Eye of the Law

by Cora Harrison

  Mara turned to look at her with an attentive air as she shook her head in response. She only half-listened to the plans, the wedding day on Easter Sunday, the gown that the best dressmaker in Galway was making, the feast that they would hold where they would introduce Caireen’s friends and relations from Galway to her new friends and relations on the Burren. There was something that she could not warm to about this woman. Perhaps it was the very tight mouth, unexpected in a face so dimpled and so full of curves. Or perhaps it was the coldness of the watery blue eyes. From a distance Caireen had a comfortable, motherly look, the ideal woman, perhaps, for Malachy, with his motherless daughter, to marry, and yet it was a strange choice, thought Mara, thinking back to Malachy’s first wife, the finely drawn, very beautiful Mór with her red-gold hair, her very white skin and her wonderful gift for poetry. Malachy had worshipped her and had broken his heart when she died of a lump in the breast before her thirtieth birthday.

  ‘Which of these two big boys is Fachtnan?’ Caireen was staring with interest at the golden-haired, handsome Enda.

  ‘The dark-haired one,’ said Mara briefly.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Caireen didn’t seem to be too disappointed. ‘A little bird told me that he and my little Nuala have an understanding.’

  ‘Understanding about what?’ asked Mara blandly, thinking to herself that she sounded like Aidan in one of his more obtuse moods.

  Caireen gave a forced laugh, but didn’t seem able to come up with a reply to this.

  ‘Fachtnan, Fachtnan,’ she called in her high, shrill voice. ‘Fachtnan, come and have a little chat with me. I’ll leave you to look after your other charges, Mara,’ she said sweetly with a meaningful glance to where Moylan was trying to push Aidan into a muddy puddle.

  For such a plump woman she could walk at quite a pace. Mara ignored Aidan and Moylan, but was soon forced by the speed of Caireen’s rapid strides to drop back a little. The ground was uneven and her pregnancy made her wary of forcing her pace. She could still hear fairly well though. Caireen was cross-questioning Fachtnan about his father, the size of his father’s farm, the number of brothers in the family, and his future hopes as a lawyer. She even knew about Fachtnan’s uncle, the Brehon at Oriel. No doubt, she was vetting Fachtnan’s suitability as a spouse for Nuala, but Mara felt infuriated. What business was it of Caireen? she asked herself with gritted teeth. She’s not even married to Malachy yet.

  She looked around. Enda was kicking a stone in an idle way. He had grown beyond the simple horseplay games of the sort that Moylan and Aidan indulged in. He and Fachtnan had paired off very firmly in the last year. At her glance he now came up and joined her.

  ‘Just go and catch up with Fachtnan,’ she said to him urgently. ‘That woman is giving him a hard time and you know Fachtnan – he’ll be too polite to tell her to mind her own business.’

  Enda gave her a quick, amused smile and lengthened his stride.

  ‘You don’t mind if I join you, mistress?’ His tone was of a polished man-about-town. ‘The Brehon told us that you lived at Galway with your late husband, the physician. You must have met some very interesting people there.’

  Malachy’s house, at Caherconnell, was a handsome two-storey house set within the rounded enclosure wall of an old cathair. A comfortable house, but not large: certainly not large enough for two families. It was surrounded by a flourishing herb garden, full of all the plants that Malachy used for making his medicines.

  Mara looked carefully around to see if Nuala was there. Although the garden was probably centuries old, when she had known it first it had been a ramshackle place where sturdy herbs battled it out with invading weeds. But Nuala had made the place her own, working long hours, weeding, pruning, ordering the beds of trim plants. Mara had expected to find her working here, but the garden was empty.

  When they went in, Nuala was lolling listlessly on a window seat, drawing some old scroll through her fingers, but looking fixedly into the distance. When she saw Mara her eyes brightened and she came forward in her usual impulsive way, and then when Caireen stretched out a motherly arm, she took an abrupt step backwards. She was a pretty girl, not yet fifteen, but well grown and tall. Her colouring came from her father, dark-brown eyes, black hair and an olive skin that still bore traces of last summer’s tan, but her brains came from her mother’s side of the family. Nuala was immensely intelligent, and immensely knowledgeable about all medical matters. Already people of the Burren were beginning to avoid the father and seek out his daughter. There were no signs of Caireen’s sons, but that was just as well; Enda, Fachtnan and the others were friendly boys and would have been sociable to them, and Nuala, in her present mood, might have found that hard to bear.

  ‘Are your sons not here today?’ asked Mara in a friendly way.

  Caireen shook her head. ‘You know what boys are like,’ she said coyly, peeping at Malachy in a roguish way. ‘They like a bit of fun. This place is quiet for them.’

  ‘So they won’t live here then when you are married.’ Mara kept her voice light and innocent and saw Nuala turn her head and look at Caireen for the first time.

  Caireen’s voice hardened. ‘Certainly they will live here. Where else would they live except with their mother? The youngest is the same age as Nuala here. Now, cheer up, child,’ she addressed Nuala in a patronising way. ‘I know you miss the lively company, but there are some other friends coming to amuse you, so you won’t be alone for the rest of the day. My lads will be back this evening for supper. They promised they would do that.’

  ‘Fachtnan and the others are just coming. Go out and meet them, Nuala, will you?’ suggested Mara hurriedly. She was afraid that Nuala might explode; the quicker she was out of the room, the better.

  ‘Well, I’ll go and see how the dinner is getting on.’ Caireen took off her elaborate, stiff head covering and examined herself complacently in the silver mirror by the window.

  ‘Come into the stillroom with me, Mara, and we’ll leave this room for the youngsters.’ Malachy sounded guilty and his bride-to-be, on her way out, sent a suspicious glance from him to Mara, but then smiled sweetly and forgivingly.

  ‘Yes, you entertain your cousin, Malachy.’ The strong emphasis on the word cousin made Mara tighten her lips to avert an amused grin. The fact that she was actually married to Turlough Donn O’Brien, king of three kingdoms, did not seem enough to stop Caireen being jealous that Malachy would spend time with another woman.

  The stillroom was a small, dimly lit room at the back of the house. It was hung with fragrant drying herbs and the shelves, that lined the wall, were filled with flasks and jars all labelled in Malachy’s untidy scrawl. Some shavings of a white root were drying in one shallow dish and there were some fat white seeds in another. An iron brazier, burning lumps of charcoal, stood in the middle of the floor and a pot bubbled with some garlic-smelling mixture.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Malachy, pulling out a chair. As she sat heavily, her stomach slightly protruding, he added hastily, ‘How are you? The child doesn’t cause you too much distress, does it? You should probably be resting.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Mara briefly. And then, being a woman who disliked beating about the bush, she said abruptly, ‘What’s the problem with Nuala then, Malachy?’

  Malachy spread his broad, well-cared-for hands in a gesture that Mara found slightly irritatingly.

  ‘What isn’t,’ he said with a sigh.

  ‘If she were my daughter,’ stated Mara with emphasis, ‘I would be extremely proud of her.’

  Malachy blinked. He looked quite taken aback. Mara surveyed him with satisfaction. She said no more. It was for him to make the next move.

  ‘You see she and Caireen don’t get on as well as I would have hoped. There seems to be some problem between them,’ he said in the voice of one who explains everything.

  Mara still said nothing. It seemed eminently reasonable to her that there was a problem between the stupid Caireen and the eminently intelligent Nuala. But
that was Malachy’s affair. After all, he was the one who chose Caireen.

  ‘Caireen is being very good about it all.’ His voice was slightly uncertain as he eyed Mara. ‘She understands that Nuala is going through a difficult time in her life. But of course there is a limit and I think we have reached it.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mara injected a note of query into the monosyllable.

  ‘I must say that I am losing patience with her, also. Nuala could make some effort. She’s so, so . . . well, it’s a terrible thing for me to say about my own daughter, but there are times when she just seems to be sneering at Caireen.’

  ‘Really!’ Mara hoped that Malachy would think that she was shocked, and not recognize the note of amusement in her voice.

  Obviously he didn’t as he nodded gravely and repeated, ‘Yes, just because Caireen told her that if you find a plant that looks like a disease, then that plant will be the cure for the disease . . .’ He stopped as if unable to find the words to express his horror at his daughter’s conduct.

  ‘But Nuala didn’t believe that, did she?’ Surely even Malachy, who was not too bright, didn’t believe nonsense like that himself. If he did, it was just as well that she had not bothered to consult him about her baby.

  Malachy nodded solemnly. ‘There’s no harm in having opinions,’ he said pompously, ‘but she should keep those opinions to herself when someone older than she expresses them, but she didn’t. Not only that, but she kept sneering at Caireen all day, calling her attention to plants and shouting things like: “Look, Caireen, there’s a pimpernel. Do you think it would be good for stopping bleeding since it’s coloured red?” and that’s another thing too.’ Malachy was obviously determined to get everything off his chest. ‘She calls her Caireen even though Caireen has invited her to call her mother.’

  At that last statement, Mara ceased to feel amused and began to feel annoyed. ‘I don’t think that you realize how much Nuala’s mother meant to her, Malachy,’ she said evenly. ‘I would not say that there was any possibility that Caireen could take Mór’s place in Nuala’s heart.’

  To her surprise, Malachy nodded solemnly. ‘You’re right, Mara, I’ve come to the same conclusion, and I think there is only one thing to be done.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Mara eyed him with interest. Could Malachy be getting tired of that stupid Caireen and was going to use the excuse of Nuala in order to finish the relationship?

  ‘I’ve been talking to the O’Lochlainn about the problem and he came up with a solution.’

  Mara smiled, though she was slightly disappointed. She had hoped that Malachy had been about to say that Caireen and he had decided to part. ‘Ardal usually has a solution; he has a neat and tidy mind,’ she said amiably.

  Did Ardal also have a solution to the arrival of the young man from Aran? she wondered briefly and then turned her attention back to Malachy and his problems.

  ‘Yes, Ardal’s been very helpful. He suggested that it was not a good idea for Caireen and Nuala to live in the same house. He offered to take on the guardianship of Nuala. She would live with him until such time as a suitable marriage could be arranged for her.’

  ‘Have you talked to Nuala about this?’ It was, thought Mara, a possible solution but not a good one. Malachy was not just Nuala’s father, her only parent; he was also her master, her instructor in the profession of medicine. If Nuala were to live with Ardal at Lissylisheen, then she would no longer be involved in to the day-to-day medical problems of the people of the Burren. She would be forced out of her heritage and Caireen’s boys would take her place as apprentices to Malachy.

  ‘Not yet.’ Malachy’s answer was brief and it was obvious that he had more to say. ‘You see, it will solve lots of problems. I’m not a well-off man. I’ve been a bit worried about arranging a marriage for Nuala as I would not have cows, and not much silver to endow her with.’

  That was true, thought Mara. Malachy, unlike she herself, did not own a farm. Mostly the people of the Burren would pay for his services with some goods such as a chicken for the pot, milk, a piece of beef, only occasionally would silver change hands.

  ‘So Ardal has promised to take it upon himself to arrange Nuala’s marriage and to endow her from his own funds?’ asked Mara. In some ways it was a suitable arrangement as Ardal was wealthy and unmarried and Nuala was the daughter of his much-loved, much-mourned sister.

  ‘That’s right – but on one condition. She must give up this idea of being a physician.’

  ‘I don’t think she will ever want to do that.’ Mara’s voice hardened.

  ‘I had hoped that you might talk with her, might persuade her.’

  ‘You’ve chosen the wrong person for that errand.’ Mara’s voice was blunt. ‘Why do you think that I could persuade her of that – even if I wanted to?’

  ‘Well, you have a lot of influence with her – she admires you.’

  ‘She also knows that I have followed my profession, that I allowed nothing to stand in my way.’

  There was silence for a moment. Mara could see Malachy turning things over in his head. Eventually he sighed.

  ‘You don’t think it will work, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Mara decided to say no more. Surely the man had enough intelligence to see that for himself. She scanned his face carefully. His dark eyes were fixed on the table before him, but his mouth wore a stubborn, tight-lipped expression. His fist opened and closed a few times, and then without warning, he crashed it down on the board.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ he said explosively. ‘I’m not going to give up everything now. I have a right to a little happiness in my life. Nuala has her own life ahead of her. I just can’t afford to endower her now. It will have to be Ardal who takes care of that and his price is that Nuala goes to live with him, gives up the idea of being a physician and that he will be responsible for her marriage.’

  Was he really that short of silver? thought Mara. He had said nothing about that last year when he was trying to arrange a betrothal between Nuala and Naoise O’Lochlainn. She eyed him closely and saw him flush under her gaze.

  ‘It’s just that Caireen feels that we will have to build on to this house,’ he said hurriedly. ‘It’s certainly not big enough for the two of us, and all the boys. And, of course, Caireen will bring her servants with her.’

  He had not mentioned his daughter, noticed Mara. It seemed as if Caireen’s servants were of more importance to him than his own daughter.

  ‘What about Nuala’s inheritance?’ she asked suddenly. She had forgotten about that. ‘Surely she is well endowed enough of her own right. You do not need to make provision for her.’

  Malachy’s swarthy complexion reddened. He looked into her enquiring eyes with a show of bravado.

  ‘Nuala is subject to me,’ he blustered. ‘That property at Rathborney is mine to use for her benefit. Ardal has agreed to take her into his care and in return I plan to sell that property and use the silver to extend my own property here at Caherconnell. I have to make provision, not just for Caireen and myself and for any child which we may have, but also for Caireen’s sons whom she has entrusted to my care.’

  ‘What!’ Mara stared at him open-mouthed. ‘You are going to rob Nuala of her property in order to endow Caireen and her sons!’

  ‘Ardal is happy to look after her and to endow her so she won’t need it.’ Malachy had turned from belligerent to sullen.

  ‘May I ask when this was discussed between you both?’ Her tone was icy and Malachy squirmed uncomfortably, picking up the heavy pestle that he used to crush seeds and weighing it in his hands.

  ‘Three or four weeks ago,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I see. Before the man from Aran turned up. Before Iarla came with his claim to be Ardal’s son, and thus his heir.’

  ‘Well, of course,’ said Malachy hastily, ‘if that had turned out to be true, then I would have had to think again.’

  ‘No one knows whether the claim was true or not,’ said Mara evenly. ‘I ma
y have been able to find out eventually, but Iarla was murdered before I could make my enquiries. Someone could not wait. There was someone who could not run the risk that this young man would take his place as heir to Ardal O’Lochlainn, that’s the way that I read this murder.’

  Malachy stared at her; his face had suddenly lost its colour and showed sallow by the thin light from his candle. He said nothing though. She waited for a moment, eyeing him sternly. There was a tense silence between them and it was only broken when the door suddenly swung open and in bounced Caireen.

  ‘So there you are,’ she scolded. ‘What are the two of you up to sitting here in the dark?’ There was a thread of insinuation beneath the layer of teasing and Mara stared at her with dislike.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come in, Caireen,’ she said. ‘Just close the door, will you, and come and sit down here?’ Mara indicated a stool and waited until Caireen, looking slightly taken aback, had followed her instructions.

  ‘I’d just like to get something straight.’ Mara spoke with due solemnity. ‘The house and farm at Rathborney does not belong to you, Malachy. I myself drew up the will that gave Nuala her property. The king himself was present on that occasion. This property is for her and for her alone. Malachy’s only role is in helping her to manage and safeguard the farm and the house. I feel personally responsible for making sure that the property is passed on, intact, to Nuala on her sixteenth birthday, or on her marriage day, whichever comes first. You must make whatever arrangements you choose for the expansion of your own house and for the conduct of your own business.’ She took her eyes away from Caireen and looked directly at Malachy. She could see from his furtive, guilty expression that, while he read the implacable resolution in her eyes, he was still trying to find some way around this dilemma, some means of using Nuala’s inheritance to fund his own new lifestyle.