Mara pondered. If that heavy block of limestone were already in the bell loft, then it would have been a matter of minutes for the assassin to put it in place.
‘But no one was seen to go to the bell loft,’ she said aloud, almost speaking to herself.
The mason had already begun to chip at his block, but he stopped at the sound of her voice.
‘No one,’ he said in husky voice, ‘that a wise man would see.’
Mara considered this. It was perhaps an invitation.
‘A wise man would tell what he saw and leave it to the Brehon to protect him,’ she said neutrally.
‘Who can protect against the king’s son,’ he said. And now his voice was almost inaudible.
Mara moved closer to him and said a rapid undertone, ‘There is no danger. I would never betray your confidence. Tell what you know and tell it quickly.’
He looked at her doubtfully and then seemed to make up his mind. ‘The king’s son, he who disguised himself as a pilgrim . . .’
‘Murrough,’ she said and he nodded.
‘He came into the church. I heard him with the abbot. I think they were putting away the bow and arrows. He, Murrough, lingered. I was in the vault, measuring up the space. I don’t think that he saw me. I thought nothing of it at the time. What is the old saying? ‘A king’s son may go, where a humble man may not follow.’ It was not for people like myself to question him.’
‘He lingered?’ queried Mara. ‘In the nave? By the altar?’
‘I heard him go up the steps to the bell loft.’ The mason’s gruff voice was emphatic. He stroked his white beard, turning his head away from her glance and bent over his work again. She thought he would say no more, but then he added in a curiously formal phrase: ‘I know not what he did up there.’
Thirteen
Din Techtugad
(On Legal Entry)
False witness is one of the three falsehoods which God avenges most severely on a Tuáth (kingdom).
Di Astud Chirt Agus Dligid
(On the Confirmation of Right and Law)
The three worst afflictions in the world are:
• Famine
• The slaughter of a people
• Plague
To avoid these disasters no man must swear false oaths or give false testimony.
It was quite dark by the time that Mara emerged from the church. A faint watery strip of moonlight showed through the speeding clouds, just enough to cast a dim light on the shadowy path that skirted the cloisters. From behind her she could hear the voices of the carpenter and the mason; night was closing in now and their work would be finishing. Candlelight sparkled from the closed shutters of the abbot’s house and the sound of voices came from within. Mara rapped on the door and Teige O’Brien immediately opened it.
‘How’s Turlough?’ he whispered with a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that his words were heard by her only.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, surprised. ‘I’ve been in the church. Why? Have you heard anything?’ Despite herself, she could not help a note of alarm. It was only about ten minutes since she had seen Turlough, but she had a feeling that events were leading up to a climax.
‘No, nothing.’ He hastened to reassure her. ‘It’s just that so many things seem to be happening so quickly. It’s hard to believe that Mahon’s death only happened nine or ten hours ago. Come inside by the fire. Let me take your mantle.’
He bustled around her, helping her to shed the heavily furred mantle, hanging it up on one of a row of pegs in the narrow passageway that led to the stairs and then ushering her into the parlour.
All voices ceased when she entered. Teige took her over to the fireplace and plumped up the cushions on the padded bench that stood at right angles to the blazing fire. There was a flagon of spiced ale standing on the stone hob beside the chimney and he poured her a cup and handed it to her. Mara accepted it gratefully; the church had been icy-cold. She sipped it eagerly and then glanced around.
The abbot’s parlour was a small room and yet the groups of people seemed to keep at a distance from each other almost as if they feared the thrust of an assassin’s knife if they stood too close. To her amusement, most seemed to stand with their backs firmly pressed against one of the walls. Finn O’Connor and his wife were chatting loudly together about a long-past Christmas. Father Denis was pretending to leaf through a prayer book; though his eyes flashed from beneath his lids as he took quick surreptitious glances around the room. Brother Francis stood beside him, muttering in his ear. Ardal, near the window, was being gallant to Flann, shielding her from the cold wind that blew through the shutters, while his cousin, Banna, standing against the opposite wall, glared at him furiously and then turned to mutter to Teige’s wife, Ciara O’Brien. Strange, thought Mara. Neither Frann nor Banna had admitted visiting the church and yet here they both were, doubtless to give their evidence.
‘The two wives of my poor cousin have remembered saying a prayer for his soul,’ whispered Teige, following the direction of her eyes.
‘I see,’ returned Mara, her voice as low as his. ‘Who remembered first?’
‘Frann, I think. When Ardal left her to go into the abbot’s house she suddenly remembered.’ Teige had turned so that his back was now to the room. There was an amused smile on his lips. He reminded Mara of Turlough. He had the same mischievous twinkle in his pale green eyes and the same generous mouth under the large war-like moustache. It was interesting how alike all these cousins were, and yet how different their destinies. Turlough, Teige, Mahon and the abbot were all cousins, all grandsons of the same man, and yet the one was king of three kingdoms, two were mere taoiseachs of minor clans and the last was just a head monk of a small obscure abbey.
Mara turned her head back to look all around the room again. There was no sign of the abbot. He must be in with Fachtnan and Patrick. She would not interrupt, she thought. It was good for Fachtnan to have this responsibility. Hopefully he would pass his final examination this year and then he would be a qualified lawyer. Conducting an investigation like this would be valuable experience for him, if he ever managed to become a Brehon.
‘Teige,’ she said. ‘Would you go and fetch Ellice over here? Father Peter will be with Conor so she can leave him for the moment.’
I’ll deal with her myself, she thought. This matter has to be cleared up by tomorrow. She leaned back for a moment and closed her eyes. Banna was whispering loudly to Teige’s wife, Ciara, saying something about a son – perhaps Mahon had told her that Frann was expecting – perhaps this business with dangling a ring above a pregnant stomach was a well-known way of forecasting the sex of the unborn child.
‘I know,’ said Ciara in a low, soothing voice. ‘That’s men for you; a son is all-important to them. Take Teige, for instance. You wouldn’t believe what he’s like with Donal, our eldest. He’d give him the moon and stars if he could. Anything that boy wants, he has to have immediately. Sometimes, I think that the rest of us matter less to him than Donal’s little finger.’
‘Mahon was saying that . . .’ Banna was beginning to sound more cheerful. No doubt the familiar gossip about the shortcomings of husbands was raising her spirits. From under her eyelids Mara could see how the bereaved widow cast a quick glance in the Brehon’s direction and then, apparently reassured that she would be unheard, went on in a sibilant whisper:
‘Mahon was saying that Teige only wanted to be tánaiste so as to pass the office on to his son. Many of the fine and two or three of the septs wanted Mahon for tánaiste and as many wanted Teige.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Ciara. ‘Well, as God is my witness, Banna, I wouldn’t say this to many, but I’ve heard that no one wants a boy dying of the wasting sickness for tánaiste.’ Frann was now laughing uproariously at a remark by Ardal so Ciara obviously saw no reason to lower her voice as she added: ‘Of course, if Turlough had been killed this morning, then Conor would have been king and Teige the tánaiste.’
‘
You’re probably right,’ agreed Banna, indifferent to the claims of her erring husband. ‘Though I’d say that the chances would be that Teige would have been elected king and then young Donal would have been the tánaiste.’
Interesting, thought Mara, more amused than shocked at the casual way that these two middle-aged matrons discussed the death of their king. Would Conor really have been rejected? And if so, would Murrough, rather than the easy-going Teige, have been elected?
‘I’ll tell you something else . . .’ whispered Ciara and then stopped abruptly as the parlour door was opened and the unassuming figure of Fachtnan appeared. Every eye immediately turned to him and all conversations ceased.
‘Would you come in now, ban tighernae?’ he said, looking over at Banna and Ciara. Both rose to their feet and then Banna sank down again as Ciara swept past her. Of course, Banna was no longer to be addressed as ban tighernae: that title ceased at the death of her husband.
The parlour was very silent for a few moments after she had gone. Mara looked around. Had anyone overheard that conversation between Ciara and Banna, she wondered. She thought not. Murrough was the nearest as he stood leaning on the mantelpiece over the fireplace, his face imperturbable and his mouth curved in a mocking smile as he surveyed the huddled figures around him. He might have heard, she decided; his smile seemed to show that he had not thought much of the surmising. She gazed at him speculatively and he turned and faced her with his eyebrows raised interrogatively. She lowered her eyes, but under her eyelashes she saw him leave the fireplace and cross the room to join Ardal and Frann by the window.
So what was the solution to this mystery? A small number of people, all within the one enclave: this should be an easy crime to solve. And yet her mind had gone through all the evidence, again and again, but without a solution. Deliberately she shut her eyes quite tightly, this time. In her mind she imagined names written in black charcoal on the whitewashed wall of the schoolhouse at Cahermacnaghten. Each name had a large black question mark beside it. Suddenly Mara seemed to see her way clearly. She stayed very still and then, one by one through her closed eyelids, she could see the names being wiped off the wall by the damp sponge that she kept on the window ledge beside it; soon only one name would remain and then she would know the truth. She remembered Father Peter’s words. ‘The truth will come to you,’ he had said.‘Trust to God; He will open your eyes.’ He had looked at her keenly and then added:‘Your mind may already hold the key and some word, some sign, will reveal all to you.’ A wise man, thought Mara. He had the wisdom that sometimes comes from a life of self-sacrifice and prayer. And he was correct; the truth had been there all the time, right at the back of her mind.
‘Ah, Brehon, I hope you have been looked after. I’ve just been talking with the Brehon from Tyrone, telling him all the details of this terrible affair.’ The abbot was looking pleased with himself, she thought, as she opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at him. No doubt Patrick had handled him carefully and Fachtnan, always a boy of great tact, would have played the role of silent, young assistant very carefully.
‘The Brehon decided to take the kitchen for the private conversations – does that suit you?’ he continued. ‘He would like to speak to Father Denis now.’ He raised an imperious finger and Father Denis hastened to leave the room. His young, narrowly handsome face looked tense, thought Mara, stealing a quick look at him while the abbot’s unfriendly eyes were on his son. She moved up the bench, hospitably leaving room for the abbot near to the fire. He took his seat gratefully and stretched his long thin fingers out to the fire. The kitchen was probably chillier than this room and he seemed to luxuriate in the heat for a moment before adding: ‘Do you wish to join him?’
‘No, no,’ Mara knew she sounded sleepy and relaxed. There was a question that she needed to ask and she thought now was the moment that she could insert it without too much significance attached.
‘So was Turlough embarrassed when he told you that he had changed his mind about taking the first hour of the vigil?’ She allowed a slight tinge of amusement to colour her voice and, listening to her question critically, she thought it sounded the right note.
The abbot smiled in return. ‘I don’t think he wanted to tell me himself – perhaps he had a little too much to drink that night. He left it to his cousin to tell me.’ His voice was indulgent – a man without faults making an allowance for a man with many.
‘Mahon, your brother?’ queried Mara.
‘No, no, it was Teige who came to me with the message from the king. I must say that I was a little upset. I asked Teige whether he could take the king’s place. He laughed it off; he said that he intended to sleep until ten in the morning,’ explained the abbot, a slight crease of annoyance deepening between his brows. ‘I asked him to tell the king that I felt that he should honour his promise given before so many witnesses. I did not receive a message back, but then I thought that I should ensure that someone was there in case the king defaulted. So I sent a note to Mahon. I thought it was the least he could do.’ For a moment his face darkened and then he made a perfunctory sign of the cross on his breast and added: ‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul.’
‘I see,’ said Mara thoughtfully. She decided not to question the abbot about why he felt his brother owed him a favour. She had heard Father Peter’s evidence about the quarrel between the brothers and Frann had corroborated that. There was a knock at the door and she rose to her feet.
‘That will be Teige with Ellice,’ she said. ‘I’ll let them in; don’t disturb yourself. You’ve had a hard day,’ she added solicitously and he looked back up at her gratefully.
Ellice was alone when Mara opened the door to her. She appeared white-faced and uneasy.
‘Here, let me take your cloak. You shouldn’t have come out on that wet ground in such thin shoes. And look at your hair; it’s all wet. You should have put up the hood of your mantle,’ she scolded, drawing the girl inside and warming the icy young hands within her own. The motherliness wasn’t feigned; by the light of the torch on the wall of the small entrance hall to the abbot’s house Mara could see the depth of unhappiness and almost desperation in the thin young face and the black eyes seemed filled with misery. There was no doubt that the girl was suffering.
‘I’m all right.’ Ellice gave her usual shrug.
‘You must look after yourself. We can’t have you falling ill as well. And you had no cloak on either when you went out to fetch something for Conor while your servants were at vespers, did you?’ Mara moved slightly so that the full torchlight was on Ellice. She watched carefully, but there was nothing but bewilderment to be seen.
‘I didn’t go out then, Brehon,’ she said in a puzzled tone. ‘I stayed with Conor the whole time. Why do you think that I went out?’ Suddenly she caught her breath. ‘I know what it is. Someone is trying to put the blame on to me. You don’t think that I had anything to do with that stone crashing down, do you?’
Mara said nothing. The tone sounded genuinely surprised, but Mara did not respond. She had learned the value of silence when interrogating. Sooner or later, the guilty person usually said too much.
‘Who is it who is supposed to have seen me?’ Now Ellice’s tone was aggressive. ‘Whoever they were, they must be lying.’ She faced Mara angrily. And yet, thought Mara, there is something feigned about that anger. Somehow there was a shadow of guilt over the girl. But was it guilt because she was betraying her sick husband and allowing another man to court her, and perhaps make love to her? Or was there perhaps a graver reason for this guilt? In either case, there was no point in prolonging the conversation. She would get no more out of Ellice. From outside came the sound of heavy footsteps and then a tap at the door. That would be Teige who had probably lingered to have a word with his cousin.
‘Ellice, you go into the abbot’s parlour,’ she said. ‘My assistant and the Brehon from Tyrone are taking notes about each person’s movements during the day. They’ll call you when they are ready for you.
Father Denis is in there at the moment.’ She watched the girl’s thin face colour up and the dark eyes cloud over at that name. With desire? With fear? Mara wasn’t sure but she knew that Fachtnan would be careful and methodical in his fact-finding and Patrick would ask any question that he missed. Ellice could be safely left to them. She waited until the parlour door closed before opening the outside door and saying softly: ‘Did you see Turlough, Teige?’
Teige shook his head. A genial, happy man, she thought. His wife, Ciara, was genuinely fond of him and he appeared to idolize all of his children, though, of course, young Donal was the favourite. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said, ‘but you need not worry about him. His bodyguards are keeping an excellent watch at the Royal Lodge. Fergus was at the window of the king’s room when I passed the Royal Lodge, I could see his shadow through the gap in the shutters, and Conall was marching up and down outside. I saw your own servant, Cumhal, looking out of the kitchen window when I knocked on the door of the guest house.’
‘And Conor?’ she asked. ‘How is he?’
‘Not too well, poor lad,’ he said. ‘He was sleeping, but he was as white as snow. I think,’ he said echoing his wife’s words, ‘that Turlough will have to face the possibility that a sick boy like that cannot be tánaiste – even if he lives for a while longer, he’s just not suitable.’
‘So it may be that the king will have to call a meeting to elect a new tánaiste, in the New Year.’ Mara sounded thoughtful. ‘Do you think that, now Murrough has come back, he will be the choice of the clan?’
His face darkened with anger. ‘Never,’ he said emphatically. ‘I’m not saying that because I would hope to be king myself. What good would it be to me to be king? Turlough and I are the same age. The chances are that I will die before him, or not long after him. All the same I would hate to see the O’Briens ruled by a man like Murrough.’
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