She was looking very well this evening, thought Mara, wishing that Fachtnan were present. A confident girl, one who could speak sociably to a king and yet was gentle and deferential to poor Cuan. Toin’s admiration for her skills had brought a flush to Nuala’s cheek and a gleam to her eye. She was a pretty child, with her dark eyes and hair and her brown skin, still bronzed by the summer sun. Her whole face and bearing shone with intelligence and sensitivity, also. Cuan was trying desperately to separate the pink succulent flesh of the salmon from its bone, swapping his knife from his deformed right hand to his unhelpful left and, quietly, with no fuss, she took the plate from him.
‘Let me do it,’ she said. ‘Boys are no good at this sort of thing. I’m always having to open shellfish for Fachtnan.’
Cuan was best left to Nuala, thought Mara. She sat back and relaxed and devoted herself to the dinner and to the wine. The rich taste of the pinot noir grape filled her palate. Perfect with the slightly gamey taste of the woodcock, she thought, making a note to tell Brigid about the sauce. Malachy, from his pleased face, was still enjoying the salmon and the flinty coldness of the bottle of Montrachet which accompanied it. She leaned against the cushioned comfort of her chair and looked around her, holding her glass to the light of the beeswax candle in its candlestick of silver. Not as beautiful a candlestick as those she had seen in Sorley’s house, she thought, and at that moment Turlough, following the direction of her eyes, and forgetting Cuan’s presence for a moment, said to Toin: ‘Did you buy your silver from Sorley?’
‘No,’ said Toin, shortly. ‘No, I didn’t.’
With a glance at the boy sitting silently beside her, Mara intervened hastily, ‘I don’t think I have ever eaten a meal quite like this before. What is that wonderful sweet, but slightly sour, taste in the sauce, Toin?’
‘That’s probably the oranges,’ said Toin. ‘Cathal the sea captain brought me some from Spain the last time he came. I sent a messenger to him this morning to bring me some more back from his next voyage. I’ll ask him to bring some for you, too, Brehon, if you would like some. What about you, Malachy?’
‘Why yes,’ said Malachy with a start. He and Turlough had been deep in a discussion about coinage and its advantages and disadvantages over barter. ‘Yes, I’m sure that Nuala would love to taste an orange. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one myself.’
He turned back to his conversation with Turlough, saying, ‘The thing is, my lord, if I have bred a fine saddle horse and you have a prize bull then we can get together and if the value seems equal then it’s a straight exchange that benefits both. If you use coinage, someone else is making money out of both of you.’
‘We dry the oranges and store them for the winter,’ said Toin turning to Mara. ‘But Cathal tells me that they never taste the same as they do when they are picked straight from the trees in Spain.’ He was speaking with an effort now. Mara eyed him with concern and noticed that Malachy was doing the same thing. The wine and the company drove Toin’s pain and weakness into the background for a short time, but his twin enemies had obviously reasserted themselves.
‘I wish I could eat some more,’ said Nuala sadly, putting down her silver fork reverentially. ‘This is gorgeous food, your cook is almost as good as Mara’s Brigid,’ she added with the tactlessness of youth.
‘I went on a voyage once with Cathal,’ said Turlough. ‘It was in the carefree days before I became king. We were both young men then; we went to France. I don’t remember anything about oranges.’
Sheedy, thought Mara. I must go up there tomorrow afternoon. If Sheedy were guilty it was important to find out as soon as possible, or, if he wasn’t then he needed to be eliminated. She took another sip of the burgundy and rolled it carefully around in her mouth and then took a bite of the woodcock. That sauce was just perfect. She would put off thinking about the murder and just concentrate on enjoying every mouthful of the wine.
‘Let’s have some music,’ said Toin when they were all sitting around the fire. The long linen cloths had been cleared from the table and the servants had all retired to the kitchen house to have their own supper. ‘Rory, play your zither, Cuan, you’ll sing for us.’
The song would not be a success; Mara knew that before Cuan stumbled to his feet. She was not very musical, but even she could hear that Rory was playing the zither very fast and very loudly – too fast and too loud for Cuan’s high sweet voice – the words and the tune did not blend together but seemed at odds with each other and there were times when the notes of the zither seemed to drown out Cuan’s voice. He faltered and then turned red and suddenly stopped. He sat down, shaking his head, as Rory cocked a quizzical eyebrow at him.
And then Rory, himself, started to sing. Unlike Cuan he had a powerful voice and was well used to singing at open-air festivals and assemblies. Now the zither took its rightful place as a backing to the song. For a few minutes, Mara did not realize what was happening. It was a clever mimicry of a typical rural song – but this was about Nanny the goat that went courting. The continual use of the word ciotógach was neatly slipped in. The word, of course, just meant ‘left-handed’ but in the rural idiom it had all sorts of other meanings attached to it: clumsy, awkward, stupid, even deformed.
With a howl of rage, Cuan was upon him, Rory holding the precious zither well out of reach, but otherwise taking little notice of the blows that were rained ineffectually upon him, while keeping an infuriating smile on his face.
‘All right, all right, it was just a joke, calm down,’ he was saying. There was a note of triumph in his voice.
‘Malachy,’ said Mara quietly, as Turlough got to his feet and Malachy obediently came across and took Cuan by the arm in his powerful grip.
‘Take it easy, boy, take it easy,’ he was saying, but Cuan was now sobbing hysterically, tears of rage and of humiliation pouring down his cheeks.
‘Come on, lad, take no notice of him,’ Malachy now had Cuan by the shoulders and was gently shaking him to and fro, his face distressed.
‘Let’s take him outside in the garden for a minute, Father.’ Nuala seized the boy’s other hand, his deformed hand. Mara suppressed a smile as she noticed that Nuala, despite all the genuine pity that showed in her voice, was, as she led the boy through the room, stroking the hand with the expertise of a physician undertaking a diagnosis. She’s wanted to do that all night, thought Mara, the girl is born to be a great physician. I must do what I can to help her, but first this young man must be dealt with, and she turned a stern face towards Rory.
He had a half-smile on his face as he surveyed Toin and Mara. Neither spoke so he took his eyes from them and carefully scrutinized the zither. He turned it over and over in his hands, examining it minutely to see whether any damage had come to it. Mara waited. She was interested to see what he had to say for himself. Toin moved across the room, opened the flask that he kept on a small side table and swallowed some liquid. Mara smelled the sweet-scent of honey mixed with rosehips. So Toin needed some more of his poppy syrup. She wished she could spare him, but this matter had to be sorted out immediately. It was lucky, she thought, that none of the servants was within earshot. The kitchen house was on the other side, connected to the main house by a long stone passageway.
‘So why did you do that?’ Her question whipped out and Rory flinched slightly. His eyes went to the window where the sound of Nuala’s voice chattering lightly about the moon could be heard from the garden.
‘I suppose I feel a bit annoyed about seeing someone get away with murder,’ he said lightly, strumming a single note from his zither.
‘What do you mean?’ Mara reached out and took the zither from him, placing it on top of a nearby cupboard.
‘You know what I mean,’ he said sulkily. ‘I told you that I saw Cuan hiding behind the wall just before Sorley was murdered. I told you that it looked like someone was ducking down behind the wall, trying not to be seen. I told you that Cuan had a stick in his hand.’ He looked around. Turlough was looking a
t him with startled attention so, encouraged, he repeated in a belligerent tone: ‘I told you and you did nothing. Now I come here and find that he is an honoured guest – him a murderer!’
‘Are you taking it upon yourself to act as Brehon for my kingdom?’ snapped Turlough.
Mara gave the king a quick signal. It was for her to handle this matter herself.
‘My lord,’ she said formally. ‘It may be that I will need to refer this matter to you if it goes any further, but in the meantime I think that I should question this young bard myself. I need to remind him about the law on several points.’
‘And why are you not questioning Cuan? He’s the one that killed his own father. I liked Sorley; he was good to me. I don’t like to see his own son, a man guilty of fingal – and your youngest scholar will tell you that the killing of a near relative is the worst crime of all – I don’t like to see a man guilty of fingal just getting away with this crime.’
Rory’s voice rang out – too late Mara realized that the window had been left open in the mild autumn air and from outside there was an answering howl from Cuan. Obviously he had torn himself free from Malachy: in a moment he was back in the room, crashing through the door, his face white, his eyes half-mad with terror, followed closely by Malachy and Nuala.
‘Id … didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t.’ He screamed the words and then fell on his knees before an embarrassed Turlough. ‘Don’t let them do it, my lord, don’t let them declare me an outlaw, don’t let them cast me out to sea in a boat with no oars. I didn’t kill my father; I swear it to you, my lord. I didn’t kill him.’
Turlough patted his shoulder awkwardly and looked an appeal at Mara.
‘Cuan, stand up immediately,’ she said, her tone crisp and authoritative. ‘Yes, that’s right, now go and sit on that chair over there and control yourself.’ She waited until he had done her bidding, and then she moved to the centre of the room. Malachy sat down heavily on a large carved chair, his face full of sympathy, and Nuala perched next to him. Turlough stretched his bulk across a bench by the fire and Toin sank into a cushioned chair and leaned his head against the back of it, watching her with his dark intelligent eyes. Tomás came to the door, hesitated, then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.
‘Sit down, Rory,’ said Mara in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘I want to explain a little law to you and I want no one to interrupt me. Cuan and Rory, neither of you is to speak without my permission.’ She eyed them both carefully. Cuan was sunk in apathy, mopping his face with a square of linen which Nuala had pressed into his hand. Rory stared ahead with a slight mocking twist to his lips, but neither spoke so she continued.
‘In the first place,’ she said carefully, ‘there is a recognized procedure for accusations in this kingdom. Any accusation may be made, in public, when the matter is under consideration at Poulnabrone, the judgement place. This is called “bearing witness”. Any other accusation has to be made to me, personally, in private.’ She looked around; no one moved nor spoke. Nuala watched her with interest, but the two boys looked at the floor.
‘So,’ she continued, ‘what happens if an accusation is made, unasked for, in public, and it cannot be verified? Well, the person making that accusation is deemed to have caused an injury under the laws of satire, and recompense has to be paid. The recompense is the victim’s honour price.’ What was Cuan’s honour price, she wondered. His father, as a silversmith would have had an honour price of seven séts, but the son? An ócaire, she decided; it didn’t matter anyway. Rory had nothing: no land, no cows, no silver, no family: he could pay no fine.
‘There is another matter that occurred here tonight. Brehon law is always concerned to prevent trouble between neighbours. That is why such a trivial matter as bee trespass is so carefully provided for. And that is why the laws of satire forbid, not just false accusations, but also public ridicule. You would do well to remember that, Rory, in whatever part of the country you next visit.’
Rory gave her a startled look and then looked away. And now what happens next, she thought. Was Rory staying here? If so, would it be better for Cuan to go back to his mother and unwelcoming sister at Newtown Castle this very night, or even to his sordid mountain farm? Perhaps Newtown Castle would be best, but she wanted to be able to accompany him. There was no doubt in her mind that he was now the owner of the castle and she intended to establish that with Una, herself. She glanced across at the candle clock on the marble shelf over the huge fireplace. Nine o’clock – rather too late for a visit from the Brehon on formal business. This would have to be left to the next day. She looked across at Toin and he bravely rose to his feet.
‘If you have finished speaking to Rory, Brehon,’ he said, ‘I just want to …’
And then there was a knock on the door. A sharp double knock and for the first time since Cuan’s ill-fated song, Toin smiled.
‘Ah, that must be Daire,’ he said with pleasure. ‘Could you open the door, my dear?’ he said to Nuala. ‘You asked me earlier, my lord,’ he turned to Turlough as Nuala left the room, ‘if I had ever bought any silver from Newtown Castle, well I haven’t until now, but I got a fancy to see this chess set that you talked of a few days ago so Daire agreed to bring it over so that I could see it. If I like it, then Cuan and I can agree a price, I’m sure.’
So now it was said: Cuan was the owner of Newtown Castle and of all its fabulous riches. Mara saw Rory’s head shoot up. He eyed Cuan with malicious dislike and Cuan stared back at him with a murderous hatred clouding his dark eyes. These two would have to be separated; they were like two dogs which would not give over a fight until one was beaten to the ground.
When Daire entered he immediately noticed the atmosphere. His eyes went from Cuan to Rory and then politely back to Toin. He was a mature and sensible young man; the more Mara saw of him, the more she approved of him. She felt sure he and Aoife, the farmer’s daughter, would have a future together if the mutual attraction blossomed into love.
All the time that Daire was showing the magnificent chess set Mara pondered over the problem of Cuan and Rory. Of course, Rory had given evidence to her and she was at fault for not asking for witnesses to corroborate his statement. This should be done, she decided; and it should be done as soon as possible. The fact that she was sure in her innermost mind that there was nothing in it should not have any influence with her. She could not afford to show herself to be more on the side of the wealthy young man than of the indigent young bard who had nothing.
‘This is beautiful,’ enthused Nuala examining the chess pieces. ‘Look at the pawns, just like Bran; and the castle, that’s Newtown Castle, isn’t it? Did you make it, Daire?’
‘Yes, I did.’ His voice rang out with a firm and determined note. He saw Mara look at him and then fished in his pouch and produced a piece of vellum which he handed to her.
‘Una, the daughter of Sorley, has certified that I was the sole maker of the chess set,’ he said proudly.
‘So she has,’ said Mara, skimming through the few lines of writing. Una wrote a clear, good hand, she thought. The writing was fluent, the work of someone to whom the pen was an accustomed instrument. An educated woman of intelligence, she thought.
‘I see she says that she watched all stages of the work,’ she commented, handing back the vellum to him.
He stored it away carefully before replying in a low voice, with a quick glance at Cuan, who, sunk in misery, was sitting, slumped in a chair, with his head in his hands. ‘Una’s a good silversmith, herself, Brehon. She made quite a number of the vases that you’ve seen at Newtown Castle. She often spends most of her days in the workshop.’ He paused, glanced across with a malicious smile at Rory and then incautiously his voice rose slightly. ‘There’s no reason why a woman shouldn’t be a good silversmith,’ he asserted. ‘I took Aoife there this morning and Una showed her how to make a pretty little ring. It was lovely. She gave it to me.’ Proudly he displayed the crudely made ring on his finger and Rory winced.
His voice was still quite low, but the room was silent. Cuan’s head swivelled around, then jerked up when he heard his sister’s name. His face was torn by different emotions, but the foremost one was shame. It must be galling for him to hear of his sister’s competence as a silversmith, thought Mara watching him carefully and wishing she could comfort him.
‘I think I will be going now, Toin,’ he said rising to his feet with a valiant attempt at dignity. ‘Thank you for a lovely meal.’
He was gone from the room before anyone could stop him. Toin gazed after him compassionately and then looked back at Rory. His expression hardened. ‘Just a quick word before you go, Rory,’ he said rising to his feet and firmly leading the way to the door.
There was silence in the room after the door closed behind the two men and no sound of voices from outside either. Toin must have taken Rory into one of the small side rooms. No doubt, as a briuga, Toin would have had to deal in the past with many quarrelsome young men. Despite the man’s feebleness, Mara felt it would not be right to interfere. There was no doubt in her mind that Toin could manage this situation properly. She herself would have another word with Rory, she promised herself. He was not too clever and if his accusation of Cuan was manufactured then it should be easy to trip him up. If not, it was very serious, but it still proved nothing unless it could be corroborated in some way. No Brehon would convict a man on the bare word of another, especially involving such a serious crime as fingal. She joined Nuala who was inspecting each chess piece and questioning Daire.
‘What about the knight?’ Nuala was fingering the little piece. ‘Who’s that. Oh, I know, it’s you, isn’t it?’
Daire laughed, looking embarrassed, but Nuala was right. There was something about the athletic, squared shoulders that did make it look like Daire.
‘The trouble is that the silver and copper pieces look different,’ continued Nuala. ‘I could see that the copper queen was Mara, but the silver queen didn’t remind me so much of her and the silver knight looks like you, but not the copper knight. He is the dark knight. Perhaps you could have made the pieces look different? Still, I suppose you couldn’t do that for a chess set.’
The Sting of Justice Page 20
