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Authors: Cora Harrison

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‘But Fintan works over a hot fire,’ said Hugh.
‘Yes, but he wasn’t sweating when he came out,’ argued Enda. ‘Moylan’s right. He started to sweat when the Brehon asked him about the candlesticks. I think what happened was that he went back and had a quarrel with Ragnall and biffed him. He might not even have meant to do it, but once he had done it, he took the candlesticks.’
‘How did Fintan get Ragnall to go into the churchyard?’ asked Shane. ‘Ragnall must have been in the churchyard when he was murdered. No one could have murdered him in front of all of the people at the market.’
‘That’s easy,’ said Enda scornfully. ‘He just hung around until Ragnall went in of his own accord to … Well, you know,’ he finished with a quick glance at Mara.
Mara considered this. Of course, that was the most likely way that things had happened. It was unfortunate, but true, that most people at the Noughaval market used the churchyard, with its sheltering trees and bushes, as a private place to urinate. Up to now, she had assumed that Ragnall had withdrawn into the churchyard to meet his murderer. If it were true that it was just by chance, then the killer might possibly be Fintan. He would be a man who would find it hard to judge the strength of a blow. But would he have picked up the stone cross? Wouldn’t he be more likely to use his own powerful fist?
‘How were the candlesticks stolen then?’ she asked. ‘The cart remained in the same place, in the corner of the market-place, until Niall MacNamara arrived to take it away.’
‘What about Fintan getting a few people to help him?’ asked Shane. ‘Three or four of the clan could have stood around the cart to hide someone else who could slip the candlesticks into a bag or something.’
‘Yes, no one would have taken any notice of MacNamaras around the cart,’ said Enda enthusiastically. ‘I vote that we consider him a suspect … in the privacy of this field, of course,’ he added hastily.
 
 
There was a stream of people on horseback, or on foot, winding their way up the hill towards the MacNamara castle when they arrived at Carron. Mara noticed the tall figure of Ardal,
taoiseach
of the O‘Lochlainns, beside the small round figure of Teige O’Brien. Teige’s son, Donal, was not with them, she noticed. It was a couple of months since she had visited this castle, the home of the chief of the MacNamara
clan, and she looked at it with interest. There seemed to be very little difference on the outside; it was still rather grim with its tiny windows and its castellated roof. The limestone blocks in the walls were carelessly hewed and were irregular and propped up by numerous small stones. It was no wonder that Garrett’s new wife desired to make changes.
The small entry passage, with the guard’s chamber leading off it, still looked the same as well. There was no new oaken furniture, nor wall hangings to soften the cold grey of the stone. The spiral staircase had been hollowed with the tread of many feet, and the icy chill in the air of this late September evening moistened the stone walls with winding rivulets of condensation.
The great hall, however, glowed with the warmth of braziers filled with orange and black heaps of burning charcoal. These walls were covered almost entirely with painted leather hangings, and a new dais had been built at the top of the hall with a magnificent oak table running the length of it. The benches on either side of the table were covered with heavy linen cloths and at the head of the table were two magnificently carved oak chairs, heaped with velvet cushions. The new wife, Slaney, had certainly begun to make an impression on this run-down castle of her husband’s. Mara looked around her with interest, but of Slaney herself nothing was to be seen. Rumour told that she spent much of her time in Galway, visiting her family and inspecting goods from merchants.
The body of the steward, Ragnall, was laid out on a trestle table at the far end of the hall, away from the braziers and the rich furniture. His face showed a strange brooding dignity in death which he had not displayed during his
lifetime. There were no mourners beside the body. On a bench by the wall, his pretty little daughter Maeve, encircled by Fionnuala’s motherly arm, held a linen handkerchief to her eyes from time to time, but the handkerchief seemed to be quite dry.
Then the priest from Carron took out his rosary beads and others in the hall joined in. There was a movement and shifting in the crowd as all the servants and men-at-arms in the castle stepped forward. Mara glanced guiltily at her scholars. She had forgotten to remind them to take their beads and only Fachtnan seemed able to produce the circlet from his pouch. Aidan took something out and showed it to Moylan. However, even from a distance, it looked to Mara more like a fishing spool than a rosary and Shane was stifling a giggle behind his hand. Mara sent them a warning glance, but then forgot them as she noticed the tall, dark-haired figure of Donal O’Brien standing behind one of the pillars in the upper portion of the hall. So he was here after all! His eyes were fixed on his beloved Maeve and his face seemed full of pain.
Mara watched him intently. Did he look like that because he couldn’t bear to see the girl cry, or was there some other reason for the look of brooding sorrow? Could it be guilt? Perhaps he felt that he should have protected his beloved’s father against an assault. Or did he commit the murder himself? Was that, perhaps, the only way that he could get his heart’s desire and marry the girl that he loved?
‘Brehon, you are very welcome.’ Garrett came sailing up fussily, waving a servant to bring mead and another to bring a stool.
‘We won’t stay long, Garrett,’ said Mara, touching her
lips to the mead and then holding it in her hand. Its honeyed sweetness was not to her taste. She preferred the subtleties of a good French wine. ‘We’ve just come to pay our respects to Ragnall.’
‘There’s a good crowd here,’ said Garrett, with the satisfaction of a host who has put on a successful feast.
‘Aengus the miller isn’t here.’
‘No, he isn’t.’
There had been a slight question in Mara’s voice, but Garrett had not picked that up so she continued. ‘Are you expecting him?’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Garrett readily. ‘But he will probably be in a bit later. It’s a fair journey from Oughtmama.’
‘You don’t think that the trouble there was between them is keeping Aengus away?’ asked Mara, looking at him closely.
Garrett looked startled. ‘Surely not,’ he said in a pious tone. ‘The man is dead; no grudge travels beyond the gates of death, Brehon.’
Mara accorded this pompous aphorism a moment’s respectful silence before continuing.
‘By the way, Garrett,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Those candlesticks that are missing; well, Fintan declares that he has not got them.’
Garrett raised his bushy eyebrows with an expression of disbelief. He looked around. The priest had finished the rosary and everyone was rising to their feet, looking around for something to eat and drink. Men and women servants hurried to and fro with trays. Garrett beckoned and Niall MacNamara came hurrying over.
Mara studied him with interest. He bore little resemblance to his brother Balor, or even to his father Aengus. Of
course, Niall must have been born at least five years earlier than Balor. Aengus had been kinder to his elder son than to Balor. Though he had never acknowledged him openly, he had not denied the relationship and had given him some land near Noughaval. Niall had done well with it.
‘Niall, the candlesticks were definitely missing from the cart, weren’t they?’ questioned Garrett.
Niall nodded firmly. ‘And they could not have been taken from my yard,’ he said quickly. ‘The cart was locked into the barn and the dog was loose in the yard outside.’
‘And you thought that Fintan must have taken them when you saw that they were missing?’ persisted Garrett.
‘It did come into my head,’ said Niall uncomfortably, with an awkward, shamefaced glance at Mara.
‘Fintan says he did not take them,’ stated Mara.
Garrett gave her a quick glance and then turned back to Niall. ‘And did Fintan, or anyone else, come to your house or yard that evening?’
‘Not a soul nor a sinner,’ said Niall promptly. ‘We went to bed early and I only unlocked the yard when the Brehon came back with me that time to see the cart.’
‘So the candlesticks must have been taken some time at Noughaval market when there was no one with the cart,’ said Garrett. ‘Who could have done that?’
‘Unless it was that cheating linen merchant, Guaire O’Brien from Corcomroe,’ said Niall. ’If Fintan says that he didn’t, then he didn’t. I’d trust Fintan to tell the truth always.’
I trust no one to
always
tell the truth, not even myself, thought Mara. There will always be an occasion when a lie serves the purpose better than the truth. ‘I must leave you
now, Garrett,’ she said smoothly. ‘My scholars and I will say a prayer for the deceased and then we must depart. There is much to be done.’
From the corner of her eye she could see Moylan making urgent signs to one of the servants to bring them some mead, so she rapidly swept her scholars up and had them on their knees in front of the open coffin in a couple of seconds. As her lips moved automatically with the well-accustomed words of the prayer for the dead, her mind focussed on the problem ahead of her. If it were a hasty blow triggered by anger and resentment, then the normal practice would have been for the crime to be admitted and the fine paid.
Who had killed Ragnall?
And why was it kept a secret?
And where was Aengus?
Was it embarrassment, because a man he had quarrelled with was now dead, that had kept him hidden in his mountain home?
Or was there a more sinister reason?
CRITH GABLACH (RANKS IN SOCIETY)
A taoiseach
has an honour price of fourteen séts.
H
e should have a retinue of six persons on state occasions
. H
e has a wife of equal rank to his own and five horses, including a saddle horse with a silver bridle
. H
is house must contain at least eight bed places.
 
 
T
HE BURIAL OF RAGNALL MACNAMARA, steward to the MacNamara clan on the Burren, was a magnificent affair. It was as if Garrett had spared no effort to impress the importance of the MacNamara clan on those who attended. The morning of Thursday 2 October was dry and frosty and filled with the sweet chirp of speckled fieldfares. The midday sun shone with a clarity that turned the black sloes in the hedgerows into mysterious purple jewels and set a few red butterflies flirting among the flowers in the grykes. The scent
of the last stalks of frothy meadowsweet in the ditches sweetened the air.
Ragnall was laid to rest in the little mossy churchyard of the stone church of Carron. It was no morning for death, thought Mara, and all the trappings of white horses groomed and hung with gold and silver, all the lines of men-at-arms and the wild music of the pipes and the cries of the professional keeners seemed to diminish rather than honour the dead man. The pipes finished and then the MacNamara bard stepped forward and spoke the words of the lament to the gentle notes plucked from a small harp. The last notes of the harp now faded away and the bard was silent. And then the horn sounded. The slow, mellow notes, sad and yet defiant, filled the air. Then came the voice of the priest intoning the words of the great psalm:
‘De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine.’
Mara looked around. This would be the moment for tears and sobs, but there was no trace of any sorrow from the MacNamara clan. Even the dead man’s daughter just dabbed at her eyes in a perfunctory fashion.
‘Aengus MacNamara is still not here, Brehon,’ whispered Fachtnan in her ear.
Mara’s eyes searched the crowd and then she nodded slightly. It was true; there was no sign of Aengus. She would definitely have to go up to Oughtmama. There was something very wrong. It was unheard of for a man not to attend the burial of another clan member.
The last handfuls of earth were thrown down onto the coffin lying quietly in its two-fathom-deep hole. Mara waited until the crowd began to stream towards the gates and then she beckoned to her scholars. She had hoped to get back and
have an afternoon’s teaching, but her duty now was to investigate this murder. It was nearly three days since Ragnall was killed and she was no nearer to a solution than she had been on the morning after Michaelmas Day.
‘Fachtnan,’ she said, once they were all gathered around her, ‘I am putting you in charge of the scholars for the afternoon. You all have plenty of work to do. Hugh and Shane, I expect you to have memorized another twenty wisdom texts and then you can do that Latin translation which I prepared for you. Enda, you know what to do. I’m very pleased with that work you did for me yesterday. Aidan and Moylan, I want you to write up an account of that illegal entry. Make sure that you quote from the judgement texts and the wisdom texts.’
‘Yes, Brehon,’ they all chorused. She watched them mount their ponies, stayed for a moment to note that they were riding sensibly and quietly across the stone-paved fields and then went to untie her own mare.
‘Brehon,’ came a familiar voice from behind her and with an inward groan she turned. She had thought she might escape, but he had been too quick for her.
‘Yes, Garrett,’ she said pleasantly.
He looked shocked, she thought. His high sloping forehead was wet with sweat and his face had lost its colour. With him were Malachy, the physician, a distant relative of her own, and Malachy’s daughter, Nuala. Mara smiled a greeting at Malachy and Nuala, but did not speak to them; it was obvious that Garrett had something of importance to say. He was beckoning urgently at a small bald-headed man who instantly abandoned the cluster of clansmen who surrounded him and came hurrying to his
taoiseach’s
side.
‘Brehon,’ said Garrett, ‘this man, Maol, has brought me some terrible news. I don’t know what is happening, but Aengus the miller has been found dead by his mill at Oughtmama.’
‘Dead!’ echoed Mara.
‘Drowned dead,’ said Maol with relish.
‘Drowned!’ said Mara incredulously. The mountain stream that powered the mill was fast-flowing, but it was very shallow; a child could hardly have drowned in it.
‘What happened?’ she asked, turning her eyes towards Malachy.
‘It was I who heard the news first,’ said Nuala. ‘Maol MacNamara from Oughtmama came running up the road. He had taken a cartload of oats to the mill yesterday and couldn’t find Aengus, so he thought he was at the wake and when he went to the wake himself he didn’t see Aengus, and then when he went back to the mill this morning Aengus still wasn’t there, so he started to search for him. He found him lying in the stream. He went for Father.’
‘I went up there straight away,’ said Malachy, ‘but it was no good, the man had been dead for days.’ He hesitated, with a quick glance at Nuala.
‘I suppose he had begun to decompose,’ said Nuala calmly, her brown eyes alert and thoughtful. Nuala was a tall girl for barely fourteen; a pretty girl with her skin tanned to a deep brown and her glossy black hair neatly braided into two long plaits.
‘I must go up there,’ said Mara with immediate resolution. ‘Malachy, will you come too?’
‘And me,’ said Nuala firmly.
‘Not you,’ said Malachy with equal firmness.
‘I’m your apprentice,’ said Nuala. ‘I need to go where you go. That’s how I learn.’ With a quick movement she hitched up her white
léine,
allowing it to blouse over her leather belt, and had swung herself onto the back of the pony before Malachy, always slow to speech, could think of anything to say. She moved on down the road and then stood, obviously waiting for them.
‘I’ll get some men and the priest,’ said Garrett. ‘They can bring a cart up to take the body back.’ He stopped for a moment as if a thought had struck him. ‘Do you think it was suicide?’ he said to Malachy in a shocked whisper.
‘I don’t know,’ said Malachy indecisively. ‘It would be difficult to tell. The body was attacked by wild animals — foxes probably. I don’t want Nuala to come,’ he said with sudden energy. ‘Will you tell her, Mara? Tell her not to come.
Mara pretended not to hear. He irritated her slightly. Nuala was immensely intelligent, far more so than her rather slow-thinking father. She had set her heart on being a physician, she studied long hours with little help. If she felt she should see the dead body, then she should be allowed. After all she had seen her own mother die in agony almost two years ago. She had brains, courage and confidence; her father should not hold her back just because she was not the son that he had longed for.
Garrett, too, was staring at her, indecision wrinkling his high bare forehead.
‘Brehon,’ he said in a low voice, ‘if this is suicide … then I shouldn’t take the priest, should I? Aengus can’t have a Christian burial. He’ll have to be buried quickly at the crossroads.’
Mara looked at him coldly, trying to keep her fury and disgust at bay. ‘I should not make any assumptions about this death, Garrett,’ she said. ‘I would bring the priest to say the last prayer over him and have the poor man buried in the faith of his forebears.’
She waited for no more, but crossed over to where her farm steward, Cumhal, held her mare.
‘Would you like me to come with you, Brehon?’ he asked when she had mounted. As usual, he seemed to know what she was going to do as soon as she knew it herself. She suspected that he was one of those people with very sharp hearing and quick instinctive reactions. He would have read the story in the faces around her. ‘Or would you prefer that I go back to the law school?’ he added.
‘Go back, Cumhal, if you will,’ she said. ‘I’ve left Fachtnan in charge, but it might be an idea if you kept an ear open. Aidan and Moylan can be a bit of a nuisance at times. I think Enda will be all right now; he seems determined to work hard this year, but the other two need an eye kept on them.’
‘I’ve plenty of wood that needs to be chopped,’ he said obligingly. ‘I’ll do it in the yard outside the schoolhouse. That way, Fachtnan will know I’m close at hand.’
‘Thank you, Cumhal,’ said Mara. She smiled affectionately as he trotted away; he was as sturdy and reliable as the cob that he rode. She often wondered how she could manage her busy life if she didn’t have Cumhal and Brigid.
Mara patted Brig and urged the mare on to a slow trot through the graveyard path. Father O’Mahon, she was glad to note, was climbing onto his horse. Despite his doubts, Garrett must have asked the priest to accompany them.
But why those doubts? she wondered, as she quickened her pace once she had reached the stony road to Oughtmama. Why should Garrett think that Aengus had committed suicide? Why not an accident?
But if it were neither an accident nor suicide, could there be any connection between those two MacNamara deaths, in the one week, of Ragnall, the steward, and Aengus, the miller?
BOOK: A Secret and Unlawful Killing
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