Condemned to Death by Cora Harrison

Mara was her godmother and trusted absolutely the young woman’s skill and knowledge.
    ‘I think that once I know how he died I may want further information, but at the moment, I think I just want to know the cause and the time of death,’ she said now and Nuala gave a brief nod.
    ‘I’ll send Liam for you, then, as soon as I have anything to tell you,’ she said and began to take some fearsome-looking implements, saws, knives and pincers, from her leather pannier. Domhnall and Slevin, at her command, had led the three horses back up the sands towards the fresh water of the River Caher and after tethering them to a couple of stakes were standing there. Mara retreated from the curtained-off space, walking first up towards the smoking fish and then changing her mind and turning aside to walk towards the northern end of the beach, to the place where her two eldest scholars stood, still by the horses, but obviously, even from a distance, deep in earnest conversation with each other.
    The River Caher ran on stony ground, down from the mountain, through the sand dunes and then across the open beach. Not deep, thought Mara, looking down at it and wishing that the beach was empty and that she could shed shoes and stockings and paddle through the rippling water. She bent down and put her hand and arm in until her fingers touched the bottom – not much more than a foot deep in places, she thought, but, of course, it was now dead tide. She took out her hand and licked the tops of her fingers – still quite fresh, she thought, but no doubt at high tide the river would be flooded with salt water and a boat could easily be slid down this waterway and into the sea.
    She looked affectionately at Domhnall and Slevin still deep in talk. They were a nice pair, she thought, Slevin, tall and leggy, Domhnall, though a year older, not quite as tall as his friend, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned serious boy, contrasting with Slevin’s fair hair and skin and lively, fun-loving temperament. They had entered her law school at the same time, at the beginning of the Michaelmas term when one was eight and the other seven years old, and they had immediately been best of friends – Domhnall, quiet, studious, her grandson by her first marriage, son of her daughter Sorcha and of Oisín a merchant from Galway, and his best friend, Slevin from Mayo, more extrovert, a very good musician and a talented dancer. She walked down to meet them and could see that they were glad to see her. They cherished their privileges of being the leaders of the law school and now they probably guessed that she wanted to talk about this puzzling affair before the presence of the younger scholars brought irrelevancies and silly jokes into the proceedings.
    ‘Advise me,’ she said to them seriously. ‘I’m wondering what to do when Nuala has finished with the body. Domhnall, how sure are you that this is a gold merchant from Galway?’
    She was interested to see from Slevin’s startled glance that Domhnall had said nothing about this to his friend. Very discreet, she thought with a flicker of amusement, but better to be too discreet than someone who tells before being given permission to do so.
    ‘Yes,’ she said to Slevin now, ‘Domhnall thinks that he might have recognized him, that he could be a gold merchant from Galway, and, of course, that would fit in with your conclusions that the man wore English dress – Slevin thought,’ now she addressed Domhnall, ‘that the man was wearing an English shirt, linen, but made in the English style with buttons down the front, and hose, and could well have had the doublet, cloak, boots and nether hose stripped from him as part of attempt to make a case of murder appear like a judicial sentence of
fingal
.’
    ‘
Iontach!
’ exclaimed Domhnall. ‘It’s all beginning to come together, isn’t it, Brehon. I had another look at the man’s face while you and Nuala were talking and I’m sure that he is a goldsmith