Chain of Evidence (3 page)

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.

‘What’s the problem, Garrett?’ she asked briskly, seating herself on the broad window seat and signalling him to sit beside her. At least his appalling wife, Slaney, hadn’t moved away from her seat by the fire to follow them. She was too engaged in her conversation with Stephen Gardiner. Garrett did not even glance in her direction. Up to now, thought Mara, Garrett had always appeared to be completely under the thumb of his Galway-born, English-speaking wife. How on earth had he found the courage to introduce a new wife and a fifteen-year-old son into the household?

‘What have you against the appointment of Jarlath as your
tánaiste
?’ she asked when he said nothing.

‘No objection,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s just that I hoped, in fact I was sure, that my son, Peadar, would be elected to the
position
. It seemed like providence when he arrived in the very hour when I first heard of the
tánaiste
’s death,’ he explained.

Mara stared at him. Was the man mad? Sure? How could he possibly have been sure?

‘What, a fifteen-year-old boy who has just arrived into the country – totally unknown to your clan! That would never be approved of, Garrett. I wonder that you should have thought that.’ Mara decided that she would not waste any more
time. The clan was uneasy and rebellious. Her instincts told her that there could be trouble. The MacNamara clan was never part of the Burren in the way as the O’Brien, the O’Lochlainn or even the O’Connor clan with its roots in west Corcomroe.

‘Well, he is my son and I have accepted him,’ he argued.

‘And rightly so,’ said Mara soothingly with an eye on his high colour. The man looked about to explode. ‘He does seem to bear the family face and I presume you are happy with the date of birth and with Rhona’s testimony.’

He nodded vigorously. ‘She’s a good woman, Rhona. I should have married her instead of . . .’

‘However, that does not alter the fact that the boy is only fifteen years old and is quite unknown to the clan,’ continued Mara firmly. ‘The clan is, by courtesy, consulting you about this matter and I don’t see that you can have any complaint when they are proposing to choose your brother. And it does make sense to get through the legal business tonight when so many members of such a widespread clan as yours are present. We can deal with the declaration of Peadar to be your son and Rhona to be your wife of the second degree tomorrow, but the election of Jarlath can perfectly well take place tonight.’ She watched his frowning face for a moment and added quietly. ‘I would do it with as good grace as you can muster, Garrett. In the end, the choice will not be yours. What say you? Shall we do it now?’ She did not wait for an answer but got to her feet decisively and moved back to where the clan stood.

‘We will deal with this affair now,’ she said briskly.

The north-easterly wind was freezing when the MacNamara clan moved out of doors to inaugurate their new
tánaiste
. Mara was glad of her fur-lined woollen mantle and the heir-elect, Jarlath, made a great show of shivering dramatically. He was very well-liked, Mara could see, as the clan surged forward to gather under the newly-budded branches of the huge ash tree. Many clapped him on the back and joked with him about the warmth in Spain and of the beauty of the sunburnt ladies in that country. Mara gathered her mantle more closely around her as they went down the path into the small hidden place where these events took place. At least they were
sheltered
from the wind here, she thought, as she climbed up onto the raised platform of heavy stone slabs beside the cairn, the inauguration place of the MacNamara clan on the Burren. Jarlath took his place on one side of her and Garrett on the other. Slaney, Mara was interested to note, had hesitated for a moment, but then joined them, casting a look of loathing at Garrett. Rhona and her son Peadar remained on the ground below, slightly outside the enclosure space, standing beside the smooth-barked trunk of the giant ash tree. Curious glances were cast at them but both stared straight ahead and ignored these.

‘Let’s get this over as quickly as possible,’ muttered Jarlath and Mara frowned. This inauguration of a
tánaiste
was one of the prehistoric ceremonies of Gaelic Ireland and one that would be lost in the future if the young king of England, Henry VIII, had his way. Already the new
taoiseach
of the O’Donnell clan in northern Ireland had given up his ancient title of
Ri
(king) and accepted an earldom from the English king. Never again would the O’Donnell clan have an opportunity to elect the most
suitable
candidate to rule over them. From now on the inheritance would pass from father to son, generation after generation, even if the son were a mere infant in arms when the father died. Even when the heir was unsuitable, unpopular, or unstable, son would follow father as surely as night followed day.