‘Yes?’ Mara stood directly in the middle of the doorway and did not move. She looked enquiringly at Father Denis’s smooth face. And after a moment’s hesitation he spoke.
‘I thought it might have been the mason,’ he said. ‘But possibly I was mistaken.’
It was interesting, thought Mara, to watch the expressions of both men. Neither said much, but the two pairs of grey eyes seemed to speak volumes. The look that the abbot shot his son was not in any way paternal, but seemed to be full of suspicion and even perhaps dislike. Father Denis slightly lifted his eyebrows and stared back blandly. There was a hint of a smile lifting the corners of his lips.
‘So the church may not have been empty when you left it, is that correct?’ Neither spoke but left her question hanging in the air, so she added: ‘Which of you left first?’
There was a long silence after this and Mara thought this question, also, was going to be unanswered. The abbot had opened his mouth as if about to speak, but then he shut it firmly. Father Denis stared at him triumphantly for a few moments before saying firmly: ‘We both left the church together, Brehon.’
Seven
Canones Hibernenses
(Irish Canon Law)
Neither a priest nor a bishop may marry or have a relationship with a woman. The stumbling bishop loses his nemed (noble or professional) status, as purity is required of a bishop.
Críth Gablach
(Ranks in Society)
The wife of a priest shall be removed from the church if she comes there with her head uncovered.
‘I don’t want to go into dinner,’ grumbled Turlough when she joined him at the door of the guest house. ‘Let’s go into the lodge. Brigid will fix us something to eat. You told me that she and Cumhal brought a cartload of food with them. I’d much prefer one of her pies to that pigswill Donogh serves up for his monks. I bet he keeps supplies of his own in the abbot’s house. I notice he eats very little in the refectory.’
‘No, I think we had better go. You can’t offend the abbot by spurning his food while accepting his hospitality,’ said Mara with an indulgent smile. It would give grave offence, she knew, if the king did not turn up for a meal. In any case, she wanted an opportunity to observe faces and hear conversations. It was interesting, she thought, how sometimes a lie can be as revealing as the truth.
Murrough was at the table when they came into the room and he rose ceremoniously with the others as the king walked through the room. Turlough sat down in the seat of honour in the centre of the top table and she seated herself beside him. Murrough had been placed on her left-hand side, and the abbot, she noticed, had taken Conor’s seat and was speaking in a low tone to Ellice as they entered. He stopped abruptly as they took their places. Mara wondered what he had been saying to her. Was he reproving her? Or, possibly, just enquiring after Conor? She looked around the table. There was no sign of Banna, but Frann was sitting at the very end of the table and beside her was Ardal O’Lochlainn. They appeared to be deep in conversation. Frann was wrapped closely in a splendidly furred mantle and had drawn the hood over her head. Nevertheless there was a glow from the half-seen face and an allure from the half-revealed curves of her young body that drew the glances of all the monks as they filed in and took their places at the lower table. Could the girl be pregnant? wondered Mara. And if she were, what would her position be? Resolving to talk to Frann again once dinner was over, she turned towards Murrough.
‘So, what are you proposing to do now that the piece of play-acting is over?’ she asked briskly.
‘Do?’ he queried, putting a piece of salted cod into his mouth. His green eyes were alight with mischief. Turlough, as she had guessed, had undoubtedly simmered down and now all was well between father and son.
‘Are you planning to live in Thomond, or in Kildare near to your father-in-law? I trust that you will not think of showing your face in the kingdom of the Burren after what happened,’ said Mara bluntly.
He looked amused. ‘My lady judge,’ he murmured. ‘Always so trusting.’
‘Not trusting . . . not trusting at all. In fact, so far untrusting that I want to know, as Brehon, what you were doing at dawn this morning when Mahon O’Brien was murdered in the chapel here. I hope that you can prove to me that you had nothing to do with this crime.’
‘Why should I wish to murder Mahon O’Brien?’
‘He was one of the derbhfine,’ said Mara. ‘As such he could put himself forward for the office of tánaiste. That may interfere with your plans if anything happens to Conor.’ The derbhfine was the family group descended from the same great-grandfather. Anyone within the derbhfine could become taoiseach or king of the clan. ‘And, of course,’ she added, ‘only the assassin knows whether Mahon O’Brien was the intended victim, or whether, indeed, it was the king, your father.’
Murrough chewed thoughtfully. He did not trouble to cry out a protest. He knew her, as she knew him. His eyes wandered down the length of the refectory. Mara followed his gaze and then was suddenly distracted by the intent look on Father Denis’s face. He was seated with the other monks at a lower table, but he seemed to be making no effort to eat and was staring hungrily at Ellice. That had been no chance meeting this morning; Mara was sure of that. These two must have known each other for some time now. It looked to her as if their feelings might be deep for each other. She resolved to speak to Father Peter about the matter and then turned back to Murrough.
‘You were considering how to convince me that you had nothing to do with this murder?’ She raised her dark eyebrows at him and her hazel eyes held a challenge.
He turned a blandly smiling face towards her. ‘There’s a man down there who could tell you that I was in my bed in the lay dormitory at daybreak,’ he indicated with a well-manicured fingernail.
‘Who?’ Her voice was sharp with disbelief.
‘Master Mason, see him sitting down there at the end table . . . we shared a drop of liquor from his flask of brocóit in order to keep the cold out this morning at daybreak. Which reminds me, now that my fortunes have risen in the world and I am a king’s son, not a poor pilgrim, I must give that man a piece of silver. Only his strong drink kept the life in me this morning when I woke and found even the water in the ewer frozen solid and the snow blowing in through the shutters and piling up on the floor and over the man’s boots.’ Before she could say anything, he replaced his knife on his platter and sauntered down to the end table.
Mara allowed him to go. She could not get to the mason before him and in any case, the man would undoubtedly say whatever the king’s son wanted him to say. She had been outwitted, for once. Slowly she drank half a cupful of sour Spanish wine. Better than nothing, she thought, as she turned to the king.
‘I think, my lord,’ she whispered to him, ‘it would be best to make an announcement now of the postponement of our wedding.’
‘What?’ Turlough turned to her, his face colouring angrily. ‘Do you think that I am going to allow that to happen without a fight?’
‘It’s a fight that you can’t win,’ she reminded him quietly. ‘The abbot will rely on Rome to back him. Do it now, and we will all get through this matter with grace and dignity.’
‘He’ll not get another piece of silver out of me for his precious abbey,’ snorted Turlough in her ear. ‘Do you know that I gave a communion cup last year that was worth a hundred marks? And who do you think is paying for all these repairs? He’s had that carpenter and that mason working here for months. I saw them when I came to see Conor in early November.’ He rose to his feet and banged angrily for silence with a pewter flagon on the table. A spurt of wine splashed out and marked the abbot’s grey robe. Turlough eyed it with satisfaction and then said abruptly, ‘The Brehon has asked me to make an announcement that the wedding between us has been postponed due to the murder of my cousin, Mahon O’Brien.’ Then he sat down heavily, with one shoulder turned towards the abbot, and helped himself to the remaining wine.
There was a brief murm
ur while some of the guests commented on this announcement. Mara looked down the room and saw Brigid’s eyes wide with astonishment, but no one else seemed to show much surprise. It was, after all, a very respectable reason for the postponement of a marriage, she thought. In fact, many people may have been expecting that announcement before it was made. Murrough finished his whispered conversation with the mason and then returned to her side, smiling mockingly at her.
Mara ignored him, but patted Turlough’s hand as he sat back on his chair. He had done what she asked him and now he would have his reward. She leaned across in front of him and then spoke to the abbot in clear, carrying tones.
‘That young man, Father Denis, what relation exactly is he to you, Father Abbot? One can see that he is an O’Brien.’
The sudden quietness from the nearby monks’ table after that remark made Mara realize that Father Peter O’Lochlainn was not the only one of them who had surmised about the abbot’s relationship to the young man. She looked around. Ardal O’Lochlainn tugged his red-blond moustache with an air of embarrassment, but Teige O’Brien was visibly chuckling as he bent down to whisper into the ear of the O’Connor. The monks all fixed their eyes upon their platters, though Father Peter shot Mara a brief, mischievous look. The abbot swallowed a few times and then took a sip of small beer to ease his dry throat.
‘Distant,’ he said shortly. ‘Very distant.’
‘I see,’ said Mara. She would not pursue the matter in public, she thought. She had had her revenge for the insult and the pain that this sanctimonious man had caused to Turlough. In private, though, she promised herself, she would not let him get away with this. If he and Father Denis were really the last to leave the church after prime then there was a cloud of suspicion over both heads. She would have to solve this murder quickly. She had noticed, as they had walked across the cloister garth towards the refectory, the wind from the north seemed already to have swung around to the north-west. Once it went to the west, this snow would cease and the roads would thaw. She would have to solve this murder quickly before the guests rode away from the abbey. Whoever was guilty would have to be accused and brought to justice at the dolmen of Poulnabrone, that ancient stone monument which was the place of judgement for the people of the Burren.
‘So who’s this Father Denis, then?’ queried Turlough in her ear.
‘Tell you later,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s go back to the lodge straight after dinner.’
‘Now, if possible,’ returned Turlough. With an effort, he was keeping his voice low, though the abbot was now deep in conversation again with Ellice. He began to rise to his feet, but then stopped as the door swung open and in came a maidservant followed by Banna, swathed in an enormous piece of white linen. She stood in dramatic silence and stillness just inside the doorway, while the icy wind blew through the room setting the oil lamps smoking and the candles flickering. In a moment the abbot was on his feet, looking from her to the king. With a muttered curse Turlough sat down again. Ardal got up from his place beside Frann and moved up the table to squeeze in between Finn O’Connor and Teige O’Brien.
Banna was tired of being immured, thought Mara uncharitably, as she got to her feet and went towards the door. The new widow wanted an audience for her mourning and some food sent to her room on a platter would not have suited her. Now there was a startled silence in the refectory and every eye turned towards her.
The abbot left the company of Ellice and went down towards his dead brother’s wife with his hands outstretched.
‘My dear Banna,’ he said solicitously. ‘Are you able for this?’
Banna gave a loud convulsive sob and moved towards his brotherly arms. Mara reached around her bulk and managed to get the door shut against the icy wind.
‘Come and sit by me,’ she said soothingly, taking the cushion-like wrist in one hand and leading Banna across the floor and up the steps to the high table. Turlough, she noticed, was looking apprehensive; undoubtedly he had had enough of Banna during his interview in the morning, but Mara steered a steady course towards them followed by the abbot.
‘I’m sure you won’t mind giving up your seat so that Banna can sit by me,’ she said to Murrough and he responded with his usual charm and grace, carefully holding the chair until Banna had lowered her weight on to it and then sending a lay brother for a clean platter and a cup of wine.
‘I just couldn’t stay in that room any longer,’ sobbed Banna. ‘It holds too many memories.’
You were only there for one night, thought Mara, but aloud she said: ‘I suppose you keep picturing him going out this morning and then not returning.’
Banna answered only with a sob, so Mara added: ‘Or perhaps you didn’t expect him to go out. Perhaps he went while you were still asleep, was that it?’
Banna nodded her head vigorously and the yards of linen, which she had wound around her head, came loose. Impatiently she pulled the covering off and eyed the platter of hot food placed before her. She gulped down some wine and then attacked the cod with small, rapid, ladylike mouthfuls, her full cheeks creasing as she chewed on the rubbery fibre.
‘Perhaps Father Peter would be good enough to come up here and recommend something for the Lady Banna,’ suggested Mara to the lay brother. It was cold enough up here with a large brazier of charcoal to their backs. It must be almost unbearable further down in the room. Peter would appreciate the thought and he might have some poppy syrup or something which would quieten the lady if she started to become hysterical again.
‘So your husband, Mahon, left this morning while you were still sleeping,’ she continued. ‘Were you surprised when you woke up and found him gone?’
Banna took another gulp of the wine.
‘No,’ she said in an almost normal voice. ‘I knew where he had gone.’
‘You knew?’
‘He told me that he had arranged it with the abbot?’
‘With the abbot?’ Mara still felt puzzled about this matter. Of course the abbot had said that he thought the king had changed his mind and that his bodyguards should have known their own king, but didn’t it occur to him at least to check the body? He of all people should have known that the two men, Turlough and his cousin Mahon, were very alike. It did seem quite odd that the abbot, the man in charge of all matters to do with the establishment had not verified the first hasty guess of the bodyguards. And should he not have administered the holy rites instantly? Was that not canon law?
Banna nodded. ‘Yes, he told me that Father Abbot had asked him to do it and he had told him to keep his hood up so that if one of the brothers entered the church, it would look as though the king were there.’
‘I see,’ said Mara soothingly. ‘So you felt no surprise when you woke and found that he was gone.’
There was a short silence as Father Peter, carrying a stool, inserted himself like a small sparrow just behind Mara. Soothingly he took Banna’s wrist in small frozen hands and felt the pulse.
‘I’ve sent a young brother for some poppy syrup,’ he said, looking at her moon-like face, ‘but the best medicine for you now would be to talk about everything that is on your mind. Free yourself from the heavy weight of sorrow and of worries.’
‘Well, I am a bit worried.’ Thus encouraged, Banna began to reveal her concerns. ‘I know so little about these things. What happens now? God did not bestow the gift of children upon us, so I don’t know what my position is now. Will that last piece of madness, and I don’t think my dear husband was in his senses when he did it . . . What could he have seen in that girl . . . ?’ She gulped and drank some more wine.
‘Perhaps he just wanted to ensure an heir for his property,’ murmured Father Peter tactfully.
Banna ignored him. She shuddered hugely, the mound of flesh on the chair moving like an upturned bowl of jelly, before continuing bravely, ‘that girl, whatever her name is, that girl young enough to be his daughter . . .’ She closed her eyes with the air of one turning faint and then opened them and fixed them in
tently on Mara. ‘I just wonder whether that girl can take what is rightfully mine.’
‘I don’t think that you need to worry,’ said Mara gently. Was this also in Frann’s mind, she wondered? If it were, then she would be disappointed. ‘Yours was a marriage of the first degree,’ she continued. ‘It is called a union of equality. Most of Mahon’s possessions and wealth will go to you and although the land goes back to the clan, you will have about twenty acres for your lifetime. After your death this, also, reverts to the O’Brien clan. However, your own Brehon will tell you more about all of these matters.’
Banna was listening intently, even suppressing her sobs in order to hear correctly. However, as soon as Mara finished speaking the small, sharp brown eyes welled up with tears again.
‘I’ll never forget this morning,’ she wailed. ‘He went out and he did not come back.’
‘It was a terrible shock for you, poor soul,’ said Father Peter solicitously. ‘Did you hear him going out at all?’
Banna paused for a moment. She looked around her. Turlough was engaged in a loud conversation across the table with his cousin Teige O’Brien, the abbot and Ellice still had their heads close together, one of the brothers, a heavy burly young man, at a tall desk was reading in a strong rough Galway accent from the Life of St Columba and the sound of busy knives on wooden platters created a barrier of sound which made it almost impossible to be overheard.
‘I did see him go,’ she confessed hesitantly. She swallowed some more wine and Mara hastened to refill her cup from the flagon, eyeing the woman with interest. Did Banna really see her husband go out? And, if so, why did she lie about it earlier? Perhaps, though, she was just extracting the last ounce of drama from her sad situation. That was possible from the way Banna looked all around at the interested faces before turning her attention back to the table, gulping down some more wine and mopping her eyes with the corner of the flowing linen that now swathed her shoulders.
‘I didn’t know where he was going, then. I thought that he was leaving my bed for that harlot, that Frann,’ she muttered.
Writ in Stone Page 8
