‘Such a pretty rose colour and the pattern is most unusual,’ commented Mara, ignoring the prioress. Did the two sisters live in the convent also, she wondered. If so, it was not a good life for Grace who was still a very young woman.
Father MacMahon was passing on to Father Miguel from Spain all he had learned from Ardal O’Lochlainn on the burning question of the ex-monk Martin Luther, who was expostulating about the abuses of the Catholic Church and about the relics. These sermons and talks of his, Mara gathered, were ruining business for the shrines all over Europe, and she wondered whether he had deterred the usual crowds that arrived at Kilnaboy for the feast of the Holy Cross. If that were the case, then Blad’s investment in an inn opposite the church might not have been very wise.
He looked happy enough as he summoned them all to table and seated them according to his notions of status. Mara was on his right hand, with her scholars on a separate small table just behind her seat. The prioress was seated on Blad’s left. The other two ladies were seated together opposite Father Miguel and Brother Cosimo. Father MacMahon was placed on Mara’s other side beside Ardal O’Lochlainn, and they continued to converse gravely on the Pope’s view of Martin Luther as the serving boys began to bring in the first course.
‘Ninety-five theses, words criticizing the Church and its teachings about the salvation of the Christian soul – and he nailed them to the church door at Wittenberg!’ Father MacMahon lifted his hands with horror. His voice rose to almost a squeak and everyone at the table looked towards him. Cormac muttered something to Art and Art went a dark red and dived under the table. Mara glared at her son – Art was a terrible giggler and always found it hard to stop once he started. Cormac stared back at her with an angelic expression and she made a mental note to have a stern word with him as soon as they returned to the law school.
‘What does this Martin Luther object to?’ she asked to distract attention from the boys, and Ardal answered gravely.
‘He speaks out against sacred relics and indulgences,’ he told her. ‘The Holy Father is very concerned.’
‘I see,’ said Mara. Indulgences were a fact of life in the Church – bargains with God, as she often thought of them. You did something difficult and unpleasant, like remaining on your knees for hours on end, or climbing a stony mountain called Croagh Patrick in your bare feet, and in return you got a printed document telling you that you would be let off a year or more’s suffering in the fire of purgatory after your death. Did no particular harm, she thought. In fact, she understood that the climb up the mountain in Mayo was quite a sociable affair and the view over Clew Bay, with its myriad of tiny islands, was spectacular once you arrived at the summit. You could also buy an indulgence if you had plenty of money, and that Mara found less easy to accept. She wondered how many people truly believed in these.
‘I’m sure your young scholars will know all about indulgences,’ said the prioress. ‘You, young man, do you know what is meant by a plenary indulgence?’
To Mara’s relief she pointed at Domhnall and he replied, in very good English, after his usual careful pause for thought, ‘A plenary indulgence is a full remission of all sins, Madame.’
‘And you can buy that?’ Cormac opened his mouth and widened his eyes. ‘For ever? And then you could do what you liked for the rest of your life? How much is it?’ His voice rose up full of excitement and most people at the table looked across at him – some indulgently, others with annoyance.
The door behind him opened and the tall figure of Hans Kaufmann, stooping slightly under the doorway and then straightening to his full height, came in. All eyes went to him but he walked up to the scholars’ table, looking directly into Cormac’s large light green eyes. His handsome face was very serious as he said, speaking Latin with a strong German accent, ‘Yes, my boy, you can buy this. There are Pardonners everywhere all over Europe who sell these indulgences. They have a basketful with them and when the basket is emptied they fill it up again.’
‘They buy them cheap and sell them dear, is that the way of it?’ Cormac had a sharp brain and, despite herself, Mara’s lips twitched, though she resolved again to have a word later about guarding his tongue.
‘And the money, Cormac,’ said Father MacMahon repressively, ‘is used for the greater honour and glory of God. Our own church has been repaired and the chancel rebuilt by the generosity of the pilgrims and the gifts of money that they have left. The beautiful carpet on the altar steps was presented by a wealthy pilgrim who had returned from the Holy Land.’
‘Ah, indeed,’ said Father Miguel, with an air of triumph, speaking a heavily accented Latin, ‘and remember also, Cormac, that you can save a soul from purgatory by buying an indulgence for him.’ By now Blad must have spread the word that this young boy was the son, not only of the Brehon, but also of the King of Burren, Corcomroe and Thomond. To Mara’s annoyance, the pilgrims seemed interested in impressing him. Still, she thought, it was good for his Latin. Cormac hated not to understand everything and she could see from his eyes how he was concentrating intently on the words said to him.
‘That’s correct, boy,’ said Hans, changing over to English as he strolled to the table and seated himself on the bench beside Grace, who blushed uncomfortably and shifted nearer to Mistress Narboath to make room for him. ‘This is what they say, you know, “Wenn die Münze im Kästlein klingt, die Seele in den Himmel springt.” And in English that is, “As soon as the coin in the coffer rings, the soul from purgatory into heaven springs.” That’s a thought, isn’t it?’ His English was good, though he spoke with a strong German accent.
Father MacMahon looked at him suspiciously, but made no comment. Didn’t know English, thought Mara – and neither did Ardal O’Lochlainn, nor probably the other two clerics. The prioress lifted her hands to heaven and shook her head, muttering something about the wickedness of the world which misinterpreted God’s works.
‘But …’ began Cormac.
At that moment, to Mara’s relief, Mór pushed open the door and staggered in. Though a large, fat woman, she was weighed down by the tray that she carried and was followed by two of her kitchen maids carrying other trays. Blad got up from his seat and bustled around with a flagon of wine, the kitchen lad with a pitcher of ale. Cormac immediately lost interest in the sale of indulgences and licked his lips. Art forgot his giggles and picked up his wooden spoon. Even the adults stopped talking and got out their knives from pockets and pouches and looked with interest at the food.
Most meats and fish had been spit roasted, and were attractively laid out on iron skewers arranged on wooden trays with bunches of herbs and vegetables in between. There were partridges and quails, baked quinces, roast curlew, woodcock, all served with sauces of damsons in wine or hypocras, exquisitely spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon. Another tray held trout, salmon and small perch, with crabs and lobster, fresh from the nearby Atlantic Ocean, their scarlet and dull pink colours set off by the dark green of watercress and the small garlic-tasting cloves of cainnenn – a plant that Mara grew as much for its wonderful purple flowering heads in early summer as for its plentiful clove harvest in September. Slices of red-skinned apples formed a border on the tray and large leaves of cabbage, decorated with small heaps of glistening blackberries, were placed around and underneath the fish.
Mara helped herself to a partridge and accepted a generous helping of the spiced hypocras. There was no doubt that either Blad or Mór was an expert in food preparation. The spicy wine sauce went so well with the bird. She was pleased to see that her boys were tucking in as if they had been deprived of all food for many hours. She sent her compliments to the cook and chewed happily on the slices of fresh white bread and a helping of damsons in wine. She would have liked to talk to Ardal about Rome – her father had brought back many stories of the wonderful buildings there. Ardal, however, was fully occupied with the two priests and their discussion about this Martin Luther so she turned her attention towards Hans Kaufmann. To her surprise he was flirting
with the prioress, gallantly moving choice pieces from his to her plate and even, Mara overheard, admiring the sheen of her nails and dropping a quick kiss on the tips of the woman’s fingers.
Mara concealed a smile. He was the sort of man who could have had any woman adoring him, but the shy, badly scarred younger sister was resolutely keeping her eyes fixed on her plate. The heavily built widow on Grace’s other side was also enjoying the German’s gallantries to her buxom person, though she did from time to time try to include Grace in the conversation. And after a few minutes of personal gratification the prioress also remembered her younger sister. Grace, however, would not respond and blushed fierily whenever the German tried to say something in his highly accented English. Mara began to feel a little sorry for the girl. Her elder sisters seemed to be making a determined effort to throw her into conversation with this rich German. Did they hope that he would offer marriage to her, wondered Mara? Otherwise, she would have thought that the prioress would be too pious to encourage an unmarried young girl to be on easy terms with a man who was no relation. Hans Kaufmann was the sort of man who would flirt with any woman, she decided, catching a rapid wink that he sent in the direction of Mór when the prioress was not looking.
‘The king will be sorry that he has missed this feast,’ she said to Blad, knowing that the slightest word from Turlough would have been more welcome to the man than a bagful of gold. ‘What a shame that there are not more pilgrims here today,’ she went on.
He nodded resignedly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and these few will be leaving as soon as the meal is over. Their luggage is all corded and ready for the packhorses and they will be on the boats to Aran within a couple of hours from now.’
Even as he said the words, Hans Kaufmann rapidly swallowed what was left on his platter and got to his feet decisively.
‘I must see to my luggage,’ he said and strode from the room. The noise of his boots sounded on the courtyard outside. Blad’s eyes followed him with a disappointed expression. The magnificent meal which he had provided had not been appreciated by the German pilgrim. Mara could see him worrying whether a poor account of the inn would be carried to other Germans. In fact, she thought, I can never remember a pilgrim from Germany coming before now.
‘Well, perhaps things will pick up,’ she said consolingly. ‘This Martin Luther business of speaking out against the worship of relics might be just a flash in the pan. Fashions come and go in pilgrimages.’
‘Canterbury is not as popular as it was, but of course, Rome will always be the most important destination,’ said Brother Cosimo smugly.
‘The numbers of pilgrims at the shrine of the Blessed St James at Santiago has continued to rise,’ said Father Miguel assertively. ‘By the way, Master Innkeeper, perhaps you might hand some of these out to future pilgrims.’ He dug deep into a leather bag by his side, producing first the small candle lantern that most travellers carried and then a rolled up bunch of small sheets of parchment. He unrolled one and showed it to Mara. It was written in Latin so as to be comprehensible to all travellers and it invited the pilgrim to see for himself, or herself, the huge spiritual benefits to be gained by visits to the shrine of St James at Santiago. There were even neat little pictures of the relics on show which were painted around the margins of the sheet. Blad accepted one glumly.
‘We could do some splendid ones like that for you, Blad,’ said Mara enthusiastically. ‘It could show the church here with the two-armed cross in the gable and then the round tower with the relic. Finbar would do the drawings – he is very good at that. Cormac,’ she looked severely at her son, ‘needs to practise his script so he could write a few every evening for you.’ She beckoned to the two boys to come up to the table and they obeyed, Finbar rather nervously, and Cormac stuffing a tasty chunk of venison into his mouth before he left his plate. They leaned over the scroll and admired the small pictures – at least Finbar did, and Cormac wisely confined himself to some vigorous nods as he chewed rapidly.
‘And here’s one for Walsingham Priory – I carry some of theirs and they carry some of mine.’ Father Miguel delved into his pouch again and placed another leaf of vellum in front of her.
‘The house of Mary, Mother of Jesus?’ queried Mara. ‘I thought that Walsingham was in England …’ She stopped. After all, in the world of miracles, all was possible. Houses could be moved from Jerusalem to Norfolk in the east of England.
‘And they have a small vial full of her breast milk there as well,’ said Father Miguel. There was a note of sheer envy in his voice. This shrine business was competitive, not just for the innkeepers but for the priests and monks themselves. Soon the prioress would be weighing in with the account of St Winifred’s miraculous bones at Holywell in Wales.
‘Milk?’ queried Cormac in a puzzled tone, and then saw Finbar blush to the roots of his fair hair and his jaw dropped and his lips formed the letter ‘B’. Mara glared at Cormac, daring him to say anything more.
‘Yes,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Go back to your meal, boys. We’ll discuss this later. We’ll show you a sample, Blad, and then you can see if you like what we do.’
The boys returned quickly as the two kitchen maids were now bringing in the sweetmeats: honey cakes and apple and pear pies and succulent mouthfuls of blackberries sitting inside pastry baskets. Mara took one for politeness and then a long hour ensued during which everyone ate and drank and talked – mostly about relics and pilgrimage shrines. Father MacMahon embarked on a long, complicated description of the history of Kilnaboy and the monastic site, and proudly explained to Herr Kaufmann how the right to sanctuary was still retained by the church.
‘Sanctuary from what?’ Cormac was leaning back, patting his stomach, and the word had caught his attention. ‘Isn’t “sanctuary” a sort of refuge – a holy place that shelters people? Didn’t we have something in our Latin, something about Ajax …?’ he finished vaguely.
‘They have “sanctuary” in St Nicholas’s Church in Galway,’ said Domhnall. ‘If you are in danger of being hanged or something then you can go to the church and stand beside the altar and demand sanctuary – I think that it only lasts for forty days and that you have to stay beside the altar for all of that time. Is that right, Brehon?’
‘What about if you have to go … well, you know …’ queried Cormac with interest, and Mara sighed and thought about moving her son to another law school.
‘No one hangs people on the Burren so sanctuary is no good here,’ observed Art.
‘Except that the English ruled here for a while a couple of hundred years ago, before they were defeated at Dysart O’Dea,’ put in Domhnall. ‘They might have needed sanctuary then. The English hang people even for stealing a loaf of bread.’ Thankfully he spoke in Gaelic to Art and the rest of the company just looked at him with polite interest. Mara hastened to intervene.
‘It will be an interesting subject to discuss when we go back to the law school,’ she said emphatically, and was glad to see them look distracted by a fresh tray of tiny stuffed figs which had just been brought in by a kitchen maid. Domhnall was the only one of the boys who had ever tasted one before, and he gave such an enthusiastic account that Mara could guess that the other boys’ mouths were watering before the tray came to them.
She was glad to see, after the trays of sweetmeats began to empty, that the remaining pilgrims were beginning to look out through the windows to where the sun had begun to move into the south-west. Like everyone on a journey they would want to move on to the next stage. And Mara wanted to get back to the reality of her life in the law school and leave relics to those who liked them. She pictured her husband’s face when he heard, as he undoubtedly would from Cormac, about the vial of the Blessed Virgin’s milk, and she bit her lips to disguise the sudden smile.
‘You’ll have a good crossing to Aran,’ she said politely to the prioress. ‘The sea can be rough sometimes, although the island is only about six miles from the port at Doolin. There may be a storm tonight, but tomorro
w will be a lovely day – or so my farm manager tells me, and he is a great judge of the weather. He plans haymaking tomorrow, so it will definitely be dry and calm,’ she continued, seeing the alarmed look on the faces of three women. The Irish sea between Wales and Ireland was notorious for storms, high winds and rough waves; the pilgrims probably already had an unpleasant crossing. They would have been worrying about the trip to Aran. The other pilgrims finished their meal hastily but waited for Father MacMahon to say a solemn Latin grace after meals before standing up also.
‘I’ll take leave of you now, and wish you God speed,’ said Mara graciously, exchanging bows with the three ladies and then with the two clerics. Not a very interesting or, except for the timid Grace, a very likeable group of people, she thought, and decided that she would not demean her office as Brehon by standing around in the courtyard while the usual bustle of loading goods and mounting horses took place. She summoned the boys to make their farewells also and they did not disappoint her with their polite bows and the ease with which all, except for Finbar, were able to switch between Latin and English. She dismissed them then back to their own table with a quick nod. There was no reason why they should not quickly finish up the left-over sweetmeats while the visitors were getting going. She herself went to one of the small open windows and looked out on to the courtyard. Hans Kaufmann was already mounted on his horse, though the others had not yet arrived out.
Mara stood at a discreet distance and observed him. Blad was not there, but his daughter Mór emerged from the stable. She took a quick glance around and then stood on her toes, leaning coquettishly on the shoulder of his horse. He stooped down, kissed her on the lips and then impulsively dismounted and took the woman in his arms. This time the kiss was very prolonged and seemed to Mara’s interested sight to be extremely passionate. She doubted that it was the first embrace and wondered about the sleeping arrangements of the night before. Still, it was none of her business and she turned away quickly before any of the boys joined her at the window. As she crossed the room towards them, she heard, through the open door in the passageway, the noise of horses’ hoofs. Hans Kaufmann could not wait to depart. He had gone ahead of his fellow pilgrims and would probably reach the coast well before the other five.
Cross of Vengeance (A Burren Mystery) Page 3
