Scales of Retribution (21 page)

Aidan’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh, Brehon, I forgot to tell you,’ he said. ‘Murrough came over yesterday afternoon with a message for you to be careful not to let Bran run free in Croagh South, as the shepherd has laid bait there stuffed with wolfsbane.’

‘So each one of our six suspects could also have attempted to murder Fachtnan,’ said Hugh with interest.

‘Or at least frighten us off,’ amended Shane.

Thirteen

The physician has an honour price of seven
séts
and this does not increase for any reason as a master of the profession has the same honour price as an ordinary physician.

T
he sun was still hot by the time for the midsummer supper arrived, but it had moved from the south to the west, and Mara’s garden, bright with lilies, peonies and roses, was now patched with blobs of shade.

Brigid had laid out the supper on three long linen-draped trestle tables in front of the east-facing Brehon’s house – the food arranged in baskets and platters down the centre. Domhnall and Aislinn were wild with excitement, shrieking to their father as each new item was laid on the tables. Mara, holding Cormac for a few precious minutes before the guests arrived, smiled at their excitement.

‘It’s all the colours of the rainbow! Green peas, red strawberries, blueberries!’ Aislinn, like her mother, had a great eye for colour, though Domhnall, who was growing fast and eating hugely, was more excited by the long coils of sausages and the mounds of cakes of all sizes and shapes. They both wandered up and down, waiting impatiently for the guests to come back from the meadows and the rocky fields of the Burren. Eventually they appeared, looking like a flock of white birds in their snowy
léinte
. As they came nearer, Mara could see something else and she smiled as Aislinn screamed, ‘Look, look
Mamó
, see what they’re wearing!’

‘What a sight!’ murmured Mara to Eileen, as she came over and held out her arms for the baby.

Each of the boys and girls wore a garland of summer flowers: harebells, ragged robin, pincushion flowers, hawkweeds, foxgloves, orchids and hedge roses were strung together to hang around their necks. The damp meadows as well as the stony grykes had all been robbed to decorate the young revellers. Mairéad O’Lochlainn even wore a crown of tiny butterfly orchids, the snowy-white of the blooms contrasting well with her head of magnificent red curls. As they came down the road, linked arm to arm, they all sang lustily the ancient midsummer bonfire-night song:

Almost all the girls and some of the boys bore the flowers of the yarrow plant in their hands, playfully swiping at each other with the stems. Traditionally the yarrow was supposed to protect against illness in the coming year, but it had other uses, too. Mara had no doubt that these stems would be carefully preserved until bonfire time. Elderly country people told their grandchildren that if you saw the face of a loved one as the yarrow flared up in the flames, it would mean that a marriage would take place before midsummer’s day came around again. Touching a loved one beforehand with the stem was supposed to help that process.

‘Look,
Mamó
.’ Domhnall and Aislinn came running over. In the space of a couple of minutes Sorcha, with her clever fingers, had made each a garland and was now busy twisting some long stems of gillyflowers together to make one for little Manus. On an impulse, Mara bent down and picked some soft-stemmed buttercups, piercing them with a fingernail and threading them together to make a small crown for Cormac.

‘My little prince,’ she murmured as she handed him over to Eileen, and, accompanied by her two grandchildren, went down the road to greet her guests. Mairéad O’Lochlainn, she noticed, had already whacked Enda three times with her yarrow stem. Young love, she thought tolerantly, and then her eyes went anxiously to Nuala.

Alone among all the young people, Nuala had not gone to the trouble of making a garland, but had stuck a few of the bright yellow flowers, known as devil’s toenails, among her dark braids. Fachtnan was, rather awkwardly, holding a well-made garland of lady’s bedstraw dangling from one hand, but Nuala was walking fast, well ahead of him. When he saw Nessa, Brigid’s young assistant, he gave it to her with what looked like a sigh of relief. Nessa giggled and turned red, and then caught Brigid’s eye and went back to frying the sausages on top of the small bonfire, safely walled off inside a circular wall of stones that Cumhal had made for outdoor cooking. Nuala glared at Nessa, scowled and then turned her gaze away from the sight of Fachtnan’s garland dangling around the neck of another girl, and looked resolutely across the clints towards the distant bulk of Mullaghmore. Nuala was, obviously, not going to forgive Fachtnan very easily for turning down her offer of marriage.

Was she truly in love with Fachtnan, wondered Mara, watching the girl’s face with what she hoped was concealed anxiety? She greeted all of her young guests, admired their garlands, directed them to places at table, saw that there was plenty to eat and drink for everyone, but all of the time her mind dwelt on Nuala. What had prompted that sudden suggestion of marriage, she wondered? Was it something that Nuala really wanted, or did she, perhaps, just see it as a way of getting her hands quickly on her property at Rathborney? It had been obvious for a long time that Nuala adored Fachtnan, but it was more like the hero worship of a young girl for an older and very kind boy, than a truly adult love. Even when she treated him at a time when it looked as though Fachtnan’s life might be in danger, there didn’t seem any of the anguish that might have been expected – Nuala had been cool, competent, full of helpful suggestions – she may well have saved his life by her skill, but nothing in her manner showed even affection.

She turned to Mairéad O’Lochlainn and Enda – well they were both obviously deeply in love with each other. They could hardly have sat much closer and they continually touched, even if it was mock tussles and teasing. Enda would have to get himself a legal position as an
aigne
before he could afford to marry, but in the meantime they were going to have fun together for perhaps the last evening before Enda returned to his home.

It was the same with Saoirse O’Brien and the eldest O’Connor boy. There would be nothing to impede that marriage and the betrothal would probably be announced soon, now that Teige was back from the wars. The sooner, the better, thought Mara, as Saoirse imprinted a passionate kiss on her betrothed’s lips. That would be a very suitable match between the eldest daughter and the eldest son of two neighbouring chieftains, she thought, as she carried down a plate of cakes to where Enda was sitting. She placed herself on the bench beside him and engaged him in conversation about the midsummer customs in Mayo. But her thoughts returned to Nuala; what was she thinking, watching these others? After a few minutes, Mara returned Enda to Mairéad and beckoned to Nuala, who approached slowly and reluctantly.

‘Go and have a chat with Cuan,’ she whispered in the girl’s ear. ‘He doesn’t know anyone other than you very well and he looks a bit left out.’ Mara had been very fond of Cuan’s father, and sometimes felt slightly conscience-stricken that she was not doing more to try to free the boy from the constant supervision of his mother.

A pity that Cuan is not a bit brighter, she thought regretfully. He was a man of property and wealth, with a tower house just beside Nuala’s property at Rathborney, and would make a great match for any girl, but not for Nuala, unfortunately. Nuala was clever and Cuan was not. Nothing is worse than an inequality of mind, she thought, looking back at her first marriage to Dualta, the young law scholar who had attracted her when she was Nuala’s age. Dualta had not been bright enough to qualify as a lawyer, but had been content to live on his wife’s industry, and to allow her to finance his drinking habit at the local alehouses. She smiled slightly to herself when she thought of her divorce, conducted by herself and cleverly based on an obscure point in the Brehon law system. No man can speak of his wife’s lovemaking habits between the sheets, said the law, and that was the law that Dualta had broken, drunkenly boasting of his clever wife. The law case had never been spoken of to Sorcha and Mara hoped that her daughter was unaware of it. Sorcha, gentle and sweet-natured, needed to be protected. Hopefully, Oisín would prove to be a faithful and good husband.

Nuala, a very different person to Sorcha, went across to Cuan obediently, but she did not seem to be making much effort to engage him in conversation – she just sat down and stared ahead glumly. Mara saw young Cuan make a few attempts to talk, and then flush painfully as it was obvious that Nuala was not listening.

‘How are you, Cuan, and how is your mother?’ Mara came to the rescue. Nuala, to her annoyance, immediately slipped away.

‘She’s well, Brehon, we’re all well.’ Cuan was still flushed and embarrassed.

‘Don’t take any notice of Nuala,’ said Mara consolingly. ‘She’s going through a very bad time. It’s been quite a shock to her – you’ve heard of the death of Malachy the physician, her father, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Cuan lengthened the word, sounding rather dubious, and then added with a shrewdness which surprised Mara, ‘But they weren’t on good terms, were they? Wasn’t there some sort of talk that Malachy was trying to take away from her the property that Toin left her in Rathborney?’

‘That’s right.’ Mara was still bemused by the change in Cuan. She had thought him slightly simple-minded up to now. Perhaps wealth and freedom from his father had suited him. Possibly she had misjudged his mother. Maybe Cuan had begun to take up the reins of government of his lands and his silver mine. There was a note of authority in his voice now.

‘He wasn’t a very nice man, anyway,’ continued Cuan, still with that ease of manner which had surprised her. ‘There’s an old man that lives up beyond my place, in Lochánn, just above the sea at Fanore. Do you know him? Padraig O’Connor. He has a fleet of fishing boats . . .’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Mara with an eye on the top table. Aidan and Moylan were getting wilder by the minute, and Enda and Mairéad had started to kiss each other in a very passionate way. As for Saoirse and the O’Connor boy, well, she wasn’t sure what was going on under the table . . . Her presence would, she was sure, calm matters, but she did not like to abandon Cuan so soon after he had been left by Nuala.

‘Well, poor old Padraig was getting a bit absentminded, nothing too much, just searching for the odd word and forgetting a few things – still pretty shrewd about giving orders to his boat captains, though – so he sent for Malachy, and Malachy came and gave him a flask of some mixture, and told him to take it every morning and every evening.’

‘And it did him no good, I suppose.’ Mara scanned her mind for some excuse to leave Cuan and return to her unruly scholars. Even the gentle, shy Hugh was getting overexcited and shouting remarks to Nessa.

‘It was not just that,’ said Cuan earnestly. ‘It seemed to make him worse. I told him to stop taking it, but he said that he wouldn’t like to do that – especially when the man went to so much trouble as to keep coming out and visiting him.’

‘Yes, the country people are like that, aren’t they, always so courteous.’ Mara got to her feet, sending a long hard stare in the direction of Aidan, who had just got on top of the bench and appeared to be about to climb on to the table. ‘What is that boy up to?’ she asked, and then added rapidly, ‘Excuse me, Cuan, I must go over there.’

Perhaps I’ll send Oisín over to talk to Cuan; he’ll be very interested when he hears about the silver mine in the mountain above Rathborney, and also the silversmith business in Galway. He’ll probably wangle an invitation to the tower house, thought Mara, a little maliciously. Let Oisín cross swords with Cuan’s redoubtable mother. That would be an interesting encounter.

And then, suddenly, she stopped thinking of Cuan, and of Nuala, and of Oisín. A horse, ridden fast down the road, had pulled up at the gate. Mara recognized the rider. It was one of Turlough’s men – a young relative – one of the O’Briens of Thomond.

With a murmured word of excuse, she got up and walked slowly towards the gate. Cumhal was there, he had greeted the man, and then something about Cumhal’s shocked face made her stop for a moment. Was it bad news?

Her legs weakened beneath her. Cumhal, never the most religious of men, had lifted his right hand, touching forehead, breast and then both of his shoulders. He had made the sign of the cross. But why? In ordinary conversation, away from a church ceremony, there was only one reason for this. Cumhal had just been told of a death.

Instantly Mara saw it all. The triumphant journey home. And then a sudden attack. Perhaps the Great Earl had not gone back to Kildare with his tail between his legs, had lain in wait and tackled his enemy, O’Brien of Thomond, once again. This time the outcome might have been fatal . . .

Mara stayed very still, her hand on the stout trunk of an apple tree. She could not move. All her courage had ebbed away.

Cumhal’s eyes met hers. Swiftly he left the new arrival and walked towards her. He had been her father’s servant and then steward and farm manager since before she was born. He and Brigid had cared for and loved the small motherless daughter of their master, the Brehon of the Burren. He knew her well, could read her expressions, and he almost ran the last few steps.