‘Silence,’ said Brehon O’Doran sternly and then turned back to Peadar’s cousin, Clooney.
‘And your uncle’s son, Peadar, did he care for his father as the laws of the people dictate?’
‘Never did a thing for him,’ said Clooney emphatically.
‘Perhaps he did not know of his father’s plight; is that correct?’
‘No, it is not. He knew right well. I sent messenger after messenger. Any boat that went to sea carried a message from me to Peadar. “Come home”, I said to him. “There’s plenty for you to do here on the farm, you don’t need to scour the seas for a living. There’s cows to be milked, bullocks to be slaughtered, hens’ eggs to be gathered, oats to be harvested.” But he never came back. That is,’ continued Clooney, ‘until two days after his father died when he turned up and laid claim to his father’s land and uncovered his father’s hearth.’
‘Perhaps he had not received your earlier messages?’ suggested the Brehon. He had an ironic smile on his face and Clooney sniggered.
‘Oh, that he did! I questioned all the fishermen. Yes, my messages were delivered to him. And the man who brought the news of his father’s death was the same man who delivered some of the messages telling him that the poor old man needed his son back home to work the farm.’
‘Is this true?’ asked the Brehon looking at Peadar. ‘I can call additional witnesses, if you wish.’
‘It’s true enough.’
‘So why did you not return to take care of your father?’
‘I didn’t chose to.’
Peadar, thought Mara, was going the wrong way about this. There was obviously tension between him and his cousin Clooney, but a wiser and perhaps an older man would not have risked antagonizing his judge at a trial.
‘You didn’t choose to!’ Gaibrial O’Doran repeated the words in tones of incredulity. ‘But we cannot always choose what pleases us most. There is the law of God, the law of man, our own laws that governs our conduct towards our family, our neighbours and our king,’ he finished with a polite bow towards Turlough.
‘I owed nothing to my father.’ Peadar’s loud, discordant voice caused the Brehon to swivel back in his direction. He straightened himself and rearranged his legal gown on his narrow shoulders.
‘You owed nothing to your father,’ he repeated so softly that even people in front few rows at Knockfinn strained their ears and looked at their neighbours for enlightenment.
‘No, I didn’t. He never did a thing for me. His only interest was in my brother, Stiofan. He got the praise and the presents. I got nothing but hard words and harder blows.’ Peadar’s voice was loud enough to reach the back of the crowd and Mara saw several heads nod. She was not the only one who had witnessed the young boy’s battered face and noted how he flinched at a raised voice. It was not, she thought, surprising that Peadar, as soon as he was old enough to be given a place on a fishing boat, had left home and had never returned, not even when the news of the death of Stiofan in an alehouse brawl had reached him.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ said his cousin Clooney severely and the Brehon did not reprove him for an unasked intervention.
Mara’s eyes found Setanta who was standing in the front row and saw him look with sympathy at Peadar. Setanta was a former inhabitant of north-west Corcomroe, but when he married Cliona, a sheep farmer and nurse to Mara’s son, he had moved to the Kingdom of the Burren. He would not be allowed to speak in favour of Peadar, and no one else, so far, had yet found the courage to stand up before this harsh-voiced new Brehon. Setanta turned around and seemed to be speaking urgently to some men standing behind him.
‘Silence in court!’ Niall tried to roar out the command in imitation of his master’s voice, but the first word came out as a high-pitched squeak and the next two as a rusty growl. Several men in the crowd laughed good-naturedly and women smiled.
There was a notable slackening in the tension and one tall, very brown-faced man behind Setanta shouted out, ‘You know full well, Clooney, that if the lad had returned, his father would have had nothing to say to him. Peadar would have had a beating for his pains and nothing to eat or to drink and no bed for the night. It’s well known that he had to seek the roof of a stranger whenever he came into the kingdom.’
‘You wouldn’t be wanting the farm for yourself, Clooney, would you?’ Another neighbour joined in and there was a burst of laughter.
‘Silence in court,’ said Niall again in an uncertain voice, after a quick, fear-filled look at the fury on his master’s face.
‘Justice in court!’ shouted another of the men standing beside Setanta. Fishermen, all of them, thought Mara. More outspoken and more independent than the farmers. There was something about facing rough Atlantic seas, winter as well as summer, to build a man’s courage and independence of mind.
But all the comments were ignored by the new Brehon. He did not, as Mara always did, ask if anyone had anything else to say, but continued his merciless accusations against Peadar, reciting long sections from the law book Berrad Airechta, citing him as a macc úar (a cold son), one who has failed in his duty to provide filial service and obedience to his father.
Mara began to grow apprehensive. The man had the law texts by heart but so had she and she knew what was coming next. Surely he would not do this, no matter how eager he was to stamp his authority on the kingdom. The crowd shifted uneasily, but the relentless voice went on fluently reciting the law texts. From time to time the Brehon was interrupted by Clooney eagerly relating the complaints made by Peadar’s father, but Peadar himself said nothing. He had even begun to look flustered and a little ashamed.
‘And so,’ ended Gaibrial O’Doran, ‘I condemn you, Peadar O’Connor, as a macc úar and I sentence you to the full penalty of the law.’ He waited for a moment glancing around at the now silent crowd. Mara felt cold with apprehension. Surely the man was not going so far. Brehon law always took into account mitigating circumstances, and surely there had been evidence that the father of Peadar had failed in his duty to his child. But she feared the worst, looking at the cold, merciless face.
‘You left home when you were seventeen years old. Was that with your father’s consent, or without it?’
‘Oh, he didn’t mind a bit. He was all for my brother Stíofan. Stíofan was two years older than me. He was the favourite, always had been and always would be. I just went off and got myself a berth on a Spanish ship.’ Peadar O’Connor was probably doing himself no good by this aggressive tone, but Mara could see how the boy was pale under the brown of his skin. His eyes were showing their whites like a frightened horse. It was time to question him more gently, she thought, but the new Brehon pressed on aggressively.
‘And you came back to Formoyle last year?’
Peadar shifted uneasily. ‘Just for a few days.’
‘And you heard the news that your brother had died and that your father was alone?’
Surprising that he did not stay then, thought Mara. The land owned by his father was poor barren land, just a few acres near to the sea, nevertheless, it was probably better than rowing and hauling in nets on a Spanish boat. The land at Formoyle had been in the family for many years. She knew the place well. A cousin of her housekeeper, Brigid, lived near there. Yes, it was surprising that he did not stay. She, like the rest of people on Knockfinn, that high, stony hill overlooking the sea, turned her eyes onto the young man’s face and waited for his answer.
‘I couldn’t stand him,’ he blurted out at last.
‘You couldn’t stand the company of your own father?’ Brehon O’Doran waited for a comment on this, but none came. Young Peadar had shut his lips firmly.
‘So you didn’t care whether he lived or died? Your own father, you left him there in his misery, an old man, a man who had sired you, who had brought you up, you left him, didn’t you, you walked off, turned your back on him as though you were a wild dog, left him to die alone in that lonely place.’
How did the new Brehon know all of that, w
ondered Mara. Her eyes sought the face of the taoiseach Finn O’Connor, but he had a look of distaste on his face and, when he saw Mara’s eyes on him, he slightly shook his head. He, the message was conveyed to her, had nothing to do with the knowledge of local affairs which tripped so readily off the tongue of Brehon O’Doran. He had, indeed, been busy during the week he had spent in the MacClancy house nearby.
And he seemed to have amassed plenty of information. Now he consulted his notes, deliberately, thought Mara, building up the tension. The unfortunate Peadar had begun to sweat heavily and from time to time, he mopped his brow with the back of his hand.
‘Did you say these words, overheard by a witness: “I hope that the next time I come back here that you will be six feet underground.” Are those your words?’
‘No,’ said Peadar sullenly, but the word lacked a ring of conviction.
‘Two witnesses overheard you say that.’
Ask to see them, ask to cross-question them. The words screamed in Mara’s head and she tried to project them across to Peadar, but it was no good. After a minute he nodded slowly.
‘Answer me!’
‘Yes,’ said Peadar reluctantly, ‘but it wasn’t like that. It—’
‘You admit it. That’s good. Now we come to sentencing.’
Everyone looked startled. Wasn’t Peadar going to be allowed to say anything, to explain his words, but the new Brehon raised his voice to almost a shout.
‘Peadar MacSeán MacDonal MacTeige O’Connor, I sentence you, according to our ancient laws which lay down that a man should care for his father. You, Peadar MacSeán MacDonal MacTeige O’Connor have failed in that duty. And now, I, Brehon of Corcomroe, sentence you to banishment from the kingdom.’
There was a murmur from the crowd, but Peadar stood as though like the biblical Peter, he was made from rock.
‘You are now an outlaw,’ said Gaibrial O’Doran solemnly. ‘You are a man beyond the law, a man whose contract is invalid and who cannot be harboured by anyone in the kingdom, no man or woman can give you shelter or food or drink. You are a man who is now without protection in the kingdom and who can be slain by anyone who finds you within the boundaries of the kingdom after twenty-four hours have elapsed. This banishment will, according to the law, last for a period of ten years.’
And then he turned his back on the people, replaced his law documents within his satchel. Only when that was done to his satisfaction did he look again at the aghast crowd.
‘Go, you are all dismissed,’ he said abruptly.
And then, stern-faced, he bowed briefly in the king’s direction and, without a backward glance, he strode across the hillside to where his horse stood cropping the grass. The four young men, Ciaráin, Donal, Seán and Ronan, stared after him as though frozen to the spot, but Peadar, now condemned as an outlaw, started violently and then began to run like a deer down the hill towards the sea.
Mara’s eyes met Setanta and Setanta immediately followed him. After a moment’s hesitation some other men did also and she held her breath until she saw them catch up with Peadar. Then she gave a sigh of relief and then realized that her own sigh was echoed by the crowd. That high cliff above the foaming hollow of Hag’s Kitchen was a place that had seen many deaths. No one wanted to see another young life extinguished for ever among the sharp rocks of this inlet of the ocean.
Two
Bretha Nemed
(Judgements of Professional People)
There are seven props which serve judgement:
1. The law relating to the rights of sons;
2. The law relating to monks or monastic clients;
3. the law relating to lordship;
4. The law of marriage;
5. The law of kingship;
6. Boundary law;
7. Laws relating to a treaty between territories.
‘But, Turlough, every single one of those judgements was incorrect. You must do something.’
‘I was thinking about that.’ Turlough’s face beamed at her with simple pleasure. ‘It just came to me this morning. I went for a ride while you were having your bath and it suddenly dawned on me. I get all my best ideas when I am out on a horse. So I sent a boy down to the priest with a message and he came back with the answer straight away. I know what to do now.’
‘What?’ Mara stared at his pleased face with exasperation. She had spent most of the night before awake and worrying about what was to be done about the unjust judge. Setanta had called into Ballinalacken Castle some time before sunset while she and Turlough were at supper and had sent a message by his son, Art, her scholar, to say that Peadar was safe and was having supper with Setanta and Cliona. That was a temporary solution, but a good one for the moment as Setanta lived in the Kingdom of the Burren, quite near to Mara’s law school. However, there was no reason why the young man should be permanently excluded from his farm and his place of birth. And then there were the cases of the four other young men. There was little chance of Ciaráin marrying Emer if that heavy fine was exacted from him. It would cause a permanent rift between them. And the families of Ronan and the innkeeper, Barra, would be enemies for ever because of the crippling debt that the fine would place on them – and all for a drunken fight where there appeared, from Ronan’s stumbling words, to be faults on both sides. And Seán had meant no harm – it had been a simple piece of bad luck that the wind had veered towards the haystack. As for the copyright issue, well that was a piece of nonsense. Donal had used some words from a song that had stuck in his head for a year and which originally belonged to Suibhne, now dead for about four hundred years. These poets borrowed lines from each other without realizing it.
‘Stop frowning. I tell you that I have a good idea,’ said Turlough proudly.
‘Tell me about it.’ Mara resigned herself to listening. Turlough’s way of solving problems usually involved either a warlike attack or else having a quiet word with someone. Neither solution could she see working in this case.
‘Well, I thought of pardoning everyone in honour of St Leger.’ Turlough beamed at her.
‘Who on earth is St Leger?’
‘His feast day is today. The second day of October is the feast of St Leger. That’s what the priest says, anyway.’
‘I never heard of him.’
‘Nor me, neither,’ said Turlough, ‘but I once had a horse called St Leger and he was a great horse. Had a bit of an Arab in him – that sort of head, small ears, you know. Anyway, you needn’t look so impatient because it’s a great idea. I’ll announce that everyone convicted yesterday will be pardoned in honour of St Leger and any claims for compensation will be looked after by one of my Brehons in Thomond and paid by me. Then you need not have anything to do with it.’
‘It’s an idea,’ said Mara slowly. She didn’t like it much. It was a bad precedent, but on the other hand, the king was known to be generous and impulsive and most people would evaluate this offer as an effort to save the face of the newly appointed Brehon and would not expect it to become a habit that wrongdoers were freed of responsibility for their actions.
‘Well, there you are then, that’s that,’ said Turlough heartily. ‘The trouble with you is that you think too much and you worry too much. Look at me. I slept like a log last night and this morning went out for a ride without the slightest idea in my head. Just was riding along enjoying the morning, thinking about nothing much when the notion suddenly popped into my mind. As soon as I got back I sent a lad down to the priest. I knew there would be some feast day or other. There always is, but I was pleased to find that it was St Leger. He was a great old horse. I was sorry when I lost him.’
‘But Turlough, this might work for this occasion, but it can’t keep happening. The Brehon of north-west Corcomroe is going to have at least six judgement days in the year and more if it is necessary. You can’t keep finding obscure saints and pardoning everyone just because it is someone’s feast day. And how are you to explain it to the Brehon, the new one, I mean, Brehon O’Doran,
not dear old Fergus?’
‘He has heard about it all, you know; Fergus, I mean. I dropped in to see him when I was riding along the cliff. The couple that are looking after him said that silly boy, the songwriter, Donal, wasn’t it? Well, he’s written a song about it all and he popped into Fergus last night and sang it to him. Poor old Fergus. Gobnait and Pat, they were trying to keep him busy making sloe wine, but he kept coming back to the wretched judgement day. He was a bit muddled but he had got hold of the fact that Peadar had been made an outlaw and he was repeating over and over again, I never declared anyone to be an outlaw, never in my whole life. I kept saying, Never mind, Fergus, don’t you worry. I’ll settle everything. But he didn’t listen to me, just wailed like a child. I tell you, Mara, I had tears in my eyes listening to him. If anything like that ever happens to me, just push me over the cliff.’
‘Turlough,’ said Mara earnestly. ‘Never mind about Fergus for the moment. We need to settle this matter now. You’ve come up with a good temporary solution and it’s generous of you to offer to pay the fair fines, but now you need to think of a permanent solution.’
Turlough’s face fell. ‘You don’t think that the new Brehon, Brehon O’Doran, will have learned his lesson?’ he enquired.
Mara thought about the performance yesterday. Brehon O’Doran had not once shown any sign of self-doubt, of any hesitation, any compassion or any effort to seek for a solution that would keep the peace among the people of the kingdom.
‘No, I don’t,’ she said firmly. There was no point in giving any false hope to Turlough, although she was sorry to see the cheerful look fade from his face. ‘At least you will have bought some time with this decision. But,’ she finished warningly, ‘Turlough, something will have to be done. This is not a man to take a hint. This man believes in himself and his knowledge of the law.’
‘But he did seem to know a lot, didn’t he?’ Turlough looked hopeful. ‘There were a lot of these things from Berrad Airechta, Bretha Crolige and all those fellows. I thought you’d be very impressed by him. Never stopped for a word, did he?’
An Unjust Judge Page 2