An Unjust Judge Read online

  The Burren Mysteries by Cora Harrison

  MY LADY JUDGE

  A SECRET AND UNLAWFUL KILLING

  THE STING OF JUSTICE

  WRIT IN STONE *

  EYE OF THE LAW *

  SCALES OF RETRIBUTION *

  DEED OF MURDER *

  LAWS IN CONFLICT *

  CHAIN OF EVIDENCE *

  CROSS OF VENGEANCE *

  VERDICT OF THE COURT *

  CONDEMNED TO DEATH *

  A FATAL INHERITANCE *

  AN UNJUST JUDGE *

  * available from Severn House

  AN UNJUST JUDGE

  A Burren Mystery

  Cora Harrison

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2016 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  First published in the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2016 by Cora Harrison.

  The right of Cora Harrison to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8672-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-775-3 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-843-8 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  One

  Triad 96

  There are three ruins of a kingdom:

  1. A lying chieftain

  2. A lustful priest

  3. An unjust judge

  When Mara, Brehon of the Burren, attended judgement day in the neighbouring kingdom of Corcomroe on October 11th in the year of 1524, she had not the slightest inkling that the man in the Brehon’s chair in front of the people of north-west Corcomroe had less than another day of life left to him. She had, in fact, arrived at the proceedings held beside the ancient burial mound on the Atlantic clifftop of Knockfinn, without feeling much interest in them. She was not there as a judge or investigating magistrate, as she would have been in the kingdom of the Burren, but rather as the wife of King Turlough Donn O’Brien, lord of the three kingdoms of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren. The appointment of this new Brehon, judge and investigative magistrate had been made by Turlough; her attendance was purely a matter of form and courtesy.

  The elderly Brehon of Corcomroe, Fergus MacClancy, had become incapable through old age and poor memory of conducting the business of the area, so the king had placed him in a pleasant home by the sea and had appointed a replacement. Today would be the inaugural judgement day for Gaibrial O’Doran from the kingdom of Ossory. He was a young man in his mid-twenties, a member of the numerous legal clan of the O’Dorans.

  Looking down upon the dead body of the newly appointed Brehon the following day, Mara recalled the feeling of dislike which had come to her as she listened to his high-pitched voice with its unfamiliar accent passing harsh judgements on the five cases that came to him. She had told herself that she must not be too censorious, that this was the young man’s first day among the people of the kingdom and that the harshness might only be a lack of confidence, that he was trying, perhaps too hard, to stamp his authority on these people. Nevertheless, she remembered that she had been apprehensive. Her eyes had gone to another surprised and sceptical face, that of Boetius MacClancy, a man learned in English law as well as in Irish law and a nephew of the elderly Fergus MacClancy. His period of banishment from the kingdom was over; he had expected to be the inheritor of his uncle’s position and law school and had returned from England several weeks ago when he had heard news of that descent into senility. But he had been disappointed; Turlough had never forgiven Boetius for his part in some unsavoury events ten years ago and he had refused to entertain the possibility of installing a man like that in a position of trust. Now Boetius looked grimly satisfied. It was easy to sense that mood of the crowd. The new judge was not going to be popular.

  Of course, she acknowledged to herself, while outwardly paying polite attention to the severe voice interrogating Donal O’Connor, a young musician accused of infringing a copyright, of course it may be that I am just annoyed that Turlough didn’t consult me over this appointment. She had suggested that together they interview some of the young lawyers that clustered around his court in Thomond, but the king had heard of Gaibrial O’Doran from Ossory, the kingdom of one of Turlough’s enemies, and he had rapidly seized the opportunity to deprive King Brian Fitzpatrick of one of his men. The appointment was made before she had even met him and she was furious with Turlough. After all, the Brehon who was to work in the neighbouring kingdom to hers should surely be someone who met with her approval. Still, perhaps he would settle down after his first performance in front of the king and his wife, famous as the only female Brehon in Ireland. Perhaps he was just trying to impress with a show of decisiveness and authority.

  She turned her attention to the cross-examination. There were two young bards, both sharing the clan name of O’Connor, Breacain O’Connor and Donal O’Connor, the one accusing the other of copying a song written years ago and both glaring angrily at each other. The Brehon directed his young assistant to call for witnesses.

  ‘I remember Breacain singing that song at the Michaelmas Fair at Noughaval,’ called out a voice from the crowd. ‘It must have been a good four years ago,’ he said in a slightly hoarse voice and then cleared his throat noisily. ‘I remember it well because it was a frosty day and I noticed the words of the song that he sang because there was something about the deer making tracks on the frosty grass and about an icy wind.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ whispered Mara’s scholar, Cian, in her ear. ‘I remember all that business about deer making tracks in frosty grass in one of Suibhne’s poems and the other bits about the icy wind, too. And Suibhne must have written it about three or four hundred years ago. The pair of them copied it. One is as bad as the other. Should I tell the new Brehon? You’d think that he would know the poems of Suibhne by heart, wouldn’t you? We learned them when we were little.’

  ‘Shh,’ said Mara. Cian had a point, and Brehon law did encourage bystanders to put in comments on judgement day, but as he was one of her scholars it would look as though the king’s wife was questioning the judgement of the king’s appointed man. In any case the sentence must be trivial for such a trivial offence, she thought, and then caught her breath in astonishment as the harsh voice raised itself above the muttered comments of the bystanders.

  ‘I declare that you, Donal O’Connor, are guilty of theft. Yo
u will pay a fine of—’

  The voice that interrupted him was stronger than his own, a fine, well-trained voice that rose effortlessly above the harsh, high-pitched words.

  ‘Surely,’ said the voice in a polite, mellow tone, ‘the law decrees that the penalty is for the copy to be returned to the original owner of the work.’ Boetius MacClancy, nephew of the former Brehon of the area, was on his feet. He spoke in Latin, but every head turned towards him with interest. Many of the people of north-west Corcomroe had expected Boetius to inherit the position of Brehon from his uncle Fergus MacClancy and now all eyes were on him. He enjoyed the attention for a few seconds and then switched to Gaelic, the soft Irish words of his youth now spoken, after his ten years in exile, with a strong English accent. Boetius, according to Turlough’s sources, had done his best to ingratiate himself with the powerful Cardinal Wolsey and Bishop Stephen Gardiner while in London. This did not seem to have worked so well, however, and at the news of his uncle’s senility he had returned to Ireland. Ready to make trouble, thought Mara.

  ‘The first case of copyright that Irish law recognized, occurred almost one thousand years ago,’ he said, ignoring Brehon O’Doran and speaking to the people as though he were the Brehon. ‘It was the case of St Colmcille who had, without permission, copied a book written by St Finian. Diarmuid, the High King of Ireland, passed judgement and these were his very words,’ said Boetius solemnly. ‘“To every cow its calf and to every book its copy.” This occurred in the year 563, so our poets tell us. So this means that the song which was copied by Donal from one written originally by Breacain merely needs to be returned to its owner. Possibly,’ he concluded with a condescending smile, ‘the new Brehon is not aware of all the laws of our country yet.’

  ‘The fine based on the offence and the honour price of the owner of the song is two séts, or six cows or six ounces of silver,’ said the new Brehon, doggedly keeping his eyes averted from Boetius. ‘Next case,’ he called out, ignoring the gasp from the people gathered on the hillside of Knockfinn. Donal was a young bard who probably barely made a hand-to-mouth living singing at fairs and selling a few copies of his songs. It would be as impossible for him to find six ounces of silver as to produce six cows. Even Breacain, himself, looked thunderstruck by the verdict in his favour.

  ‘Next case,’ repeated MacClancy angrily and his assistant hastily called out for Ciaráin and Emer and Emer’s mother to come into the court.

  ‘He should have settled that business of the two bards before it ever came to court.’ Mara could not resist murmuring this in the king’s ear, though she felt a little ashamed when she saw how uncomfortable Turlough looked. The trouble with her husband was that he tended to take talkers at their own valuation. Despite his high office, he was a humble man and respected scholarly learning to a degree where it overshadowed the judgement that he would use in evaluating a soldier. Still the deed was done, Gaibrial O’Doran had been appointed Brehon and she should keep her thoughts to herself and learn to work with such a near neighbour, just as she and Fergus had collaborated over the last thirty years. Nevertheless, as the next sorry tale, with many interruptions from a hard-faced, middle-aged woman who held Emer firmly by the elbow, unfolded of too much to drink and furtive lovemaking, or rape as Emer’s mother claimed, in the bushes beyond the alehouse, Mara had to bite her lips to avoid whispering the same comment in her husband’s ear. Why, on earth, she thought with irritation, hadn’t the Brehon talked to the two young people in private beforehand, got Emer’s mother to see that there were faults on both sides and that compensation would be made in the form of an offer of marriage. In fact, Ciaráin was emphatically now declaring that he had offered marriage and Emer was looking at him with a half-smile on her lips. Her mother, however, was insistent that compensation had to be paid for her daughter’s loss of honour.

  ‘The fine for rape is six séts, eighteen cows, or eighteen ounces of silver,’ announced Gaibrial O’Doran, cutting short Ciaráin’s stumbling apologies and explanations. For a moment it appeared as though the boy could hardly believe his ears and then as a gasp went up from the assembled clans, he went very white. He was the youngest son of a large family, Mara seemed to remember. There was no way that his family could afford a fine like that. She clenched her hands in an effort to contain her anger, but Boetius was on his feet again. This time he spoke in Gaelic and it was obvious that he was speaking to the crowd, that he was stirring up the feeling that he would have been a better choice as their new Brehon.

  ‘Surely this was not a case of forcor but of sleth,’ he said suavely and his tone was the tone of a teacher rather than that of a bystander. ‘There is no evidence, I presume, that the young man used any force to induce his young woman to go into the bushes with him. I gather that Emer went unaccompanied by a father or a brother, or even her mother, to the alehouse and while there, she, also, drank ale. And it appears to me that she is not adverse to marriage with the young man. While not condoning Ciaráin’s behaviour, I would ask the learned judge to consider whether anything is gained by this large fine if the two young people do get married, anything, in fact, except the fee paid to the judge.’

  And with that he sat down, smiling gently to himself. Mara felt herself grow hot. This was a great insult to her profession. Many Brehons, she knew, took a levy from each fine passed, but there was something distasteful about the process. Her own father had negotiated with the king, at the time of his appointment as Brehon of the Burren, that he would receive land and a yearly stipend for his services and she had continued that arrangement. So far as the people were concerned, the judge had to be, and had to be seen to be, impartial and incorruptible. Obviously, Gaibrial O’Doran, since he did not deny the charge, had opted for a levy of a tenth of each fine.

  The case of arson, where Seán set fire to a stack of old hay belonging to his neighbour, Brendan, was judged with similar harshness. The hay in question was very old, poor stuff according to Seán, mainly rushes, mouldy and unpalatable and standing abandoned for a year at the junction of the two farms. Seán had set fire to some gorse and the flames had spread. Despite the offer of compensation with a stack of new hay, the fine, once again, was a savage one and Boetius was on his feet again, protesting about the difference between comraite which showed deliberate intent, and anfor where the damage was caused by simple carelessness. Nevertheless, once again the maximum fine was imposed, as it was in the next case where, in a fight in an alehouse, Ronan knocked out a front tooth of the alehouse owner, a man named Barra.

  This kingdom will soon become ungovernable, thought Mara. That last fine was absurd. True it was a front tooth, but the law took into account the damage which such disfigurement would cause. In the case of Barra, the man was already missing several teeth and previous fights had resulted in a lump taken out of one ear and a scar across his cheek. It seemed to her that the new Brehon had gone around the small territory of north-west Corcomroe, inviting people to bring cases for his first judgement day and probably hinting at rich rewards. He had been installed in the Brehon’s house at Knockfinn over a week ago. She had ridden across to welcome him and had listened to his plans to set up the law school again. He had already one scholar, a boy of about fifteen named Niall MacEgan and told her that he was going to make enquiries in the villages and farms and of the priests to find some intelligent boys whose fathers could afford the law school fees.

  Now, it seemed to her that he had done more than look for pupils. He had scoured the countryside seeking grievances and had, doubtless, promised rich rewards. She looked at the gloomy faces of four ordinary young men declared guilty and facing fines that would be an impossibility for them or for their immediate families: Donal the infringer of copyright, Seán the arsonist, Ciaráin the rapist and Ronan the assailant, all of them ordinary young men who might have drunk too much, or been careless and now their lives would be haunted by guilt and debt. Was there anything she could do at this late stage, she asked herself, but could not see any poss
ibility; the man had been appointed to his position by the king, not just her husband, but her overlord, and only the king could remove him from his position or reverse his decisions. Mara gave one quick glance at Turlough’s gloomy face and then braced herself to hear the last case.

  Peadar O’Connor was known to her. As a boy he had worked for Setanta the fisherman, the father of her scholar, Art, and at that stage her son, Cormac, had been fostered by Setanta and his wife Cliona. Peadar, she remembered, was a thin, nervous boy. Setanta had told her that the boy’s father was unkind to him and favoured his eldest son and neglected the youngest. Now he stood passively in front of the new Brehon, his eyes wide with apprehension.

  ‘I call on Clooney O’Connor as a witness,’ said the Brehon’s assistant, the boy Niall. His voice shook slightly and Mara felt sorry for him. He, if not his master, sensed the hostility of the crowd. There had been a lot of discontented murmuring from the crowd at the harsh sentences passed in the previous four cases and only the presence of the king had subdued the unrest. They waited in silence for the questioning of the witness, but there was a feeling of tension in the air.

  ‘Peadar O’Connor was the only living son of your uncle, Cillian, when he died last month, is that correct, Clooney?’ asked the Brehon.

  ‘That is correct.’ Clooney, first cousin to Peadar answered with the air of a man who has something shocking to relate.

  ‘And your uncle was in bad health for months before he died.’

  ‘That he was,’ said Clooney, nodding his head emphatically.

  ‘And needed assistance for daily living?’

  ‘He could walk well enough when he wanted to,’ put in Peadar. His voice was hoarse, with anger, or with apprehension. Mara thought that it was the latter. The young man’s eyes were dilated and his large hands twisted in and out of each other in a convulsive fashion.