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  And, of course, she thought, this would be a splendid prize for any boy to inherit. Ardal was by far the richest taoiseach on the Burren. The O’Lochlainns had been kings of the Burren in the past, before it was conquered by the O’Briens of Thomond. The land, of course, was clan land and should go to the taoiseach of the clan as well as many of the sheep and cattle. Ardal, however, had a large personal fortune amassed by breeding and selling horses and by his efficiency as a farmer and this would be a rich prize for any heir, even if Iarla were not declared to be the tánaiste. Ardal, of course, would be aware of all this.

  ‘But does the law say that I must recognize this boy as my son?’ There was a note of deep distaste in his voice.

  ‘I would be cautious for the moment, Ardal. Admit nothing. Say little. Leave this to me. Now, I think, since I know the facts about the matter, this might be the moment for me to meet this Iarla.’ Suddenly a thought struck her. ‘But who is the older man? You said that the blacksmith is dead.’

  ‘That’s the present blacksmith from Inisheer. He’s the brother of the boy’s father, or previously acknowledged father.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara. ‘Interesting that he comes here with the boy! You would not imagine a man would welcome his brother being known as a cuckold.’

  ‘Shall I bring them in so that you can speak with them?’ Ardal winced slightly at her plain speaking, but tried to sound detached.

  ‘Yes, do that, Ardal.’

  This should be interesting, she told herself. There seemed to be something odd about the story.

  When Ardal returned, Mara was not surprised to see that he was accompanied by Liam as well as the two strangers. Liam had been steward to Ardal, and to Ardal’s father before him. He was a strong, active man, reputedly about sixty, though he looked a good ten years younger. Ardal relied on Liam, not just for managing his estate and its revenues, but also for companionship.

  What a shame that Ardal had not remarried, thought Mara. If he had married again ten years ago, after the death of his young wife, and now had a string of sons ready to inherit his lands and fortune, then this young Iarla might never have bothered turning up on his doorstep. No doubt the story of Ardal’s wealth and his childlessness had penetrated to the Aran Islands.

  ‘This is Iarla, Brehon, and this is his uncle, Becan.’ Liam made the introductions with aplomb, but like his master, he looked shocked.

  ‘Sit down, Iarla, and you, Becan.’ But before she could move, Liam, efficient as always, proffered the only chair in the room to Mara and pulled out two stools for the men. Then he went and stood quietly beside his master who was leaning against the wall.

  ‘I’ve heard the purpose of your arrival,’ said Mara, addressing Iarla directly. ‘When did you first hear this tale?’

  He flushed angrily. The word ‘tale’ had stung.

  ‘Three days ago,’ he said briefly.

  ‘At the deathbed of your mother?’ Mara softened her voice. It was not for her to take one side or the other, she reminded herself. The fact that she was fond of Ardal and had known him since they were both young should have no place in this enquiry.

  Iarla nodded.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ As he launched into the explanation she studied him carefully. There was no look of Ardal about him. He was below medium height, with dark hair, a swarthy skin, heavy nose and a full-lipped mouth.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as he finished. ‘Now, can I see the letter from the priest?’

  He fumbled under his arm. Over the léine he wore a short jacket of unsheared sheepskin. It seemed to have some sort of pouch sewn to the inside of that. The package, when he finally extracted it, was completely wrapped in oilskin and he took some time to unfold this, putting the skin carefully aside before handing the sheet of vellum to her. A fisherman, obviously, well used to protecting important goods from the damage of the Atlantic salt water.

  And this document was important. Mara read it to herself and then aloud. The letter was well written and referred to the ‘ancient law of the land of Ireland’ and stated that a woman had confessed her sin on her deathbed and had named Iarla as the son, not of her husband, but of Ardal O’Lochlainn, taoiseach of the O’Lochlainn clan of the Burren. The priest, in priest-like fashion, was ‘confident that this young man would be instated as the only son of the taoiseach and given all of the rights and privileges that came from that position.’

  Mara folded the letter and looked up. Ardal’s face was now well under control and showed no emotion. Liam looked openly suspicious.

  ‘How did the priest know that the O’Lochlainn had no son yet?’ he demanded truculently.

  Mara bit back a smile. The whole of the Burren had been trying to marry off Ardal for the last ten years. It was indeed possible that the story of his childlessness had penetrated as far as Aran. Liam, however, had not finished.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ he went on, pointing to Becan. ‘You were selling fish at the Imbolc fair, here on the Burren, six weeks ago. I remember your face.’

  ‘No crime in that.’ Becan’s voice was deep and hoarse.

  ‘But you said you were a blacksmith.’

  ‘I do a bit of this and a bit of that.’ Becan shrugged, spreading his hands out in the island fashion.

  He had more of a look of a blacksmith than of a fisherman, thought Mara. His hands and arms were huge and he had several burn marks on his face as well as his hands. She decided to say nothing though, just to watch and listen.

  ‘And if you are a fisherman,’ continued Liam, jutting his chin aggressively, ‘why sell fish here in Burren? Why not in Corcomroe – wouldn’t that be nearer for you with a long journey to go back to the island? Why walk all the way to the Burren? You had no horse, not even a donkey. I remember seeing you on the road near our place.’

  ‘Why not?’ Becan stared back.

  ‘I know why,’ said Liam triumphantly. ‘You had heard about the O’Lochlainn and you decided to come to have a look for yourself. You picked up all the news and you went to have a look at the O’Lochlainn’s tower house. Don’t deny it. It wasn’t on your road back to Doolin. You were having a good look around Lissylisheen when I saw you.’

  I wonder whether this is a fraud, thought Mara. It’s beginning to look like that. Aloud she said gently, ‘What was wrong with your mother, Iarla? Why did she die? She was still a young woman, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She had a lump in her breast,’ said the young man sullenly.

  ‘So she knew for quite a while that she was going to die,’ said Mara quietly.

  She cast a quick glance at Iarla. He had the massive shoulders and well-developed arms of Becan, but he did not look as if he had recently worked at the forge. There were no burn marks on either hands or face. Of course, there would have been very little work for a blacksmith in Aran. As far as she knew there were no deposits of iron in the limestone. Even in the Burren itself there was no iron: Fintan MacNamara, the blacksmith, had to get his from Corcomroe. Mara hadn’t been to Aran for several years, but she remembered it very clearly. Everything there was made from stone; there were no gates anywhere; the field gaps were opened and closed by the simple method of moving some of the large stones from the slanting herringbone pattern of the walls. The blacksmith’s work would consist purely in making cooking pots and perhaps shoes for the few horses that existed on the island.

  ‘So the blacksmith business belonged to you and your brother?’ she addressed Becan.

  ‘That’s right, Brehon,’ he said gruffly. ‘And our father before him.’ He looked at her suspiciously, and, when she didn’t reply, he said aggressively. ‘So what’s going to happen now? I have to go back to Aran as soon as possible and I want to see this affair settled. The priest said that Iarla would have to be taken in by the O’Lochlainn. There’s nothing for him on the island; his three sisters have their own families to look after and so do I.’

  So it was as she suspected. If there were a suspicion that the boy was not his brother’s son, then
Becan would feel no duty to share the meagre income of the blacksmith’s business with him. Mara glanced at Ardal. He was a man of principle and of honour. His own convenience would never form part of a reason for a decision. His eyes met hers, but there was doubt in them. He glanced over at Iarla, looking at him curiously and intently. Iarla flushed, a warm tide of red flooding under the sea-tanned skin. He was a handsome lad in a dark swarthy way, thought Mara, eyeing him with interest. His eyes stared defiantly back.

  ‘What is the position now, Brehon?’ Ardal addressed her with his usual courtesy.

  ‘Two things have to be taken into consideration,’ said Mara, mentally scanning through the dusty piles of law texts and judgement scrolls that filled the shelves and wooden presses of Cahermacnaghten. ‘The first is the sworn deathbed testimony of the mother, witnessed by a priest, that Iarla, here, is the son of Ardal O’Lochlainn. However, secondly, it must be borne in mind that this was a married woman. No doubt during the Eastertide and the weeks that followed, this woman had intercourse with her lawful wedded husband. It would have been strange if she did not do so. She herself might honestly have believed that Iarla was the fruit of her brief intimacy with the O’Lochlainn; a taoiseach – and you were already taoiseach at the time, were you not, Ardal? – would seem a romantic father for her son. This does put a doubt in my mind. As well as that –’ Mara looked very directly at the young man – ‘there is no physical likeness between Iarla and Ardal. In fact, I can say, since I know all of the O’Lochlainn’s family, that I don’t think that I have met any dark-haired members. The red hair seems to persist. What was the colour of your mother’s hair, Iarla?’

  ‘It was red,’ he muttered.

  ‘I see,’ said Mara, ‘and of course, two red-haired parents would seem to forecast a red-headed child.’

  She looked at him carefully. No, he had no resemblance at all to Ardal: the features were quite different. Ardal had a white-skinned face with a straight, well-cut nose, a high forehead and thin, fastidious lips, whereas Iarla was dark with a swarthy skin, dark eyes and a blunt, fleshy nose. However, she knew that this would only be enough to cast a doubt. The law was very clear; a deathbed confession had always to be believed.

  ‘I think I need some time to decide on this question; perhaps I could appoint a time in two weeks at Poulnabrone. Poulnabrone is our judgement place,’ she informed the two men from Aran.

  ‘And in the meantime, perhaps you would like to stay with me at Lissylisheen,’ said Ardal, trying to force a note of hospitality into his voice. ‘And you, Becan, until the high seas die down.’

  The two men looked at each other and then Becan nodded an off-hand acceptance.

  There was an awkward silence for a moment. Becan looked from one to the other. ‘Well, perhaps in the meantime we’ll go back and join the party and let you talk it over,’ he said, grabbing the young man by the sleeve and leading him from the room.

  ‘I think it might be an idea to send someone over to Aran to investigate,’ said Mara as the door closed behind the two. ‘I could send Fachtnan and Enda. They would do it very well and it would be good experience for them. I’d be interested to hear whether the mother ever spoke of the possibility that Iarla was not her husband’s son, or indeed, whether she had ever mentioned any other possibility for a father.’

  ‘I’ll go with them, Brehon, if you like,’ offered Liam. ‘We’re not too busy at the moment.’

  ‘Thank you, Liam, but I think that I will send Cumhal. He’ll enjoy the trip.’ Cumhal was her farm manager. He was an immensely busy man supervising and planning all the work on the farm and assisting the Brehon with the scholars’ out-of-school activities, but she would feel happiest to entrust nineteen-year-old Fachtnan and seventeen-year-old Enda to him. It was kind of Liam to offer, but she felt neither Liam, nor any of the O’Lochlainn clan, should be involved in this fact-finding mission. Justice had to be seen to be impartial.

  ‘I just don’t feel that he is my son,’ said Ardal thoughtfully. ‘There is nothing there when I look at him, no gesture, no expression, no feature.’

  ‘He looks more like his uncle, the blacksmith.’ Liam eyed her hopefully.

  ‘I’ll study my law texts,’ promised Mara.

  ‘And if the worst comes to the worst,’ said Liam with a grim smile on his lips, ‘I can always take him back to the island and toss him to the fishes.’

  Two

  Audacht Morainn

  The Testament of Morann

  ‘Let him (the king) not elevate any judge unless he knows the true legal precedents.’

  One of the most important decisions that a king must make is in the appointing of a Brehon (judge) to administer justice in the kingdom.

  A Brehon must be a person of virtue and integrity as well as having a deep knowledge of all things pertaining to the law.

  ‘Brehon!’

  ‘Mara!’

  The two voices almost blended. Mara stood up rapidly. Already her magnificent white wolfhound, Bran, had bounded to his feet and with head raised was sniffing the air. Mara put her hand on his collar and then released it. In the distance she saw Fachtnan, her eldest scholar, and Nuala, the physician’s daughter, crossing the clints of shining limestone. She waved and then heaved a sigh. There was some crisis for her to deal with. Her peace would soon be at an end.

  ‘Wait, Bran,’ she said, signalling to him to lie down again.

  It was Thursday. School had finished, the day was fine and she was snatching a half-hour’s gardening, moving some eight-petalled celandines to fill in the gaps in the shining ribbon of gold that wove its way through the hazel wood beside her garden.

  Mara’s garden was her pride, her joy and the place where she did her thinking. Today as she placed soft piles of vivid green moss around the clumps of butter-pale primroses, shortened the thorny branches of the pale-pink dog rose, dug up the scattered brass-coloured celandine plants, and cleared the dead leaves from where the bluebells had begun to spear their way through the woodland soil, her mind had been busy with the problem of Ardal and these sudden and unexpected visitors from the Aran Islands.

  Becan, according to Brigid, her housekeeper, had left Lissylisheen yesterday afternoon. The wind had died down and he’d planned to spend the night at Doolin and make the sea crossing this morning. Iarla was staying on at the tower house of Lissylisheen, and was, according to Brigid, making a nuisance of himself, following Liam around from barn to farm. Ardal had taken some horses to sell in Galway so Liam had been left to play the host. Possibly not the best of arrangements, thought Mara. Perhaps she should have invited the young man to stay at the guesthouse at the school. However, Ardal had issued the invitation, and maybe it would be good if he were to get to know the boy for a week or two before judgement was announced at Poulnabrone.

  By the time that Mara reached her own gate, Fachtnan, closely followed by Nuala, had just vaulted the last low stone wall before the road that ran in front of Cahermacnaghten Law School and the Brehon’s house, a hundred yards away from the school. The news was not too serious, she thought, looking at the two young faces. For a moment she had been afraid that something was wrong with Malachy – Fachtnan had gone over to the physician’s house after school to deliver a request from Brigid to Malachy for some ointment for a farm worker’s arm. However, though their faces were serious, neither looked particularly distressed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mara, opening the gate and standing back to allow them to come in.

  ‘You’ll be shocked,’ warned Nuala.

  ‘We got a shock,’ said Fachtnan. ‘Nuala was great. She just got straight down on her knees and started to examine him.’

  ‘What! Has there been an accident?’ Mara’s mind immediately flew to her six scholars. Ten-year-old Shane and thirteen-year-old Hugh had gone to help her neighbour, Diarmuid, with the lambing; Enda was studying in the scholars’ house; Aidan and Moylan were sowing oats with Cumhal. All should be safe.

  ‘Not an accident.’ Nu
ala was watching her face carefully. ‘Definitely not an accident.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Mara was getting exasperated and it showed in her voice.

  ‘We were just trying to break it gently,’ said Nuala reproachfully. ‘It’s that fellow from the Aran Islands.’

  ‘Iarla,’ added Fachtnan. ‘The lad who claims to be O’Lochlainn’s son.’

  ‘And he’s been injured?’ But Mara knew it was more than that. ‘Killed?’ she queried.

  Nuala nodded. ‘Not recently, either. He’s cold and stiff. He’s lying in front of Balor’s Cave at Kilcorney.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara. Her heart sank. Mechanically she went back and put her trowel and her leather gloves into her small basket and replaced them in the small stone cabin beside her house. She took her fur-lined cloak from the peg behind the front door of the house, but kept on her heavy boots. The way across to Kilcorney was rough with great slabs of stone and tumbled rock; it was no place for fine leather shoes, especially for a woman who was five months pregnant.

  ‘Don’t take Bran,’ said Fachtnan suddenly and she understood his feeling. She vividly remembered the other occasion when Bran’s howls had signalled a dead body and the repercussions for the law school from that discovery.

  ‘Put him back in the stables, then,’ she said. ‘Oh, and just run and tell Brigid that I am going over to Kilcorney, Fachtnan. Tell her that I should be back for supper. Nuala and I will start going and you can catch us up.’

  ‘Father is with him. He said that he would wait until you came,’ said Nuala as they crossed the field, stepping over the grykes where the violets and primroses were blooming in the small crevices between the slabs of stone. Her face grew angry when she mentioned her father, but cleared when Fachtnan came bounding across the clints, his nail-studded boots striking sparks off the huge slabs of limestone.