Mara suddenly felt very weary. This, she hoped, would be the last judgement day before the birth of her own child. Another few weeks now, she said to herself. She could hardly get out the traditional words wishing the presence of God in the people’s lives and that they might live in peace with their families and neighbours.
‘You go back to the law school,’ she said to her young scholars as the crowd started to move away. ‘Brigid will have your supper ready. I’ll walk back slowly.’
She sighed as she turned to go down the road that led to her home. She needed some time to think about what she had heard today, she thought as she watched them running lightly across the stony fields, leaping from clint to clint, soaring over the deep grykes with the agility and energy of wild goats. She would not have made them walk at the slow pace of a heavily pregnant woman, but in any case she was glad of some time to herself. She would have to talk to Malachy the physician. This was a terrible story that had been revealed, she thought as she passed the small ancient church of Kilcorney and automatically made the sign of the cross. She was filled with anger against the young husband, but even more so against a man who would betray his profession and seek to kill instead of to heal. She had a lot of thinking to do and the silent presence of Cumhal, her farm manager, would not stop her doing this.
The problem of Malachy would have to be solved.
Two
Bretha Nemed Déinenach
(The Last Book of Laws)
It is the law that every pregnant woman should have whatever food that she desires. She may even enter the king’s house and ask for something from his table.
If a woman craves beer, the brewer must give her some, even if his casks have already been sealed.
Every physician must cultivate the herbs that will give relief during childbirth.
The first signs of grey dawn on that June night had just arrived when Mara woke. She sat up in bed gasping. A terrible pain gripped her – a pain so bad that it seemed as if some monster had invaded her stomach and was desperately twisting within. Her face was soaked in sweat and her nightshift was saturated. Every fibre of her logical mind tried to tell her that it could not be the baby – that the baby was not due for another month, but her body knew the truth. Inexorably, the body was pushing aside the bones within her; inexorably, the pain pulsated. Keep calm, she told herself. This will pass and then we’ll see. It was twenty-two years since the birth of her daughter Sorcha and her memory of that night was vague. There would have been pain, of course, but nothing like this, she was convinced. Of course, Brigid had been with her; that would have made a difference. Then, as now, she trusted implicitly in Brigid who had been nurse and mother to Mara from the time of the death of her own mother. Breathe in deeply – she seemed to remember Brigid saying those words and she tried to follow the advice, but it was different when she was alone and somehow she had lost her courage, or perhaps trim young muscles had made a difference. She had been fifteen years old when her daughter was born and now she was a woman of thirty-seven.
After what seemed like an hour of agony, the pain seemed to subside. Slowly and carefully, unwilling to rouse the sleeping dragon within her stomach, Mara got out of bed. The sky was brightening towards the east. A blackbird trilled from outside her window and another replied. Then a chaffinch and his mate. And soon the whole medley of singers began. Mara smiled wryly at the jubilant note. Judging by the last pain, she had hours of agony before her; she wished they would keep their joyful dawn chorus until all was over. She selected a clean shift from the wooden press in the corner of the room and added a nightgown over it. Then she went to the door and called out: ‘Áine!’
Áine was one of the two girls who worked in the kitchen at Cahermacnaghten law school. Brigid had insisted that this girl sleep in the Brehon’s house during the last few weeks – almost as though she had foreseen that an emergency might arise. However, Áine seemed to be a sound sleeper and there was no response to the increasingly loud calls.
How long was it since the last pain? wondered Mara. If the baby was really arriving a month early, these would come at regular intervals. And if the next one was as bad as the first, she would not be able to call for assistance while she was in the grip of the pain. ‘Áine,’ she screamed again and again with no result. And then in desperation, she picked up the brass candlestick from the shelf by her door and threw it violently down the stairs, aiming for the door of the small room beside the kitchen.
It hit the door with a crash and Mara screamed the name again. After a minute, Áine peeped out, looking quite scared.
‘Get Brigid, tell her the baby is coming.’ Mara was barely able to gasp the words as the pain was coming back. Now she began to feel quite frightened. Surely she had never suffered anything like that before. She would have remembered agony like this. This pain was beyond the limits of imagination, certainly beyond the limits of memory. Bent over and helpless, she stumbled back into her room and managed to climb on the bed, before the worst of the pain immobilized her again.
After that she lost track of time. Nothing but pain filled her world.
And then Brigid was in the room, snapping orders to Áine and Nessa, her other helper. There was little comfort, though, this time, from her presence and the intervals between the pains were filled with anxiety. Something was badly wrong. Brigid was an experienced midwife – always in demand for difficult births – she was trying to sound cheery and confident, but Mara could read the truth in her eyes. Brigid was frightened.
‘Drink this, allanah, this will help,’ the old endearment was a measure of Brigid’s anxiety. Although Brigid had been Mara’s nurse from the time of her mother’s death until she had reached adulthood, she always gave Mara the title of ‘Brehon’ since the day that she had qualified and inherited her father’s post as judge and lawgiver to the people of the kingdom of Burren.
Obediently, Mara drank the potion. It tasted bitter, but anything that held the slightest promise of alleviating the pain would have been welcome. Brigid, always well prepared for everything, must have brewed the medicine well ahead of time, in readiness for the birth.
Once again, the pain racked her. She was barely conscious of Brigid peering between her legs, and she was past caring for the worried expression that her housekeeper wore when next she saw her hanging anxiously over the bed. The potion had not diminished the agony, but had added a nightmarish quality to it. It seemed to paralyse her tongue and confuse her brain, leaving nothing there but the huge swelling consciousness of pain.
Brigid was shouting an order at Nessa now. The words blurred in Mara’s mind – all but one word and that was Malachy. They were sending for Malachy, the physician. They must not! Malachy must not come near her baby. The narcotic pressed heavily on her mind and on her tongue. She could not articulate the words; she could not even remember why she did not want Malachy, but she knew that he must be stopped. Someone must stop him coming up the stairs. She lost all control of herself, screaming in agony as the pain racked her body, but never lost that conviction.
But somehow she could not get the words out – just the one word, repeated over and over again. Just the name, Malachy.
‘Drink some more! Come on, allanah, it will do you good. Just try some.’
Mara tried to resist, but the bitter potion went down her throat. Before it took effect, she tried again to speak, tried to convey her fears of Malachy to Brigid. Somehow she could hear her own voice, as if it belonged to someone else, and it came to her as an echo bounces back from a stony cliff. ‘Malachy,’ it said, and then again, just the one word; no other would come.
‘He’ll be here soon, allanah, we’ve sent for him, he won’t be long now.’ Brigid’s voice penetrated the wall of pain, but brought no comfort.
But he did not come and the sun moved away from the window of the east-facing bedroom and still he did not come.
And then – it seemed like days later to Mara – the pain subsided. The terrible, racking contractions ce
ased. She shook her head fretfully when Brigid offered another drink. It was not needed now. There was no more pain. Her body was shutting down.
‘I’m dying,’ she said, and heard her voice quite clearly in the suddenly silent room. Her eyes filled with tears. This meant that the baby would die too, this so-desired child, the son of a king. She had been waiting for his birth and now it would never happen.
She lay there for some time and none of the women in the room spoke. They were busy when the pain was there, tearing her apart, but now it seemed that they did not know what to do. Her body had given up. There was no pain, no urge to push, nothing.
She closed her eyes and then opened them. There were footsteps on the stairs, someone running up – not Malachy – he would have sounded much heavier, not her husband, Turlough – he, too, was a heavy man, and in any case was busy with his war – and then the door swung open with a rush and Malachy’s fourteen-year-old daughter and apprentice came in.
Mara watched her sleepily. ‘Poor Nuala, she looks very white,’ she said, or thought, blinking the tears from her eyes.
Faintly, and from a great distance, she heard Brigid. No words could be distinguished. Nuala had turned her back. Mara could see her delving into the medical bag – Nuala was proud of her medical bag which had belonged to her grandfather.
Mara closed her eyes again. Dying was easy, she thought. There was just a gentle, floating sensation. She wanted to be left alone, was barely conscious of Nuala examining her, but then someone was shaking her arm, shouting in her ear. She opened her eyes, ‘My baby,’ she tried to say.
Nuala was speaking now, slowly and distinctly in her ear. ‘Mara, listen to me, listen, you’re not going to die. The baby is lying the wrong way, but he’s small. I’m going to draw him out with grandfather’s birthing tongs. It will hurt, but I’ll save the baby. I promise you, Mara. I will save your baby.’
Three
Bretha Crólige
(Judgements of Bloodlettings)
The fine for a secret and unlawful killing is three-fold. First there is the eric, or the body fine, then there is the lóg n-enech ‘the price of his face’, the honour price of the victim.
Thirdly, there is an extra sum for the secrecy and this doubles the honour price.
A killing is declared ‘secret’ if the murderer does not acknowledge the deed within forty-eight hours.
‘Dead! Malachy! He can’t be. I saw him yesterday. I saw him pass the law school. What happened?’ Mara’s body ached from the long hours of childbirth, but her mind was as alert as ever. She stared at Fachtnan, the eldest scholar in her law school.
‘Brigid told me not to tell you,’ he said. As usual, when agitated, he ran his right hand repeatedly through his thatch of rough, curly hair.
‘What nonsense. Tell me everything straightaway,’ she said firmly.
He looked at her and hesitated, but he had been a scholar at the Cahermacnaghten Law School for over ten years and the habit of obedience to his ollamh(professor) was deeply ingrained.
‘He was poisoned.’ Fachtnan spoke in a whisper, almost as though he feared to disturb the sleeping child in the basket beside the bed.
‘Poisoned!’ Mara lay back on the pillow and took a deep breath. ‘Could it have been an accident?’
‘Nuala thinks not.’
‘Poor Nuala.’ Mara now realized that even through the mists of her own terrible agony, she had noticed Nuala’s very white face. Then her mind went back to the suspicious death. As Brehon of the Burren, it was her responsibility to find the truth and bring the culprit to justice.
‘Where is Nuala?’ she asked urgently.
‘She’s with Brigid and your daughter. She thought I should tell you. Do you want to see her?’
‘No, you tell me. I won’t distress her just now.’ Nuala adored Fachtnan. Mara hoped that he would have been able to help to comfort her; he would undoubtedly have heard the details. Her mind went back to the moment when Nuala had come into the bedroom and had, with huge courage and huge skill, managed to drag the baby from her womb. Without Nuala, both she and the baby sleeping beside her would be dead. ‘Poor child,’ she said aloud.
‘Apparently, it was Caireen who found him. He was in agony. Nuala was working at the far end of the herb garden. Caireen came out and shouted for her. He was quite dead by the time Nuala came in.’
‘What happened?’
Nuala would have told Fachtnan everything; she would have turned immediately to the kind young scholar – from the time that she had been a small child, Nuala had trotted after Fachtnan and he had never repulsed her. Since Malachy’s second marriage to Caireen, Nuala had been at odds with her father and had turned even more towards Fachtnan. It was good that he had been there – she was sure he had been able to comfort the girl at this terrible moment in her life.
‘Well, apparently, Caireen persuaded Malachy that he should drink some French brandy every morning before he mixed his medicines. She always filled his cup and left it for him on the table in his study.’
‘And something was put into the brandy?’ Mara knew that table, set just under the window. On a hot day such as this, the window might have been open. Someone could have passed by and seen an opportunity. But who would want to kill him? Malachy was not liked on the Burren and was considered to be a poor physician. The story she had heard yesterday had confirmed that he was corrupt and willing to sell his knowledge to help young Ryan O’Connor to abort his own child.
But did he have any enemies who hated him enough to kill him? Except his own daughter, perhaps, thought Mara involuntarily, and then shied away from the terrible idea. There would have been others, she told herself and her mind went again to the story that she had heard at judgement day in Poulnabrone. Were there other cases of Malachy playing God and administering death instead of healing?
‘And that’s not all.’ Fachtnan spoke hesitantly. ‘Apparently, Caireen screamed at Nuala and accused her of murdering her own father.’
The baby woke and cried, and Mara turned to it immediately. She hadn’t enough strength to lift him; even leaning over to the side of the bed made her head dizzy.
‘Lift him up, Fachtnan, give him to me.’
‘What are you going to call him?’ Fachtnan was surprisingly competent at lifting the baby from the basket and placing the swaddled bundle in her arms.
‘I’ve thought of Cormac – for the last five hundred years, everyone in O’Brien royal family is either Turlough, Conor, Donal, Teige or Murrough. Cormac will be a change,’ said Mara. She spoke automatically, though. Her mind was on the murder. What a terrible thing, especially for Nuala. How had she reacted to that accusation flung at her by Caireen?
Everything had been arranged for this birth. The law scholars would have finished the Trinity Term and gone to their homes. If war had not occurred, King Turlough Donn, her husband, would have been back from his yearly tour of the southern part of his domain, around the city of Limerick. It had been decided that Mara would go to the Thomond for the birth in order to be under the care of Turlough’s own physician, Donncadh O’Hickey; and Fergus MacClancy, Brehon of the neighbouring kingdom of Corcomroe, would look after the legal affairs of Burren for a couple of months while Mara cared for her baby.
Everything had been arranged, but everything had been arranged for July. This baby boy had come early and had disrupted all plans. Now, above all, she needed to deal with this murder and to find the truth about Malachy’s murder, and, if possible, to protect Nuala who had always been dear to her and now was even more dear.
And then the baby was in her arms, nuzzling at her. Mara patted his little back and felt weak with love for him. He needed her now. She could not deal with him and deal with this murder. Someone else would have to take over and do the investigating.
‘Fachtnan,’ she said. ‘Ride over to Corcomroe. Tell Brehon MacClancy what has happened and about the baby. Ask him if he will take over this case. Send Brigid in to me, will you.’ Fergus would have
to cope, she thought.
And then when Fachtnan had gone out she settled herself to feed the hungry baby.
But little Cormac did not seem to want to feed. After a minute he turned his head away and cried, first a whimper and then a fully voiced cry. Again and again Mara tried the baby at her breast, but each time he rejected it.
‘I have no milk,’ said Mara starkly when Brigid came flying in, her ginger hair looking as untidy as Fachtnan’s. Too much was happening, she thought, feeling tears flow down her cheeks.
‘Is it any wonder,’ scolded Brigid, taking the baby from her arms and rocking him gently. ‘That stupid boy; I told him to say nothing. I felt like boxing his ears when I heard that he had told you. Murder, indeed! And you just awake! And the time that you had! Give it a day or so and just relax, and don’t ask for any news from outside. Just eat and drink and sleep and rest. God knows that you need it – the way you work.’
Mara smiled. Brigid’s vigour was doing her good. She dried her face with a corner of the sheet and endeavoured to think. She had to do the best for everyone now. Hopefully, Fergus would take charge of that murder investigation, but there was no denying that the Brehon from Corcomroe was not of the brightest and quickest wits. He would be continually consulting her, continually asking for advice.
And then there was her baby. Mara looked at the tiny infant with concern. Could a baby as small as this survive?
‘Unwrap him, Brigid,’ she said.
‘Now, stop worrying. You don’t want him to catch cold.’
‘The sun is pouring in through the window,’ said Mara. ‘Go on, unwrap him, Brigid. I want to see him properly.’
The baby was tiny; tiny and very fragile. Thin little arms, stick-like legs – like those of a little frog, eyelashes not yet grown. This baby has come before his time, thought Mara, looking at him in a worried way. He needed feeding. Perhaps Brigid was right; perhaps she was too tense. It had been a shock to hear of Malachy’s murder. After all, the man was a relative of her own. But of course it had been even more of a shock to hear of the accusation that his wife had flung at his daughter.
Scales of Retribution Page 2