Deed of Murder

Prologue

The valley hung high on the mountain slope. On either side reared the silvery heights of bare limestone, but the hollowed area itself was intensely green. Mara dismounted from her horse, handed the reins to twelve-year-old Shane, the youngest scholar at her law school, and looked around her with a smile of pleasure. As Brehon of the Burren, judge and lawgiver in that stony kingdom on the Atlantic fringe of Ireland, she knew and loved every one of its hundred square miles, but coming to the valley of the flax garden always had the thrill of discovering buried treasure.

Completely protected from the four winds, open to the sun and fertilized by a steady drift of limestone dust swept down by the winter rains, this sheltered place had the extra gift of a rich soil which was perfect for growing flax and producing enough linen to clothe all the inhabitants of the kingdom.

Once a year she and her scholars came to the valley. Once a year the ritual of an auction was held; once a year they would go through the ceremony solemnly and once a year, for the nineteen years that Mara had held the position of Brehon, the deed would be signed and the lease of this prosperous business would be granted to Cathal O’Halloran. The small clan of O’Halloran, men, women and children, were all involved in the business, sowing the new flax in the spring, extracting the linen threads from last year’s rotted stalks, spinning, weaving and dyeing. And then in August the new crop was ready for reaping – and the cycle began all over again.

Nineteen-year-old Fachtnan and the two sixteen-year-olds, Moylan and Aidan, were busy tying the ponies to the rail by the entrance to the flax gardens. Fourteen-year-old Hugh was chatting easily with the wife of the ‘flax king’, as Cathal was known. Shane, the youngest scholar in the law school, was explaining everything to fifteen-year-old Fiona who had recently come over from Scotland to attend the school where her own father had studied side by side with Mara. Eamon, a young lawyer, who had come from the neighbouring kingdom of Thomond, across the river Shannon, and who would bring the lease back to be signed, listened with that air of sophisticated amusement which had made him rather disliked by the scholars of the Cahermacnaghten law school during the week that he had spent in the kingdom of the Burren.

‘You see, this valley was the marriage portion of the great-great-grandmother of O’Brien of Arra, King Turlough’s cousin,’ explained Shane. ‘In the old days, lots of people used to come to bid for the lease of the valley and they used to have to bid against the candle for the lease of the valley, so O’Brien of Arra keeps up the old custom.’

‘All this fuss, just for that one big field!’ Eamon, a much-travelled young man, sounded amused.

‘Not just the field.’ Moylan joined in the conversation. ‘It’s for everything, the spinning wheels, the weaving looms . . .’ he waved a hand at the sheds.

‘There’s the scutching shed and all the boards . . .’

‘And the dyeing vats . . .’

‘And the retting ponds . . .’

Mara was amused to see hear how belligerent the boys sounded. Eamon, though full of charm, was not greatly liked by the Cahermacnaghten scholars from the moment when he had arrived, and even after a few weeks this had not changed. He had gone away for a week to the Aran Islands on an errand for O’Brien of Arra, the owner of the flax garden, and the scholars had seemed relieved by his absence.

Fiona, on the other hand, who had only arrived a few weeks ago, also, had been very well liked from the first day. Too well liked, perhaps.

‘Everything’s ready, Brehon.’ Cathal was ushering her into the shed. This yearly ceremony was always pleasant. His wife, Gobnait, was at hand with some mead, his eldest son, Owney, with a candle and pin. Mara solemnly measured one inch from the top with the measure handed to her by Shane and then stuck the pin in.

‘Light the candle, Fachtnan,’ she said. He had been her eldest scholar for the last two years and she liked to give him some status. He had not been happy ever since Eamon’s arrival. There was a great tension between them. She would send Eamon across the river Shannon to Thomond with the lease over to O’Brien of Arra by himself, she determined, as she watched the candle’s heat begin to dissolve the wax. Normally she sent her two eldest scholars, but Eamon was a qualified lawyer, twenty-six years of age and well used to travelling. He could do the errand on his own; it would not be a good idea to impose on either the strain of a journey in each other’s company.

Eamon was due, unfortunately, to return and spend another week here before moving on to the law school in Galway where he would take up a teaching post for a few years before attempting the final examinations that would admit him to the select band of Brehons. However, the last week of term was always a time when rules were relaxed and humour was good. Hopefully all would pass well in the law school before the departure of the scholars on their Easter holiday.

The shed door was now ceremoniously closed so that the inch of candle would burn steadily and for the allotted time. Mara sipped her mead and made polite conversation with Cathal and his wife. Her seven scholars stood behind her; they also had been given mead and while agreeing with Cathal that it had been a mild winter after the snow last Christmas, Mara kept a sharp eye that they were not signalling for a refill. This mead – too sweet and too tasting of fermented honey for her taste – was strong stuff.

The candle was taking a long time to burn. There had been a pause. The weather had been exhausted as a subject of conversations, polite enquiries about families had been exchanged, the prospects for the flax harvest had been thoroughly aired. Cathal as usual at this stage of the year was gloomy; he had made his usual bid of two ounces of silver and was explaining why this could not be improved. Mara listened, nodding her head in an understanding way. O’Brien of Arra would be happy with that. He had sent a message by Eamon last week saying gloomily that he didn’t suppose that any more would be forthcoming and Mara had not pressed Cathal to offer more. It was an uncertain business. So much depended on the right weather at the right time; a mixture of rain and sun while the plants were growing, then sun as the field burst into blue flower and then some dry days while the plants were pulled by hand from the ground and dried in tent-shaped stooks. And after that a period of wet weather to start the stalk to rot and release their precious fibres.

Surely the candle did not take as long as this to burn in the normal way? Mara peered at it. Yes, her instinct that the time was longer this year than other years had been correct. Now she could see that just below the pin was a hard lump of tallow; the candle burned down on one side, but on the other the pin still held, stuck fast by that small knob.

Cathal shuffled his feet uneasily. Eamon gave an impatient sigh. Moylan yawned noisily and then stared with great interest at his feet when he saw Mara’s eyes on him. Cathal’s son, Owney, moved to fill Mara’s cup with more mead, but she shook her head firmly. His father, however, accepted the refill and swallowed it quickly, his eyes on the piece of vellum lying on the table before them. Neither Cathal nor Gobnait, his wife, could read or write but he would solemnly make his cross, placed in the spot indicated by Mara, and when the signed leaf of vellum came back from O’Brien of Arra, the deed of contract would be carefully locked into the small high cupboard next to the chimney in their house.

At that moment came a diversion. There was a noise of horse’s feet on the flagstones outside the shed. A shouted enquiry. The door to the shed opened just as the last stubborn piece of tallow began to melt and the pin began to slope down. This was the moment for the last bid in any auction and as always – almost as though he sat in a roomful of eager bidders, Cathal repeated his earlier bid of two ounces of silver and then looked up.

A man had come in through the door. A low-statured, squat figure. Mara recognized him instantly. He was a farmer from North Baur on the High Burren, directly below the Aillwee Mountain.

‘Am I in time . . .?’ The words had hardly left his mouth when he instantly summed up the scene: the table; the unsigned deed; the candle; the pin with its head drooping downwards, but still held by one sliver of wax.

‘I bid two and a half ounces of silver,’ said Muiris O’Hynes. And into the dead silence the pin fell with a small tap on to the wood of the table.

Nothing could be changed from that second onwards – no further bid could be accepted. Muiris O’Hynes – a man without lineage or clan, a successful farmer, but an outsider – this man was now the holder of the lease from the first day in May 1511 until the following year until its eve, the feast of Bealtaine, the following year.

And what would happen to the O’Halloran family, to the O’Halloran clan, wondered Mara as she rode soberly home down the steep road that led to the valley of the flax. Would Muiris continue to employ them? Or would he, as was more likely, employ his own large family, his workers and some casual labour. Muiris was a man whose touch was magic; they said in the kingdom of the Burren that everything he touched turned to gold. He had signed his name to the deed with an air of suppressed excitement, had looked all over the sheds, inspected the spinning wheels and the looms, knelt down to pull a few weeds from the growing crop and then, with a few brief businesslike words to Cathal, he had mounted his horse and rode away.

What would be the consequences of his sudden, impulsive purchase?

One

Dia fis cía is breitheamh I ngach cúis

(To Find Out Who Is A Judge For Every Case).

The law of the land is the responsibility of the king. He may delegate that responsibility to his Brehon, but if the Brehon is unable to swear to the truth of his judgement then the king himself must be the one to hear a case, to allocate blame and to pass sentence.

Fiona MacBetha disappeared just before midnight at the official christening party for Cormac, the baby son of King Turlough Donn O’Brien and his wife Mara. The festivities took place in the large upstairs hall at Ballinalacken Castle, which was a wedding gift from the king to his new wife. It was a perfect place for a festive gathering; a huge room with fireplaces burning tree-sized logs at either end, a minstrels’ gallery above and large mullioned windows overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The guests were a mixture of young and old, mostly Turlough’s royal relations: his son and heir, Conor, with his wife Ellice; his daughter, Ragnelt, and her husband, Donán O’Kennedy, or Donán the landless, as he was known. There was also the king’s cousin, the Bishop of Kilfenora and some of his allies from other kingdoms. The scholars from Cahermacnaghten law school and some of their friends, young people from the kingdom of the Burren, were there also. And, of course, the godparents of this important child, fifteen-year-old Nuala O’Davoren, the baby’s godmother, and Ulick Burke, Lord of Clanricard, Turlough’s friend and ally, the godfather.

Up to that moment Fiona had been the focus of all eyes. Every man in the room had wanted to dance with her; every woman had envied her looks. She was fifteen years old and gorgeous – a tiny girl, but with a perfect figure, perfect features, hair like spun gold, gleaming white teeth, eyes as blue as a sapphire and a laugh that rippled like the strings of a zither.

She had been dancing with twelve-year-old Shane, the youngest pupil in the law school, laughing into his face, letting him whirl her around, pulling off the ribbon that braided her hair into one thick plait and allowing her blonde curls to float free.

Mara had smiled tolerantly to herself as she looked on. Fiona was a flirt. She knew quite well that the two eldest from the law school were madly in love with her. Fachtnan and Eamon were, from the time that she had appeared, almost at daggers drawn about her and the position had remained. She had deliberately walked away and chosen Shane who was too young to appreciate the honour done to him. There were times when Mara had half-regretted her decision to admit Fiona, daughter of a renowned Scottish Brehon, and an old school friend of hers. Mara and Robert MacBretha had been amiable rivals for the top place at Cahermacnaghten Law School more than twenty years ago and Fiona had inherited her father’s brains. The girl was bright, clever and funny, a good scholar with a keen legal brain; but her spectacular looks caused trouble in a law school full of boys.

‘How strange to have a girl law student!’ exclaimed the Bishop of Kilfenora, breaking into her thoughts. He looked with disapproval at the wild abandon of Fiona’s dance. Now all the young people had gathered in a circle around the two and were beating time with their hands – applauding the performance. Fachtnan, though he had a yearning look in his dark eyes, was laughing at the spectacle of his beloved dancing with a twelve-year-old, but Eamon had turned his back and was busy chatting earnestly with one of the king’s friends and allies.

‘Not the first for Cahermacnaghten,’ Mara reminded Bishop Mauritius with a smile. This man had to be handled carefully. Not only was he bishop of the kingdom, but he was also a member of the ruling royal family, a cousin of her husband, King Turlough O’Brien. He was the cause that her baby son Cormac was having an official christening a good eleven months after his birth. The bishop had departed for Rome just before the child was born and had lingered there during the winter months. Little Cormac, who had a premature and difficult birth, had been hastily baptized by Brigid, Mara’s housekeeper, on the traumatic day of his birth, so the official ceremony had waited for the bishop. Mara set herself to entertain him by asking some questions about Rome and about his travels.

And after that she lost sight of Fiona.

If only that silly business with Ulick Burke, Lord of Clanrickard, had not distracted her. Ulick, in full flow, drew every eye to him. Mara found him a tiresome man, quite exasperating at times, but even she could not deny his ability to tell a good story. Now, despite herself, she could not help listening to him as he took his place in front of the huge fireplace, his small slim figure standing out against the more burly stature of the other guests. In any case, he was her husband’s greatest friend and she had to be courteous towards him. Turlough O’Brien, King of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren was never happier than when entertaining friends and relations, but his favourite guest was always Ulick Burke, Lord of Clanrickard with its extensive lands north of Galway, a man famous for having more wives than could be counted!

A large crowd was beginning to gather around them – Ulick was always amusing. But the young people continued dancing, taking new partners now. To Mara’s satisfaction she saw that Nuala, a distant relation and a great pet of hers, was being led out by Seamus MacCraith, the poet, the most handsome young man present.

Nuala, from the time that she was quite a young child, had been in love with Fachtnan. He was four years the older, but, even as a ten-year-old, had always been kind to the dark-eyed, intensely intelligent daughter of the physician. Things had not gone well for Nuala in the last year and she now had accepted that Fachtnan’s feelings for her were just brotherly. Mara hoped that she would fall in love with Seamus MacCraith, though she feared that the young poet, like the rest of the young men in the room, was smitten by Fiona’s extraordinary beauty. Still, Fiona was nowhere to be seen now after her spectacular dance with Shane, so Mara turned a polite face towards Ulick, her husband’s best friend and godfather to her son Cormac.

‘And there, in the middle of London, there is His Majesty, King Henry, the eighth of that name, and there he is in his great palace at Whitehall, prancing around like a mummer, dressed in silks and velvets and every inch of him hung with gold.’ Ulick, though such a small, slim, middle-aged man, lifted his head, expanded his chest and became before their eyes the tall young King of England, roaring out jokes and commands in English and reverting quickly to the Gaelic tongue to paint the scene at Whitehall Palace for his audience, allowing them to picture the arbour of gold on wheels, screened from the audience, and then the dramatic moment when the curtain was drawn back to show the king and his friends with names from old romances, moulded from gold, hanging around their necks.

‘And then in comes young O’Donnell, Hugh Dubh, and him bowing and scraping. "May it please your lordship, certainly Your Majesty, indeed and I will, my lord king." That’s the way he was going on, whining like a beggar . . .’ The mockery was cruel, if funny, and probably untrue, thought Mara; the chances were that young Hugh O’Donnell would have spoken in Gaelic, not in bad English, and have allowed his Brehon to translate for him. It amused the company, though. Donán O’Kennedy, Turlough’s son-in-law, was convulsed with laughter, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth.

‘Tell us about what happened to the gold, afterwards, Ulick,’ he called, looking for approval from his father-in-law, Turlough, who was roaring with laughter. But Ulick was wise enough to know that he had reached the climax of his story with the submission and humiliation of O’Donnell so he ignored Donán and looked around for more wine.

‘And he gave up his title of King of Donegal for an English title?’ marvelled Turlough.

‘Sure and why wouldn’t I?’ whined Ulick, still in character as Hugh O’Donnell. ‘"Didn’t I get masses of gold and silver and promises of more? And now I am an English knight."’ He tossed his head in a young man’s gesture and so good an actor was he that Mara could almost imagine O’Donnell’s long mane of black hair instead of the thinning blonde-grey hair of this middle-aged man.

‘We’ll show him, won’t we?’ roared Turlough, his arm around Ulick’s shoulders. ‘We’ll teach O’Donnell what it is to be Irish. Let him not come anywhere near here with his English soldiers and his English guns. We’ll serve him the way that we served the Great Earl last year. Send him back up north with his tail between his legs – a man who could give up being king and leader of his clan in order to get empty titles from the King of England!’

‘Fill up your glasses, everyone! Let’s drink to King Turlough Donn of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren,’ shouted Ulick, and the servants at the castle scurried around with their flagons.

And the laughter, chatter, music, dancing had gone on until the early hours of the morning.

A good excuse for a party, anyway, thought Mara, looking affectionately across at her husband who was laughing loudly at a joke told by Ulick Burke, godfather to the little prince. This beautiful castle, newly renovated by Turlough for his second wife, was the ideal setting for a gathering such as this. It was good for her scholars, too, to mix with the great men of the three kingdoms. Soon the eldest three would have finished their studies and would be looking for a position as aigne – lawyer – in some noble household. So far only Eamon had been making opportunities to talk with these powerful men and women. Fachtnan, Moylan and Aidan had shyly kept their distance and Mara resolved that she must remedy this. Fachtnan, in particular, should be looking for a position as he would, hopefully, pass his final examination in June. Mara looked about for him, but could not see him, and was distracted by Donán, Turlough’s son-in-law, who wanted to discuss with her his problems with sore throats.

‘You should talk to Nuala about this,’ she told him, trying not to be irritated with a young man in the prime of life, who seemed continually concerned with his health. ‘Look, she’s over there. Even though she has not yet qualified, she’s the best physician that I have ever known; she’ll tell you all about sore throats and what to do about them.’ She had half-thought of suggesting that he talk to Ragnelt, his wife, about it, but the young woman had such a bored, withdrawn look, that she changed her mind.

‘Brehon, you must dance with me.’ Ulick claimed her and, though she disliked him, she was relieved to get away from Donán. For once, Ulick did not sharpen his tongue on her, but restricted himself to praising Turlough and commenting on his bravery and his popularity.

‘It’s no wonder,’ he said with what seemed like genuine sincerity, ‘that he is such a thorn in the side of those who would make Ireland a vassal of England. You know what the Great Earl said of him, don’t you?’

‘"The worst man in the whole of Ireland." I think that Turlough took that as a compliment,’ said Mara with a smile.

‘Goodness only knows what he thinks of him now after the battle last year,’ commented Ulick. ‘Turlough should be