with Rory the bard, on the evening of Samhain,’ stated the priest.
‘Indeed,’ said Mara. She let a few long moments of silence fill the air. He had been there; that was correct. She had seen him, like an ill-omened bird of prey, hovering around the merry youngsters. She waited, looking at him carefully. Why was he doing this? she wondered. He himself had not even had the common humanity to allow the poor child to bury her dead infant in the churchyard.
Nessa had had to take the tiny body to a killeen, one of the little lonely ancient burial places where the ancestors of the people of the Burren had laid their dead, and where now, unbaptized
infants and suicides were sometimes placed. When Mara had heard from Brigid, her housekeeper, what was going to happen, she had hurried over, taking Fachtnan and a shovel with her. Neither Nessa’s mother nor her father had come with Nessa. The poor child had carried the baby, wrapped in an old piece of sacking, and was digging in the earth with a rusty trowel when they arrived. Fachtnan had dug the grave, his face white and his eyes wet with tears. Mara had said a prayer over the little waxen body and Fachtnan had joined in with a steady voice. Nessa had said nothing.
She continued to say nothing; according to the general rumour she was still resolutely denying that she had done anything wrong. She had even accused her mother of believing the story of the Virgin Mary and not believing her own daughter. Mara had smiled at that. There had been no mention of Rory until Colman had come in with the news that Declan was going to bring the case to be heard at Poulnabrone.
So why was this priest now creating falsehoods before his king and his parishioners? Perhaps a belated sense of responsibility for the daughter of that religious woman who did so much for his church? Perhaps a hatred of all that Rory and his like represented? Whatever it was, there was no doubt in her mind that he was lying. She stared hard at him, but his eyes did not drop before hers. She allowed the silence to continue. Silence, she had discovered long ago, was as effective as words on many occasions.
In the distance a bull roared in Baur North and was answered by the high treble of the calves and the soft, deep mooing of the cows. The people stirred uneasily. This was a sad, unpleasant case. They wanted it finished and then the merriment would surface and the long climb up the mountain could begin. Mara let her eyes travel over the assembled crowd. She raised her voice slightly, projecting its fully trained power to the back of the assembly.
‘Was there anyone else who saw Rory the bard with Nessa, daughter of Declan O’Lochlainn, on the night of Samhain last?’
There was a complete silence. Mara allowed her breath to escape from her lips. That had been a high-risk strategy, but it had paid off.
‘Does anyone else wish to speak?’ she asked mildly.
‘I saw Nessa go home early with her mother,’ said Murrough. ‘Aoife and Rory were still dancing around the bonfire when they left.’ Murrough was a breeder of wolfhounds, who lived at Cathair Chaisleáin, on the steep cliff behind Poulnabrone. He was a very reliable, kind man. Mara knew that she could trust his word. And the community would trust his word, she knew that also. It was time to put a finish to this.
‘I find this case not proven,’ she said firmly. ‘Rory the bard has no case to answer. Case dismissed. Are there any other matters to be brought before the court?’
‘Yes,’ said a husky voice. Mara frowned and turned her eyes to Daniel O’Connor, father of Emer, popularly considered by many to be the most beautiful girl on the Burren. Everyone in the kingdom had a right to bring a case for consideration on judgement day, but after her long years as Brehon of the Burren, everyone knew that she liked to know all the details of cases beforehand.
‘I bring a marriage contract for my daughter, Emer, to be ratified before the king and the
‘Indeed,’ said Mara. She let a few long moments of silence fill the air. He had been there; that was correct. She had seen him, like an ill-omened bird of prey, hovering around the merry youngsters. She waited, looking at him carefully. Why was he doing this? she wondered. He himself had not even had the common humanity to allow the poor child to bury her dead infant in the churchyard.
Nessa had had to take the tiny body to a killeen, one of the little lonely ancient burial places where the ancestors of the people of the Burren had laid their dead, and where now, unbaptized
infants and suicides were sometimes placed. When Mara had heard from Brigid, her housekeeper, what was going to happen, she had hurried over, taking Fachtnan and a shovel with her. Neither Nessa’s mother nor her father had come with Nessa. The poor child had carried the baby, wrapped in an old piece of sacking, and was digging in the earth with a rusty trowel when they arrived. Fachtnan had dug the grave, his face white and his eyes wet with tears. Mara had said a prayer over the little waxen body and Fachtnan had joined in with a steady voice. Nessa had said nothing.
She continued to say nothing; according to the general rumour she was still resolutely denying that she had done anything wrong. She had even accused her mother of believing the story of the Virgin Mary and not believing her own daughter. Mara had smiled at that. There had been no mention of Rory until Colman had come in with the news that Declan was going to bring the case to be heard at Poulnabrone.
So why was this priest now creating falsehoods before his king and his parishioners? Perhaps a belated sense of responsibility for the daughter of that religious woman who did so much for his church? Perhaps a hatred of all that Rory and his like represented? Whatever it was, there was no doubt in her mind that he was lying. She stared hard at him, but his eyes did not drop before hers. She allowed the silence to continue. Silence, she had discovered long ago, was as effective as words on many occasions.
In the distance a bull roared in Baur North and was answered by the high treble of the calves and the soft, deep mooing of the cows. The people stirred uneasily. This was a sad, unpleasant case. They wanted it finished and then the merriment would surface and the long climb up the mountain could begin. Mara let her eyes travel over the assembled crowd. She raised her voice slightly, projecting its fully trained power to the back of the assembly.
‘Was there anyone else who saw Rory the bard with Nessa, daughter of Declan O’Lochlainn, on the night of Samhain last?’
There was a complete silence. Mara allowed her breath to escape from her lips. That had been a high-risk strategy, but it had paid off.
‘Does anyone else wish to speak?’ she asked mildly.
‘I saw Nessa go home early with her mother,’ said Murrough. ‘Aoife and Rory were still dancing around the bonfire when they left.’ Murrough was a breeder of wolfhounds, who lived at Cathair Chaisleáin, on the steep cliff behind Poulnabrone. He was a very reliable, kind man. Mara knew that she could trust his word. And the community would trust his word, she knew that also. It was time to put a finish to this.
‘I find this case not proven,’ she said firmly. ‘Rory the bard has no case to answer. Case dismissed. Are there any other matters to be brought before the court?’
‘Yes,’ said a husky voice. Mara frowned and turned her eyes to Daniel O’Connor, father of Emer, popularly considered by many to be the most beautiful girl on the Burren. Everyone in the kingdom had a right to bring a case for consideration on judgement day, but after her long years as Brehon of the Burren, everyone knew that she liked to know all the details of cases beforehand.
‘I bring a marriage contract for my daughter, Emer, to be ratified before the king and the
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