Scales of Retribution Read online

  ‘On the morrow, the Great Earl mustered his army, placing the English and Irish of Munster in the van, and the English of Meath and Dublin in the rear.

  ‘And,’ finished Ardal, his triumphant voice ringing out like the clash of brass cymbals, as he raised his wine cup with his left hand, ‘the O’Brien attacked the army of Kildare, and slew many of them. They escaped by flight, and the army of O’Brien returned in triumph with great spoils.’ Ardal paused again, once more looking around to survey his audience, before saying in a low and triumphant voice, ‘There was not, in either army that day, a man who won more fame than King Turlough Donn O’Brien, king of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren.’

  The cheer that rose up then was loud enough to be heard across the Burren. Everyone was standing now and the filled wine cups were raised towards the king, and all voices echoed as Ardal shouted: ‘The king! May God bless him and protect him.’

  ‘And keep him safe for his wife and child,’ whispered Mara in Turlough’s ear. He nodded, smiled, pressed her hand, but she could see that the great victory still filled his mind. She left him with his men and went to talk to Brigid who was busily directing her workers to place fresh food on the table.

  The wine, from the new barrel, was perfect, thought Mara, sipping it. It was smooth with an exquisite flavour of blackcurrants and none of that slightly burned taste that began to affect the wine at the bottom of the barrel. This was superb. She looked for Oisín to congratulate him, but he had gone back to join in the conversation between Blár O’Connor and Diarmuid O’Connor. She could only just overhear, but smiled when she realized that Oisín had managed to turn the conversation from the Kilcorney oaks to France. Her son-in-law imported vast quantities of wine from France and was quite an authority on that country. He spoke fluent French and liked nothing better than a trip there on one of his boats carrying merchandise from Ireland to the west coast of France. Mara would not have minded to join in a conversation about wine, but casks did not interest her greatly so she moved across the garden to find Murrough sitting on an iron bench in front of her holly trees, with Bran’s narrow muzzle on his knee and tears pouring down his face.

  ‘You still miss Rafferty,’ she said gently as she seated herself beside him. With another man she might have pretended not to have seen the tears, but Murrough was as simple and as unaffected as his own dogs.

  ‘I miss him every hour and minute of the day,’ he said, taking out his linen handkerchief and mopping his wet cheeks.

  ‘I can understand,’ said Mara softly. ‘I was just thinking today that I could not bear to have something like that happen to Bran.’

  ‘Please God that you won’t have to bear that grief,’ said Murrough, a sob tearing his voice. ‘The man is dead now – but the evil lives on. Who knows how many people, how many places, have a hidden store of that cursed wolfsbane? Still, at least there will be no new supplies of it now that Malachy has gone. Poor Rafferty. He was such a lovely dog.’

  ‘He was,’ said Mara softly. ‘I don’t think that I have ever known a dog so full of life and spirits. He never grew up, did he? Except in size, he stayed a loving, playful, mischievous puppy.’

  ‘He did indeed,’ said Murrough and this time a laugh broke through the sob, ‘Every piece of mischief that he could get into, well, head first, in he went! I used to say to him, joking like, “Rafferty, you have my heart broke” – I never thought that these words would come true.’

  Mara turned to look at him. This man had an open and child-like nature. If he had done the deed, killed Malachy the way that his own beloved dog had been killed, it was possible that he could, even at this stage, be brought to admit the murder. The fine would not be a problem for him. He was reputed to get vast quantities of silver from English purchasers of his magnificent dogs.

  ‘Murrough,’ she said, laying her hand on his small, slightly womanish hand, ‘Murrough, did you kill Malachy? Were you the one that put the wolfsbane poison into his brandy?’

  He stared at her for a minute and his reddened eyes suddenly grew large and fixed. Eventually, his gaze broke contact with hers, almost with an effort. His eyes were now back on Bran and he stroked the narrow forehead, and then ran his hand along the long back, caressing the thin, whip-like tail with two fingers and then returning again to the neck. Again and again, he stroked her dog and then, eventually, he looked up and met her eyes.

  ‘Brehon,’ he said and then hesitated.

  ‘You can tell me, Murrough,’ she said reassuringly ‘Tell me the truth and together we will work out what is to be done.’

  He looked away from her, turning his face from the setting sun and towards the east. It seemed to her that he was looking for the oak woodland of Kilcorney, seeking to see the place where his beloved dog breathed his last. As she watched, she saw his face change. It hardened, closed up and the eyelids seemed to droop over the vulnerable eyes.

  ‘Brehon,’ said Murrough, and his tone was cool and remote, ‘I am saying nothing. I do not want the murderer of Malachy the physician to be found. Suspect me if you please. Set those bright lads of yours to work investigating where I was and what I was doing on that morning. I don’t care! Let them ask here and there. Let them question neighbours, friends and relations, but don’t expect me to tell you anything.’

  He put his arms about Bran’s neck and then with a little push moved him away and stood up. ‘I’m off home now, Brehon. My dogs will be expecting me. I wish you, the king and your little baby every good that life can bring to you. I would do anything for all three of you – anything, except one thing. Do not ask me to aid you in solving the question of the killing of Malachy O’Davoren, physician in the kingdom of the Burren.’

  Nine

  Maccslechta

  (Son Sections)

  The father or the foster father of a child normally bears responsibility for a child under the age of fourteen.

  An offence by a child of a fuidir (a tenant at will) is paid for by his lord.

  A child between the age of twelve and seventeen is called a ‘thief of restitution’.

  This means that if he or she steals something, the object or its value needs to be restored, but there is no other penalty.

  ‘Nuala was very quiet last evening, wasn’t she?’ Turlough had slept late, and now sauntered into the room where Mara was rocking little Cormac in her arms and singing an old lullaby to him.

  Mara raised her eyes from the baby. She had avoided talking about the affairs of the kingdom yesterday but it had to be done today. Turlough was not just her husband, but was also the king and thereby responsible for law and order in the Burren.

  ‘Let me look at him properly.’ Turlough bent over the baby. ‘Looks like you,’ he pronounced.

  Mara smiled. ‘He’s the image of yourself,’ she said with conviction. ‘Look at those eyes and that chin. And the fair skin. He’s definitely an O’Brien. Nothing of the “black” O’Davorens about him.’ And then suddenly she thought of Sorcha’s children, and of their inheritance of the dark eyes, hair and skin from their father Oisín. Perhaps sensing a change, the baby cried, the pale cheeks reddening. Turlough took a step backwards in alarm.

  ‘He’s just hungry,’ reassured Mara. ‘Eileen will feed him. Ah, there she is. I hear her coming down the stairs. Just open the door, will you, Turlough.’

  Eileen bowed respectfully to the king, but her eyes were on the little baby. Mara firmly repressed a feeling of jealousy as the woman held out her arms with such an expression of love. Almost as soon as the baby was handed over he stopped crying and nuzzled into his wet nurse. As Eileen carried him back up the stairs to her bedroom, Mara could hear her murmuring the same lullaby that she herself had been singing. Could Cormac tell the difference? Or, in his eyes, was Eileen the real mother? Nothing in life is ever perfect, she reminded herself sternly, and moved her thoughts towards the story that she had to tell about the secret and unlawful killing in the kingdom of the Burren. She would say nothing of her feelings of failure th
at she had not managed to feed her baby. Turlough had not questioned Eileen’s presence or the fact that she was the one to feed the baby. No doubt, his first wife had routinely engaged a wet nurse and little was seen of a new baby until it was three or four years of age.

  ‘Come out into the garden and I’ll tell you about Malachy,’ she said. ‘Brigid will bring your breakfast out there.’

  The garden had that lovely freshness of a June morning. The grass was still damp from the night’s dew, but the flowers blazed in the bright sunlight. The air was filled with the scent of the lilies in their baskets and of the gillyflowers that lined the pathway. Mara and Turlough made their way across to the bench in front of the holly trees and sat in silence for a few minutes, gazing at the delicate blue spirals of the path that led up Mullaghmore mountain at the eastern fringes of the kingdom.

  ‘Well,’ said Turlough. ‘It’s good to be back. Now tell me about Malachy. What’s he doing? Trying to thwart your little friend Nuala in her ambitions?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Mara. ‘He died, rather terribly, by drinking a dose of wolfsbane, or aconite, as Nuala calls it. It had been put into the brandy glass and he drank it – you remember the way that Malachy drank – just opening his mouth and throwing the liquid down his throat.’

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ But Turlough did not sound that upset. She had to remind herself that he was a warrior and that death was a familiar occurrence. No doubt, despite the celebrations and the triumph, there had been many deaths during the past week. ‘Was it an accident, then?’

  ‘No accident – Malachy was not very bright, but he would not have put aconite in his own glass – one of his best glasses. In fact, it was one of the glasses that my father brought back from Italy. It was just like my own Venetian glasses. My father gave it as a present to Malachy.’ She stopped and thought for a moment. It had never occurred to her that Malachy’s death could have been an accident. A moment’s reflection was enough, though. There was no possibility of a careless mistake. All of those poisons were clearly labelled.

  ‘No, it was murder,’ she said. ‘The killing has not been acknowledged,’ she added, and saw him look at her with sympathy.

  ‘What a nuisance for you, just out of childbirth. Don’t say that you are trying to manage everything yourself. Why can’t Fergus MacClancy of Corcomroe do it? We arranged that, didn’t we? I’ll send for him immediately and tell him to take over matters. Perhaps we could go and stay in our castle at Ballinalacken for a few days and let him carry on.’

  ‘It’s not the fault of Fergus that I am taking charge of this matter,’ said Mara firmly. ‘He sent his cousin, a most bumptious young man called Boetius MacClancy, to take over the affairs of the kingdom and of the school. I’m afraid that I sent him off with a flea in his ear. I didn’t care for him and his methods.’ And then as she saw him look doubtful, she added, ‘His idea of solving a murder was to say instantly that Nuala must be guilty.’

  That diverted him as she had intended. ‘Nuala,’ he roared. ‘What nonsense! That little girl!’

  ‘She’s over fourteen, unfortunately. Otherwise she would not be liable for any punishment for a crime. Of course, she is still under seventeen so if she stole something, she would be deemed to be a “thief of restitution”. There would still be no penalty, but the stolen property would have to be returned. However, I’m afraid that murder cannot fit into this category. The life taken cannot be returned. Certainly, Boetius was correct to consider Nuala. She benefited from his death – she is his heir and also Malachy was trying to take the property at Rathborney from her – and, as you know, she and her father were on bad terms. No, Nuala must be considered. What I objected to was that she was the only one to be under suspicion. He made no attempt to find out anything else. And also he gossiped about her possible guilt with Caireen and that stupid wife of Fergus’s.’

  ‘The man must be a fool,’ said Turlough emphatically.

  ‘Dangerous, I think,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘He is very much under Caireen’s influence.’ She told him about Caireen’s plan to force Nuala to enter a convent, and for the valuable property at Rathborney to be confiscated and given to the wife as recompense for the loss of her husband. ‘You can see,’ she finished, ‘I must take this matter in hand and solve this crime. Otherwise these accusations will be hanging over Nuala for the rest of her life.’

  He nodded reluctantly and then brightened. ‘At least you have the lads.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘They can do all the donkey work. They love riding around the Burren and gathering evidence. And, of course, their brains are sharp and their knowledge of the law is excellent. Now, here comes Brigid with your breakfast. Tell me some more about that great victory, the battle of Limerick.’

  It wasn’t just Brigid who was coming down the path, though. Turlough’s two bodyguards, Conall and Fergal, were at the gate with three horses.

  ‘Oh, bother, is it that time already! I have to ride to Thomond, Mara. I haven’t been there yet and I must bring tidings of the victory. The clan will expect it.’ He put a large arm around her, saying, ‘I hate to leave you so soon, and the baby. You do understand, don’t you? I’ll be back in a few days.’

  ‘Of course I understand,’ said Mara serenely. She had understood all of this when she had eventually made her decision to agree to marriage with a king. They both had their tasks to do, their obligations to meet, but that almost added to the sweetness of the times when they could be together. Four or five days might give her time to sort out the murder. Sorcha and Oisín would be leaving at the end of the week and the boys would be off on their summer holidays. That would be the time for Ballinalacken, the beautiful castle standing high above the Atlantic Ocean which Turlough had recently rebuilt for her.

  ‘Ballinalacken will be for him, won’t it?’ said Turlough watching her tenderly, almost as if he could read her thoughts. ‘That will be his inheritance from his father. That is mine to give as I choose. I’ll get all that fixed up while I am at Thomond.’

  ‘Eat your breakfast,’ said Mara. ‘I don’t think Cormac wants a castle just now. His needs are simple.’ Her eyes went to Eileen who had emerged from the house carrying the baby. After his meal, Eileen always carried him for a while, rocking him gently in her arms as she paced between the Brehon’s house and the law school. Then when he slept she would put him into a basket, either in Brehon’s garden, or in the law school yard, and watch him sleep. Cormac’s needs were simple, but they were being met with unremitting care and dedication. It was lucky, thought Mara, that Ciara had arrived that morning; Eileen, quiet, unobtrusive and devoted, was the perfect nursemaid for the little prince.

  Turlough and his men-at-arms had just departed when Nuala came drearily into the garden. Her usually glossy hair looked untidy and dull – almost as though she had slept in the braids. Her white léine was crumpled and had grass stains on the back of it. She had certainly not changed it today – perhaps had even slept in it overnight. Mara looked at her sharply.

  ‘Nuala, in your profession as well as in mine, personal feelings have to be put aside. You must not let the world know what is wrong with you. You must hold your head high and show a brave face.’

  And then, when the girl just glared at her impatiently, Mara said, ‘Shouldn’t you be over at Lissylisheen? Ardal is back and will be needing you. After all, you are his woman of the house, as he calls you. He will want to give a celebratory dinner to his men-at-arms, and, if I know Ardal, no doubt the workers will join in with the celebrations.’

  Nuala shrugged sulkily. ‘He doesn’t want me. He managed without me before.’

  ‘He’s been far more cheerful since you were there. For a while I thought things might work out between him and his wife of a fourth degree, but Marta went back to Connemara and took little Finn with her, so you are his hostess and you must act as such. Now, go and wash your hair and have a bath. There is water heating down there in the bathhouse. Oh, and do find a clean léine. If
you haven’t one of your own, Brigid will find you one of mine.’

  ‘If I’m a nuisance to you, I’ll go,’ said Nuala in a tragic manner, and Mara’s heart melted.

  ‘You know you are not a nuisance to me; you know you are as dear to me as my own child, but this is no place for you now. Your father’s murder must be solved and I don’t want you involved in the case.’

  ‘All right, I suppose I might as well go.’ Nuala got to her feet with a sulky expression and then said irritably, ‘I suppose I had better change that léine before Ardal sees it. He would die of shock. He keeps talking about buying me silk for a gown.’

  ‘Let him do that,’ said Mara serenely. ‘Men enjoy spending silver on women that they are fond of – and Ardal is very fond of you. Your mother was always his favourite member of the family. Oh, and Nuala, before you go, could you tell me something? You said that Caireen discovered your father’s body about ten in the morning. How did you know the time, or were you just guessing?’

  ‘Guessing, I suppose,’ replied Nuala with a shrug. ‘Not really, though. I remember now. The cows were being brought into the milking parlour. That is always at ten in the morning.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara. That was reasonably good evidence, she knew. Cows were fussy creatures. She had often heard Cumhal scolding Seán for being late with the milking and telling him that the cows would hold back their milk if he didn’t keep to the same time every day.

  The boys were all working so quietly when she went into the schoolhouse that for a moment she thought they were not there. Enda was sternly supervising Moylan and Aidan, who were writing down everything they remembered from their studies of Bretha Déin Chécht, Fachtnan was going through the regulation of the kin group from Córus Fine with Hugh and Shane was wrestling with a passage from the works of Horace, the Latin poet.