‘Why did you not go to the graveside?’ she asked eyeing Deirdre carefully.
There was a pause. She could hear Fachtnan finish writing and then dip his pen into the ink horn before the woman spoke again.
‘I was busy,’ she said briefly. ‘I had to get back. I had a long walk ahead of me.’
Mara let it go at that, in any case Sorley was dead by then.
‘Let’s go back to the time you arrived, did you speak to anyone, did anyone see you come?’
‘You forget,’ she said the words with some bitterness, ‘I
was the wife who was put aside for adultery. Not many people spoke to me, ever. Toin, and one or two others, but no one who was connected with Sorley in any way.’
‘So when you arrived,’ pressed Mara, ‘did you go straight into the church, or did you go around near the ruins?’
Again there was a pause, not as long as before, but Mara could have sworn that she was going through her mind to see if anyone could bear testimony against her.
‘I went straight to the church,’ she said.
Mara nodded. There were no reports of Deirdre coming late into church. In fact, no one had mentioned her name. She waited until Fachtnan had finished writing and then said, almost perfunctorily, ‘And there is no other help you can give us? You heard or saw nothing to do with this matter?’
Deirdre gave a half smile. ‘I am afraid not,’ she said and then rose to her feet. ‘I will send one of the others to you. Will you stay the night?’
Mara glanced out of the window. The lines of the stone mullions were dark against the faded pink of the sky. This business of the missing will had taken up a lot of her time and she was reluctant to leave the journey home much later. She considered the invitation to stay the night. It would be the sensible thing to do and it might give her some insight into the relationships in this warring family, but she felt that she could not really bear it. She would prefer to get away and consider the facts in the open air, and not be smothered by the heat and perfumes of Sorley’s tower house and the tensions within. She rose to her feet.
‘Thank you for your invitation,’ she said, ‘but I am afraid that I cannot stay. I will be back soon; I will see Una and, of course, Cuan, then.’
And it was of Deirdre’s face, softened, but apprehensive, when the name of her son was mentioned that Mara was thinking as they rode out of the great iron gates and it was of Cuan that Fachtnan spoke as soon as they were out of earshot of the guards around the gates.
‘Deirdre is worried about Cuan, isn’t she?’ he said sagaciously. ‘Do you think that she suspects him of having a hand in his father’s death?’
‘Hard to know,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that it would have been tempting for anyone in Cuan’s position to take a quick poke at the beehive when he saw his father pass by.’
‘Can you imagine Cuan doing anything quickly?’ said Fachtnan with a grin.
Mara laughed, but then the picture of Deirdre’s grim face came before her and her own face grew solemn at the thought. The rejected wife was certainly someone who would have had the quickness of mind to push over the beehive and then to disappear rapidly into the church. It was almost positive that she had gone to the gallery yesterday, possibly at the time when Una was occupied with the preparations for the wake, and had taken the will out and burned it. No doubt she had retained her bunch of keys from her time as mistress of Newtown Castle. Toin had said that Deirdre spent a lot of time there at Rathborney when her husband was in Kinvarra or in Galway. There was no other explanation of what had happened today. Sorley had taken everything from her including her good name, and
when the opportunity had arisen she had taken back what she could. Mara was sure in her own mind of that, but had Deirdre also taken the life of her erstwhile husband? And if she had, was it a justified act in her eyes, an act of vengeance for the long years of suffering and for the sufferings of her son? Mara had a momentary sympathy for her but then the words of St Paul came to mind and as the last shafts of sun struck glints of silver from the rock ahead of them, she seemed to see them written in shining letters:
Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
Vengeance was the province of the Almighty God: but it was for the Brehon of the Burren to establish the truth and to see that justice was done.
URCUILTE BRETHEMAN
(A JUDGE’S FORBIDDEN Things)
If a judge does not swear on the gospel to utter only the truth, then he must leave the kingdom.
If a judge makes a mistaken judgement he has to bear responsibility by paying a fine to the injured person, but if he hears only one side of the case or takes bribes then he is deprived of the office of Brehon and loses his honour price.
TRIAD 96
Three things will cause ruin in a kingdom:
1
. A judge who takes bribes
2
An unlearned judge
3
. An unjust judge
‘I
think that I will go to Sunday Mass at Rathborney and attend the burial of Sorley Skerrett,’ said Mara the following morning to her scholars. ‘You can all go to nine o’clock Mass at Noughaval and then you can have the rest of the day to yourselves. Make sure that you tell Brigid what time you will be home and where you are going.’
‘Mass again!’ grumbled Aidan. ‘We seem to have done nothing but go to Mass this week!’
‘You could always try praying to the Almighty to help you in your studies, especially with your handwriting,’ said Mara sweetly. ‘Stop grumbling; you know that Mass at Noughaval is the quickest service in the Burren. You can enjoy yourselves for the rest of the day.’
‘You don’t need any help, Brehon?’ asked Fachtnan respectfully.
‘No,’ said Mara, ‘but, if by any chance you see Nuala today, Fachtnan, you might ask her to ride over to Rathborney with you. Young Cuan’s hand looked very bad to me. If Nuala could bring something with her she could dress it for him.’
Fachtnan’s face lit up. ‘We’ll do that,’ he said enthusiastically, while behind his back Aidan made some kissing motions with his lips much to the amusement of Moylan, Hugh and Shane.
The burial Mass for Sorley was to be the usual nine o’clock Sunday Mass at Rathborney. Mara rode over on her mare Brig, followed by Bran, his long legs loping effortless over the stony road that led downhill from Cahermacnaghten to the valley. At the gate of Toin’s house, Mara hesitated, the
church bell had not yet sounded; they had made good time and the old man was already up and moving around in the pear orchard next to his house.
‘Good morning, Toin,’ she called.
‘Come in, come and look,’ he called out. ‘I must show you my pears, it’s been a great year for them. I was a bit concerned by a few early morning frosts in May but I needn’t have been worried. Just look at them. Have you ever seen anything like the crop that I have this year? I must get someone to fill up a few barrels and send them over to Cahermacnaghten. Your boys will enjoy them, I know.’
Mara dismounted from her mare and handed the horse to a servant who came rushing forward.
‘Gently now, Bran,’ she murmured, as they went forward. Bran was a great lover of people and inclined to place his paws firmly on the chest of anyone who showed any interest in him. Toin looked like a wraith this morning, so unsubstantial that a breath of air could almost knock him over. He was in good spirits, though, and greeted Bran with a pat on the wolfhound’s narrow head.
‘This pear orchard is my pride and joy,’ he said. ‘I planted it when I came to the Burren first, before you were born. I was a young man then, a physician. They say you plant pears for your heirs, and it’s only in the last ten years that the trees have borne such fruit.’
‘You’ve made it inside an old enclosure, haven’t you,’ said Mara glancing around. ‘That should be just right to protect the trees against the frosts and wind damage.’
‘There are fifty trees here,’ boasted Toin. ‘You’ve seen it in the spring, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mara softly. ‘I’ve never seen anything so
beautiful.’ She spoke with sincerity. Toin’s pear trees, in the spring, were like a fairyland of lime-white blossom, shining intensely in the shelter of their ancient grey stone walls. She promised herself that she would visit it next spring in memory of the old man who had created such beauty.
Some of Toin’s servants were picking the pears, taking each one carefully from the branch and laying it in the flat baskets which they all carried. Toin reached up and plucked a pear from a magnificent tree near to the gate and handed it to Mara without a word. It was a perfect pear, its pale yellow skin just flushed with rose. It smelt faintly of aniseed and when Mara bit into it the juice ran down her chin; she was speechless in her appreciation.
‘Is it all right?’ asked Toin anxiously.
Mara took another bite and nodded. She swallowed it carefully and smelt the pear again. The king of fruits, she thought, and took a piece of linen from her pouch and wiped her face and hands. ‘Perfect,’ she said, ‘I have never tasted such a beautiful one.’
‘You’re on your way to the burial service,’ said Toin. Mara nodded. ‘You’re not thinking of going there, yourself, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. The man wasn’t worth it. Anyway, Tomas won’t allow me; will you, Tomas?’
The servant smiled, leaning down to pat Bran whose long muscular tail was wagging so energetically that it threatened to knock the pears from the basket he was carrying. ‘No, my lord, Father David’s service was far too much for you. You weren’t well all that day afterwards. I’m going to ban visits to the church for you, you do far too many of them,’ he said with a mock severity which showed Mara the good relationship
between man and servant. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘the young bard is coming to play for you.’
‘Rory?’ questioned Mara with surprise. ‘Isn’t he going to Sorley’s burial, then?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Toin. ‘Perhaps it is after the service that he is coming. It doesn’t make any difference to me. The days are long and the nights even longer when you are in my condition. Anyway,’ his voice became more cheerful, ‘it’s nice for the young fellow to have a chance to play that zither of his. There’s not much music asked for up there at the castle.’
‘Could I leave my horse, and Bran, here with you?’ asked Mara watching Bran walking around Tomas in circles, his tail wagging and his eyes adoring. ‘I could leave him outside the church; he’s well trained, but I think he would prefer to stay here with you. He seems to be making great friends with Tomas. I won’t disturb you when I come back.’
‘You won’t disturb me; I’ll love the company, what’s more I’ll have a glass of muscadet ready for you when you return,’ promised Toin. ‘It’s perfect with the pears.’
‘Only if you have a good rest though while I am at Mass.’ Mara looked anxiously at the old man.
‘It looks as if I am going to have another visitor; there’s Ulick at the gate,’ said Toin. His voice sounded weary.
‘I’ll take him off with me,’ promised Mara. ‘Mass will be good for his soul.’
When Mara emerged from the gate Ulick Burke was standing by the wall examining a bee exploring the dusty golden
antlers on a piece of flowering ivy. He had a thoughtful look on his face.
‘Toin wondered whether you were coming in to see him, Ulick, but I think he is a little tired for a visit at the moment. You weren’t thinking of going in, were you?’
‘No, no,’ he said with a slight start. ‘I’m on my way to church. I was just looking to this little furry fellow here and thinking of how extraordinary it is that he and his little brothers and sisters were able to cause the death of that huge man, our valued friend, the master of Newtown Castle.’
‘So you mourn Sorley then?’ Mara looked at the man appraisingly. He was one of Turlough’s dearest friends and yet no two men could be more unalike. Still the bonds of early childhood friendships were very strong.
‘Who wouldn’t?’ Ulick summoned up a pious expression. ‘Such a generous, big-hearted man. Always willing to share his wealth.’
‘At a price.’ Mara’s tone was blunt as she thought about the document that she had seen in the chest.
‘As you say, my dear Brehon,’ murmured Ulick. ‘At a price … There are some consolations attached to his demise, I suppose.’
‘You’ll still have to pay the debt,’ warned Mara as they arrived at the church gate.
‘What!’ Ulick looked genuinely startled. ‘I thought death cleared all debts.’
‘Certainly not under English law. And your agreement and the subsequent guaranteeing of the debt was enacted under English law. You will still have to pay that sum of
money to Sorley’s son and heir.’ Or, rather, since Turlough had guaranteed it, he will probably have to pay it, she thought with some irritation.
‘Daughter, my dear Brehon, daughter!’ said Ulick as he politely held the gate open for her.
‘Son,’ repeated Mara firmly as she passed through and waited for him on the path.
‘But he made a will; he left all that silver and property to his daughter; I told you about it. I witnessed it myself.’
‘The will cannot be found.’
‘Really?’ Ulick looked at her enquiringly and she nodded.
‘So it all goes to the son, now.’ Ulick began to move forward, his face thoughtful.
‘Do you know, my dear Brehon,’ he said as they passed the wooden bench, ‘this is quite a relief to me, it was getting to be very hard work paying court to that plain-faced girl. The brother is a sweeter character. Dear boy, I will be a father to him. I will guide his infant footsteps through society. I will teach him the joys of high living. I will instruct him on how to spend his money. I will even find a nice little wife for him.’
The church was full of the people who lived around in the parish of Rathborney, attending their usual Sunday Mass, but there was no sign of any additional people for the burial of Sorley. None of the silversmiths from Galway was in the church. They had paid their respects at the wake; obviously they felt that to be enough; they probably had little liking for the man in any case. The mineworkers were there; no
doubt the overseer was under orders; they were huddled in the back of the church, while the family of Sorley sat in the traditional mourning place on the left-hand side of the altar.
On the right-hand side, at the top of the church, was a burly figure, leaning back, legs sprawling, head turning from side to side. Mara went up the middle aisle, conscious of the stir of interest that her appearance caused and slipped in beside him.
‘What brings you here, my lord?’ she whispered as she knelt demurely by his side.
‘You, of course.’ Turlough’s smile beamed and his green eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve been visiting Conor and his wife at the abbey – the monk there, Father Peter, has a great reputation for cures for the wasting sickness. He’s looking better, Conor. He’s put on a bit of weight and got a little colour in his cheeks.’
It was early days yet, thought Mara. Conor was Turlough’s eldest son and the
tánaiste,
or heir, to his father’s position of king of the kingdoms of Thomond, Burren and Corcomroe. In the normal way of things he would be king when Turlough died, but he was sinking rapidly under the onslaught of the deadly wasting sickness that seemed to affect many of the young and strong.
‘That’s wonderful news,’ she whispered back, unwilling to disappoint him by expressing any doubts. She hoped that he was right: Turlough, of course, had an incurably optimistic temperament. Conor could only have been about a fortnight at the abbey; the last time that she had seen him he had looked like a man close to death.
However, Father Peter of the Cistercian abbey in the north-east of the kingdom was famed for his cures of
seriously ill people and it might be possible for him to work a miracle and to cure the wasting sickness that racked poor Conor with constant fevers and seemed to strip the flesh from his bones.
‘Will you come back there with me, to the abbey, I mean?’ Turlough’s voice took on a pleading note which she was coming to know well these days. ‘The abbot, Father Donogh, would like you to come for a Sunday dinner. He wants to discuss the wedding arrangements with you.’
‘So that’s the new parish priest.’ Mara stood up with the rest of the congregation as the Bishop of Kilfenora came out from the vestry followed by a very young priest. She wanted to think about this invitation. She needed to collect her mare and Bran from Toin’s hospitable care and she had planned to walk around Rathborney, perhaps to climb the mountains and see Sheedy.
‘Straight from Rome.’ Turlough was diverted as she expected. ‘Or from the cradle,’ he added in a loud whisper.
Mara felt sorry for the young priest. It was an ordeal facing his first parish, and to do it under the eyes of the bishop and the king made it doubly difficult. The people of the Burren were intensely clannish and they would take a long time to get used to a stranger in their midst, especially one taking the place of such a deeply loved priest as Father David had been.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ mumbled Turlough, devoutly beating his breast as the congregation recited the act of contrition. ‘Do you remember young Cormac, that nice lad that you had at the law school a year or two ago? Well, I met him last night with my cousin Mahon. Cormac is now Mahon’s lawyer and he has been appointed as Brehon of
Kinvarra now. He’s coming to the abbey today to meet you. I told him you would be bound to come.’