My Lady Judge

by Cora Harrison

  ‘That’s three “stupids”,’ said Mara briskly. ‘If you are going to be a good physician, Nuala, you must learn to judge people less harshly. Everyone has their own way of conducting their lives.’

  ‘Oh, do you really think I might be able to be a physician?’ Now Nuala glowed with excitement, ignoring the reproof. ‘Oh, please do tell father that he must allow me.’

  ‘I think you could be a good one,’ admitted Mara cautiously, ‘you certainly cleaned that nasty cut on Fachtnan’s arm very well. It was beginning to go bad, Brigid said, when you put a green paste on it and then it healed up very well. Now, bring me in to your father, like a good girl. I have a few things to talk over with him before the judgements at Poulnabrone this afternoon.’

  Nuala led the way indoors. ‘It was a paste of goosegrass that I used on Fachtnan’s arm,’ she said seriously, ‘I think that works very well. I read about it in one of father’s old scrolls. I’ve read every one of them about six times now. Father is in here in his still room. I’ll go in with you. I want to get some twine to tie up the woodbine.’ She added in a whisper, ‘You won’t forget to talk to him about me, will you?’

  ‘Take some of my tape,’ said Mara, producing from her pouch a strip of pink linen tape that she used to bind her documents. It would be easier to tackle Malachy on her own.

  Nuala slipped away with a quick smile, while Mara took a deep breath, prepared for battle, and opened the door of the still room. Malachy was a very tall, dark-haired man of almost forty, a strong-looking, handsome man, thought Mara, wondering whether he planned to remarry and have a son to carry on the long line of physicians at Caherconnell. Perhaps that was why he wanted Nuala off his hands. She felt irritated at the thought. He owes Nuala his full attention and affection now, and there is no reason why there should not be a female physician at Caherconnell, just as there is a female Brehon at Cahermacnaghten. She looked at him sternly. He smiled a welcome and then held up his hands in mock surrender.

  ‘I know, don’t tell me,’ he said in his pleasant, deep voice. ‘You’ve come to persuade me to allow Nuala to become a physician and to postpone her marriage to Naoise.’

  ‘Actually, I came to talk about Feirdin MacNamara,’ said Mara, sinking down on a stool and looking around her with interest. She had not been in this room for over a year. It was hung with fragrant drying herbs and the shelves that lined the walls were filled with flasks and jars, all labelled in Malachy’s untidy scrawl. Tiny black seeds were drying in one shallow dish and fat white ones in another. An iron brazier, burning lumps of charcoal, stood in the middle of the floor and a pot bubbled with something that smelled sweet and pungent.

  ‘Seaweed, honey and a few berries of juniper,’ said Malachy, following her glance. ‘Just a cough syrup for summer colds.’

  Mara nodded. ‘I’m worried about this boy, Feirdin,’ she said, coming quickly to the point. ‘Garrett MacNamara thinks that he might be dangerous. I can’t find any evidence that he is, but he has frightened a few people. He seems prone to great fits of anger. Garrett, of course, is in the right. He is taoiseach, so he is responsible for the behaviour of his clan and if the boy is insane he has a perfect right to place him under the care of a cousin, Eoin MacNamara. The boy’s mother would not be strong enough to restrain him. What do you think?’

  Malachy hesitated, stirring his brown mixture around and around with a wooden spoon. Mara tried to control her impatience. She herself was quick at everything, could usually conduct a conversation and at the same time do some gardening or cooking, or keep an eye upon her scholars. Malachy, however, waited until his mixture boiled and thickened and then he moved the iron pot to the stone beside the heat before speaking. He put down the spoon carefully and turned to face her.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘You can tell me,’ said Mara encouragingly. ‘You know I will speak of it to no one else.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said quickly, ‘it’s not that. I know that I can always trust you. It’s just that I don’t know what to say. He’s a strange boy, quite shy, and perhaps he is just a bit melancholic. I went to see him at Garrett’s request. He never looked at me once while I was talking to him. I stayed quite a long time, chatting to his mother just to try to put him at ease, but he wouldn’t speak to me at all.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘Mind you, a lot of boys are shy and tongue-tied at that age – what is he? Nineteen?’

  ‘He did say something before I left,’ said Malachy, knitting his black eyebrows in a puzzled frown and not answering her question. ‘I was just going out the door when he said, quite suddenly: “You know what’s wrong with me? I’ve got a little man in my head and he keeps spending all of my silver.”’

  Mara looked at him with startled attention and Malachy nodded.

  ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘Gráinne and I had been discussing the silversmith, Cian – you know Cian, the father of young Hugh at your school – and it may be that the lad tried to make a joke.’

  ‘Sounds strange to me,’ said Mara, brooding over all of the young boys that she had known. ‘It sounds like a joke, but it sounds like a joke that a seven-year-old might make, not a nineteen-year-old. Perhaps the boy is just slow and the frustration of that makes him explode into tempers. What do you think? Should we leave him with his mother for the moment?’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on him if that is what you decide,’ said Malachy.

  He’ll leave the decision to me, though, thought Mara. Well, it has to be my decision, I suppose, although this is more a matter of medicine than of law. She looked at him carefully. He was not looking well. His dark skin was sallow and there were black wells of anxiety or melancholy under his brown eyes. He can be no more than forty, she thought, and yet he is beginning to look like a man nearing sixty. She thought about the third case on her schedule for the day and decided against discussing it. He had enough on his mind and his advice would probably not be too useful, either.

  ‘So,’ she said abruptly, ‘what about Nuala?’

  Malachy grimaced though he tried to force a smile. ‘I knew she would get you on her side,’ he said.

  ‘She’s very young for marriage,’ observed Mara mildly. He must know how often these thirteen- and fourteen-year-old children died of bearing a child too big for their young bones.

  ‘Her mother wanted it, this marriage with Naoise,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘Wanted it, yes,’ said Mara. ‘But would she have forced it?’

  ‘She was married herself at fourteen,’ he replied. ‘And so were you,’ he added.

  ‘So I was. And a mother at fifteen. And divorced at seventeen!’ She smiled to herself, thinking back. ‘I don’t suppose that I was forced into it, though. He was quite a handsome young fellow, Dualta, the handsomest at the law school. I had my eye on him from the time that I was thirteen and I pestered my father to allow me to marry him. He wasn’t too keen. He didn’t care too much for Dualta even though he had been a scholar at Cahermacnaghten law school since he was seven.’

  Malachy laughed but his face was slightly embarrassed. The people of the Burren had long memories and the story of Mara’s divorce would never be forgotten. Divorce was quite common; the law was very clear on this subject, but normally it was just used for cases of adultery or impotence. Her divorce had shocked everyone.

  ‘Well, it all ended well for me,’ she said happily. ‘I had my beautiful baby daughter. I got my divorce and I kept my coibche, bride price, as well,’ she added with immense satisfaction. She returned to the subject. ‘This is a different matter entirely. Nuala does not want this marriage and she dislikes Naoise. She’s not a girl to change her mind easily. You know that.’

  Malachy’s eyes were anxious. ‘The O’Lochlainn is in favour of this marriage,’ he said. ‘He has promised to give Naoise a good farm.’

  Mara nodded. The O‘Lochlainn, Ardal O’Lochlainn, taoiseach of the O’Lochlainn clan, had been Mór’s brother. It was only natural that he
would take an interest in the future of his niece and be happy to see her make a good match with another of the clan. Nevertheless, Mara doubted whether Ardal would spare much thought for Nuala’s happiness.

  ‘Won’t you think about it?’ she asked gently. ‘At least allow her to finish her studies and qualify as a physician so that she has that to fall back on if this marriage does not work out. Naoise will want her to be a farmer’s wife and that may not suit her.’

  He did not reply. His brown eyes were full of pain. He looked at her appealingly. ‘I just want someone to look after her. If anything happens to me she would be alone,’ he said.

  Mara considered this carefully. Perhaps he, also, was ill. Could those growths pass from one person to another? She didn’t know. She prayed inwardly to God to give her the right words, but knew that it was for her own brains to say the right thing. The thought of all that burning intelligence and ambition within Nuala being confined to a mountain farm made her indignant, but she knew she had to handle the matter carefully. After all, Nuala was Malachy’s daughter and he probably was sincere in his wish to do his best for her.

  ‘If anything ever happened to you,’ she said solemnly, laying her hand on his arm, ‘I would look after Nuala. After all, I am a distant cousin of yours. Nuala would be a daughter to me. I swear to that, and I will draw up a legal document if you wish. Let her go on studying, Malachy, and then you can think again when she reaches fifteen or sixteen.’

  His face cleared. ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘Of course I do. Did you ever know me to say something I didn’t mean?’

  ‘I’ll do that, then,’ he said. ‘Do you want to tell her?’

  ‘Tell her yourself,’ she said gently. ‘She’ll prefer to hear it from you. I’ll go now, Malachy. Don’t bother coming with me.’

  That was a waste of time, she thought as she made her way out, with a quick wave to Nuala who was industriously tying up the straggling stems of the woodbine in a shady corner of the garden. I would have been better off to see Feirdin myself and now I don’t have the time. Still, it wasn’t a waste of time to have managed to persuade Malachy not to sacrifice his clever child to a disappointing marriage with that brainless Naoise O’Lochlainn.

  She resolved to make up her mind when she saw Feirdin MacNamara at Poulnabrone that afternoon. Her experience was that boys are funny creatures at that age. They can be up and down. The chances were that Garrett MacNamara was making a fuss about nothing. He was a fussy individual. He reminded Mara of the pot that Brigid kept on the fire, full of wholesome soup for the scholars – perpetually bubbling and from time to time suddenly over – boiling. Feeling more cheerful at this mental picture of the pompous Garrett, she hitched up her calf-length léine, or tunic, and swung her leg over the stone wall that separated the townland of Caherconnell from Kilcorney.

  Once across the wall, Mara stopped for a moment, running her hand over the rough slabs of sun-warmed stone set in a herringbone pattern, each huge slab dependent on its neighbour for stability. A few gentians, like tiny specks of dark blue jewels, were sprinkled on the south side of the wall. She bent down to touch them gently and then drew in a breath of triumph. Yes, there was a purple one among them. These were very rare. Mara looked all around to find some landmarks that would identify this site again to her. She would gather seed when the flower faded and then next year she would have purple pools in the blue river of gentians in her garden. Between the stone circle in the townland of Kilcorney and the thorn tree in the townland of Caherconnell, she thought, making a mental note, and then narrowed her eyes.

  There was a small, thin, frail figure standing motionless inside the stone circle. She knew immediately who it was. It was Father Conglach, the parish priest of Kilcorney, and she knew that he had seen her. Reluctantly she raised her hand in greeting. She watched him with distaste as he came to the edge of the circle and beckoned to her. The sight of him reminded her of the fourth case on the schedule of this afternoon. A child of twelve in the parish of Kilcorney had possibly been raped and had undoubtedly produced a dead infant and Father Conglach had refused burial in the churchyard to the baby. Mara was suddenly filled with hatred for the man. How could he have refused the request of that unfortunate child? How could he have refused to bury her stillborn baby? She herself was not a religious person; her prayers to God were perfunctory and mechanical – she usually worked out a few law problems during the weekly obligatory Mass – but she could never have done what he did. Nevertheless, he was an important part of the community of the small kingdom of Burren and she had decided a long time ago that peace within the community was one of her main aims in life. So, although she was tempted to give him a cheery wave and then ignore his summons, she turned aside from her path and joined him at the stone circle.

  People called this place Athgreany, the Field of the Sun. It was a huge circle about forty yards across, made from thirteen tall stones plugged securely into the grykes, or crevices, of the limestone beneath. On the north side of the stone circle, even taller than the stones, was a cairn, its rounded sides covered with small white pebbles of quartz. In the centre of the circle was a flat slab of gleaming quartz, placed on top of two white limestone boulders, like a vast altar, and Father Conglach had moved across to stand beside this altar when she reached him.

  ‘Look,’ he said commandingly, and she saw what he was pointing at. There were some dark stains on the white stone and a few flies buzzed above them. Mara bent to look, but she knew immediately what it was.

  ‘Blood,’ she said calmly.

  ‘Of course it is blood,’ he said furiously. ‘You know what’s been happening here, don’t you? Devil worship, that’s what’s been happening.’

  More likely some silly youngsters bored and looking for excitement, thought Mara. She would have to defuse his anger or his unfortunate parishioners would be harangued for months to come. She continued to pretend to study the bloodstains and the area around them intently.

  ‘It’s just a fox, Father Conglach,’ she said after a minute. ‘Look,’ she pointed at the ground near to his feet. ‘That’s fox fur.’ She picked up the small piece of golden-brown fur and held it out to him. ‘No human sacrifice,’ she added, smiling.

  He glared at it. ‘The sin is just as great,’ he said stiffly. ‘The Lord God sayeth: “Do not place false gods before me.” Who are these sons and daughters of iniquity who would do such a thing?’

  ‘They probably meant no harm,’ said Mara soothingly. ‘It was probably a fox from a trap. He would have been dead already.’

  ‘That doesn’t concern me,’ he replied loftily. ‘Sin is my concern. Whoever has been here and taken part in these filthy revels has a sin on his soul and that sin must be cleansed through penance and suffering.’

  And what about your soul? thought Mara. Have you no sin on your soul for the anguish that you caused to that poor young girl, Nessa? What does God think of you refusing to bury her dead baby in the churchyard, refusing a blessing, or even a prayer, for the poor little mite?

  ‘I want you to bring this matter up today at Poulnabrone,’ he continued. ‘I want a full investigation and the people concerned brought to justice.’

  ‘I can’t do that, I’m afraid,’ said Mara. ‘My office is to investigate breaches of the law. There is no law regarding the killing of foxes.’

  ‘There would have been dancing and singing and other matters going on,’ he continued, ignoring her. ‘I saw Rory the bard near here late last night. He had a girl with him. I couldn’t see who she was as she had her head turned away – but I have my suspicions. And I distinctly saw Roderic the horn player with the young girl, Emer. What do you think that they were up to?’

  ‘What indeed?’ murmured Mara. She sighed theatrically. ‘Young people!’ She tried not to let a smile creep out. Had he ever been young? she wondered. But no, he would have been swept out from the world and immured in some monastic establishment before he knew what the world was about. He was of the R
oman school of ecclesiastics; the Celtic church was milder and more forgiving, and, until fairly recently, priests had married. One of the Heptads, she remembered, stated that the wife of a priest must keep her head covered in church.

  ‘I require you to investigate this matter, this morning if possible, and bring the culprits to justice,’ he said angrily. ‘There should be a heavy fine for all of them.’

  Mara shook her head firmly and allowed a note of iron to creep into her voice. ‘No, Father, I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘I’ve studied the law since I was four years old and I’ve never come across a law that prevents the young from singing and dancing and enjoying themselves.’

  ‘I’ll report you to the bishop,’ he snapped. ‘Bishop Mauritius of Kilfenora will be most angered to hear about this.’

  Mara shrugged. ‘King Turlough Donn O’Brien will be here himself today at Poulnabrone. You can speak to him if you wish,’ she said coldly. ‘I am his officer and it is for him to tell me what to do. Bishop Mauritius is in the kingdom of Corcomroe. Now, I must say farewell to you and get back to the law school. I have my scholars to care for.’

  ‘I hope none of them were involved in last night’s devilry,’ he said spitefully. ‘There are things going on near your own law school, you know. I’ve heard sounds from that cave. I’ve watched them. You should take better care of your scholars; you should keep them harder at work, Brehon. The devil finds mischief for idle hands to do …’ And then, when she said nothing, he called after her, ‘I am going up Mullaghmore Mountain myself tonight. The bishop requires a report from me. He is thinking of banning these pagan festivals like Bealtaine and substituting a Christian service in the church in honour of Our Lady.’

  Mara had turned away but now she faced him. ‘I’m going up myself, also,’ she said, making an immediate and swift decision. ‘King Turlough will come too.’ The king would probably not be too happy, she thought with an inward chuckle, but he would enjoy his dinner all the better after the exercise and it would do him good. After all, he was not yet fifty – not too old. No need to go right to the top and no need to stay until the bonfire at midnight. They could just climb the first few terraces, and then come back. The important thing was to be seen to do it. Even the bishop would be wary of interfering with a custom sanctioned by the king himself.