She got to her feet. She would have to do something about Nuala before she did anything else.
The girl was sitting on the wall outside the Brehon’s house staring moodily at a butterfly-covered clump of red valerian that grew out from a pocket of soil between the stones. She sat so still that the butterflies sucked from the flowers without alarm, but they rose in an agitated cluster of warm reds, browns and purples when Mara came towards her.
‘This stuff is very good for relieving depression,’ said Nuala indicating the plant. ‘I was thinking that I should try it.’
Mara sat down beside her, looking gently at the sad face and the intelligent brown eyes, now so full of misery. For I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me, she thought. Malachy, in his last few months of life, had done much evil, and this evil now seemed to live on and be visited on the head of his unfortunate daughter. Something had to be done quickly before this girl, with all of her wonderful promise, was destroyed.
‘Nuala,’ Mara said rapidly, ‘last night I talked with my lord, the king, and we agreed that you should go to Thomond. There is a great physician there, famous throughout Ireland. You have heard of Donncadh O’Hickey – he will take you on as his pupil and if he finds you as advanced as we think you are, you could be qualified as a physician within a year. Are you willing to do that? You won’t be too lonely in a strange place?’
‘Of course, I’m willing!’ Nuala’s tanned face suddenly blazed with excitement, the flush of colour turning the yellowish tinge that she had worn since the death of her father back to its normal, healthy summer hue. The light came back into her brown eyes and they glowed.
‘And you won’t be too lonely there because Enda is also going to Thomond – he will be working as assistant to Brehon MacEgan.’
‘Not Fachtnan?’ enquired Nuala, and then she laughed. ‘Not that he wants anything to do with me now. I asked him to marry me and it gave him a fright. Did he tell you?’
‘Yes, he told me.’ Mara decided that honesty was the only course with this intelligent, perceptive girl. ‘I think that you and Fachtnan have a very good relationship,’ she said gently, ‘but I don’t think that either of you are ready for marriage yet. You both have your professions to think about and it’s not a good idea to tie yourself down too early.’
‘I don’t care as long as I get qualified. When can I go?’
‘Turlough is going to talk to your uncle Ardal this morning,’ said Mara smiling. ‘I should say that you can go as soon as he is able to take you over there. He will want to see you well settled. Allow him to present you with some new gowns before you go. It would be good to look grown-up, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Nuala fervently. ‘Yes, I don’t mind wearing gowns if there is some reason for it – no silly veils or headdresses, though. I couldn’t stand that. I don’t mind pinning my plaits to the top of my head, though.’ She stopped and the joy on her face became muted. ‘Do you mind me leaving? Am I allowed to go? Am I still a suspect in the murder case?
‘No,’ said Mara. ‘No, Nuala, you are not a suspect, though you didn’t answer my question about the jar of aconite in your room. How did that get there?’
‘I took it straight after my father died. I saw it on the shelf and put it into my bag. I was pretty sure that was what killed him. And then the news about you came and I rushed over to Cahermacnaghten and just left it under my bed.’ Nuala hesitated and then said in a rush of words, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I . . . I suppose I was just in a bad mood.’
‘I understand.’ Mara rose to her feet and said lightly, ‘Now, I must go and find my son. You go back to Lissylisheen and wait to hear about this from Ardal, before you mention it to anyone. The king will be over later on.’
There was no sign of Turlough, however, in the house and no sign either of his two bodyguards. Mara crossed the road and scanned the fields, but she could not see him. He had still been dressing when she had gone to see the boys off, but, of course, Boetius had taken quite a long time to tell his story. And then she had sat thinking for some time in the schoolhouse – perhaps putting off the moment when she would have to confront the murderer. And then she had spent time with Nuala. To her alarm she realized that it was some time since she had seen her baby son.
‘Brigid,’ she called as she saw her hard-working housekeeper spreading a line of well-scrubbed léinte out on the low hedge. ‘Brigid, have you seen the king?’
‘He’s gone over to Lissylisheen, Brehon.’ Brigid’s high-pitched voice carried well across the field. She finished laying out the last of the léinte – now the hedge looked like a bank where twelve boys reclined in the sun – and came across to Mara.
‘Yes, he said that he had some business with the O’Lochlainn so off he went,’ she said in more normal tones.
‘Of course.’ I should have guessed, thought Mara. Turlough was never a man to let an idea simmer. He had been very enthusiastic about having Nuala come to be an apprentice to his own physician and as soon as he had breakfasted he had ridden over there.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ There was a strange empty feel to the place. No one was visible but Brigid herself. Of course, work had begun on the bog where the turf for the winter fires would be dug out in neat rectangular shapes and stacked to dry, before being brought back and stored in the large, open-sided barn. Most of the men would be there this morning.
‘Cumhal has taken Sorcha and her three little ones to Fanore,’ said Brigid. ‘Don’t you remember? It was all fixed up. I gave them a basket of food and some fruit – they can drink from the stream there. They were so excited, Domhnall and Aislinn, God bless them. They’ll love it there. And baby Manus, too.’
‘But where’s my baby?’ Mara asked looking around. The oak cradle was there, under the shade of an apple tree, but it was empty. No baby was to be seen. Nessa appeared from the storeroom carrying out cabbages.
‘Oh, Eileen came back; she decided not to go to Lemeanah after all. She has just taken little Cormac for a walk, down towards Kilcorney crossroads,’ said Brigid nonchalantly, turning to go back across the field.
‘A walk!’ exclaimed Mara, and then quickly and sharply, ‘Where’s Oisín? He didn’t go with the rest of the family to Fanore, did he?’
‘No, Brehon,’ said Brigid. ‘The last I saw of him, he was crossing over towards Kilcorney.’
Eighteen
Do Brethaib Gaire
(On Judgements of Maintenance)
The law must not only protect society against the insane; it must also protect the insane against society.
No fine can be demanded from an insane person and no punishment can be given for an offence committed while the mind was not in balance.
Exploitation of the insane is against the law. A contract with a person of unsound mind is invalid and anyone who incites an insane person to commit a crime must, himself, pay the fine of compensation.
It was a warm day, full of sunlight, birdsong and the heavy perfume of flowers, but Mara felt as if she had suddenly been dropped into the depths of a dark, cold cave. Every fibre of her body felt frozen, almost paralysed. Her hands shook and her tongue became suddenly dry. She could not move; she could not speak. Her eyes followed Brigid on her way back to her basket of washing, but both her tongue and her limbs had lost all of their power. She needed help, but there was no one there to give it.
And then suddenly the spell was broken. A large warm body beside her, a hot tongue licking her hand.
And then she knew what to do. Only she could accomplish the rescue. Only she and her faithful dog, Bran. Anything else was too dangerous. She would have to rely on her wits and her instincts. Without a word, she crossed the road and went across the stone-paved field.
Bran trotted at her heels. Normally he would be running, hunting for a stick that she could throw for him, chasing around in circles, looking for hares, racing up
and down, but now he sensed her terrors and he just went with her. A powerful and comforting presence. She could have gone down to the Kilcorney crossroads, walked the road, called for help at Lissylisheen, but instinctively she knew that this could be perilous.
In any case, she guessed where the murderer had gone. And across the clints was the quickest way.
The wind had died down and the day was hot, dangerously hot. This heavy, thundery weather could drive the unquiet spirit to desperation. What was planned, she wondered, trying desperately to drive herself to go faster? To run was impossible for her just now. She was a woman who had given birth recently and the deep grykes between the clints could twist an ankle or break a leg.
Frantically her mind ranged over the possibilities as her legs moved as fast as she dared to go. Did the murderer plan to use little Cormac as a bargaining tool? Do not accuse me of the murder of Malachy and of Seán and I will let you have your baby back. That was the most likely, she told herself, but deep in her mind she feared something worse.
There was no sign of anyone in the fields. The stony ground of the High Burren was used only for winter and spring grazing; now, at midsummer, the cows would be fattening contentedly on the rich grass of the valleys or wandering on the mountain common land. There was no sign even of anyone replacing a stone on a wall, or looking for a missing animal. The hay had mainly been cut so most of the farmers would be at the bog today. It would have been comforting to see someone, someone in whom she could confide, who would come with her, but she thought it might have been unwise. This was a matter that she had to solve for herself. She looked down at Bran and felt reassured. Bran would obey her smallest gesture.
It seemed an eternity before a few trees were to be seen in the distance. Malachy’s oaks were down there, down near to the church and the small graveyard. She turned to the right, going south; the way was rough but she trod it almost without seeing any of the hazards. Not long now, she told herself. Every nerve in her body was alive and tingling. Her breath came short and her heart seemed to bang against her ribs. The dog beside her uttered a long, low growl. She did not know whether he saw something or whether he had picked up on her mood.
Or whether, perhaps, he had sensed some evil in the air.
‘Heel,’ she said to him sharply and he obeyed instantly. This murderer, she knew, would be brittle – anything could break the tension and if that happened the baby would die and probably she would also. For her own life she cared little if she lost her child, she thought, and for a moment despair almost overwhelmed her. She bit her lips and dug her nails into her palm. How could she have been so stupid as to abandon her baby and leave him without a guard while she spoke to that absurd Boetius. She could not blame either Turlough or Brigid. She should have given orders that the baby was not to be taken off the premises, should have kept him under her eye. The fault was hers. She had misjudged this murderer. The relationship had led her astray.
She could not fail now. She had to be equal to the situation. This murderer was frightened, almost certainly mad, but not truly evil. She felt Bran’s nose against her hand and somehow confidence began to come back. When the moment came, she would find the right thing to say. The dog was her only hope if all else failed, but Mara had been trained from a very early age to rely on words, and words would be her first weapon.
She dare not allow herself to think that there might be two dead bodies at the end of her quest, but that thought kept rising up from the back of her mind.
Now they had left the High Burren and were going down the steep hill. Luckily, there was a well-trodden path here and she knew that it would lead to where she wanted to go. Malachy’s woodland reared up high to the left of her and to the right was the old iron gate leading into the churchyard. It stood open and she slipped through it, the silent dog at her heels.
Just by the gate was a large yew tree, studded with the poisonous tiny red fruits. Mara stopped beneath its branches.
Waiting, watching, wondering.
On the other side of the graveyard appeared a man. He also was almost concealed under a yew, the twin to the one where she stood. A handsome, florid man, a dark man, dark hair, dark eyes, brown skin – from the race of Dubh Daibhrean. It was Oisín and, though he made no move, she knew that he had seen Eileen arrive and had followed her. Of course, he would have seen her from the oak woodland; she would have been conspicuous as she crossed the stony ground of the High Burren.
The graves were mainly on the south side of the small ancient church, small grassy mounds, sometimes with a block of limestone to mark where the head lay and sometimes a small wooden cross. At the far side there was a small mound – a very little mound; it had not subsided; the soil still had the look of being freshly dug, but the small body beneath hardly raised it.
Kneeling beside the mound was a woman. And the mid-morning sun struck a ray of light from the knife in her hand.
And lying on the grass beside her was little Cormac – not crying, not moving, as still as if he were dead.
Mara went forward and knew that this time, of all times in her life, her tongue could be her saviour. She sat down on the grass beside her tiny son and fixed her eyes on Eileen. Bran lay down beside her, his nose touching the little body. There was no sound of distress from the dog and she knew that her son was safe. She had known it already. Something within her had sensed that the connection between them, as strong as the umbilical cord, was still unbroken. Still, she had to check, so she reached out and placed a hand on him. He lay immobile, too immobile, but his soft, round face was warm. She could hope. She could afford pity.
‘You have suffered greatly,’ she said compassionately to Eileen. It took every inch of self-control that she possessed not to scream at the woman, not to snatch up her son and hold him to her breast. She breathed deeply, willing her face not to show emotion, and fixed her eyes on the woman who had stolen her son. Yes, the eyes were certainly insane.
‘My baby was murdered by that man Malachy, the physician.’ Eileen’s pupils were huge and dark and her voice was sleepy.
‘So you killed Malachy,’ said Mara gently.
Eileen nodded. ‘I killed him,’ she agreed. ‘He had to suffer! He died like a dog and he deserved it.’
‘What happened?’ asked Mara.
‘You’ve guessed it already, I’d say.’ Eileen’s voice was dreamy and indifferent. ‘My husband came back from the hills and when he saw the salve that I was using he shouted at me. He told me that you should never put comfrey on a wound that has gone bad. He knows about these things, but I didn’t. And I had put pot after pot of that stuff on the baby’s arm! It was such a tiny thing in the beginning, just a bite from a cat. And every time I put the salve on I was making it worse.’
‘Was your husband angry with Malachy?’ Mara kept her voice low and gentle. Keep Eileen talking at all costs. The knife was still in her hand, but surely Mara’s own strength and the dog’s strength balanced that deadly weapon.
But why did little Cormac sleep as though it was his final sleep? Why had the voices not woken him?
‘No, he was just angry with me.’ Eileen’s voice was dull and sluggish now. ‘He didn’t go near Malachy. He didn’t dare in case he offended someone – that’s the type that he is. I was the one that he blamed. He told me that I was stupid to go on using the salve when I could see that it was doing no good. He showed me the red streaks on the baby’s arm. And then he went back up to the mountain – he had just come down for some more wolfsbane to poison the wolves. The sheep were more to him than his own child! And that night my baby went into a high fever. I could do nothing. I tried everything I knew, but at dawn, my baby died. And he was so beautiful. No boy in the world was ever as beautiful as he.’
Mara felt a sob rising in her throat. She could not speak for a minute, and in that minute Eileen acted. From behind where she was sitting, she took a flask, tilted it to her mouth and then put it down. After a moment, she gasped and then she sat very still. The pupils
in her eyes grew even darker. Sweat oozed from her forehead and her hair was damp. Continually she licked her lips and swallowed noisily.
Suddenly she lunged forward, knife in hand, not towards the baby, but towards Mara herself, aiming straight at the heart. There was a rustle from the yew tree as Oisín started forward, but Bran was quicker. Instantly he seized the woman’s wrist in his strong white teeth, holding her firmly. Her hand trembled uncontrollably and the knife dropped to the ground. Mara took her hand from the baby’s face, picked up the knife and placed it in her pouch. Oisín, she noticed, had drawn back into the shadowy depths of the yew branches. She was grateful for his instinctive understanding of the situation. The essential thing now was to find from Eileen whether a drug had been given to the baby, and if so, what drug.
‘Let go, Bran,’ she said in a low voice.
‘I wanted to kill you; I wanted to keep your baby. If you were dead he would be left with me until he grew up.’ The voice was slurred and the eyes quite insane. ‘It would have been a quick death for you. Malachy had a slow death. I took some of the wolfsbane that my husband had in his store and I brought it to him – he thought I had come to pay him. I gave him the piece of silver, and then when he went to put it in his box I dropped the powder into his glass.’
‘Why did you kill Seán?’ asked Mara gently. Her hand was back on the baby again. Surely there was something wrong with him. She felt his neck. To her alarm she realized that her fingers were wet with the hot stickiness of sweat. She lifted him up into her arms. His little body felt limp.
‘What have you given to my baby?’ she asked urgently, her earlier question put aside, unimportant, now. ‘Why have you done this?’
‘Because you have everything and I have nothing,’ said Eileen.
Once again, she put the flask to her lips, turning it upside down against her mouth so as to drain the last drop. Then she took it away and flung it wildly, aiming high so that it soared through the trees that surrounded the little graveyard.
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