Scales of Retribution by Cora Harrison Page B

In the centre were flat baskets of food and a big flask of milk for the children. Mara smiled when she saw the milk. It had been coloured pink. This was Brigid, she knew. When she herself had been young, Brigid had coloured the milk with a few raspberries and had persuaded her that it came from a magic pink cow, owned by the fairies. The same story had been told to Sorcha, and now Domhnall and Aislinn were the latest believers. Would little Cormac grow up to enjoy this same treat, she wondered, her eyes going to the Brehon’s house where Nuala was walking carefully down the path holding a heavily swathed bundle in her arms.
    ‘Thank goodness this fellow’s not crawling yet,’ said Sorcha with a glance at plump little Manus in her arms, ‘these two have me worried enough, leaping from stone to stone.’
    ‘I should get Cumhal to drive you to Fanore beach one day. It would be lovely for the children to run around the sands. I meant to arrange it, but the baby coming so early put everything askew.’ Mara watched her grandchildren with a smile. Sorcha had no reason to worry about them. They were as sure-footed as the wild goats that roamed the High Burren and the mountain sides. Both looked very well, she thought; the pure Atlantic air of the Burren had tanned their skins to a gorgeous shade of deep brown which went so well with their short white léinte.
    ‘Yes, that was a shock. A whole month early! Never mind, it’s all for the best; now you can enjoy him for the two months of the summer holidays,’ said Sorcha, who had a happy nature that always saw the bright side of everything.
    ‘Here’s a plate for you, Mamó , but you’ll have to share with Nuala.’ Aislinn arrived back with some harebells and carefully arranged the flowers around a plate for her grandmother, and placed a wooden cup beside it. ‘That was Dat ’s plate but he didn’t stay for the meal.’
    ‘Where is Oisín?’ asked Mara, admiring the nodding heads of the harebells.
    ‘Oh, you know Oisín,’ said his wife tolerantly. ‘He can never sit still for long. After five minutes he was off, striding across the fields to Kilcorney. He wants to look at those oak trees in Malachy’s woodland.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Mara casually. Her attention was on the bundle in Nuala’s arms. She held out her own arms, a slight ache of love trembling through her whole body. She curved around the light weight and held the tiny baby against her cheek for a moment.
    ‘He’s making plans to fell the trees and use them for making wine barrels,’ said Sorcha. ‘He’s been thinking about that for years. I used to laugh at him and tell him that Malachy would probably outlive him, but there you are! Oisín always get what he wants, sooner rather than later.’
    ‘Of course,’ breathed Mara. ‘He’s Malachy’s heir, isn’t he?’
    Almost absent mindedly she held out a finger for the baby to clutch.
    How could I have been so stupid, she thought, exasperated with herself. Of course, under Brehon law, Malachy’s heir was neither his daughter Nuala, nor his wife Caireen. No doubt Caireen, who had lived under English law in Galway, expected to inherit, but Brehon law, though making provision for a daughter (and not a widow, who was expected to return to her own family), firmly gave the inheritance of the clan land to the nearest male relative if there were no sons nor no brothers to inherit. The Davorens had been a clan where males were in short supply. Her own father had just a daughter to inherit, but she had been lucky enough to keep his farm because the land at Cahermacnaghten had been presented directly to her father by the king as part of the payment for his services as Brehon of the Burren, and so was not clan land.
    Malachy, on the other hand, had no official status as a physician and possessed only a small amount of clan land. And of course, clan land in Malachy’s case was not farmland, but a woodland comprising twenty acres of mature oaks.
    ‘Nuala,