Scales of Retribution (3 page)

She closed her eyes and then opened them. There were footsteps on the stairs, someone running up – not Malachy – he would have sounded much heavier, not her husband, Turlough – he, too, was a heavy man, and in any case was busy with his war – and then the door swung open with a rush and Malachy’s fourteen-year-old daughter and apprentice came in.

Mara watched her sleepily. ‘Poor Nuala, she looks very white,’ she said, or thought, blinking the tears from her eyes.

Faintly, and from a great distance, she heard Brigid. No words could be distinguished. Nuala had turned her back. Mara could see her delving into the medical bag – Nuala was proud of her medical bag which had belonged to her grandfather.

Mara closed her eyes again. Dying was easy, she thought. There was just a gentle, floating sensation. She wanted to be left alone, was barely conscious of Nuala examining her, but then someone was shaking her arm, shouting in her ear. She opened her eyes, ‘My baby,’ she tried to say.

Nuala was speaking now, slowly and distinctly in her ear. ‘Mara, listen to me, listen, you’re not going to die. The baby is lying the wrong way, but he’s small. I’m going to draw him out with grandfather’s birthing tongs. It will hurt, but I’ll save the baby. I promise you, Mara. I will save your baby.’

Three

The fine for a secret and unlawful killing is three-fold. First there is the
eric,
or the body fine, then there is the
lóg n-enech ‘
the price of his face’, the honour price of the victim.

‘
D
ead! Malachy! He can’t be. I saw him yesterday. I saw him pass the law school. What happened?’ Mara’s body ached from the long hours of childbirth, but her mind was as alert as ever. She stared at Fachtnan, the eldest scholar in her law school.

‘Brigid told me not to tell you,’ he said. As usual, when agitated, he ran his right hand repeatedly through his thatch of rough, curly hair.

‘What nonsense. Tell me everything straightaway,’ she said firmly.

He looked at her and hesitated, but he had been a scholar at the Cahermacnaghten Law School for over ten years and the habit of obedience to his
ollamh
(professor) was deeply ingrained.

‘He was poisoned.’ Fachtnan spoke in a whisper, almost as though he feared to disturb the sleeping child in the basket beside the bed.

‘Poisoned!’ Mara lay back on the pillow and took a deep breath. ‘Could it have been an accident?’

‘Nuala thinks not.’

‘Poor Nuala.’ Mara now realized that even through the mists of her own terrible agony, she had noticed Nuala’s very white face. Then her mind went back to the suspicious death. As Brehon of the Burren, it was her responsibility to find the truth and bring the culprit to justice.

‘Where is Nuala?’ she asked urgently.

‘She’s with Brigid and your daughter. She thought I should tell you. Do you want to see her?’

‘No, you tell me. I won’t distress her just now.’ Nuala adored Fachtnan. Mara hoped that he would have been able to help to comfort her; he would undoubtedly have heard the details. Her mind went back to the moment when Nuala had come into the bedroom and had, with huge courage and huge skill, managed to drag the baby from her womb. Without Nuala, both she and the baby sleeping beside her would be dead. ‘Poor child,’ she said aloud.

‘Apparently, it was Caireen who found him. He was in agony. Nuala was working at the far end of the herb garden. Caireen came out and shouted for her. He was quite dead by the time Nuala came in.’

‘What happened?’

Nuala would have told Fachtnan everything; she would have turned immediately to the kind young scholar – from the time that she had been a small child, Nuala had trotted after Fachtnan and he had never repulsed her. Since Malachy’s second marriage to Caireen, Nuala had been at odds with her father and had turned even more towards Fachtnan. It was good that he had been there – she was sure he had been able to comfort the girl at this terrible moment in her life.

‘Well, apparently, Caireen persuaded Malachy that he should drink some French brandy every morning before he mixed his medicines. She always filled his cup and left it for him on the table in his study.’

‘And something was put into the brandy?’ Mara knew that table, set just under the window. On a hot day such as this, the window might have been open. Someone could have passed by and seen an opportunity. But who would want to kill him? Malachy was not liked on the Burren and was considered to be a poor physician. The story she had heard yesterday had confirmed that he was corrupt and willing to sell his knowledge to help young Ryan O’Connor to abort his own child.

But did he have any enemies who hated him enough to kill him? Except his own daughter, perhaps, thought Mara involuntarily, and then shied away from the terrible idea. There would have been others, she told herself and her mind went again to the story that she had heard at judgement day in Poulnabrone. Were there other cases of Malachy playing God and administering death instead of healing?

‘And that’s not all.’ Fachtnan spoke hesitantly. ‘Apparently, Caireen screamed at Nuala and accused her of murdering her own father.’

The baby woke and cried, and Mara turned to it immediately. She hadn’t enough strength to lift him; even leaning over to the side of the bed made her head dizzy.

‘Lift him up, Fachtnan, give him to me.’

‘What are you going to call him?’ Fachtnan was surprisingly competent at lifting the baby from the basket and placing the swaddled bundle in her arms.

‘I’ve thought of Cormac – for the last five hundred years, everyone in O’Brien royal family is either Turlough, Conor, Donal, Teige or Murrough. Cormac will be a change,’ said Mara. She spoke automatically, though. Her mind was on the murder. What a terrible thing, especially for Nuala. How had she reacted to that accusation flung at her by Caireen?

Everything had been arranged for this birth. The law scholars would have finished the Trinity Term and gone to their homes. If war had not occurred, King Turlough Donn, her husband, would have been back from his yearly tour of the southern part of his domain, around the city of Limerick. It had been decided that Mara would go to the Thomond for the birth in order to be under the care of Turlough’s own physician, Donncadh O’Hickey; and Fergus MacClancy, Brehon of the neighbouring kingdom of Corcomroe, would look after the legal affairs of Burren for a couple of months while Mara cared for her baby.

Everything had been arranged, but everything had been arranged for July. This baby boy had come early and had disrupted all plans. Now, above all, she needed to deal with this murder and to find the truth about Malachy’s murder, and, if possible, to protect Nuala who had always been dear to her and now was even more dear.

And then the baby was in her arms, nuzzling at her. Mara patted his little back and felt weak with love for him. He needed her now. She could not deal with him and deal with this murder. Someone else would have to take over and do the investigating.

‘Fachtnan,’ she said. ‘Ride over to Corcomroe. Tell Brehon MacClancy what has happened and about the baby. Ask him if he will take over this case. Send Brigid in to me, will you.’ Fergus would have to cope, she thought.

And then when Fachtnan had gone out she settled herself to feed the hungry baby.

But little Cormac did not seem to want to feed. After a minute he turned his head away and cried, first a whimper and then a fully voiced cry. Again and again Mara tried the baby at her breast, but each time he rejected it.

‘I have no milk,’ said Mara starkly when Brigid came flying in, her ginger hair looking as untidy as Fachtnan’s. Too much was happening, she thought, feeling tears flow down her cheeks.

‘Is it any wonder,’ scolded Brigid, taking the baby from her arms and rocking him gently. ‘That stupid boy; I told him to say nothing. I felt like boxing his ears when I heard that he had told you. Murder, indeed! And you just awake! And the time that you had! Give it a day or so and just relax, and don’t ask for any news from outside. Just eat and drink and sleep and rest. God knows that you need it – the way you work.’

Mara smiled. Brigid’s vigour was doing her good. She dried her face with a corner of the sheet and endeavoured to think. She had to do the best for everyone now. Hopefully, Fergus would take charge of that murder investigation, but there was no denying that the Brehon from Corcomroe was not of the brightest and quickest wits. He would be continually consulting her, continually asking for advice.

And then there was her baby. Mara looked at the tiny infant with concern. Could a baby as small as this survive?

‘Unwrap him, Brigid,’ she said.

‘Now, stop worrying. You don’t want him to catch cold.’

‘The sun is pouring in through the window,’ said Mara. ‘Go on, unwrap him, Brigid. I want to see him properly.’

The baby was tiny; tiny and very fragile. Thin little arms, stick-like legs – like those of a little frog, eyelashes not yet grown. This baby has come before his time, thought Mara, looking at him in a worried way. He needed feeding. Perhaps Brigid was right; perhaps she was too tense. It had been a shock to hear of Malachy’s murder. After all, the man was a relative of her own. But of course it had been even more of a shock to hear of the accusation that his wife had flung at his daughter.

‘Send Sorcha in for a few minutes and the children – they can see their new little cousin,’ she said to Brigid, doing her best to keep her tone of voice light and relaxed. Although Sorcha was her daughter, she was probably much more knowledgeable about babies, having had three children in the last few years. I was only fifteen when she was born, thought Mara. How full of confidence I was then! I don’t remember worrying about her at all.

Sorcha’s wide blue eyes were shocked and her face pale when she came in. Obviously she had heard the news. Of course Malachy was not only a distant cousin on Mara’s side, but was also very nearly related to her husband, Oisín.

‘Has Oisín heard the news?’ Mara thought that she had not heard his deep, melodious voice for a few hours.

Sorcha shook her head. ‘He went off for a long walk this morning,’ she said. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

‘I see.’ Mara rocked her crying baby. Her son-in-law would want to be off soon, she thought. Already he was quite bored by life in the country and missing the hustle and bustle of the city of Galway.

‘He’s very small.’ Five-year-old Domhnall bent over the baby with an appraising look.

‘You were as small as that when you were born, Manus, weren’t you?’ said Aislinn, reaching up to pat the little boy in her mother’s arms. She knelt adoringly in front of the cradle and tried to interest her younger brother in his tiny cousin.

‘Manus wasn’t as small as Cormac when he was born,’ contradicted Domhnall.

‘Yes, he was,’ said Sorcha hurriedly. ‘You’ve just forgotten.’

‘No, I haven’t.
Mamó
’s baby is much smaller.’

Mara winced. Her grandson had a calm, logical mind and once he had decided on a matter no one could argue him out of a statement. He was right, of course. Even on the day he was born, Manus had been a fine bouncy baby with the dark hair and brown eyes of his father. She gazed at little Cormac; he looked as fragile as a windflower, she thought.

‘He’s hungry,’ said Sorcha. She popped Manus down on the floor and took her newborn brother from her mother’s arms. He nuzzled into her, crying fretfully.

Mara saw Brigid frown thoughtfully and a quick glance passed between her daughter and her housekeeper.

‘Come on, you two,’ said Brigid to the two older children. ‘Let’s see if the brown hen has hatched out her chickens yet.’

‘
Mamó
has hatched out her chicken, hasn’t she, Aislinn? That’s supposed to be a joke,’ added Domhnall in exasperated tones when his sister stared at him in a puzzled way.

‘He does look a little like a newly hatched chicken,’ said Mara trying to sound amused, but despite her best efforts tears leaked out from her eyes and began to run down her face. She dashed them away impatiently. New born chicks often died; she knew that.

‘I have no milk,’ she said once more when the children had gone out.

‘Let me feed him,’ said Sorcha in her practical way. ‘I have plenty of milk for two. I’ll feed Manus at the same time and then he won’t get jealous.’

No, but I am, thought Mara, though she knew that she was being stupid and childish. She shut her eyes. She would have to find a wet nurse, she thought, unless this was just temporary due to her long and difficult labour.

‘Try to rest now. Close your eyes. Don’t worry about the milk. It was the shock of hearing of Malachy’s death; you should never have been told,’ said Sorcha, sounding motherly and concerned.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mara. She shut her eyes obediently, but her mind went on working.

Was she shocked by Malachy’s death? She thought not, in a way. He wasn’t a popular man, not esteemed in the kingdom. Not very much liked, either. Although he was Mara’s cousin, she wasn’t sure that even she had liked Malachy for some time. He had not been behaving in a very likeable manner. His lack of care for his patients, his obsession with obtaining silver for his service, his behaviour to his own daughter, his effort to seize her property some months ago and his ridiculous preference for his new stepsons – all these had exasperated her.

Mara’s eyes snapped open.

‘I must talk to Nuala,’ she said urgently. ‘Don’t try to argue me out of it, Sorcha, you’re as bad as Brigid. I promised Malachy over a year ago that if anything ever happened to him then I would look after Nuala. I must see her.’