My Lady Judge (12 page)

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Authors: Cora Harrison

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective

BOOK: My Lady Judge
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‘This is a sad business, Father,’ said Mara, watching his face
intently. He turned his head and looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. She was shocked to see that his face was heavy with sorrow and his eyes were pitted with black circles.
‘It’s Satan’s business,’ he said in a deep, harsh croak.
‘You were there on
Bealtaine
Eve, Father,’ said Mara. ‘Did you see anything of this matter? You must have passed Wolf’s Lair on your way down.’ And so must everyone else, she thought once again. That was the easiest way to come down. Most people normally climbed the mountain on the eastern side and came down the western side. She had not properly thought about this yet. Only her antagonism towards the priest had brought it to the front of her mind. ‘Did you see anything?’ she repeated.
‘I saw too much,’ he said forbiddingly. ‘I saw unmarried men and young women with them and their behaviour was the behaviour that only the devil inspires.’
‘And Colman?’ she asked.
He did not even glance towards the figure on the leather litter. ‘He, too, was evil,’ he said bitterly.
Mara considered this. From what she had seen on that evening, Colman had been with Hugh and then had gone to talk with Muiris. She had not seen him with any girl. ‘Why do you say that, Father?’ she asked. Suddenly she was devoured with curiosity. Why didn’t anyone report Colman’s death? Someone must have seen him lying there in Wolf’s Lair. There was one guilty person; it made sense perhaps that the guilty would say nothing – though the mercy of Brehon law, unlike English law, meant that most people owned up to a murder and set about making reparation to the family. However, even if the guilty did say nothing, what about the many innocent? Why was there silence about this death? What had happened in that midnight hour?
‘Did you see Colman, Father?’ she asked. ‘Did you see him before the bonfire was lit at midnight, or afterwards?’
He muttered something inaudible and suddenly seemed to
awaken to a sense of his duties. He pulled out the alb from his satchel and then the holy oils and the scrap of bog cotton. He took the linen cloth from Colman’s head and then averted his eyes hurriedly. With a grim face, Father Conglach went through the motions of muttering the Latin prayers and touching the ears, eyes, mouth and the four limbs of the dead man. Mara prayed wordlessly, and yet with a depth of sincerity that she seldom felt during Sunday Mass at Noughaval parish church. She prayed for Colman, prayed that his sins be forgiven him and that he rest in peace now – perhaps for the first time in his driven, anxiety-filled, short life, and she prayed for his killer that God’s grace would bring the courage to acknowledge the crime, to seek forgiveness and to make reparation. Lastly, she prayed for herself that her sins of omission in the schooling of Colman would be forgiven and that she would be given the strength to bring to maturity and confidence the six young lives entrusted to her.
‘Go forth, Christian soul …’ prayed the priest and Mara bent over and sketched the sign of the cross on the dead forehead and then, feeling comforted and strengthened by her prayer, went forward to greet the O’Lochlainns.
They had stopped at a little distance away from the body, keeping heads bowed until the priest had finished. There was Ardal O’Lochlainn himself, mounted on an iron-grey stallion, and behind him were Donogh’s three sons, each leading a pair of horses. The cart was a good sturdy one and they had even taken the trouble to lay some green branches and a few early roses on it. Mara smiled up at Ardal. It would have been his thought, she knew. He was a man of great sensitivity. It would be good to have him at her side when she broke the news to Colman’s parents.
‘Brehon,’ he said gently. ‘This is a terrible thing. What happened? Was it an accident?’
‘Were you there for the festivities, Ardal?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I never bother about it
these days. I let my household stay all night. The men enjoy it more than I do.’
Pity, thought Mara. This is one man whose word I would trust as I trust my own. This is one man who would never hide the truth, or turn his back on wrongdoing. She looked at his tall, athletic frame, his eyes as blue as the lake water at their feet and his red-gold crown of hair and she wondered why he had never remarried. The death rate among young women was very high – perhaps many of them were too young for childbirth – but most men married again quite quickly. Every father in the kingdom of the Burren, or in Corcomroe, would be delighted to make a match between his daughter and the
taoiseach
of the powerful O’Lochlainn clan. Rumour had it that Ardal had a wife of the fourth degree, a fisherman’s daughter, in Galway, but that would not stop him contracting another more suitable alliance.
‘I’ve brought horses for you all, my lord,’ he said, addressing the king. ‘The young scholar told me that you were all on foot. I thought you would prefer to ride back to Cahermacnaghten.’
‘Good man, yourself,’ said Turlough Donn enthusiastically. He would not have enjoyed the long walk back across the Burren, thought Mara.
‘I’ll go with you to Galway, Ardal,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ll want to see Colman’s parents myself.’
He looked a little flustered. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought you would go back with the king. I didn’t realize that you were coming. Perhaps Donogh’s wife would …’ His voice trailed off. Mara did her best to hide a smile. Dear Ardal, she thought affectionately. He was the soul of honour and he would think it wrong that a woman should ride unescorted with a troop of men. But she certainly did not want Donogh’s wife, Sadhbh, dragged away from her busy life as wife of one of the most important farmers in the kingdom.
‘Perhaps Nuala would be allowed to come with me?’ she asked Malachy. ‘Would you like to ride to Galway, Nuala?’
‘Yes, please!’ said Nuala, giving her father no time to reply. Quickly she went across to where a pair of spirited bay horses was being held with difficulty by one of Donogh’s men.
‘I thought one of these for King Turlough and one for the Brehon,’ called Ardal mildly but firmly. He went over and took one of the bays already provided with a side saddle and brought it over next to a large stone, holding it there while Mara mounted. King Turlough was beside her in a moment, holding her hand firmly while she arranged the loose folds of her
léine
.
‘Go safe and return soon,’ he said, using the words of an old prayer.
‘Are you sure you would not want to go back to Thomond today?’ she asked. ‘You must have business to do.’ Ardal had withdrawn and was helping his niece on to a demure-looking Connemara pony. Turlough Donn held the bridle in one hand and placed his other large warm hand on hers.
‘I’ll wait until you come home,’ he said softly. ‘I would not miss the opportunity of another evening with you for all the business in the world.’
Mara turned her eyes towards the priest but he had gone back to collect his own horse from under the hawthorn tree. What would Father Conglach think of this hand-holding and whispering?
‘Tell Brigid to have supper ready at about seven,’ she said aloud and quickly she returned the pressure of his hand before gathering up the reins.
‘I’ll have the pot boiling,’ said King Turlough Donn with a cheerful wave.
‘And take Bran back with you, will you? I can’t take him to Galway. He’ll run behind your horse. He’ll go with you, don’t worry.’
‘Of course he will go with me,’ said Turlough. ‘Aren’t I one of the family?’
BERRIAD AIRECHTA (SUMMARY OF COURT JUDGEMENTS)
There are three categories of
mac béo-athar,
living son:
1.
Mac té,
a son of the fireside, dependent on his father and subject to his control
2.
Mac áuar,
a cold son, who has failed in his duty to his father
3.
Mac ailte,
a reared son who has been allowed independence to devote himself to a profession or to husbandry
 
 
G
ALWAY WAS An IMPRESSIVE sight with its hundreds of stone buildings rising up against the western sea. It had been named Gaillimh, the place of the foreigners, because it was an Anglo-Norman settlement, established soon after the Normans came to Ireland. It was the only remaining settlement controlled by England in the west of Ireland. A great wall had been built around it; the houses inside were large, handsome and, after the disastrous fire of 1472, all made from stone.
‘I love the town of Galway,’ breathed Nuala as they arrived. Her dark eyes were dancing with excitement and her cheeks flushed as she looked around at the crowds.
‘City,’ corrected Ardal. ‘It’s a city-state. It was given a charter in 1485 by the English king, Richard III.’
‘I remember that. I was twelve years old, then,’ said Mara. ‘My father took all the scholars at the law school to Galway to see the celebrations.’ She and Dualta, her future husband, had escaped, she remembered. They had gone down to the quays and Dualta had bought a flagon of wine. The memory brought a quick spurt of amusement to Mara. They had thought themselves so grown-up, she and Dualta!
‘A merchant told me that it’s the third most important port, after Bristol and London,’ Ardal told his niece. ‘They trade in wine, spices, salt, animal products and fish,’ he added. Mara concealed a smile. They had kept pace with the cart the whole way so the journey had been slow and tedious and Ardal had seized the opportunity to improve the mind of his niece with various lectures, especially on the virtues expected of a wife and a mother. Undoubtedly he would be a moving force in the proposed match between Naoise and Nuala.
‘When you are a physician you will be able to buy powders and remedies from overseas here in Galway, Nuala,’ Mara said innocently and a slight frown appeared on Ardal’s handsome face.
‘Here is the city gate,’ he said abruptly. ‘Would you wait here for a moment, Brehon, while I speak to the man on guard.’
Mara reined in her horse and looked around with interest. Theirs was not the only cart; others were in front of them and behind, laden with leather, meat, mantles made from wolf fur, wooden barrels filled with butter. Large herds of cows were being driven along – they would be shipped over to Wales and to France. There were fourteen gates into the city of Galway, she
knew, and if every gate was as busy as this one, then the city must be enormously wealthy.
‘I’ve told the man at the gate to let the mayor know,’ said Ardal, returning to them. ‘He is a cousin of Sean Lynch, Colman’s father. You knew he was related to the mayor of Galway?’
Mara nodded. There was no chance that she could not have known; Colman had brought it into conversation at every opportunity. The mayor was obviously of great importance here, as all the carts and the herds of animals ahead of them were being hastily moved out of their way, and they were waved through the gate with great speed.
‘We turn here and go up Shop Street,’ said Ardal. ‘Shall I lead the way?’
He set off, Mara and Nuala followed, and behind them the cart trundled on with its shrouded body lying amid the green branches and the wilted roses. People in the crowded streets drew back respectfully and many made the sign of the cross as they passed. The news was spreading fast.
‘Here is Lynch’s castle,’ said Ardal over his shoulder. He stopped beside a tall, oblong tower house. A man came running out to take their horses. His face was white and frightened. Mara hoped that the parents had not yet been told.
 
 
Mara had not seen Colman’s parents, Seán and Fidelma Lynch, for over a year — not since Colman’s graduation – and as they stood at the window looking down at them she was struck by how old they looked. Colman had been a late son – and their pride and joy. She hoped that she would not have to destroy that pride. She stood at the heavy oaken door of the grey stone tower house and hesitated. In a moment, Ardal was at her side. He would tell the sad story for her, if she requested it; she knew that, but the story was hers and she had to be the one that broke the news.
‘Mara, Brehon of the Burren,’ she said briefly to the serving-man who opened the door. He knew Ardal; he was obviously a frequent and welcome visitor to the house, but he bowed with respect to Mara and, taking a silver candlestick, he escorted them up the steep spiral staircase to the Great Hall above. Why had Colman found a need to extract money from the people of the Burren? thought Mara. Even if his parents did not want to spend more money on him, they were wealthy and would probably have helped if he had needed money for any particular reason. Why did he have to blackmail a poor farmer like Lorcan?
‘I bring sad news,’ she said as soon as she had greeted the elderly pair. ‘There has been a death …’ She paused for a moment. Colman’s father looked bewildered, but Fidelma knew.
‘Colman …’ she gasped and Mara nodded, reaching out and taking one of the old woman’s gnarled hands between her own.
‘He was killed on
Bealtaine
Eve, on the mountain,’ she said gently. ‘We have brought his body back to you. I do not yet know his killer, but I will let you know as soon as there is any news.’
She waited for tears, but none came. Neither of them sat down: both just stood and stared. They seemed uncertain of what to do, almost as if some living spring within them had suddenly dried up. Nuala slipped out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
‘He did not suffer, he died instantly,’ Mara continued. It was the only consolation that she could give to the stricken parents. She could not think of anything else to say. Even Ardal seemed to have lost his usually fluent tongue. ‘Come and sit down,’ she continued gently, guiding Fidelma towards the tall chair by the fireplace.
‘Sit down, Sean,’ said Ardal, copying her actions. ‘You will need all your strength for the time to come.’
They both sat, eyes full of bewilderment and shock. Eventually Sean Lynch spoke. ‘On the mountainside?’
Mara nodded. ‘Yes, it was the
Bealtaine
festival. He died on the side of Mullaghmore Mountain.’
There was another moment’s silence before the frozen pall of sorrow was broken by Colman’s mother.
‘It was a hard, cold place for him to die, on the side of that mountain.’ Her voice was barely audible. Her husband rose and came to her side. He put his arms around her but she ignored him; just stared ahead, looking at nothing. Outside in the street there was the noise of a wandering musician singing a song and then a harsh voice cutting through the music and then just the sound of cart wheels trundling. Inside the room there was no sound at all, except for the buzzing of a fly in the coloured glass of the window.
The door opened and in came Nuala, followed by a white-faced maidservant bearing a tray of pewter goblets filled with wine.
‘Good girl,’ said Mara softly to Nuala. She took a goblet and held it to the ashen lips of Colman’s mother. Seán Lynch took a goblet and drank mechanically, first one and then another. He did not look at his wife. ‘Tell Father Murphy to come,’ he said to the maidservant as she hesitated at the doorway and then rapidly shouted after her, ‘No, no, I’ll go myself.’
‘I’ll go with you, Sean,’ said Ardal. And in a moment Mara and Nuala were left with the woman. She seemed to be listening. There was a long silence. She asked no questions, just sat and listened. After about five minutes there were heavy tramping noises from downstairs, a door creaked open and then there was the sound of trestles being dragged noisily across the flagged floor. Nuala’s eyes met Mara’s: the body was being brought in.
‘I must get something to cover him,’ said Colman’s mother,
jumping up feverishly. ‘Come to his room with me and we’ll find something.’
Colman’s room was up on the second floor, luxuriously carpeted and curtained. There was an ornately carved chest at the end of the bed and his mother threw it open and delved inside it. She pulled out a magnificent bedcovering made from the finest silk and velvet and embroidered with gold threads. For a moment she buried her face in it, then she handed it to Nuala. Suddenly a muffled sob broke from the woman. She had pulled out roll after roll of vellum from one end of the chest. Frantically she tore them open and thrust them, one by one, in front of Mara. ‘See what a scholar he was,’ she sobbed. ‘Look at all his lessons.’
Mara looked, tears filling her own eyes. There were all the early lessons, the penmanship large and round, though neat and careful, and then the later scrolls, filled with meticulous tiny writing. ‘Even last week, when he came here, he was still working for you,’ sobbed the mother. ‘Look, I found this on the floor after he had left. He must have dropped it from his pouch. Some tasks that he had to do for you.’ On the top of the chest there was a snowy-white
léine
and placed carefully in the middle of it was a scrap of vellum. Mara took and read it. It was a list of case numbers from the judgement texts and yearbooks that were stored in the oak press at the law school. One of them caught her eye: the year was MCCCXC and the number of the judgement text was XIX. It was the number of her own divorce case. She recognized it instantly. There were others, also, whose numbers were not familiar to her; two of them dated from the time of her father. Mara crumpled the piece of vellum in her hand and then thrust it into her pouch.
‘He was an incomparable student,’ she said with sincerity to the grieving mother. ‘I have never had any student like him in all of my years at the law school.’ She rose to her feet and gently
took the rich bedcovering from Nuala, leading the way back downstairs. Nuala followed, a solicitous hand under Fidelma’s elbow.
By the time they reached the bottom of the steep spiral staircase Colman’s body had been carried into the house and placed on some boards across a pair of trestles in the bare, empty guards’ chamber next to the front door. Mara handed over the richly embroidered cloth and stood back while Fidelma covered her son’s corpse. Then a small round priest came in the door, with an acolyte swinging the censer containing the incense. Mara and Nuala sank to their knees behind the two parents and joined in the prayer for the dead. Behind them stood Ardal O’Lochlainn, his pleasant mellifluous voice murmuring the Latin words.
A stream of people – servants, neighbours, relations and friends – came silently through the open door and knelt on the hard flagstones. The room and the hallway beyond were thronged with people. It was amazing how quickly everyone could gather, thought Mara, and then remembered how closely everyone lived and how short the distances were in this crowded walled city. There would be a great wake tonight and tomorrow Colman would be buried in St Nicholas’s Church. Galway had reclaimed him; there was no further part to be played by the law school in the kingdom of the Burren. When the prayer was over, Mara touched Nuala’s shoulder, rose to her feet and silently crept out. Ardal O’Lochlainn followed.
‘We’ll go back now, Ardal,’ whispered Mara. ‘I’ll send your horses back over to Lissylisheen tomorrow. You’ll want to stay longer.’
‘Oh, no!’ Ardal was shocked. ‘I can’t allow you to ride back on your own. I’ll escort you.’
Mara sighed. Ardal could be tiresome. He was stubborn and used to getting his own way.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You stay here. You have business to do. Nuala and I will be perfectly all right.’
He continued to look worried; he would not yield, she knew. He would prefer to lose a day’s business, and perhaps an evening’s pleasure, than show her any discourtesy.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We’ll ride back behind your two men in the cart. Then we’ll come to no harm.’
His brow cleared. ‘You’re sure? It won’t be too slow for you?’
‘No, no,’ she said, lying without a qualm. ‘It won’t be too slow for us. Make our farewells to the Lynch family when it seems right to you. They won’t miss us. Look at all those people still coming. Shop Street is full of them.’
‘It will be slow and boring riding behind this cart again,’ said Nuala in a low voice as they moved off down the street at walking pace.
‘No, it won’t,’ said Mara calmly. ‘As soon as we get on to the south road, outside the city, we’ll say goodbye to the cart. Just ride quietly now while Ardal is still looking.’
 
 
‘Why was Colman killed, Mara?’ asked Nuala as they followed sedately behind the cart and edged their way through the crowded gate.
‘I don’t know, but I’ll have to find out,’ said Mara. It was true, she thought. She would have to find out; cost what it might, the truth was important. ‘Just move to the side here,’ she said, looking down the road at a herd of cows thundering down towards them. Two skinny boys armed with sticks were doing their best to slow them but the lead cow was determined to make a bid for freedom and her sisters were doing their best to keep with her. Ardal’s cart stopped and so did all of the other carts.

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