them,’ stated Mara.
Garrett gave her a quick glance and then turned back to Niall. ‘And did Fintan, or anyone else, come to your house or yard that evening?’
‘Not a soul nor a sinner,’ said Niall promptly. ‘We went to bed early and I only unlocked the yard when the Brehon came back with me that time to see the cart.’
‘So the candlesticks must have been taken some time at Noughaval market when there was no one with the cart,’ said Garrett. ‘Who could have done that?’
‘Unless it was that cheating linen merchant, Guaire O’Brien from Corcomroe,’ said Niall. ’If Fintan says that he didn’t, then he didn’t. I’d trust Fintan to tell the truth always.’
I trust no one to always tell the truth, not even myself, thought Mara. There will always be an occasion when a lie serves the purpose better than the truth. ‘I must leave you
now, Garrett,’ she said smoothly. ‘My scholars and I will say a prayer for the deceased and then we must depart. There is much to be done.’
From the corner of her eye she could see Moylan making urgent signs to one of the servants to bring them some mead, so she rapidly swept her scholars up and had them on their knees in front of the open coffin in a couple of seconds. As her lips moved automatically with the well-accustomed words of the prayer for the dead, her mind focussed on the problem ahead of her. If it were a hasty blow triggered by anger and resentment, then the normal practice would have been for the crime to be admitted and the fine paid.
Who had killed Ragnall?
And why was it kept a secret?
And where was Aengus?
Was it embarrassment, because a man he had quarrelled with was now dead, that had kept him hidden in his mountain home?
Or was there a more sinister reason?
SIX
CRITH GABLACH (RANKS IN SOCIETY)
A taoiseach has an honour price of fourteen séts. H e should have a retinue of six persons on state occasions . H e has a wife of equal rank to his own and five horses, including a saddle horse with a silver bridle . H is house must contain at least eight bed places.
T HE BURIAL OF RAGNALL MACNAMARA, steward to the MacNamara clan on the Burren, was a magnificent affair. It was as if Garrett had spared no effort to impress the importance of the MacNamara clan on those who attended. The morning of Thursday 2 October was dry and frosty and filled with the sweet chirp of speckled fieldfares. The midday sun shone with a clarity that turned the black sloes in the hedgerows into mysterious purple jewels and set a few red butterflies flirting among the flowers in the grykes. The scent
of the last stalks of frothy meadowsweet in the ditches sweetened the air.
Ragnall was laid to rest in the little mossy churchyard of the stone church of Carron. It was no morning for death, thought Mara, and all the trappings of white horses groomed and hung with gold and silver, all the lines of men-at-arms and the wild music of the pipes and the cries of the professional keeners seemed to diminish rather than honour the dead man. The pipes finished and then the MacNamara bard stepped forward and spoke the words of the lament to the gentle notes plucked from a small harp. The last notes of the harp now faded away and the bard was silent. And then the horn sounded. The slow, mellow notes, sad and yet defiant, filled the air. Then came the voice of the priest intoning the words of the great psalm: ‘De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine.’
Mara looked around. This would be the moment for tears and sobs, but there was no trace of any sorrow from the MacNamara clan. Even the dead man’s daughter just dabbed at her eyes in a perfunctory fashion.
‘Aengus MacNamara is still not here, Brehon,’ whispered Fachtnan in her ear.
Mara’s eyes searched the crowd and then she nodded slightly. It was true; there was no sign of Aengus. She would definitely have to go up to Oughtmama. There was something very wrong. It was unheard of for a man not to attend the burial
Garrett gave her a quick glance and then turned back to Niall. ‘And did Fintan, or anyone else, come to your house or yard that evening?’
‘Not a soul nor a sinner,’ said Niall promptly. ‘We went to bed early and I only unlocked the yard when the Brehon came back with me that time to see the cart.’
‘So the candlesticks must have been taken some time at Noughaval market when there was no one with the cart,’ said Garrett. ‘Who could have done that?’
‘Unless it was that cheating linen merchant, Guaire O’Brien from Corcomroe,’ said Niall. ’If Fintan says that he didn’t, then he didn’t. I’d trust Fintan to tell the truth always.’
I trust no one to always tell the truth, not even myself, thought Mara. There will always be an occasion when a lie serves the purpose better than the truth. ‘I must leave you
now, Garrett,’ she said smoothly. ‘My scholars and I will say a prayer for the deceased and then we must depart. There is much to be done.’
From the corner of her eye she could see Moylan making urgent signs to one of the servants to bring them some mead, so she rapidly swept her scholars up and had them on their knees in front of the open coffin in a couple of seconds. As her lips moved automatically with the well-accustomed words of the prayer for the dead, her mind focussed on the problem ahead of her. If it were a hasty blow triggered by anger and resentment, then the normal practice would have been for the crime to be admitted and the fine paid.
Who had killed Ragnall?
And why was it kept a secret?
And where was Aengus?
Was it embarrassment, because a man he had quarrelled with was now dead, that had kept him hidden in his mountain home?
Or was there a more sinister reason?
SIX
CRITH GABLACH (RANKS IN SOCIETY)
A taoiseach has an honour price of fourteen séts. H e should have a retinue of six persons on state occasions . H e has a wife of equal rank to his own and five horses, including a saddle horse with a silver bridle . H is house must contain at least eight bed places.
T HE BURIAL OF RAGNALL MACNAMARA, steward to the MacNamara clan on the Burren, was a magnificent affair. It was as if Garrett had spared no effort to impress the importance of the MacNamara clan on those who attended. The morning of Thursday 2 October was dry and frosty and filled with the sweet chirp of speckled fieldfares. The midday sun shone with a clarity that turned the black sloes in the hedgerows into mysterious purple jewels and set a few red butterflies flirting among the flowers in the grykes. The scent
of the last stalks of frothy meadowsweet in the ditches sweetened the air.
Ragnall was laid to rest in the little mossy churchyard of the stone church of Carron. It was no morning for death, thought Mara, and all the trappings of white horses groomed and hung with gold and silver, all the lines of men-at-arms and the wild music of the pipes and the cries of the professional keeners seemed to diminish rather than honour the dead man. The pipes finished and then the MacNamara bard stepped forward and spoke the words of the lament to the gentle notes plucked from a small harp. The last notes of the harp now faded away and the bard was silent. And then the horn sounded. The slow, mellow notes, sad and yet defiant, filled the air. Then came the voice of the priest intoning the words of the great psalm: ‘De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine.’
Mara looked around. This would be the moment for tears and sobs, but there was no trace of any sorrow from the MacNamara clan. Even the dead man’s daughter just dabbed at her eyes in a perfunctory fashion.
‘Aengus MacNamara is still not here, Brehon,’ whispered Fachtnan in her ear.
Mara’s eyes searched the crowd and then she nodded slightly. It was true; there was no sign of Aengus. She would definitely have to go up to Oughtmama. There was something very wrong. It was unheard of for a man not to attend the burial
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