My Lady Judge (30 page)
‘You remember Mór O’Davoren, Malachy’s wife?’ asked Mara.
‘Yes,’ said Turlough readily. ‘I remember her. She was a beautiful woman. She was sister to the O’Lochlainn, wasn’t she? The sister of Ardal and Donogh O’Lochlainn?’
‘That’s right,’ said Mara. ‘And in a way, that was part of the problem.’
The king frowned and made a quick gesture with his hand. She continued, still speaking slowly and carefully.
‘Mór O’Davoren had a malady in her breast,’ said Mara, looking at him very directly. ‘She had found a lump a long time previously. She told me about it, but she would not tell Malachy. Her own mother had died from a lump in the breast and Mór was convinced that she would die as her mother died. She didn’t want to tell Malachy, she feared he might want to try to cut it out, and then if she died from that operation he would feel that he had taken her life. I tried to persuade her to tell, but she would not. He discovered it himself eventually, but by that time the lump was large and there were more lumps under her arm. She was in terrible pain.’ Mara stopped for a moment, remembering the anguish of husband and wife and the uncomprehending terror of the child, Nuala.
‘Well, she got worse and worse. There was no respite from the pain. Even the poppy juice that Malachy brewed for her had little effect other than to make her mind cloudy and confused. She could not sleep; she could not eat. She was dying slowly and painfully. I came to see her every day. One day when I came she was shrieking with pain, screaming with it. I could hear her as I crossed the fields. Nuala was in the garden crying. She had her hands over her ears, I remember. I pulled her hands down and asked where her father was. “In his still room,” she sobbed. I went into the house and just as I began to open the door to the
still room, Malachy came flying out. He almost knocked me down …’
still room, Malachy came flying out. He almost knocked me down …’
‘And …?’
Mara paused. Had she the right to tell the rest of the story? Could she trust this man with the secret that had lain hidden in her mind for over a year? She looked at him. His florid face was still heavy and dark with suspicion. Then suddenly she understood. He was jealous of Malachy. She had not taken his earlier question seriously. She put her hand on his.
‘Turlough,’ she said earnestly. ‘I would rather resign my position as Brehon of the Burren, and you, of all people, know how much that means to me …’ She stopped for a moment and then continued firmly, ‘I would rather resign than bring shame and sorrow to that child, Nuala.’
‘And her father?’
‘He matters to me, too,’ said Mara boldly, ‘but not in the way that you matter to me.’
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t go on until I get your assurance that what has been a secret to me will remain a secret to you.’
He smiled then. ‘I think you have gone too far now,’ he said. ‘I think I can guess the rest of the story.’
‘You may guess,’ she said, ‘but it will remain just a guess. I’ll say no more until you give me your word.’
He looked at her. There was a struggle on his face. His own good nature, his affection and trust in her, struggled with feelings of jealousy, consciousness of the dignity of his kingship. She waited and she watched until she saw that the struggle had been overcome.
‘Go on,’ he said again, leaning back in his chair. ‘Tell the rest of your story. Your decision, as Brehon of the Burren, stands.’
She nodded gratefully. Her mind went back to the scene that
day at Caherconnell. She shut her eyes for a moment, hoping to make him see what she could never forget.
day at Caherconnell. She shut her eyes for a moment, hoping to make him see what she could never forget.
‘Malachy had a flask in his hand. He rushed past me. I stood for a few minutes there, looking into the still room. I don’t know why I was looking. I think I was just trying to gather up my strength to go and say the right thing to Nuala. I could see the table where Malachy mixes his potions. He had left everything scattered there. The mortar had some black seeds left in the bottom of it and there were even some left on the end of the pestle. There was a small pot there and it was labelled “Digitalis”. I knew the seeds, though, so I hardly needed to read the label. I had helped Nuala to gather them the summer before from the foxgloves in the valley. She had told me all about them.’ Mara stopped as she remembered the eleven-year-old reciting: “The seeds of the foxglove are excellent for the failing heart when given in tiny quantities. It is a medicine to be used with care as it can kill.”’
‘And what did you do?’ asked Turlough.
‘I shut and locked the door of the still room. I put the key in my pouch and I went to Nuala and took her for a long walk down the road towards Clerics’ Pass, and when we got back her mother was dead.’
‘And you didn’t feel that it was a matter Malachy should have acknowledged at Poulnabrone?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said decisively. ‘It could be that the matter would be considered
fingal.
After all, he had killed his kin, his closest relation, his wife. I might have considered it, with his permission, if it were not Ardal O’Lochlainn’s sister who was the victim. Ardal has very firm ideas, very lofty ideas, about right and wrong. It would mean little to him that his sister was released from agonized pain. He is a man who lives by the letter of the law, not by its spirit.’
fingal.
After all, he had killed his kin, his closest relation, his wife. I might have considered it, with his permission, if it were not Ardal O’Lochlainn’s sister who was the victim. Ardal has very firm ideas, very lofty ideas, about right and wrong. It would mean little to him that his sister was released from agonized pain. He is a man who lives by the letter of the law, not by its spirit.’
‘So, how did Colman know?’ asked the king. ‘You say the secret stayed with you. Did you write it down?’
‘No,’ said Mara. Her mind was still with Nuala and Malachy on that day and his question had jolted her. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I never write anything private or secret down. I keep it in my head. Colman …’ She stopped for a moment and reached into her satchel. ‘You see, Colman made this list of cases in the judgement texts at Cahermacnaghten … cases that he could possibly use to blackmail people. He even had the impudence to have my divorce case on his list. He lacked the courage to try anything with me, though.’ She looked at him then and saw a smile pucker the corners of his mouth. He knew about her spectacular divorce; that was obvious. She grinned back at him, but then grew serious again as she thought of the human tragedies in some of those cases. She put the list back into her satchel. She would burn that leaf of vellum tomorrow, she thought.
‘There was one number on that list that puzzled me for a moment, because it wasn’t a judgement text; it was just a yearbook, just the book that is always kept of births, marriages and deaths in the kingdom of the Burren. I looked through it for a while before I guessed. There was nothing there to form a reason for blackmail except that one death. I wondered then whether, because Malachy had been drinking so heavily, he had let something slip, or whether Colman had just guessed.’
‘So that led you to challenge Malachy?’ asked Turlough. Mara said nothing. Her interview with Malachy, after the priest had been taken away, had been painful. The physician had looked so well after all those weeks of suffering the fear of betrayal and the days of guilt for Colman’s death. He had taken it for granted that the priest would be blamed for the murder, also. As a physician, he had been experienced enough to know that the man had fallen into the dark pit of madness and that his word would
never be believed even if he ever managed to climb out of insanity. Malachy had stitched up her wound with a smile on his lips and a ring to his voice. He had even joked about her beauty being spoiled. She had taken a small cup of brandy and had pressed some on him as well and it was only when he was ready to go that she had told him that she knew the truth about the murder of Colman on the night of
Bealtaine
Eve.
never be believed even if he ever managed to climb out of insanity. Malachy had stitched up her wound with a smile on his lips and a ring to his voice. He had even joked about her beauty being spoiled. She had taken a small cup of brandy and had pressed some on him as well and it was only when he was ready to go that she had told him that she knew the truth about the murder of Colman on the night of
Bealtaine
Eve.
He had not begged for mercy. He had listened quietly and bowed his head, but his lips had gone white and his black eyes had appeared sunken into pits on his blanched face.
‘What must I do now?’ he had asked.
‘You must tell the truth to the people of the Burren,’ she had said steadily. ‘This
duinetháide,
this secret and unlawful killing of Colman, must remain a secret no longer.’
duinetháide,
this secret and unlawful killing of Colman, must remain a secret no longer.’
‘If it were not for Nuala, I would have told the bastard to go to hell,’ Malachy had said bitterly. ‘I could not bear the idea of leaving her with neither father nor mother. I am not much of a parent to her, but at least I am here with her, not lying in the graveyard at Kilcorney like her mother. I swear to you that this mattered more to me than my own life. If I were on my own, the O’Lochlainn could have had his revenge for the killing of his sister. They could have put me in a boat with no oars and pushed me out to sea and I would have lain there and given up my life.’
And it was at that moment that Mara had placed her hand in his and had said softly: ‘The killing of Mór was no crime in my eyes, Malachy, and there is no reason why anyone other than you, me, and King Turlough, if you agree to that, should know about it. You will confess to the murder before the people of the kingdom and I will say that blackmail by Colman was the reason for the murder. You will pay the fine to the Lynch family and that will be the end of the matter.’
He had stared at her then and the look of despair struggling
with an emerging gleam of hope had reminded Mara of a sheep she had seen being rescued from a crevasse.
with an emerging gleam of hope had reminded Mara of a sheep she had seen being rescued from a crevasse.
‘What made you finally kill Colman?’ she had asked with sudden curiosity. ‘Presumably he had been blackmailing you for quite some time; I noticed how ill and worried you looked, but you must be a rich man; you could have paid what he asked.’
‘I think it was when I saw him with Hugh’s knife. I realized then that he was blackmailing a child, also.’ He had stopped for a moment, recalling the feelings that had made him go so far from his training and to take a life, rather than restore a life. ‘I had seen him talk with Muiris and with Lorcan and with Father Conglach – it gave him pleasure to extract silver from his victims under the eye of the whole kingdom – I guessed then that he did it for the sense of power, rather than just for the wealth it would bring him. For a moment, I thought that he might go to Nuala and tell her that I had killed her mother, that he would do it no matter how much I gave him to keep him silent. I thought I had to get rid of him so I wrestled the knife from him and stabbed him in the neck. He died instantly.’
Mara was silent, reliving that moment, remembering Malachy’s face and how the little mounds of peat in the fireplace of her house had suddenly collapsed into a heap of soft brown embers. The king’s question jolted her from the past to the present.
‘So, when did you realize first that it was Malachy?’ he asked.
‘I think he was always in my mind; he was always a possibility once I knew that Colman was a blackmailer, and many people had reported seeing him near Wolf’s Lair around the time that the bonfire had been lit. And one small thing, but I found it significant: when he was taking the knife from the body – you remember? – well, he pretended to think that the knife belonged to
Colman. That puzzled me because I felt he must know that it was Hugh’s. He himself remarked on the knife when he saw it in Hugh’s hand when he went into the hazel thicket. There was no mistaking this knife. No one else on the Burren had a knife like that. Malachy himself, of course, had a knife, but unlike most of the Burren, his knife was just a small, sharp surgeon’s knife. No, I guessed it was Malachy, but I had to eliminate the other possibilities from my mind.
Colman. That puzzled me because I felt he must know that it was Hugh’s. He himself remarked on the knife when he saw it in Hugh’s hand when he went into the hazel thicket. There was no mistaking this knife. No one else on the Burren had a knife like that. Malachy himself, of course, had a knife, but unlike most of the Burren, his knife was just a small, sharp surgeon’s knife. No, I guessed it was Malachy, but I had to eliminate the other possibilities from my mind.
‘Of course, I should have known as soon as I had seen the wound that day on the hillside. You see, the back of the neck is one of what Brehon law calls “the twelve doors of the soul” – places in the body where death is instant after even a trivial injury. Only a physician, or a lawyer, would have known that inserting a knife there in the back of the neck would result in no spurt of blood to incriminate him, yet instant death. I should have thought of Malachy then, but I was shaken and confused, and, I suppose, filled with guilt about Colman, that I had not saved him by realizing earlier that he was blackmailing the people of the Burren.’
She reached forward and held out her silver cup. She would not discuss the other possibilities with him, she decided. Muiris’s past was his own affair. She had considered him – the matter of his past was serious and might have interfered with his plans for Felim’s wedding to the daughter of a
taoiseach –
but would he have used Hugh’s fancy knife or would he have been more likely to use his own? She had thought of that when Ardal O’Lochlainn had produced his knife and it had struck her then that most of the people on the Burren had a far more effective knife than Hugh’s close to hand, permanently living on their belt or in their pouch. The exception was Malachy. His knife would be with his other surgical tools. She remembered seeing it when Nuala had opened the medical satchel that day on the side of Mullaghmore Mountain.
taoiseach –
but would he have used Hugh’s fancy knife or would he have been more likely to use his own? She had thought of that when Ardal O’Lochlainn had produced his knife and it had struck her then that most of the people on the Burren had a far more effective knife than Hugh’s close to hand, permanently living on their belt or in their pouch. The exception was Malachy. His knife would be with his other surgical tools. She remembered seeing it when Nuala had opened the medical satchel that day on the side of Mullaghmore Mountain.
‘And no one at Poulnabrone questioned your decision or enquired about the blackmail?’
‘No,’ said Mara, surprised. ‘No one ever does question my decision! Several people made a point of going up to speak to Malachy afterwards. The people of the Burren trust me.’
‘You are very loved there,’ said the king thoughtfully.
Mara bowed her head and looked steadily into the fire. She recognized the change in his voice and knew there was to be no more talk about the murder: now he would talk of himself and now she would have to make her decision.
‘I can understand that,’ went on the king. ‘I love you very much also. Have you been thinking about what I offered? Would you make me a very happy man and come here to Thomond to be my wife?’
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