is obvious.’ Boetius was beginning to sound a little impatient now. ‘There is no doubt at all in my mind that Caireen is correct. Nuala murdered her father, Malachy. She was working in the herb garden, she slipped over to the window when no one was looking and put some poison into his drink, then back to the weeding again. The question is what penalty should be awarded? I know there is all that old-fashioned business about putting someone guilty of patricide into a boat without oars and setting them afloat on the ocean, but I can’t find if that has ever been done to a woman.’
‘So, what is your solution?’ enquired Mara.
Boetius flashed a smile at her. ‘Fergus’s lady wife, you know Siobhan, don’t you? Well, she came up with the solution. She and her friend, Ailse, they talked it over with Caireen. Caireen did not want the ultimate penalty – as she truly said, Nuala’s death would be of no use to her. So Siobhan suggested that Nuala should enter a convent, become a nun and spend her life praying for forgiveness. And, of course, her property at Rathborney should be given to Caireen to recompense her for the death of her husband, Malachy.’
‘What! Nuala be forced to enter a convent!’ As soon as the exclamation left her lips Mara felt annoyed with herself. It would have been more dignified to ignore the malice of stupid people.
‘A very humane suggestion.’ Boetius beamed at her condescendingly. ‘As Caireen remarked, if the girl was in Galway she would be hanged.’
‘With no trial! Is that the custom under English law?’ Mara raised her eyebrows mockingly.
‘Well, as I said to Caireen, the judge would be certain to bring in a verdict of guilty.’ Boetius was not disconcerted by her question.
‘So you have discussed the matter with all of these people?’ The baby cried again from upstairs, but Mara’s attention was concentrated on Boetius MacClancy. The baby would be well looked after; little Cormac was gaining weight visibly from Sorcha’s rich milk; Sorcha herself was well and happy, enjoying outdoor meals and fun with her three children who were all growing tanned and rosy in the Atlantic air on the Burren. But Nuala was as dear to her as any of them, and Nuala was in grave danger from this ignorant, opinionated young man.
‘The matter of Malachy’s murder and your surmises should not have been discussed with anyone,’ she said hotly.
‘Oh, I didn’t mention it to any of the scholars,’ he said reassuringly.
‘That was not what I meant. My scholars are trained never to mention any legal matter to outsiders; that would not be true of a gossip party at the MacClancy household.’ And if that observation made its way back to Fergus – well, that was too bad, she thought. What on earth did he mean by allowing that conversation to take place? She rose to her feet.
‘Where are the scholars?’ she asked.
‘I left them some work to do.’ He looked a little bewildered at her question as he, too, rose.
‘Let’s go over there.’ Brigid would fuss, but that could not be helped. The sooner Mara took matters back into her own hands, the greater the chance of preventing irrevocable harm to Nuala’s reputation and her future happiness.
Mara said no more until they had walked the few hundred yards between Cahermacnaghten and the Brehon’s house. In the distance she could hear her grandchildren playing and then a shout of ‘Bran’, and her beautiful white Irish wolfhound came soaring over one of the stone walls and joined her. She patted him and he leaned his muscular body against hers. He would have missed her badly during the last week.
‘It’s all right, Sorcha,’ she called. ‘Bran is with me.’ Hurriedly she turned towards the law school enclosure. Neither Brigid nor Sorcha would dare interrupt once she took her position in front of her scholars. Stiffening her spine and trying to ignore the jellylike state of her legs, she walked through the gate.
The law school at