Scales of Retribution (29 page)

‘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 skin, 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.

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

I
t 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.