Writ in Stone

by Cora Harrison

  And then Ellice gave an exclamation of annoyance. Quickly she unlatched the windowpane and pushed it open, dislodging great white cakes of snow that clung to the outside of the thick green glass.

  ‘What’s he doing, the old grey crow?’ she muttered. Mara craned her neck over Ellice’s shoulder. The abbot was coming through the snow of the garth between the cloister and the guest house. A young monk, with a candle that wavered dangerously in the cold air, preceded him. That was not all, however. The abbot had a black stole around his neck and in his hands was obviously the box bearing the sacred oils. The abbot was coming to give the last rites to Conor.

  ‘No!’ Ellice’s startled exclamation roused Turlough and he turned an annoyed expression towards his daughter-in-law. Ellice did not hesitate. She was out of the room in one bound and clattered down the stairs. Mara followed her quickly. Nothing should be allowed to disturb Conor, now. She was down the stairs almost as quickly as the girl and caught her arm before the knock came to the door.

  ‘Wait and see what Father Peter says,’ she whispered. The door above had opened so noiselessly that she knew who was following them. It could only be Peter. Turlough had never opened or closed a door quietly in his whole life.

  ‘Lord love you, there’s nothing to be upset about.’ He was down the stairs and beside them in a second. His toothless jaws were bared in an appealing smile and he patted Ellice’s shoulder as if she were only four years old. ‘He’s doing fine, your husband, the blood beats strongly in his wrist and he is breathing well. With the help of God he has many years of long life ahead of him.’

  Mara went to the door and opened it quickly before there was any loud hammering to disturb the sick man above. The abbot looked slightly taken aback to see her, but quickly rearranged his face in lines of lofty piety. Mara looked an appeal at Father Peter. She could understand Ellice’s indignation. The sight of the abbot and all of the paraphernalia associated with death might be enough to make the boy give up the struggle to live.

  ‘He’ll sleep through it. I’ve given him a dose of poppy syrup. He won’t wake for an hour or so.’ The voice was soothing and he continued to pat the girl’s shoulder. ‘We’ll do it all very quietly, Father Abbot,’ he said looking directly into his superior’s icy face.

  It was odd, thought Mara, how the distinctive O’Brien face, with its high-bridged nose and tall forehead, could look so warm and full of humour on Turlough; quite different to the abbot’s face that appeared chiselled from stone. She went quietly back up the stairs, opened the door of the sickroom, and crossed over to kneel beside Turlough and to be ready to cut off any exclamation of annoyance or distress. She made a quick decisive gesture to Murrough to move away from the right-hand side of the bed and he obeyed her instantly with a mocking inclination of his head. He was her enemy; she knew that. But was he also an enemy to his father and to his sick brother? How far would ambition take him, she wondered as automatically she murmured the prayers for the dying and allowed her eyes to wander from Murrough’s face to the sullen face of Conor’s wife. What would happen to Ellice if Conor died? She would be sent back to her father, probably and then he would barter her to the highest bidder. Her prospects would not be good. Under Brehon law she would get very little of her husband’s goods. All would go back to the derbhfine, the family group, and to the clan.

  The ceremony did not last long. The abbot heeded Father Peter’s warning and everything was conducted in a low murmur. Conor slept peacefully and did not move even when the oil touched his eyes, nostrils and mouth. When he had finished the abbot looked uncertainly at Ellice. This was the moment when he would administer some consoling remarks to the relatives of the dying man, but she turned her face away from him. She rose from her knees, went across the room and continued to gaze intently at the window. There was little that she could see from there. The north wind had strengthened and penetrated the abbey enclosure; now spume from the driven snow had completely blocked the small diamond-shaped panes of glass.

  Father Peter left Ellice and went to the door, holding it open. Turlough stood up stiffly. His glance avoided the abbot; despite his sorrow for his son, there was no doubt that the king was still furiously angry at the abbot’s refusal to marry them. The abbot went out with his head lowered piously and his young monks followed him.

  ‘I think it would be best if everyone left him, now,’ whispered Father Peter. ‘I’ll stay with him, but I think that he will sleep peacefully and when he wakes up, if God is merciful, he will feel a lot stronger.’

  At his words, softly spoken though they were, Ellice reacted instantly, almost as if she were a prisoner waiting for release. She plucked her mantle from the nail behind the door and was first down the stairs. Mara, Turlough and Murrough followed her. She did not turn at the parlour but, without hesitation, pulled open the front door and strode out into the snow. Mara followed her quickly. Where was Ellice going? Two of the monks were shovelling snow into a large bank on either side of the path leading from the guest house and the Royal Lodge across to the cloisters’ gate. Ellice walked firmly down the path, keeping her balance well on the frozen snow. Mara watched her with interest. A girl who was at home in the out-of-doors, an athletic girl. She opened the cloister gate and a minute later they could see her pacing around the covered walk which framed the four sides of the cloisters.

  ‘Odd weather for a stroll! These cloisters must be freezing. Why doesn’t she stay indoors by the fire? She could keep me company,’ commented Murrough from behind his father’s shoulder. Murrough was irrepressible. There was no trace of embarrassment or even penitence in his voice. It was as if the events of two months ago and the added offence of the letter to the abbot this very morning were wiped clean in his mind.

  ‘She spends most of her days out-of-doors; she’s always either riding or practising with her bow. She’s even had a target set up just outside the main gate to the abbey and her horse is stabled here. She’s happiest on her own; she has no interest in company,’ said Turlough, his voice easy and friendly. Like his son, he too seemed to have forgotten the past. ‘Not normal for a girl of her age, but I suppose everyone is different,’ he added.

  As far as Mara could see Ellice was no longer alone. A tall thin figure in a snow-besmirched grey cloak had joined her. It was obviously a monk, but which monk could it be? Who would risk the abbot’s wrath by strolling with a young woman, alone and without the protection of her husband, on a freezing day in December? She narrowed her eyes. Could this be Father Denis, the illegitimate son of the abbot? Certainly she did not recognize him and she knew most of the monks there at the abbey. She turned to the king.

  ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘I need to visit the church once more. Will you wait here for me, or will you return to the lodge?’

  ‘I think I will return to the lodge and wait for you there,’ said Turlough. There was an undertone to his words that made her cheeks sting with colour.

  ‘Fergal and Conall will keep good guard on you there. I’m sure that I don’t need to remind anyone,’ here her eyes went to the two bodyguards, ‘the danger to your life may still exist until I can uncover the truth of this murder.’

  They both straightened their backs. They were devoted to Turlough; she knew that. Any enemy could only get to Turlough over their dead bodies, she thought and felt comforted by their presence. She would insist that they slept within Turlough’s bedchamber tonight. Pleasant and all as the previous night had been, no risks could be taken until the murderer had been caught.

  Without waiting for a reply, she briskly threw her mantle over her shoulders, tucking her hands into the fur-lined sleeves. She did not follow Ellice towards the cloisters and its square of snow-blanketed grass, but took the well-trampled route to the west door of the church.

  The door was widely opened and the noise of hammering echoed off the tall stone ceilings and walls. The carpenter was hammering the lid on to the coffin. Mara stopped in surprise. This was very hasty, she thought. The custom was to
hold a wake where the body of the deceased was exposed so that friends and relatives could come to pay their last respects. The only usual reason for such a rushed sealing of the coffin a few hours after death would be if the weather were terribly hot or the person had died of some terrible decease such as plague.

  What had made the abbot give instructions to have his brother’s body sealed into the coffin so quickly? And what about his wife, Banna? And his new wife, Frann? Had they time to make their last farewells?

  The mason was there also. Both men stopped their work to look at her for a moment, but then resumed it again. Mara stood watching them for a moment. It would be best not to be too obviously following Ellice. Better allow a few minutes to elapse before she emerged innocently from the cloisters’ door, she thought, as she moved over to examine the mason’s work.

  One of the twelfth-century floral pillar top decorations had crumbled and he was chiselling out an exact copy of a harebell. There was still that smell of strong drink from him, she noticed, but it did not affect the sureness of the hand which chipped out the delicate curve and allowed the frilled end of the flower to stand proud of the inner circle.

  ‘You have great skill, Master Mason,’ she observed.

  He bowed gravely in acknowledgement of the compliment, but continued to work away busily. She did not linger; he would not welcome to be delayed. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and the abbot would want to have the pillar repaired and the church cleared of all signs of work before the ceremonies began at midnight. The funeral of Mahon would probably take place tomorrow for the same reason. A funeral would sadden Christmas Day and even if postponed to the feast of St Stephen, the presence of the coffin within the church would cloud the day for all. There was no grave to dig in the frozen ground; the body would be placed in the O’Brien vault and he would be mourned by his two wives, his brother and cousins. Probably there were no other close relatives whose presence at the burial was essential.

  It took just a matter of moments for Mara to cross the floor and gently and softly to pull open the door to the cloisters. Quickly she closed it behind her. By luck the couple, strolling under the shelter of the cloister-walk roof, had their backs turned to her and would not have noticed the momentary gleam of candlelight from the church.

  Mara waited quietly for a few minutes, watching them as they paced the tiled ground of the walk in front of the chapter house, the parlour and the abbot’s house. The walk had been swept clear of snow and the ground was easy to walk on. Nevertheless, the air was bitterly cold and it was a surprising moment to choose for a midday stroll. She examined the pair carefully. He was a fine, broad-shouldered specimen of a man, this monk, she thought, and he and Ellice were a well-matched couple. Mara had visited the abbey at least four or five times during the year and she was almost certain that she had never seen this monk before. When they reached the end of the eastern side of the cloisters’ square they turned to go along the south side, in front of the refectory and the kitchens. Now she could see the profile of the man and she knew instantly who it was. His paternity was stamped on his face: that high-bridged nose and lofty forehead. This was an O’Brien and there was no doubt in her mind that it was Father Denis, the illegitimate son of the abbot.

  But what was he doing walking here with the wife of the king’s son? How had they got to know each other? Was their meeting fortuitous? Or arranged? Mara raised the latch of the door behind her quietly, and pushed it back, opening it widely to allow the light to flood out on to the snow. Both turned hastily. She stood for a moment looking across at them. The monk murmured something to the girl by his side and then bowed ceremoniously to her and hastened along the east side of the cloister walk and disappeared into the abbot’s house. Without hesitation, Mara followed him, giving Ellice a wide smile as she passed. She felt no anger against the girl. She was young, she was healthy; she had been tied to a dying husband for the last year. Let her have some fun with this handsome, fine-looking monk. As long as murder was not involved, Mara did not care. Gaelic society, and even the Gaelic church, unlike the Roman church, was very tolerant about sexual matters. Brehon law merely stated that the wife of a priest should have her head covered in church.

  The door had been closed behind the young monk and Mara lifted her hand to knock and then paused. The abbot’s voice was not raised; unlike Turlough, he would be careful and circumspect in scolding his son, but there was no doubt about his anger.

  ‘I told you to keep away from that young woman.’

  ‘She sought me; I did not seek her.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. I’ve been watching you. You could have bowed and moved away . . . gone into the church . . . said your prayers . . . asked pardon for your sins. God knows that you need to do that.’

  Which sins? wondered Mara. The sin of lingering overlong with a young married woman, or was it a greater sin that the abbot spoke of? And how long had Father Denis being staying at the abbey? She had understood from Father Peter that he had arrived just to spend Christmas. Perhaps he had been here before, though. Conor and Ellice had arrived here two months previously. There must have been enough time for a certain dangerous intimacy to arise between the wife of the king’s son and this monk, illegitimate son of the abbot.

  Father Denis had said something which Mara had not quite caught. However, the words ‘Tintern Abbey’ were clear and distinct. She had moved a little closer when suddenly the abbot spoke.

  ‘Hush!’ In the quiet stillness of the enclosed cloister the sibilant whisper bounced off the stone-carved roof.

  Instantly Mara rapped sharply on the door. The abbot opened it immediately and Mara had the satisfaction of seeing his marble-like face redden.

  ‘Ah, my lord abbot,’ she said, ‘I am sorry to trouble you when you are occupied with one of your . . . brothers.’ Deliberately she allowed a pause before the word ‘brothers’ and watched his face carefully. There was no doubt that he was flustered and angry. Father Denis, however, gave her a courteous bow and stepped back into the shadows.

  ‘I wondered when the burial of your brother, Mahon O’Brien, will take place,’ said Mara, gazing curiously at the young man.

  ‘We’ve decided to bury him tomorrow morning.’ The abbot was still flustered. He made a quick, impatient gesture with his left hand, but Father Denis did not move.

  ‘And this is . . . ?’ queried Mara with a lift of her dark brows towards the young man.

  ‘This is Father Denis,’ said the abbot briefly.

  ‘A new brother?’

  ‘I’m from Galway, my lady,’ said Father Denis coming forward and sweeping a low bow.

  ‘I see.’ Mara allowed a puzzled note to enter her voice. She still kept her eyes on the abbot.

  ‘He is a relative of mine.’ The abbot’s voice was curt.

  ‘The family of Mahon are happy with the burial tomorrow?’ asked Mara, still eyeing him closely. The abbot looked like a man who has received a grave shock, she thought. She had been talking to him at supper last night and he had looked his normal self. Undoubtedly he was gravely shaken by the events of this morning.

  ‘Yes,’ he said curtly, and then with an effort, ‘I have spoken with Banna, the ban tighernae, and she is quite happy. The weather is too bad for other members of the family to travel for some time and then his immediate family are all here, present at the abbey.’

  And what about Frann? thought Mara, but she decided not to press the matter. There were more important questions to be asked.

  ‘I also wanted to ask you about this morning, after the service of prime, I thought I understood you to say that you left the church first before the other monks.’

  The abbot hesitated. A wary look came into his pale grey eyes. He nodded. ‘That is the normal procedure.’ His voice was cautious.

  ‘But you didn’t this morning,’ asserted Mara. ‘You and Father Denis remained in the church after the other monks had left it.’

  ‘Father Abbot was showing me the work that had been done on th
e church,’ explained Father Denis smoothly. He came forward and smiled down at Mara with the air of one who is accustomed to charm ladies.

  ‘Indeed.’ Mara allowed a minute to elapse. She did not look at him but she kept her eyes fixed on the uneasy face of the abbot. ‘What I wanted to ask you,’ she explained then, ‘was whether either of you saw anyone in the church that morning, any member of the laity, who might have stayed behind after the monks had gone back up the night stairs towards their dormitory?’

  ‘No,’ said the abbot, at the very same moment as Father Denis said, ‘Yes, I think there was.’

  Mara turned her eyes towards the young monk. ‘You saw someone?’ she queried.

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Call me “Brehon”,’ she said curtly. Ellice could do better for herself than this false young man, she thought. If she has to have some male company there must be more decent suitors around.

  ‘I thought I saw a figure behind the pillar, m— Brehon,’ he said, still smiling in a self-assured way.

  ‘Oh, and who was it?’

  He hesitated for a minute. The abbot gave him an angry glance and opened his lips as if to say something, and then closed them firmly. In the distance, from the refectory, a hand bell rang vigorously. This would be the dinner bell and both men moved as though to answer its summons.