Writ in Stone

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Not something you could accept easily,’ murmured Mara.

  ‘I quarrelled with him.’ Banna looked as if she were about to burst into tears again, but fortunately took another sip of wine. ‘I told him that he was dishonouring me, that it was barbaric to take another wife when he had one living, I told him that I would speak to my cousin, the O’Lochlainn, and get him to write to Rome.’

  So Banna thought that her relations would take her part in this affair. That was interesting. Could Ardal O’Lochlainn have taken this late and hasty marriage to a young girl as an insult to his family and to his clan? And, if so, would he have been inclined to avenge it? She dismissed the idea. He had seemed to be very friendly with Frann ten minutes ago.

  ‘What did Mahon say?’ she asked.

  ‘He told me then that he was going to the church, that he was going to take the king’s place for the first hour of the vigil. He was furious with me. He said Father Donogh would be angry that he had told me and that there was enough bad feeling between them as it was.’ Banna’s tears flowed again. She began to gulp noiselessly and every eye turned towards the top table.

  It was time to put a stop to this, thought Mara. Banna had given her the information that she needed; it was likely that no one else, apart from Frann and the abbot, did know that Mahon O’Brien, not King Turlough Donn, would be in the church – even the abbot may have been unsure as to whether Mahon would answer his summons. This was a perhaps an explanation, though an unsatisfactory one, of his behaviour that morning when he had appeared to be certain that it was the king who had been killed.

  Mara glanced around the refectory. The young monk had ceased reading, the book was closed, the knives were replaced and the abbot had risen to his feet.

  ‘Father Peter will take you back to the guest house,’ said Mara soothingly. ‘Please do not worry about your future. Your own Brehon will explain everything to you once you return home.’

  The abbot waited while his brother’s wife stumbled out of the refectory, leaning heavily on Father Peter’s arm, and then he turned to his monks.

  ‘There will be recreation and exercise for one hour,’ he announced. ‘Then one hour’s work for everyone. Vespers will be a special service in honour of my brother Mahon. The passing bell, which was omitted because of the formal legal procedures this morning,’ here he shot a quick sour look at Mara before continuing, ‘the passing bell will be rung at the end of the service. After vespers, the fire will be lit in the warming room until compline. I hope that our guests will join us in the church too as we lead up to the celebration of the birth of our saviour.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the lodge,’ said Turlough in her ear. ‘It’s going to be a short night; I feel like a rest now.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ she said with a small private smile for him. ‘Let the others go out first.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation while the brothers looked up to the top table, but when no one there moved, the monks all got to their feet and filed out decorously, followed by the abbot. Murrough moved from his position by the fire as the lay guests went out also and he came up to the top table.

  ‘Ellice, are you coming too?’ he asked with a charming smile and a brotherly hand under her elbow to assist her to rise. ‘I feel like some fresh air and some exercise and I’m sure you do also. Dear old Conor had best be left undisturbed for some time; sleep is what he needs now.’

  She went with him readily, her bright smile illuminating the olive-skinned face with a flash of white teeth and a softening of the black eyes. A girl who liked men, thought Mara, perhaps there was nothing other than boredom in her friendship with Father Denis. The abbot gave Mara a quick nervous glance and then hurried after them. Frann followed, with her head bent modestly and her eyes on the floor.

  ‘What’s all this about that Father Denis, then?’ asked Turlough. Only the king, his four taoiseachs and Mara were left in the refectory.

  ‘Didn’t you know, Turlough?’ Teige’s ruddy face was sparkling with mischief. His wife giggled and took some more wine and so did the O’Connor’s wife. ‘Father Denis is Father Donogh’s son.’

  ‘What, the abbot’s son?’ Turlough roared. ‘Well, the old dog! Who would have expected it?’

  ‘And they say, “like father, like son”’, confided Ciara O’Brien. ‘There was talk of a girl in Galway; this Father Denis set her up in a house near the abbey of Knockmoy and I did hear tell that the girl’s parents insisted on a marriage. That’s right, isn’t it, Ardal?’

  Ardal looked embarrassed. ‘I think it was just a marriage of the fourth degree.’

  ‘Still a marriage, nevertheless! I wonder what the Holy Father in Rome would say about this,’ chortled Turlough.

  ‘What did Mahon O’Brien feel about the matter?’ Mara addressed them all, but after a moment’s silence when the O’Briens and the O’Connors looked blank, her eyes turned to Ardal.

  ‘I think he was not happy for Father Denis to become abbot of Knockmoy,’ said Ardal reluctantly.

  ‘Of course, his mother, the mother of Father Denis, God be good to her, she was an O’Brien from the Arra branch,’ said Teige after a minute’s pause.

  ‘Was she indeed?’ said Turlough. ‘I never heard that.’

  ‘The family don’t speak of it,’ said Teige. ‘She made a good match afterwards and this boy Denis was fostered somewhere in the midlands with some relations of hers – they would be on her mother’s side, of course. Let me see, what was their names – not related to the O’Briens of Ara – they’d have been the O’Briens of Carrigunnell – now what was that man’s name?’

  Mara looked on amused. This tracing of relations could go on for hours. However her interest sharpened when Teige said musingly: ‘Of course this death of Mahon has worked out well for young Denis. It’s his uncle, the mother’s brother, the O’Brien of Arra, who was the tánaiste to Mahon O’Brien. Now that Mahon is dead, the lands and all the property will go to the O’Briens of Arra and, of course, the abbey of Knockmoy will be in his gift, then – that’s if Rome approves, of course.’

  ‘So you’re saying,’ said Turlough eagerly, ‘that Mahon’s death will mean that Denis can be abbot of Knockmoy after all.’

  ‘That’s exactly it,’ said Teige. His eyes turned towards Mara and so did Turlough’s. Mara busied herself with the remains of the cod on her platter.

  ‘So Denis might have murdered Mahon,’ said Turlough, in the jolly tones of one who was enjoying a good day’s hunting.

  ‘Or the abbot, his father . . . his holy father,’ put in Finn O’Connor, while his wife made a few scandalized noises with her tongue against her upper gums.

  ‘So could one of our dear cousins have murdered the other, Teige?’ enquired Turlough eagerly.

  Teige chuckled mischievously, but did not answer. His wife looked shocked. ‘Surely not,’ she said. ‘His own brother!’

  ‘It was a particularly brutal killing,’ said Ardal quietly. ‘I noticed that. The head was quite beaten in. The man must have been dead after the first blow, but the assassin kept on striking again and again.’

  Mara looked at him with interest. Ardal spoke little unless a question was directed at him; it was unusual to hear him give his views unasked.

  ‘Could it have been that the murderer was unsure?’ she asked him tentatively. ‘Perhaps someone who had never inflicted death before; someone who had never been on a battlefield, had perhaps never seen violent death? Someone who had to make certain that the man was really and truly dead?’

  He took his time about that, stirring a piece of cod around the centre of the platter and separating out the coarse fibres with the precision of a surgeon.

  ‘To me it looked more like a furious and hate-filled onslaught,’ he said finally and she knew he would say no more.

  There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence and then Turlough and his cousin, Teige, started swapping stories about their childhood – both had been fostered in the same household – and the others l
istened, smiling. No one wanted to consider this murder too closely, thought Mara. She looked at the man beside her, a man whom she loved, and then for comfort looked behind him where the two solid figures of his bodyguards stood. Her eyes met Fergal’s. Fergal was particularly devoted to Turlough. His own father had been a bodyguard and the young man had been brought up with a strong sense of fealty. He was looking troubled and she understood this. If Turlough had been the expected victim, then a murderer, full of hate, would try and try again until the deed was done and the hated man lay dead. She heard the door open while she was looking back and immediately both bodyguards had their hands to their knives; they were certainly alert and ready for any attack.

  ‘Father Peter,’ said Turlough happily. ‘Come in and join us. Have a cup of wine.’

  ‘No, my lord, wine is not for me,’ said Father Peter demurely. ‘I came to say that your son, the tánaiste, is awake and asking to see you.’

  ‘How is Conor?’ asked Turlough, the cheerful look fading from his face.

  ‘He has some fever,’ said Father Peter compassionately, ‘but, lord, don’t trouble yourself too much about that. The fever will help the body to fight the sickness. Will I tell him that you will come when you have finished your meal?’

  ‘We have finished now,’ said Turlough rising to his feet. Mara instantly rose also and slipped an arm through his. How long could Conor’s frail body last while those constant fevers racked it, she wondered as they went through the door and out into the cloister.

  Eight

  Bretha Forma

  (Judgements of Trapping)

  If a person traps a bird, or shoots one, on Church land he must surrender to the Church two-thirds of the bird’s flesh and all of its feathers.

  However, a heron or a hawk may be trapped with no penalty.

  Outside, the air was still cold but the wind had died down and there was a hint of softness in the air. A pale watery gleam of sunshine streaked across the snow-covered heights of Gleninagh, casting blue shadows that deepened the divisions between the terraces so that the whole hill looked like the rampart-girded dún of some ancient legend. The buildings that walled the cloister had lost their patches of snow and now showed smoothly and severely grey against the white carpet of the enclosure. There was no one there, but as they passed under the archway beneath the lay dormitories, they saw an animated scene.

  A large target of alderwood, covered with coils of twisted straw rope, had been set up at the north side on the garth, the ground between the guest houses and the church. One by one the monks were running up, snatching up a bow from the pile on the ground, fitting an arrow and aiming at the target. Then each would run to retrieve his arrow and another would take up the bow. It was a busy and cheerful sight with the young monks flushed with excitement and pleasure and even the abbot was indulgently smiling in the background.

  ‘Donogh was a great man with the bow when we were young,’ said Turlough in Mara’s ear. ‘Just you watch now. Abbot or no abbot, he’ll find an opportunity to show off his skill.’

  ‘Let’s see if he’s passed it on,’ said Mara quietly, watching Father Denis as he came to the top of the queue. He picked up the bow but then turned and bowed towards Ellice who was standing beside Murrough.

  ‘You’ll honour us, my lady,’ he said. His voice was smooth and respectful, but nevertheless it held a hint of intimacy.

  A shadow passed over the abbot’s face but Ellice came forward eagerly, almost pushing Murrough aside. Father Denis handed the bow to her, standing very close to her shoulder as she lifted it and stretched back the bowstring.

  ‘I’ll tighten it,’ he said. ‘You like a taut bow.’

  He was unnecessarily near to her, thought Mara, wondering at the effrontery of the man. After a minute’s hesitation the abbot stepped forward and stood beside her also, but she impatiently took a step away from him and turned back to Father Denis.

  ‘That’s just right,’ she said. ‘Give me the arrow.’

  He picked it up and handed it to her with a smile. She laid the bow to her shoulder, fitted the arrow and then, almost carelessly, let fly. The arrow shot through the air and with a soft thud, landed almost directly in the centre of the target.

  ‘Now see if you can beat that, Denis,’ she said triumphantly, gazing teasingly at Father Denis.

  There was a look of distaste on Turlough’s face and Mara acted swiftly. This girl, the king’s daughter-in-law, was flirting openly with a priest while her husband lay dying within the guest house. It was time to put a stop to this.

  ‘Father Abbot,’ she called. ‘I hear you are a great shot. Let’s see if you can get nearer to the centre.’

  The abbot took the bow from Ellice’s hand with a deprecating look and spent a long time adjusting the string to his taste. Father Denis submissively stepped back into the line of monks and Ellice’s eyes followed him. A young monk handed the abbot an arrow and he fitted it to the notch and raised the bow. The arrow flew with deadly accuracy and hit the target in the exact centre.

  ‘A lucky shot,’ said the abbot modestly. He held out the bow towards Turlough.

  ‘My lord?’ he queried. Turlough shook his head.

  ‘Conor is unwell,’ he said quietly, with a glance at Ellice, who averted her gaze. ‘I must go to him.’

  There was a cold damp feeling even in this sheltered place, thought Mara as they turned away. The air was no longer crisp and clear and dimpled slabs of snow, like fat white pancakes, slid down the stone slates of the church roof and collapsed into heaps of slush in the brimming lead gutters.

  Mara had felt the west wind in her face as they came through the archway into the garth in front of the guest houses. The thaw had begun. Soon the snowfall, which had blocked roads and mountain passes, would be just a memory to be discussed over and over again, but possibly not to be repeated in the lifetime of many.

  ‘Should Ellice come with us?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘No, no, let her enjoy herself.’ Turlough’s momentary irritation had vanished. ‘She’s a great shot,’ he said indulgently. ‘She amuses herself shooting birds around the abbey grounds.’

  ‘And what does the abbot think of that?’ asked Mara with interest. Even from the king’s daughter-in-law this seemed to be rather presumptuous behaviour.

  ‘Oh, he’s probably quite pleased as she always brings it to the kitchen and then he has it for his supper; one bird would not go far among fifty monks, but it does very nicely for one man. He’s a man who likes to feed well, in private, I’d say.’ Turlough dropped his voice slightly but from the amused glance that Father Peter threw over his shoulder the king was obviously clearly audible to him.

  At the door to the guest house, Mara stopped for an instant. There was a loud hammering coming from the church. Everyone else stopped also. The monk running back with an arrow froze for a moment, his head turned towards the church, and even Murrough lowered the bow that he had just lifted and Teige O’Brien made the sign of the cross.

  ‘They’re opening the vault,’ said Turlough in her ear. ‘They seal it up after each burial and then hammer the mortar out when a new one has to take place. The last person to be buried there was Teige’s brother.’

  Mara nodded. Soon Mahon O’Brien’s body would be placed there, but the killer was still at large and she had not yet even made up her mind as to who was the intended victim. Something nagged at the back of her mind. Some sentence uttered carelessly but bearing some significance. What was it?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Turlough.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said and tucked her hand inside his arm with a quick glance behind to see that the two bodyguards were still in attendance. Until she could solve this case, then Turlough’s life might be in danger.

  Conor’s room smelled of sweat. Conor himself was obviously in a high fever, his face flushed and his blue eyes large and empty of expression. He should never have gone out this morning into the icy snow. Ellice ought to have prevented him, thoug
ht Mara. Unless, of course, she was tired of this sick husband and wanted it all to be over as soon as possible.

  ‘Where is he, where is he?’ he was muttering. Father Peter came to the bedside and placed a cold hand on his forehead. It seemed to quieten Conor for a moment, but then the feverish mutterings broke out again. ‘I must see him, I must tell him.’

  ‘This is terrible,’ said Turlough, his voice broken. ‘I can’t bear to see him suffer like this. Can’t you give him something?’

  ‘There’s something worrying him, fretting him,’ said Father Peter. ‘He won’t rest until he gets it off his mind; he wanders, but then he comes back to himself and he knows what he is saying. He asked for you a few minutes ago.’

  Turlough lowered his bulk to kneel beside his son. He reached out and took the emaciated hand within his large brown fist. Mara could see how he squeezed it as if he tried by this means to force some of his own life and energy into Conor’s veins. Conor shifted uncomfortably. The grip was too tight and Mara was about to whisper to the king when she noticed that the delirious sounds had ceased and that Conor’s large blue eyes, fixed on his father’s face, were now lucid.

  ‘I didn’t want anything to happen to you . . .’ he said and his voice was so weak that the words were barely audible.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Turlough distressed. ‘Of course you didn’t.’

  ‘Ellice . . .’ Here Conor was interrupted by a bout of coughing. Father Peter slipped around to the other side of the bed and lifted him slightly, massaging his back. Mara came around and plumped up the pillows, keeping them in place while Father Peter lowered Conor back on to them. He coughed strongly once again and then looked back at the face so close to his own. His eyes were still clear. It was obvious that he knew his father.

  ‘She wants me to be king, and young Donough after me,’ he said.

  ‘Of course she does,’ said Turlough soothingly. ‘Yes, of course she does. That’s only natural. And so you will, too, please God.’