‘I thought it was Nuala you were interested in last night,’ said Mara. She spoke more sadly than she intended. Nuala was a great favourite of hers. Mór, Nuala’s mother, had been a great friend of hers and the poor girl had died when her daughter was only nine years old. Mara had promised to watch over the child. She had seen her grow tall in body and strong in mind. Straight as an arrow, through and through, thought Mara. A girl of huge intelligence, great determination, hard-working, sincere and compassionate – but alone in the world, with few to care for her. This young poet, Seamus MacCraith, was talented, highly educated and would have been a good husband for her, but it looked as though his interest was focussed on Fiona. Mara glanced back at Ulick, half wishing that he would praise Nuala, would admire her new-found poise and the improvement in her looks, but he only said lightly, ‘It’s just a matter of business, my dear Brehon, a matter of business – the older I get, the more I realize that everything comes down to business. One girl is prettier than the other, but that can’t blind me to the fact that the other girl is possessed of a good fortune.’
‘Ulick,’ said Mara throwing caution to the winds in a fit of exasperation. ‘You have three living wives, two dead wives, two mistresses to my certain knowledge. Just leave Nuala alone and allow her to choose a young man of her age and whom she loves.’
‘She seems to be taking her time over it,’ sighed Ulick. ‘Let’s hope that the bloom doesn’t disappear while she is choosing. Still, she’s dark-skinned and dark-haired like you, and look how you have kept your looks, Brehon, so let’s hope that the same good fortune attends little Nuala.’
‘I think we can all take our seats now,’ said Mara. ‘You sit here, Ulick. Seamus, I’ll put you here – and Nuala between you both. Fiona, bring down my Lord of Arra and we will entertain him between us.’
Adroitly she went around the table seating friends together, keeping enemies apart. Ciara O’Brien, Teige’s friendly and talkative wife, would keep Turlough in good humour. The silent Ragnelt, well away from her surly husband, Donán, but placed beside the bishop who would make conversation enough for two. The Limerick O’Briens well separated from the O’Briens of Clondelaw.
The soup was taken in comparative peace with neighbours murmuring to each other, but then someone brought up a battle of a hundred years ago and immediately hackles began to rise. Mara decided to intervene swiftly. Let the last meal end in peace.
‘My lord,’ she said in the clear, carrying voice which she used at public meetings. ‘I wonder whether our guests have heard the full story of the unfortunate death of the young lawyer, Eamon, who dined with you all at this very table two nights ago.’
‘So sad, such a handsome young man,’ said Ciara in a comfortable tone of voice. She had obviously heard the news from Teige.
‘Where did it happen?’ The O’Brien of Clonderaw addressed his question to Donán and Mara waited while her husband’s son-in-law took a long draught of wine.
‘On the mountain.’ It wasn’t a very full answer, but that was Donán, who appeared to bear a permanent grudge and who offered words with the hesitancy of one who was giving away pieces of silver.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Mara, ‘on the Aillwee Mountain, the very place where you all hunted on Saturday morning.’
‘Ulick got us all out of bed early,’ chuckled Teige O’Brien, cousin and foster-brother to the king, and then looked serious when his wife gave him a reproachful look. ‘Terrible, terrible thing to happen, a young man like that,’ he muttered.
‘I wondered whether anyone might have seen something. Might have noticed him fall . . .’ I’ll leave it at that, she thought. The word ‘murder’ might make everyone clam up.
As it was, the questions came quickly. Everyone was intrigued.
‘Where was he coming from?’ Mara fielded that neatly, referring to Brian Ruadh to corroborate the hour when Eamon had left. There were a few surprised remarks about the route that the young man took, but people were busy asking each other whether they remembered seeing someone on the mountain pass.
‘What was he wearing, Brehon?’ asked Teige.
‘He was wrapped in an undyed brat,’ said Mara with a sigh. If only Eamon had worn his blue cloak there might have been some chance of him being seen, but the other, with its untreated rough, cream-coloured wool, had probably been warmer for the midnight ride.
‘And he was riding a white Connemara pony,’ she added.
‘Difficult to see against the limestone,’ said Ulick. ‘In fact, I avoided looking at the stone with the sun glittering on it. I must get you to look into my eyes, my dear young physician,’ he said to Nuala. ‘I fear that I have injured them. Light always hurts them.’
Mara gave him an exasperated glance, but decided that Nuala could easily handle Ulick.
‘What could you see from the side of Aillwee?’ She threw the question out, looking around the table. ‘This would have been an hour or so before I met you. I think that you had already killed the first two wolves and the third had been scented by the dogs. You all came towards the flax garden.’
And then she sat back and allowed the broken sentences, the contradictions, the assertions to flow into her brain. Fiona, she was pleased to note, had stopped looking across the table at Seamus MacCraith, the poet, and had an eager face turned towards the other guests and seemed to be thinking hard about their recollections of the wolf hunt.
‘What do you think of your little godson?’ asked Mara. After the meal had finished, she, Nuala and Fiona walked down the stairs to the babies’ nursery on the floor beneath the great hall. Nuala had asked to see Cormac, to have a proper look at him and Fiona had joined in. Mara was glad of both of their company.
The room was a lovely one. When she and Turlough had planned the new extension to the ancient tower house of Ballinalacken, she had envisaged the possibility of bearing a king’s son. Designed by Mara down to the last detail, this was a room that should be every child’s dream. It was a large room, full of small alcoves, little nooks and secret corners, a place full of light and playthings, a place for a very special child to grow to maturity. A large window, barred for safety, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, with a view on to the Aran Islands, had a low, cosily cushioned wide window seat in front of it, providing a place for her child to sit and dream or read some of the books that Mara had carefully preserved from her own childhood; a wooden horse that rocked when a child sat on it was in one corner and in the other a splendid model of a miniature tower house peopled with tiny warriors.
‘Doing well.’ Nuala picked up Cormac and weighed him in her arms and then put him down on the floor, watching him crawl rapidly across and grab triumphantly at the cloth that lay on top of the table. In a moment he had pulled it down and Cliona laughed. ‘You little villain,’ she crooned, picking up Cormac and nuzzling into him, causing him to dissolve in a fit of giggles and then replacing him on the floor. She had no sooner put back the tablecloth when her son, little Art, pulled on the cloth. At the top of his voice, Cormac shouted, ‘No!’ Cliona laughed, beaming on them proudly.
‘The son of a king,’ said Nuala with an ironic smile. ‘All must obey him. They’re both lovely, Cliona. You must take such care of them.’
‘I wish Cormac was a little fatter – but he gets all that he can take.’ Cliona shot a quick glance at Mara and then back at Nuala.
‘He’s a different build to Art,’ said Nuala knowledgeably. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of training with children in Thomond and it’s surprising how they differ. They all have their own ways of progressing. Cormac looks very healthy to me.’
‘That’s good,’ said Cliona. ‘I’ll take Art away now and let you have time on your own with Cormac.’
‘No, leave him,’ said Mara. ‘You go. We’ll look after both. You deserve a little rest and the two amuse each other.’ As soon as the door closed behind Cliona, she turned away from the little boys and asked the two girls, ‘What did you make of all the recollections of Saturday morning’s hunt
ing that we’ve just heard?’
‘That story of the row going on in the flax garden. That was interesting,’ said Nuala.
‘I didn’t hear that.’ Mara was annoyed with herself. She frowned and then smiled when she saw Cormac look at her alertly. Clever little fellow, he can already read expressions, she thought proudly.
‘You were probably listening to Conor, who was speaking at the same time,’ said Fiona. ‘I found what he said to be the most interesting. Do you think that he really saw someone on the mountain pass with a white pony?’
‘It was probably Eamon leading the pony,’ said Nuala.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Fiona was so quick to contradict that Mara wondered whether there was a slight rivalry between the two girls. ‘Eamon was wearing a white cloak – and the bánín was just the same colour as the pony’s coat. He wouldn’t have stood out against the pony in the same way as someone wearing a coloured cloak, or even a leather jacket.’
‘That makes sense,’ admitted Nuala.
‘The trouble is that Conor then said that he couldn’t remember what colour the cloak was, and by the end of it all, it was hard to know whether he had seen anything at all. He doesn’t seem like a king’s son, does he?’
Mara nodded. She had felt sorry for Turlough. His eldest son, and tánaiste – heir – did not look like kingship material. The clan were not happy with him. He had grown out of his earlier delicacy and now looked much stronger, but he was still a shy and diffident young man. She decided to turn the conversation back to the scene on the mountain.
‘Who was talking about a row in the flax gardens?’ asked Mara. She was still annoyed with herself that she had not heard that story. She had been too lost in her concerns about Conor.
‘Just Ulick.’ Nuala’s tone was dismissive.
‘Oh, Ulick!’ Mara was disappointed. Ulick might or might not have heard something going on, but the chances were strong that he had only said that to make mischief.
‘Just Cathal shouting at his son and calling him stupid; that seemed to be about all there was to it. I’ll make a note of everything when I go back to my bedroom,’ said Fiona in a businesslike way. ‘Did you hear anything else, Nuala?’ she asked sweetly.
Nuala shrugged her shoulders. She took down from a high shelf a soft ball made from segments of cloth and stuffed with sheep’s wool and rolled it along the floor. The two babies scrambled after it. Art reached it first, but Cormac took it from him. Art made no protest, but seized the ball between his white new teeth, tugged it out of Cormac’s hand, and set off crawling rapidly with the ball dangling from his mouth. Cormac followed him with a cry of rage.
‘I thought that Donán said something about a tall man coming to the edge of the flax garden and looking up? Did either of you notice that?’ asked Mara.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Nuala turning back from her game with the children. ‘I remember thinking that he probably meant Owney. That’s Cathal’s son,’ she explained to Fiona.
‘Do you know him then, Nuala?’ asked Mara and Nuala smiled broadly.
‘I don’t think there was a Saturday or Sunday for the whole of my childhood when he didn’t turn up at my father’s place wanting doctoring. He was either bleeding, or stunned or with a broken finger or something like that.’
‘My lads admire him immensely. He is supposed to be the best hurler that the Burren has ever fielded,’ said Mara. Nuala’s words had made her think of something.
‘Did your father ever give him any advice about avoiding injury?’ she asked.
‘He kept telling him to stop or he would kill himself,’ said Nuala wryly. ‘I remember telling Owney that I would make something out of leather to protect his head if he would wear it, but he said that he couldn’t because it would slip and get in his way. He begged me not to do it. Didn’t trust my sewing, I suppose.’
‘So you told him that he could be killed by a blow to the head,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘How old were you then, Nuala?’
‘I suppose that it was about four or five years ago,’ said Nuala, thinking back. ‘It was just about the time that the housekeeper kept trying to make me stitch a sampler. I wasn’t very successful at that so I don’t suppose I would have been too good at making a protection for Owney’s head. I must have been about eleven.’
‘I remember you then,’ said Mara with a smile. ‘You told everyone in great detail about what you were studying. I bet that Owney got a lecture on the dangerous places to be hit on the head or even the body.’
‘I suppose so – all long words, too – the longer the better I used to think in those days.’ Nuala stopped, her smile vanished and she didn’t look surprised when Fiona said, ‘If that’s true, then I suppose Owney would know all about the windows to the soul and where was the place to hit if you wanted to kill a man.’
‘He might have remembered.’ Nuala spoke guardedly, her dark eyes wary.
‘Do you remember mentioning things like temporal fossa and occipital fossa and thyroid cartilage to him?’ asked Fiona sharply.
Nuala shrugged. ‘I may have done,’ she said in a casual tone. ‘Mara, now that the king is going to Aran, do you know whether I am going back to Thomond tomorrow? I just came for the christening. I want to get on with my studies.’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll talk to him tonight about you.’
‘It’s just that Seamus MacCraith said that he was riding back tomorrow.’ Nuala shot a quick, questioning and slightly triumphant glance at Fiona as the door opened and Cliona came in.
‘It’s time for them to be fed now or we’ll be having tears soon,’ she said, sitting down on a low chair and allowing the babies to scramble up on to her lap.
‘We’ll go then and leave you in peace,’ said Mara rising to her feet. ‘Nuala, I’ll find out if there is a suitable escort to take you back to Thomond tomorrow. If there isn’t, then it would be lovely to keep you for a week until the king and his entourage get back from Aran.’
What about poor Fachtnan, she thought, as she followed the two girls upstairs. Is either of them wondering where he is and what he is thinking at this moment?
Ten
Bretha Nemed Toísech
(The Laws for Professional People)
There are two kinds of poets, the fili and – inferior in status and accomplishment – the bard. A bard receives only half the honour price of a fili of the same rank.
The poet is a lay professional who has full nemed status. His honour price is ten séts, five ounces of silver or five milch cows. A woman poet is known as banfili and her honour price is the same as that of a man poet. The poet’s main function is to praise or to satirize. A poet derives his status from three skills:
imbas forosna: encompassing knowledge which illuminates
teinm laeda: breaking of marrow – going to the heart of the matter
dichetal di chennaub: coming from the head – he is able to extemporize on any occasion.
For every poem commissioned by a patron the poet should receive a duas (fee) depending on his rank and the nature of the composition. He must produce quality; if he doesn’t, he loses his nemed status. If the poet is not paid he has the right to satirize his patron.
‘Ulick has it all planned out. We’re going to go in two pucáns. We’ll put most of the men – all of them except the two bodyguards – into one pucán and then Ulick, myself, Conor, the O’Brien of Arra, Donán, and Fergal and Conall, of course, into the other one. We’ll have great craic altogether.’ Turlough was like a schoolboy planning his boat trip, thought Mara indulgently. He was such a sweet-natured man. He was not fond of either O’Brien or of Donán but he was set to enjoy his holiday and, good-humouredly, would make the time to be a pleasure for all around him.
‘Isn’t a pucán a bit small,’ observed Mara idly, her mind on the affair of Eamon. ‘I’d have thought that you would go in a cog or carrack or a hooker. Wouldn’t that be more suitable for a king?’
Turlough’s only answer to that was a hearty lau
gh so she decided to leave his affairs to him and to go back to her own.
‘Nuala is anxious to go back to Thomond. Is it all young men riding back there tomorrow, or is there anyone suitable to put in charge of her?’ she asked. I sound like an old hen with one chick, she thought wryly, but after Fiona’s escapade she would prefer to be careful. Nuala was very dear to her and, despite her formidable intellect, was, in some ways, just a child.
‘Keep her until next Saturday,’ advised Turlough. ‘Tell her that I will enjoy her company on the ride. Seamus MacCraith is a talented young fellow, but he has a bit of a reputation. The women and most of the others are only going as far as Inchiquin – they’ll spend a few days there and join us on the way back.’
‘I think that Seamus MacCraith is more interested in Fiona than in Nuala,’ said Mara, ‘but you’re right. I’ll be firm with her. Tell her I need her help with my investigation. Turlough, what am I going to do about our little Cormac?’
‘Cormac? You’re not worrying about him, are you? He’s looking great. He grows every time I look at him. Bright little fellow with a will of his own! Loved coming up on my horse, didn’t he?’
‘And threw a tantrum when you took him down!’
Turlough laughed with pleasure. ‘That’s what I mean. Got a great will of his own. You compare him to that pasty-faced son of mine Conor! Our little Cormac is the image of the great Brian Boru himself.’
‘Or Teige the Bone-Splitter,’ said Mara wryly. ‘He’s not going to become a warrior; I plan for him to become a Brehon,’ she said firmly, ‘but he is not a year old and now we have to think what happens next. Cliona wants to go back to her own farm and that is understandable, but now I have to face the decision whether to wean Cormac, find a nursemaid for him. Brigid has too much to do to care for him and . . .’
‘Would Cliona foster him? Take him with her? That would be the best thing for him,’ interrupted Turlough eagerly. ‘He’s getting on so well with her. We could always look for another fosterage when he is a little older, if you think that is not grand enough for him.’
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