An Unjust Judge

by Cora Harrison

  ‘So Boetius comes back from England, finds that the position of Brehon has already been more or less promised to Gaibrial O’Doran of Ossory, he comes over here to his uncle’s lands, appears at the judgement day hearings, and then, that night, Gaibrial O’Doran is found dead,’ said Mara trying to keep her voice neutral and judicial.

  Turlough stared at her in dismay. ‘Don’t say that you’ve discovered that it was Boetius who cut the man’s throat,’ he said.

  ‘I am in the process of investigating a murder,’ said Mara stiffly, ‘and yes, Boetius has to be a suspect, if I take into account, as I am sure that he has, the possibility, even the probability, that he might well obtain the very lucrative post of Brehon, then he certainly had a motive. It might well be, that he would reckon that the deed was worth doing if it results in him being appointed as Brehon of north-west Corcomroe. And that, as we both well know, would please his masters at the court of the English king. And it would be a very sad day for us who want to preserve our ancient ways. Boetius may not have planned it, but when he found that these stupid, probably drunken young men were chortling over tying up Brehon O’Doran and placing him under the waterspout – and Boetius admitted to being in the alehouse that night – well, he might well have seized the opportunity of getting rid of a rival. The death would be put down to one of the five young men. And then he would have it all, the position, the lands and the fees, as well as approbation and support from London. And he could open the law school again, gradually switching over to teaching more English law than Brehon law and then he would have the fees from the parents of the scholars, also. He could be a rich man quite soon. I wouldn’t be surprised to find after a couple of months have elapsed that he’ll be building himself a fine new castle here at Knockfinn.’

  ‘Great place for it.’ Turlough looked appreciatively at the view across the cliffs to the churning waves of the Atlantic and to the misty outlines of the three islands of Aran. ‘He should do it just the way that you planned it up in Ballinalacken, put in those three big windows on the first floor where you can look down at the ocean.’

  ‘And if he played foul to obtain the post? If he was the person who drew the knife across the throat of a helpless man trussed up in a basket?’

  ‘Oh, if that’s the case, then I’ll have nothing to do with him,’ said Turlough decisively. ‘That was a cowardly act and I’ll have nothing to do with a coward. I’ll expel him again and then he’ll not have land nor plate nor position. He can go back to his friends in London. But the sooner you get this affair tidied up, the better. I’d like to get this part of my kingdom settled down. You wouldn’t like to have it, would you? It would be something for young Domhnall to do, wouldn’t it? You’d like to have your grandson set up as Brehon in a kingdom of his own, wouldn’t you? He’s a clever lad. He’ll pass all of his examinations, won’t he?’

  ‘It will be another four years or more before Domhnall can possibly even qualify as a Brehon and then he should probably get some experience first,’ said Mara firmly. ‘And I am hoping that he will take over the school of Cahermacnaghten and the law affairs of the Burren when I feel too old for it all. That will be enough for him. There must be plenty of young Brehon lawyers in the country who would be interested in the position.’

  It was not, though, she knew, the most desirable of posts. For judicial purposes, Corcomroe, the most westerly of the three O’Brien kingdoms, had been divided into two parts and the smaller of the two had been this one in the north-west. Fergus had been happy there and had stayed for his entire working life, but Fergus had not been ambitious. Once again she puzzled over his life. Siobhan, his wife, had been a strange woman, far more occupied with her own family, and especially with the children of her numerous sisters. She was missing from the side of her husband for three days out of five. She obviously had little interest in the house or the farm around it. Perhaps she had given them all numerous presents too. She thought of Turlough’s words: land or plate or position.

  ‘There’s land here, yes,’ she said aloud. ‘Not well looked after, but nevertheless, it is all here. The position is here, too; it’s in your gift and you have a right to bestow it on Boetius. So he may well get land and position, but as to plate, well that’s a mystery, isn’t it?’ Every taoiseach, Brehon, physician, blacksmith, wheelwright, carpenter or wealthy farmer that she knew of, did routinely convert spare silver into plate, to be displayed on shelves of a dresser, or kept locked safely away in a strong box or chest. She frowned with puzzlement.

  ‘Poor old Fergus,’ said Turlough compassionately. ‘I hope that he’s happy. He has a very lost look sometimes.’

  ‘Let’s drop in and see him,’ said Mara on an impulse. ‘He seemed a bit upset when I saw him last. He thought that he might have witnessed the murder, but really he was quite incoherent and he named about four different people. It will do him good and cheer him up to see you.’

  Fergus, though, seemed almost unaware of their presence when they came in. He was comfortably ensconced on the padded bench built by Turlough’s carpenters and his head was nodding, his eyes when Mara looked at them, seemed dead and unresponsive. There was a pewter cup on the hearth beside him and Gobnait removed it hastily.

  ‘He always has a little doze around this time,’ she said. ‘It brightens him and then when he wakes up, he has something to eat and a drink of ale or whatever he wants and then he’s out and about, as energetic as a boy. Oh, and that reminds me, Brehon. You were talking about someone to go on walks with him and to make sure that he didn’t come to any harm, and I thought of young Conn Bacach. He’s lame, God bless him, but he can walk well if it’s slow and that’s all that himself can do anyway. And he’s a big strong lad. And he’s not slow in his mind, no, not in any way. Would you like to meet him, my lord?’ she said to Turlough. ‘He’s a nice lad, and mind you, it’s not easy to get a lad who has nothing much to do and yet would be big enough to turn back a man who wanted to do something dangerous. Come with me, my lord, and we’ll go and see him. He’s doing a bit of digging for his mother to get the winter cabbages in, but he’s not too good at it. “In fact,” she said to me, behind his back, like, “Gobnait,” she said, “I’d be better off and quicker far to be doing it myself, but he’s a bit depressed like with his younger brother out driving cattle.”’

  Talking vociferously, Gobnait ushered Turlough out through the door. Mara hesitated for a moment, cast one eye on the sleepy face of Fergus, then picked up the pewter mug and sniffed at its remains. It had a strong smell of valerian. Gobnait probably administered some to Fergus whenever he got tiresome, or, to be fair to the woman, whenever he got agitated and restless. She looked around the room for a long second and then followed Turlough and Gobnait out into the strong sea wind.

  ‘I won’t go down with you. I mislike leaving himself alone when he’s by the fire like that. Look, it’s that small place down there, by the beach. His father is a lobster fisherman. Hasn’t a boat, though, and that’s a pity because young Conn Bacach has nothing wrong with his arms. He could row fine, but that’s the way it is. They haven’t a boat and they have to go out on the rocks to float the creels and Lord knows, it’s not a great living. The younger boy picks up a bit of work here and there, but the husband he’s obstinate, like. He’s stuck on the idea that one day he’ll start having great catches, though the lobster’s not a creature to come in too near to the rocks. That’s what Pat says, anyway.’

  Amazingly, there was a small, neat vegetable garden behind the tiny shack, its soil probably made from well-rotted seaweed and pulverized rock. Not difficult to dig, but the boy with the spade had one foot twisted sideways, a birth injury, thought Mara and wished that this kingdom, like her own, had the services of a good physician, and he balanced awkwardly on it as he pushed the shovel with his good foot.

  ‘God, lad, you have a fine pair of shoulders on you. Have you ever tried shooting with a bow?’

  Conn Bacach flushed scarlet at the king’s words. He dangled
the shovel awkwardly from one hand and looked around for help.

  ‘No, my lord,’ he said after a minute. ‘I’ve never had my hands on a bow, but I’m a good shot with a stone. I can bring down a bird for the pot if I manage to get myself balanced.’

  ‘Yes, there would be that, of course,’ said Turlough. ‘You’d put a lot of power behind a shot, I reckon. What do you do about balance? Sit down, or would that spoil your aim?’

  His curiosity was genuine and Mara watched how the boy visibly relaxed.

  ‘I find it best to get myself wedged into a slot between the stones,’ he said. He pointed down to the beach and said, ‘I usually climb down there and stand there between those two piers and wait until the birds have forgotten about me.’

  Turlough turned and looked. ‘Quite a climb, that! You have no problem with your foot when you’re climbing, do you?’

  ‘I’m used to it,’ said the boy stoically. He did not flush or look embarrassed, but seemed to accept the king’s interest as genuine. ‘I suppose my arms and my shoulders take the weight,’ he added thoughtfully after a moment and Mara felt an immediate liking for the boy. He looked intelligent and courageous. And he found words when they were needed. She thought he would be a good companion for Fergus and would be sensitive to the poor old man’s needs.

  ‘We were looking for a companion for Brehon MacClancy,’ she explained. ‘We want someone who would walk around with him, talk with him, help him to gather herbs and fruits and …’ She looked around; it was difficult to know what exactly Fergus spent his days doing.

  The boy nodded. He had obviously been told of the possibility by either Gobnait or his mother. ‘He’d probably like gathering seaweed, too,’ he said. ‘He’s in a sort of second childhood, isn’t he? I’ve seen him picking up shells on the beach. Never minds the weather, either, does he? He’s out and about whether it rains or shines. And, of course, he’s a great man for the caves. I’ve seen him climbing down the stone platforms. I’ve been a bit worried about him once or twice. I followed him one time, but he wasn’t best pleased. I’ve seen Gobnait out there, too, searching for him. But I’d try to keep him away from there. It’s a bit dangerous for him. I’d distract him with going somewhere else.’

  ‘I can see that you would be a very good person to look after Brehon MacClancy,’ said Mara. The boy sounded mature and sensible.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about a present for you,’ said Turlough, to Mara’s surprise. She had thought this part of the business would have been conducted with the boy’s mother, but Turlough had taken a fancy to Conn, she could see that. ‘I was thinking that if I gave you a nanny goat you could bring it around with you on a rope and it would feed on the herbs and the grasses around the cliffs.’

  ‘They eat seaweed, too. Goats love seaweed,’ said the boy. His fair skin had reddened again, the freckles almost lost in the tide of colour, but this time it seemed as though excitement called the colour into his cheeks.

  ‘Is that a fact,’ said Turlough. ‘Well, you live and you learn. My old uncle used to say that and he never spoke a truer word.’

  ‘And Brehon MacClancy will be interested in the goat, too,’ said Mara.

  ‘That he will,’ said the boy. ‘He’s a very kind man to animals. My father was telling us that he never liked to see anything suffer. A very nice man.’

  ‘So we’ll shake hands on the deal, then, will we? You’ll take care of my old friend, Brehon MacClancy and I’ll pay you with a nanny goat.’ Turlough proffered his hand, omitting, Mara was relieved to notice, the traditional spit on the palm, and the boy shook it gravely. By now his mother had come from the house and was standing smiling in the background. She did not come forward and seemed happy for her crippled son to make his own bargain with the king. Mara went across and greeted her but kept the discussion to the weather and how dry it was for the time of year. Conn, she thought, would be about fifteen, old enough to make his own decisions. His mother was smiling and slightly tearful, watching her crippled elder son shaking hands with the king.

  ‘Don’t you bother with that digging, Conn,’ she called out. ‘I’ll finish it off, myself. You’re a man with a job now. You get up there to Gobnait’s place and find out when she wants you to call to take the Brehon for his walks.’

  ‘I’ll get Cumhal to find a nice well-mannered nanny goat,’ said Mara as they walked away. ‘That was a great idea of yours. Well, that’s one of my problems solved for the moment.’

  Turlough turned a surprised face towards her. ‘What other problems have you?’

  ‘I have to find who it was that committed the secret and unlawful killing of Brehon Gaibrial O’Doran,’ said Mara feeling mildly exasperated.

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry too much about that,’ said Turlough. ‘Let’s face it. He wasn’t much of a loss, was he?’

  Fourteen

  Bóslechta

  (Cow Sections)

  The owner of a bull or a dangerous cow should ensure the safety of passers-by. Every roadside field should have a stout fence or hedge and the best and most secure are those that have a fringe of blackthorn as their top layer.

  ‘Niall’s missing,’ said Cael as soon as they came into the house late in the evening. ‘We have searched the house and the garden and all around. Cian went right up to the top of the mound, but he couldn’t see him anywhere.’

  ‘Niall!’ Mara was startled. Her mind had been on Peadar O’Connor. The lame boy’s words had brought him back to her mind. There were two men who had a strong and very positive motive for murdering Gaibrial O’Doran. One was Boetius. It would, she thought, have been almost irresistible to a man of no conscience, to learn, from the drunken conversation of the five young men, that the man who stood between him and a well-paid, lifelong post was trussed up in a lobster pot and at his mercy. Murder, she well knew would not be beyond Boetius and his masters in London; Stephen Gardiner, in particular, would be very appreciative of his success and would hope that he would subtly change Brehon law into an accordance with English law.

  The other, of course, was Peadar. Conn Bacach’s words had recalled him to her mind and she had to acknowledge that Peadar’s motive was the strongest of all. He had been condemned to banishment and for a young man without family or resources such as money or a trade, well, that was a death sentence.

  But Niall! She had almost discounted his motive, his desire to get away from his master and to get back to Ossory. Why not just write to his father and say he was ill-treated?

  ‘What happened?’ she asked and her eyes went to Cian and then to Art who was standing in the background looking uneasy.

  ‘Nothing happened,’ said Cian. ‘I swear to you, Brehon. None of us said a word to him. We were all busy. Art was pumping water and I was making a bonfire in that sheltered place behind the house.’

  ‘And I was helping Brigid to clean the pewter dishes,’ said Cael, holding up a brush and bar of soap in evidence.

  ‘So how long has he been missing?’

  ‘An hour or so, I suppose,’ said Art hesitantly. ‘When Cian came back, he said, “Where’s Niall?” and I said I didn’t know and so he went to ask Brigid what she wanted him to do.’

  ‘And I noticed that his pony, or at least the pony we lent him, well that’s gone,’ said Cael. ‘And then we had a really good search. We have searched the house and the garden, went everywhere, even up on the mound to see whether we could spot him on the cliffs.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s gone back to Ossory,’ said Cian with a slightly hopeful note in his voice.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mara. ‘Nobody but a fool would think that pony could do a journey like that. Even with a good animal, that would be a three-day journey.’ She began to regret that she had said goodbye to Turlough at the stable when he had taken his horse out. If the boy was really missing, then it would be handy to have some of his men to search for him. ‘Perhaps he has just gone for a walk to the cliffs, though I suppose we would have seen him if he did that, because we came fro
m there and we’ve been around that area for almost an hour, I’d say.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s Ríanne?’ she asked.

  ‘Beating the wall hangings down on that wall. But she doesn’t know anything about him. I went down to her,’ said Cael, ‘and she said, “I haven’t the faintest idea.” That’s what she said and how she said it.’

  Mara suppressed a smile. Cael had put on a slightly English accent and had delivered the words in a bored, contemptuous tone of voice.

  ‘Go and get her, Cael, will you? Tell her that I want to speak to her.’ Really, thought Mara, I could do without this. Where was the wretched boy? The obvious place to go for a walk was towards the sea, but surely she and Turlough would have seen him. On the other hand, he might not have wanted to be seen. She suddenly thought of the small, sheltered laneway where someone had built stonewalls and had planted slips of blackthorn in their shelter. No trees grew in this windswept place but every farmer and many fishermen needed a good strong stick so the blackthorn had been planted behind the walls and had flourished. The thickly growing blackthorn bushes would provide a screen. If Niall had heard their voices and had not wanted them to see him, he could have sheltered behind these and they would not have noticed him.

  Ríanne’s face was blank and innocent when she arrived.

  ‘Cael said that you wanted me.’

  ‘I wondered whether you know where Niall is.’

  ‘Oh, isn’t he here?’ Ríanne looked innocently around the room as though expecting to see Niall concealed by a chair or stool.

  ‘No, he’s not. My scholars have searched the house and the garden. I think that Cael has already told you that he is missing.’ Mara watched the girl narrowly. A natural liar, she thought.

  Ríanne did not argue. Her face seemed suddenly to shut down, the mouth expressionless, the eyes blank and innocent. She made no further comment and Mara waited. There was something, some secret concealed and Ríanne knew about it. She could swear to it. She guessed that behind the façade, thoughts and explanations were rushing through Ríanne’s head. After a long pause, Ríanne lifted her eyelids and looked at Mara with an innocent expression.