‘Yes,’ said Una, carefully outlining a daisy on the grassy sward at the lover’s feet. ‘You are not the only one to see the resemblance. My father’s guests that evening made much sport about the likeness between the bard and my tapestry picture.’
She filled in a daisy petal with tiny precise stitches before adding thoughtfully, ‘It was a very successful banquet: my father sold many valuable pieces of silver that night. He poured the wine unsparingly and high prices were paid, but,’ she paused to pick out a pair of tiny silver shears from the basket at her feet, before continuing, ‘despite all of his efforts he had not managed to sell me too by the end of the night. That’s probably when he first began to think of bribing Rory the bard to marry me.’ And then she set her lips and snipped the thread decisively.
‘Why?’ Mara put the question bluntly.
Una looked up at her with surprise. ‘Why?’ she echoed.
‘Yes, I would have thought you were useful to him, here at Newtown Castle. He could leave everything in your care when he was in Galway, you looked after the house, the mine, you even did some of the smith’s work, I understand. I would have thought that he would want to keep you.’
‘That was in the bargain,’ said Una, carefully threading some yellow silk through the tiny eye of her needle. ‘We were both to live here, Rory was to father a child on me – I think, though I was not told this, that the bargain was that,
if the child were a healthy boy, there would be no obstacle to Rory obtaining a divorce if he wished, and no doubt he would leave with a substantial sum of silver in his satchel. ‘You see,’ she said, stitching the tiny centre of the daisy with a knot of the yellow silk, ‘my father was desperate for an acceptable male heir; his own son was not worthy.’
‘And yet you say that your father made a will leaving everything to you.’
‘That was my price,’ said Una calmly. ‘I made that very clear to my father. He knew me better than to try to trick me. And the will was made, Brehon, I can assure you of that. It was made in this very room, in my presence and when it had been signed and sealed I took it and locked it into a chest. I refused to sign the betrothal contract until I had checked through the will. My mistake was’, she spoke calmly and dispassionately, ‘not to realize that my mother had kept her bunch of keys after all those years.’
‘And what about the betrothal contract between you and Rory?’ And then as, for the first time, Una hesitated, Mara said sharply, ‘Don’t deny that there was one.’
Una carefully snipped the end of the yellow silk, put shears and needle back in their places and closed the lid of the basket. It was as if she were getting ready for battle.
‘I had no interest in the betrothal contract – my father probably put it straight into his own chest that night.’
‘But it wasn’t there when we looked after his death?’
‘No,’ said Una. ‘Like the will, it had disappeared.’ Her eyes moved over towards the fire of pinewood burning noisily in the chimney hearth. Like mother, like daughter, thought Mara, both quick-witted and ruthless. There was little doubt in her mind that the betrothal contract had been
burned by Una just as soon as Sorley’s dead body had been carried back to Newtown Castle.
‘Did Rory have a copy of that contract?’ she asked and then quickly added before a denial could be uttered, ‘It would be customary.’
‘Perhaps.’ Una shrugged her heavy shoulders. ‘I don’t remember anything about that.’
‘And if so, then he would be within his rights to demand that the contract be fulfilled.’ Did Rory know his rights, wondered Mara. He was not a particularly clever young man. From the smug expression on Una’s face it didn’t look as if he had demanded a copy of the betrothal contract.
Una shrugged her shoulders again.
‘Well, he appears to have disappeared, now,’ she said indifferently.
‘As you say,’ said Mara clearly and distinctly, ‘Rory has now disappeared.’ For a long moment she held the eyes of Rory’s betrothed.
Una got to her feet and went towards the door. ‘I think they are bringing you some refreshments now,’ she said with the air of one who wishes to finish the conversation, as she flung the door open.
It was the maidservant with a well-furnished silver tray, but behind her was Deirdre, followed by her son, Cuan. Quick and efficient, thought Mara, noting that Cuan was once again washed and well dressed. Toin’s kindness and patience with this awkward young man seemed endless.
‘I’ll take that.’ Una took the tray, brought it in, placed it on the table, but made no effort to invite anyone to partake of the cakes and small glasses of wine. She stood
and glared at her brother, but waited until the door was closed before saying anything.
‘What are you doing here?’ she snapped then, looking him up and down.
He flinched and, though still irritated by his bad manners and surly behaviour, Mara felt herself, once again, sorry for the boy. She remembered Toin’s thoughtful estimate of him; Cuan did indeed look like a dog that had been savagely mistreated from his early days.
‘Sit down, Cuan,’ she said, ignoring Una. She took him by the hand and led him over to a cushioned bench by the fire. ‘Deirdre, could you sit beside him, and Una,’ quickly she dragged over a chair to place beside another, already in position in the favoured place beside the fire, and completed the semicircle, ‘you sit here.’ She waited until everyone had obeyed her instructions, but then began to talk quickly, anxious that no irredeemable insult should be offered.
‘I’ve just been chatting to Una while we were waiting for you to arrive, Cuan,’ said Mara in an easy conversational tone. Carelessly she leaned across, picked out a small round pine log from the basket by the hearth and threw it on the crackling fire. Not one person relaxed, however, nor moved a muscle. Mara, after the one quick glance, kept her eyes on the fire.
‘The position is,’ she continued, ‘though Sorley may have made a will, none can be found so the disposal of his goods goes according to the law.’
She put on another log and then looked around. Deirdre, one beringed hand folded within the other, gazed thoughtfully at the burning firewood, Cuan’s chin was
sunken upon his chest and Una watched Mara as a man watches another across the length of two crossed swords.
‘These are the facts,’ said Mara, speaking slowly and carefully with her eyes now on Cuan’s downcast face, ‘Sorley Skerrett was a silversmith from Galway, with, at the time of his death, his principal place of residence here in the kingdom of the Burren. He left no will.’ Una snorted contemptuously, but didn’t interrupt and Mara continued smoothly. ‘Sorley was not a member of any clan: his wealth was the result of personal exertions; he could, if he had wished, will his property where he pleased, but as there is no will available, therefore the land, houses and property owned by Sorley, including the mine on that land, go to his only son, Cuan.’
Deirdre looked at Una with a gleam of triumph in her pale eyes, but Cuan himself showed no interest.
Mara waited a moment, and then continued. ‘His daughter, Una, has been left with no provision although if I were advising Sorley Skerrett and helping him to draw up a just and equitable will, I would have recommended that she should receive one-quarter of what is termed moveable property, furniture, household fittings, and,’ Mara’s eyes went to the glittering array of silverware on every table and window seat in the room, ‘of course, this would include the objects made from silver in the house and in the workshop.’ There was a silence when she finished. Neither Cuan nor Una showed any emotion. Mara turned her eyes towards the mother.
‘I have not dealt with the position of Deirdre, who was divorced by Sorley. There were certain irregularities about the procedure that lead me to say that this case should be heard at Poulnabrone and since it involves the work of the
now deceased Brehon of Kinvarra, then I feel that three Brehons should hear this matter so I shall ask the Brehon from Corcomroe and the Brehon from Thomond to sit with me on this case. Would that be acceptable to you, Deirdre?’
Deirdre considered the matter for a moment, staring steadily into the fire.
‘Leave things as they are,’ she said eventually. ‘There’s no sense in raking over old stories.’
‘If that’s what you feel,’ said Mara briskly, ‘then I won’t proceed against your wishes. You may wish to think about this matter and come back to me at a later date. Now is there anything else that I can explain to you? Please ask me any question that occurs to you.’
Una broke the silence. ‘You have explained the law very clearly to us, Brehon, and I’m sure that we all understand the position. But perhaps you can explain this to me now.’ She paused and looked at her brother. There was no trace of affection or pity in her glance. ‘What happens,’ she said with heavy emphasis, ‘when the son who inherits has ensured his inheritance by murdering his father?’
Mara glanced at Cuan. He reddened, but said nothing.
‘I think, Cuan,’ she said kindly, ‘you should reply to that accusation. Take your time and reply slowly and carefully. A simple yes or no will suffice.’
Cuan clenched his fists, but Deirdre put a hand on his arm and he relaxed. They would get on all right, mother and son, if Una were removed from the scene, thought Mara.
‘No,’ said Cuan. ‘I did not kill my father. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mara with an approving nod. ‘Now
Una, you’ve made an accusation; what are your grounds for saying this?’
‘He was seen by the bard, Rory,’ said Una vehemently. ‘He was seen dodging …’ she broke off and then continued in an exasperated manner, ‘but you know all of this. You were present last Wednesday at Toin’s supper when Rory told what he had seen.’
‘Tell me again,’ encouraged Mara. ‘I hear many things and my mind is not as young as it used to be.’
‘He told you that he saw Cuan hiding behind the wall just before Sorley was murdered. He told you that it looked like someone was ducking down behind the wall, trying not to be seen. And he told you that Cuan had a stick in his hand.’
‘Ah,’ said Mara. She looked at Una with a half-smile. ‘Now I remember. But how do you know what happened at Toin’s supper? Have you seen Rory since?’
‘No.’ Una hesitated for a moment and then rallied. ‘I heard what happened,’ she said briefly.
‘From whom?’
Una shrugged. ‘Servants’ gossip.’
I doubt it, thought Mara. Toin would not have said anything. The servants were all in the separate kitchen house when the row broke out. They would have known that Cuan had stormed out and not waited to stay the night as expected, but they would not have heard the exact words of the quarrel.
‘So, did you and Rory discuss this matter, arrange it beforehand?’ she suggested. ‘It was perhaps agreed between you that he should make the accusation.’ She looked keenly at Una and Una stared defiantly back.
Mara was not deceived, though. Of course; if Cuan were convicted then the punishment would be permanent exile, or perhaps even death by being placed in a boat with no oars and launched out to sea in an offshore wind. The killing of a parent or close relation was the only crime that merited a savage punishment under Brehon law. If Cuan were guilty then there would be no possibility of him inheriting his father’s wealth and possessions. Even if not convicted, the young man could be blackmailed. He would be easily frightened.
Una hesitated. Then her eyes left Mara’s and went, not to Cuan’s distressed young face, but to the face of the woman so like herself. The two pairs of grey eyes met, Deirdre’s looked worried, distressed even, but Una’s eyes were full of calculation. Was this an attempt at blackmail, an effort to make Deirdre uneasy about Cuan, perhaps even to elicit a confession? After all the murder of a divorced husband would not be as serious a matter as the murder of a father. Mara felt that she could almost see how various possibilities were being shifted and arranged in Una’s acute mind, but in the end she shook her head and said simply, ‘I haven’t seen Rory for some days.’
That’s probably a lie, thought Mara, but aloud she said, ‘In that case, I suggest you make no accusations that cannot be backed by solid evidence. By solid evidence I mean the sworn testimony of at least two people, preferably without any interest in the outcome of the case.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Now I must go,’ she said. ‘Una, will you accompany me to the door? Cuan,’ her voice softened slightly as she saw his miserable face, ‘I hope that soon you will get to enjoy your possessions and the freedom that wealth will bring you. I’m
sure that in your mother you will find a useful friend and counsellor. Think of what we discussed and live your life to the full.
Slán leat
,’ she added, thinking that it was not health so much as happiness, that she wanted to wish him — a more difficult matter altogether for a boy with his upbringing and sensitivity of spirit.
Una, to Mara’s surprise, looked quite willing to accompany her to the door. She said nothing on the way down the stairs, but her expression was thoughtful and receptive when the light of the opened door shone on it.
‘Walk to the gate with me,’ said Mara quietly, seeing that an efficient stableman was already leading her mare from the stable.
‘You have some advice for me,’ said Una and there was a glint of humour in her grey-blue eyes. ‘You’d suggest that I should enter a nunnery, I suppose.’