‘Do that again.’ Now a grin was spreading over his face. Turlough was like a pinewood fire in his fits of anger: hot flames one minute and cool ashes the next.
‘In a minute,’ she said. ‘First tell me what’s wrong, but tell it quietly. Your voice can be heard for miles around. You’re not on a battlefield now, you know.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Well, the fact of the matter is that the abbot has come to me and that . . .’
‘Shh,’ she said again as his voice began to rise.
‘He says he can’t marry us on Christmas Day.’
‘What? Oh, because of his brother’s death, is that it?’
Turlough shook his head vigorously, dislodging a few more icy snowflakes from among the crisp curls of his greying hair.
‘No, no, that at least would make some sort of sense, though there was not much love between them. Still a death can change that. No, he won’t marry us because the Holy Mother Church of Rome,’ here Turlough’s voice took on a note of deep sarcasm, ‘won’t permit marriage with a divorced person and you, my love, are a divorced person.’
‘But why didn’t he say that before?’ Mara was bewildered. She dodged his outstretched arms and stood up beside the fire.
‘Well, apparently he has only just found out.’
‘Really, I thought everyone in the three kingdoms knew about my divorce.’
Mara had been married at fourteen to a fellow student at her father’s law school. Three years later, a year after the death of her father, she had divorced her husband. Memories of the divorce case, which she had conducted herself, still lingered in the minds of most people on the Burren.
‘He even knew all the details of the divorce,’ said Turlough with a grin beginning to spread across his face. ‘He knew that the divorce was granted because your husband spoke about the details of your lovemaking in the alehouse. He found it all very shocking.’ Turlough screwed up his face in a good imitation of the abbot’s tight-lipped disapproving expression and then laughed heartily. He had begun to regain his good humour.
‘But how did he suddenly come to hear about it? It must have been some time last night. He was very polite to me yesterday, almost friendly. I thought he was delighted to have the marriage take place here in the abbey.’
‘He got a letter about it.’ At the thought of it, Turlough was almost choking from rage again.
‘A letter? From whom?’
‘It wasn’t signed. It was just written on a scrap of vellum.’
‘You saw it then?’
‘Saw it!’ Turlough’s voice rose in unison with his fury. ‘I took it from him. Someone had placed it inside his door. He found it this morning after the first service.’
He felt in his pouch and produced the piece of vellum. Mara took it and began to read. There was an unexpected degree of knowledge about her divorce case in it, she thought. Most people would by now have forgotten the name of her husband. She seldom thought of Dualta, herself. She neither knew nor cared where he had gone when he left the Burren after the case was found against him. He had never qualified as a Brehon; she was sure of that. The Brehons in Ireland made a habit of visiting each other during the summer months; someone would have mentioned him.
Mara read the letter again. Even the date of her marriage was correct. Who had written it? Placed inside the abbot’s door either last night or first thing this morning seemed to indicate that someone in the abbey had written it. Surely no one would have battled through the storm in order to acquaint the abbot with a piece of gossip that was fifteen years old. She took from the writing table the piece of vellum where the pilgrim had written about his vow and compared the two.
‘What’s the matter?’ Turlough had noted her start of surprise.
Mara did not reply for a few moments. She had expected the pieces of vellum to look the same, and they had. Weight, texture, grain, all those things spoke of the same calfskin, but what she had not expected was that the script was identical. The careless, rushed letter a, the arrogant sweep of the letter m and the dashing tail of the letter s – all these things confirmed that the letter to the abbot had been written by the pilgrim. But why? And who was this false pilgrim? Mara’s agile mind rushed through the possibilities. And suddenly a name occurred to her: a man who needed to keep his face hidden from both Brehon and king, a man whose voice must not be heard, a man who resented the marriage between the Brehon and the king, a man who feared rivalry from the possible offspring of this marriage; now she knew who this pilgrim really was. There had, after all, been something very familiar about the tall figure with its jaunty, self-possessed bearing. She went to the door and called:
‘Please bring the pilgrim in.’
He came in reluctantly, pushed by Fergal and Conall and guarded from the rear by Ardal. He stood there in the abbot’s parlour, his head bowed and his face still hidden. But now Mara had no doubts. Now she recognized the form and the build of the man and knew what would be shown at his unveiling.
‘My lord,’ she said to Turlough. ‘Here is your son, Murrough, come to greet you at this Christmas-tide.’
Five
Córus Béscnai
(The Regulation of Proper Behaviour)
The unworthy son is deprived of his share of the inheritance because a son should be subject to his father.
A proclaimed or outlawed son, a macc fóccrai, is called a son of darkness.
Murrough, King Turlough Donn’s twenty-two-year-old younger son, had always been a man full of courage. Hardly a moment elapsed after Mara’s words when, with a contemptuous laugh, he shrugged off the pilgrim hood and then stripped off the gown and stood facing them all. He had shaved off the great curved moustache, the proud mark of all Gaelic warriors, and he was now clean-shaven except for a small trim beard. He was dressed in Christmas colours of red velvet doublet and knee-length green breeches, all in the latest fashion from the Tudor court of London, surmised Mara. With an aching heart she watched Turlough; the look of fury that he had summoned up, with clenched fists and bristling moustache, was struggling with the sorrowful affection for this rebellious young son of his, which showed in his green eyes.
‘What are you doing here?’ he barked.
‘It’s Christmas time. I wanted to see you, Father. I wanted to express my repentance. And I wanted to see my brother Conor. He’s not looking well.’ Murrough’s voice held just the right note of sorrow mingled with respectfulness. Soon, Turlough, a simple man who always expressed everything that was on his mind, and expected everyone else to do the same, would forgive this prodigal son and take him back to the bosom of his family.
Mara narrowed her eyes. She did not believe in this repentance. No doubt, the Earl of Kildare, Murrough’s father-in-law, a man of great importance in the court of King Henry VIII and essential to the Tudor rule in eastern Ireland, had decided that Murrough would be of more use to him over here in the western kingdoms of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren than he would be hanging around London and living at the expense of the Kildare properties. It was time for her to take part in this family discussion.
‘And, of course, you wanted to wish your father well at the time of his marriage,’ she said sweetly.
Murrough turned his gaze on her. ‘My lady judge,’ he said, sweeping her a courtly bow. ‘You are looking very well.’
He was so like his father with the wide smile, the green eyes, brown hair and broad shoulders that Mara had to harden her heart. She allowed half a minute to elapse before holding out the piece of vellum to him.
‘Or did you? This is your hand here, is it not?’
Mischievously he allowed his eyes to widen with horror as he read the scurrilous details of her divorce case. A smile puckered the corners of his lips and his eyes lit up with amusement.
‘Certainly not, my lady judge; how very shocking!’ The mockery was unmistakable.
Ardal was looking uncomfortable, and the two bodyguards bewildered. It was time to put a stop to this. Turlough and his son would
have to be allowed some privacy. She knew how it would go. Turlough would shout. Murrough would feign repentance. Turlough would soften. Murrough would make some promises. And then Turlough would take him back into the bosom of the family. The king was a man of warm affections. His sorrow at the parting from his son had been huge. Despite his abhorrence of English ways and English customs, and his deep disgust at the deeds of his son, Murrough was still his dearest child.
‘My lord, we will leave you,’ she said, putting the piece of vellum back into her pouch. ‘You and I will talk later. Fergal and Conall will stay on guard outside the parlour. Ardal, would you be kind enough to accompany me to the church?’
The snow was beginning to fall heavily when they got outside. The rounded bulk of the abbey hill protected them from the full force of the north wind, but the cold was intense. A family group of half-grown grey crows huddled in the leafless trees above the church and even the insides of the twenty-foot walls were daubed with patches of snow like clotted cream against the grey of the limestone. The air was bitterly cold with that chill that seemed to penetrate even fur and wool.
Ardal said nothing as they walked down the path from the abbot’s house to the church and Mara was grateful for that. Her mind was busy. She brushed aside the cancellation of her marriage by the abbot; all this pomp and ceremony mattered more to Turlough than to her. She was only grateful that her daughter Sorcha was expecting a baby at Christmas-tide and so could not be there. Sorcha would have been upset and Oisín, Sorcha’s husband, would have been outraged. What concerned her now was the possibility that Murrough, whom she knew from the past to be unscrupulous, could be the murderer. Could he have tried to kill his father? Conor, his elder brother, was very ill; everyone knew that. Did Murrough hope that the clan, with its great affection for his father, King Turlough Donn, would immediately elect him as tánaiste and, after the death of Conor, he would then be king of the three kingdoms of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren.
A few of the young monks were indulging in an illicit game of snowballing on the north side of the church, she noticed with a sympathetic grin. She pretended not to see them as they withdrew into the corner behind the north transept. Let them enjoy themselves while the abbot was otherwise engaged, she thought. Unlocking the great west door with the huge key, her mind flitted through the sequence of events. Turlough had publicly declared his intention of spending the first hour alone in front of the shrine of his ancestor; Murrough had been present and could have heard that, could have crept into the church once the service of prime was over. In the church, kneeling facing the shrine, one hooded figure could look like another, and Turlough and his cousin, Mahon, bore quite a resemblance to each other. She stood for a few moments looking around her and then turned to her companion.
‘Ardal, you are very good to help me like this. Could I ask you to fetch the abbot? I really need to know which doors would have been open here this morning when Mahon O’Brien came to the church.’
‘Yes, certainly, Brehon, would you like me to leave you alone with the abbot, then?’
Mara considered this for a moment and then shook her head. ‘No, if you don’t mind, Ardal. I would prefer you to stay.’ She considered trying to account for this, but then didn’t bother. Ardal would not feel that any explanation was due to him and she could hardly offer her real reason which was that she wanted to meet the abbot and discuss the murder with him without any of the feelings of awkwardness about his decision not to marry her which might occur if they were alone together.
The abbot looked ill at ease when he arrived. Mara watched him amusedly. She felt a certain satisfaction that he had obeyed her summons so promptly.
‘Ah, my lord abbot, I would like to discuss the security arrangements about your church.’ Her voice was cool and crisp and she could see him wince.
‘We rely on the protection of the Almighty God, Brehon,’ he said. He tried to make his voice sound as usual, but she was pleased to note an uncertain timbre to it.
‘And yet a man was murdered here in the church of God,’ she said mildly.
He bowed and did not reply and then she felt somewhat ashamed. After all, it was his own brother who had been killed and, although rumour said that there was not much love lost between them, nevertheless this must be a heavy blow. She hastened to put the meeting on a more amicable footing.
‘I will be glad of your help and your knowledge, my lord abbot; we need to use all the wisdom that God has given us to find out about this sad affair,’ she said portentously and he nodded.
‘First of all can I give you my heartfelt condolences on the death of your brother,’ she added politely.
This time he bowed and Mara thought that his face softened slightly. But still he said nothing and there was a wary alertness about the way that he looked at her.
‘Just one thing puzzles me a little, Father Abbot,’ she said carefully. ‘I understand that you sent a note to Mahon O’Brien telling him that Teige had brought a message saying that King Turlough had changed his mind about the early morning vigil. Is that correct?’
He considered this for a moment and then said stiffly: ‘That is correct.’
‘So why did you think that it was the king’s body that had been found?’
He was ready for this question. He had all the mental alertness of the O’Brien family. ‘I presumed that his own bodyguards would know the king,’ he said. ‘It would not be unknown for him to change his mind,’ he added triumphantly.
True enough, thought Mara. However, it was still strange. And there was no doubt that his eyes were uneasy. There was a tension within him as if he were a man under great strain. She glanced around. ‘Are all of these doors locked at night?’
The abbot shook his head. ‘Only the west door,’ he said. ‘The door to the night stairs that connects with the monks’ dormitory is left open for the night services, as is the door to the lay dormitory.’
‘What about the door to the cloister?’ Ardal asked. The abbot turned to him in a startled and slightly affronted way.
‘Of course,’ he said firmly. ‘That is the way that I would enter myself from my house.’
‘And the west door,’ queried Mara. ‘Would Mahon O’Brien have found that open when he crossed over from the guest house, or would he have had to ask for the key?’
‘I opened that myself, after the service of prime had finished.’
‘Did any of the men in the lay dormitory attend the service of prime, other than the lay brothers, I mean?’
The abbot shrugged. ‘I really could not tell you. My thoughts were on the service and my eyes were directed towards the altar.’
‘And did you open the west door before the monks departed or after?’
‘Before,’ he said. ‘The custom is that I leave the church first.’
So perhaps one man could have remained within the church, perhaps hidden behind one of the beautifully carved pillars, or perhaps have stolen in afterwards.
‘Ardal,’ she said aloud, ‘would you be kind enough to kneel over there in front of the tomb and pull your hood over your head.’ He did so without a word, neatly avoiding the body and the large stain of blood on the tiled floor, and Mara walked over to the cloisters’ door and from there to the door that led to the monks’ night stairs and the lay night stairs and lastly to the west door. From all doorways only a vague hooded shape could be seen. Certainly there would be nothing to distinguish the king from his cousin Mahon O’Brien in that dim light and from those angles.
‘Thank you, Ardal,’ she said aloud. She turned to the abbot. ‘Father Abbot, you may give orders for the body of your brother to be prepared for burial. The church may now be cleaned and purified. I have finished my business here. Will you come with me, Ardal? We’ll go across to the guest house now.’
Even though Mara had deliberately left the church by the west door – as far away as possible from the abbot’s parlour – the thunderous sound of Turlough’s voice came clearly to their ears as they
crossed the trampled snow, through the guest house garth, on their way to the guest house.
‘What’s my marriage to do with you? How dare you . . .’
‘So it looks as if anyone could have got into the church this morning, Brehon,’ said Ardal hurriedly. He was obviously trying to cover up the king’s voice by starting a conversation. He would want to spare her the embarrassment of hearing herself discussed.
She smiled up at him, grateful for his sensitivity, though inwardly amused. Dear Ardal, always the soul of nobility!
‘That’s right, Ardal, at least anyone from the abbey,’ she said and then, hunting around to continue the conversation as Turlough’s voice rose and swelled like the sound of a stormy sea, she added, ‘Father Abbot didn’t get on that well with his brother Mahon O’Brien, I seem to remember. Do you know anything about that, Ardal?’ Ardal O’Lochlainn bred horses on the rich limestone land of the Burren and sold them in Galway. He had many friends among the merchants in Galway city and among the chieftains in the surrounding lands. He, if anyone, would know all about Mahon O’Brien.
‘Well, I think it was because of his son, the priest.’ Ardal glanced around nervously. He would be loath to offend the abbot, but with Turlough roaring like a bull there was no point in low voices.
‘Mahon’s son? I thought he had no children.’
‘No, the abbot’s son. It happened a long time ago when Father Abbot was a young monk. He wasn’t abbot, then, of course.’ Ardal’s voice was apologetic.
‘Of course,’ agreed Mara solemnly.
Well, well, well, she thought. The old hypocrite! Her spirits soared. Turlough will enjoy this, she thought. She herself did not care that much about the abbot’s decision not to marry them, but one glance at Turlough’s face had shown her the depth of his hurt feelings.
‘Come into the Royal Lodge, Ardal,’ she said, tucking her arm inside his. ‘We’ll go to the guest house in a minute, but I feel frozen and I’m sure that you are also. Brigid,’ she called as she opened the door, ‘could you bring some of your wonderful spiced ale into the parlour for myself and the O’Lochlainn.’
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