Chain of Evidence, page 2
‘When did you arrive, you and your son, Rhona?’ she asked.
‘Just recently,’ the woman replied. ‘We came on the same ship that Jarlath travelled on – from the north of Ireland. We had crossed over from Scotland a week ago with Jarlath when we heard that he was making the journey. Jarlath had already arranged to sell his ship to O’Donnell and in return to be allowed to journey down to the Burren on one of O’Donnell’s boats.’
‘So you came with Jarlath?’ asked Mara, her mind grappling with the problem of Garrett taking a second wife. It was quite a common occurrence in Gaelic society, especially among the wealthy who could afford the expense, but Slaney had never been part of that society and she would find this even harder to accept than most wives would do.
‘That’s right,’ said Rhona. ‘O’Donnell was sending someone down here, and there was plenty of room for three more. Look, there’s the man, over there. Jarlath invited him to come to stay with his brother. He’s called Stephen Gardiner, that Englishman over there, the one that has gone over to talk to Slaney.’ She pointed across the room to where Slaney, rigid and pale-faced, was endeavouring to smile upon the stranger.
Definitely English, thought Mara. This Stephen wore a small pointed beard, instead of Irish moustaches, and he was dressed in tight-fitting brightly-coloured hose, and an elaborate, bulky tunic, with a short cloak swinging from his shoulders. Middle to late twenties, thought Mara, about the same age as Jarlath, his travelling companion, who must now be at least twenty-five; she dismissed him from her mind and turned back to the woman beside her.
‘If you only arrived a little while ago,’ she said, ‘this explains why I have not heard of the matter. If Gareth has the intention to declare you formally as his wife of the second degree, then this should be done as soon as possible – preferably tomorrow – at the judgement day at Poulnabrone.’ She hesitated a moment, her eyes going to Garrett – was the man really going to impose a second wife into the household? Slaney would find that a barbarous custom. Or did he intend to get a divorce from Slaney? And on what grounds? Infertility, perhaps; that was certainly grounds for divorce for either party in a marriage. It was obvious, now, that Garrett had fathered at least one child, so the fault must lie with Slaney. Still she would hear when he had made up his mind. She wouldn’t disturb him now in the midst of this mourning for his cousin, the tánaiste, she decided. However, the legal status of this son and new wife would have to be ratified and the sooner the better.
‘I think you should remind him of his obligations to put this on a legal footing, so do make sure, Rhona, that he, you and your son are at Poulnabrone for the judgement ceremonies tomorrow. He needs to declare in public to the people that Peadar is a true son of his and that you are his wife.’
When Rhona said nothing in reply to this, Mara wondered whether she should ask the question in her mind; decided that it was none of her business, but still could not resist it.
‘Is Slaney staying on at the castle?’ she asked.
Rhona hunched an indifferent shoulder. ‘You’ll have to ask her that, Brehon.’ Her smile broadened. ‘Jarlath tells me that she comes from a family of wealthy merchants and I’m just the daughter of a poor cattle dealer in the mountains of Scotland. I know more about cows than I do about golden sovereigns. She doesn’t even speak to me.’
Not surprising, thought Mara. She liked Rhona, she decided. She was no beauty with her broad, weather-beaten brown face, and her slightly rusty-blond hair but she had a straightforward, honest look in her grey eyes. Her position in the household would not be an easy one. The position of a wife of the second degree seldom was. And then there was Garrett himself. Mara wondered whether an independent-looking woman like Rhona would be able to stand Garrett too long – not to mention his unpleasant wife, Slaney. Still mother-love was a potent force and no doubt Rhona was doing this for Peadar’s sake and might only stay for long enough to make sure that he got his dues.
However, Mara had many people to greet so with a nod and smile at the Scottish woman she moved on to speak to other mourners. The MacNamara clan had turned out in big numbers for this wake – perhaps the rumour about the newcomers had spread and all had been curious to see the newly discovered son and the wife of second degree. Many of them were unknown to her as they came from the bordering kingdom of Thomond, rather than from the Burren. The MacNamara clan had moved east, though their taoiseach’s place of residence remained here, high on the rocky cliff that overlooked the fertile valley at Carron. But whether they came from Burren or Thomond, all seemed eager to find out how the wife of Garrett was taking the arrival of these two from Scotland.
Mara began to feel rather sorry for Slaney, who was pretending to make indifferent conversation with this Stephen Gardiner from London. Slaney had ridden high and had ridden rough-shod over her husband and his clan since their marriage four years ago and now she had to share the position of wife with this stranger from Scotland. She had, poor woman, proved barren and another’s son would inherit what should have been given to her offspring. Would Slaney wait for Garrett to divorce her? Or would she, now before there were any scandals aired, go straight back to her people in Galway? She would get plenty of sympathy there; the right of a man to take a second wife would certainly be declared to be a pagan custom in that anglicised city which regulated its conduct by English laws and English customs.
‘Not too happy,’ said Maol MacNamara, Garrett’s steward, breaking into Mara’s thoughts. He gave a nod towards Slaney. His face wore a malicious smile.
‘A death is always a sad occasion,’ said Mara coolly, deliberately misunderstanding him. She had no very high opinion of Maol. A steward should be loyal to his master. Maol was a poor manager, a gossip and a spreader of information. He was honest enough, she reckoned; at least she had not heard any rumours to the contrary, but that might not be any credit to him. Garrett, with his obsession about money, would be a difficult man to cheat and Maol would not have the brains to deceive him.
‘What do you think about this terrible weather, Maol?’ she said briskly. The weather was usually a safe source for conversation in this land of farming, but it didn’t seem to work well this time. Maol’s face darkened.
‘Nothing I can do about the weather, Brehon,’ he said with the air of one who was glad to air a grievance. ‘It wasn’t my fault that the spring sowing of the oats failed.’ He cast a furious look across the room at his taoiseach. ‘How could I know that the weather would take a turn for the worse? If I sowed too late then I would be found to be in the wrong, too.’
‘As the good book says: “He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap,’” said Mara with a bland smile. She had often found that a store of quotes from the Bible had been of great use in situations like this; a respectful pause usually ensued and the subject could be changed.
Maol, however, did not avail himself of this opportunity.
‘I feel that I have been very badly treated, Brehon,’ he pronounced ponderously.
Mara sighed inwardly, but after all her years as Brehon of the Burren, she was well used to the way that people brought up the trickiest of law problems on these social occasions. She hastily banished from her memory the scorn expressed by her own farm manager at Maol’s poor judgement and of how Cumhal had laughed when he saw the MacNamara fields sown with oat seed on a blustery day of freezing north-easterly winds.
‘You feel that your taoiseach has not been fair to you,’ she remarked mildly, observing that Maol’s face had darkened to an almost purple shade.
‘He has threatened to dismiss me,’ said Maol bluntly. She noticed that his right hand had doubled itself into a fist, clenching so tightly that, when he undid it and held the hand dramatically out to her, she could see nail marks on his palms.
‘I ask you, Brehon,’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion, ‘what am I going to do if he carries out his threat? I will be disgraced entirely. He’ll do it, too. He’s a hard master. He dismissed his cowman, Brennan, just because the dun cow miscarried of a heifer calf – so he said.’
Mara thought about it; Brennan would probably go back to stay with his brother over the border with Thomond, but for this man to lose the job of a steward was a more serious matter. Maol had been a small farmer at the foot of the Oughtmama hills to the north of the kingdom of the Burren and he had given that farm up when he had been appointed. Most had been surprised when Garrett had chosen him as steward; openly hinting that Maol had gained his position, less by ability, than by his shameless flattery of the newly-appointed taoiseach.
‘Come and see me at Cahermacnaghten,’ she said with an inward sigh, but a firm resolution not to be pushed into giving an opinion before she was in position of all the facts. ‘We’ll talk it all over then and you can tell me what you feel and what has been said. After that I will see your taoiseach and hear his side of the story.’
Maol grunted, not too pleased at this response and Mara sought to divert his attention before he could persist.
‘How well Jarlath is looking,’ she remarked, glancing across at the tall, well-tanned figure of Garrett’s very much younger brother. ‘It must be almost ten years since I have seen him. The life of a merchant has certainly suited him.’
Maol’s face lit up with enthusiasm. ‘A man who is interested in the land and in the people of the clan,’ he agreed.
‘You’ve met him, then?’ asked Mara.
‘I have, indeed,’ said Maol. ‘He has made a point of visiting all of his clansmen. The image of his father, he is. That’s what we all say. It’s like having the old man back again.’ His face darkened. ‘I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that himself has been inside my cottage.’
It was as she had thought; Garrett had not endeared himself to his clansmen since he had taken up his position in 1509. Four years should have been enough for the man to establish himself, but instead these years had only served to erase the memory of his popular father and create a desire for something new in the minds of the MacNamara clan.
‘Come and see me next Monday,’ she said firmly and moved away before he could reply. Monday would give a cooling-off period of five days and would give her time to think and to make a few discreet enquiries. She crossed the room and joined Jarlath and his cousin, the newly arrived Peadar from Scotland.
‘Tell me what you have been doing since I saw you last, Jarlath,’ she invited the young man cordially. He certainly would be popular with the clan. Jarlath did not resemble his brother, but had the same clear, light-coloured blue eyes, well-modelled nose and curly black hair that his father had possessed and these assets were enhanced by the deeply tanned skin which had resulted from his many sea voyages.
‘How have you prospered?’ she added.
To her surprise and admiration he did not seize on this as an occasion to boast but smiled deprecatingly. ‘I’d bore you if I told you about every scrape I fell into, every piece of idiocy that I committed, every time that I was cheated,’ he said modestly, and Mara saw that the boy Peadar looked at him with surprise and a touch of disappointment. No doubt he had been expecting to hear some very different stories about daring deeds on the high seas and of near-misses and feats of valour. Her opinion of Jarlath went up. How different he was to his elder brother, she thought, glancing across the room at Garrett.
There was some sort of quarrel going on; she could see that. Garrett was surrounded by some prominent members of his clan from both kingdoms. The blacksmith, Fintan MacNamara, whose forge was on the western side of the Burren, was speaking now and even though, for Fintan, the tone of voice was lowered, a man such as Fintan, built like a bull, reared in a forge where there was incessant clamour of beaten iron, could never successfully talk quietly.
‘It’s for the clan to elect the tánaiste,’ he was saying, ‘and with all respect to you, my lord, I say that we do it here and now; the clan is present, the Brehon, herself, is present; no reason why it can’t be all signed and sealed while the night is young.’
Garrett said something, his long face flushed with anger. Mara could not hear his words but the response was instant.
‘I see no disrespect to the dead, my lord,’ bellowed Fintan. ‘Lord have mercy on him, the poor man was a good and loyal member of the clan and he’s probably wishing that we would get on with the business and appoint his successor and allow him to enjoy his eternal rest.’ Fintan cast a glance up towards the high carved ceiling of the great hall and crossed himself piously. The rest of clan followed suit, and having, thought Mara suppressing a smile, checked the wishes of the deceased, they turned angry faces back towards their taoiseach. She put down her goblet of sour Spanish wine and made her way swiftly across to the cluster around Garrett. Trouble, she found, could often be averted by her mere presence. Garrett’s lower lip was jutting out like the curved edge of a platter and his eyes were full of anger.
Many of the men gathered around him were unknown to her as most of the MacNamara land lay east of the kingdom of the Burren, in Corcomroe and Thomond, but all knew her; as the only woman Brehon in Ireland she was famous and in addition her marriage three years ago to Turlough Donn O’Brien, king of the three kingdoms of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren, made her well known to all of his subjects. Voices ceased and men stood back as she joined the group.
‘We were discussing the subject of the election of the new tánaiste, Brehon,’ said Niall MacNamara, a neighbour of Fintan. Niall was attached to Fintan and grateful to him because he had a half brother, Balor; a huge strong man, but mentally retarded whom Fintan employed. Balor was extremely happy working at the forge; he was good with animals and proud of his enormous strength which allowed him to swing the heaviest hammer. It was no wonder, thought Mara, that Niall would support Fintan in this matter.
‘The clan favours Jarlath,’ said Niall. ‘We of the Burren have decided that is our wish. And Tomás, here –’ he indicated a dark-haired man with an air of authority, who was standing beside Garrett – ‘he’s from Thomond, Brehon; well, he favours electing Jarlath as the tánaiste as well.’ He cast a dubious glance at Garrett’s bad-tempered face, and stepped back hastily, murmuring, ‘We’re all in favour of doing it here and now, Brehon, if that suits you.’
Niall was a peaceful man and obviously did not want to anger his taoiseach, Garrett, too much. Fintan, on the other hand, was too aggressive. This Tomás looked like a man who would be cautious and sensible in what he said so Mara addressed herself to him.
‘Are all the clans represented here tonight?’ she asked.
‘All of them, Brehon,’ he said respectfully. Garrett made an inarticulate sound, but Mara ignored him. When relationships were good then a taoiseach usually picked out his heir, but by law the decision was one for the clan to make. The king had to be involved in the election of the taoiseach, but his presence and approval was not necessary for the election of a tánaiste.
‘And you are all agreed?’ she asked looking around at the cluster of MacNamara clan members. Several, who had been standing in other parts of the room, sidled across to join them. There was a murmur of assent as Mara looked from one face to the other.
‘Well, in that case, perhaps you will let me have the name of your choice,’ she said. ‘If you are all of the one mind, the ceremony can be held tonight if you wish. The king is not present, but I can act on his behalf.’
‘We would like Jarlath, the brother of the taoiseach, to be the new tánaiste,’ Tomás raised his voice slightly and spoke firmly. He looked straight ahead.
Garrett lifted a peremptory finger and beckoned the young lad, Peadar, his newly-discovered son. Peadar came over, but his mother, Rhona, remained where she was, watching the scene with an amused smile.
‘This is my choice for tánaiste,’ he said, slipping an arm around the boy’s shoulders. ‘My son, Peadar, bred of my bone and acknowledged by me.’
There was a dead silence. All of the MacNamara clan exchanged glances with each other, but none looked at Garrett, or at his newly discovered son. Jarlath strolled over and stood beside the two, his eyebrows slightly raised. The contrast between his tall, broad-shouldered figure and the slight, underdeveloped adolescent boy at his side was enough to start a murmur among the clan. The rest of the neighbours from the Burren watched with interest. Even those praying beside the coffin returned their rosary beads to their pouches and went to stand by the fireplace and to watch the drama that had unexpectedly unfolded.
‘Perhaps, Brehon, we could vote on the choice before us,’ suggested the man named Tomás and there was an eager murmur of agreement from the clan.
‘Those in favour of electing Jarlath MacNamara as tánaiste please raise your right hand,’ said Mara, looking around at the faces.
Every hand was raised except that of Garrett and of his son.
‘For Peadar?’ queried Mara.
Only Garrett’s hand went up. Peadar looked unsure and then embarrassed. Rhona strolled away and stood looking out through the window. Slaney glanced away from Stephen Gardiner, surveyed the crowd with a look of disdain and then turned back to him again.
‘I refuse to allow this matter to go forward,’ stated Garrett. He thrust his lower lip forward and glared belligerently at his clan members.
Mara touched Garrett on the arm and withdrew towards one of the window seats, leaving him to follow her.
‘You don’t feel that Jarlath will make a good tánaiste, is that correct, taoiseach?’ she asked. She made sure that her low-spoken words could not be overheard by the clan and that her voice was calm and sounded neutral. She could not afford to take sides against one of the chieftains in the kingdom where she was responsible for maintaining law and order. Fights and even battles could flare up at a moment’s notice among these martial clans. Or worse, outsiders might be embroiled in the quarrel and could bring war into the peaceful kingdom of the Burren.
