In the distance the bell for evening compline came faintly through the air from the Cistercian abbey Sancta Maria Petris Fertilis, Saint Mary of the Fertile Rock, and automatically they both stopped and made the sign of the cross on forehead, breast and shoulders.
‘The wind is in the north – east,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘You can hear the bell as if it were only a few fields away. That’s a good wind for this time of year. We’ll have a few fine days now. You’ll have fine weather for your trip around the kingdom tomorrow and a good day’s hunting on Saturday.’
‘And that’s Cahermacnaghten there in front of us,’ he said a little more cheerfully.
Mara saw with satisfaction that smoke was rising from the Brehon’s house a hundred yards away. King Turlough would have his dinner soon and then his ill humour would fade.
The light was fading fast as they crossed the last field. The brilliant sunset colours of the western sky were beginning to merge into soft purples, pinks and misty yellows. The tiny white rock roses in the grykes glowed while the intensely blue gentians darkened in the fading light. By the time they went quietly through the gates of the Brehon’s house the dim softness of a May night had fallen. A hundred yards away the ancient enclosure of Cahermacnaghten Law School, usually filled with exuberant young voices, was silent and empty. The Brehon’s house was lit up, though, with candles glowing from each window. As Mara and Turlough walked up the path the rich heavy scent of the lilies on either side flooded over them.
‘There’ll be food for you two lads inside in the kitchen,’ said the king genially over his shoulder and the two young bodyguards moved obediently towards the kitchen at the back of the house. Mara smiled. This was to be a tête-à-tête supper. She hoped that the food, the wine and the company would be up to his expectations. She herself would have preferred to linger a little longer in the garden. She looked around her wistfully. The white flowers flamed against the dark holly hedge and the nightjar called, his song a strange far-carrying purr on the still night air. Mara paused for a moment, and then walked on quietly after the king. He pushed open the door and then stood back to let her enter.
The room was illuminated with one tall candle, and its light was golden against the blue-white of the limewashed walls. Brigid had lit the fire with small rounded logs of apple wood and the scent filled the whole room. The table was spread with a snowy-white linen cloth and Mara’s precious crystal glasses sparkled in the light. The wine had been poured into a tall flask that stood warming gently in the heat from the candle. Mara filled the two glasses and they glowed deep crimson in the firelight. She looked at them with pleasure. Her father, soon after the death of her mother, had gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy City of Rome and had brought back a case of Venetian glasses. They were among Mara’s greatest treasures, only to be used on occasions like this. Fit for any king, she thought with satisfaction.
‘Sit here by the fire and have a glass of wine while I go and see Brigid.’ She placed an extra velvet cushion on the oaken bench by the fire and when he was safely ensconced, and could be trusted not to drop her precious glass, she handed him the wine.
The kitchen was full of fragrant smells when she went in. Brigid was bustling around; a small, sandy-haired woman in her fifties, she seemed to be always filled with boundless energy. The fire was burning brightly and the iron bars above it were covered with black pots of every size. Mara smiled a greeting at the two bodyguards seated at the table, each with a horn of ale in his hand, and then crossed the flagstoned floor over to the fire.
‘That smells wonderful, Brigid.’ The two ducks would be roasting in the large iron pot, she knew, but she did not worry about them. She took the lid off the small pot. Brigid was an excellent cook; if she had a weakness it was to under-flavour the sauce. Mara dipped the ladle into it and tasted, her eyes shut so that she could concentrate. The flavours were all there: juniper berries from the bushes that grew wild on the Burren, wine from France, a hint of spice from the East, a touch of mint fresh from the garden, all smoothly blended.
‘Perfect,’ she said, putting down the ladle. Brigid beamed with pleasure.
‘Shall I serve now, Brehon?’
‘Yes,’ said Mara. ‘We’ll eat now. Enjoy your supper,’ she said to the bodyguards.
‘I wonder what’s happening on Mullaghmore Mountain at this minute,’ the king mused when she returned.
‘They won’t light the bonfire until midnight,’ said Mara. ‘They’ll wait to hear the bell from the abbey first. It’s always a great moment. We’ll be able to see it from here. There should be a great blaze as the wood will be very dry after all this good weather. Come and sit at the table, Turlough. Brigid will be in with the food in a minute.’
Turlough obeyed and looked around him. ‘Well, this is lovely, what a treat it is for me. Just you and me and no business to discuss, no treaties, no negotiations, just pure pleasure.’
‘It’s a treat for me, too,’ said Mara softly. She had plenty of visitors; each taoiseach and his family were entertained in strict rotation, and then there were neighbours, friends, relations and the annual dinner for the priests of the kingdom; the conversation was enjoyable, but always careful, words counted and automatically weighed up, the consciousness of being Brehon always in her mind. Tonight was indeed going to be just pure pleasure.
‘Here’s the duck,’ said Brigid, bustling in with two platters, each bearing half a duck. The skin was roasted to a glistening golden brown and the platters were heaped high with yellow fingers of roasted parsnips and dark green clusters of watercress.
‘And here’s Cumhal with the sauce,’ she continued. Cumhal was Brigid’s husband and the manager of Cahermacnaghten farm. He was always pressed into service on these state occasions and he always had the air of hating every minute of it. He bowed to the king awkwardly and Brigid impatiently took the small iron pot from him and ladled some sauce on to each platter. She waited expectantly while both Turlough and Mara cut a small piece of duck, speared it on the end of a knife and dipped it into the sauce.
‘Delicious,’ said Turlough with his mouth full.
‘Quite perfect,’ said Mara. She exchanged a warm glance with Brigid. Both of them loved cooking and both knew that a successful meal was the product not just of skill but also of luck. So many things could go wrong: the fire could falter at a crucial stage, the bird may not have been of the best, the vegetables might have had too much rain at an important stage in their growth. But tonight the food was superlative, Brigid knew it and so did Mara. The duck was mouth-wateringly good – crisp on the outside with that strange, astringent flavour of juniper berries on the skin, and then it was succulent and tender on the inside. The sauce was perfect – a combination of smooth, sharp, bittersweet flavours. And then there was the slight peppery bite of the watercress to freshen the mouth.
‘Mara,’ said Turlough solemnly after his plate had been cleared. He poured himself another glass of wine, tossed it back and then refilled her glass.
She swirled the wine, holding the glass up to the light of the fire, before taking a sip and savouring the first mouthful. The burgundy was as silkily smooth as velvet and smelled of blackberries in the hot sun.
‘Yes,’ she said gently.
‘Here’s the other duck,’ said Brigid, entering after a perfunctory knock. ‘I’ve been keeping it warm for you.’
This time the duck had been jointed, with the legs and wings on cushions of watercress forming a decorative border to the neat slices of breast meat. Mara took a slice of breast meat, more to please Brigid than because she was hungry, but Turlough piled his platter high again. He seemed to have forgotten what he was going to say and Mara did not remind him. The day had been long and she was content to sit quietly and savour her wine.
‘Tell me about this new king of England, Henry VIII,’ she said.
Turlough helped himself to a second leg from the duck and poured a generous allowance of the juniper sauce over it. ‘He’s eighteen years old
. It’s a great age – eighteen. I remember being eighteen. The world opens up in front of you.’
Mara nodded. She had passed her final examinations to be an ollamh, professor, of Brehon law when she was eighteen and yes, she did feel that the world was there, wide open in front of her, and that there was nothing she could not do.
‘You see, his father, this Henry VIII’s father, Henry VII, he had quite a struggle to establish himself because there had been a very long war, in England, between the clans of York and Lancaster.’ He paused and poured himself some more wine. ‘I don’t rightly know all the ins and outs of it,’ he confessed, ‘but this Henry VII ended up as king of the whole of England and Wales and I think he built up the coffers of treasure in his city of London. He got taxes from all his people, and he spent little on wars. But now he’s dead and this young man has inherited a kingdom and a coffer of treasure. So what do you think he will turn his mind to?’
‘War?’ suggested Mara. It was the sort of thing that young men of eighteen thought about, she supposed.
Turlough beamed. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘War and marriage! He will need a son to inherit and in England, as your young man Colman said, the eldest son inherits automatically even if he is only a baby. But I’m not worried about his possible marriage plans; I’m worrying about wars. You see, he won’t want to start a war with France – England and France have had their war. It has been going on for a century or so. No one will want to start that up again. He will turn his thought to the west and he will be over here before we know where we are. Two hundred years ago the English had got as far west as Thomond; now they are mostly confined to an area around Dublin. Even the English lords who came and settled here a couple of hundred years ago are now more Irish than the Irish themselves. Look at Desmond! Look at Ormond!’
Mara thought about it. ‘It would mean the end of our way of life if this happened, wouldn’t it?’ she said gravely. ‘Still, perhaps it may not happen. Perhaps this young King Henry will get involved in his marriage plans and leave us alone.’
‘Some cheese?’ enquired Brigid, coming in with a platter of crusty brown rolls, each crowned with a slice of warm goat’s cheese sprinkled with seeds of fennel. Turlough made a noise in the back of his throat that was like a greedy purr of anticipation. With a quick change of mood he poured himself another glass of wine and helped himself to some cheese.
‘Well, it may not happen for a long time. I certainly hope I won’t be around to see it. Have some cheese, will you?’
‘Just that small one,’ said Mara. She chewed thoughtfully, considering the problem of this young king and his possible designs on the rich grasslands and huge forests of her country. Then she took a small bunch of watercress, fresh from the crystal-clear streams that ran down Slieve Elva, and dismissed the matter from her mind. She had long ago decided that she would never worry about matters far beyond her control.
‘You’re looking very lovely tonight, you know,’ Turlough said after Brigid had disappeared again. He took a large bite of bread and washed it down with a gulp of wine.
‘You will definitely have to climb to the top of Mullaghmore after all that,’ said Mara, smiling indulgently at him. It was very pleasant to sit there and watch him enjoy the food. His eyes were full of admiration for her and she enjoyed that also.
‘How long have we known each other?’ the king asked thoughtfully.
‘I suppose it must be about ten years now.’ Mara thought back into the past. ‘I attended your crowning at Magh Adhair under the great oak tree. That was after the death of your uncle. I suppose I had seen you before with him.’ Turlough Donn had been tánaiste, heir, for a long time; she knew that. He had only been seven years old when his father died and first one of his uncles inherited and then another. He had been almost forty before his time had come.
Turlough continued to eat and said no more. The clatter of wooden sandals sounded outside the door.
‘Would you like anything else, my lord?’ asked Brigid, her face hopeful. This was always a great occasion for her. For weeks she would be in demand by her neighbours, relatives and friends, all anxious to know what the king ate, what he said, and whether he enjoyed his food. He did not fail her.
‘Brigid,’ he said solemnly. ‘I haven’t eaten such food since the last time that I was here. If your mistress would allow me, I would sit here and eat all night. One of these days I swear I will be stealing you and bringing you back to Thomond with me.’
Brigid beamed with delight as she picked up some of the empty platters and took them out to the kitchen. She would treasure these words, and once again Mara thought what a wonderful man this King Turlough Donn was.
‘Let’s come and sit by the fire,’ said Turlough, getting up and stretching. ‘I don’t believe I could eat another bite. Will you have some more wine?’
‘Just a little,’ said Mara. She rose and moved over to her cushioned bench by the fire. Turlough followed with the two glasses and sat beside her. It was not really a seat for two, but Mara found his bulk beside her strangely exciting. She relaxed slightly against him. Certainly the wine was extraordinarily good, she thought, as she took another sip.
‘It’s strong, this wine,’ she warned and put her glass on the small table in front of them.
Turlough drained his glass, placed it beside hers, and then suddenly threw his two arms clumsily around her, drawing her tightly to his chest.
‘Mara,’ he whispered. ‘I wonder, do you realize how much you mean to me?’
‘Wait,’ she said quickly, gently pushing him away. ‘Brigid is coming.’ She stood, moved away from him, and was quickly beginning to pile the remaining platters just as Brigid came in with the tray.
‘I’ll do that, Brehon,’ she said. There was a note of suspicion in her voice as she looked at Mara and then at the king. Mara flushed and walked over to the window. Brigid and Cumhal had been in her father’s service since she herself was a baby. Sometimes she felt that they could read her every thought.
‘That was a wonderful meal, Brigid,’ said Turlough hurriedly. He has forgotten that he has already said that, thought Mara with amusement. He just wants to get rid of her quickly. Brigid smiled modestly but her eyes continued to move rapidly between the king and her mistress, her sandy brows drawn together in a slight frown. How quick she is, thought Mara. She has already noticed something different.
‘Another flagon of wine?’ she asked, hospitably seating herself again beside the king. Brigid cleared the rest of the table and retired to the kitchen. No doubt she would, this moment, be whispering to Cumhal.
‘I only need one thing to make me happy at the moment,’ he said, putting his arms around her again. He’s had too much wine, she thought, smiling with pleasure. Then a flash of light from outside made her stand up and go to the window again.
‘Your two bodyguards can’t have enjoyed their supper too much, they certainly didn’t linger over it,’ she said, watching the two bulky figures pacing up and down the dark road, swinging the pitch torches and sending arcs of light across the grey limestone.
‘They’re just worried about the O’Kellys,’ said Turlough casually, his eyes following her gaze through the window.
‘The O’Kellys?’ she questioned. ‘What …’
Then there was a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ she called.
‘My lord,’ said Cumhal, hovering in the doorway. ‘Your bodyguards want to know when you would like to be escorted back to the guest house. They have been out and they have checked the road and the fields.’
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, Mara could see them more clearly, one outside the window now, and the other out in the road, checking both ways. The interruption of the tête-à-tête may have been Brigid’s idea, but this threat from the O’Kellys must be a very real one if the bodyguards were so concerned. She had not remembered this degree of security on the king’s last visit. Obviously they would be uneasy until they got the king safely behind the
huge walls and high locked gate of Cahermacnaghten. There would be no protection for him within her small house. Mara turned to face Turlough, who still sat there with a stubborn expression on his face.
‘Sleep well, my lord,’ she said formally. ‘And may the blessed St Patrick guard you and keep you safe through the night.’
He kissed her, but without his usual exuberance and there was a shadow of something which she could not quite read or understand on his face. She felt oddly restless, oddly disturbed, when he left, closely followed by the bodyguards. She knew she should go into the kitchen and thank Brigid again for the meal, but instead she found herself going out into the garden and smelling the heavy scent of the sweet woodbine. It soothed her restlessness a little to walk there for half an hour among her flowers, pausing to pinch a clump of lavender or to slice through an aromatic needle of rosemary with her sharp nail. In the moonlight everything was peaceful and beautiful and yet still she felt agitated.
‘We’re off now, Brehon,’ said Brigid, coming out of the house, Cumhal at her side, carrying her basket filled with pots and pans in one hand and a large key in the other. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
‘No, Brigid, I’ll be going to bed soon, thank you for a delicious meal. Everything was perfect. Thanks to you, too, Cumhal. Good night to you both.’
Not yet midnight, thought Mara with a glance towards the great mountain of Mullaghmore. She could see some pinpricks of light from the terraces but these would only be from torches; once the bonfire was lit on the summit there would be no mistaking it. The noise of Cumhal and Brigid’s footsteps ceased and everything seemed very still and very quiet. It was almost as if the whole stony land of the Burren had been emptied and she was left alone. She sat on the stone bench and thought about that strange look on Turlough’s face. What had he been about to say?
My Lady Judge Page 7
