Eye of the Law (24 page)

Aidan was muttering something uncomplimentary about Liam and his weight to Moylan, but they would be distracted once they were on board. Apart from Shane they were all from inland homes and this was going to be a rare treat for them.

‘We’ll hoist the sail once we are out of the harbour, my lord,’ said the ship’s captain to Turlough. He bowed to Mara. ‘We could rig up a shelter for you on deck, Brehon,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a spare sail here.’

‘No, no,’ said Mara. ‘I’d prefer to be out in the open. I’ll just sit here on the sail locker and I’ll be quite comfortable.’

Turlough eased himself down beside her cautiously. Fergal and Conall took up their guarding positions right behind him, each with a hand on their swords.

‘Oh, go and look after those boys and stop them falling overboard,’ said Turlough irritably. ‘These are my own people in this boat. Do you expect one of the O’Kellys or the Great Earl himself to land on the deck disguised as a seabird?’

From the corner of her eye, Mara could see Conall grin at Fergal, but they both chorused a ‘Yes, my lord,’ and took themselves off to the other side of the ship.

‘Hope I’m not sick,’ said Turlough apprehensively.

‘We’re still in the harbour,’ pointed out Mara, eyeing him with amusement. ‘And it’s a very calm day.’

‘There’s always a swell in these parts,’ grumbled Turlough. ‘Look at those rocks over there. Imagine being thrown up against them! That group over there is called Hell’s Kitchen. Imagine being caught among them.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Mara, exasperated, ‘let’s just take pleasure in the journey. Look, they’re putting the sail up now. The boys are enjoying this.’

The captain had given each boy a rope and they were all pulling lustily, Shane shouting orders at the others and revelling in the unusual position of being the most knowledgeable of the scholars.

The sail had originally been a dark colour, but rain and strong sunlight had leached the colour from it and now it was as white as the tops of the waves. Mara could see the places where it had been patched and mended. The salt waters and the strong winds would give these linen sails a short life.

‘I never get used to this journey,’ muttered Turlough.

Mara gave him another amused glance.

‘Brehon, look at the currach over there.’ Shane was pointing out to the distant horizon.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ shouted back Turlough. He stood up, almost lost his balance and then sat down quickly again as the boat lurched and then slipped over the top of a wave.

‘Nothing’s wrong, it’s just that they’ve stopped fishing and gone over to that other cog, the one that went ahead of us, the one with the brown sail. Look, they’ve left their fishing nets and they’ve gone speeding over.’

‘Wanted to find out the news from Corcomroe,’ suggested Enda as Mara and Turlough made their way to the prow of the ship.

‘That’s what it will be.’ Turlough’s ruddy colour was beginning to return to his cheeks, Mara was glad to notice. It reinforced her belief that seasickness didn’t occur if people kept their mind on something else.

‘Is that the ship that is carrying the coffins, my lord?’ asked Fachtnan. He had taken off his cloak and draped it around Nuala who was looking pale and cold.

‘That’s it,’ said Turlough briefly.

‘They’ll know why we’re coming then,’ said Aidan alertly. ‘Look, someone on board is leaning over the rail, shouting down to them.’

‘He’s pointing back at us,’ chimed in Enda.

‘The currach is hoisting a sail now.’ Nuala had a little flush in her cheeks and was looking a little better now and she, like the boys, was leaning over the rail.

‘Funny little square sail,’ said Shane disapprovingly.

‘You’ll be surprised to see how fast that little currach can go,’ said Mara.

‘That’s right. They’re just made from hazel boughs covered in ox skin, so they’re really light.’ Aidan obviously felt that Shane should be put in his place as the youngest scholar.

‘Bet we can go faster,’ said Shane. ‘Look at the size of our sail.’

‘Can we go any faster?’ appealed Enda as the captain came up to the prow.

‘Well, you hang on to the rudder there, keep the currach in your sights and you won’t go far wrong. The rest of us will spread the sail a bit wider.’ The captain was willing to entertain the boys, but Mara doubted that he would overtake the coffin ship, and certainly not the light little currach that was skimming across the waves towards the distant bulk of Inisheer Island. Still, it was keeping them all occupied and excited with their eyes fixed on the horizon. Already they had begun to adapt themselves to the rise and fall of the boat as it climbed each wave and then went down into a trough before climbing up again. Even Turlough was looking a little better with the excitement of the race.

‘The currach is turning again,’ shouted Nuala.

‘It’s not going to the island after all. It’s heading for that ship out there.’ Aidan’s eyesight was keen.

‘That’s a galley,’ yelled Shane.

‘A galley, eh.’ Turlough leaned over the rail, narrowing his eyes. ‘I can’t see it very well, but I’d say, by the flag, that is my relation, the O’Brien of Aran. That’s the man who’s going to put us all up, that’s if we arrive safely. Please God,’ he added piously.

‘Is he out fishing, then?’ Shane climbed up on the rail and stood fearlessly with one hand on the rope that led from the mast to the rudder.

‘I’d say that he’s patrolling.’

‘Get down, Shane,’ said Mara. ‘Patrolling?’ she queried with a lift of her eyebrow towards Turlough.

‘He gets paid by Galway merchants to stop pirates attacking their ships,’ explained Turlough.

There was a twinkle in his eye and Mara smiled to herself. This Brian O’Brien would probably indulge in a spot of piracy himself, she guessed. However, unless a complaint were made, it was not anything that she had to investigate.

‘Pirates!’ exclaimed Shane, open-mouthed. ‘Hugh, did you hear that? The man that we are going to stay with fights pirates!’

‘The currach has turned around and is going back towards the island,’ yelled Enda.

‘We’ll never catch up with it now,’ said Moylan in disgusted tones.

‘We’ll bet which one of them gets to the island first – the O’Brien of Aran or the men in the currach,’ said Enda, always one to abandon a useless cause. ‘Do you want to have a go at the rudder, Fachtnan, while I get out a piece of vellum and take the bets?’

‘Come what may, they’ll be ready for us on the island when we arrive,’ said Mara softly, looking out across the waves.

And one family will know that they have now lost two of its members, she added silently to herself as she watched the busy and animated crowd, Turlough and his two bodyguards amongst them, shouting and cheering for their choice.

The news had certainly spread by the time that their boat had docked. A group of women, keening gently, knelt by the two salt-stained coffins on the massive stone pier. As far as the eye could see, other women in their red
léinte
knelt on the white sand and the men, in their brown cloaks, stood in small groups on the beach or the dunes. From the boat they looked like statues but once she stepped ashore Mara could hear the rhythmic sound of the prayers of the rosary. The faces of her scholars were now solemn and the men-at-arms shuffled their feet uneasily on the pier as they waited for directions from their king.

Then the priest came down the hill. He was a young man and his walk had the springing agility of one born to these rocky places. His face was fresh but his bearing was pompous and self-satisfied and he trod with the assurance of a man who knew his worth was above that of those around. Mara watched him with disfavour as he pushed a small child out of his way and did not look back when the little boy stumbled and cried. The mother snatched up the child and stilled its wailing against her shoulder but no one else seemed to take notice.

One by one they came forward and took up places around the coffin. No one looked at the new arrivals from the mainland or greeted them; all of the concentration was on the two coffins. Eight men came forward, four for each coffin. Others helped and soon the coffins were placed on the shoulders, Becan first, and then the coffin of Iarla. Mara knew that because the second coffin, despite Ardal and Liam’s efforts, still bore traces of having been in the ground for days. Turlough spoke a few words to his men-at-arms and they came forward and formed a guard of honour on either side of the coffin.

And then the crowd hesitated. Another man was coming down the hill, walking at fast pace, leaping from rock to rock. He was followed by some men-at-arms, the sunlight glinting on the swords by their sides.

‘There’s Brian the Spaniard,’ whispered Turlough as the dark-faced man, bronzed by the winds of the Atlantic, came through the crowd that parted for him.

The
taoiseach
looked older, thought Mara. It was six years since she had seen him at Thomond and the very black hair was now streaked with grey. His dark-brown eyes swept over the crowd and landed on Turlough and Mara. After a brief prayer at the coffins he made his way over to them.

‘You’re welcome, you’re welcome both of you.’ Brian’s words were warm, but his face retained its proud, aloof expression. He was much darker than any of the O’Brien clan that Mara knew, but his high-bridged fleshy nose reminded her of Teige and he had the O’Brien domed forehead. ‘We’ve a room prepared for you and we’ll feed you a bit of fish for your supper. There’s my place up there.’

It was impossible to miss the castle, among all the small, thatched cottages. It was built within the sheltering walls of an old fort on top of the hill on the south-eastern flank above them. It was quite a small castle, only two stories high but it dominated the inhabited part of the island and the harbour below.

‘I’ll see you later then.’ Brian gave a quick inclination of his head, first to Turlough, then to Mara, and then went forward and began to talk to a tall, grey-haired woman. This was Becan’s wife, thought Mara, and the three young women standing behind her were, no doubt, Iarla’s sisters, the daughters of Étain. They probably looked like their mother, though perhaps without her spirit, thought Mara, glancing surreptitiously at the red-gold hair that hung around the shoulders of each of the pale-faced, silent girls. Becan’s wife, Babhinn, had probably once been red-haired, but now her beauty had faded. Would Étain, if she were still alive, have looked like her sister? thought Mara sadly. Would her red hair, hair as red as the precious garnet in Turlough’s ring, have turned grey, her exquisite fair skin have been roughened and coarsened to a blotchy red by the salt winds and the fierce light on this barren island? Would her straight back now be bowed by incessant labour and her nimble feet turned swollen and clumsy? These island women worked hard – it was a life of incessant toil for them and a life of danger and early death for their husbands, brothers and sons who tried to snatch the fruits of the sea from the mountainous waves.

There seemed to be little curiosity about the king and the Brehon from the islanders; this was an island funeral and it would be carried out according to their own ancient rituals. The crowd parted for the priest who shook holy water over the coffins and then stood back while the mourners and their families formed into a long line behind the coffin; only then did friends and neighbours join the procession.

Mara gestured to her own scholars to stand apart. When the last person was in place, she and Turlough took up their position and the bodyguards, the law-school scholars and Nuala lined up behind them.

Little by little the people began to move, following the men bearing the coffin. Even without a weight to carry, it was slow going as the sand was very deep and powder fine. The islanders, in their bare feet or with soft goatskins bound around their feet, walked more easily than those from the mainland in their heavy boots, but even for them the ground was difficult with ankle-wrenching stones buried here and there beneath the sand.

The island, thought Mara as she struggled on through the sand, looked rather like a lower version of the mountain of Mullaghmore. The limestone rock was terraced in exactly the same way, though the terraces here were not barren and deserted except for a few goats or sheep, but lined with small, white-washed, thatched cottages, each with a neat garden of vegetables beside or in front of it. There was an extraordinary amount of stone taken out of the ground in order to have these small patches of fertility. From a distance the place looked like a giant tilted chessboard with thousands of walls outlining small squares. In the past when she had come here, either by herself or with her father, there had been a constant movement of figures carrying baskets of seaweed or of sand, both of which, when mixed, eventually formed the soil in the small fields and gardens where they grew their vegetables or small crops of rye. These small, fertile places were treasured; elsewhere, as on the high Burren, grass only grew in the grykes between the limestone rock slabs and the men and women spared no effort to add to their fertility and to shelter them with high walls against the Atlantic winds.

But today no one was working; everyone on the island was at the funeral. Prayers rose up, deep and fervent, the keening women cried out like seagulls and the chains of rough, hand-made rosary beads were busily moved, bead by bead, through work-roughened hands.

‘They’ll stop here,’ whispered Turlough, taking Mara’s arm as she half-stumbled on a buried stone. She waited and looked with puzzlement at the mourners. They were nowhere near to the graveyard yet.

Ahead of them was a flat slab of stone and beside it a large cairn or pile of loose stones. The coffins were laid on the slab and then the entire funeral procession searched in the sand and the nearby field until they found a stone and placed it on top of the cairn with a muttered prayer for the souls of the deceased. After that they formed up in a solemn procession going sunwise around the cairn. Around and around the red
léinte
and the black cloaks went, like some vast wheel turning endlessly in the grip of a fast-flowing river.