Eye of the Law (2 page)

She observed that quite a few of the guests were eyeing him with curiosity. Teige’s steward came in and murmured to his master; Mara noticed how the O’Brien
taoiseach
seemed to stiffen with alarm or perhaps it was astonishment.

Ardal bowed. ‘You are very good.’ He turned to go back out of the room, holding the door open for her.

Mara saw Turlough take a step forward, but she deliberately did not look at him, or beckon him to join them. This was a problem that she had to deal with on her own. Ever since their marriage, and especially as he knew that she was expecting a baby, Turlough seemed to want to share all of her burdens, to treat her like a piece of precious Venetian glass, but she was determined to carry on doing her job for as long as she could. The baby was due in July; her scholars would have departed for the summer holidays by then and Fergus, the Brehon of the neighbouring kingdom of Corcomroe, would look after Burren as well during July. By September she would be fit and well again and would be able to resume her duties as Brehon and as
ollamh
, professor, of the law school of Cahermacnaghten.

After closing the door quietly behind them both, Ardal led the way downstairs. Next to the main doorway there was a small room with an iron brazier filled with glowing pieces of turf burning on the floor under the window. Usually it was occupied by a couple of men-at-arms, but today these were enjoying themselves outside in the courtyard. They would be quite private in here with the door closed against the noisy crowd.

‘What’s the trouble, Ardal?’ Mara looked anxiously at his troubled blue eyes. She had never seen him look like that. He always seemed to go through life with an air of serene unconcern.

‘I’ve had a bit of a shock, Brehon.’ He ran his hand rapidly through his red-gold curls and turned a bewildered face towards her.

‘Has it something to do with these two men I saw come up to you in the courtyard?’

He nodded. ‘They come from the Aran, from Inisheer, the eastern island.’

‘A long and difficult journey in a wind like this.’ Mara eyed him carefully.

‘They set out yesterday and they had to turn back. The weather was a bit better today so they tried again. They’ve been rowing since dawn.’ Ardal seemed to be talking for the sake of talking. That was unlike him; he normally said little unless it was to the point.

‘So they must have had a strong reason for coming?’

‘They brought a letter . . .’ Ardal hesitated. ‘Would you like to see them, Brehon, and hear the story that they have to tell?’

‘Perhaps it would be better for you to tell me what it’s all about first, Ardal. Then I could talk with them if that’s what you would like me to do.’ Mara’s voice was firm. It was obvious that Ardal had been told the reason for the errand and it would be quicker to get the information from him than from two strange men.

Ardal squared his shoulders. ‘Well, to make a long story short, Brehon, they came to tell me that the younger man, Iarla is his name – he’d be about twenty, I’d suppose. Well, they came to tell me that he is my son.’

‘What!’ Mara was startled out of her usual calm.

Ardal nodded. ‘That’s right, my son.’

‘But how?’

‘Oh, they can give chapter and verse all right,’ said Ardal bitterly. ‘This boy was born in December 1489 and I visited Aran in the Easter of 1489. I went with King Turlough, God bless him. Of course, he wasn’t king then, not even
tánaiste
, but King Conor, his uncle, had sent him to collect the rents and I went with him and so did Teige. We were just three young men – I was under twenty myself – and, like all young men, we were out for a good time.’

‘And you found the island women accommodating.’ Mara’s grin was tolerant.

Ardal nodded. ‘I remember his mother all right,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘She was the blacksmith’s wife. The blacksmith was drunk, completely drunk; he looked as if he wouldn’t wake up for an age.’

‘Was she pretty?’

‘Very. She had hair redder than my own and a pair of lovely grey eyes. I remember her well,’ admitted Ardal. ‘So will Teige, I’d say, but don’t mention it in front of his wife. He was already married at the time.’

‘So you had intercourse with her.’ Mara’s tone was brisk. She had to establish the facts, though she knew that he was taken aback at her directness.

‘That was the way of it.’

‘But you heard no more from her?’

Ardal shook his head. ‘I forgot all about it a few days later,’ he confessed. ‘I was just a lad and I suppose I hoped that nothing would come of it.’

‘But why turn up now? Let me guess. The blacksmith has died.’

‘He died a few years ago. No, it’s the mother who has died. She made a deathbed confession.’

‘Naming you as father of this boy, Iarla?’

‘Naming me as father.’ Ardal bowed his head and repeated dully, ‘Naming me as father in her confession to the priest. The priest has sent me a letter. He writes down the date of the boy’s baptism – just about nine months after I lay with the mother.’

‘I see,’ said Mara. ‘Of course the law does say that if a woman names a man as father to her child on her deathbed, then her word should be believed. The idea is that no one will tell a lie to a priest on his or her deathbed. I must say that it is something that I have always had difficulty with. My experience is that a mother’s love for her first-born may be stronger than her fear of hell. She might even reason that God would forgive a mother for doing the best for her son.’

And, of course, she thought, this would be a splendid prize for any boy to inherit. Ardal was by far the richest
taoiseach
on the Burren. The O’Lochlainns had been kings of the Burren in the past, before it was conquered by the O’Briens of Thomond. The land, of course, was clan land and should go to the
taoiseach
of the clan as well as many of the sheep and cattle. Ardal, however, had a large personal fortune amassed by breeding and selling horses and by his efficiency as a farmer and this would be a rich prize for any heir, even if Iarla were not declared to be the
tánaiste
. Ardal, of course, would be aware of all this.

‘But does the law say that I must recognize this boy as my son?’ There was a note of deep distaste in his voice.

‘I would be cautious for the moment, Ardal. Admit nothing. Say little. Leave this to me. Now, I think, since I know the facts about the matter, this might be the moment for me to meet this Iarla.’ Suddenly a thought struck her. ‘But who is the older man? You said that the blacksmith is dead.’

‘That’s the present blacksmith from Inisheer. He’s the brother of the boy’s father, or previously acknowledged father.’

‘I see,’ said Mara. ‘Interesting that he comes here with the boy! You would not imagine a man would welcome his brother being known as a cuckold.’

‘Shall I bring them in so that you can speak with them?’ Ardal winced slightly at her plain speaking, but tried to sound detached.

‘Yes, do that, Ardal.’

This should be interesting, she told herself. There seemed to be something odd about the story.

When Ardal returned, Mara was not surprised to see that he was accompanied by Liam as well as the two strangers. Liam had been steward to Ardal, and to Ardal’s father before him. He was a strong, active man, reputedly about sixty, though he looked a good ten years younger. Ardal relied on Liam, not just for managing his estate and its revenues, but also for companionship.

What a shame that Ardal had not remarried, thought Mara. If he had married again ten years ago, after the death of his young wife, and now had a string of sons ready to inherit his lands and fortune, then this young Iarla might never have bothered turning up on his doorstep. No doubt the story of Ardal’s wealth and his childlessness had penetrated to the Aran Islands.

‘This is Iarla, Brehon, and this is his uncle, Becan.’ Liam made the introductions with aplomb, but like his master, he looked shocked.

‘Sit down, Iarla, and you, Becan.’ But before she could move, Liam, efficient as always, proffered the only chair in the room to Mara and pulled out two stools for the men. Then he went and stood quietly beside his master who was leaning against the wall.

‘I’ve heard the purpose of your arrival,’ said Mara, addressing Iarla directly. ‘When did you first hear this tale?’

He flushed angrily. The word ‘tale’ had stung.

‘Three days ago,’ he said briefly.

‘At the deathbed of your mother?’ Mara softened her voice. It was not for her to take one side or the other, she reminded herself. The fact that she was fond of Ardal and had known him since they were both young should have no place in this enquiry.

Iarla nodded.

‘Tell me about it.’ As he launched into the explanation she studied him carefully. There was no look of Ardal about him. He was below medium height, with dark hair, a swarthy skin, heavy nose and a full-lipped mouth.

‘Thank you,’ she said as he finished. ‘Now, can I see the letter from the priest?’

He fumbled under his arm. Over the
léine
he wore a short jacket of unsheared sheepskin. It seemed to have some sort of pouch sewn to the inside of that. The package, when he finally extracted it, was completely wrapped in oilskin and he took some time to unfold this, putting the skin carefully aside before handing the sheet of vellum to her. A fisherman, obviously, well used to protecting important goods from the damage of the Atlantic salt water.

And this document was important. Mara read it to herself and then aloud. The letter was well written and referred to the ‘ancient law of the land of Ireland’ and stated that a woman had confessed her sin on her deathbed and had named Iarla as the son, not of her husband, but of Ardal O’Lochlainn,
taoiseach
of the O’Lochlainn clan of the Burren. The priest, in priest-like fashion, was ‘confident that this young man would be instated as the only son of the
taoiseach
and given all of the rights and privileges that came from that position.’

Mara folded the letter and looked up. Ardal’s face was now well under control and showed no emotion. Liam looked openly suspicious.

‘How did the priest know that the O’Lochlainn had no son yet?’ he demanded truculently.

Mara bit back a smile. The whole of the Burren had been trying to marry off Ardal for the last ten years. It was indeed possible that the story of his childlessness had penetrated as far as Aran. Liam, however, had not finished.

‘I’ve seen you before,’ he went on, pointing to Becan. ‘You were selling fish at the Imbolc fair, here on the Burren, six weeks ago. I remember your face.’

‘No crime in that.’ Becan’s voice was deep and hoarse.

‘But you said you were a blacksmith.’

‘I do a bit of this and a bit of that.’ Becan shrugged, spreading his hands out in the island fashion.

He had more of a look of a blacksmith than of a fisherman, thought Mara. His hands and arms were huge and he had several burn marks on his face as well as his hands. She decided to say nothing though, just to watch and listen.

‘And if you are a fisherman,’ continued Liam, jutting his chin aggressively, ‘why sell fish here in Burren? Why not in Corcomroe – wouldn’t that be nearer for you with a long journey to go back to the island? Why walk all the way to the Burren? You had no horse, not even a donkey. I remember seeing you on the road near our place.’

‘Why not?’ Becan stared back.

‘I know why,’ said Liam triumphantly. ‘You had heard about the O’Lochlainn and you decided to come to have a look for yourself. You picked up all the news and you went to have a look at the O’Lochlainn’s tower house. Don’t deny it. It wasn’t on your road back to Doolin. You were having a good look around Lissylisheen when I saw you.’

I wonder whether this is a fraud, thought Mara. It’s beginning to look like that. Aloud she said gently, ‘What was wrong with your mother, Iarla? Why did she die? She was still a young woman, wasn’t she?’

‘She had a lump in her breast,’ said the young man sullenly.

‘So she knew for quite a while that she was going to die,’ said Mara quietly.

She cast a quick glance at Iarla. He had the massive shoulders and well-developed arms of Becan, but he did not look as if he had recently worked at the forge. There were no burn marks on either hands or face. Of course, there would have been very little work for a blacksmith in Aran. As far as she knew there were no deposits of iron in the limestone. Even in the Burren itself there was no iron: Fintan MacNamara, the blacksmith, had to get his from Corcomroe. Mara hadn’t been to Aran for several years, but she remembered it very clearly. Everything there was made from stone; there were no gates anywhere; the field gaps were opened and closed by the simple method of moving some of the large stones from the slanting herringbone pattern of the walls. The blacksmith’s work would consist purely in making cooking pots and perhaps shoes for the few horses that existed on the island.

‘So the blacksmith business belonged to you and your brother?’ she addressed Becan.

‘That’s right, Brehon,’ he said gruffly. ‘And our father before him.’ He looked at her suspiciously, and, when she didn’t reply, he said aggressively. ‘So what’s going to happen now? I have to go back to Aran as soon as possible and I want to see this affair settled. The priest said that Iarla would have to be taken in by the O’Lochlainn. There’s nothing for him on the island; his three sisters have their own families to look after and so do I.’

So it was as she suspected. If there were a suspicion that the boy was not his brother’s son, then Becan would feel no duty to share the meagre income of the blacksmith’s business with him. Mara glanced at Ardal. He was a man of principle and of honour. His own convenience would never form part of a reason for a decision. His eyes met hers, but there was doubt in them. He glanced over at Iarla, looking at him curiously and intently. Iarla flushed, a warm tide of red flooding under the sea-tanned skin. He was a handsome lad in a dark swarthy way, thought Mara, eyeing him with interest. His eyes stared defiantly back.