The Sting of Justice

by Cora Harrison

  TRIAD 96

  Three things will cause ruin in a kingdom:

  1. A judge who takes bribes

  2 An unlearned judge

  3. An unjust judge

  ‘I think that I will go to Sunday Mass at Rathborney and attend the burial of Sorley Skerrett,’ said Mara the following morning to her scholars. ‘You can all go to nine o’clock Mass at Noughaval and then you can have the rest of the day to yourselves. Make sure that you tell Brigid what time you will be home and where you are going.’

  ‘Mass again!’ grumbled Aidan. ‘We seem to have done nothing but go to Mass this week!’

  ‘You could always try praying to the Almighty to help you in your studies, especially with your handwriting,’ said Mara sweetly. ‘Stop grumbling; you know that Mass at Noughaval is the quickest service in the Burren. You can enjoy yourselves for the rest of the day.’

  ‘You don’t need any help, Brehon?’ asked Fachtnan respectfully.

  ‘No,’ said Mara, ‘but, if by any chance you see Nuala today, Fachtnan, you might ask her to ride over to Rathborney with you. Young Cuan’s hand looked very bad to me. If Nuala could bring something with her she could dress it for him.’

  Fachtnan’s face lit up. ‘We’ll do that,’ he said enthusiastically, while behind his back Aidan made some kissing motions with his lips much to the amusement of Moylan, Hugh and Shane.

  The burial Mass for Sorley was to be the usual nine o’clock Sunday Mass at Rathborney. Mara rode over on her mare Brig, followed by Bran, his long legs loping effortless over the stony road that led downhill from Cahermacnaghten to the valley. At the gate of Toin’s house, Mara hesitated, the church bell had not yet sounded; they had made good time and the old man was already up and moving around in the pear orchard next to his house.

  ‘Good morning, Toin,’ she called.

  ‘Come in, come and look,’ he called out. ‘I must show you my pears, it’s been a great year for them. I was a bit concerned by a few early morning frosts in May but I needn’t have been worried. Just look at them. Have you ever seen anything like the crop that I have this year? I must get someone to fill up a few barrels and send them over to Cahermacnaghten. Your boys will enjoy them, I know.’

  Mara dismounted from her mare and handed the horse to a servant who came rushing forward.

  ‘Gently now, Bran,’ she murmured, as they went forward. Bran was a great lover of people and inclined to place his paws firmly on the chest of anyone who showed any interest in him. Toin looked like a wraith this morning, so unsubstantial that a breath of air could almost knock him over. He was in good spirits, though, and greeted Bran with a pat on the wolfhound’s narrow head.

  ‘This pear orchard is my pride and joy,’ he said. ‘I planted it when I came to the Burren first, before you were born. I was a young man then, a physician. They say you plant pears for your heirs, and it’s only in the last ten years that the trees have borne such fruit.’

  ‘You’ve made it inside an old enclosure, haven’t you,’ said Mara glancing around. ‘That should be just right to protect the trees against the frosts and wind damage.’

  ‘There are fifty trees here,’ boasted Toin. ‘You’ve seen it in the spring, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mara softly. ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.’ She spoke with sincerity. Toin’s pear trees, in the spring, were like a fairyland of lime-white blossom, shining intensely in the shelter of their ancient grey stone walls. She promised herself that she would visit it next spring in memory of the old man who had created such beauty.

  Some of Toin’s servants were picking the pears, taking each one carefully from the branch and laying it in the flat baskets which they all carried. Toin reached up and plucked a pear from a magnificent tree near to the gate and handed it to Mara without a word. It was a perfect pear, its pale yellow skin just flushed with rose. It smelt faintly of aniseed and when Mara bit into it the juice ran down her chin; she was speechless in her appreciation.

  ‘Is it all right?’ asked Toin anxiously.

  Mara took another bite and nodded. She swallowed it carefully and smelt the pear again. The king of fruits, she thought, and took a piece of linen from her pouch and wiped her face and hands. ‘Perfect,’ she said, ‘I have never tasted such a beautiful one.’

  ‘You’re on your way to the burial service,’ said Toin. Mara nodded. ‘You’re not thinking of going there, yourself, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. The man wasn’t worth it. Anyway, Tomas won’t allow me; will you, Tomas?’

  The servant smiled, leaning down to pat Bran whose long muscular tail was wagging so energetically that it threatened to knock the pears from the basket he was carrying. ‘No, my lord, Father David’s service was far too much for you. You weren’t well all that day afterwards. I’m going to ban visits to the church for you, you do far too many of them,’ he said with a mock severity which showed Mara the good relationship between man and servant. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘the young bard is coming to play for you.’

  ‘Rory?’ questioned Mara with surprise. ‘Isn’t he going to Sorley’s burial, then?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Toin. ‘Perhaps it is after the service that he is coming. It doesn’t make any difference to me. The days are long and the nights even longer when you are in my condition. Anyway,’ his voice became more cheerful, ‘it’s nice for the young fellow to have a chance to play that zither of his. There’s not much music asked for up there at the castle.’

  ‘Could I leave my horse, and Bran, here with you?’ asked Mara watching Bran walking around Tomas in circles, his tail wagging and his eyes adoring. ‘I could leave him outside the church; he’s well trained, but I think he would prefer to stay here with you. He seems to be making great friends with Tomas. I won’t disturb you when I come back.’

  ‘You won’t disturb me; I’ll love the company, what’s more I’ll have a glass of muscadet ready for you when you return,’ promised Toin. ‘It’s perfect with the pears.’

  ‘Only if you have a good rest though while I am at Mass.’ Mara looked anxiously at the old man.

  ‘It looks as if I am going to have another visitor; there’s Ulick at the gate,’ said Toin. His voice sounded weary.

  ‘I’ll take him off with me,’ promised Mara. ‘Mass will be good for his soul.’

  When Mara emerged from the gate Ulick Burke was standing by the wall examining a bee exploring the dusty golden antlers on a piece of flowering ivy. He had a thoughtful look on his face.

  ‘Toin wondered whether you were coming in to see him, Ulick, but I think he is a little tired for a visit at the moment. You weren’t thinking of going in, were you?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said with a slight start. ‘I’m on my way to church. I was just looking to this little furry fellow here and thinking of how extraordinary it is that he and his little brothers and sisters were able to cause the death of that huge man, our valued friend, the master of Newtown Castle.’

  ‘So you mourn Sorley then?’ Mara looked at the man appraisingly. He was one of Turlough’s dearest friends and yet no two men could be more unalike. Still the bonds of early childhood friendships were very strong.

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ Ulick summoned up a pious expression. ‘Such a generous, big-hearted man. Always willing to share his wealth.’

  ‘At a price.’ Mara’s tone was blunt as she thought about the document that she had seen in the chest.

  ‘As you say, my dear Brehon,’ murmured Ulick. ‘At a price … There are some consolations attached to his demise, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ll still have to pay the debt,’ warned Mara as they arrived at the church gate.

  ‘What!’ Ulick looked genuinely startled. ‘I thought death cleared all debts.’

  ‘Certainly not under English law. And your agreement and the subsequent guaranteeing of the debt was enacted under English law. You will still have to pay that sum of money to Sorley’s son and heir.’ Or, rather, since Turlough had guaranteed
it, he will probably have to pay it, she thought with some irritation.

  ‘Daughter, my dear Brehon, daughter!’ said Ulick as he politely held the gate open for her.

  ‘Son,’ repeated Mara firmly as she passed through and waited for him on the path.

  ‘But he made a will; he left all that silver and property to his daughter; I told you about it. I witnessed it myself.’

  ‘The will cannot be found.’

  ‘Really?’ Ulick looked at her enquiringly and she nodded.

  ‘So it all goes to the son, now.’ Ulick began to move forward, his face thoughtful.

  ‘Do you know, my dear Brehon,’ he said as they passed the wooden bench, ‘this is quite a relief to me, it was getting to be very hard work paying court to that plain-faced girl. The brother is a sweeter character. Dear boy, I will be a father to him. I will guide his infant footsteps through society. I will teach him the joys of high living. I will instruct him on how to spend his money. I will even find a nice little wife for him.’

  The church was full of the people who lived around in the parish of Rathborney, attending their usual Sunday Mass, but there was no sign of any additional people for the burial of Sorley. None of the silversmiths from Galway was in the church. They had paid their respects at the wake; obviously they felt that to be enough; they probably had little liking for the man in any case. The mineworkers were there; no doubt the overseer was under orders; they were huddled in the back of the church, while the family of Sorley sat in the traditional mourning place on the left-hand side of the altar.

  On the right-hand side, at the top of the church, was a burly figure, leaning back, legs sprawling, head turning from side to side. Mara went up the middle aisle, conscious of the stir of interest that her appearance caused and slipped in beside him.

  ‘What brings you here, my lord?’ she whispered as she knelt demurely by his side.

  ‘You, of course.’ Turlough’s smile beamed and his green eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve been visiting Conor and his wife at the abbey – the monk there, Father Peter, has a great reputation for cures for the wasting sickness. He’s looking better, Conor. He’s put on a bit of weight and got a little colour in his cheeks.’

  It was early days yet, thought Mara. Conor was Turlough’s eldest son and the tánaiste, or heir, to his father’s position of king of the kingdoms of Thomond, Burren and Corcomroe. In the normal way of things he would be king when Turlough died, but he was sinking rapidly under the onslaught of the deadly wasting sickness that seemed to affect many of the young and strong.

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ she whispered back, unwilling to disappoint him by expressing any doubts. She hoped that he was right: Turlough, of course, had an incurably optimistic temperament. Conor could only have been about a fortnight at the abbey; the last time that she had seen him he had looked like a man close to death.

  However, Father Peter of the Cistercian abbey in the north-east of the kingdom was famed for his cures of seriously ill people and it might be possible for him to work a miracle and to cure the wasting sickness that racked poor Conor with constant fevers and seemed to strip the flesh from his bones.

  ‘Will you come back there with me, to the abbey, I mean?’ Turlough’s voice took on a pleading note which she was coming to know well these days. ‘The abbot, Father Donogh, would like you to come for a Sunday dinner. He wants to discuss the wedding arrangements with you.’

  ‘So that’s the new parish priest.’ Mara stood up with the rest of the congregation as the Bishop of Kilfenora came out from the vestry followed by a very young priest. She wanted to think about this invitation. She needed to collect her mare and Bran from Toin’s hospitable care and she had planned to walk around Rathborney, perhaps to climb the mountains and see Sheedy.

  ‘Straight from Rome.’ Turlough was diverted as she expected. ‘Or from the cradle,’ he added in a loud whisper.

  Mara felt sorry for the young priest. It was an ordeal facing his first parish, and to do it under the eyes of the bishop and the king made it doubly difficult. The people of the Burren were intensely clannish and they would take a long time to get used to a stranger in their midst, especially one taking the place of such a deeply loved priest as Father David had been.

  ‘I have a surprise for you,’ mumbled Turlough, devoutly beating his breast as the congregation recited the act of contrition. ‘Do you remember young Cormac, that nice lad that you had at the law school a year or two ago? Well, I met him last night with my cousin Mahon. Cormac is now Mahon’s lawyer and he has been appointed as Brehon of Kinvarra now. He’s coming to the abbey today to meet you. I told him you would be bound to come.’

  Mara smiled. That was an incentive. Cormac had been a bright, clever scholar with plenty of common sense and initiative. She would enjoy meeting him again and, of course, he might be able to give her information about Deirdre’s divorce case.

  ‘Did you tell him about the murder of Sorley?’ she whispered as they stood for the recital of the gospel.

  Turlough nodded and then, as he saw his cousin, the bishop, Mauritius of Kilfenora, turn a cold eye on him, he clutched his rosary beads, and signed himself devoutly with the small silver cross on the top of them.

  That will be almost worth putting up with the pompous abbot for an hour or so, thought Mara, sinking down to her knees again at the end of the recitation of the creed.

  Cuan had been smartened up, she thought, glancing across at the family group. He was now richly dressed and his hair was clean and well combed. He was kneeling beside his mother who glanced at him proudly from time to time. To her amusement, Ulick had placed himself on the other side of the boy. Deirdre, herself, was also richly dressed and looked indistinguishable now from the wives of the prosperous silversmiths whom Mara had seen at the wake. Una was looking the same as usual, but there was no sign of Rory. Had he already decided that it was not worth his while marrying this plain woman with no fortune? Had he just walked off, or perhaps engineered a quarrel, or possibly just taken too much to drink last night and not bothered to get up in time for the burial?

  Daire was there, and Mara was pleased to see how, from time to time, Deirdre bent down and whispered something in his ear. Obviously they were on good terms with each other and this might mean that the young man might be able to finish his term at Newtown Castle with honour, be spoken for by Deirdre’s brother, or transfer his apprenticeship elsewhere and become a master smith before the year finished.

  The service passed in an almost perfunctory manner. The bishop could find little to praise about Sorley, and wisely decided to confine his eulogy to a few facts. Surprisingly, for one of his wealth, Sorley had no personal bard attached to his household, and obviously, Rory had not been deputed to recite his lineage, so quite quickly they were all standing over the newly dug grave watching the body being lowered down into it.

  There was a deep silence as the workmen began to fill the grave. This was usually the moment when the bereaved broke into loud sobs and had to be led away by solicitous friends. However, Sorley’s wife and daughter showed no emotion, but stood looking quietly on, obviously waiting for the moment when they could walk away with dignity. Cuan passed his sleeve over his eyes in a childlike manner, but Deirdre gave him a quick glance and a pat on the arm so he controlled the emotion and stood with his eyes fixed on the bare branches of the ash tree above their heads. Anluan, the severely mutilated mineworker, made some inarticulate sound – it almost sounded like a cackle of laughter – and another mineworker took him by the arm and half-helped and half-dragged him away from the graveside.

  ‘Go and greet the bishop,’ said Mara in Turlough’s ear when all was finished and the procession wound its way back towards the church. She waited until he had obediently departed and then slipped around to the rough grass behind the ruined wall. The boys had reported that no stick was to be found there and she knew, that under Fachtnan’s supervision they would have searched it thoroughly. They were young and keen and their eyesight
was at its strongest. There was no chance that they would have missed anything of significance, and yet she didn’t feel satisfied until she had checked it through thoroughly for herself. The grass was long and interlaced with nettles but she persevered, going over every inch of the ground.

  The bishop’s voice was still booming in the distance when she straightened her back. No, there was certainly no stick to be found in the grass, nor was it, as far as she could see, to be found it the sparse hedgerow behind. Mara went around the ruined wall and once again viewed the spot where the hive of bees had been placed in the empty alcove of the ruined church. This was where the stone had been removed and the hole that it had left still showed bright and clean-looking in the lichen and moss-besmirched wall.

  There was something else there, though. Mara went closer. It was quite small; perhaps that was why it had not been seen before. It was small, and round and it lay in the shadow on the stone surface. She picked it up and held it to the light and then it flashed silver. It was a small round, hollow object, just the right size to fit over a thumb. She might not have recognized it, she thought, if she had not seen Rory, tuning and plucking his musical instrument, sitting in the gallery in Newtown Castle. It was the silver plectrum for a zither.

  ‘Brehon.’ It was Giolla’s voice. Hastily she picked up the small object, put it into her pouch and went out onto the path to greet him. He was carrying something in his hand.

  ‘This is that skep you wanted to look at,’ he said, holding it out. ‘You can see that the bees have picked it completely clean. You can handle it without fear. There is nothing left.’

  Mara stretched out her hand and murmured her thanks. The skep was made from soft rope, spun from the straw of oats after they had been harvested. The sides of the skep were made from coiled rope and so was the base and the roof. She examined it carefully, fascinated by the workmanship. The roof, she saw was detachable, presumably so that the honey could be taken from it with ease, but it was the hole, not much bigger than the girth of her thumb, in the back which held her attention. The soft straws were bent inwards and forced apart, not torn nor cut.