A Secret and Unlawful Killing Read online

  Almost as if he knew what I had found, thought Mara. Aloud she said, ‘Diarmuid, would you be able to spare the time to ride over to Carron and tell Garrett MacNamara about this killing? Would that be asking too much of you? I think I need to speak to Niall and I would like to send Cumhal back to the school as soon as possible. You know what Aidan and Moylan are like, and Enda and Shane will be arriving soon. I don’t want to leave Brigid alone with them for too long. I hate to disturb your morning though,’ she added, looking dubiously at him. Diarmuid, she knew, would always hasten to carry out her lightest wish and for that reason she didn’t like taking too much advantage of his affection.

  ‘No trouble at all,’ said Diarmuid briefly, his freckled face lighting up with pleasure. ‘I’ll enjoy the ride and I’ll be glad to do something to help.’

  Mara looked after him fondly as he rode down the path, his red-blond hair glinting in the late September sunlight. He was a trustworthy man, she thought, a good neighbour, loyal to his clan and kind to his animals. He lived alone on a farm in North Baur, about a mile from Cahermacnaghten, with only his ferocious dog, Wolf, to keep him company. What a shame that he never married and had a wife and family!

  Father O’Connor, the parish priest at Noughaval, was an elderly man. As soon as Mara saw him emerge she went hastily to the churchyard gate to break the news to him.

  ‘I’m afraid this is a sorry sight, Father,’ she said. ‘Ragnall MacNamara has been killed and his body has been left in the churchyard.’

  The priest nodded heavily as if such things were a daily occurrence in his life. Perhaps he was so old that nothing now came as a surprise to him. He put the black stole around his neck, followed her and without hesitation knelt on the damp grass beside the body. Quickly he anointed the five senses: feet and hands, the two ears, the mouth, and the nostrils, and then just above the widely opened sightless eyes, murmuring the ancient Latin words.

  Mara crossed herself perfunctorily as the priest rose to his feet, but her mind was already busy with the arrangements for the next stage.

  ‘I think, Father,’ she said, ‘that it would be best if we took him into your church for the moment. He can repose there until we see what the MacNamara says. And of course there is his daughter, Maeve. We’ll have to see if she wants to have his wake back at the house, or if it will take place in the tower house.’

  ‘Poor child, poor child,’ said Father O’Connor compassionately. ‘She lost her mother three years ago and now her father. What a sad thing. She has no brothers or sisters either, to help her bear the burden. It was a late marriage between Ragnall and his wife. Just the one child.’

  And where was Maeve? Mara wondered, following Cumhal and Niall as they bore the body into the church. Her mind was working busily. Why had Maeve not informed anyone that her father was missing? Surely she would have noticed and been concerned when Ragnall had not come home that night.

  ‘Would you like me to go and see her afterwards and break the news to her?’ asked Father O’Connor, getting out his prayer book as they entered the church.

  ‘No, Father,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘I think I will do that myself.’ She said a brief prayer over the dead man and then walked back out to the graveyard. Niall and Cumhal followed her.

  ‘Niall,’ she said gently, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ve sent Diarmuid to fetch the taoiseach. You and I will go back and check on the cart and then I’ll go to Shesmore to see Maeve MacNamara and break the news of her father’s death to her.’

  Niall said nothing, just looked at her apprehensively. She gave him a reassuring smile and then turned to her farm manager. ‘Cumhal, you can go back to the school, all the scholars should have arrived now and Brigid will have her hands full with them.’ Despite the serious and tragic situation, her lips curled in an irresistible smile at the thought of the excitement at the law school as Aidan and Moylan told their dramatic story over and over again.

  ‘Yes, Brehon,’ said Cumhal obediently. He went towards the cob, and then hesitated, looking questioningly over his shoulder at her. She joined him instantly. Cumhal said little, but when he spoke it was always worth hearing. As he and Brigid had been her father’s servants from their youth, there was little they didn’t know about the Brehon’s business.

  ‘Did you notice that Ragnall didn’t have a pouch, Brehon,’ he said in a low tone when she joined him.

  ‘No,’ said Mara. ‘I didn’t, Cumhal.’

  ‘His mantle fell back when we were lifting him onto the litter, so that’s why I noticed. It had been cut from his belt,’ Cumhal continued, still in an undertone, with a quick glance over his shoulder to where Niall was standing, waiting at a discreet distance from them. ‘I saw the marks where the leather had been cut. Niall put the mantle back around him before we carried him in. That’s why you wouldn’t have seen it.’

  ‘Thank you, Cumhal,’ said Mara quietly. She returned to Niall and smiled at him. ‘One minute, Niall, I must just have a quick word with Father O’Connor.’ She went rapidly back into the dim chill of the stone church and knelt beside the priest, her eyes scanning the body lying peacefully on the marble slab.

  ‘I’ve sent Diarmuid O’Connor for the MacNamara,‘she said. ‘I am sure the taoiseach will take charge of all the funeral arrangements.’ She spoke mechanically, deftly disturbing the dead man’s heavy outer garment while the priest’s face turned towards the church door. Now she could see for herself that Cumhal was correct. Ragnall wore a heavy, broad leather belt beneath his mantle. The belt was black with age and usage but the edges of the tags, which would have supported his pouch, showed almost white. They had been cut recently with a sharp knife and the pouch stolen. After death? Or before death? Impossible to tell, thought Mara, but she was sure of one thing. By late afternoon that pouch would have been crammed full of pieces of silver. It had even begun to bulge by the time she had seen Ragnall in the early morning of Michaelmas. It had been stupid of her to miss the pouch, she thought. It was as well that Cumhal had his wits about him. She looked more closely at the dead body, determined not to miss anything else. The bone of Ragnall’s forehead was splintered, but there was also a dark purple bruise above the left ear. Possibly the man was first stunned, fell to the ground and was then killed. She rose from her knees. The priest was oblivious of her, still muttering prayers, whether for himself or for the dead man she did not know. She did not disturb him, but slipped quietly away and joined Niall outside the church.

  The journey down the lane towards Rusheen was a silent one: Mara riding ahead and Niall trotting quietly behind her. For the last hour Mara had been too busy to value the present given to her by the king, but now as the horse moved smoothly beneath her she realized the true worth of the gift. This was a gentle mare of superb breeding. The late September sunshine lit the pale gold of her mane and seemed to give her a look of a magical horse, one that had been given by the sun god himself. Mara leaned forward and stroked the narrow head and the small neat ears and the mare turned her head and looked at her with wise understanding eyes.

  I’ll call you ‘Brig’, thought Mara. The renowned female Brehon, Brig, had been like a beacon to Mara from her early childhood. Her father had often told her the story of how a young male judge, named Sencha, had delivered an unfair judgement against a woman. Blisters had come out upon his cheeks and they had stayed until Sencha had sought out Brig and the female Brehon had put him right. ‘You must not judge a woman as if she were a man,’ Brig had said. ‘A man brings horses to take possession of a property; a woman brings her goats. A man brings a richly jewelled drinking cup; a woman brings her kneading trough.’ So Sencha had gone back and reversed his judgement and the blisters had disappeared.

  Mara had always loved that story and had been determined to become as wise a female judge as Brig. Her father had smiled indulgently, but she had persisted with her studies and he had been amazed and proud of the speed with which she learned. She had become an aigne (lawyer) at sixteen, the year of his death, a
nd he had left the law school in her hands. When she became an ollamh (professor) two years later and Brehon of the Burren five years after his death, she had hoped that her gentle father was looking down at her from Heaven and was happy at her success.

  Niall had a small farm of twenty acres about a mile away from Noughaval. As they approached, Mara looked over the hedges with interest. The young man was obviously a good farmer. The fields were brightly green; fat, contented cows cropped the luxuriant growth of late summer grass and neat well-thatched haystacks, each as large as a cottage, were grouped in a sheltered spot near the barn. The stone walls that enclosed the fields were well built and kept in good repair; hedges were neatly clipped and kept thick and stock-proof. The small cottage and the surrounding cabins gleamed with fresh limewash.

  ‘You’ve a great farm here, Niall,’ she told him appreciatively.

  ‘I’ve had a lot of help from good neighbours,’ Niall said modestly. ‘Your own Cumhal has always been ready to lend a hand and Diarmuid O’Connor has been like a father to me. Better than any of my own clansmen,’ he added with a faint touch of bitterness.

  Mara considered this. Niall’s was the only MacNamara farm in the south-western edge of the Burren; most of the MacNamara farms were to the east of the kingdom, so it would be natural that Niall’s nearest neighbours would be the ones to help him rather than far-off cousins. However, the fact that he was the son of an unacknowledged and secret tie between Aengus the miller and his elderly servant might have something to do with his lack of contact with the MacNamara clan.

  Niall MacNamara’s dog barked and then wagged a welcome when they came to the gate. Mara bent down to give him a quick pat before following Niall as he unlocked the barn. It was dark and shadowy and smelled of the dry dust of old hay.

  ‘Could you take the cart outside, Niall,’ she said. ‘We will never be able to check the goods in this bad light.’

  She waited while Niall pulled the shafts of the cart and steered it out into the yard. He immediately went through the goods, obviously remembering each tenant’s contribution to the lord’s tribute. Mara only half listened to him. There was something missing. She had known that as soon as he had begun to lift the bags of wool and the firkins of butter.

  ‘The four iron candlesticks that Ragnall took as tribute from the smithy are missing,’ he said when he had reached the bottom of the cart. He searched around the few things left and then looked at her, his face shocked out of its usual ruddy colour.

  ‘Fintan,’ he whispered. ‘Lord save us, I never would have thought it of him. Why would he do a thing like that just to get back a few scraps of metal?’

  There was more than a few scraps of metal involved, thought Mara. All of Fintan’s talents as a smith had gone into the making of those magnificent candlesticks and he would not have been able to bear to be cheated out of them. Would that mean that he had killed, though? Mara did not know him well enough to be sure of the answer to her own question. And, of course, the candlesticks were not the only missing goods from the tribute.

  ‘I suppose you noticed that Ragnall’s pouch was also missing, Niall, didn’t you, when you put his mantle around him?’ she said casually.

  He looked at her with seemingly unfeigned surprise in his light-coloured eyes. ‘No, Brehon,’ he said quickly. Surely that must be a lie, thought Mara. Niall had been with Ragnall for most of the day. He would have noted how, piece by piece, the silver would have been carefully stowed away in the pouch. Cumhal had immediately seen that it was missing.

  ‘And yet you put his mantle around him,’ she pointed out.

  ‘I m … might have done,’ he stuttered. His face had gone very white. He stared at her for a few minutes. Even his lips were blanched and bloodless, she noticed. She waited patiently, looking at him enquiringly.

  ‘I was very upset when I saw the body,’ he stated finally, after visibly racking his brains for an explanation that would content her.

  ‘I see,’ said Mara gravely. ‘Well, I think the best thing would be for you to keep the cart here until your taoiseach tells you what to do with it.’

  He nodded silently, bending down to do the task immediately.

  ‘Not a word to anyone else of this in the meantime, Niall,’ she warned as he replaced the goods into his cart. She waited while he wheeled it back into the barn again and locked the door securely. He walked to the gate with her.

  ‘What’s my best way to get to Shesmore, Niall?’ she asked.

  ‘You’d be quickest if you go through Noughaval churchyard and then down the path between the fields of Ballyganner,’ he said. His voice was still low and shaken, she noticed, but he made an effort to steady it before he spoke again. ‘When you pass the tower house at Ballyganner, just turn left and take the lane over towards Shesmore. It’s a narrow lane, but wide enough for a horse. When you see the farmhouse, you can cross two fields and you’ll be there.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to go back to the church then, Niall,’ said Mara. ‘Stay with Ragnall’s body until your taoiseach arrives.’ She clicked her tongue, shook the reins lightly, and the mare responded instantly with a quick glance over her shoulder and a sparkle in her fine eyes.

  On arriving back at Noughaval, Mara dismounted at the gate and led the horse through the churchyard, stopping for a moment to look at the spot where the body of Ragnall had lain. She could see the scattered earth where Aidan and Moylan had uncovered the body. There was very little of it; not enough even to cover the body properly. There was no intent at concealment, then. Surely the murderer could have easily dug a hole in the soft, friable soil that had been continuously reworked over the centuries. Perhaps the murder had taken place when there were still plenty of people at the market square, when the possibility of discovery was too high for a risk like that to be taken. But why cover the man at all? Why not just leave the body lying on the ground after the fatal blow had been struck? Could it be that the murderer could not bear to see the accusing, wide-open eyes of the dead man? Did that show some relationship between killer and killed? And what had been used to strike the blow? Something heavy, surmised Mara, and she looked around, wondering if there was anything in the graveyard that could have been used as a weapon.

  Not far from the scattered earth lay a small, roughly fashioned stone cross. It was only about two feet long. It had nothing engraved upon it, but it probably came from one of the many graves dotted around. Holding her reins in one hand, she bent down and picked it up. It was heavy, she thought, but not too heavy to be swung and used as a weapon. One side of it was covered with moss and lichen — that would have been the side facing the north-west, she surmised. However, the vegetation at the top of the cross was broken off, leaving the surface not white, as would be expected, but a rusty brown. For a few minutes she stared at the mark. Her years of experience had taught her to identify this particular stain. It was definitely dried blood. Carefully she placed the heavy cross back on the ground and then stopped as the sunlight glinted on an object loosely covered with soil. She knelt down and sifted the soil, allowing it to run through her hands until her fingers met something. She tightened her hand and then opened it. There was something hard there that sparkled: it was a brooch, still pinned to a torn piece of grey cloth. A piece of a brat, a mantle, she surmised, finely woven from the wool of the sheep that filled the mountains and the uplands of the Burren. It was the brooch, however, that held her attention. It was a valuable brooch, made from gold, circular, and in the centre, inlaid into red enamel, were the figures of three lions. The three lions, she thought, inspecting the brooch with its telltale piece of grey cloth still attached, and then turning it over and over in her hand. This was the badge of the O‘Brien clan. These three lions snarled from every flag and every banner of the O’Briens. She looked at the brooch thoughtfully and then placed it carefully within her pouch. She hadn’t found the answer to her question: only another question. She sighed and then looked around. Yes, there was a gate at the far side of the churchyard
.

  It was interesting, she thought, as she went to collect her mare, that this secret hidden path, with its high hedges, led from the churchyard at Noughaval to the farm at Shesmore and from there to the O’Brien tower house at Lemeanah.

  THREE

  CÁIN LÁNAMNA (THE LAW OF COUPLES)

  A woman should marry a man of the same status as her father. If she marries a man of higher status, then her father must supply two-thirds of the cattle and the father of her husband need supply only one-third.

  The same applies to a man. He should not marry a woman of higher status than himself. If he does, his father has to supply two-thirds of the cattle for the couple and the father of the bride supplies one-third.

  MARA WAS JUST AT the churchyard gate when she heard the clop, clop of Diarmuid’s horse. She smiled a greeting before asking: ‘So what did Garrett MacNamara say about the killing, then?’

  Diarmuid chuckled, dropping his reins so that the horse could nibble at a clump of grass by the entrance to the graveyard. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, but the first thing he wanted to know was what business of mine it was. He wasn’t that interested in hearing about his steward’s death.’

  ‘What!’ For once Mara was speechless.

  ‘Well, you see, he reckoned that it should have been one of his own clan who brought the news, Brehon.’ Diarmuid always called Mara, ‘Brehon’. Although they had been children together, his respect for her position was enormous.

  ‘And he didn’t even thank you for riding all the way up there to Carron in order to tell him?’ The outrage in Mara’s voice was enough to make the mare, Brig, turn her head to look at her mistress enquiringly.