There was no doubt, though she tried to disguise it, that she was jealous of Eileen, who had nothing to do but feed the baby – her baby – and cradle him in her arms for as long as she wished. This reminded her of something and she turned to Nuala.
‘Walk down with me to Blár O’Connor’s place,’ she said to the girl. ‘He was making a cradle for me. Of course, no one expected this young man to arrive in the middle of June, but I’m sure that news has reached the wheelwright’s place. We’ll see if he has it ready.’
‘Why go to a wheelwright for a cradle – Cumhal or one of the men on the farm could have made one for you?’ Once medical matters were no longer under discussion, Nuala’s mood turned sour and argumentative, again.
‘It was Turlough’s idea. A wheelwright had made a cradle for his eldest daughter and Turlough swore that no cradle ever rocked better. He came with me to Blár O’Connor last Easter and we planned it together.’ Mara decided to ignore Nuala’s moods and to talk naturally and cheerfully.
Blár O’Connor was a highly qualified wheelwright, skilled not just in wheel making but also in wagon building. He lived and worked within the walls of an ancient enclosure called Lios na Binne Roe, a small farm not far from Cahermacnaghten, near the Kilcorney crossroads. It was easy to see why the enclosure was named ‘Binne Roe’ (red cliff) as it was just beside a steep cliff face whose surface was covered with the orange-red, jellylike mass that oozed from iron deposits in the soil.
‘I always think that this place should be in Corcomroe, not in Burren,’ said Mara as they turned off the road and went down the lane to the wheelwright’s home. ‘What is it in that old poem? – doesn’t it go like this – “Burren’s stone is light and bright; Corcomroe is black and red”, something like that anyway, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I hate poetry,’ said Nuala moodily. ‘Ardal is always trying to suggest to me that it would be better to be a poet like my mother, than a physician like my father.’
Mara laughed. ‘And poor Mór, your mother, was never allowed to be a poet, except in secret. She badly wanted to go to Bard School, but your grandfather was completely against it, and she was married off to your father by the time that she was fourteen years old.’
‘And then she had me the following year. What a disaster to have a child like me!’ Nuala sounded so miserable that Mara was relieved when there was a shout from the enclosure.
‘You’re very welcome, Brehon, I was just going to send a lad up to you to tell that all was ready. Come and look at your cradle.’
Blár O’Connor was a small man – surprisingly small for a man who lived by the labour of his hands. He was a clever man, though. Mara’s nearest neighbour, Diarmuid O’Connor, had once remarked, in his quiet way, that since Blár O’Connor was the smallest in the family he had to have brains to survive. ‘You watch him,’ Diarmuid had said. ‘While everyone else is wasting time fussing and flexing muscles, Blár has worked out the neatest and quickest way to move a piece of wood, or which part to saw that needs the least labour.’
He came forward now, moving lightly and quickly, and said in his quietly confident way, ‘I think you’ll be pleased with it. We made it from oak as the king, God bless him, ordered.’
‘The oak tree is a special symbol for the O’Brien clan; the O’Brien king is always named under the oak tree at Magh Adhair,’ replied Mara, still trying to interest Nuala and distract her from her gloomy thoughts. It didn’t work. Blár O’Connor, though courteous, looked surprised as this was something that everyone knew, and Nuala just stared straight ahead, her black eyebrows contracted to a straight line, her brown eyes wary and opaque.
Even Nuala unbent a little when she saw the cradle. It had been exquisitely crafted, the curved hood scalloped with a tiny carved creature at the inside edge of each of the four scallops. Mara could just imagine the delight of any baby who discovered these tiny companions – there was a fox, a cat, a hare and an owl – and she made up her mind that she would not point them out to her little son, but allow him to make his own discovery.
‘The rockers are perfect,’ she said aloud, stroking the carefully waxed wood, planed to a satin-like smoothness. ‘My lord will be pleased by these. He knew that you would do this wonderfully.’
Blár O’Connor’s face clouded over. ‘It was Bláreen, God have mercy on his soul, who did these, poor lad. He was a great workman, God be good to him. He had these oak felloes laid by for over a year – all ready they were to make a set of wheels, but nothing would suit him but to take two of them for the cradle. “It’ll be something to have made the cradle where the king’s child will lie”, that’s what he said. It was he that carved those little creatures too. I can just see him doing it with a smile on his face, he was a handsome lad, Brehon, as you know . . .’ He shot a quick glance at Nuala’s averted face and then shut his mouth firmly.
Mara, also, glanced at Nuala. For a moment she hesitated, but then laid her hand on Blár’s arm and said the words that had come into her head. ‘The kingdom will be a poorer place without your son, Blár. He was a craftsman and an artist and I never knew a single person to say a bad word about him. His memory will live on as long as the carts and wagons that he made with such skill roll down our roads. Every time that I rock my baby in this cradle I will think of him. I can’t wait to put him in it,’ she finished in a lighter tone of voice. ‘I’ll send one of my men with a cart to fetch it before the evening.’
‘He was the light of his mother’s eyes,’ said Blár O’Connor, his face still dark and brooding. ‘Still “the Lord giveth and he taketh away”. . .’ He paused but did not finish in the usual fashion with the phrase ‘blessed be the name of the Lord’. He was gazing at the dense woodland that lay between him and the sea, his pale blue eyes filled with rage and his mouth was tight with anger.
And then he looked at Nuala and an expression of embarrassment came over his face.
‘Don’t you trouble yourself, Brehon. I have a cart going that way this afternoon. One of my men will drop the cradle off for you. The wife wants to give it a last polish – great woman for making polishes. Gets the beeswax from the beekeeper Giolla at Rathborney and she mixes it with some lavender.’
‘I can smell it,’ said Mara burying her nose in the scented wood. She was glad, for Nuala’s sake, that the interview was ending on such an amicable note. It was hard on the girl to be made to feel responsible for her father’s sins and at the same time be suspected of causing his death.
Bláreen O’Connor, the only son of the wheelwright, had been a magnificent son. He had the height and breadth of shoulder that his father lacked, but was blessed with a happy, easy-going temperament that meant, unlike most young men in their early twenties, he never got into fights or drank too much. Everyone liked the lad and his father and mother were reputed to adore him.
And then, one day in the middle of last month, Bláreen had taken a short cut home through one of Lorcan O’Connor’s fields. Unknown to him there was a particularly vicious bull there and the boy had been tossed. When he managed to get home he was bleeding severely. His father immediately sent for Malachy, but Malachy did not come, instead sending a message that he was owed money by the household and was not going to attend before his fee was paid. Almost immediately after the messenger returned the young man had died.
‘I shouldn’t have gone there with you,’ said Nuala abruptly as they walked back down the long avenue to the gate.
Mara looked at her. The girl’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were full of tears.
‘You’re upset to hear your father spoken of, is that it?’
Nuala’s mouth twisted in a wry grin, making her seem older than her fourteen years.
‘I suppose it would be nice to hear him spoken of, as you spoke of Bláreen. But you know yourself that the kingdom won’t be a poorer place without Malachy O’Davoren. Do you know why Blár didn’t pay his bill to my father?’
Mara shook her head, but Nuala wasn’t even looking
at her; she was still staring ahead with that flush of anger – or was it shame? – on her cheeks.
‘Blár O’Connor did not pay his bill because Malachy had been treating a cut on his arm for months with the wrong ointment. The cut had gone bad. It needed to be opened to allow the sepsis to escape and then kept open until it was clean. Malachy had been treating it with comfrey . . .’
Mara turned an attentive face towards the girl. Comfrey, she knew well. It was a herb that grew on damp meadows – in fact she could see some of its tall, pale pinkish-purple flowers in the field on their left-hand side. Nuala, herself, had often gathered some from the meadows near Cahermacnaghten.
‘And was treating it with comfrey correct?’ she asked.
Nuala shook her head vigorously. ‘No, it was the wrong thing. Comfrey is good for healing, but it is too good. What was happening was that the wound was healing superficially but leaving all of the bad stuff inside. It was absolutely the wrong herb to use.’
‘And Malachy did not realize that?’
Once again Nuala shook her head, the black braids flying out at angles from her head. ‘He did,’ she said bitterly. ‘I found one of my grandfather’s medical notes open on his stillroom table – just at the page where he had written: “Comfrey may be used externally to speed wound healing and guard against scar tissue developing incorrectly. Care should be taken with very deep wounds, however, as the external application of comfrey can lead to tissue forming over the wound before it is healed deeper down, possibly leading to abscesses.” And beside it was a small jar of paste made from comfrey – I knew it was comfrey when I smelled it. And then Malachy came rushing in and took the jar, closed the book, put it back on the shelf, asked me what I was doing there and then rushed out again. I followed him and saw him give the jar to Blár’s man and tell him to remind his master that he owed him two pieces of silver.’
‘So what did you do?’ asked Mara.
‘Took a jar of St John’s wort from the shelf – I, myself, had made most of these ointments and pastes, so I didn’t bother to ask for permission – and that afternoon I called on Blár’s wife and asked her to try this out on her husband’s cut. She did and it healed up fast. Blár is clever and he realized that Malachy’s medicine had been worse than useless – and that’s probably why he decided not to pay the latest bill.’
‘So Malachy gave the wrong medicine – and knew it was the wrong medicine – and this kept the wound from healing. But why?’ Mara had begun to understand.
Nuala shrugged. ‘Didn’t much care. Just grabbed a jar of comfrey – perhaps he didn’t read all of my grandfather’s notes. Or perhaps . . .’
He probably did read the note, thought Mara sadly, suspecting that Malachy had deliberately kept the wheelwright’s injury from healing so that he could continue to get silver from him. Blár O’Connor must be one of the richest workers in the kingdom. He would be able to afford to pay a physician any fee that was requested. Money had been Malachy’s god ever since he had made his second marriage a few months ago.
But did Blár realize the full extent of Malachy’s treachery?
And would he have been prepared to kill one whose greed for silver had allowed a boy to bleed to death while he waited for the father’s payment?
The talk with Nuala could be postponed. There was an urgent question to be asked and she could find the answer to it at her own law school.
‘Go in to the baby,’ she said to Nuala when they arrived at the Brehon’s House, ‘I just want to ask the lads a question.’ And then she sped down the road to the law school
Everyone was busy when she opened the door. Bran was on his feet in an instant, greeting her with a violently wagging tail. The boys turned smiling faces towards her as she struggled for breath.
‘Fachtnan and Enda,’ she said urgently. ‘When you go on wolf hunts with Donogh Óg O’Lochlainn, have you ever gone to Binne Roe? Recently, I mean.’
‘Blár O’Connor’s place,’ asked Fachtnan in puzzled tones, but Enda was quicker. His very blue eyes blazed with excitement as he replied.
‘Not recently, Brehon. Blár O’Connor poisoned all of the wolves around his place.’ He stopped and then said dramatically, ‘He poisoned them with wolfsbane, aconite, I should say. He showed me the great big jar of the stuff that he got from Malachy O’Davoren.’
Seven
Bretha Déin Chécht
(The Judgements of Dian Cecht)
The physician’s fees are fixed by law, according to the rank of the patient as well as the gravity of the case. For a death wound, the fee is four cows and a three-year-old heifer from a king; three cows and a two-year-old heifer from a chieftain. If, however, he is not a professional physician and has failed to disclose that fact, he is liable to a fine if his treatment is unsuccessful.
When the physician attends a patient, he and up to four of his pupils are entitled to their food at the house of the patient, but if the wound was inflicted maliciously, the offender has to supply the cost of the food. If the wound heals in an unsatisfactory way, the physician might have to refund his fees unless a certain stipulated time has elapsed between the healing and the wound breaking out again.
Instantly the books were closed. Mara moved to her desk, followed by her faithful Bran, and faced her scholars.
‘And we do remember that everything said here is sacred to this law school and not to be spoken of outside,’ recited Hugh.
‘Never mind about that,’ said Enda impatiently. ‘Brehon, do you think that Blár O’Connor could be a suspect?’
‘I think he could be,’ said Mara. ‘Nuala realized that Malachy was treating an injury of Blár incorrectly. She gave the correct ointment to Blár’s wife. He’s a clever man and I think that he may well have suspected Malachy of prolonging treatment in order to get more silver, so he refused to pay him – which, under the law, he was quite entitled to do. If he had consulted me, I would have backed him up. However, he did not and Malachy, when he got the message about Blár’s son being gored by a bull, instead of coming instantly, just replied that he would come as soon as he was paid. In the meantime, of course, the young man died of loss of blood.’
‘And Blár regarded Malachy as the killer of his son.’ Fachtnan said the words thoughtfully, his dark eyes full of sympathy.
‘And as he happened to have a whacking great jar of wolfsbane there, he decided to give Malachy a taste of his own medicine.’ Moylan chuckled at his wit.
‘And of course, we know that the flask of brandy was on the table beneath the window.’ Mara decided to ignore Moylan, though the joke was in poor taste.
‘And the morning was hot,’ said Hugh. ‘The window would definitely have been open.’
‘I’ll make a note of that, shall I, Brehon?’ said Enda, writing busily. ‘We can easily find out that for certain once we get to work.’
Mara smiled. Her scholars were obviously keen to get started on investigations. She had always involved them in the legal work of the kingdom, feeling that practical experience was an essential part of their education.
‘Brehon, is Nuala really a suspect? She seems to think that she is,’ asked Fachtnan. Mara gave him her full attention. He had a worried look in his honest brown eyes.
‘I think she has to be, Fachtnan,’ she said. ‘After all she did have the means, the knowledge, of course, and also perhaps a motive since her father had rejected her and was doing his best to stop her from becoming a physician.’
‘And, of course, he also was trying to take away the Rathborney property that should be hers,’ said Aidan, proving that the boys had been talking over Nuala’s affairs among themselves.
‘And she would be a female heir to Malachy – get the land fit to graze seven cows and the house,’ mused Enda.
‘So that’s two reasons to suspect her,’ mused Hugh, ‘though I don’t believe that Nuala did it.’
‘A lawyer has to weigh all of the evidence,’ reproved Shane. ‘No personal feelings should be allowed
to interfere with this.’
‘Very true,’ said Mara with a sigh. ‘You remind me of my duty, Shane.’
‘So who else disliked Malachy the physician enough to kill him?’ Enda held the quill poised in his hand and looked around the schoolroom.
‘And had access to his medicines,’ added Moylan.
‘I think we must add to that who had knowledge of the medicines,’ said Mara. ‘You see, a few days ago, I would not have known what aconite is – would not even know what it was made from.’
‘I came across a description in Bretha Déin Chécht,’ said Shane. ‘Just a minute, I have it here somewhere.’ He delved into his satchel and then took out a piece of vellum, covered in his small, well-formed handwriting. Quietly he read it aloud: ‘“Aconitum is a handsome plant with dark green leaves and bright blue flowers which are shaped in a distinctive hooded shape from which it gets one of its many names: monkshood. It is also called wolfsbane as it is very poisonous and often used to rid a land of wolves. The poison is made by pounding the roots of the plant. Great care should be taken in the handling as it is a deadly poison.”’
‘And Malachy, according to Nuala, had a large jar on his shelf, labelled aconite,’ commented Mara.
‘But most people around here cannot read,’ objected Hugh. ‘And even if they could, would they know that aconite is just another name for wolfsbane?’
‘Yes, but you must remember all the farmers who had got it from Malachy,’ said Aidan. ‘I think that wolfsbane is one medicine that many people of the Burren would know about. And would know how deadly it was.’
Scales of Retribution Page 8