The haymakers’ supper was going well, she thought. In fact, everyone seemed happy except for one person. She sighed and went to sit beside Nuala.
‘Enoying yourself?’ she asked.
Nuala nodded in a perfunctory manner, but did not reply.
‘Nuala,’ said Mara gently, ‘there was a jar of aconite in your room in the guesthouse – the room that you vacated for Boetius. Did you put it there?’
Nuala stared at her and then laughed without humour. ‘I’m not a very efficient murderer, am I?’ she said in a harsh voice. ‘Imagine just sticking it under the bed and then leaving it there!’
‘Did you put it there?’ persisted Mara.
‘Can’t you guess?’ said Nuala impatiently. She rose to her feet and went off to join Ardal. Mara allowed her to go. She sat very still and gazed across at the distant heights of Mullaghmore. The mountain was even more beautiful than usual – pale blue with the swirling terraces plainly marked in the clarity of the evening air. She did not follow Nuala, nor call her back. There was no point in wondering about the jar of aconite. It wasn’t important. The truth was plain to her now. Tomorrow, when the scholars had departed, would be the time to reveal it.
‘Tell me all of your news from Thomond,’ said Mara as they sat together after their meal was finished. The haymakers had gone home, Ardal and Nuala, in response to a whispered request from the girl, had ridden away and only Mara, Turlough, Sorcha and Oisín were left sitting in the quiet garden. The table was still covered with a linen cloth but most of the dishes and plates had been taken away. On the table was a flagon and four of Mara’s precious crystal glasses, brought by her father from the holy city of Rome, and these were filled with the deep crimson wine that glowed against the snowy whiteness of the cloth. A pale cream-coloured platter of applewood lay in the middle of the table with a small, rounded cheese and some slices of Brigid’s delicious, heavily buttered soda bread arranged around the cheese. The light was beginning to go in the subtle way of a June night; the reds and blues of the vividly coloured flowers began to fade and the white lilies took on a special intensity. The swallows still darted in and out of the barns in the law school enclosure, but in the distance the nightjar called and over towards the east a sliver of new moon showed above the horizon.
‘No news – no news being good news,’ responded Turlough. ‘The Earl of Kildare has gone back to his stronghold with his tail between his legs. No one will call him “The Great Earl” again if I have anything to do with it.’ He smiled the smile of a victorious man and, tilting his wine glass, swallowed the last drop.
‘The king of England will not let him be defeated again,’ said Oisín quietly.
Turlough looked at him in an annoyed fashion. ‘You taking to soldiering, Oisín? You seem to know a lot about it.’
Oisín shrugged. ‘I’ve got better things to do,’ he said. ‘I’m a busy man, but I hear news. I talk to the people who come in on the ships. England is a powerful country. If Henry VIII wants to conquer Ireland, he will do it and he will give the Earl of Kildare more support. It might be better to keep quiet and hope to be forgotten.’
‘Let’s not talk about war and things like that tonight,’ begged Sorcha with a quick glance at Mara. ‘Tell me, my lord, what do you think of your little son?’
‘I think that he is as beautiful as his mother.’ Turlough, no more than Sorcha, did not want to carry on with this conversation with Oisín. This victory over the Earl of Kildare had been the highlight of his ten years as king and he didn’t want anything to tarnish the bright sheen of exhilaration. He bent over the cradle and tucked the woven wool blanket more closely around his little son.
‘And how’s this wretched business of the murder of Malachy going?’ he enquired.
‘Going well,’ said Mara, and saw Oisín look at her sharply, struck, no doubt, by the quiet confidence in her tone.
‘Have another glass of wine,’ she said sweetly, taking little Cormac from his cradle and rising to her feet. ‘I shall just take Cormac up for his last feed and then I’ll bring him back down again. I’ll leave you to look after the two men, Sorcha,’ she added. ‘Do have some more, Oisín. It was well chosen by you, and I’m sure that you will enjoy it.’
Brehon law is so merciful, she mused as she climbed the stairs to Eileen’s room. The penalty is straightforward; if the guilty person cannot pay, his or her family or clan can step in and help. She thought briefly of English law. Could she possibly be able to work under that system where a terrible death from the headsman’s axe would be the only possible outcome from a successful investigation? She thought not. Yes, retribution had to follow crime, but it need not destroy the guilty person.
Seventeen
Di Chetharslicht Athgabala
(On the Four Divisions of Distraint)
A Brehon, or those in training for that office, should be of unblemished character. His word will be taken by the court so he must guard against the slightest untruth.
A lawyer who falsifies a record or who swears a lie may be removed from the kingdom.
Today is the day and now is the time, said Mara to herself. The boys had packed all their goods into the satchels, hung by the side of the ponies. Hugh’s father, who lived in the kingdom of the Burren, had already come to fetch his son. He had listened patiently to Mara’s explanation as to why his son had failed the examination and had proved to be sympathetic to Hugh’s vulnerability, and they had ridden away, apparently on the best of terms. He was the only parent to come to collect a son. Shane, the youngest scholar, lived in northern Ireland, but he would travel with Fachtnan and his father would come to pick him up at Fachtnan’s home in Oriel.
Only Aidan lacked exuberance. Mara tightened her lips to conceal a smile as she looked at his glum face. He must be wondering how he could make his way home without a penny left for the journey. His pony would need rest and food at wayside inns and so would he. She felt cruel as she watched him; perhaps she should have put him out of his misery yesterday. But on the other hand, he was an easily led boy and she didn’t want him to start this gambling habit. That was why she had said nothing until this last minute. However, he had been punished enough by now, she decided, so she beckoned him over and put some silver into his hand.
‘This is a loan,’ she warned him, ‘but it will turn into a gift if you can promise me to keep away from dice playing for the next two years. What do you say?’
Aidan, of course, immediately swore that he would never look at dice again. ‘Anyway, Brehon, I have no luck,’ he said, turning his hands palms-uppermost to the sky and smiling at her appealingly.
‘Very well, then,’ said Mara, trying to keep a stern face. There was something so engagingly puppy-like about Aidan that it was hard to be angry with him. He would grow up, she told herself. Basically he was a sweet-natured boy, just cursed at the moment with a silliness and a lack of common sense. Perhaps he would mature in the holidays and return as a reformed character. He was a nice boy, really, she thought, as he bent down and patted Bran, and then touched the tiny hand of the baby in her arms. He looked at the silver appreciatively and thanked her awkwardly, and ran to join the others.
The boys were all mounted, now, all shouting farewells as Cumhal, Brigid, the two girls, Nessa and Áine, joined Mara and Bran. Fachtnan, Enda and Shane turned to the north. The three of them would ride together until Galway, and then Enda would go north to Mayo while the other two struck the north-east route to Oriel. Moylan and Aidan went south; they lived near to each other and so would have each other’s company on the route home.
‘Now you can have a rest,’ said Brigid. ‘That’s a relief to be rid of all of them.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mara. It should have been a relief. And yet, somehow, she was conscious of a feeling of being deserted – a leftover sensation from her childhood, when the end of June spelled the end of companionship and fun, intellectual stimulation and competition. The fate of an only child, she thought, remembering how she wou
ld wander around the empty schoolhouse and the deserted yard desolately, and then go down to Lissylisheen and find Mór O’Lochlainn . . .
This reminded her of Mór’s unhappy daughter, Nuala, the long-awaited, much-loved daughter of her friend.
‘Brigid,’ she said, ‘could you send one of the girls down to Lissylisheen to carry a message from me to Nuala – just to say that I would like to see her.’
‘I’ll send Áine,’ said Brigid. ‘Nessa can rock the cradle for his little lordship here. He looks sleepy. Eileen has gone off to Lemeanah Castle this morning. She said that you knew all about it . . . something about sewing. I said that we’d manage fine – now that all the lads have gone.’
Áine had no sooner departed when there was a sound of a horse’s hoofs on the road. Not a visitor! thought Mara, feeling exasperated.
‘It’s the young MacClancy,’ said Brigid, and then corrected herself. ‘Master MacClancy,’ she said in reserved tones that carried a wealth of meaning.
‘I’d better see him,’ said Mara. ‘I’ll go into the schoolhouse. Here, take Cormac, Brigid.’ Boetius was not looking his usual confident self. He had the bearing of a man who has faced a hard decision and is still not sure what to do. He took his seat in the schoolhouse, smoothed his red beard and looked at her without the annoying twinkle in his eye. In fact, he had a rather hangdog expression on his face.
‘Brehon, I’ve been thinking over our last interview and trying to understand your manner at that,’ he said, with the air of one who has been exposed to unreasonable suspicion.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mara, looking back at him with what she knew was a blank expression.
‘I felt that I . . . I, a fellow lawyer, was under suspicion.’ He tried to force a note of complaint into his voice, but could not help his uncertainty pervading it.
Mara left a pause before saying firmly, ‘Yes, that is true.’
‘I thought then that I should throw myself on your mercy.’ His confidence had begun to return. The twinkle was just about perceptible in his green eyes, and he smoothed the beard with the air of one who knows that he is irresistible when he adopts the small-boy air.
‘Go on,’ said Mara gravely.
‘You see, I was not in the house when Malachy died . . .’ he hesitated, seemed about to add something and then stopped, looking at her appealingly.
‘You lied then, when we spoke last.’
‘It was Caireen,’ he complained. ‘I don’t know why she said that I was at the house. Perhaps she really thought that I was still there – perhaps she didn’t know of my errand, but I wasn’t . . . you see . . .’ Once again he stopped, but when she said nothing he went on in a tone of forced lightness. ‘You see, I was there the night before, but then Malachy asked me to do a task for him, a legal matter . . . it was something that Malachy wished to keep secret, so he told me to leave the house early – not long after dawn so that I would not be seen – and to tell no one. I thought it best not to betray his trust and to go along with Caireen’s statement that I was still in the house.’
Why secret? thought Mara, but aloud she said merely, ‘Where did you go?’
‘To the pass near Rathborney – to Lochánn, just above the sea at Fanore.’
‘Why . . .?’ began Mara and then she stopped. Suddenly her conversation with Cuan at the midsummer feast flowed back into her mind. And she understood! It all fitted. According to Cuan, Malachy had given this old man at Lochlánn a potion. What was his name? Yes, Padraig O’Connor, a man with a fleet of fishing boats – a well-off man, then; a man who had accumulated riches by his own industry and who, therefore, was entitled to leave those riches to whomsoever he chose. Malachy had been feeding this poor old man with some sort of syrup that addled his remaining wits. There was only one reason to do this . . .
‘He sent you to make Padraig’s will!’ she exclaimed, and Boetius looked at her in a slightly alarmed fashion.
‘How do you know?’ he said suspiciously. ‘Malachy swore that this would be just a matter between us both.’
She ignored that. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Well, you’re right, though I don’t know how you guessed. I left Caherconnell at dawn, or soon afterwards. I walked my horse on the grass past any houses so that no one could hear me pass. Malachy had warned me that it was to be a secret that I came from him. I was supposed to stay with Fergus and then when the old man died, to pretend that the will was made a week later – and at the request of Padraig.’
‘Go on,’ she said, though she guessed the end of the tale.
‘Well, I got there eventually – you wouldn’t believe the amount of times that I had to hide and wait for a load of cows to be driven past or something. And I went into the place and found the old man.’
‘Out of his wits, no doubt,’ said Mara dryly.
‘Well, yes, he wasn’t too bright,’ admitted Boetius, ‘but eventually I managed to get him to sign his name to the will and then I went on down to Fanore – had a drink or two at the inn there – and eventually made my way down the coast and popped in on Fergus and his wife.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Mara after a long silence.
‘Just to show that I couldn’t have murdered Malachy,’ said Boetius eagerly. ‘Look!’ he delved in his satchel and produced a scroll of vellum and handed it to her.
‘Dated the first of July, 1510,’ observed Mara.
‘That’s because Malachy told me to put that date on,’ said Boetius impatiently. ‘He thought that the old fellow would live a month or two, and when he died Malachy would be called and then he would discover the will.’
Which he would have in his own satchel all the time, thought Mara. Aloud she read the will – a simple one.
‘“I bequeath all of my possessions to Malachy O’Davoren in consideration of the care and devotion he has shown in nursing me and helping me with the illness. All goods within the house, all of my fishing boats, all monies owed to me are for Malachy.”’
At the bottom of the will was a wavering signature, and below that in a firm and assured hand the words: Boetius MacClancy.
‘Your name could and should be erased from the list of lawyers for this,’ said Mara icily. She held the piece of vellum between her finger and thumb, eyeing the man with disgust.
‘I told you this in good faith; I wouldn’t have thought you would be a woman to betray that,’ said Boetius smugly.
‘What good faith?’ said Mara stormily. ‘You told me this to save yourself from an accusation of murder – an accusation that you could not otherwise disprove. You have achieved your end; I no longer believe that you killed Malachy, but I now know you to be guilty of the crime of the fraudulent extortion of a signature from a man who was not compos mentis, whose wits were addled by potions from a man who, like yourself, betrayed his profession and his teaching.’
‘I know I shouldn’t have done it, but . . .’ began Boetius.
‘Of course, you shouldn’t have done it,’ retorted Mara. ‘I suppose you are going to tell me that he offered you a bribe and that you needed the money to pay your gambling debts. Get out of here, go on, you disgust me, I don’t want your presence in my schoolhouse even for one more minute.’
Boetius got to his feet, looking alarmed. ‘What are you going to do?’
She was glad to hear a slight tremor in his voice and to see a shamed flush on his freckled skin. How long it would last she didn’t know. Let him suffer and perhaps he might be careful never to do such a thing again. For the sake of Fergus, Brehon of Corcomroe, this young man’s cousin, she probably would not shame him publicly, but it would do no harm to have him looking over his shoulder for the next year or so and dreading the revelation of his disgrace.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied unhelpfully. ‘Now get out before I call Cumhal and have you thrown out.’
When he had gone she spent some time gazing at the vellum. Eventually she sighed, took a sharp knife from the drawer of her desk and began to scrape the sk
in, removing the lying words of the forged will and leaving a smooth new surface for some more worthy document to take its place. Her hand did the work skilfully, but automatically, and her mind was free to be busy.
The old man from Lochánn became the target of Malachy’s greed because his possessions, and his fortune, were the product of his own industry and were his to leave as he wished. Everyone, thought Mara, should make a will while their wits were sharp and while they were capable of judging how their goods could be distributed after their death. And then she laughed at herself.
As Brehon of the Burren and ollamh of a law school, she, Mara O’Davoren, had accumulated a large amount of silver. In addition to that, she was the sole owner of the farmlands of Cahermacnaghten with its cows, sheep and poultry; with its rich grazing meadows and fertile fields. She had made no will!
Until the birth of little Cormac, her fortune would have passed in its entirety to her daughter Sorcha, which, of course, meant into the hands of the ambitious Oisín. On that morning of the eleventh of June, if Mara had died and the child had died with her – and without Nuala’s skill that may well have happened – then Oisín would have become a very rich man, indeed.
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