Deed of Murder (13 page)

‘The son of a king,’ said Nuala with an ironic smile. ‘All must obey him. They’re both lovely, Cliona. You must take such care of them.’

‘I wish Cormac was a little fatter – but he gets all that he can take.’ Cliona shot a quick glance at Mara and then back at Nuala.

‘He’s a different build to Art,’ said Nuala knowledgeably. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of training with children in Thomond and it’s surprising how they differ. They all have their own ways of progressing. Cormac looks very healthy to me.’

‘That’s good,’ said Cliona. ‘I’ll take Art away now and let you have time on your own with Cormac.’

‘No, leave him,’ said Mara. ‘You go. We’ll look after both. You deserve a little rest and the two amuse each other.’ As soon as the door closed behind Cliona, she turned away from the little boys and asked the two girls, ‘What did you make of all the recollections of Saturday morning’s hunting that we’ve just heard?’

‘That story of the row going on in the flax garden. That was interesting,’ said Nuala.

‘I didn’t hear that.’ Mara was annoyed with herself. She frowned and then smiled when she saw Cormac look at her alertly. Clever little fellow, he can already read expressions, she thought proudly.

‘You were probably listening to Conor, who was speaking at the same time,’ said Fiona. ‘I found what he said to be the most interesting. Do you think that he really saw someone on the mountain pass with a white pony?’

‘It was probably Eamon leading the pony,’ said Nuala.

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Fiona was so quick to contradict that Mara wondered whether there was a slight rivalry between the two girls. ‘Eamon was wearing a white cloak – and the
bánín
was just the same colour as the pony’s coat. He wouldn’t have stood out against the pony in the same way as someone wearing a coloured cloak, or even a leather jacket.’

‘That makes sense,’ admitted Nuala.

‘The trouble is that Conor then said that he couldn’t remember what colour the cloak was, and by the end of it all, it was hard to know whether he had seen anything at all. He doesn’t seem like a king’s son, does he?’

Mara nodded. She had felt sorry for Turlough. His eldest son, and
tánaiste
– heir – did not look like kingship material. The clan were not happy with him. He had grown out of his earlier delicacy and now looked much stronger, but he was still a shy and diffident young man. She decided to turn the conversation back to the scene on the mountain.

‘Who was talking about a row in the flax gardens?’ asked Mara. She was still annoyed with herself that she had not heard that story. She had been too lost in her concerns about Conor.

‘Just Ulick.’ Nuala’s tone was dismissive.

‘Oh, Ulick!’ Mara was disappointed. Ulick might or might not have heard something going on, but the chances were strong that he had only said that to make mischief.

‘Just Cathal shouting at his son and calling him stupid; that seemed to be about all there was to it. I’ll make a note of everything when I go back to my bedroom,’ said Fiona in a businesslike way. ‘Did you hear anything else, Nuala?’ she asked sweetly.

Nuala shrugged her shoulders. She took down from a high shelf a soft ball made from segments of cloth and stuffed with sheep’s wool and rolled it along the floor. The two babies scrambled after it. Art reached it first, but Cormac took it from him. Art made no protest, but seized the ball between his white new teeth, tugged it out of Cormac’s hand, and set off crawling rapidly with the ball dangling from his mouth. Cormac followed him with a cry of rage.

‘I thought that Donán said something about a tall man coming to the edge of the flax garden and looking up? Did either of you notice that?’ asked Mara.

‘Yes, I did,’ said Nuala turning back from her game with the children. ‘I remember thinking that he probably meant Owney. That’s Cathal’s son,’ she explained to Fiona.

‘Do you know him then, Nuala?’ asked Mara and Nuala smiled broadly.

‘I don’t think there was a Saturday or Sunday for the whole of my childhood when he didn’t turn up at my father’s place wanting doctoring. He was either bleeding, or stunned or with a broken finger or something like that.’

‘My lads admire him immensely. He is supposed to be the best hurler that the Burren has ever fielded,’ said Mara. Nuala’s words had made her think of something.

‘Did your father ever give him any advice about avoiding injury?’ she asked.

‘He kept telling him to stop or he would kill himself,’ said Nuala wryly. ‘I remember telling Owney that I would make something out of leather to protect his head if he would wear it, but he said that he couldn’t because it would slip and get in his way. He begged me not to do it. Didn’t trust my sewing, I suppose.’

‘So you told him that he could be killed by a blow to the head,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘How old were you then, Nuala?’

‘I suppose that it was about four or five years ago,’ said Nuala, thinking back. ‘It was just about the time that the housekeeper kept trying to make me stitch a sampler. I wasn’t very successful at that so I don’t suppose I would have been too good at making a protection for Owney’s head. I must have been about eleven.’

‘I remember you then,’ said Mara with a smile. ‘You told everyone in great detail about what you were studying. I bet that Owney got a lecture on the dangerous places to be hit on the head or even the body.’

‘I suppose so – all long words, too – the longer the better I used to think in those days.’ Nuala stopped, her smile vanished and she didn’t look surprised when Fiona said, ‘If that’s true, then I suppose Owney would know all about the windows to the soul and where was the place to hit if you wanted to kill a man.’

‘He might have remembered.’ Nuala spoke guardedly, her dark eyes wary.

‘Do you remember mentioning things like temporal fossa and occipital fossa and thyroid cartilage to him?’ asked Fiona sharply.

Nuala shrugged. ‘I may have done,’ she said in a casual tone. ‘Mara, now that the king is going to Aran, do you know whether I am going back to Thomond tomorrow? I just came for the christening. I want to get on with my studies.’

‘I’m not sure. I’ll talk to him tonight about you.’

‘It’s just that Seamus MacCraith said that he was riding back tomorrow.’ Nuala shot a quick, questioning and slightly triumphant glance at Fiona as the door opened and Cliona came in.

‘It’s time for them to be fed now or we’ll be having tears soon,’ she said, sitting down on a low chair and allowing the babies to scramble up on to her lap.

‘We’ll go then and leave you in peace,’ said Mara rising to her feet. ‘Nuala, I’ll find out if there is a suitable escort to take you back to Thomond tomorrow. If there isn’t, then it would be lovely to keep you for a week until the king and his entourage get back from Aran.’

What about poor Fachtnan, she thought, as she followed the two girls upstairs. Is either of them wondering where he is and what he is thinking at this moment?

Ten

Bretha Nemed Toísech

(The Laws for Professional People)

For every poem commissioned by a patron the poet should receive a
duas
(fee) depending on his rank and the nature of the composition. He must produce quality; if he doesn’t, he loses his
nemed
status. If the poet is not paid he has the right to satirize his patron.

‘
U
lick has it all planned out. We’re going to go in two
pucán
s. We’ll put most of the men – all of them except the two bodyguards – into one
pucán
and then Ulick, myself, Conor, the O’Brien of Arra, Donán, and Fergal and Conall, of course, into the other one. We’ll have great
craic
altogether.’ Turlough was like a schoolboy planning his boat trip, thought Mara indulgently. He was such a sweet-natured man. He was not fond of either O’Brien or of Donán but he was set to enjoy his holiday and, good-humouredly, would make the time to be a pleasure for all around him.

‘Isn’t a
pucán
a bit small,’ observed Mara idly, her mind on the affair of Eamon. ‘I’d have thought that you would go in a cog or carrack or a hooker. Wouldn’t that be more suitable for a king?’

Turlough’s only answer to that was a hearty laugh so she decided to leave his affairs to him and to go back to her own.

‘Nuala is anxious to go back to Thomond. Is it all young men riding back there tomorrow, or is there anyone suitable to put in charge of her?’ she asked. I sound like an old hen with one chick, she thought wryly, but after Fiona’s escapade she would prefer to be careful. Nuala was very dear to her and, despite her formidable intellect, was, in some ways, just a child.

‘Keep her until next Saturday,’ advised Turlough. ‘Tell her that I will enjoy her company on the ride. Seamus MacCraith is a talented young fellow, but he has a bit of a reputation. The women and most of the others are only going as far as Inchiquin – they’ll spend a few days there and join us on the way back.’

‘I think that Seamus MacCraith is more interested in Fiona than in Nuala,’ said Mara, ‘but you’re right. I’ll be firm with her. Tell her I need her help with my investigation. Turlough, what am I going to do about our little Cormac?’

‘Cormac? You’re not worrying about him, are you? He’s looking great. He grows every time I look at him. Bright little fellow with a will of his own! Loved coming up on my horse, didn’t he?’

‘And threw a tantrum when you took him down!’

Turlough laughed with pleasure. ‘That’s what I mean. Got a great will of his own. You compare him to that pasty-faced son of mine Conor! Our little Cormac is the image of the great Brian Boru himself.’

‘Or Teige the Bone-Splitter,’ said Mara wryly. ‘He’s not going to become a warrior; I plan for him to become a Brehon,’ she said firmly, ‘but he is not a year old and now we have to think what happens next. Cliona wants to go back to her own farm and that is understandable, but now I have to face the decision whether to wean Cormac, find a nursemaid for him. Brigid has too much to do to care for him and . . .’

‘Would Cliona foster him? Take him with her? That would be the best thing for him,’ interrupted Turlough eagerly. ‘He’s getting on so well with her. We could always look for another fosterage when he is a little older, if you think that is not grand enough for him.’

‘She proposed that,’ said Mara. She felt her heart sink. She was not surprised when Turlough said enthusiastically, ‘That’s wonderful. He has his little friend, his little brother. What’s his name? Little Art. They are great friends together. It makes sense, doesn’t it?’

‘It does,’ said Mara.

Turlough was on his way out, but stopped, his attention alerted by something bleak in her tone, she supposed.

‘But you’re not happy with it, is that it? What would you like to do?’

Mara gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m just being stupid,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I don’t seem to see too much of him even as it is. At least, at the moment, I can go in and look at him when he is asleep, or snatch the odd moment . . .’

‘So you’d prefer to have someone in the house, would you?’ queried Turlough anxiously.

Mara thought about it. It might be difficult to get another wet nurse, so Cormac would have to be weaned before he was ready; would, at the same time, have to face a parting between himself, Cliona and his little friend Art.

‘I’m just being stupid. Of course it would be better to leave him with Cliona for another couple of years,’ she said, endeavouring to produce a light laugh. It worked, of course. She knew that it would. Turlough was not the sort of man who looked beneath things. His face cleared instantly.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said heartily. ‘It isn’t as if he will be on the other side of the country – Cliona’s place must be only about five minutes from Cahermacnaghten. Where did you say? Baur North, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ said Mara. ‘Baur North.’ Her son would grow strong in that fertile limestone valley, would play in the flower-studded meadows with his friend and foster-brother, would embrace the curly coated, newborn lambs, help to herd the sheep from field to field, as she had seen other small boys do, lug heavy bales of straw, shut the barn against wolves. He was an active, wilful child. He would not be content to sit in the corner of the schoolhouse with a lump of clay to mould or a piece of cloth to sew as her daughter Sorcha had been. This was the best decision for him. Resolutely, she got to her feet. The customs of Ancient Ireland sanctified it. Good sense applauded it as the best possible of all decisions.

‘I’ll have a word with Cliona now,’ she said.

The sun had moved over into the west by the time that Mara went down the steeply spiralling staircase. As she glanced through the narrow arrow-slit window she could see that the sky over Aran was crimson with streaks of blue and the sea had that evening stillness, which comes before a frosty night. A couple of large, white-sailed boats glided across it, making for the islands, and a solitary seagull, ignoring the boats, scanned the seas near to the coastline.

There was a buzz of conversation from the great hall – peals of laughter, voices raised merrily, an atmosphere of jollity and good-humour that had been a feature of the short holiday at Ballinalacken castle. Mara was glad that it still prevailed, despite the fact that the hostess had been preoccupied with the unexpected and puzzling death of the young lawyer. She was about to join them when she heard a soft sound from behind her.