Read A Secret and Unlawful Killing Online
Authors: Cora Harrison
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective
A Secret and Unlawful Killing (3 page)
‘The blacksmith lies, my lord,’ he said. ‘He had left instructions with his man to give them to me as the second half of the tribute that was owed by him.’
‘What!’ roared Fintan. ‘I left no such instruction.’
Clever, thought Mara. The man who worked for Fintan, Balor, a distant cousin of his, was as strong as Fintan himself, physically, but mentally he was a child. He would not be able to stand up to cross-questioning. His classification was that of a
druth
and his evidence would not be acceptable in a court of law. However, did a
druth
have the authority to allow the steward to take goods from his master’s storeroom? Certainly not, she decided, and intervened quickly.
druth
and his evidence would not be acceptable in a court of law. However, did a
druth
have the authority to allow the steward to take goods from his master’s storeroom? Certainly not, she decided, and intervened quickly.
‘This is a case that I must hear at Poulnabrone,’ she said firmly. All courts were held in the open air beside the ancient dolmen at Poulnabrone about a mile from Noughaval. ‘I will hear the case at twelve noon on tomorrow, Tuesday 30 September,’ she went on, raising her well-trained voice so that it carried all over the market-place. ‘The case is between Fintan MacNamara, blacksmith, and Ragnall MacNamara, steward. Fintan MacNamara accuses Ragnall MacNamara of taking four valuable candlesticks from his premises without any authority.’ She paused and then lowered her voice and looked enquiringly at Garrett MacNamara. ‘And the case of the tribute,’ she said evenly, ‘do I understand you to say that this was a special, one-off tribute that was meant to compensate for some years of underpayment? Will the tribute on Michaelmas next year be the same as before unless it has been renegotiated with the clan?’ She paused again, looking at him steadily. To her surprise she noticed a faint sheen of perspiration on his high sloping forehead. Eventually he nodded.
‘Yes, Brehon, that is the case,’ said Garrett. He pushed his way back through the crowd and mounted his horse. There was a subdued movement from the MacNamara clan that she feared might explode into a cheer, so she added rapidly: ‘Go, then, all of you. Go in peace with your family and your neighbours.’
They moved obediently at her bidding, but few left the market-place. Like a flock of starlings that had been scattered by a stone but soon coalesced back into a tight throng of scintillating black, the crowd dispersed but then came together again at the market cross, resentful eyes glancing over towards the impassive figure of the steward, Ragnall, who was carefully counting the silver in the pouch that he wore on his belt.
AN SEANCHAS MÓR (THE GREAT ANCIENT TRADITION)
T
here are two fines that have to be paid by anyone who commits a murder
:
here are two fines that have to be paid by anyone who commits a murder
:
1.
A
fixed fine of forty-two
séts,
or twenty-one ounces of silver, or twenty-one milch cows
A
fixed fine of forty-two
séts,
or twenty-one ounces of silver, or twenty-one milch cows
2.
A
fine based on the victim’s honour price,
lóg n-enech
A
fine based on the victim’s honour price,
lóg n-enech
I
n the case of
duinecháíde,
a secret and unacknowledged killing, then the first fine is doubled and becomes eighty-four
séts.
n the case of
duinecháíde,
a secret and unacknowledged killing, then the first fine is doubled and becomes eighty-four
séts.
T
HE MORNING OF 30 SEPTEMBER dawned with a slight veil of mist, but this soon dispersed in the warmth of the autumn sun and the sky at sunrise was a brilliant
tapestry of orange and gold behind the rounded purple heights of Mullaghmore Mountain.
HE MORNING OF 30 SEPTEMBER dawned with a slight veil of mist, but this soon dispersed in the warmth of the autumn sun and the sky at sunrise was a brilliant
tapestry of orange and gold behind the rounded purple heights of Mullaghmore Mountain.
‘You might as well enjoy yourself for now, the two lads from Thomond will be here by mid-morning,’ said Brigid, finding Mara busy in her garden an hour later.
But the first arrival from Thomond was King Turlough Donn himself, and he came bringing gifts.
‘She’s too beautiful!’ said Mara, gazing anxiously at the superb Arab mare. It was truly a gift from a king, but gifts often brought a price with them. Turlough was getting impatient; she realized that. He would expect an answer from her soon: four months had now passed since his surprising offer of marriage. She had pondered the matter during the quiet days of the summer, but she still could not make up her mind. She looked up into his pleasant face with those gentle, pale green eyes, which belied the pair of huge, warlike moustaches that curved down from either side of his mouth. A man of warmth and integrity, she thought, a man that any woman would be proud to call a husband. But was she any woman? Her present life was a happy and satisfactory one. Did she want to change it for all that was entailed by being his queen? ‘I don’t know how to thank you enough,’ she continued.
‘Well, that half-bred
garron
you gallop around on wouldn’t do for a king’s wife,’ he said gruffly, eyeing her hopefully.
garron
you gallop around on wouldn’t do for a king’s wife,’ he said gruffly, eyeing her hopefully.
She rose to the bait immediately. ‘Oh, who is this king’s wife then?’ she asked, pretending to scan the Brehon’s house and garden, where her neighbour, Diarmuid, was waiting patiently for her. She had inveigled him into breaking a few pieces of limestone for her new flowerbed just before the
king arrived. Her eyes surveyed Diarmuid with affection now. He would be the perfect husband for her, she thought. Tolerant, easy-going, he could move in to her house, carry on with his farm half a mile down the road, and she could continue with her busy life as Brehon of the Burren and
ollamh,
professor, of the law school at Cahermacnaghten. Turlough Donn O’Brien, king of the three kingdoms, Thomond, Burren and Corcomroe, was an altogether different matter.
king arrived. Her eyes surveyed Diarmuid with affection now. He would be the perfect husband for her, she thought. Tolerant, easy-going, he could move in to her house, carry on with his farm half a mile down the road, and she could continue with her busy life as Brehon of the Burren and
ollamh,
professor, of the law school at Cahermacnaghten. Turlough Donn O’Brien, king of the three kingdoms, Thomond, Burren and Corcomroe, was an altogether different matter.
‘You know that I want us to get married as soon as possible,’ said Turlough, lowering his voice slightly.
He stopped at the distracted look on her face. Mara’s quick ear had caught the sound of ponies galloping at breakneck speed up the lane from Noughaval.
Still holding the reins, she moved away from him with a worried frown as she recognized two of her law school scholars once they rounded the corner. ‘That’s a couple of my boys!’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Brehon,’ shouted Aidan, as soon as he had caught a glimpse of her.
‘Brehon, we saw a man,’ shouted Moylan, desperate to get the information in before his friend could speak.
‘And he was dead,’ screamed Aidan.
‘Dead!’ echoed Mara. She hastily handed the reins of the new mare to Cumhal, her farm manager, and moved quickly down the road to meet them.
‘Slow down,’ she commanded as she came towards them. ‘You’ll kill your ponies; the news will keep for a few minutes. Now jump down and walk them sensibly.’ The boys’ faces were bright with excitement and both looked perfectly well so her initial worries were soothed. Her mind was clamouring
for a name to this dead man, but her instinct, especially when dealing with the dramatic young, was to meet each crisis with calm.
for a name to this dead man, but her instinct, especially when dealing with the dramatic young, was to meet each crisis with calm.
‘Take some grass and rub down the poor beasts,’ she scolded. ‘They’re both covered in sweat. You shouldn’t have ridden them like that. I’m sure they are tired after your long journey.’
She waited quietly while the two boys tumbled to the ground and snatched up handfuls of the bleached, dry grass from the side of the road and started to rub down the ponies.
‘Where did you see the dead man?’ she asked, her tone light and casual.
They looked at her, startled by her lack of alarm, and then Aidan said: ‘At Noughaval.’
She waited. Moylan would fill in. This was the way they always talked: each taking turns.
‘He was in the churchyard.’
‘Someone had buried him.’
‘Well, half-buried,’ amended Moylan. By now there was an interested audience of the bodyguards and the king himself, to whom the boys made rapid sketchy bows before returning to their exciting news.
‘Not enough earth to really cover him properly,’ said Aidan with relish.
‘Some soil had been taken from another burial pile.’
‘It was fresh earth.’
‘That would probably be from the burial of old Domhnall,’ said Mara calmly. Her mind was seething with questions and suspicions, but she would let them tell their story. ‘He died on Friday and was buried on Sunday.’
‘The shovel was still there, stuck in the ground.’
‘We thought it was two new graves, but then we saw his feet sticking out.’
‘We were tossing a hurley ball to each other as we were riding along and Aidan missed it. It went over the wall and we got down off our ponies and went into the churchyard. We were hunting for the ball and then we saw the feet under the trees.’
Mara thought for a moment and then decided what to do.
‘When you’ve seen to your ponies properly,’ she said in steady, quiet tones, ‘go inside and Brigid will give you breakfast and help you to put your things away. Hugh is here already and the others will be along soon.’
The two boys stared at her open-mouthed. ‘But you’ll need us to come with you. We know where the body is,’ said Aidan.
Mara looked back. Cumhal, as always, had anticipated her need and was walking up the road with the horse, and Diarmuid was coming out of the gate. She would have plenty of assistance without Moylan and Aidan.
‘Now go inside, you two,’ she said.
They looked at each other in desperation.
‘We know who it is,’ blurted out Moylan. ‘We uncovered the face.’
‘And he didn’t just lie down there and cover himself with soil,’ added Aidan with emphasis.
‘There’s a big lump of dried blood on his forehead.’
‘You’d better let us come with you. You’ll get a shock when you see him.’
She gazed at them with an air of mild interest and they couldn’t resist the final piece of information.
‘It’s old Ragnall MacNamara,’ Moylan announced.
‘The MacNamara steward,’ said Aidan.
‘The MacNamara steward,’ echoed the king.
Mara stood very still for a moment. Ragnall was unpopular, many hated him; she had seen that yesterday. But enough to kill him?
‘Cumhal,’ called Mara. ‘Go back and get the cob, and bring the leather litter with you. We need to go to Noughaval churchyard. Now see to your ponies, you two, and then have your breakfast.’ She looked at their downcast faces and then took pity on them. Her warm heart could never resist her young scholars. ‘You know your ponies are blown,’ she said gently. ‘You have to see to them, now, and I’m sure that you want something to eat, yourselves. Anyway, you are the first, except for Hugh, to arrive for the Michaelmas term, so you can tell the news to everyone else when they get here and, of course, you two will be important witnesses when I announce the death at Poulnabrone dolmen this noon.’
They knew there was no use in further pleading so they went dejectedly through the great iron gates into the law school enclosure. The door to the scholars’ house stood ajar and smoke was rising from the kitchen house. Brigid would give them a good breakfast, avidly listen to their news, see that they emptied their satchels into the chest at the bottom of each bed, and then they would have the excitement of telling the dramatic story to each new arrival. Mara felt she had enough to deal with without their presence.
‘My lord, I will have to leave you,’ she said to the king.
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, with a quick gesture of command to his two bodyguards.
‘You may need somebody to send on an errand, Brehon.’
Diarmuid was at her side. As always, quiet and unobtrusive, he swung his leg over his horse while the king assisted Mara to mount her mare. She smiled her thanks to both while her mind ran through the steps that she had to take. As Brehon she was responsible for all crimes on the Burren and this looked like a case of a secret killing. She looked regretfully back at her garden and at the exquisite flowerbed that she had been making. It was laid out in a series of small diamond shapes, each one outlined by the dark blue strips of limestone and filled with flowers of all the richest autumn hues. There were clumps of cranesbill, their intensely magenta flowers velvet-soft, then a patch of pale blue harebells and then, in the next space, some purple knapweed.
Diarmuid was at her side. As always, quiet and unobtrusive, he swung his leg over his horse while the king assisted Mara to mount her mare. She smiled her thanks to both while her mind ran through the steps that she had to take. As Brehon she was responsible for all crimes on the Burren and this looked like a case of a secret killing. She looked regretfully back at her garden and at the exquisite flowerbed that she had been making. It was laid out in a series of small diamond shapes, each one outlined by the dark blue strips of limestone and filled with flowers of all the richest autumn hues. There were clumps of cranesbill, their intensely magenta flowers velvet-soft, then a patch of pale blue harebells and then, in the next space, some purple knapweed.
Mara paused for a moment looking at the effect and watching how the colours blurred and merged with each other. She had once seen a stained-glass window in an abbey church in Thomond; the glory of the jewel-bright colours, each in its black-edged diamond, had stayed with her and this was the effect that she aimed at.
‘There’ll be a lot of fuss and bother from young Garrett MacNamara if someone has killed his steward,’ said Turlough. ‘Who do you think did it? Weren’t you telling me that there had been some bad blood between the steward and the MacNamara miller — what was his name? Aengus, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she said absent-mindedly. ‘I judged the case between the two of them at the last judgement session at Poulnabrone. I fined Ragnall for hitting Aengus a blow on the leg. It was just a drunken quarrel, but the miller was still limping after a month.’
There was another matter troubling her, though she tried
to thrust it for the moment to the back of her mind. The situation yesterday, on Michaelmas Day, at the Noughaval Fair, had been dangerous and perhaps should have been resolved that afternoon instead of being postponed for judgement at Poulnabrone today. Anger had been seething in the MacNamara clan over the unjust tribute imposed upon them, and that anger had focussed upon the steward rather than on their
taoiseach.
She feared that she bore a certain responsibility for this killing. She had made the wrong decision. This happens, she tried to tell herself. She had done what seemed to be the best at the time; nevertheless it was a terrible thought that a death should have occurred because of a failure on her part.
to thrust it for the moment to the back of her mind. The situation yesterday, on Michaelmas Day, at the Noughaval Fair, had been dangerous and perhaps should have been resolved that afternoon instead of being postponed for judgement at Poulnabrone today. Anger had been seething in the MacNamara clan over the unjust tribute imposed upon them, and that anger had focussed upon the steward rather than on their
taoiseach.
She feared that she bore a certain responsibility for this killing. She had made the wrong decision. This happens, she tried to tell herself. She had done what seemed to be the best at the time; nevertheless it was a terrible thought that a death should have occurred because of a failure on her part.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ said the king, watching her affectionately. ‘You know you are looking very beautiful this morning. I love that gown — royal purple, just right for you. You don’t look a day over eighteen!’
‘I’m thirty-six,’ she replied tartly, but she couldn’t help a quick, satisfied look down at her new gown. The rich purple, over the creamy white of her
léine,
suited her dark hair and hazel eyes and it had been made according to the latest fashion, closely fitting with a row of small buttons at the front, its flowing sleeves caught tightly in at the wrist. The admiration in the king’s eyes warmed her, but she had a task to do.
léine,
suited her dark hair and hazel eyes and it had been made according to the latest fashion, closely fitting with a row of small buttons at the front, its flowing sleeves caught tightly in at the wrist. The admiration in the king’s eyes warmed her, but she had a task to do.
‘Cumhal,’ she called over her shoulder to her farm manager, who was riding respectfully behind them. ‘Go ahead to Niall MacNamara’s farm. He was with Ragnall yesterday when they were collecting the Michaelmas tribute. Get him to send a message immediately to his
taoiseach
and then come and meet us at the churchyard. Actually, no,’ she amended
with a rapid change of plan. ‘Tell him to bring his horse and meet us at the churchyard first.’ She would have to see the body for herself before she sent for Garrett MacNamara: she could imagine his fury if he were dragged from his tower house at this early hour of the morning because of a wild rumour from two fourteen-year-old boys.
taoiseach
and then come and meet us at the churchyard. Actually, no,’ she amended
with a rapid change of plan. ‘Tell him to bring his horse and meet us at the churchyard first.’ She would have to see the body for herself before she sent for Garrett MacNamara: she could imagine his fury if he were dragged from his tower house at this early hour of the morning because of a wild rumour from two fourteen-year-old boys.
‘I’ll go for Niall, Brehon,’ said Diarmuid, riding forward. ‘You may need Cumhal with you and Niall knows me well. His lands march with mine.’
Mara gave him a quick nod and a smile. That would be best. Niall MacNamara, the illegitimate son of Aengus MacNamara, the miller, was a nervous, timid young man. She could rely on Diarmuid to bring him along without causing him any undue worry. And, of course, it still might be just a false alarm so the least fuss, the better. Aidan and Moylan were not the most reliable of witnesses.
It was no wild rumour though. As reported, the body in the churchyard had been left uncovered, a shovel hastily thrown on the ground beside it. The dead face stared wide-eyed at the sky and a cluster of flies buzzed sacrilegiously around the clotted blood on the narrow brow. It was Ragnall MacNamara. Mara bent down and touched the hand. Stone cold. Yes, it appeared likely that he had been killed last night. She sighed sadly. There was something infinitely pathetic about a dead face shorn of all its defences, she thought. In life she had not much liked the man, but in death she mourned him and breathed a prayer for eternal rest for his troubled soul. She straightened up then and walked back to
the gate where she had asked the others to wait. Turlough dismounted his horse as soon as he saw her and came to join her, while Cumhal and the two bodyguards stayed at a discreet distance.
the gate where she had asked the others to wait. Turlough dismounted his horse as soon as he saw her and came to join her, while Cumhal and the two bodyguards stayed at a discreet distance.
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