Eye of the Law (25 page)

No one looked around at the visitors; the islanders were all caught up in their sad ritual, swaying and muttering prayers while waiting their turn to add a stone to the strange wayside cairn. The scholars waited respectfully and then they in their turn placed a stone on the cairn. How long had this ritual been going on for? wondered Mara, looking at the height of the mound and then frowning at Aidan who was about to pick up the largest stone that he could find – everyone else, she noticed, was seeking out small round stones. Fachtnan muttered something in Aidan’s ear and he, in his turn, found a similar pebble.

The midday sun was in their eyes as they moved on again, up the hill towards the graveyard. The intensity of light that bounced off the white limestone and off the pale gold of the sand was almost painful. Mara kept her eyes fixed on the ground as she trudged up the hill at the back of the funeral procession. For a moment she hardly noticed that a small, red-haired boy had fallen back and was walking beside her, looking intently into her face. Then she smiled at him.

‘The priest wants to talk to you after the service is over,’ he said softly, and then he was off, burrowing his way back through the crowd like a small eel through wet sand, before Mara could reply.

Turlough looked down. It was obvious that he had caught the boy’s words.

‘Well, his reverence can seek me out then.’ Mara gave a shrug. She had other things on her mind, other people to talk to. She did not care for the look of that complacent young man.

‘Another stop here,’ whispered Turlough as the head of the procession drew level with another cairn. This would be a welcome rest for the coffin bearers as they had started to climb the steep hill. Once again the stones were gathered and once again the mourners encircled the cairn in the sunwise direction, murmuring their prayers.

The grave had been dug, but only just, when the funeral procession reached the small church of St Caomhain. The diggers were still leaning on their shovels and pickaxes, sweat pouring down their faces and soaking their
léinte
. Every man had laid his cloak on a small bank at the side. There was little soil here; the huge pile of stones showed the difficulties. The coffins were lowered down with ropes and then the widow, children and the sisters of the dead men threw their handfuls of soil and by the time everyone else of the family – most of the islanders – had added their handful there was very little to be shovelled over the graves. The stones that had been taken out were now piled on top of the grave, heaviest first and by the time that the work was finished there was a mound like a cairn on top of the two coffins.

‘That will sink down in a few weeks,’ murmured Turlough, watching with interest the ceremony of these far-flung people of his kingdom.

Mara nodded. She could see how the other stone-covered graves had fallen down to almost the level of the ground around. The priest gave his last blessing and then looked over towards the Brehon. She looked blandly back. Now was not the moment for any public announcement she decided. That would have to wait until tomorrow when the grief was less raw-edged and the people were receptive to her words. Perhaps Brian the Spaniard would be useful in interpreting the mood of his island people. For now she would behave as an ordinary mourner and just quietly offer her condolences and then leave. Turning away from the graveside, she made her way over to where Becan’s wife, Bebhinn stood, surrounded by her children and her three nieces.

‘I’m sorry for your trouble.’ Mara repeated the words that she had heard murmured over and over again during the past quarter of an hour.

Bebhinn nodded mechanically and then suddenly her grey eyes were alert and she held out her hand to stop Mara moving on.

‘I must speak to you, Brehon,’ she muttered.

The grip on Mara’s wrist was almost painful and the woman’s grey eyes were suddenly alert and focussed.

‘Yes,’ murmured Mara. ‘I want to speak to you too. Not now, perhaps. Tomorrow.’

‘You’ll be staying at the castle.’ It was more an assertion than a question, but Mara nodded.

‘Do you see that field up there, to the left of the castle, the one with the black and white cow and calf?’ Bebhinn didn’t wait for Mara’s assent, but hurried on. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow morning as soon as the sun comes up. I’ll have to milk the cow.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Mara quietly, and she moved on to allow the scholars to mutter their expressions of sorrow before joining Turlough.

‘Do you want to see the priest?’ he asked. ‘He’s over there, talking to one of Iarla’s sisters.’

Mara studied the young priest attentively for a few minutes. Unlike most of the islanders he was plump, his sand-coloured hair glossy and his skin pale. He saw her looking but turned away with a slow deliberation, continuing his conversation in a leisurely manner. She shrugged; no doubt he was used to the islanders responding instantly to him, but she owed him no allegiance. He had meddled with the truth; she would be surprised if he had not been aware of the correct paternity of Iarla.

‘Let’s go up to the castle,’ she said impatiently. ‘I can do no more here until tomorrow.’

Thirteen

‘
B
other,’ said Mara in a low voice.

‘What’s the matter?’ Turlough joined her at the window.

‘That relation of yours has asked the priest to supper tonight.’

‘Well,’ said Turlough judicially, ‘what did you expect? He probably dines at the castle most nights by the look of him. Brian likes an audience and he would regard most of the islanders as beneath him in status. What do you think of the chamber?’

‘Very opulent.’ Mara swept a quick glance across the room before turning back to the window again. There was something about this priest that puzzled her – something familiar about his features. She shook her head angrily, but no enlightenment came, so she turned back to Turlough.

‘Your cousin certainly is a man of wealth,’ she said, looking at the hanging carpets, the carved chairs, and the elaborately sculpted bed head. ‘How does he afford all this from a set of three barren islands?’ She walked forward and inspected a painted leather hanging. ‘Spanish,’ she remarked with a nod, frowning at Turlough’s grin. ‘It’s just thievery,’ she added. ‘He’d better not expect any mercy from me if one of these ship masters brings a case against him.’

‘They won’t.’ Turlough sounded confident. ‘Think of it as a fee for a service. Brian escorts them in safety into Galway harbour – even puts one of his own men on board if they are unsure of the way through the rocks. Then he relieves them of a little of their cargo. It happens all over the place. O’Malley of the Boats, up there in Mayo, he takes much more.’

‘Well, O’Malley of the Boats is not under my jurisdiction; Brian the Spaniard is,’ said Mara firmly, but she guessed that the tradition was too long-standing for her to be able to do anything about it. Unless a complaint was made then Brehon law had no powers to interfere. She was about to suggest that Turlough had a word with his cousin when a respectful knock sounded at the door.

Turlough eagerly crossed the room and flung the door open, glad to be finished with the subject of piracy, guessed Mara. Turlough was always easy to read. Shane was standing there.

Turlough greeted him boisterously. ‘Well, what have you been doing with yourself, young Shane? Getting up to mischief?’

‘No, my lord.’ Shane was quite at his ease, used to the king and his teasing. ‘We’ve all been helping with putting up the trestle tables in the hall – all of us except Enda and he went off into the kitchen to help there.’

Probably hungry, surmised Mara, fastening the neck of her gown with her best brooch of silver and gold wires twisted together and then slinging her fur-lined cloak over her shoulders. The air was colder on this exposed island and the inhabitants of the castle would be used to an outdoor life; she doubted whether the hall was as warm as her own sitting room back at Cahermacnaghten.

‘Some of the trestle boards were taken from wrecked Spanish ships, but we put the best ones on the side of the table where you will be sitting, my lord, and you, Brehon, and we covered them with linen cloths so you would never know that they are riddled with holes from the sea worm.’ Shane chatted on happily as they went down the winding stairway.

Fachtnan and Nuala were coming in through the open door; Nuala’s cheeks were flushed with the combination of wind and sun. She looked very happy and very relaxed. Mara was glad that she had brought her. She gazed at the boy and girl with satisfaction and then her eyes left them and went to the young priest who was just behind them. Now was the moment that he could approach her, but he had decided that this opportunity was not the right one because he passed them both with a bowed head and a murmured greeting.

‘Come in, my lord, and you, Brehon, come in, come in and be very welcome. It’s wonderful to have you both. I wish I had known sometime ahead and I would have been able to offer you a decent meal. You’ll just have to have what we have ourselves.’ Brian the Spaniard was playing the part of an affable host.

‘Then you must live well, judging by the look of your table,’ said Mara with a smile.

Not many guests were expected; there was just one table, the long trestle boards on their trestles arranged with four chairs at the top, the sides lined with benches and a few stools at the bottom, but the snowy linen cloths were covered with dishes. The centrepiece was a dish of pickled salmon, its pink and silver sides dotted with fresh thyme from the stony hillsides, there were pots of what looked like pâté, pink shrimps piled up in dishes, lifelike crabs appeared to wave tentacles from the bed of green leaves and scarlet lobsters were lined up, right down the centre of the table, resting on huge platters of beaten silver.

‘Do you know what those brown things are on that dish over there?’ asked Shane eagerly. ‘They are dates and they come from Spain. They preserve them in sugar. The
taoiseach
gave us one each to thank us for helping with the tables. Do you want to taste one?’

‘I think I’ll wait . . .’ began Mara, but then stopped as a very beautiful woman entered by the door from the back of the hall.

The woman was not young; her dark hair was streaked with white, but her eyes were dazzling, huge eyes of the darkest brown, as dark as pools in a peat bog with specks of amber, like sunshine, warming their depths. Her face was beautifully formed with a delicate aquiline nose, high cheekbones, a rounded chin and perfectly moulded mouth with full lips.

‘My mother,’ explained Brian, leading her forward. ‘She speaks no Gaelic,’ he added to Mara as Turlough bowed courteously but silently over the stately lady’s hand.

After all those years, thought Mara. Her son, however, spoke to his mother in fluent Spanish and presumably her dead husband, Brian’s father, the descendent of Teige the bonesplitter, had also spoken Spanish. Mara listened carefully as Brian explained the reason for the visit of the king and the bishop. She could make out the name of Iarla and of Becan. Then there seemed to be something about the priest. Both sets of dark-brown eyes moved towards the dapper red-headed figure at the bottom of the hall where the priest was engaging Fachtnan and Nuala in conversation. Mara had a good ability with languages; she could speak fluent English, French, Latin and when her father had returned from his journey to Italy he had taught her Italian. Spanish did not seem too difficult; some of what had been said was comprehensible.

‘You’ll have to teach me to speak Spanish,’ she said to the dark-eyed lady. Her words were a mangled mixture of Spanish, Italian and Latin, but they brought a smile to the woman’s face and at the sight of that smile, with the still-white teeth just showing through the exquisite curve of the lips, Mara understood why Brian’s father had wanted this woman for his own and perhaps why the son of this marriage of the fourth degree was the one chosen to succeed him as lord of the isles.

‘Come and sit down.’ Brian ushered both women to their places on the elaborately cushioned chairs at the top of the table. Turlough was on one side of him and Mara on the other. The priest came forward and Brian introduced him as Father Petrus. He had acquired that name in Rome, or in some monastery, guessed Mara, smiling politely and then joining her hands as Father Petrus blessed the feast laid out before them.

Enda only arrived as Mara was helping herself from a chicken pie with almonds. She had chosen that over a dish of porpoise – something she had never eaten and felt that she would probably not like – when he sauntered in, holding a large lump of marzipan in his hand and then ostentatiously licking his fingers as his fellow scholars eyed him enviously. He smirked at them and then looked up the table. His face changed when he caught Mara’s eye. She knew him well and knew that expression that he wore. Enda had something to tell her, something that he found hard to keep to himself.

Mara thought about it for a moment and then curiosity got the better of her. She raised one finger and beckoned.

Enda was by her side in a moment, kneeling gracefully on the floor by her chair. Turlough was talking loudly about old times with Brian and the noise of their laughter was enough to drown out even normal speech. Others watching would simply think that Mara was reproving the boy for his late arrival.

‘Yes, Enda.’ Mara bent her head until it was near to his ear.

‘Sorry for being late, Brehon,’ said the quick-witted Enda in his usual tone and then he lowered his voice. ‘I’ve been in the kitchen, Brehon, and the cook told me something interesting.’