The Sting of Justice

by Cora Harrison

  ‘You see, I always wanted to marry you,’ pleaded Rory. ‘It was just that I had nothing to support you. I couldn’t do that to you.’

  ‘My father promised us some cows; I told you that.’ Aoife’s voice was stony with no hint of yielding.

  ‘Yes, but …’ he wouldn’t have been much of a hand with cows, thought Mara with a grin, picturing the elegant Rory up to his knees in muck or out in a freezing field at midnight trying to pull a calf from a cow in labour. She whispered another ‘quiet!’ to Bran whose tail started to wag again at the sound of Rory’s voice.

  ‘You can marry this Una for all I care. I hope you’re both very happy.’ Aoife did not sound as if she hoped anything of the sort, but there was plenty of spirit in her voice and Mara willed her to remain firm. ‘There are better men than you around. Twice as good, twenty times as good.’Was Aoife perhaps thinking of Daire, the silversmith, with his broad shoulders and tall strong frame? He would certainly make two of the slender young bard, though perhaps not twenty.

  ‘No, Aoife, listen.’ Rory was good at pleading. His musical voice now broke artistically. ‘Things are different now. ‘You see I think I have a patron now. The briuga Toin is very rich. He’s almost as rich as Sorley.’

  There was an inarticulate sound of disgust from Aoife. The mention of Sorley had been a mistake. Perhaps Rory was not too bright, after all.

  ‘He loves my playing. I’m staying with him now. I think I can get a permanent place there.’ No mention of the fact that Toin was an obviously dying man. Perhaps Rory hoped that he would leave him something in his will. It was possible, of course; stranger things had happened. Mara had never heard of any relation of Toin’s; he belonged to no clan on the Burren. As a professional man, his wealth would be his own, to dispose of as he saw fit.

  ‘I suppose you could always kill him if you thought you were coming into some silver.’ Mara was surprised at the girl’s sneer. However, Aoife’s mind was obviously moving along the same lines as her father’s. A tough girl, far too good for this idle young bard!

  ‘Aoife, how can you say that?’ Now there was a genuine break in Rory’s voice. It obviously shocked him that the girl who had loved him so much had turned against him. ‘In this very place …’ He broke off and Mara saw his head droop as he walked away from the girl.

  There was a silence for a few minutes. Perhaps Aoife, too, was recalling memories of soft murmurings and lovemaking during the summer months at this spot. Obviously Rory thought so because Mara saw him return.

  ‘Aoife …’ the rest of the words were drowned by the bellowing of a cow after a straying calf, but then the cattle fell silent and Mara heard the end of the sentence. ‘ … so if only you’ll agree to marry me now, I’ll be the happiest man on earth.’

  ‘You’d better go now,’ Aoife’s voice was loud, and as hard as the stone beneath her feet. ‘I’m going to go and help my father with the cattle. You’d better clear off. If he sees you he will turn the bull on you.’

  And then she was gone, running fearlessly across the stone clints towards her father. There was an affectionate teasing greeting from Muiris and a laugh from Aoife. Muiris shouted after a straying cow and Aoife called back merrily. After a few minutes the voices and the slow thudding of hoofs on the hard surface were just a distant echo and then Rory emerged and walked in the direction of Rathborney. He was not near enough for Mara to see the expression on his face, but she could imagine it.

  He was an idle, mendacious, exploitative young man and she was glad that Aoife had not given way to him. But was he also a murderer?

  THIRTEEN

  BRETHA DÉIN CHÉCHT (JUDGEMENTS OF DÍAN CÉCHT)

  A physician must cultivate healing herbs in his garden.

  He must remember also the great service given by the garden plants such as cainnean (leeks), and imus (celery) because feeding is as important as medicine to a sick person.

  A physician’s bag must contain many compartments so that there is no mingling of the herbs in it.

  ‘BRIGID, I’M JUSt GOING down to Rathborney. Could you get Sean to saddle Brig? I should be back in plenty of time for supper. I just want to see someone.’

  Mara had considered the matter for the whole of the day; by the time school had finished, she had made up her mind. She would have to question Cuan; even if it were just self-defence, or possibly spite, that had led Rory to make that accusation, she could not ignore it. Certainly Rory had found a plausible explanation for his late arrival at church on that fateful Thursday. What would Cuan say, she wondered.

  Mara’s mind recalled all the details taken down by her scholars at Poulnabrone, as she waited patiently for Sean to emerge with Brig. Most of the statements had been checked and a certain pattern had evolved. The time of Sorley’s death was almost certainly in the few minutes before Mass began. The silversmith probably just delayed to make sure that he had a finished sketch of the communion cup to show the bishop after Mass and the burial of Father David was over.

  Rory, Cuan, Daire had all arrived late. All three could have benefited from the death of Sorley. And there were, doubtless, others who might be relieved at that death. Ulick was unlikely to be the only man to owe money to the greedy silversmith. She frowned slightly; did Ulick really think that his debt would cease when the life of the moneylender ceased?

  Sheedy was another name that came up. He was one of the last to come into the church.

  ‘Enda,’ called Mara. ‘Just one moment, Sean, I want to have a quick word with Enda.’

  Enda was still in the schoolhouse, though the others were energetically whacking a leather ball around the field with their hurleys.

  ‘I’m just reading through that book on English law, Brehon,’ he said sauntering out. ‘I know it won’t be in the final examination, but I’m interested in the differences. It’s amazing that someone can actually be thrown in prison before their case is heard in court. So if they are innocent, they will already have been punished!’

  ‘I must confess I haven’t read all of that myself, Enda,’ said Mara. ‘You shame me. And of course, you are right. We need to know about this English law. What we also need to do is to make good records of our own laws. It’s one of those things that I must discuss with other Brehons when we meet in the summer. The king seems to feel that we, even over here in the west, may be in danger of being swamped by England eventually. It’s a very rich and powerful country. Anyway,’ she said with a hasty glance back to where Sean was walking Brig up and down, ‘I just wanted to ask you something, Enda. I noticed that quite a few people in your list mentioned Sheedy coming in late to church on the day of Father David’s burial, but Sheedy, himself, was not actually at Poulnabrone, was he? He’s on no one’s list.’

  ‘No he wasn’t there,’ said Enda, closing his book and coming to look down on the lists. ‘I think he might be a strange sort of fellow. Most people seemed to hesitate a bit and look over their shoulder before mentioning his name almost as if they were a bit afraid of him.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘Well, don’t work too hard, Enda. It’s important to take a bit of fresh air and exercise as well.’

  Toin was in his garden when she arrived at Rathborney. He was leaning heavily on his crutch and looking very ill. He was alone, but as she dismounted at the gate his manservant came out from the house carefully carrying a small flagon. Toin smiled a welcome to Mara, but drained the flagon before speaking. Mara watched him compassionately.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said after a minute. ‘What we owe the east! These poppy seeds that Malachy grinds up for me bless him, he even flavours it up with honey and rosehips – they have the most marvellous effect. First a warm feeling creeps over you and then you find yourself relaxing and then the pain becomes bearable. Talking about Malachy, he’s left me his assistant. She’s here to take care of me while Malachy goes to treat a man gored by a bull.’ Toin lowered his voice. ‘I sent her to pick some pears for me; it’s not good for the young to have to w
atch too much pain.’ Then he raised his voice, now full and rich, physician, where are you?’

  Nuala came running from the orchard, her black plaits swinging, her léine, as usual, hitched up to calf level by her belt. Her tanned face was flushed slightly pink and her brown eyes were full of concern.

  ‘You’re looking a little better,’ she said, tucking her arm into his. She sniffed the air and then looked at him accusingly. ‘You’ve been having poppy syrup again; just as soon as my back is turned,’ she scolded. ‘So that was why you sent me to the orchard. You know, it’s not good to have too much of that poppy syrup. The more you have: the more you crave. My great-grandfather wrote that down over a hundred years ago when poppy seeds were first brought to the Burren by the monks at the abbey. You should have some of my chamomile tea. I gave some to your cook, Mael, for his stomach pain and he said that it did him a power of good.’

  ‘You see how she orders me about,’ said the old man affectionately.

  ‘She’s probably right,’ said Mara with a smile. ‘Nuala knows a lot about medicine. She is always studying her grandfather’s notes and experimenting with herbs.’

  ‘She does know a lot.’ Toin’s voice was full of admiration. ‘I keep putting questions to her and she never gets one wrong. At her age I knew very little, though I had the best of physicians for a master. I even watched him take out gallstones from a living man’s stomach and the man was still alive twenty years later.’

  ‘I wish I could do something like that,’ said Nuala seriously. She thought about it for a moment and then said resolutely: ‘I wouldn’t mind the blood; I would just concentrate on how much good I was going to do. I suppose you couldn’t show me, could you? Perhaps that is what is wrong with you,’ she added hopefully.

  Toin shook his head smiling. ‘No, my dear child,’ he said gently, ‘that’s not what’s wrong with me. I know what is wrong with me and I don’t think the greatest physician in the country could cure me; I have a growth here in the stomach. I must endure it. In any case,’ his voice lightened, ‘I’m not the person to show you how to use a knife; I never did any cutting of people myself. My hand was not steady enough. I was a herbalist more than a surgeon.’

  ‘Father says the same thing,’ said Nuala. ‘I wish I could find someone to teach me. Mara, why aren’t there schools for physicians as well as for lawyers?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mara. ‘That’s something to ask your father, but I’ve never heard of them. Mainly physicians learn from their fathers and then the knowledge is passed down like that. The O’Hickeys have been physicians to the O‘Briens of Thomond for generations.’

  ‘I think a school would be best,’ said Nuala seriously. ‘Fachtnan and Enda spend lots of time arguing about the law; I’d like to have someone to talk about things like that; Father is usually too busy.’

  A lonely child, thought Mara compassionately – no, not a child, she contradicted herself, a woman with a gift for medicine who was being frustrated by a lack of training and instruction.

  ‘Well, I promise you, Nuala, that I will make enquiries about a school for medicine. Perhaps there might be one in the north of Ireland. I’ll ask Shane’s father when he comes to collect him at Christmas time.’

  ‘Perhaps Nuala will have the first one,’ said Toin lightly, ‘and where are you off to, Brehon, or are you paying me a visit?’

  ‘I was looking for directions, actually,’ Mara explained. ‘I want to pay a visit to Sheedy.’

  ‘Sheedy, the ócaire,’ said Toin musingly. ‘You’ve never met him, have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Mara and waited. Perhaps Toin would know why people spoke warily of the farmer. ‘Is he a young man?’ she asked. A farm of twenty acres or so was usually given to an ócaire, a young man, though some who were inefficient farmers remained an ócaire for the rest of their lives.

  ‘Yes, he’s a young man,’ confirmed Toin, yielding to the gentle pressure from Nuala’s arm and allowing her to guide him across the grass towards a wooden bench by the stream. ‘Well, not too young,’ he amended. ‘He inherited the land from his father a few years ago. It’s not much of an inheritance …’ And then he fell silent for a couple of minutes before adding hastily, ‘I wouldn’t go there on your own, Brehon. I don’t know what I would say to the king if I had to tell him that you went up there alone. I’d feel happier if you were to send a couple of men up and fetch him down here for questioning.’

  ‘Why, what’s the problem with Sheedy?’ Mara gave him a puzzled look.

  Toin frowned a little. ‘He’s had his problems,’ he said after a minute and Mara did not press him.

  ‘Well, I’ll just have a look at the land around there,’ she said vaguely. A hasty glance at the sun which now stood over Slieve Elva showed her that she had only another hour or so of good daylight left.

  ‘You won’t take long to get there,’ said Toin following the direction of her thoughts. ‘Just take that path, there, outside the gate and follow it up the hill for about a quarter of an hour; it stays beside the bank of the Rathborney river, if you can call it a river,’ he said with a disparaging glance at the tiny stream trickling through his garden. The name of the place is Lios Mac Sioda, but you can’t miss it; the cabin is just at the spot where another little stream joins this one.’

  ‘I’ll go then, take care of your patient, Nuala, won’t you?’

  ‘Come and have supper with us on the way back,’ called Toin as Mara swung herself up onto the mounting block by the gate. ‘King Turlough is coming, staying the night, also, as we have some business together. Malachy and Nuala will be here, of course, so you will have their company on your way back to Cahermacnaghten, unless, you too would like to stay the night.’

  ‘I won’t do that,’ said Mara, ‘I have to be back for the scholars, but I’d love to have supper with you.’

  What was Turlough doing visiting Toin, she wondered as she rode up the path. He hadn’t mentioned anything about it to her on Sunday. And what was his business with the old man?

  The path to the mountain was well paved with stone for about half a mile but then it turned into a deeply rutted track, full of ancient potholes and water-worn channels. The ditches on either side were choked with weeds and it was obvious that the track would become impassable in the depths of winter, but on that fine autumn afternoon it was a pleasant place to be. The sun was surprisingly warm in the deeply sunken lane, framed on both sides with hedgerows of blackthorns still laden with purple-blue sloes. Mara pulled her mare to a halt and took off her cloak, slipped it into her saddlebag and looked around her. Ahead of her to her right there was a small cabin set in a filthy farmyard. It looked derelict but there was a figure of a man there leaning against the doorpost. Mara came over to the wall meaning to check on the directions to Sheedy’s place and then to her surprise she saw that it was Cuan, Sorley’s son.

  ‘God be with you,’ she said courteously, wondering all the while what had brought Cuan away from all the luxuries of his father’s house back to the miserable place where he had almost starved.

  Cuan made no reply, or at least none except an inarticulate grunt and Mara was about to call him to her when she saw the traces of tears on the smeared cheeks of the young man. She hesitated and then dismounted and walked into the farmyard, carefully hitching up her léine and her gown so that they would not be smeared by the liquid dung.

  ‘Could I sit down for a few minutes?’ she asked and then as the young man did not reply, she added meekly, ‘I’d like a little rest.’

  Cuan said nothing for a moment and then he turned and went into the cabin and came back with a three-legged stool.

  ‘You can rest on that,’ he said. ‘It’s better out here than in the house. It’s very dirty and dark in there.’

  ‘Won’t you sit down yourself?’ asked Mara lowering herself cautiously onto the unstable seat.

  ‘I’ve only got one stool,’ said the young man. ‘I made that myself,’ he added contemplating with pride the ung
ainly piece of furniture.

  ‘Not an easy thing to do, unless you have been brought up to it,’ commented Mara gently.

  ‘I wasn’t brought up to do anything,’ said Cuan miserably, ‘that’s the trouble – I can’t do anything.’

  ‘How old are you, Cuan?’ asked Mara.

  ‘Seventeen, I’ll be eighteen next month,’ he said looking puzzled.

  ‘I see.’ Mara thought for a moment. ‘And you were sent to live on this farm a year ago. Was that before your birthday or after it?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Cuan miserably.

  ‘Can you remember Samhain last year?’ asked Mara shrewdly. ‘Surely you can remember the bonfires. Were you up here then, or down at the castle?’

  Cuan shook his head. ‘I can only remember that it was cold and wet and I didn’t know what to do with the cows. I’m no good at doing anything like that.’

  ‘You’re a rich man now; you don’t really need to do anything. You can just enjoy yourself.’ Mara made her voice sound encouraging though inwardly she was annoyed that he couldn’t remember the date of his banishment. A child of five would remember his birthday, she thought with a mild irritation.

  And then Cuan burst into a torrent of weeping. He cried like a child, with great noisy gulps and sniffs, smearing his face with his grubby hands. Mara watched him in silence. She wanted to comfort him, but she also wanted to know what was troubling the lad so much so she sat quietly waiting and eventually the storm of weeping ceased. Still Mara said nothing but handed over a square of linen for the boy to wipe his face. The simple gesture of friendliness seemed to upset the boy even more and he broke down again, but this time he regained control more quickly and attempted an explanation.