The first patient was brought in by Enda and another man. Cormac exclaimed in horror when he saw that it was Rosta. The heavy body was dumped on one of the beds and the two went off to bring in more. Cormac was kneeling beside the cook, holding his hand, but Rosta had mercifully slid into complete unconsciousness.
‘Just a flesh wound,’ grunted the physician as he approached and knelt down beside him. ‘Water, bandages,’ he snapped at Cormac and the boy flew to do his bidding. ‘Let’s get this out of him quickly while he’s out of this world,’ he said as he slashed open the tunic, bared the bleeding chest and used the point to flick out a small lead ball. ‘Quick,’ he said and Cormac, white-faced, clapped a pad of linen to the bleeding wound.
‘Let me bandage it,’ said Shona coming over and winding the bandage around – making a very efficient job of it. By this stage there were more wounded coming in, but there were plenty of woman, all seeming skilled in this matter of attending to the wounded. Mara cast a swift glance around and decided that she could be spared.
As she came out onto the landing she heard a creak of chains and a few shouts, and then a sharp loud bang as the drawbridge was lifted and slotted into its position.
The climb to the roof was a difficult one. Each of the window slots beside the steeply spiralling staircase had at least one man standing beside it, knife in hand and straining his eyes to pierce the fog and pick out an enemy. They stood back and made way for Mara but she felt an intruder on their deep concentration.
‘Any sign?’ she asked anxiously from time to time and each time received a frustrated shake of the head.
‘My lord is up there, Brehon,’ said one of the men as she hesitated outside the great hall.
‘Yes, of course, that tower is nearer the river, isn’t it,’ she said readily. ‘Anything happening yet.’ Her voice did not really hold a query – it was obvious from the stillness and lack of noise that nothing was happening – and he passed on down the stairs without answering, his brow creased in a puzzled frown. Mara continued on up the steps and slipped unobtrusively through the door that led out onto the roof leads. The ten men with their throwing knives still resting in their quivers were standing at the battlements gazing down. Turlough, his lips pursed, was very still, not striding up and down as usual, but standing, hands slightly clenched, green eyes straining through the mist.
‘That’s it again,’ he said suddenly, his voice low. ‘That’s the same sound – wood on wood – I’d swear to it. What the hell are they doing?’
He did not acknowledge Mara’s presence, though she saw his eyes go to her, but remained where he was, looking and listening. Mara listened also, but she could not make sense of the sounds – perhaps they were stacking the oars on the bank – but why?
The door opened again and she saw Enda come in quietly and go to stand beside the King. Turlough turned eagerly to him.
‘How is he? How is Rosta?’
‘Just a flesh wound in the chest near the shoulder,’ said Enda reassuringly. He turned to go back and Mara followed him. He went down quickly, but was conscious of her presence because he waited for her halfway between the great hall and the main guard hall. His hand was on a door to one of the small rooms in the tower and she immediately said, ‘Where are you going, Enda?’
From memory she thought that it led to the musicians’ gallery, but could not see why Enda should go there. He was not a man trained to fight, of course. When other young men of his age were practising with swords and throwing knives, Enda was studying the law. And yet, he looked happier than she had seen him look for all of the time that she had been in Bunratty. His blue eyes were blazing and there was a small confident smile on his lips.
He hesitated at her question but then said, ‘I’m going out, Brehon. It’s one thing I can do. Don’t worry: I won’t be long.’ He opened the door and she followed him in. Two men stood there, a selection of knives laid out on a table by them. Enda stood, and looked frustrated. Mara wasn’t sure what he had intended, but the presence of the men was going to impede his plans and she was glad. The men looked at him suspiciously and in a hostile way and she didn’t blame them. The word had gone around, she was sure, that there was a traitor within the castle walls, and Enda, a man who had not been trusted by his own master, might well be in league with him, so far as these men were concerned.
‘Come, Enda,’ she said and made sure that he went out of the room before her. ‘Let’s go and see how the wounded men are getting on,’ she continued, but he had already gone down the steps ahead of her and had turned in at the door of the main guard hall by the time that she had finished speaking. Slightly surprised, because Enda, even in the difficult years of his adolescence, had always been well mannered, she followed him into the long room. There were still a few groans, but most of the wounded appeared comfortable, with white bandages cloaking the worst injuries. Her scholars were going from man to man offering drinks, and she felt proud of them all. Cormac was solicitously feeding Rosta some of his own cake and the cook, who was now sitting up, seemed able to swallow some. She would tell Turlough, that, she thought. The man had a special place in her husband’s affections.
And then she forgot Rosta. There was no sign of Enda anywhere. This was the second time that she had mislaid someone in this room and now she knew instantly where to look. She wound her way through the straw pallets and came up to the top of the room. Domhnall was there and he had just fastened the latch of the grid. There was no sign of Enda, but she surmised that, young and slim as he was, he had easily slipped down through the tunnel and was now making his way down through the passageway that led under the moat and would shortly be near to the riverbank.
‘Just … just shutting this as a precaution.’ Domhnall met her eyes with a guilty look and she guessed that he had been told to keep his mouth closed about Enda’s disappearance.
Mara sighed. It was hard, she thought, to remember that scholars grow up. She had to stop thinking and worrying about Enda as if he were still about the same age as Domhnall, and the bright temperamental star of her law school, leading the other boys into trouble, but always able to win her forgiveness by his intrinsic honesty and sense of humour.
‘I suppose you should stay there until he comes back,’ she told Domhnall who was now joined by Slevin. ‘You can take turns if he is a long time.’
I hope not, was her private thought. This was an extremely risky undertaking by Enda and she tried to keep her thoughts away from the young man creeping through the fog towards the riverbank in an area of ground that was now occupied by enemies. But what were they doing? Why were they not trying to gain access to the castle? What had been the point of this expedition? Why bribe Maccon to take away his surveillance of the River Shannon estuary just a few miles from its entrance into the Atlantic Ocean? And why bribe him to make sure that Turlough’s precious cannon, the bulwark of his security at Bunratty, was disabled – what was the point of the whole elaborate manoeuvre? It would need an enormous army to storm Bunratty Castle, not just a few men in boats.
‘He’s coming back, Brehon.’ Slevin was at her side and she moved swiftly to the top of the room. It had suddenly occurred to her that Enda might be followed back through this secret entrance to the heart of the castle. She wished that there was a man-at-arms there, but all had left the hall to the care of the physician and his women and children helpers. Domhnall, she was sure, had thought of this also, as he was a little pale and he fingered the knife at his belt as he waited and listened.
But it was only Enda himself and, though filthy, he was composed and with the help of the rope climbed in an agile way out from the hole and then watched while Domhnall latched and locked it carefully. Mara had opened her mouth to question him but seeing his expression she shut it again and went after him as he made his way neatly through the rows of wounded men and towards the door leading to the stairs. She followed him the whole way up, but could not keep the pace of his young legs. By the time she reached the roof where Turl
ough and his men waited the bad news had been given.
They had indeed heard the noise of wood being unladen and also the noise of joints being hammered together. The Knight of Glin, as well as his cousin’s troops, had apparently brought with him something called a trebuchet. The word was echoed from man to man and she saw puzzlement on many of the faces around her.
‘What’s a trebuchet?’ she asked and although it was Enda who explained about this machine, made from wood, which could lob from the sling a stone or stones of up to hundredweight, it was the black despair on Turlough’s face and his laconic: ‘They’ll have the castle down around our ears unless we manage to stop them,’ that made her realize the full desperation of the situation.
Fourteen
Heptad Six
There are seven bloodlettings which carry no penalty:
Bloodshed inflicted by an insane person.
Bloodshed inflicted by a chief wife in jealousy of a concubine who comes in spite of her.
Bloodshed by a physician authorized by the family to care for a sick person.
Bloodshed inflicted in battle.
Bloodshed by a man who enforces suretyship.
Bloodshed by a man who takes part in a duel.
Bloodshed by a boy in playing a sport.
It was about an hour later that the castle felt the full onslaught. A couple of men had been sent down the passageway under the moat to see whether it was possible to attack, but came back to announce that there was a ring of protectors around the trebuchet, each one of them armed with a dreaded musket. It was, thought Mara, the flash of fire and the explosion of sound that made these guns so terrifying to men who were used to the silent cold steel of knives, swords or pikes. The garrison here at Bunratty Castle was a small one – already one fifth of it had been injured or killed and Turlough, she guessed, did not want any more heavy casualties.
Mara felt unable to stay down below in the main guard hall. She had no nursing skills – her girlhood had been spent in study of law texts and during her adulthood she always had her housekeeper, Brigid, who looked after any of the scholars or farm workers during illness. She gave a nod of approval to Shona who quietly, but competently, seemed to be directing all of the women and children in their work and then slipped out of the room and began, once again, to climb the steep steps to the roof.
Mara was about halfway up the stairway to the great hall when the first blow struck. The impact was so great that she gasped almost as though she had been struck in the midriff. Her ears had almost exploded with the thunderous sound. She stopped, put her hand against the twelve-foot-thick wall and felt a tremor go through it. This must be the action of the trebuchet. It was worse than she expected. When she went a few steps further she could see dust in the air ahead of her and then saw that one of the very small window loops, set on the outside of the castle wall, had its central mullion cracked in half and stones from above were dropping from the wall. There was a shout of exultation from outside and Mara, as she hastened up the steps, wondered for a moment how they could see what they had done and then remembered the report that the fog had lifted somewhat. A quick glance through the next small window on the tower staircase showed her the truth.
The last couple of men sent to reconnoitre reported that they dared not go more than a pace. The sky had cleared and a pale winter sun had lit up the marshy ground and the river beyond. Everything could be seen by the men with guns.
It must have just happened in that strange way that it often did in wintertime. Now she could see the river, the boats, the line of men on guard, and the muskets pointing towards the castle and beyond them another group of men clustered around a flat-bottomed boat.
But what took her attention was the trebuchet – that fearsome engine – the height and the size of it. As she watched she saw men unload some enormous rocks from a barge tied to the jetty. These were manhandled onto the machine, the great arm swung and once again, the mighty stones were lobbed through the air and with a deadly accuracy seemed to hit the same spot of Bunratty Castle because there was a great explosion, the ground trembled beneath her feet and she could see that one of the well-cut, squared-off stones from the outside of the castle – that castle which had been the pride and joy of O’Brien kings for the last seventy years or so – fell to the ground. Could any castle stand up to hours of bombardment like this; it almost seemed impossible, thought Mara. If the attacker concentrated on one tower, could they bring the whole castle down? The four towers were an integral part of the building, not an add-on. Mara grimaced – she felt that she probably knew the answer to her own question as she turned away from the window and went towards the stairway. Then at the sound of running feet pounding down the steps she drew back a little, but was immediately spotted by the young man racing downwards.
‘All women, children and wounded men to the basement!’ he exclaimed trying to sound authoritative.
‘Good idea,’ responded Mara, and bestowed a smile of approbation upon him.
The young man in his protective tunic of thick quilted leather cast a look at Mara but did not attempt to stop her as she proceeded upwards. The King’s wife could not be questioned. I should go down, thought Mara guiltily, but the thought of that basement with the dead bodies – and then her thoughts seemed to skid to a halt. The dead had been taken in there, but among those bodies of the slaughtered men-at-arms there should have been one other body, of course, the body of Brehon MacClancy. But now that body of the man murdered two nights ago had disappeared, had been dragged to the end of the basement, through the grille, and then had toppled down into the river. But why? And who had done that deed? She thought guiltily that in the immediate danger of this attack from the Knight of Glin she had almost forgotten her quest for the truth of that earlier death. But now, despite all the peril, her mind ranged over the evidence. What was it that the old man had said the night before his murder? That someone the King loved had betrayed him. It almost seemed to be too much of a coincidence that two days later Maccon MacMahon had unleashed this terrible attack on a man who had been his friend for forty years – and all just to make a good match for his daughter. Deep in thought, Mara passed the entrance to the King’s solar and went on up towards the roof. Why on earth didn’t MacClancy tell Turlough immediately if it had been something so serious?
And then she thought of a solution. It was probable that the attack had been scheduled for the following week when Maccon would have returned to his own home – but perhaps the Brehon’s words had prompted Maccon to send a message, perhaps to send his groom, to his ally with a message to attack more promptly. He would have surmised that he could get himself and his children to safety before the deadly trebuchet and the men armed with guns arrived. But if her surmise was true there would have been one thing that he had to do as soon as possible. It would have been imperative to stop the mouth of the man who threatened to tell the King about the treachery of one that he had considered a loyal friend.
So was MacMahon the murderer of Brehon MacClancy? It does seem very likely, Mara acknowledged to herself; although the evidence that her scholars had gathered did not seem to back this up – none had seen Maccon MacMahon approach Brehon MacClancy. And yet, could anyone have been sure of what happened on that festival night when all had been confused with loud music, flickering lights, continual movement? Deep in thought Mara pushed open the door and came out onto the roof.
She had just closed the door softly behind her when her eye was caught by something like a thunderbolt cutting through the air towards the castle. The trebuchet had flung its next missile, but this time it was not heavy rocks but a pot of fire that came hurtling through the air, not angled to hit low down on the tower, where the previous damage had been done, but aimed directly at the King himself.
‘Turlough, get down!’ screamed Mara, and trained to instant reaction by a lifetime of warfare, Turlough ducked down below the parapet. The pot of fire went straight over his bent back and struck a young man standing behind h
im. There was a stench of boiling tar, of searing heat and of burning flesh and almost instantly a scream which Mara thought that she would never forget. For a moment it looked as though the man wore a pot on his head. He snatched it off and instantly flung it over the parapet into the river. For a moment he stood there as everyone got to his feet and stared at him. Then came another terrible scream, almost immediately cut off. The man was a pillar of fire. Blazing tar dripped down over his head and ran down his face. As Mara watched the two eyes were gone, and then the nose shrivelled, the mouth was sealed. Hands outstretched he moved instinctively towards the parapet. Turlough left her side and went hastily towards him, and then pulled back and watched, grim-faced, while the boy plummeted down the wall and into the river. Mara did not see him hit the water, but she heard the splash and then a shot. Unbelievably the terrible death was followed by a cheer from the troops below and a series of cat-calls and derisive whistles.
‘Father wants to know what’s happening, he heard a thudding noise.’ Young Raour was at the door, his plump lips pursed and his eyes apprehensive.
‘Get out of here, get down to the basement with the women and the children, you and your father, go on, get out of here,’ yelled Turlough savagely. Mara knew what was in his mind. His grandson, Raour, was very much of the same age as that boy whom he had allowed, a few minutes ago, to go to his death. Raour, of course, could not know what had happened, and his face was white with shock to be spoken to so roughly by his easy-going grandfather who had so petted and indulged him. He backed out of the door without a word and Mara heard his footsteps going slowly down the steps. She brushed him from her mind and went forward and took Turlough’s hand, pressing it for a second and then dropped it as he turned to face the captain.
Verdict of the Court: A mystery set in sixteenth-century Ireland (A Burren Mystery) Page 17
