The Sting of Justice

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Well, my dear Brehon,’ he said smiling amiably, ‘I must congratulate you; I hear you have solved the case of the silversmith’s death.’

  ‘Really!’ Mara raised a reproving eyebrow at him, but Ulick was incorrigible.

  ‘So it was Rory all along.’ His light, slightly high-pitched voice seemed to carry around the yard. Several men stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. ‘I must say that I suspected him from the start and now he’s fled to France. What a shame! Still he would not have been able to pay the fine, would he? Perhaps Cuan could have had him as a slave. What do you think about that, Brehon?’

  ‘I suspect that you are calling my attention to Rory because you wish to distract my attention from another person.’ Mara stopped and looked at him keenly. Suddenly the easy-going, slightly effete, man-of-the-world mask had slipped and it was a warrior’s eyes that confronted her own.

  ‘Ulick’s the best companion in the world until you cross him, and then, God help you,’ Turlough had said once, but Mara didn’t care. Her eyes met his steadily and Ulick was the first to look away.

  He leaped lithely onto his horse and, without any farewells, followed the king’s servants through the gate as Daire came towards Mara.

  ‘You’re looking very fine today.’ Mara gave Daire a friendly smile, as he helped her to dismount from her horse. She wondered whether Deirdre was going to come over to greet her, but then turned her full attention to Daire. He was indeed looking very well dressed, and in Gaelic rather than English-style garments. He was wearing a pale blue léine and a mantle chequered in squares of blue and purple. An elaborate silver torc was around his muscular neck and the mantle was fastened with a large silver brooch.

  ‘Where are you off to, then? Not to Poulnabrucky, by any chance?’ she asked teasingly.

  He flushed, but then smiled in return. ‘Muiris invited me over there to spend the night. Apparently there is going to be a big hunting expedition on Aillwee Mountain tomorrow morning at dawn.’

  ‘I hope the weather is kind and that you have a wonderful time,’ said Mara heartily. It looked as if there would be full approval from the father of the girl, and the girl herself had seemed to be hanging on Daire’s arm when Mara had seen her last at the hunt for Rory yesterday evening. So much had changed for this handsome young man since the death of Sorley. But did that mean that he had a hand in it? No, she thought, it’s fairly unlikely. After all, he couldn’t know that things were going to turn out so well for him. If Una had been left mistress of Newtown Castle and of the mine and the silversmith business, then his position would probably have remained unchanged. Una would have been as likely as her father to exploit the young man’s talent. Cuan would have had no spirit, no will-power to change anything. Deirdre had been kinder but it could never have been predicted that Deirdre would just walk back into the castle as if she had never left it. No, Mara decided with a sense of relief: this young man, at least, can be put from my mind. With a last smile and wave, she turned to walk across to the mistress of the house.

  Deirdre now came forward with a few murmured words of welcome. She was even more richly dressed than on the last occasion when Mara had seen her. She flashed in the watery sunlight with silver brooches pinned on every possible spot of her gown and mantle and her work-worn fingers were laden with silver rings.

  ‘I was hoping to meet Cuan here, Deirdre,’ said Mara. ‘I went up to see him at his farm and told him that I thought he should take up his rightful place at Newtown Castle. I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to live up there on the side of the mountain, do you?’ Her voice was easy, chatty, a one-mother-to-another-mother tone. The last thing she wanted was for Deirdre to feel that the Brehon was interfering in private family matters.

  ‘He’s not here.’ Deirdre seemed taken aback and uncertain.

  ‘Perhaps he’s still with Toin, then,’ said Mara. ‘My farm manager, Cumhal, told me that he heard, when he passed through Rathborney this morning, that Cuan was with the briuga.’

  ‘I think he might be there,’ said Deirdre cautiously.

  ‘Would it be possible to send a servant to fetch him?’

  Deirdre thought about that for a moment. Her heavy face betrayed no emotion, but her eyes were intelligent and when she spoke her voice was resolute. ‘I’ll go myself; it will be best that way.’ She called an order to a servant who came running with a heavy fur-lined mantle held carefully in her hands, and then Deirdre turned to Mara. ‘Ciara will take you up to Una; she will entertain you until we get back.’ She shrugged on the mantle and then turned to speak in a low tone to the girl. Orders were given for refreshments in a decisive clear way. There was no doubt that Deirdre could manage this house, and probably the business, with no problems.

  But what about Una? Where did that leave her?

  Una was sitting by the western window of the hall. Her embroidery frame was beside her and she continued to stitch even after the girl had announced Mara.

  ‘Shall I sit here beside you?’ Mara took a chair and bent to look at the work and then gave a gasp of surprise. The picture was of a beautiful girl, sitting on a grass seat in a garden and beside her was a young man strumming a zither. And the man was the living image of Rory. Everything was right. The blue eyes, the red-gold hair, the slim figure, even the clothes that the youth in the picture was wearing were identical to those that Rory wore when Mara had visited Newtown Castle on the day before Sorley’s death.

  Una followed her eyes with a malicious grin, but said nothing until Mara blurted out, ‘But that’s Rory! How marvellously you have captured the likeness. How did you do it? It seems amazing to be able to paint an exact portrait just with some pieces of embroidery silks.’

  Una gave a harsh laugh, and short, explosive bark of amusement. ‘I’m afraid that you credit me with too many powers, Brehon,’ she said. ‘Embroidery takes longer than you might think. I first saw Rory the bard about three or four weeks ago. He came here to sing at a banquet held for some noble lords and silversmiths from Galway. I had been working on this tapestry since last year and it was almost completed then.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara, but she was puzzled not so much at the resemblance now – she herself had often thought that Rory looked like a picture from an ancient tale – but more because of the intense bitterness with which the woman spoke.

  ‘Yes,’ said Una, carefully outlining a daisy on the grassy sward at the lover’s feet. ‘You are not the only one to see the resemblance. My father’s guests that evening made much sport about the likeness between the bard and my tapestry picture.’

  She filled in a daisy petal with tiny precise stitches before adding thoughtfully, ‘It was a very successful banquet: my father sold many valuable pieces of silver that night. He poured the wine unsparingly and high prices were paid, but,’ she paused to pick out a pair of tiny silver shears from the basket at her feet, before continuing, ‘despite all of his efforts he had not managed to sell me too by the end of the night. That’s probably when he first began to think of bribing Rory the bard to marry me.’ And then she set her lips and snipped the thread decisively.

  ‘Why?’ Mara put the question bluntly.

  Una looked up at her with surprise. ‘Why?’ she echoed.

  ‘Yes, I would have thought you were useful to him, here at Newtown Castle. He could leave everything in your care when he was in Galway, you looked after the house, the mine, you even did some of the smith’s work, I understand. I would have thought that he would want to keep you.’

  ‘That was in the bargain,’ said Una, carefully threading some yellow silk through the tiny eye of her needle. ‘We were both to live here, Rory was to father a child on me – I think, though I was not told this, that the bargain was that, if the child were a healthy boy, there would be no obstacle to Rory obtaining a divorce if he wished, and no doubt he would leave with a substantial sum of silver in his satchel. ‘You see,’ she said, stitching the tiny centre of the daisy with a knot of the yellow silk,
‘my father was desperate for an acceptable male heir; his own son was not worthy.’

  ‘And yet you say that your father made a will leaving everything to you.’

  ‘That was my price,’ said Una calmly. ‘I made that very clear to my father. He knew me better than to try to trick me. And the will was made, Brehon, I can assure you of that. It was made in this very room, in my presence and when it had been signed and sealed I took it and locked it into a chest. I refused to sign the betrothal contract until I had checked through the will. My mistake was’, she spoke calmly and dispassionately, ‘not to realize that my mother had kept her bunch of keys after all those years.’

  ‘And what about the betrothal contract between you and Rory?’ And then as, for the first time, Una hesitated, Mara said sharply, ‘Don’t deny that there was one.’

  Una carefully snipped the end of the yellow silk, put shears and needle back in their places and closed the lid of the basket. It was as if she were getting ready for battle.

  ‘I had no interest in the betrothal contract – my father probably put it straight into his own chest that night.’

  ‘But it wasn’t there when we looked after his death?’

  ‘No,’ said Una. ‘Like the will, it had disappeared.’ Her eyes moved over towards the fire of pinewood burning noisily in the chimney hearth. Like mother, like daughter, thought Mara, both quick-witted and ruthless. There was little doubt in her mind that the betrothal contract had been burned by Una just as soon as Sorley’s dead body had been carried back to Newtown Castle.

  ‘Did Rory have a copy of that contract?’ she asked and then quickly added before a denial could be uttered, ‘It would be customary.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Una shrugged her heavy shoulders. ‘I don’t remember anything about that.’

  ‘And if so, then he would be within his rights to demand that the contract be fulfilled.’ Did Rory know his rights, wondered Mara. He was not a particularly clever young man. From the smug expression on Una’s face it didn’t look as if he had demanded a copy of the betrothal contract.

  Una shrugged her shoulders again.

  ‘Well, he appears to have disappeared, now,’ she said indifferently.

  ‘As you say,’ said Mara clearly and distinctly, ‘Rory has now disappeared.’ For a long moment she held the eyes of Rory’s betrothed.

  Una got to her feet and went towards the door. ‘I think they are bringing you some refreshments now,’ she said with the air of one who wishes to finish the conversation, as she flung the door open.

  It was the maidservant with a well-furnished silver tray, but behind her was Deirdre, followed by her son, Cuan. Quick and efficient, thought Mara, noting that Cuan was once again washed and well dressed. Toin’s kindness and patience with this awkward young man seemed endless.

  ‘I’ll take that.’ Una took the tray, brought it in, placed it on the table, but made no effort to invite anyone to partake of the cakes and small glasses of wine. She stood and glared at her brother, but waited until the door was closed before saying anything.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she snapped then, looking him up and down.

  He flinched and, though still irritated by his bad manners and surly behaviour, Mara felt herself, once again, sorry for the boy. She remembered Toin’s thoughtful estimate of him; Cuan did indeed look like a dog that had been savagely mistreated from his early days.

  ‘Sit down, Cuan,’ she said, ignoring Una. She took him by the hand and led him over to a cushioned bench by the fire. ‘Deirdre, could you sit beside him, and Una,’ quickly she dragged over a chair to place beside another, already in position in the favoured place beside the fire, and completed the semicircle, ‘you sit here.’ She waited until everyone had obeyed her instructions, but then began to talk quickly, anxious that no irredeemable insult should be offered.

  ‘I’ve just been chatting to Una while we were waiting for you to arrive, Cuan,’ said Mara in an easy conversational tone. Carelessly she leaned across, picked out a small round pine log from the basket by the hearth and threw it on the crackling fire. Not one person relaxed, however, nor moved a muscle. Mara, after the one quick glance, kept her eyes on the fire.

  ‘The position is,’ she continued, ‘though Sorley may have made a will, none can be found so the disposal of his goods goes according to the law.’

  She put on another log and then looked around. Deirdre, one beringed hand folded within the other, gazed thoughtfully at the burning firewood, Cuan’s chin was sunken upon his chest and Una watched Mara as a man watches another across the length of two crossed swords.

  ‘These are the facts,’ said Mara, speaking slowly and carefully with her eyes now on Cuan’s downcast face, ‘Sorley Skerrett was a silversmith from Galway, with, at the time of his death, his principal place of residence here in the kingdom of the Burren. He left no will.’ Una snorted contemptuously, but didn’t interrupt and Mara continued smoothly. ‘Sorley was not a member of any clan: his wealth was the result of personal exertions; he could, if he had wished, will his property where he pleased, but as there is no will available, therefore the land, houses and property owned by Sorley, including the mine on that land, go to his only son, Cuan.’

  Deirdre looked at Una with a gleam of triumph in her pale eyes, but Cuan himself showed no interest.

  Mara waited a moment, and then continued. ‘His daughter, Una, has been left with no provision although if I were advising Sorley Skerrett and helping him to draw up a just and equitable will, I would have recommended that she should receive one-quarter of what is termed moveable property, furniture, household fittings, and,’ Mara’s eyes went to the glittering array of silverware on every table and window seat in the room, ‘of course, this would include the objects made from silver in the house and in the workshop.’ There was a silence when she finished. Neither Cuan nor Una showed any emotion. Mara turned her eyes towards the mother.

  ‘I have not dealt with the position of Deirdre, who was divorced by Sorley. There were certain irregularities about the procedure that lead me to say that this case should be heard at Poulnabrone and since it involves the work of the now deceased Brehon of Kinvarra, then I feel that three Brehons should hear this matter so I shall ask the Brehon from Corcomroe and the Brehon from Thomond to sit with me on this case. Would that be acceptable to you, Deirdre?’

  Deirdre considered the matter for a moment, staring steadily into the fire.

  ‘Leave things as they are,’ she said eventually. ‘There’s no sense in raking over old stories.’

  ‘If that’s what you feel,’ said Mara briskly, ‘then I won’t proceed against your wishes. You may wish to think about this matter and come back to me at a later date. Now is there anything else that I can explain to you? Please ask me any question that occurs to you.’

  Una broke the silence. ‘You have explained the law very clearly to us, Brehon, and I’m sure that we all understand the position. But perhaps you can explain this to me now.’ She paused and looked at her brother. There was no trace of affection or pity in her glance. ‘What happens,’ she said with heavy emphasis, ‘when the son who inherits has ensured his inheritance by murdering his father?’

  Mara glanced at Cuan. He reddened, but said nothing.

  ‘I think, Cuan,’ she said kindly, ‘you should reply to that accusation. Take your time and reply slowly and carefully. A simple yes or no will suffice.’

  Cuan clenched his fists, but Deirdre put a hand on his arm and he relaxed. They would get on all right, mother and son, if Una were removed from the scene, thought Mara.

  ‘No,’ said Cuan. ‘I did not kill my father. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mara with an approving nod. ‘Now Una, you’ve made an accusation; what are your grounds for saying this?’

  ‘He was seen by the bard, Rory,’ said Una vehemently. ‘He was seen dodging …’ she broke off and then continued in an exasperated manner, ‘but you know all of this. You were present last Wedn
esday at Toin’s supper when Rory told what he had seen.’

  ‘Tell me again,’ encouraged Mara. ‘I hear many things and my mind is not as young as it used to be.’

  ‘He told you that he saw Cuan hiding behind the wall just before Sorley was murdered. He told you that it looked like someone was ducking down behind the wall, trying not to be seen. And he told you that Cuan had a stick in his hand.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mara. She looked at Una with a half-smile. ‘Now I remember. But how do you know what happened at Toin’s supper? Have you seen Rory since?’

  ‘No.’ Una hesitated for a moment and then rallied. ‘I heard what happened,’ she said briefly.

  ‘From whom?’

  Una shrugged. ‘Servants’ gossip.’

  I doubt it, thought Mara. Toin would not have said anything. The servants were all in the separate kitchen house when the row broke out. They would have known that Cuan had stormed out and not waited to stay the night as expected, but they would not have heard the exact words of the quarrel.

  ‘So, did you and Rory discuss this matter, arrange it beforehand?’ she suggested. ‘It was perhaps agreed between you that he should make the accusation.’ She looked keenly at Una and Una stared defiantly back.