watching her five remaining scholars, led by her fourteen-year-old grandson Domhnall, leaving the floor of the great hall and coming to join herself and Cormac. Unlike most of the guests they did not exclaim or question and this pleased her. It showed, she thought, their maturity. They just stood silently, looking down on the body and waiting for her instructions. Swiftly she made up her mind. She would apologize to Enda later on, but now she had to control this situation and make sure that the guilty person did not escape. She gave a swift glance around the hall. Her husband, King Turlough Donn, was approaching, his eyes wide with disbelief and his face aghast. Tomás MacClancy had been Brehon for the whole of Turlough’s reign and it was a terrible shock to see him slumped, dead, across the table on this night of celebration.
‘Someone stuck a knife in him,’ he said. ‘Not far in, is it?’ He reached across as though to pull it out, but she seized his hand quickly. She said nothing but she hoped that he would understand that the evidence could not be tampered with. It was odd, though, she thought, looking more carefully at the knife. He was right. The knife was not far into the Brehon. A large section of the blade was still visible. It looked as though someone with very little strength had driven the knife into the man’s back. Not much blood, either, though perhaps the dark-coloured mantle masked it. She bent down and touched it. Some blood, but definitely not soaked in it. Of course, she thought, Brehon MacClancy was very elderly. He must now be about seventy years old. Perhaps he died instantly of the shock as the knife pierced him. It was odd, though. As she peered at the knife she reckoned that only half an inch of blade had penetrated the skin and flesh.
‘Come,’ she said to Turlough. ‘Tell them that they must remain until I can question them. No one must leave this room until I give permission.’
With him at her side she had double status – Brehon and wife of the King. She faced the crowd who had instinctively shrunk back against the wall. Her mind was working fast. It would, she thought, have been just under an hour since midnight. The bells had rung. Then came the toasts, following these the main crowd of revellers had retired downstairs to the main guard hall to drink and dance the rest of the night away – she could hear the thump of music still which showed that the revels continued down there. Traditionally the merriment in the main guard hall continued as long as they pleased. Later on most of them would sleep either there in front of its large fireplace or in the captain’s quarters, or go back to their own small houses scattered around the enclosure which was fortified by a ten-foot-high wall and had a moat filled with sea water encircling it. The King’s guests had gone down with them after the toasts – all of them except Brehon MacClancy – but they had returned quite soon.
But Brehon MacClancy was not dead at that stage. Mara clearly remembered that he had asked for a drink. The cook Rosta had seen that everyone had what they needed and then he, too, had retired to the kitchen with his assistants, closing the door of the great hall firmly behind him. The elderly Brehon was still alive then. Mara remembered looking down at him, wondering whether he would demand another drink, before Rosta went out.
Those who were left in the great hall were all of the King’s particular guests – and, thought Mara, these guests were those who had heard the words of Tomás MacClancy yesterday evening when he had promised to expose the wrongdoing of one of them.
‘Did someone see who pushed the dagger into the Brehon’s back? Any of you noticed that happening?’ roared Turlough and for a moment she felt irritated. What a silly question! If someone did see that about an hour ago and kept quiet about it then they would be unlikely to come out with an account just now in front of everyone. She
‘Someone stuck a knife in him,’ he said. ‘Not far in, is it?’ He reached across as though to pull it out, but she seized his hand quickly. She said nothing but she hoped that he would understand that the evidence could not be tampered with. It was odd, though, she thought, looking more carefully at the knife. He was right. The knife was not far into the Brehon. A large section of the blade was still visible. It looked as though someone with very little strength had driven the knife into the man’s back. Not much blood, either, though perhaps the dark-coloured mantle masked it. She bent down and touched it. Some blood, but definitely not soaked in it. Of course, she thought, Brehon MacClancy was very elderly. He must now be about seventy years old. Perhaps he died instantly of the shock as the knife pierced him. It was odd, though. As she peered at the knife she reckoned that only half an inch of blade had penetrated the skin and flesh.
‘Come,’ she said to Turlough. ‘Tell them that they must remain until I can question them. No one must leave this room until I give permission.’
With him at her side she had double status – Brehon and wife of the King. She faced the crowd who had instinctively shrunk back against the wall. Her mind was working fast. It would, she thought, have been just under an hour since midnight. The bells had rung. Then came the toasts, following these the main crowd of revellers had retired downstairs to the main guard hall to drink and dance the rest of the night away – she could hear the thump of music still which showed that the revels continued down there. Traditionally the merriment in the main guard hall continued as long as they pleased. Later on most of them would sleep either there in front of its large fireplace or in the captain’s quarters, or go back to their own small houses scattered around the enclosure which was fortified by a ten-foot-high wall and had a moat filled with sea water encircling it. The King’s guests had gone down with them after the toasts – all of them except Brehon MacClancy – but they had returned quite soon.
But Brehon MacClancy was not dead at that stage. Mara clearly remembered that he had asked for a drink. The cook Rosta had seen that everyone had what they needed and then he, too, had retired to the kitchen with his assistants, closing the door of the great hall firmly behind him. The elderly Brehon was still alive then. Mara remembered looking down at him, wondering whether he would demand another drink, before Rosta went out.
Those who were left in the great hall were all of the King’s particular guests – and, thought Mara, these guests were those who had heard the words of Tomás MacClancy yesterday evening when he had promised to expose the wrongdoing of one of them.
‘Did someone see who pushed the dagger into the Brehon’s back? Any of you noticed that happening?’ roared Turlough and for a moment she felt irritated. What a silly question! If someone did see that about an hour ago and kept quiet about it then they would be unlikely to come out with an account just now in front of everyone. She
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