gunwale. Once that was done, the makeshift coffin was soon lowered down with ropes into the grave, the priest rushing through the prayers and within five minutes the excavated earth was heaped up on top of the mortal remains of Niall Martin, the goldsmith from Galway who had come to an obscure beach on the north-western corner of the Gaelic Kingdom of the Burren, and who had been killed at that spot.
Seven
Muirbretha
(Sea Judgements)
Any goods found on the seashore belong to the owner of that shore unless it can be proved that they have come from beyond nine waves from the shore – in which case they will belong to the finder.
‘B rigid! Sausages! You’re an angel!’
‘
Iontach!
’
‘And how’s the old place getting on without us?’ queried Cormac with the air of a traveller newly returned from a long sea journey.
‘Terrible, terrible, the whole place is going to rack and ruin! You won’t know it when you see it again.’ Brigid entered into the game.
‘Cumhal got drunk and ploughed up the home meadow again?’
‘The pig’s lost weight!’
‘Rats in the storeroom!’ Cael gave Brigid a sly look at that. She and Brigid had many a tussle over how a young lady should behave.
‘Haycocks have fallen down!’
‘And built up again in the wrong place! At least one foot from the place they’ve been put in for the last five hundred years,’ Séanín adroitly turned a sausage while putting in this piece of exquisite humour.
It was good to see them all in such good spirits, thought Mara. Even Cael had got over her annoyance at having to share a tent with Síle and was bandying jokes and sarcasms with the other scholars. Mara munched absent-mindedly at a sausage and gazed out to sea. Everyone was enjoying the change from fish. Brigid kept a supply of willow twigs which she always used when cooking sausages for the boys, so no plates were needed and they all enjoyed the informality. The fishing community, whose normal diet was almost entirely taken from their sea-catches, was praising Brigid’s cooking loudly and enthusiastically and the housekeeper’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure.
‘Brehon, who owns the shore grazing here at Fanore?’ asked Domhnall. He spoke in low tone and did not cease to eat, but his brown eyes were alert and thoughtful.
Mara was taken aback. It was a very good question, and a question, she acknowledged to herself, that she should have asked herself before now.
‘To be honest, I’m not sure, Domhnall,’ she said immediately. Her mind went to Michelóg, and yet there was that case of the bull. Had Michelóg owned the shore grazing then the community would have been on more unsure ground when they objected to the animal grazing there. Her mind went back to the case, sifting through the thousands of other cases with which she had dealt during her time as Brehon. It had not been a very noticeable, nor a very complicated case, she seemed to remember. The chances were small that it was Michelóg that traditionally owned the grazing. It had not been Fernandez; she was almost certain of that. And yet he above all men was one that would know the answer to this question. She half-rose to her feet, but then decided to leave her query until later on. She relaxed her back against one of the squared-off rocks and listened with amusement to the bantering between Brigid and her scholars.
They had been glad to see the housekeeper; Mara had been pleased to observe that. There was a relationship between Cormac, Art, the MacMahon twins and her housekeeper which was a sort of mother/grandmother tie that made them feel at ease with her, made them accept her frequent scolding and her right to see after their food, their welfare, their donning of clean clothes, and their moods of depression or anxiety. Brigid, she noticed, was paying particular attention to young Finbar, teasing him, making sure that he ate his sausages and his slices of newly baked soda bread spread with newly salted butter and
Seven
Muirbretha
(Sea Judgements)
Any goods found on the seashore belong to the owner of that shore unless it can be proved that they have come from beyond nine waves from the shore – in which case they will belong to the finder.
‘B rigid! Sausages! You’re an angel!’
‘
Iontach!
’
‘And how’s the old place getting on without us?’ queried Cormac with the air of a traveller newly returned from a long sea journey.
‘Terrible, terrible, the whole place is going to rack and ruin! You won’t know it when you see it again.’ Brigid entered into the game.
‘Cumhal got drunk and ploughed up the home meadow again?’
‘The pig’s lost weight!’
‘Rats in the storeroom!’ Cael gave Brigid a sly look at that. She and Brigid had many a tussle over how a young lady should behave.
‘Haycocks have fallen down!’
‘And built up again in the wrong place! At least one foot from the place they’ve been put in for the last five hundred years,’ Séanín adroitly turned a sausage while putting in this piece of exquisite humour.
It was good to see them all in such good spirits, thought Mara. Even Cael had got over her annoyance at having to share a tent with Síle and was bandying jokes and sarcasms with the other scholars. Mara munched absent-mindedly at a sausage and gazed out to sea. Everyone was enjoying the change from fish. Brigid kept a supply of willow twigs which she always used when cooking sausages for the boys, so no plates were needed and they all enjoyed the informality. The fishing community, whose normal diet was almost entirely taken from their sea-catches, was praising Brigid’s cooking loudly and enthusiastically and the housekeeper’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure.
‘Brehon, who owns the shore grazing here at Fanore?’ asked Domhnall. He spoke in low tone and did not cease to eat, but his brown eyes were alert and thoughtful.
Mara was taken aback. It was a very good question, and a question, she acknowledged to herself, that she should have asked herself before now.
‘To be honest, I’m not sure, Domhnall,’ she said immediately. Her mind went to Michelóg, and yet there was that case of the bull. Had Michelóg owned the shore grazing then the community would have been on more unsure ground when they objected to the animal grazing there. Her mind went back to the case, sifting through the thousands of other cases with which she had dealt during her time as Brehon. It had not been a very noticeable, nor a very complicated case, she seemed to remember. The chances were small that it was Michelóg that traditionally owned the grazing. It had not been Fernandez; she was almost certain of that. And yet he above all men was one that would know the answer to this question. She half-rose to her feet, but then decided to leave her query until later on. She relaxed her back against one of the squared-off rocks and listened with amusement to the bantering between Brigid and her scholars.
They had been glad to see the housekeeper; Mara had been pleased to observe that. There was a relationship between Cormac, Art, the MacMahon twins and her housekeeper which was a sort of mother/grandmother tie that made them feel at ease with her, made them accept her frequent scolding and her right to see after their food, their welfare, their donning of clean clothes, and their moods of depression or anxiety. Brigid, she noticed, was paying particular attention to young Finbar, teasing him, making sure that he ate his sausages and his slices of newly baked soda bread spread with newly salted butter and
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