely sound of the sea birds overhead. The older you got, she thought, the more you wished to be back with the scenes of your childhood. She would take Brigid for a few days by the sea.
She owed so much to this elderly woman who had been her mother after her own mother died and who had given her such love and loyalty – had, indeed, also, been a mother to the numerous scholars who had passed through the gates of Cahermacnaghten.
‘Yes, do come,’ she urged. ‘The scholars would be pleased to see you.’
Brigid’s face brightened at the mention of the scholars. ‘God help us, they’ll be tired of fish,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ll get young Séanín to put panniers on the cob and bring enough to cook them a good meal.’ And then she was off to her storeroom and calling shrill instructions to her helpers.
Mara drank some milk and chewed a piece of newly baked soda bread while she meditated on the morning’s work. Of course, the first thing to do was to confirm the identity of the dead man, then to get him buried and after that, with the help of her scholars, she would test the validity of her first guess about the effect of storm water flooding down from the mountain and channelled within the narrow pathway of the Caher River. She left Brigid to her preparations and went off to where Cumhal was checking the house-sized haycocks that had been built against the inner edge of the massive twenty-foot stone wall that encircled the law school.
‘There’s a good reason for building them in the same place every year,’ he was saying reprovingly to a bright-faced lad who, from the height of the wall, was adjusting the small square tarpaulin that acted as a sloping roof to shed the worst of the rain from the hay. ‘It’s been done from time immemorial and there’s a reason to it. Hay needs shelter from the wind and the rain, but it needs air. Now the air comes through the wall stones, but the wind is blocked. You stick to the ways of doing things that your great-grandfathers used and you won’t go far wrong, Séanín.’
Séanín made a comic face behind Cumhal’s back and Mara was conscious of a certain sympathy for him. The world would be a boring place if the young felt that they had no chance of improving on their elders. However, the strength of tradition was certainly upheld in Brehon laws, and she, like Cumhal, was busy inculcating a sense of respect and even reverence into her schools for the laws of their ancestors.
‘I always remember the haystacks here, even when I was younger than you, Séanín,’ she said with a smile up at the boy, ‘but I never knew the reason for it. It’s good to question everything, isn’t it, Cumhal? That’s the way that you learn the reasons for doing things.’
Cumhal gave a grunt that probably meant that young Séanín had no reason to query any of his commands, but his respect for the Brehon did not allow him to say anything. He listened courteously while Mara told him that Brigid would be coming with her, gave his opinion about the time of high tide when the boats would go from the beach, if they were going out today, and then she managed to slip in a question, putting it casually as she turned to go away.
‘I wonder why the place is called Fanore, Cumhal, have you ever heard?’
He considered the question but shook his head. Cumhal never speculated and spoke only when he was sure of his ground. Séanín, from the top of the wall, informed her that it was because of the golden sand and Cumhal told him to make sure that the tarpaulin was in the exact centre of the top of the haystack in a voice which warned him to mind his business and to speak when he was spoken to.
So there was no gener
al knowledge, among either young or old, of why Fanore might have got its name, thought Mara as she went to greet Domhnall and Slevin, but that, of course, did not mean the guess was wrong. Names are accepted and seldom questioned, remnants of people and events long forgotten. She allowed her two scholars to eat their breakfast and then while Oisín was being fed she called the boys into the school house and told them Ardal’s story of the gold merchant of Galway and his map of Fanore.
‘And I’ve drawn one here,’ she said. ‘You see, if my theory is right, then from time to time, a gold object, probably an ancient piece of jewellery according to the little drawings that Ardal saw on the map, is swept onto the beach at Fanore. And it can’t be happening all of the time, or we would have heard of it, so what do you reckon?’
‘At the time of a storm,’ said Slevin quickly. ‘A high tide comes up and washes out something – perhaps a treasure hidden in one of the caves.’
‘That’s possible,’ admitted Mara. ‘What do you think, Domhnall?’
‘I was wondering about the river,’ he said slowly. ‘You see,’ he went on, looking now at Slevin and not at her, ‘you see, if it is the sea that washes things out of a cave you would expect something like gold to go to the bottom; it certainly wouldn’t float. Of course, it might be found, but it’s quite unlikely if it is on the ocean floor. But if the river, in full flood, washed something out of a cave on the mountainside, then it would be swept down, tumbling over the stones and could easily hit one of the rocks and stones on the riverbed and be spilled onto the beach. A fisherman coming out early would see it and immediately pick it up. Also the sea would have to drag it back and since the gold would not float, that’s less likely – the chances are that something in a cave would never end up on the beach. But the Caher River, coming down from the mountains, could just sweep one thing, say a necklet, out and tumble it downstream and then leave it stranded on the beach.’
Condemned to Death Page 7