My Lady Judge (29 page)
Diarmuid tried to reply but his words were drowned by an explosion of barks. The cart was trundling across the stone pavements and men walked in front holding flaming pitch-pine torches. Wolf barked again and again and lunged towards them and Mara looked at him with maternal pride.
‘He doesn’t bark at me,’ she said in the brief interval of the volley of barking and Wolf turned and wagged his tail. Diarmuid began to laugh.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You are the coolest person I have ever known. You were nearly murdered by a madman and
all you are interested in now is having tamed the dog. I’d better tie him up over there to one of the stones or no one will want to come near to you.’
all you are interested in now is having tamed the dog. I’d better tie him up over there to one of the stones or no one will want to come near to you.’
‘Are you all right, Brehon?’ said Malachy, looming up out of the mist.
‘I’m all right, Malachy,’ she said. ‘Has Diarmuid told you all?’
‘Yes, he has, what a terrible business. I suppose the poor man has gone right out of his mind.’
Mara sniffed. ‘I think he has had some sort of fit,’ she said coolly. ‘Get your men to load him into the cart, Malachy. Diarmuid has left him tied up inside the cairn. I would keep him tied up. He is guilty of two crimes. The most important is the violent rape of a child; but he has also tried to murder me.’
Malachy gave her a quick glance and put his hand out. Silently she showed him the injured wrist. He inspected the wrapping and gave a nod. Then he took her other hand and placed his finger on her pulse. Again he nodded and gave her a quick smile.
‘I’m probably hard to kill,’ she said light-heartedly.
He laughed. He looked well himself, she thought as she watched him carefully unwrap her bandage and mop the clotted blood from her wrist. She moved her mind away from the pain and continued to study Malachy. Perhaps it was just the dimness of the lantern’s light, but the black shadows under his eyes had gone and the air of heavy depression seemed to have lifted from him. Even his skin looked brighter. Perhaps he had been sleeping in the evening and now he was rested and alert.
‘I’ll take you back to the house and stitch this up when I get you there,’ he said when he had wrapped up her wrist again. ‘Have a drink, now.’ He took a small flask from his satchel.
‘Brandy, I hope,’ she joked.
He smiled again. ‘No, water, I’m afraid, but I’ll get you some brandy when we are back in Caherconnell.’
He took a pitch torch from one of his servants and strode over towards the cairn. After a minute he shouted an order and his servants came forward and then backed out, carefully carrying the priest trussed up like a pig for slaughter.
‘Did you bring the pen and the parchment?’ asked Mara.
‘I did, indeed,’ called Malachy. ‘Are you able to write?’
Mara held out her right hand and Malachy came and brought her the small leaf of parchment and a well-trimmed goose quill.
‘Diarmuid will hold the parchment straight for me,’ she said, placing the inkhorn on the stone slab beside her. ‘You go and attend to the dog’s bite on the arm of the priest. I don’t want anything to happen to him before he is brought, in chains, if necessary, to stand before the people of the Burren and to confess to his sin. Diarmuid,’ she called. ‘Come and hold this for me, like a good man.’
He came instantly. There were traces of a grin lurking under the ginger hair of his moustache.
‘Yes, I know, I’m still ordering you about,’ she said, laughing at the expression on his face. Funny how I have forgotten what a sense of humour he has, she thought.
‘It’s good to see you able to do it,’ he said warmly, and there was a lifetime of affection in his voice. ‘You’re looking and sounding more like yourself now.’
He unrolled the parchment, flattened it on the stone slab, and held it steadily while she dipped the quill into the soot-black liquid in the inkhorn.
Mauritius,
Bishop of Kilfenora,
Kingdom of Corcomroe
She wrote carefully at the top of the leaf, and then underneath in her square italic hand she wrote:
My Lord Bishop,
It gives me much pain to report the wrongdoing of one of your priests. I am sending him back to you under armed guard. He has violently raped and made pregnant a twelve-year-old girl. He did not acknowledge his sin and did not make any amends. I got a confession from him and I am prepared to swear to it. The case will come up on the next judgement day on 10 May at Poulnabrone. I would ask that you keep this man under guard and return him for judgement on that day.
If found guilty, the fine will be the sum of forty—five
séts,
or twenty-two and a half ounces of silver or twenty-three milch cows.
séts,
or twenty-two and a half ounces of silver or twenty-three milch cows.
This man also tried to murder me, but I will not ask for a fine on this count.
Mara,
Brehon of the Burren,
By appointment to King Turlough Donn O’Brien, King of Thomond, Corcomroe and the Burren
When she had finished she returned the quill to Diarmuid and rolled up the leaf of vellum awkwardly with her right hand.
‘I have no seal,’ she said. ‘I should have a seal with me.’ I left it at the cave yesterday, she remembered. It all seemed a very long time ago.
‘I have some string in my pocket,’ said Diarmuid. ‘That will do. I’ll give it to Malachy’s chief man. He won’t lose it.’
‘No,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Malachy,’ she called. ‘I can’t send a private and important message to the bishop without tying and sealing it. We must go back to Cahermacnaghten and then I’ll get a seal.’
‘I suppose Cahermacnaghten will be on the way,’ said Malachy calmly. ‘If it’s really that important to you to get a seal, then we’ll
go over there. I can stitch you up there as well as I can in Caherconnell. You can ride on the cart.’
go over there. I can stitch you up there as well as I can in Caherconnell. You can ride on the cart.’
‘No,’ said Mara, feeling a sudden sick disgust at the idea of riding next to that priest. ‘No, I’ll walk.’
‘You can’t walk,’ said Malachy. ‘You’ve just been badly injured.’
‘It was my arm that was injured, not my leg,’ said Mara sharply. She knew he was right, she did feel weak, but nothing would have persuaded her to sit on the cart.
‘Diarmuid,’ she called. ‘Give me your arm, like a good man. Walk with me to Cahermacnaghten.’ She set off, staggering slightly, across the clints, determined to prove her vigour by out-walking them all. Malachy tried to call out a protest but that set Wolf off barking again so his words were lost. Diarmuid caught up with her and slipped an arm around her waist, holding her right elbow with a steady, firm grasp. She leaned against him, glad of his strength and warmed by his constant affection. Wolf stopped barking and walked beside Diarmuid with an occasional turn of his large furry head towards Mara. Neither spoke. Mara was turning over in her mind the ordeal that lay ahead of her and Diarmuid was a man of few words. From behind them came the sound of the steady trundling of the cart wheels and from time to time Malachy’s deep voice speaking to his men. Mara breathed deeply, sucking in great gulps of the Atlantic mist and trying to give herself energy to go on.
‘Leave me here, Diarmuid,’ she said when they reached the gate of the Brehon’s house at Cahermacnaghten. ‘Malachy will look after me now.’
CASE NOTES AND JUDGEMENT TEXTS FROM MARA, BREHON OF THE BURREN,
15
MAY
1509
15
MAY
1509
Judgement day: tenth day of May 1509. I judged the case between Declan O‘Lochlainn and Gabur Conglach, priest of the parish of Kilcorney. Declan O’Lochlainn declared that his daughter Nessa, aged twelve, had been raped by the aforesaid priest on the day after the feast of Samhain of the previous year.
Judgement given was that the priest, the aforesaid Gabur Conglach, was guilty of the rape of a girl in plaits. The fine awarded to the aforesaid Declan O’Lochlainn was forty-five sets, or twenty-two and a half ounces of silver, or twenty-three milch cows, to be paid within five days.
A
ND DID THE PRIEST turn up for the hearing?’ asked King Turlough Donn.
ND DID THE PRIEST turn up for the hearing?’ asked King Turlough Donn.
Mara leaned back in the luxuriously cushioned chair and took
a sip from her wine cup before answering. It was very splendid, this castle of Turlough’s – or palace, as they were now calling it, after the English fashion. The stone walls were hung with painted leather and every seat had a velvet cushion. On the floor was a carpet made from velvet and the windows were hung with velvet hangings. The room was crammed with heavy oak furniture, gleaming in the light of the candles and reflecting the deep orange glow of the fire. She would make a few improvements, she thought, if she lived there. The leather was cracked, it could do with regular polishing, and the velvet hangings were dark with peat smoke. Nevertheless, it was a comfortable room, high up in the stone castle. She had felt tired after her ride to Thomond, but now she felt relaxed, lapped in the warmth of fire and affection.
a sip from her wine cup before answering. It was very splendid, this castle of Turlough’s – or palace, as they were now calling it, after the English fashion. The stone walls were hung with painted leather and every seat had a velvet cushion. On the floor was a carpet made from velvet and the windows were hung with velvet hangings. The room was crammed with heavy oak furniture, gleaming in the light of the candles and reflecting the deep orange glow of the fire. She would make a few improvements, she thought, if she lived there. The leather was cracked, it could do with regular polishing, and the velvet hangings were dark with peat smoke. Nevertheless, it was a comfortable room, high up in the stone castle. She had felt tired after her ride to Thomond, but now she felt relaxed, lapped in the warmth of fire and affection.
‘No,’ she said after a minute. ‘The bishop sent Fergus, the Brehon of Corcomroe, to represent him in my court. Apparently, the priest’ – she still could not bring herself to call him
Father
Conglach – ‘is still sunk in some sort of trance. He has not spoken and he has had several fits. The bishop has sent a new priest to Kilcorney. He seems a nice man, very scholarly, and kind to the old people of the parish.’
Father
Conglach – ‘is still sunk in some sort of trance. He has not spoken and he has had several fits. The bishop has sent a new priest to Kilcorney. He seems a nice man, very scholarly, and kind to the old people of the parish.’
‘Poor man … the bishop, I mean,’ said Turlough. ‘It must be a great worry for him. He’s a relation of mine, you know.’
‘He should go by the old ways and allow the priests to marry if they wish,’ said Mara with a shrug of her shoulders. She had little sympathy with the bishop.
‘And so Colman blackmailed Father Conglach? How did he know about the rape?’
‘He guessed, I think,’ said Mara. ‘The priest thought Nessa told him, but she had no idea who had raped her, poor child. Colman was a clever boy. In any case, I think most of the young people knew that the priest had a habit of lurking around and spying on the courting couples. Rory – you remember the young bard, Rory, the handsome young fellow with the red hair? – he
knew about the priest; I have no doubt that Colman knew, also. Who knows, but Colman might have been spying himself. That was probably what gave him the notion of buying Emer as his bride.’ She finished with a sigh. Every time she thought of Colman she was filled with a great sense of sorrow and guilt – not guilt for his death, she was clear-minded enough to know that the murder was caused by his own greed, but guilt for his lack of morality.
knew about the priest; I have no doubt that Colman knew, also. Who knows, but Colman might have been spying himself. That was probably what gave him the notion of buying Emer as his bride.’ She finished with a sigh. Every time she thought of Colman she was filled with a great sense of sorrow and guilt – not guilt for his death, she was clear-minded enough to know that the murder was caused by his own greed, but guilt for his lack of morality.
‘And what about the little girl, Nessa?’ asked Turlough, poking the fire and then refilling both of their glasses.
‘Well, she’s getting on very well,’ said Mara. ‘I’ve taken her under my wing a little. Brigid is teaching her to cook and I’m teaching her to garden. She’s a bit silly and giggly with the boys, but she is developing quite a mind of her own and it’s good to get her away from that mother of hers. I have a horrible suspicion that her mother suspected the truth all of the time. Anyway, I’ve tried to put the fear of God into the parents about not rushing her into a marriage for a while. I told them to let things settle, to let people forget, and Malachy backed me up with a whole lot of long medical words. They didn’t understand a word of it – neither did I, to be honest – but they said no more about marriage for her.’
Turlough nodded, his face alert and interested. He picked up the leaf of vellum again and then frowned.
‘But, Mara,’ he said. ‘You have nothing here about the murder of Colman. Presumably this priest did it. You told me that he was being blackmailed. He could not let this scandal come out. Mauritius is a bishop who is very keen on the Roman ways; he would not even allow any of his clergy to marry. He would have unfrocked Father Conglach for this rape.’
Mara shook her head. ‘The priest was guilty of the crime of violent rape of a young girl,’ she said quietly. ‘That was his sin, and that was his crime; the other crime cannot be laid at his door.’
She stopped for a moment, thinking of that terrible night when she was trapped in the cairn with the priest and, despite the heat of the fire, she shivered.
She stopped for a moment, thinking of that terrible night when she was trapped in the cairn with the priest and, despite the heat of the fire, she shivered.
‘Are you sure?’ asked the king. He frowned in puzzlement.
‘So who did it? Do you know yet? Why not Father Conglach?’
Mara smiled then. ‘I would have liked to pin that crime, too, on the priest,’ she admitted, ‘but I could not see it happening. The priest didn’t do that. He didn’t have the strength to wrestle the knife from Colman. He probably didn’t have the courage, either. It was a different matter blindfolding and raping a child like Nessa but no, the priest did not murder.’
‘Who was it, then?’ asked Turlough. ‘Was it Lorcan? I always suspected him.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Mara firmly. ‘Would Lorcan have committed a secret and unlawful killing just to stop the O’Lochlainn knowing that his bull had been borrowed? I asked myself that question, but it was too trivial a matter. Ardal would have brought the case before me at Poulnabrone, of course, but everyone on the Burren would just have laughed. I can imagine the jokes! The O’Connor clan would probably have got together and paid Lorcan’s fine just for the sake of the fun everyone had. No, the man who committed this crime on an open hillside within earshot of the whole kingdom would have had to be desperate; it would have had to be done because of a secret that could not be forgiven or recompensed.’
‘And what about that lad from Corcomroe?’ asked Turlough eagerly. He leaned forward with the look of a man hot on the chase.
Mara smiled indulgently at him. I’m always happy in his company, she thought. I’m always happy and relaxed with him. Her mind went briefly to the decision that she knew would be required of her that night and then turned back to the murder case again.
‘Oscar O’Connor?’ she queried.
‘Yes, the stone-cutter. Was he the guilty one?’
Mara shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was a possibility, and I suppose that it would have been welcomed by the community. The outsider is always a welcome scapegoat. But no, it wasn’t Oscar. For one thing, Gráinne MacNamara told me that Oscar had led Feirdin away from the bonfire – the boy panicked and Oscar took him down well before the fire was lit. Apparently, Oscar had been with him for some time before and had helped Feirdin to gather stones. For another thing, Diarmuid told me that he was left-handed. I guessed then that he could not have struck the fatal blow. You remember, don’t you, how Malachy drew the knife out with his own right hand? We all saw then how the knife had gone in. It was a right-handed man who struck the fatal blow. I was certain of that,’ she said firmly. The scene on the side of the mountain on that sunny Saturday morning would be engraved on her memory for ever, she thought, and judging by Turlough’s thoughtful face, it was in his mind’s eye, also.
‘Strange, wasn’t it, that no one saw the body that night out there on the mountainside? Think of all the people there …’ He reached forward to pour her a generous cupful of the deep red wine. Mara swallowed a little and then put the cup down. Spanish, she thought, why doesn’t he buy French, it’s so much better. ‘Someone must have seen him. They all had torches, didn’t they? Why did no one tell you about the dead body on the mountainside?’
‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that Colman was blackmailing many people. I think that probably most people on the mountain that night knew of some victim of his. I realized how unpopular he was during judgement day at Poulnabrone that afternoon, but I didn’t know why. Yes, of course the body was seen by many as they came down the mountain. But no one wanted to be the one to find it, so everyone looked the other way in the fear that a
neighbour, friend or relative may have been involved. That’s the way things work in the Burren,’ she added firmly.
neighbour, friend or relative may have been involved. That’s the way things work in the Burren,’ she added firmly.
‘Boirenn,
that means “the stony place” in old Gaelic,’ he said with a smile. ‘You breed a tough, silent race there among your mountains and your rocks.’
that means “the stony place” in old Gaelic,’ he said with a smile. ‘You breed a tough, silent race there among your mountains and your rocks.’
‘I think many people recognized Hugh’s knife, also,’ she said, returning his smile, ‘and, as a matter of courtesy to me, they decided to say nothing. As well as being tough and silent, they are a very courteous people, the people of the Burren,’ she added lightly.
She said no more for a moment, just sipped her wine and looked into the fire. Then she took from her pouch a last leaf of vellum and handed it to him. ‘This is the fourth case,’ she said quietly. ‘These are the case notes and my judgement of the matter of the secret and unlawful killing of Colman,
aigne,
from Cahermacnaghten, on Mullaghmore Mountain at
Bealtaine
Eve.’
aigne,
from Cahermacnaghten, on Mullaghmore Mountain at
Bealtaine
Eve.’
He took it in his hand with interest. He did not read it aloud, though, as he had done before. He read it to himself, his lips moving as he read, and when he had finished, he read it through again. He looked up and the shock on his face was almost comical.
‘Him! Well, he was the last person that I would have suspected. What on earth made you think of him?’
Mara considered this. ‘Well, I suppose the roots of the matter were seeded in the past,’ she said eventually. ‘There was a death which was a secret and, I suppose, unlawful killing. But that secret and unlawful killing was done with the purest of motives and I felt no necessity to intervene.’
Turlough said nothing; he poured himself another cup of wine, but she placed her hand over her cup. She needed to keep her mind clear; she needed to explain everything to him.
‘You see, this happened over a year ago,’ she said carefully. ‘I guessed – well, it was fairly obvious, really. But I kept quiet over it; no one was injured by this secret and unlawful killing; no one
except the man himself. The man eventually struggled out of the black pit of despair and began to rebuild his life. For his sake, and for his daughter’s sake, it seemed best to say nothing.’
except the man himself. The man eventually struggled out of the black pit of despair and began to rebuild his life. For his sake, and for his daughter’s sake, it seemed best to say nothing.’
The king remained silent. Mara tried to read his face; it was inscrutable. It was impossible to know whether he was shocked, or horrified, or disgusted, whether he felt that his Brehon had betrayed her office and his trust in her. She said nothing for a while, either. In her mind she carefully reviewed her decision taken over a year ago, and then gave a slight nod. Yes, it had been the right decision.
‘I felt,’ she said, choosing her words carefully, ‘that no harm, but a great mercy, had been done. I felt that this man would not offend again.’
‘But you were wrong, weren’t you?’ said Turlough, his voice flat and hard. ‘The man did offend again; he killed your young assistant, Colman.’
Mara bent her head and looked into the fire. For a moment the flames blurred in front of her. She had not expected this; she had relied on his support and his understanding. Carefully she blinked the tears from her eyes and waited until they dried before looking at him. His face wore a stubborn, hurt look.
‘You think I should have consulted you,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Yes,’ he said bluntly, ‘I think I should have been consulted if there was to be any bending of the law. And, I still don’t understand everything.’ He picked up the leaf of vellum again, studied it and put it down. ‘This does not tell the whole story,’ he said.
Mara gazed down at the sheet of vellum.
CASE NOTES AND JUDGEMENT TEXTS FROM MARA,
BREHON OF THE BURREN,
25
MAY
1509
BREHON OF THE BURREN,
25
MAY
1509
judgement day: tenth day of May 1509. I judged the case
between Séan Lynch, merchant, of Galway city and Malachy
O’Davoren, physician, of Kilcorney in the kingdom of the
Burren. Malachy O’Davoren confessed to the secret and
unlawful killing of Colman Lynch, aigne, late of
Cahermacnaghten in the kingdom of the Burren, son of the
aforesaid Séan Lynch. The fine for this secret and unlawful
killing, the éraic, together with the victim’s honour price,
is ninety séts. Because the victim bears some guilt as he had
blackmailed the aforesaid Malachy O’Davoren, the fine is
reduced to forty-five sets, or twenty-two and a half ounces of
silver, or twenty-three milch cows, to be paid within five days.
between Séan Lynch, merchant, of Galway city and Malachy
O’Davoren, physician, of Kilcorney in the kingdom of the
Burren. Malachy O’Davoren confessed to the secret and
unlawful killing of Colman Lynch, aigne, late of
Cahermacnaghten in the kingdom of the Burren, son of the
aforesaid Séan Lynch. The fine for this secret and unlawful
killing, the éraic, together with the victim’s honour price,
is ninety séts. Because the victim bears some guilt as he had
blackmailed the aforesaid Malachy O’Davoren, the fine is
reduced to forty-five sets, or twenty-two and a half ounces of
silver, or twenty-three milch cows, to be paid within five days.
‘He means a lot to you, this physician, this Malachy,’ said Turlough quietly.
‘No,’ she said, startled, ‘no, it’s not that. I cared for his wife and I care for his daughter very much – I care for him, but only in the way that I care for everyone on the Burren. He’s a distant relation of mine, of course, we both share the name of O’Davoren, but this had no bearing on my judgement.’
‘I think,’ said Turlough, ‘that you had better tell me the whole story.’
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