‘He couldn’t have given the straw skep a poke with the stick, could he?’ asked Shane, reading her preoccupied face with his usual sharp intelligence.
‘I was just thinking about that stick,’ admitted Mara.
‘He’d never have the strength for that,’ said Moylan.
‘How much strength does it take to push over a straw skep, birdbrain?’ asked Enda scornfully.
‘And he did come in late,’ said Fachtnan. ‘I remember you saying that.’
‘So would you if you were as lame as that, clodhead,’ persisted Moylan.
‘And he would hate Sorley,’ persisted Fachtnan, ignoring the insult. ‘After all, Sorley was responsible for his injuries.’
‘He wouldn’t know about Sorley always swelling up after a bee sting, though, would he?’ argued Moylan who seemed to have constituted himself the defender of Anluan.
For a boy with a huge appetite, the sight of Anluan’s obvious hunger seemed to have come as a shock.
‘Only his family and the beekeeper and a few others would have known about that.’ Aidan came to Moylan’s aid.
‘Do you think this crime was planned, or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing, Brehon?’ asked Enda.
‘I’m not sure how it could have been planned,’ said Mara. ‘Of course, on the one hand, you could argue that the murderer might have heard about Sorley’s problem with bee stings, and perhaps was waiting for an opportunity, but on the other hand, it is such an unusual crime that I feel it was an impulse that was immediately acted upon. It may not have worked. The bees might have gone in a different direction; they might have concentrated on saving the honey from their damaged hive. No, the more I think of it the more I feel that this crime was not planned. Someone hated Sorley and seized the opportunity to either injure him or kill him.’
‘But it could have been Anluan.’ Enda was determined to prove his point.
Mara nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose it could have been Anluan. He is a man who has not much to live for, a man who would feel he had nothing to lose.’
As they approached the gaping hole in the side of the mountain, there was a buzz of conversation. One small dark man, who was speaking loudly to another with the shafts of a barrow held in his hands, stopped talking abruptly, turned his back on the party from the law school and rushed into the mine entrance.
‘Gone to get the manager, probably,’ said Enda, his face alight with interest as he looked around.
There was a small stone cabin built into the shelter of the mountain about fifty yards away. In front of the cabin a dead heifer calf, its stomach swollen, lay spread-eagled on the ground. There were two people inside the cabin, but one was doing most of the talking. The door stood open and it was easy to hear the words. The boys looked at each other and grinned. The stream of swear words was embarrassing even to the older scholars and Shane and Hugh were wide-eyed with amazement. The small dark man hesitated before the doorway as if reluctant to enter, and then compromised by gingerly stepping over the body of the calf, reaching out and knocking on the frame of the doorway.
‘Someone is losing his temper,’ murmured Enda as the stream of words went on unabated.
Then there was a final scream of obscenities and a small narrow-framed man burst out through the door. His face was dripping with sweat and was a strange shade of white, patched with red. He kicked the body of the heifer and plunged on. Mara stepped forward instantly; she recognized the man, the young face and the almost bald head were instantly memorable. She thought she had seen him climb the hill after the burial of Father David and he had been standing near the gate to the church while she had been talking with Toin this morning. She had noticed how no one seemed to speak to him, or even to greet him.
‘You are Sheedy,’ she stated, standing in his path.
He gave her an uncertain look, and then suddenly turned and bolted back over the lumps of scattered rock and heaps of crushed stone. Enda gave a long low whistle.
‘Shall we go after him?’ asked Aidan eagerly.
‘Never catch him,’ said Moylan. ‘Look at him. He can jump like a goat.’
‘He was probably brought up on the mountainside,’ said Fachtnan wisely. ‘Moylan’s right – it would be impossible for us to overtake him now.’
‘I could have a go,’ said Aidan optimistically.
‘No, leave him,’ said Mara firmly. She had no intention of allowing the reckless Aidan to chase this man over rocks and chasms. It was interesting, though, she thought, how Sheedy had fled at the sight of her. He would undoubtedly know who she was and normally there was huge respect and deference paid to the Brehon within the kingdom of the Burren.
‘Sorry, Brehon.’ The mine manager looked apologetic. ‘He’s a madman,’ he added, taking out a square of linen and mopping his brow. He gave the body of the heifer a distasteful look before continuing with heartfelt emphasis, ‘Back in our own country someone like this would be locked up.
‘What’s his problem?’ asked Mara mildly.
The mine manager hesitated. ‘Well, it’s not for me to talk about it, Brehon,’ he said. ‘The master …’ then he stopped and gulped. A look of horror came over his face.
‘Oh my God,’ he said slowly, his Welsh accent suddenly becoming more apparent. ‘He was there, too, at the church, I mean. I know he was there … I saw him coming back up the mountain. Do you think …’ again he stopped.
‘And you are the manager of this mine.’
‘Yes, my name is Ifor.’
‘So is this all common land, Ifor?’ Mara looked around
her with interest. She was not going to discuss the possibility of Sheedy being involved in the murder, she decided, though she would have welcomed some incidental information.
‘It’s shared between four farms, and my master owns – well, owned – three of these four farms.’ His tone was guarded as he gave the explanation and he looked at her warily.
‘And Sheedy owns the fourth.’ Mara nodded her head. Everything was beginning to become clear.
‘He has had plenty of opportunity to sell the farm, he and his father before him.’ Ifor’s voice was defensive. Obviously he identified with Sorley and his interests. He looked well fed and well dressed, unlike the poor unfortunate poverty-stricken miners.
‘Was it to talk about Sheedy and his threats that you came to see me, Brehon?’ His tone was assured and, though perfectly polite, had an undertone of belligerence.
‘At the moment I am just interested in the mine and how it works; these scholars of mine have never seen one.’ Mara kept her voice casual; she decided not to question him further about Sheedy. Toin could probably tell her the whole story and she would have to see the farmer himself. When he had calmed down she could question him about his presence at the church this morning and decide whether he was involved in the murder of Sorley.
‘I am just on my way down to the castle to see Mistress Una.’ He looked at Mara with a trace of impatience. Obviously he wanted to get rid of her.
‘Perhaps you would have a moment to answer a few of my scholars’ questions before you go.’ She was not going to stand for any nonsense from this young Welshman, she
decided. If he lived in the Burren, then he had to live under the laws of the kingdom.
‘Are they trying to get the silver out of the rock over there?’ asked Shane pointing to some men hammering a large boulder of limestone.
‘That’s right,’ said Ifor shortly.
‘Perhaps we could look when they stop for a break,’ suggested Mara.
‘Very well.’ He made a quick signal to the men and they stopped instantly, leaning on their sledgehammers. They were out of breath and dripping with sweat, their eyes dull, their faces white with exhaustion.
Ifor led the way in silence, obviously hoping that the interruption would be as quick as possible, but the eager curiosity of six boys made that unlikely, thought Mara. The questions began to fly as soon as they neared the crushed rock.
‘How do you get out the silver?’
‘That looks like lead, is it lead?’
‘How much silver would you get from a rock that size?’
‘Do you find big lumps of it, or is it all little tiny bits?’
‘That’s the silver, that gleaming stuff there, isn’t that right?’ asked Hugh, whose own father was a silver merchant.
‘No, that’s calcite,’ Ifor answered sourly.
‘Calcite is crushed and used on the land as a fertilizer,’ put in Mara with a smile at Hugh. Certainly the gleaming heap of powder did look like silver in the sunlight.
‘So how do you extract the silver?’ Enda fixed the man with a stern look. He wasn’t going to be fobbed off by silence.
‘We burn it,’ said Ifor reluctantly.
‘Over there.’ One of the men pointed, his accent was strong but he spoke in Irish Gaelic.
Near to the summit of the mountain it looked as if some giant hand had hollowed out a huge basin. A beautiful place originally, surmised Mara, as they walked over to look. It should have been filled with those lovely plants that grew in profusion in the shallow, scooped-out basins on Mullaghmore Mountain. This hollow, though, was stained with yellow and from the hazelwood fire in the centre of it a pungent smell was rising up.
‘Disgusting,’ said Shane wrinkling up his nose.
‘Smells like rotten eggs,’ said Aidan, fanning the air in front of him vigorously.
‘Makes me feel sick,’ observed Hugh, putting his hand across his mouth dramatically.
‘Sulphur,’ said Enda with a superior air.
Mara moved across to the western edge of the hollow and looked down towards Lios Mac Sioda. Sheedy certainly had a reason for his grievance, she thought. A small spring rose nearby and trickled down the slope. In the past it would have been a valuable resource for thirsty cattle on this common land during the rare dry spells. However, now the water foamed a pale primrose yellow and the smell was, indeed, sickening. A broad band of dead foliage outlined the stream’s progress and for quite a distance around, the grass, normally so green on this limestone land, had a sickly tint. Mara knew little about cattle, but she was sure that poisoned land would result in poisoned cattle.
Ifor had said that Sheedy was mad: perhaps that was not true. Perhaps he had a true grievance which she wished that
he had brought to her. Nevertheless, she now had to consider the fact that this young farmer was certainly filled with an almost insane rage and hatred of the mine and of its owner. She turned back towards the mine. The dead body of the young heifer still lay on the ground and flies hovered over it.
Mara’s eyes went from the dead animal down to the valley where Newtown Castle stood, its conical, stone-slated roof gleaming in the sunshine. Within its walls, there was another dead body, the body of Sorley the mine owner, which would, by now, have been laid out, surrounded by all the splendour of the silver that had been gouged out of this ruined land.
MELLBRETHA (SPORT JUDGEMENTS)
There is no right to a fine or sick-maintenance if a boy is injured in most games such as swimming, hurling, jumping, hide-and-seek, or juggling, but the kin of the culprit must provide sick-maintenance if a boy has been injured by javelin-hurling or rock-throwing. All contests must be even in numbers.
The foster parents of a boy must take responsibility if they do not forbid dangerous pursuits.
B
Y DUSK EVERYTHING, WAS ready for the party at Cahermacnaghten law school. The turnips had all been carved and illuminated by candle ends placed in their hollow centres and every window within the enclosure had a ghostly skull glaring from it.
Samhain
was a time where the barriers between the real and the supernatural world are
dissolved and where humans and spirits can penetrate each other’s world for a few short hours. However, it was also a time of feasting on the last fruits of the season and Mara always tried to emphasize this aspect for the younger children in her care.
The benches and tables within the schoolhouse had been pushed together and spread with a linen cloth. Baskets of cakes and pies had been laid out on it. Brigid always made a great effort to ensure that nothing but the fruits of autumn would be served for this
Samhain
supper. There were little clusters of sticky cakes made from honey and hazelnut flour, bowls of walnuts, sweet cider made from windfall apples, dark purple elderberry paste and pale pink crab apple jelly stood in clay dishes beside the usual oatcakes. Everywhere there were heaped-up pottles, woven from the willow stems, filled with the apples from the
Samhain
tree, golden apples with yellow flesh and skins where the russet blended with the amber.
Daire, the silversmith’s apprentice, was there. Taller than any of the others, he was leaping high in the air to catch, with his splendid white teeth, one of the apples tied to strings from the beams that supported the thatched roof of the schoolhouse when Aoife came in. She didn’t look well, thought Mara. The girl’s cheeks had lost their previous rosy glow and her blue eyes were deeply shadowed. Her brother had almost to push her into the room, though she had known the law school scholars since they were all children together.
‘Come in, Aoife.’ Mara seized the cold hand and drew her over towards the fire, calling over her shoulder, ‘Careful, Daire! Don’t break your teeth.’ This had the desired double
effect of leading Aoife’s eyes towards Daire and of calling the young silversmith’s attention to the girl.
He was over in a second, holding the apple he had secured, in his hand. It was the largest and the most beautiful apple in the room. Quickly he took out his knife and sliced off the place where his strong white teeth had marked the skin and held it out. ‘Would you like it?’ he asked gently. ‘Please do have it.’
‘You’re like the fellow we were reading about in our Latin, Daire,’ remarked Shane with the unselfconsciousness of a ten-year-old to whom girls were still just inferior boys. ‘He offered an apple to the most beautiful woman in the room.’
‘Come and let me see if I can duck for apples; I used to be very good at that,’ said Mara, hastily ushering Shane away. As she pushed her way through a boisterous crowd of O‘Lochlainn lads, trying to urge Brigid to jump for an apple, she heard Daire say: ‘He’s right, you know. When I saw you come through the door, I thought you were the most beautiful girl that I had ever seen.’
So it was love at first sight. He had rejected the silversmith’s daughter; he was fancy-free and had now given his heart to a farmer’s child. Well, they would make a lovely pair, thought Mara, as heroically she dipped her face into a bowl of water and tried to capture one of the small apples that moved tantalizingly away as her teeth neared them.
‘Thanks, Brigid.’ She accepted a piece of linen and wiped her face. ‘You have a go, Shane. You’ll be better than me at this.’
‘He’s in a great mood tonight.’ Brigid’s eyes were directed towards the young couple by the fire. Mara nodded.
There was no doubt that Daire had the look of a man who has had a huge weight removed from his shoulders. He was chatting easily to Aoife, though she appeared to be making little response. Still, her eyes were on the blond, broad-shouldered young man and the night was only beginning. Mara felt cheered. However, Rory would probably be at the
Samhain
bonfire with his new zither and his sentimental songs, so she hoped that Daire would make the best of his opportunities before they got there. She kept an interested eye on the couple as she moved around the room, hospitably inviting everyone to eat and drink and turning a tolerant eye away from Enda and Mairead O’Lochlainn, who, mouth close to mouth, contested for a small apple in a dark corner of the room.
The weather was still fine as they all set out to walk across the stone pavements of the High Burren on their way to Eantymore, the traditional fair site for the people of the kingdom. However, the west wind was strong to their backs and the silver moon sailed in and out of rapidly expanding purple clouds.
The crowds had gathered by the time that they arrived. This was one of the two great fire festivals of the Celtic year; for weeks before, farmers, during the annual clearing lands of hazel scrub, had deposited bundles of sticks on the rocky field. The bonfire was lit just at the entrance to a large cave that went for miles under the limestone of the Burren. This cave was of great symbolic importance. In ancient times it was considered that on the night of
Samhain
the spirits of the dead could float between this world and the next. The
legends spoke of a cave leading from the world of the living down to the otherworld: the world of the dead, and the shrieks of the daring youngsters who dashed in and out of the cave holding up their pitchpine torches held a note of real panic underneath the fun.
‘There’s Roderic,’ said Fachtnan as the deep mellow notes of a horn reached them. ‘It’s good that he’s here. Aoife, Roderic is here; Emer is surely with him.’
By the light of Fachtnan’s torch, Mara could see Aoife’s face. Last summer, Roderic and Emer, Rory and Aoife were a pair of inseparable couples. Now Roderic had married Emer, and gone to live in the kingdom of Thomond to become one of the king’s musicians there. And Rory had rejected Aoife and taken up residence in the silversmith’s magnificent tower house. Mara could see all those memories coming to Aoife, but, to her pleasure, she saw the girl stiffen slightly and take Daire’s arm for the first time. Well done, thought Mara, wishing Brigid were here so that they could exchange satisfied glances. However, Muiris, Aoife’s father, was there and this reminded her of something.
‘Fachtnan,’ she said, ‘I just want to have a word with Muiris.’ She would call his attention to Daire and emphasize the young silversmith’s eligibility as a suitor. ‘Could you keep an eye on Shane and Hugh for me? I don’t want any of this running in and out of the cave. Hugh is a bit inclined to nightmares and I don’t think it would be a good idea for him.’ Hugh’s mother had died earlier this year, on the boy’s twelfth birthday and he had been nervous and tense ever since. ‘You can pretend not to see Aidan and Moylan, if you like,’ she added light-heartedly. The terrors of the cave
would be all part of the fun for a pair of tough adolescents like those two.
‘Muiris,’ she greeted the farmer as she came up behind him and he swung around quickly, looking slightly shocked.
‘Sorry,’ she said immediately, ‘did I startle you?’ By the light of the torch that he was carrying, she thought that he looked ill at ease.
‘No, no, Brehon, I was just thinking of something.’
It was easy to know what he was thinking. Right in front of them was Rory waiting his turn to sing a ballad to the crowd.
‘Aoife’s looking well tonight,’ Mara said in the easy-going, gossiping tone which was second-nature to her in her dealings with the people of the Burren. ‘What do you think of young Daire? They seemed to be getting on well together earlier on.’
He gave Daire an indifferent glance. His eyes were fixed on Rory and his bushy eyebrows were knitted into a frown of concentration. Mara looked also. She had always thought that Rory was an extraordinarily beautiful young man, his hair was a pale blond with a shade of red in it, his eyes were intensely blue and he had an elegant figure with broad shoulders and slim hips. She glanced appraisingly from him to Daire. If she were sixteen, whom would she prefer? Daire was more strongly made. Whoever christened him had named him well for the sturdiest tree in the forest,
dair,
the oak tree, but Rory had a showy glamour about him. Reluctantly, honesty compelled her to acknowledge that if she were Aoife’s age, Rory might appear the more attractive. Perhaps this was why young people had parents; parental
indulgence was all very well, but possibly her own father, Semus O’Davoren would have been a better father if he had forbidden the marriage between herself and Dualta, the son of the stonemason, who had not had the industry to make the most of his opportunity to achieve the status of a Brehon. Her lips tightened as she thought of Dualta. He had hoped that his marriage to Mara, when she was fourteen and he was sixteen would guarantee him an easy and luxurious life, especially after the death of her father. Only by taking matters into her own hands and conducting her own divorce case had she been able to get rid of him. She turned away from those memories and turned back to Muiris.
‘I would use all your influence with Aoife to help her forget about Rory,’ she said decisively. ‘Someone like Daire would be a much better match.’
Muiris nodded and a look of resolution came over his strong face. He thought for a moment and then nodded his head as with approval for a resolution to speak out.
‘Brehon,’ said Muiris abruptly. ‘That was a terrible thing that happened this morning.’
‘It was indeed, Muiris.’
‘A terrible accident.’ Muiris had a note of enquiry in his voice.
There were times that Mara wished people would come to the point more quickly, but she curbed her impatience. Words did not come quickly or easily to Muiris. He would have to be given his time. ‘Terrible,’ she echoed gravely.
That disconcerted him; she watched him sifting through the already-prepared words in his mind, just as a wool merchant hunts for his best sample of fleece.
‘You see I keep bees,’ he said eventually.
Mara nodded. Most farmers, especially those with large families like Muiris, did keep bees. The honey was the only means to sweeten the oatcakes and to brew mead and also had a valuable use in preventing infection in wounds for both animals and people. She said nothing, though. Muiris would have to tell his story in his own way.
‘So I know the way that they behave,’ he ploughed on. ‘You see, if you disturb a hive they will fly at you if you are very close, but if you keep out of the way, they will just get back to guarding their honey. That’s their nature – you leave them alone and they’ll leave you alone,’ he added, now gaining in fluency.
‘But they went after Sorley.’ Mara looked at him with interest.
Muiris nodded. ‘I reckon that they must have been disturbed when he was very near to them.’
‘Do you think that he overturned the hive himself?’
‘No, no, no man that has his wits does a thing like that.’ He hesitated. ‘Of course, though, it might be that another man pushed over the hive when he saw that the silversmith was exactly opposite the bees.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Mara thoughtfully. It was interesting that this man, experienced in bees, was also thinking of Sorley’s death as murder.
‘And it could be that a man who did that might still have a few bees lurking when he rushed into the church, quite late.’
‘You saw someone?’
Muiris nodded. ‘I saw Rory come in late and he had his hood pulled well over his head and almost covering his face,
as if he were shielding himself. I was watching him, keeping an eye on Aoife to make sure that she didn’t turn around and give him the satisfaction of seeing her yearning for him. I saw him stand there at the back of the church and brush his hood before he took it off.’
How much of this was significant and how much was it a question of Muiris wanting to wreak vengeance on the young bard? And what use would the death of Sorley be to Rory? From what Mara had seen yesterday and this morning, Sorley seemed more friendly to him than did Una. She couldn’t really picture the solid, middle-aged Una indulging in fun and games with Rory behind her father’s back, whatever Brigid said.
‘And that’s not all, Brehon. I went looking for Rory afterwards, once I knew that the bees had stung Sorley to death and I saw him rub his arm. I got as close to him as I could and I’d swear there was a big lump, like a bee sting, on his wrist.’
‘Well, thank you for telling me this, Muiris,’ said Mara gravely. She looked at him carefully. There was an uncomfortable look in his eyes before he looked away. He turned away from her and looked intently across the grass at Rory standing chatting to Roderic. She could not see his eyes, but she saw his fists clench in frustration before he swung around and strode away.
Well, thought Mara, what is to be made of this? She looked all around. The reels and jigs were beginning. Fachtnan, with Nuala, Shane and Hugh and some of the younger members of the O’Lochlainn clan, had made up a set for a reel. Diarmuid O’Connor, Mara’s near neighbour at Cahermacnaghten, was playing his fiddle and they were all
dancing on the damp grass. Aidan and Moylan were dashing in and out of the cave leading to the underworld, Moylan giving vent to a ghostly shriek that sounded more like a cow in labour than any self-respecting denizen of the underworld. That only left Enda, who seemed to be on the point of dragging Mairéad O’Lochlainn into the darkness of the undergrowth between Eantymore and Eantybeg.