Scales of Retribution (12 page)

‘I think I’ll send a man towards Limerick if we hear nothing of Turlough by tomorrow,’ she said without waiting for Nuala to answer her question. She knew the answer to it anyway. That tiny baby’s life would have been in extreme danger from the moment that he was dragged from her womb. And, of course, without Nuala, he would undoubtedly have died. She looked thoughtfully and lovingly at the girl. There was an air of heavy sorrow and despair about her. There was no doubt that she knew herself to be under suspicion. Or was it something worse? Did Nuala have something on her mind? Mara pushed the thought away. Surely this girl could not have killed her own father?

‘I’ve been reading about the ancient physician Dian Cecht laying down strict laws for a house where sick people should be nursed. I think he called it a hospital. I was thinking of making one there at Rathborney.’ Nuala spoke suddenly, her eyes on Mara. ‘I was wondering if I could take a few slips from your herbs here – I want to make a start down at Rathborney.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Mara. ‘It’s in the Brehon laws.’ She thought for a moment and recited: ‘The house must have four doors, so that one could always be open no matter what the direction of the wind. It must have running water beneath it, so that it must either be built over a stream or on the banks of one.’

‘That’s right. You know the way that little stream flows through the garden of Rathborney. I could get Donogh Óg to build a small house across that stream – with four doors so that it would be filled with fresh air. This could be a place for a very sick person. And then I could use the main house for a school for physicians. That’s if I ever manage to qualify.’ Nuala’s face clouded over again, but she added, ‘It is a good idea to start on the herb garden, though. I was almost afraid to even think of Rathborney in case it was taken from me. Father seemed to be determined to keep it for himself. I hardly dared to hope that I would ever live there.’

‘Well, it depends on your father’s will,’ said Mara in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I’m not sure whether he made one or not. In any case, I think Ardal will probably be your guardian.’

‘Until I get married,’ said Nuala sharply.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Mara peaceably. ‘Now, come and sit by me. I really must get this terrible murder of your father solved and the culprit brought to justice at Poulnabrone.’

‘And you think it might be me.’ Nuala got up and took her place on the bench beside Mara. Her face darkened again.

‘Let’s not talk like that.’ Suddenly Mara felt confident about how to handle this matter. ‘Just think of me as Brehon of the Burren and I am asking you to tell me about that morning when Cormac was born. Just start at the beginning and go on from there.’

‘Well . . .’ Nuala seemed to be taking time to think, to turn over the events of that momentous morning. She turned her dark eyes towards Mara and they were wary. The girl seemed uneasy. Her voice was strained and monotonous. ‘As you remember, Ardal, Turlough and all the other chieftains went off at dawn on Friday. I came over here – you remember we spent the evening together. You went off to bed early saying that you were tired after the session at Poulnabrone. I went to bed at the same time as I did not know what to do with myself.’

‘Yes?’ Mara was listening attentively.

‘So having gone to bed early, I got up early – before dawn. I know it sounds strange, but that’s what I did. I couldn’t sleep any longer and I felt restless. I dressed and I got a piece of bread and a drink of buttermilk from the kitchen house, and decided to walk across to Caherconnell and to do some work at the herb garden there. The sky just began to turn grey when I got down as far as the Kilcorney Cross and then dawn came when I was about halfway across. Funnily enough, I thought I saw a man on a horse come out of the stable at Caherconnell just when I was on the top of the hill near Kilcorney church. I was probably mistaken. Anyway, there was no one around when I got there. I worked for a few hours, I suppose, and then I heard Caireen screaming.’

‘Had you heard anyone else go to the house before then? Seen anyone?’

‘I think, looking back over it, that your man Seán had come – just before Caireen started shrieking. Presumably to tell Malachy that you had gone into labour. I’m not sure about that. Everything was so confused.’

‘Never mind about Seán now. I can find out about that when he comes back from Thomond. But did anyone else come? Did you hear anyone?’

‘I think I might have heard a step,’ said Nuala after a minute. ‘It’s difficult to tell. Perhaps I am just imagining it.’

‘Go on,’ said Mara with a sigh. It was always the same when gathering evidence after an accident or a killing. Memories were always overlaid by the dramatic or tragic events that followed.

‘Anyway, I was working away, weeding the clump of clary, as it happens – I suppose I had you in the back of my mind and I knew that clary would be useful when you went into labour.’

‘And you heard Seán? Or did Caireen scream first?’

‘No, I remember now,’ said Nuala after a pause. ‘I heard Seán and this was a while after I heard some footsteps.’

‘And then?’

‘I suppose it must have been three or four minutes later. I heard the scream.’ Nuala stopped. ‘Everything was very confused,’ she said apologetically. ‘I had to try to revive him . . . to try to decide what killed him . . . Caireen kept on screaming . . . and she was shouting at me that I had done the murder . . .’

‘And Seán was still there?’ Mara wished that she could offer sympathy, could put her arm around the child and tell her to forget the terrible occasion, but the truth had to be sought. She had to remain neutral.

‘Yes, I think he stood around all the time, with his mouth open,’ she added with an attempt at a smile.

‘And what about Caireen’s sons? What about Ronan?’

‘They didn’t appear.’ Nuala frowned. ‘Odd, because I was fairly sure that I heard Ronan’s voice earlier.’

‘And then?’ asked Mara, making a mental note to interrogate Seán when he returned from Thomond – perhaps others in the household at Caherconnell, also, if only she could find an occasion when Caireen was not around.

‘After a minute or two – at least I suppose it must have been that, though it seemed longer – well, I knew that he was dead and that nothing more could be done for him. Caireen was having a hysterical fit and Sadhbh was fussing over her – you know what Sadhbh is like?’

Mara nodded. Sadhbh was Malachy’s housekeeper and certainly a woman who liked to make a drama out of everything. She would have been in her element in this situation, rushing around fetching drinks for Caireen, exclaiming in horror at the death. Mara didn’t care for Sadhbh too much, thinking that Sadhbh, who had brought up Nuala, should not have taken her father’s part so firmly in the differences between him and his daughter. When Nuala had needed her, the girl had been repulsed by a woman who was only thinking of her own future in Malachy’s household.

‘Anyway,’ continued Nuala with a shrug, ‘I asked Seán what he had come for. He told me about you. Brigid had told him to tell Malachy that you were very bad. So I packed a bag with everything that I thought I might need – thank God I remembered the birthing tongs – and I borrowed a pony and came across to Cahermacnaghten.’

‘It was a good thing for me, and for Cormac, that you kept your head so well,’ said Mara rising to her feet. ‘Without you, we might neither of us be alive. I shall never forget that.’ For a moment she rested her hand on the slim brown arm and then said in a lighter tone. ‘Now, I will leave you to your weeding and go to see my baby. Don’t work too hard. I have invited the lads to supper here this evening. Perhaps when you get tired of the weeding you might stroll down the road and ask Diarmuid O’Connor to join us. He will be interested to see the baby. He and I have been friends since we were children. I’m going to ask Cumhal to send a man to invite Murrough of the Wolfhounds and Blár O’Connor, also, so that we have a few neighbours to drink to the baby’s health.’

Nuala, she thought, as she went indoors, had given her plenty to think of.

The girl had been unconcerned and very open in her evidence. This was not proof, of course, but somehow Mara felt sure that Nuala had not been responsible for her father’s death.

But if that was true – who was the guilty person?

Caireen was the person who had placed the brandy in the glass on Malachy’s table. Did she, also, add some of the deadly aconite to the drink?

Whose feet had made that step on the path about half an hour before Malachy’s death?

And why, if he was in the house earlier, was there no sign of Ronan when his stepfather died in agony?

Eight

It was ordained in Cormac’s time that every high king of Ireland should keep ten officers in constant attendance on him, who did not separate from him as a rule, namely, a prince, a Brehon, a druid, a physician, a bard, a
seancha
(storyteller), a musician and three stewards:

T
he supper was a success. Brigid, as usual, after a few exclamations, had risen to the occasion, and the long trestle tables were covered with shallow baskets woven from willow and piled high with honey cakes and crisp bread rolls. Bowls of whipped cream brimmed over with tiny wild strawberries, and bitter-sweet raspberries were sandwiched between layers of Brigid’s special white-of-egg and honey cake.

The cradle was the showpiece of the evening. Little Cormac slept soundly within it, dwarfed by its splendid proportions. Eileen and Brigid had filled it with a mattress stuffed with sheep’s wool and covered with crisp white linen sheets, and with a couple of woollen blankets, woven from the finest wool, folded up at the end of the cradle, in case the evening should turn cold.

‘A little prince!’ Diarmuid kneeled awkwardly on the ground and stared at the child. Nothing else seemed to occur to him, so he repeated his phrase and then got to his feet with relief and embarked on a discussion of the cradle with Blár O’Connor.

‘Great piece of work, that,’ he said stroking the satin-smooth wood. ‘Where did that oak come from? I think I can guess. Not far from here, isn’t that right?’

‘That’s right. Kilcorney,’ said Blár O’Connor with a hasty glance towards Nuala.

Diarmuid nodded his head with a smile. ‘I knew it,’ he said with triumph. ‘Grand trees these – must be about two hundred years since they were planted – been well looked after in the past, too.’

Mara left them to their discussion of how to look after forestry, and their lamentations that enough people did not think of the future and plant trees for their future heirs, and went to greet Murrough.

Murrough O’Connor was a breeder of wolfhounds, who lived at Cathair Chaisleáin, on the steep cliff behind Poulnabrone. He was a small, round man, good-natured and well liked by all. He made a good living by breeding and selling his handsome dogs. Mara’s wolfhound Bran had come from there and King Turlough himself owned a few of the hounds. The dogs were Murrough’s livelihood. He was good with them and fond of them. However, nobody could have predicted that a man like that, after half a lifetime of rearing and selling animals, would have suddenly fallen violently in love with one dog.

Rafferty had been the pick of the litter, a magnificent puppy, huge even when he was only a few weeks old. Murrough would have got a great price for him. Several offers had been made and when they were rejected the surrounding chiefs had reckoned that Murrough was saving the dog for a client in England. Perhaps even for King Henry VIII himself.

However, time went on and the dog was not sold. There had been something about Rafferty – perhaps it had been his exuberance, the depth of his affection for every human being – something which rose to the level of idolatry when turned upon his owner, but Murrough turned down every offer for the dog who continued to worship him. In turn, Murrough had adored Rafferty. He slept by Murrough’s bed, was fed from Murrough’s table and everywhere Murrough went, Rafferty accompanied him. He was quite untrained, but luckily possessed a sweet nature and was friendly to smaller dogs as well as people. Everyone on the Burren got to know Rafferty and he was greeted wherever he went. The law school boys loved him too. His exuberant high spirits matched their own and Bran, though a very well-trained dog himself, seemed to be amused by his young cousin’s antics and they played great chasing games around the fields of Cahermacnaghten.

And then came the tragedy. Rafferty was poisoned and died a terrible death because of Malachy’s action of putting wolfsbane into the carcass of a hare in the oak woodland. Murrough mourned his beloved dog as if he had been a child of the house. Even now, two weeks later, thought Mara, he was full of sorrow. His round cheeks seemed to have fallen in, and his small frame seemed to have shrunk.