Deed of Murder

The Burren Mysteries by Cora Harrison

MY LADY JUDGE

A SECRET AND UNLAWFUL KILLING

THE STING OF JUSTICE

WRIT IN STONE
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EYE OF THE LAW
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SCALES OF RETRIBUTION
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DEED OF MURDER
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available from Severn House

First world edition published 2011

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2011 by Cora Harrison.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Harrison, Cora.

Deed of murder. – (Burren mystery)

1. Mara, Brehon of the Burren (Fictitious character) –

Fiction. 2. Women judges – Ireland – Burren – Fiction.

3. Burren (Ireland) – History – 16th century – Fiction.

4. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title II. Series

823.9′2–dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-135-4 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978–0–7278–8071–0 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978–1–84751–372–4 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

For my son, William, with much love and thanks for all his assistance while I was writing this book.

Acknowledgements

F
or an author who writes as many books as I do, this paying tribute to those who have helped can begin to sound repetitive, though hopefully not insincere.

Nevertheless, the debt is there, and must be paid; to family and friends who maintain interest and give encouragement; to my agent Peter Buckman who always manages to spark new ideas in me; to my editor James Nightingale who has to bear the palm among editors for being meticulous, relaxed and appreciative; and, of course, as always, thanks to those such as Professors Daniel Binchy and Fergus Kelly, who translated the Brehon laws from the complexities of medieval Irish.

Prologue

T
he 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).

F
iona 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.