Scales of Retribution by Cora Harrison

fights or drank too much. Everyone liked the lad and his father and mother were reputed to adore him.
    And then, one day in the middle of last month, Bláreen had taken a short cut home through one of Lorcan O’Connor’s fields. Unknown to him there was a particularly vicious bull there and the boy had been tossed. When he managed to get home he was bleeding severely. His father immediately sent for Malachy, but Malachy did not come, instead sending a message that he was owed money by the household and was not going to attend before his fee was paid. Almost immediately after the messenger returned the young man had died.
    ‘I shouldn’t have gone there with you,’ said Nuala abruptly as they walked back down the long avenue to the gate.
    Mara looked at her. The girl’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were full of tears.
    ‘You’re upset to hear your father spoken of, is that it?’
    Nuala’s mouth twisted in a wry grin, making her seem older than her fourteen years.
    ‘I suppose it would be nice to hear him spoken of, as you spoke of Bláreen. But you know yourself that the kingdom won’t be a poorer place without Malachy O’Davoren. Do you know why Blár didn’t pay his bill to my father?’
    Mara shook her head, but Nuala wasn’t even looking at her; she was still staring ahead with that flush of anger – or was it shame? – on her cheeks.
    ‘Blár O’Connor did not pay his bill because Malachy had been treating a cut on his arm for months with the wrong ointment. The cut had gone bad. It needed to be opened to allow the sepsis to escape and then kept open until it was clean. Malachy had been treating it with comfrey . . .’
    Mara turned an attentive face towards the girl. Comfrey, she knew well. It was a herb that grew on damp meadows – in fact she could see some of its tall, pale pinkish-purple flowers in the field on their left-hand side. Nuala, herself, had often gathered some from the meadows near Cahermacnaghten.
    ‘And was treating it with comfrey correct?’ she asked.
    Nuala shook her head vigorously. ‘No, it was the wrong thing. Comfrey is good for healing, but it is too good. What was happening was that the wound was healing superficially but leaving all of the bad stuff inside. It was absolutely the wrong herb to use.’
    ‘And Malachy did not realize that?’
    Once again Nuala shook her head, the black braids flying out at angles from her head. ‘He did,’ she said bitterly. ‘I found one of my grandfather’s medical notes open on his stillroom table – just at the page where he had written: “Comfrey may be used externally to speed wound healing and guard against scar tissue developing incorrectly. Care should be taken with very deep wounds, however, as the external application of comfrey can lead to tissue forming over the wound before it is healed deeper down, possibly leading to abscesses.” And beside it was a small jar of paste made from comfrey – I knew it was comfrey when I smelled it. And then Malachy came rushing in and took the jar, closed the book, put it back on the shelf, asked me what I was doing there and then rushed out again. I followed him and saw him give the jar to Blár’s man and tell him to remind his master that he owed him two pieces of silver.’
    ‘So what did you do?’ asked Mara.
    ‘Took a jar of St John’s wort from the shelf – I, myself, had made most of these ointments and pastes, so I didn’t bother to ask for permission – and that afternoon I called on Blár’s wife and asked her to try this out on her husband’s cut. She did and it healed up fast. Blár is clever and he realized that Malachy’s medicine had been worse than useless – and that’s probably why he decided not to pay the latest bill.’
    ‘So Malachy gave the wrong medicine – and knew it was the wrong medicine – and this kept the wound from healing. But why?’ Mara had begun to understand.
    Nuala shrugged. ‘Didn’t much care. Just grabbed a jar of