Read A Secret and Unlawful Killing Online
Authors: Cora Harrison
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective
A Secret and Unlawful Killing (5 page)
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.
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, and 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.
aigne
(lawyer) at sixteen, the year of his death, and 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.
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.’
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.
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.
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.
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.
CÁIN LÁNAMNA (THE LAW OF COUPLES)
A
woman should marry a man of the same status as her father
. I
f 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.
woman should marry a man of the same status as her father
. I
f 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.
T
he same applies to a man
. H
e should not marry a woman of higher status than himself
. I
f he does, his father has to supply two-thirds of the cattle for the couple and the father of the bride supplies one-third.
he same applies to a man
. H
e should not marry a woman of higher status than himself
. I
f he does, his father has to supply two-thirds of the cattle for the couple and the father of the bride supplies one-third.
M
ARA 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?’
ARA 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.
Diarmuid shook his head. ‘I didn’t need thanks,’ he said quietly. ‘I did it for you, not for him.’ Absent-mindedly, he bent down and picked a few creamy-gilled mushrooms from the side of the road and placed them in his pouch. No doubt he would fry these over his kitchen fire with a couple of rashers for his supper, thought Mara, feeling suddenly touched by his lonely bachelor status.
‘How is Wolf?’ she asked. Wolf was a magnificent dog with red-gold fur and a huge head. Diarmuid’s cousin, Lorcan, had bred him from a mating between a sheepdog bitch and a wild wolf. Up to a few months ago Wolf had treated all mankind, except his owner, with suspicion, but during the summer Mara had made friends with him and now Wolf adored her also.
Diarmuid looked startled and then pleased. ‘He’s in great form,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t believe the company that he is.’ He paused, giving her an embarrassed look, and then
confessed, ‘I often bring him into the house during the evening. That dog can almost talk.’
confessed, ‘I often bring him into the house during the evening. That dog can almost talk.’
‘I’ll come down one evening to see him and I’ll bring some of Brigid’s sausages with me,’ promised Mara, amused at his confession. Diarmuid, like all farmers, tried to pretend that a dog was just a piece of merchandise. Wolf, she guessed, was a substitute for wife and children to this warm-hearted man.
‘That’ll be nice,’ he said; his eyes were full of affection and Mara smiled at him. He seemed to be the one person in her busy life who never looked for anything from her. The people of the Burren respected her and were fond of her, but the clansmen usually had some legal problem for her to address. The boys at the school, her servants, her farmworkers, all brought her problems and questions. The king was beginning to get restless and to want an answer to his surprising proposal last May. It would be very peaceful to visit Diarmuid; they would pass a pleasant couple of hours together, admiring Wolf and talking over old times.
‘So is Garrett going to take charge of the wake and the burial?’ Mara asked.
Diarmuid nodded. ‘The
ban tighernae
tried to tell him that Ragnall’s daughter should do that, but I said she was only a child without any near relations. She tried talking me down, but I just stood there. In the end, I said that the Brehon wanted the
taoiseach
to do it. The
ban tighernae
still tried to argue, but Garrett agreed straight away when he heard that.’
ban tighernae
tried to tell him that Ragnall’s daughter should do that, but I said she was only a child without any near relations. She tried talking me down, but I just stood there. In the end, I said that the Brehon wanted the
taoiseach
to do it. The
ban tighernae
still tried to argue, but Garrett agreed straight away when he heard that.’
‘What’s she like, Diarmuid? Ragnall’s daughter, I mean.’ asked Mara. She bent down to pick a sprig of purple heather, but then changed her mind. Let it grow, she thought. The
bees were enjoying it. It would only die tucked into her brooch.
bees were enjoying it. It would only die tucked into her brooch.
‘Pretty little thing,’ said Diarmuid. ‘Quiet girl … I don’t rightly know if I’ve ever heard her say anything much except, “yes, Father”. She was always working on that farm and she’s only a small girl; you wouldn’t think that she would have the strength for some of the things that he made her do. He was out being the steward and she was left looking after the farm. I’d say that she had a hard time,’ said Diarmuid compassionately. ‘You never saw her out having fun with the other young lads and
cailíní.
Ragnall kept her locked up at home. I don’t suppose she’ll miss him too much, but, of course, you never can tell. Do you know her to see, Brehon?’
cailíní.
Ragnall kept her locked up at home. I don’t suppose she’ll miss him too much, but, of course, you never can tell. Do you know her to see, Brehon?’
‘I just saw her yesterday at the fair with young Donal O’Brien. Liam, the O‘Lochlainn steward, seemed to think that they were in love with each other.’
‘I saw them too,’ said Diarmuid meditatively.
‘And would you agree with Liam?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Diarmuid softly. ‘She’s in love with him.’
‘Do you think that he is in love with her, though?’ asked Mara. ‘A steward’s daughter doesn’t seem good enough for the son of a
taoiseach
and, by all accounts, this is a young man with great notions about himself.’
taoiseach
and, by all accounts, this is a young man with great notions about himself.’
Diarmuid nodded emphatically. ‘He’s in love, all right,’ he said firmly. ‘He would carry the clouds for her,’ he added in a low voice, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
Mara was silent for a moment. She had never heard the phrase before. She looked at Diarmuid, but he was not looking at her, just gazing into the distance. His face had a lonely, sentimental expression. Was he thinking of young Donal O‘Brien and his love for the pretty little Maeve, she
wondered, or was he thinking of himself and his twenty years of loyalty to the friend of his youth? She felt sorry for him; she suspected that he had been in love with her all of her life. She remembered his anguish when he heard the news that she was to marry Dualta, a young student at her father’s law school, and his disgust when Dualta, contrary to Brehon law, had revealed secrets from the marriage bed in the local alehouse. Without Diarmuid’s loyalty to her, she might never have been able to divorce Dualta and to rid herself of an unworthy husband. Would it have been better for her if she had married Diarmuid rather than Dualta? They would have been very happy together and he, she knew, would have taken, as much as was possible, the weight off her shoulders. She dismissed the fanciful thought. Now she would have to deal with the present and make sure that young Maeve and her lover, Donal O’Brien, had nothing to do with the murder of Ragnall MacNamara.
wondered, or was he thinking of himself and his twenty years of loyalty to the friend of his youth? She felt sorry for him; she suspected that he had been in love with her all of her life. She remembered his anguish when he heard the news that she was to marry Dualta, a young student at her father’s law school, and his disgust when Dualta, contrary to Brehon law, had revealed secrets from the marriage bed in the local alehouse. Without Diarmuid’s loyalty to her, she might never have been able to divorce Dualta and to rid herself of an unworthy husband. Would it have been better for her if she had married Diarmuid rather than Dualta? They would have been very happy together and he, she knew, would have taken, as much as was possible, the weight off her shoulders. She dismissed the fanciful thought. Now she would have to deal with the present and make sure that young Maeve and her lover, Donal O’Brien, had nothing to do with the murder of Ragnall MacNamara.
‘I’m going down there now,’ she said. ‘I have to break the news of her father’s death to her.’
He looked back at her then. ‘Are you going down to visit young O’Brien, too, today? Would you like me to come with you? They say that he has a bit of a bad temper. He always seems to be in some fight or other whenever he visits an alehouse.’
‘I think I have plenty of experience in managing bad-tempered young men,’ said Mara with a chuckle. ‘No, you go back now, Diarmuid, I’ve taken up enough of your time for today. I’ll be around to see you during the next few days.’
The lane to Shesmore was long and winding, with hedges so high that, even mounted on horseback, Mara could not see over the top of them. Being the only farm between Noughaval and Lemeanah it must be a very lonely place for a girl, Mara thought compassionately. Still, perhaps that had added to her attractions for young Donal O’Brien. The kingdom of the Burren was a sociable place, with all the inhabitants taking full advantage of the many fairs and horse-racing events, as well as the four big festivals of
Imbolc, Bealtaine, Lughnasa
and
Samhain,
so Donal would have been meeting all the other young girls continually from childhood onwards. Maeve, with all her prettiness, would have come as a welcome novelty to him if he had suddenly met her one day in the lane that joined the lands of Lemeanah Castle to Shesmore.
Imbolc, Bealtaine, Lughnasa
and
Samhain,
so Donal would have been meeting all the other young girls continually from childhood onwards. Maeve, with all her prettiness, would have come as a welcome novelty to him if he had suddenly met her one day in the lane that joined the lands of Lemeanah Castle to Shesmore.
Shesmore itself was a prosperous-looking farmhouse, originally a cottage Mara surmised, but with additions so that now the whole was a substantial, L-shaped, two-storeyed building with windows filled with thick opaque glass. Ragnall had obviously done well for himself during his stewardship of the MacNamara clan. Very few people in the Burren had glass in their windows; most were content with wooden shutters and perhaps a piece of linen nailed across the window frame during the summer months.
Maeve was at home; she came out at the sound of the horse hoofs on the well-paved yard.
‘Brehon,’ she said. Maeve was startled to see her; there was no doubt about that. It took a minute before she added politely:
‘Tá failte romhat.’
There was a definite note of wariness in the young voice, despite the routine words of welcome.
‘Tá failte romhat.’
There was a definite note of wariness in the young voice, despite the routine words of welcome.
‘Dia’s Muire agat,’
replied Mara, walking her mare to the mounting-block. She eyed the girl carefully. She bore no apparent signs of sorrow or guilt. There was nothing amiss with the delicate complexion of the pretty face before her, and the wide blue eyes were as innocent as those of a baby.
replied Mara, walking her mare to the mounting-block. She eyed the girl carefully. She bore no apparent signs of sorrow or guilt. There was nothing amiss with the delicate complexion of the pretty face before her, and the wide blue eyes were as innocent as those of a baby.
‘Have you been worried about your father, Maeve?’ she asked quietly as she dismounted.
The blue eyes — surely there was a shade of purple in them; they were darker than the blue
léine
that she wore — widened even more. ‘No, Brehon,’ she replied softly and deferentially, ‘has he sent you with a message for me?’
léine
that she wore — widened even more. ‘No, Brehon,’ she replied softly and deferentially, ‘has he sent you with a message for me?’
Either this girl was innocent or she was a consummate actress. It was impossible to tell which. In fact, there was something slightly over-naive about the last phrase. Did Maeve really think that her father had sent the Brehon, a person of almost as high a rank as the king himself, as a messenger?
‘You weren’t worried when he didn’t come home last night?’
‘I thought he probably stayed overnight at Carron,’ said Maeve. She didn’t look puzzled or enquiring and the perfection of her face was unmarred by any shadow of worry. Mara watched her carefully. Surely by now she should have started to worry, whatever the relationship was between herself and her father.
‘I’m afraid that I have very bad news for you, Maeve,’ Mara said gently. ‘Your father was found dead this morning.’
‘What happened?’ breathed Maeve and then she turned away, her face closely hidden by her hands, her shoulders heaving.
‘No one knows,’ said Mara. ‘His body was found at
Noughaval. It appears that he was murdered sometime last night.’ She put an arm around the girl, but Maeve’s face remained resolutely hidden, and she did not respond. Small sobbing noises came from her, but Mara wondered cynically if they were genuine. After a few minutes, the girl pulled herself away and walked over towards the door of the cow cabin, where she seemed to be struggling to regain control of herself. Finally she pulled a handkerchief from her pouch and scrubbed vigorously at her eyes, took a deep breath and came back to Mara.
Noughaval. It appears that he was murdered sometime last night.’ She put an arm around the girl, but Maeve’s face remained resolutely hidden, and she did not respond. Small sobbing noises came from her, but Mara wondered cynically if they were genuine. After a few minutes, the girl pulled herself away and walked over towards the door of the cow cabin, where she seemed to be struggling to regain control of herself. Finally she pulled a handkerchief from her pouch and scrubbed vigorously at her eyes, took a deep breath and came back to Mara.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said unexpectedly. Mara was startled; she had expected more questions about the cause of death, enquiries about the murderer or just laments for her dead father, but it sounded as though Maeve were more worried about the practicalities of death than anything else.
‘About what?’ Mara asked, taking the girl’s hand. She was touched to feel calluses all over the small palm and the slim fingers. Diarmuid was right. This girl, despite her child-like appearance, had been made to work hard. It would be little wonder if there were no love lost between Maeve and her father.
For a moment the blue eyes, their clear white surrounds unmarred by grief, nor reddened by tears, looked at her assessingly and then the black eyelashes dropped over them.
‘I don’t know what to do … about his body … about the wake … I don’t know what to do …’ she stuttered. ‘There’s no one … no near kin.’
That distress appeared genuine anyway. Poor child, thought Mara pityingly. She was glad that she had sent Diarmuid to Carron Castle. He had handled that matter well.
There would have been little point in putting this child through all the difficulties of caring for the dead body and then the long-drawn-out ceremonies of the wake. Garrett owed it to his steward to look after his funeral arrangements. It could be done easily by his household; he had enough servants available to handle this.
There would have been little point in putting this child through all the difficulties of caring for the dead body and then the long-drawn-out ceremonies of the wake. Garrett owed it to his steward to look after his funeral arrangements. It could be done easily by his household; he had enough servants available to handle this.
‘I think you can leave that to the
taoiseach.
He’ll manage everything. The wake would be best held at the tower house in Carron and then your father can be buried at Carron Church beside your mother,’ Mara told the girl firmly.
taoiseach.
He’ll manage everything. The wake would be best held at the tower house in Carron and then your father can be buried at Carron Church beside your mother,’ Mara told the girl firmly.
Maeve nodded and held her handkerchief to her eyes again. Mara gave a quick glance at the sun to check its progress. There was one other task that she needed to do before riding back to Poulnabrone. It had taken her longer than she had imagined, riding down that very narrow lane. She would probably have been as quick, if not quicker, going round by the road. However, after being the bearer of such bad news, she felt some compunction at leaving the child alone. ‘Is there anyone that I could send to be with you?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Maeve replied tonelessly. ‘Don’t worry about me, Brehon. I’ll be all right. Fionnuala is in the kitchen.’
Other books
More Than a Kiss by Layce Gardner, Saxon Bennett
To Ocean's End by Welles, S.M
Switching From Windows to Mac by Scott La Counte
AlphainHiding by Lea Barrymire
Montana Rose by Mary Connealy
The Longest Night: A Drake Chronicles Novella by Alyxandra Harvey
News Blues by Marianne Mancusi
The Stolen Crown: The Secret Marriage That Forever Changed the Fate of England by Susan Higginbotham
A Love Like This by Kahlen Aymes
Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series) by Jean Plaidy