Scales of Retribution

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Send Sorcha in for a few minutes and the children – they can see their new little cousin,’ she said to Brigid, doing her best to keep her tone of voice light and relaxed. Although Sorcha was her daughter, she was probably much more knowledgeable about babies, having had three children in the last few years. I was only fifteen when she was born, thought Mara. How full of confidence I was then! I don’t remember worrying about her at all.

  Sorcha’s wide blue eyes were shocked and her face pale when she came in. Obviously she had heard the news. Of course Malachy was not only a distant cousin on Mara’s side, but was also very nearly related to her husband, Oisín.

  ‘Has Oisín heard the news?’ Mara thought that she had not heard his deep, melodious voice for a few hours.

  Sorcha shook her head. ‘He went off for a long walk this morning,’ she said. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

  ‘I see.’ Mara rocked her crying baby. Her son-in-law would want to be off soon, she thought. Already he was quite bored by life in the country and missing the hustle and bustle of the city of Galway.

  ‘He’s very small.’ Five-year-old Domhnall bent over the baby with an appraising look.

  ‘You were as small as that when you were born, Manus, weren’t you?’ said Aislinn, reaching up to pat the little boy in her mother’s arms. She knelt adoringly in front of the cradle and tried to interest her younger brother in his tiny cousin.

  ‘Manus wasn’t as small as Cormac when he was born,’ contradicted Domhnall.

  ‘Yes, he was,’ said Sorcha hurriedly. ‘You’ve just forgotten.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Mamó’s baby is much smaller.’

  Mara winced. Her grandson had a calm, logical mind and once he had decided on a matter no one could argue him out of a statement. He was right, of course. Even on the day he was born, Manus had been a fine bouncy baby with the dark hair and brown eyes of his father. She gazed at little Cormac; he looked as fragile as a windflower, she thought.

  ‘He’s hungry,’ said Sorcha. She popped Manus down on the floor and took her newborn brother from her mother’s arms. He nuzzled into her, crying fretfully.

  Mara saw Brigid frown thoughtfully and a quick glance passed between her daughter and her housekeeper.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ said Brigid to the two older children. ‘Let’s see if the brown hen has hatched out her chickens yet.’

  ‘Mamó has hatched out her chicken, hasn’t she, Aislinn? That’s supposed to be a joke,’ added Domhnall in exasperated tones when his sister stared at him in a puzzled way.

  ‘He does look a little like a newly hatched chicken,’ said Mara trying to sound amused, but despite her best efforts tears leaked out from her eyes and began to run down her face. She dashed them away impatiently. New born chicks often died; she knew that.

  ‘I have no milk,’ she said once more when the children had gone out.

  ‘Let me feed him,’ said Sorcha in her practical way. ‘I have plenty of milk for two. I’ll feed Manus at the same time and then he won’t get jealous.’

  No, but I am, thought Mara, though she knew that she was being stupid and childish. She shut her eyes. She would have to find a wet nurse, she thought, unless this was just temporary due to her long and difficult labour.

  ‘Try to rest now. Close your eyes. Don’t worry about the milk. It was the shock of hearing of Malachy’s death; you should never have been told,’ said Sorcha, sounding motherly and concerned.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mara. She shut her eyes obediently, but her mind went on working.

  Was she shocked by Malachy’s death? She thought not, in a way. He wasn’t a popular man, not esteemed in the kingdom. Not very much liked, either. Although he was Mara’s cousin, she wasn’t sure that even she had liked Malachy for some time. He had not been behaving in a very likeable manner. His lack of care for his patients, his obsession with obtaining silver for his service, his behaviour to his own daughter, his effort to seize her property some months ago and his ridiculous preference for his new stepsons – all these had exasperated her.

  Mara’s eyes snapped open.

  ‘I must talk to Nuala,’ she said urgently. ‘Don’t try to argue me out of it, Sorcha, you’re as bad as Brigid. I promised Malachy over a year ago that if anything ever happened to him then I would look after Nuala. I must see her.’

  ‘Quarter of an hour won’t make a difference,’ said Sorcha firmly. ‘Let me feed these two hungry children and then I’ll get her. Now do try to rest. You can’t be doing ten things at once when you are just after having a baby. You should have a sleep after I put Cormac back. You look terribly tired.’

  It was the early afternoon before Mara woke. She felt a little better and instantly sent Áine to fetch Nuala. Brigid would be busy with the scholars’ dinner and Sorcha would be feeding her own brood. Now was the moment to see the poor girl who had not only lost her father but had also been accused of the murder by her stepmother.

  Nuala had just arrived in Mara’s bedroom when the clip-clop of horse hoofs outside signalled the arrival of Fergus MacClancy, Brehon of Corcomroe. Mara gave an exasperated sigh. Now, just when she needed time to talk to Nuala, Fergus would be there, fussing as usual. However, she and the girl would have a few minutes of privacy as the visitors would need to take the horses up to the stables at the law school.

  ‘Come and sit by me,’ said Mara softly with a quick eye at the peacefully sleeping baby. ‘How are you, Nuala?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Nuala. Mara studied her. She had known Nuala from the moment that she was born, the only baby to survive from Malachy’s first wife, the beautiful Mór, who had struggled with ill-health for years and eventually died from a lump in her breast. Mór had been the dearest friend that Mara had known and, for her sake initially, she cherished the daughter. Love for the intelligent, determined, passionate Nuala had grown, though, and now she was as dear to Mara as her own daughter, Sorcha.

  ‘Am I going to be a suspect?’ As usual Nuala was direct and uncompromising.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Mara hastily.

  A wry smile twisted Nuala’s mouth and for a moment tears softened the direct look from her dark brown eyes.

  ‘Why not? I quarrelled with him. He tried to take my inheritance away from me. He banned me from his house. Replaced me with the sons of that woman that he married. He tried to deny me the possibility of being a physician when everyone knows that it was my dream since I was a child.’ Nuala enumerated the facts in a dry, hard tone and then dashed the tears impatiently from her eyes. Her tanned skin had a faintly sickly tinge and her eyes were deeply shadowed. ‘And I hated him,’ she finished, staring desolately out of the window towards the distant blue terraces of Mullaghmore mountain.

  ‘And you loved him,’ said Mara softly, and when Nuala said nothing, she stretched out and took the girl’s cold hand within her own two.

  ‘You’ve said all this to me, now,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ve said it to me, Mara, friend of your mother and cousin to your father. What do you say to me, Mara, Brehon of the Burren?’

  Nuala pulled her hand away and walked to the window. She stood there for a minute and then came back. The tears were gone now, but her brown eyes were wary.

  ‘What can I say?’ she demanded angrily. ‘I suppose that I should say that I had nothing to do with this death, and that I ask you to investigate the murder of my father and to bring the culprit to justice in front of the people of the Burren at the judgement place at Poulnabrone. That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it? But will I be believed? Do what you are supposed to do, but don’t ask me to help you.’

  Nuala’s voice rang out and Mara put a hasty finger to her lips, however, her eyes went not to the sleeping baby, but to the open window. Voices could be heard and heavy footsteps echoed from the paved path outside.

  ‘That’s enough, Nuala,’ she said softly, but with a note of authority in her voice, ‘go now, but ask Brigid to fetch the baby before she shows Fergus up here.’<
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  It wasn’t just Fergus, though. Brigid had barely removed the baby when the footsteps sounded on the staircase. Mara shut her eyes and groaned softly as the voices floated upwards. Siobhan, Fergus’s wife, a woman of unsurpassing dullness, was on her way up, also. Her voice, with pauses to recover from the steepness of the stairs, was as loud as always.

  ‘Poor thing . . . what I always say is . . . no life for a woman . . . and the king, too . . . of course, he is always away . . . these terrible battles . . .’

  And then there was a silence. Mara grinned reluctantly. Fergus, no doubt feeling embarrassed, poor man, had probably put a finger to his lips. Then her eyes sharpened. Someone else was coming up the stairs behind the MacClancy couple – a heavy footfall. Odd. Who could it be?

  ‘Ah, Mara. Good to see you looking so well.’ Fergus’s over-hearty greeting immediately convinced Mara that she was looking terrible. She sat up a bit straighter and wished that she felt able to get out of bed and be her normal self.

  ‘But where is the darling little baby?’ Siobhan looked all around the room as if expecting to see an infant concealed under some piece of furniture.

  Mara didn’t answer – her eyes were fixed on the man who had followed Fergus into her bedroom. He was of squat stature, quite young, but with a huge stomach, imperfectly concealed by an over-large léine and carefully draped cloak. He had a short, sparse red beard and a pair of small green eyes twinkling from under his sandy-coloured eyebrows. He didn’t appear disconcerted by entering a strange woman’s bedroom, and beamed happily at her before plumping himself down on the most comfortable chair in the room.

  ‘Ah,’ said Fergus apologetically, seating himself on the window seat, ‘Mara, this is my young cousin, Boetius MacClancy. Just walked in the door half an hour ago. He has just passed his final examinations at the MacEgan school in Duniry and is now an ollamh.’ He beamed proudly at his relation and Mara murmured some congratulations, while wondering irritably why Fergus had seen fit to land his cousin on her the very day on which she had given birth.

  Pompous name, Boetius; suits him, she thought, while studying the young man with a professional smile still nailed to her face. He had probably been christened Baothglach, but had Latinized the name to make it more acceptable to English ears.

  ‘Does King Turlough know the happy news yet?’ enquired Fergus.

  ‘No, not yet,’ said Mara briefly.

  ‘You haven’t told your husband!’ Siobhan almost fainted with shock.

  Mara gazed at her irritably. Really, Fergus was a fool, she thought. Why on earth did he think it was a good idea to bring along his stupid wife and his cousin to visit a woman who had given birth only a few hours previously.

  ‘It was very kind of you to visit, Siobhan,’ she said keeping her voice as bland as she could manage. ‘And very nice to meet you, Boetius. Unfortunately my energy is limited so perhaps, Fergus, you and I could have a few minutes alone while we talk of legal matters. Would that be all right, Siobhan?’

  ‘Oh, the death of Malachy. What a terrible thing,’ shrilled Siobhan. ‘Don’t you worry your head about that, Mara. We’ve got just the solution. Boetius here will investigate the murder. He will take over your legal work as well as your teaching duties – after all, he is a qualified ollamh so he is perfectly able to teach. He is young and strong, and he will manage everything beautifully. I’ll have a word with your housekeeper about a room for him so that he won’t have to waste time riding between here and Corcomroe. He will keep your lads in good order and take no nonsense from them.’

  ‘I’ll soon sort it out for you. No need to worry about a thing.’ The large young man beamed at her happily. His voice was as pompous as his name, thought Mara, wondering how to get out of this unexpected turn of events.

  ‘We thought that would be the best thing, especially in view of the murder.’ Fergus chimed in. ‘You see, I would not be able to give it my full attention. Like you, there are examinations coming up and I have a case of shipwreck to deal with, and . . .’ He tailed off looking at her anxiously.

  ‘I don’t think that will be possible,’ said Mara hastily. ‘My daughter, her husband and my grandchildren are already here. We will have no spare accommodation, especially as I have invited Nuala to stay here, also, as her uncle Ardal has accompanied the king into battle.’

  ‘Of course, you know your own business best, Mara.’ Siobhan’s voice betrayed a deep doubt on that subject as she continued. ‘But I’m surprised that you, the Brehon, should harbour someone who has been accused of the crime.’ She nodded her head wisely and added, ‘We met Sadhbh, Malachy’s housekeeper, and she told us what occurred. Poor Caireen; what a terrible thing to have happened to her. We’re on our way over to see her, after we leave here. Poor woman! Her husband poisoned and his own daughter accused of the terrible deed.’

  ‘Who accuses Nuala?’ Mara sat up in bed. A rapid surge of blood flooded out and drenched the sheet beneath her. She felt her head become dizzy; suddenly she was hot and soaked with sweat; and then, just as suddenly, icy cold. The three figures in front of her shifted in and out of focus. She tried to say something more but she couldn’t. There was an odd smell in the room and a deadly faintness seemed to be paralysing her. The last thing that she heard was a shrill, high-pitched shriek from Siobhan.

  ‘I don’t care what you say, you lie there and think of nothing. You can see that Cormac is getting on fine. There is nothing at all for you to worry about. God is up there in His heaven keeping everything going; no need for you to be bearing the world on your own shoulders.’

  ‘The boys?’ queried Mara. Cormac was tucked into bed beside her and yes, he did look a little less fragile. She herself was feeling better. The haemorrhaging had stopped thanks to Nuala and her skill. And the alarming fits of faintness had not occurred for the past few hours. The fever that had followed them had now subsided and her head was clear. How long had she lain there, drifting in and out of consciousness? It must have been days.

  ‘Everything is fine,’ scolded Brigid. ‘And I’ve told you that six times already. That young man, Master MacClancy, he’s in there with them now.’

  ‘How is he getting on?’ asked Mara anxiously. Her mind went to her six scholars. Would this young Boetius MacClancy make allowances for Fachtnan and his memory problems; be tactful with the brilliant but opinionated Enda; understanding with the adolescent humour of the two fifteen-year-olds, Moylan and Aidan; patient with twelve-year-old Hugh who was finding the work of the law school difficult, and then there was eleven-year-old Shane, clever and needing new challenges to avoid boredom – how would the young man cope with her scholars?

  ‘He’s getting on all right.’ Brigid’s sniff always spoke volumes. Mara waited; more would come, she knew that.

  ‘He’s too familiar with them,’ said Brigid eventually, with a toss of her head. ‘Larking around with that Aidan.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’ Mara felt relieved. This was a young man and young men are exuberant and fun-loving – perhaps he had only appeared pompous and self-satisfied in the presence of his elderly cousin.

  ‘I don’t like him.’ Nuala had been silent up to now. She had hardly left the bedchamber for the past two days, sleeping in the bedroom on a truckle bed, busying herself around Mara, checking that everything was in order and that there was no recurrence of the drastic bleeding. Between Sorcha, Nuala and Brigid, Mara was beginning to feel stifled. Her suggestion that she should get up from her bed seemed unpopular with them all, so she lay back of the pillows and busied herself in examining her son’s tiny fingernails. She would not enquire any more about Boetius, but make up her own mind.

  ‘Any word from Turlough?’ she asked, and again a quick glance passed between the three nurses.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Brigid heartily. ‘We haven’t sent a messenger, as you ordered, so there is no reason for him to send a messenger here. You know what King Turlough is like, God bless him, he’ll ride up here one morning or one e
vening and give us all a surprise.’

  There is news, and it’s not good, thought Mara. However, she had long decided that what she could not influence, she would try not to worry about, and she turned her attention back to her child.

  ‘Nuala, is there any chance, at this stage, that I will be able to feed Cormac myself?’ It seemed strange to be asking a girl still two months from her fifteenth birthday a question like that, but Nuala had kept mother and son alive during the long and difficult labour, and during the last days had probably once again saved Mara’s life. In fact, for the last year she had been tending competently to the people of the Burren. One of the reasons why Malachy had been so angry with his daughter had been jealousy over the fact that so many people preferred her ministrations to his.

  ‘I would say that it is unlikely at this stage.’ Nuala was, as usual, honest and direct.

  ‘Try again, Mother.’ Sorcha had a softer nature. Not as intelligent as Nuala, Sorcha’s life had been easy and straightforward. She had been adored by Mara and by Brigid, had lived a happy life at the law school, learning to read, write and add up, to spin, weave and sew, but showing little interest in the law and with no inclination or ability to undertake the long years of intense study that would be required for qualification as a lawyer. When she was sixteen she had married Oisín, a distant cousin of her mother’s.

  Once again Mara tried, but once again Cormac turned away fretfully. The decision had to be faced. It wasn’t fair to expect her daughter to go on feeding Cormac when she had her own little Manus to care for, and would soon need to return to Galway where her husband had a prosperous business. In any case, thought Mara, trying to look on the bright side, she had planned to engage a nurse to look after the child while she was teaching and looking after the legal affairs of the kingdom.