‘This is the next task,’ said Enda, writing busily. ‘We must conduct a door-to-door search of the farms to see who had bought wolfsbane from Malachy.’ He laid down his quill. ‘And, of course, this brings us to the next point. What about Murrough? He lost his favourite wolfhound. You remember how it happened?’ He looked around at his fellow scholars and continued fluently, ‘Malachy had baited his own woodlands with the stuff – had put it into a dead hare. Murrough walked his wolfhounds through those oak trees and his dog Rafferty cleared off – you know what Rafferty was like – anyway, he didn’t come back when Malachy called him, and eventually one of the other dogs found him and he was dead. Had died in agony, too, poor dog. Vomited up his guts! The whole ground was covered with it.’
Mara swallowed, feeling almost sick to think that the same thing could have happened to her beloved dog, Bran. She, too, had often walked with her dog in the oak woodlands, and had allowed him to run ahead of her and to enjoy himself chasing hares and squirrels. One would almost feel that the man had been struck down by the hand of God. Her lips tightened as she remembered the handsome, good-natured, much-loved Bláreen who had bled to death because Malachy had been more interested in silver than in saving lives. Were there others that this man had so injured that they had been moved to take his life? Her mind turned to Cliona. Thank God, the girl had known enough to reject the potion that Malachy had supplied to her husband. Was there anyone else who might have been injured? She turned to her scholars.
‘Any more ideas?’ she asked. ‘Anyone who might bear a grudge against Malachy?’
‘There have been a couple of deaths in the last few months,’ said Fachtnan thoughtfully. ‘It’s hard to say, though, that these people would not have died if they had had a better physician. Mostly they were very old or very young.’
‘Perhaps we could make enquiries as we go around the farms,’ said Aidan. ‘The important thing is to find someone who feels that the physician was the reason why that member of their family died,’ he added shrewdly.
‘That’s a good idea,’ praised Mara. ‘As you say, Aidan, we are looking for someone who would want to kill Malachy, not investigating his cases. Make a note of that, Enda.’
There was a moment’s silence as Enda’s quill scratched busily over the surface of the small sheet of vellum. He replaced the pen on the inkstand and looked up, his face alert.
‘Brehon, what does Malachy’s wife get after his death?’ he asked. ‘Not land I know, but . . .’
‘Under Brehon law,’ said Mara carefully, ‘she gets nothing, as you say, Enda. And to be honest, I doubt that Malachy had much savings from his profession. He seemed to be spending very freely during the past months – he had that new wing built on to his house for one thing.’ She paused for a moment, but then thought that these scholars of hers always had to know the whole truth. ‘I’m not sure that Caireen knew that she would not get the house nor the land – the position is different under English law and Caireen would have known that law in Galway.’
‘Not enough to kill a man for,’ stated Moylan.
‘Ah, but you forget the business,’ said Enda. ‘After all, the house is not just a house. It’s a physician’s house. It has the stillroom full of medicines, it has Malachy’s medical scrolls, his bag full of instruments. Everything is there—’
‘And,’ interrupted Mara, ‘Caireen’s son, Ronan, has just been declared a qualified physician. He has been certified by Malachy himself and a physician in Galway. Nuala told me that.’
‘Was Ronan there at the time?’ asked Aidan.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Mara. ‘At least Nuala said that he wasn’t. She and Caireen were the only ones of the family present.’ She noted that Aidan gave a disappointed sigh and then brightened up.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said then. ‘Don’t Ronan and his brothers inherit Malachy’s property? After all, the sons of all marriages, even those of the fourth degree, inherit, don’t they?’
‘No, at least, yes . . . you are right about the sons of other marriages, but remember Ronan and his brothers are not of Malachy’s blood – this is what I always tell you – the laws of inheritance are there to safeguard clan land,’ explained Mara.
‘They probably don’t know that,’ muttered Aidan, looking unconvinced.
‘But Ronan was not there so that’s off the point,’ said Enda impatiently.
‘Mother love,’ said Fachtnan with a quiet smile.
‘What do you mean?’ queried Moylan, looking puzzled.
‘Well, do you remember that mare belonging to Ardal O’Lochlainn? That blonde mare with the four dark socks? She was such a gentle animal. Anyone could ride her. Do you remember when she had a foal? Liam . . . remember Liam, everyone? Well, when Liam came into the stable in the early morning, he found a dead wolf lying by the doorway. The wolf must have come to attack the foal and the mare killed it.’
‘I see what you mean, Fachtnan,’ said Mara. ‘You think that Caireen might have killed Malachy in order to allow her son Ronan to inherit the position of physician. Ronan, as far as we know, was not in the house at the time – do put that on your list of things to investigate, Enda – but Caireen was the one who discovered the body, so we must have her, at least, as a suspect. That was a very good point, Fachtnan – like you to think of it.’ Mara noted how Fachtnan looked pleased at her praise. Poor lad, his confidence must be at a very low ebb after the blow dealt to him by that dreadful Boetius.
‘Though I would not have called that awful woman, Caireen, a lovely, gentle mare,’ joked Aidan, but the two older boys both turned impatient, frowning faces towards him and he hastily said, ‘it’s a very good analogy, Fachtnan.’
‘I agree,’ said Mara, concealing her surprise that Aidan would know a word like analogy. ‘I do think that this is a better reason than my original speculation that Caireen may have done it in order to inherit the property. Even if she did think that her inheritance would include the oak woodlands . . .’
Immediately, six alert faces stared at her.
‘That would be clan land, of course,’ said Enda.
‘Who does inherit the oak woodlands, Brehon?’ asked Hugh.
‘My son-in-law, Oisín,’ said Mara casually and watched their eager faces look suddenly embarrassed.
‘We must consider everyone,’ she reminded them.
‘It’s only a few acres,’ said Moylan.
‘And he lives in Galway.’
‘It wouldn’t be any use to him, would it?’
‘I think that it might,’ said Mara. ‘He has plans to use it for barrel making and I understand that oak is a great wood for barrels. This could be quite valuable to Oisín.’
‘He sounds innocent if he told you what he was going to use it for,’ said Hugh reassuringly.
‘That’s a point,’ said Mara, amused at their concern. ‘Still, I do think that he has to go on our list for the moment.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Now I must go back to my house. Come over to the Brehon’s house for your supper. We’ll have it in the garden. I’d like you all to meet my new son.’
‘Will little Cormac become a king or a Brehon?’ asked Shane with a glint of mischief in his dark blue eyes.
Mara laughed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she acknowledged. She considered the matter for a few minutes. ‘A Brehon,’ she said decisively. ‘He looks clever!’
Leaving them laughing, she strolled back to her own house with a smile on her face. It was only as she entered through the gate that the smile disappeared. She had suddenly remembered something.
Oisín had not told her that he had a use for the oak woodland; it was Sorcha who had innocently betrayed her husband’s plans.
Nuala was not with the baby. She was on her knees feverishly plucking out weeds from a bed of summer flowers. Mara had made that a few years ago, designing it to be like a stained glass window with the diamond-shaped beds of purple flowers and the blue flowers separated from each other with narrow strips of limestone. During th
e last few months it had been neglected – increasing girth made weeding impossible for Mara – and buttercups had started to spring up, introducing a rather discordant note of brassy yellow.
‘Cormac’s fine; he’s fast asleep.’ Nuala spoke without looking up. ‘That Eileen is very good with him, I think. She seems to know a lot about different potions and salves. I was quite surprised. I think you will have no worries about him now. He’s looking well.’
‘Were there worries last week?’ said Mara, seating herself on a stone bench and bending over the baskets of lilies that stood on either side of it. She had planted these lilies last spring when they were just dry, papery bulbs and now they were tall white scented flowers. What a difference a few months made. Cormac had just been an unknown stranger in her womb, then, and here he was already putting on weight and becoming more boy-like all the time.
‘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 wi
th 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:
The prince to be the body attendant on the king.
The Brehon to explain the customs and laws of the country in the king’s presence.
The druid to offer sacrifices, and to forebode good or evil to the country by means of his skill and magic.
Scales of Retribution Page 9