Read The Sting of Justice Online
Authors: Cora Harrison
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective
The Sting of Justice (4 page)
‘Easily done,’ said Sorley, sitting down again. ‘In fact, if anything I may have underestimated the value of the goods.’ He smiled the smile of a fat man, his eyes almost disappearing into the mounds of flesh. No doubt, he was running through a mental list of silver merchants who would be happy to oblige him.
‘And now, I think I must leave you,’ murmured Mara rising to her feet. ‘I have a busy day tomorrow and will have to rise early. She looked towards Turlough; he had to be back in Thomond that night, but they would ride home together.
‘Daire will show you downstairs and make sure that your horse is ready, Brehon,’ said Sorley ringing a silver bell with alacrity. ‘My lord,’ he turned to Turlough, ‘there
is just one more little piece of business that I must detain you with. He will be down instantly, Brehon.’
is just one more little piece of business that I must detain you with. He will be down instantly, Brehon.’
‘Daire, why are you still an apprentice? Haven’t you served the full seven years?’ This matter had been puzzling Mara through the evening, and while they waited by the fire in the gatehouse she thought she would bring it up. She knew enough about English law to know that there were strict rules about the length of an apprenticeship.
‘I have served my seven years,’ said Daire bitterly, ‘but I can’t become a silversmith until my master says that I am sufficiently skilled.’
‘I see.’ It’s none of my business, thought Mara, and then instantly changed her mind. Injustice was her business. ‘You made that chess set, didn’t you?’ She eyed him keenly by the light of the pitch torch and he nodded reluctantly.
‘But he wants to retain you?’ This would suit with what she knew of Sorley’s character.
‘That and …’ Daire hesitated for a moment, his eyes on the doorway. ‘ … he wanted me to marry his daughter.’ The gatekeeper had gone across to the stableman and was admiring the horses; nevertheless, Daire sunk his voice to a low murmur.
‘Why does …’ Mara’s astonished voice died away at the sound of an anguished yell.
The gates to the roadway had been opened in preparation for the king and Brehon’s departure. A thin ragged figure had stolen in. He was dressed in a torn, stained
léine
and his hair was ragged and untrimmed and falling over his face. As he turned his face to hers she could see that he was
not much more than a boy, about the same age as her eldest scholars, she reckoned or even younger. It looked as if tearstains had run down through the dirt on his cheeks, bristly with adolescent fluff.
léine
and his hair was ragged and untrimmed and falling over his face. As he turned his face to hers she could see that he was
not much more than a boy, about the same age as her eldest scholars, she reckoned or even younger. It looked as if tearstains had run down through the dirt on his cheeks, bristly with adolescent fluff.
‘Cuan, it’s no good.’ Daire’s words were compassionate, but the porter who had run over had no compunction.
‘Get out of there! Stop hanging around here!’ he said, aiming a kick at the boy.
‘Stop!’ the quiet authority in Mara’s voice made the man step back.
‘I’m only following orders, Brehon,’ he muttered.
‘Who is this?’ asked Mara.
‘This is my master’s son, Brehon,’ said Daire quietly. ‘Sorley has banished him.’
‘That’s right, Brehon,’ said the porter, eager to justify himself. ‘I’ve been told to drive him away as soon as I see him.’
‘I just want to see my father, I just want to talk to him.’ The boy’s voice was broken with sobs.
‘How old is he?’ asked Mara in an undertone to Daire.
‘About seventeen, I think.’ Daire replied in the same low voice, but there had been no necessity. It was even difficult for Mara to hear his words as now the boy had turned his face towards the windows of the tower house and was shrieking at the top of his voice: ‘Father, I must see you; I must see you. I’m starving. I must see you; I’m your son.’
If he were over seventeen, then his father’s legal obligation to care for him had ceased, thought Mara. Nevertheless, it was very harsh to banish your only son, especially for a man of such huge wealth.
‘Where do you live, Cuan? I’ll come and see you and we can talk.’ Mara put a hand on the boy’s arm, but he shook it off and with a final despairing cry he ran back into the dark shadows outside the gate. They all looked after him and then turned back to face the tower house. For a moment, Mara thought she saw a face in the upper window, but it vanished in a second leaving nothing but a welcoming yellow glow.
An impressive house, like a castle in one of those illuminated books, with its conical roof and regular battlements, a fairytale castle, she thought, but what of the man who owned it? Had he no ounce of compunction within him for his unfortunate son whom he had disowned?
BECHBRETHA (BEE JUDGEMENTS)
Congal Caech (Congal the Blind), King of Ulster, was stung in the eye by a bee and was blinded.
Evidence was given for Congal that the hives were placed beside a narrow pathway.
Evidence was given for the beekeeper that the path was on the south-west side of the hives so normally the bees flew in the opposite direction to it as they hate to fly against the wind.
judgement was given against the beekeeper, King Domhnall of Tara, and he had to supply a hive in compensation.
A
ND NOW ZORLEY WAS DEAD, mused Mara; she watched Malachy the physician, accompanied by his
fourteen-year-old daughter and apprentice, Nuala, squeeze his way through the door. He nodded to her and knelt down beside the body, putting his finger on the swollen wrist.
ND NOW ZORLEY WAS DEAD, mused Mara; she watched Malachy the physician, accompanied by his
fourteen-year-old daughter and apprentice, Nuala, squeeze his way through the door. He nodded to her and knelt down beside the body, putting his finger on the swollen wrist.
‘What killed him, Malachy?’ Mara voiced her thoughts aloud.
Malachy shrugged. He was a dark, sallow-faced man of about forty, a widower with an only child. He turned away from the body, took his medical bag from Nuala and began to riffle through its contents. He was a slow thinker and a slow talker and Mara knew she had to curb her questions until he was ready to give his verdict. She herself bent over the body and looked more carefully. There was a faint smell of something unexpected and she could not think what it was. And something was moving slightly under Sorley’s hair. For a moment she was puzzled; then she realized that it was a dying bee. She could see more bees, all dead, trapped amongst Sorley’s clothing and in his hair. Now Mara knew what the smell was. She had smelled it strongly less than an hour ago from Giolla; the beekeeper’s veil, hat and gloves had that strong odour when he had removed them. What she smelled was venom. As she looked more carefully, she could see that the whole of Sorley’s face was swollen with innumerable bee stings. In the centre of each lump was the dark thread of the sting. She gave a long sigh and straightened herself. Daire was at her side looking over her shoulder with an air of sick horror.
‘What happened to him, Brehon?’ he asked huskily.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mara honestly. ‘What do you think, Malachy?’
‘It looks as if he were attacked by some bees and
perhaps died from a seizure.’ There was a note of uncertainty in Malachy’s voice as he joined her and leaned over the body. ‘A terrible accident.’
perhaps died from a seizure.’ There was a note of uncertainty in Malachy’s voice as he joined her and leaned over the body. ‘A terrible accident.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mara, but within her there was a doubt. Her eyes went to the east wall of the ruins where the straw bee skeps were placed, each in a stone niche which had formerly housed the statue of a saint. There were ten niches there, but only nine of them showed the curved shape of the hive. The tenth was empty; the skep had been knocked on the ground and thousands of bees clustered over the honey that spilled out over the ancient slabs of stone. What was it that Ulick Burke had said to her the previous night when they dined at Newtown Castle? Something about Sorley and his terrible fear of bees, something about bee stings affecting him, that was it. Her eyes went again to the straw skep lying on the ground with the bees clustered over the sticky honey and then back to the events of the night before. She would have to see Giolla – but first Sorley’s family would need to be told.
‘Daire, would you go and get Una, Sorley’s daughter,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t interrupt the burial service – just get her back through here as unobtrusively as you can. And see if the young son is here, also. I thought I saw him at the back of the church.’
‘Sorley must have died from bee stings, mustn’t he?’ asked Nuala as Daire slipped out through the empty door archway and walked down the path towards the graveyard.
Malachy frowned. ‘Yes, but if he were stung, wouldn’t he have called out? It’s more likely that he was gripped by a sudden seizure after the first few stings.’
‘His throat is almost closed up!’ exclaimed Nuala peering
around her father’s elbow. ‘He wouldn’t have been able to call out. He couldn’t draw breath with a throat like that. Surely that’s enough to kill him. Look at the colour that he is – of course that is the poison from the bees’ venom.’
around her father’s elbow. ‘He wouldn’t have been able to call out. He couldn’t draw breath with a throat like that. Surely that’s enough to kill him. Look at the colour that he is – of course that is the poison from the bees’ venom.’
Mara gave her a quick glance of appreciation – she had always thought that Nuala was brighter than her father – but she waited silently for a comment from him before asking her question:
‘What did kill him then, in your opinion, Malachy?’
‘Well, his neck is not broken, anyway. There is no sign of anything like that.’
‘What could it have been, then?’
Malachy shook his head in a puzzled way. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘It could have been bee stings. It is possible, you know. There are some people who swell up very badly after bee stings and he could have been one of them, his throat could have been swollen enough to stop his breathing, but it could also have been a seizure.’
‘Did he ever have trouble with seizures?’ asked Mara.
‘I wouldn’t know. He never came to me. He probably had a physician in Kinvarra or in Galway, As far as I know he wasn’t here a lot, not during the last eight or ten years, anyway. Toin might know; he’s known the family for a long time as they lived so close to each other.’
‘I’d say that he died from bee stings,’ said Nuala decisively.
‘You may be right,’ said Malachy indifferently. ‘It doesn’t make much difference one way or the other. The fact is that the man is dead. Go and see if the burial service has ended yet, Nuala, the bishop will probably wish to give him the last rites.’
Father David was being buried on the north side of the new church so Mara could hear enough to know that the burial service was not yet over. When it was she would have to post someone at the entrance to stop curious bystanders coming in. She regretted not having her six law school pupils with her. Perhaps when Daire came back he and Malachy could carry the body through into the church, or at least place it on the stone tomb near to the west doorway. Mara got to her feet and walked over to look at it. The stone slab on top was certainly large enough to hold the body, she thought and then a flash of silver caught her eye. She bent down to examine it. It was a silver stylus, its pointed edge gleaming in the sunshine and lying beside it was a set of wax tablets. She picked them up and saw a well-drawn sketch of a communion cup with the O’Brien arms as prominent as the figure of Christ. This explained why Sorley did not come into the church as the bell rang. The silversmith had probably delayed to make sure that he had a finished sketch of the communion cup to show the bishop after the Mass and burial of Father David was over. This also explained why he had come into the ruins; he was probably looking for a flat surface on which to lay his tablets.
‘Here comes Daire and the daughter,’ said Malachy. The noise of several footsteps sounded on the limestone flagstones outside. The first to appear was Una, closely followed by her maidservant; behind her was Daire, and then, to Mara’s annoyance, came Ulick Burke, his small-featured face alight with curiosity. There was no sign of Cuan.
Una was the first to speak. ‘He’s really dead, then,’ she stated. There was no emotion in her voice as she surveyed the body of her father on the ground.
‘Yes,’ said Mara simply. She made a consoling gesture, putting out her two hands towards the woman, but Una stepped back and turned her face towards the body. Mara did not know whether to offer comfort or to say nothing. Una just stood looking at her father. Perhaps she was in shock. Mara had seen violent death often enough to know that the nearest relations can often be numb with disbelief and will show no emotion while mere strangers weep. The woman’s colour was unchanged so she was not about to faint. Mara wondered what she was thinking about as she looked down at her father’s distorted face, but when Una spoke it was not to her, but to her maidservant.
‘There will have to be a wake back at the castle tonight,’ she said. ‘We’d better get back and see to the food. Will you stay here, Daire, and see that the body is taken back to the house when the burial is over? There are plenty of our men here. I’ll send a cart and some more men. We’d better go now; these things take longer than you think.’
Then she stopped and stood very still. Perhaps full realization that her father was dead had dawned, thought Mara, but Una’s face bore a look of exasperated annoyance and when she spoke her tone was irritated. ‘What am I thinking of,’ she said. ‘Of course, it’s
Samhain
tonight. No one would come. They’ll all be going to the bonfire. In any case, I’ll have to send someone over to Galway to give the news to the silversmiths and silver merchants there. The wake will have to be tomorrow night.’ Shaking her head at her own forgetfulness, she gave the corpse a glance of indifference and then turned to Malachy.
Samhain
tonight. No one would come. They’ll all be going to the bonfire. In any case, I’ll have to send someone over to Galway to give the news to the silversmiths and silver merchants there. The wake will have to be tomorrow night.’ Shaking her head at her own forgetfulness, she gave the corpse a glance of indifference and then turned to Malachy.
‘So, it was the bees that killed him?’ she queried and then as Malachy nodded hesitantly, she said reflectively, ‘It
was an accident, then.’ There was a faint note of query in her voice and this time she looked straight at Mara.
was an accident, then.’ There was a faint note of query in her voice and this time she looked straight at Mara.
‘Perhaps,’ said Mara, her tone non-committal.
‘Well, that’s something, anyway,’ said Una. Her grey eyes explored Mara’s shrewdly. There was a sharp intelligence in her gaze. ‘When Daire told me that he was dead, then I was afraid that madman, Sheedy, had done what he threatened.’ With that she made a signal to her maidservant, turned on her heel and strode back down the path and out of the doorway.
‘Sheedy?’ queried Mara with a lift of an eyebrow towards Daire, but it was Ulick who answered her.
‘One of our late, lamented friend’s admirers,’ he said lightly. ‘A farmer from Cappanabhaile Mountain: he appeared at the castle the other day ranting and raving about his cattle being poisoned by Sorley’s mine. I must say that I was sorry for the fellow, but …’ He stopped as if he had been about to say something, but decided to reconsider; his green eyes were shining with mischief as he watched to see what the effect of his words would be on her.
‘Perhaps you three would carry the body into the church now,’ suggested Mara. Daire and Malachy, both powerful men, could probably manage this on their own, but she wanted to get rid of Ulick for the moment. Nevertheless, he had given her some useful information. As the three men carried the body carefully into the church her eyes went to the silver heights of Cappanabhaile Mountain. Where exactly was Sheedy’s farm, and why did the mine affect him? Mara narrowed her eyes, noting the scar on the mountain face, just above Newtown Castle and then looked back at the south doorway as brisk footsteps stopped there.
Standing at the entrance to the ruined church was Giolla. He gave an exclamation and hurried forward looking at the mess of honey and the angrily buzzing bees.
Mara looked at him keenly. It was obvious that Giolla was upset and angry, but from his face Mara could not tell whether the beekeeper realized what had happened to Sorley.
‘I was coming to find you, Giolla,’ she said quietly.
Giolla looked a little surprised. Either he did not know what had happened to Sorley, thought Mara, or else he was very good at hiding his feelings.
‘That will be that young fool, Marcan, who did that,’ said Giolla roughly. ‘Do you know the lad? He is a big. gawky-looking fellow. The son of Fionnuala, that rich widow who owns the land over there. His mother doesn’t give him enough to do and he is forever poking around my bees and trying to annoy them. I am sure that it was he. How did he knock it over without being badly stung himself?’ he muttered to himself and moved off abruptly.
A minute later, Mara saw his head above the ruins of the eastern wall of the little ruined church. ‘Look, Brehon!’ he called. ‘Will you come out, come here and I’ll show you.’
Mara followed out through the remains of the ancient south door and around the east side of the ruined church. She could see that no one walked there as a rule. The grasses and nettles were almost waist high, but through the middle of them a path was trampled, quite recently, judging by the smell of bruised nettles in the air, and in the wall there was a small space, a space from which a stone had been removed. It was obvious now what had happened. From behind the shelter of the wall, in that quiet secluded spot, someone had
taken out a stone, thrust a stick through and knocked the hive to the ground, driving the bees to a frenzy of anger. But was it an accident, the mischievous trick of an idle boy, or was it a cold, clever, calculated murder? Mara did not know. Her intuition said ‘murder’ while her logical brain said ‘not enough evidence, yet’.
taken out a stone, thrust a stick through and knocked the hive to the ground, driving the bees to a frenzy of anger. But was it an accident, the mischievous trick of an idle boy, or was it a cold, clever, calculated murder? Mara did not know. Her intuition said ‘murder’ while her logical brain said ‘not enough evidence, yet’.
She turned to Giolla. ‘Have you heard what has happened? Did you hear that Sorley the silversmith is dead?’
Giolla nodded. ‘The steward from Newtown Castle told me …’ he began and then a look of horror crossed his face. ‘You mean it was the bees were after him and made him drop dead from a seizure?’ he asked, aghast.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ replied Mara. ‘I think that the first thing we had better do is to see that young lad, what is his name? Marcan, is it? We’ll have to find out first if he did anything. Was he at the burial service?’
‘Yes, I saw him there with his mother. Look there he is, over there. Marcan, come over here. I want a word with you.’
Marcan did look uneasy as they approached, Mara noticed, but then he had probably had many an unpleasant encounter with Giolla in the past. His mother, too, looked defensive. He was quite a good-looking boy, about thirteen, Mara judged, dressed very richly, wearing a saffron tunic. Giolla addressed him harshly:
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