Writ in Stone

by Cora Harrison

  ‘I don’t care if she had anything to do with the murder of Mahon,’ said Turlough defiantly. ‘Don’t ask her. Let it be laid to Father Denis’s door. He’s beyond any justice of ours now. God will deal with him.’

  ‘How was Tearlach’s father?’ she asked, turning the conversation away from the investigation. Turlough, himself, had insisted on waiting and following the procession to the fisherman’s cottage, rather than the procession to the abbey. He had only just returned.

  ‘As well as you could expect; he seemed resigned. They live with death, of course, these fishermen. I told him that he would be compensated for his son’s death, that he would have the silver to buy a new boat, but he hardly took it all in. You’ll go to see him, won’t you, my love? You will be better than I. You will make him understand.’

  Mara nodded. ‘I will, but we’ll leave it for the moment. His family and neighbours will comfort him better than we can. Poor Tearlach will have a hero’s funeral.’

  ‘And what about Ellice?’

  ‘She’s well,’ said Mara, deliberately misunderstanding him. ‘She’s a strong girl. She’ll come to no harm. Conor is with her now, and so is Shane.’

  ‘Shane?’

  Mara laughed. ‘Yes, funnily enough, she’s clinging to him. He admires her tremendously. He told her how wonderful she was for managing to bring the boat on to the sand, even if it did get smashed to pieces by the next wave. He thinks she was heroic to try to save the horses before the breakers swept her off the deck. He was the first to take off his mantle and wrap it around her. He had his arms around her when the body of her horse came on to the shore. He wept when he heard her sob and then she wept holding him in her arms. It’s a grief that a child can understand: the loss of a beloved animal. He knows nothing else about her; she is aware of that, so they are easy with each other. She is shy and awkward with Conor and they have very little to say to each other.’

  ‘And you will do what I say about this murder?’ persisted Turlough, looking at her uneasily. ‘He wasn’t worth much, you know, Mahon O’Brien. Don’t let his death cloud these two young lives. I’ll make it up to Banna, somehow, and the other little wife, too, if she hasn’t been left anything. There’s no need to involve Ellice; she was just led astray by that young scoundrel. Father Peter tells me that Conor is stronger and that his body is battling against this wasting sickness. Ellice will be happier when he is well, again. You will do as I say,’ he repeated.

  ‘I will bear your words in my mind,’ promised Mara. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she never did what anyone said, unless it was what she was going to do anyway, but she kept quiet. All would be revealed shortly; time enough then to talk about open admission of the crime at Poulnabrone and retribution to the victim’s family.

  ‘We’ll get the burial over first and then I’ll sort this matter of Mahon’s death out finally,’ she said aloud. It was going to be an ordeal, going to cause pain; she knew that but nothing could be done. The truth had to be shared with all.

  ‘That’s Teige,’ said Turlough as a tremendous knock sounded on the door of the Royal Lodge. ‘God bless him, he said that he would come over for me and that he would be at my back every time that I stirred out of doors until the murderer was discovered.’

  Teige’s face, however, was beaming with relief when Fergal admitted him to the room.

  ‘I hear he’s dead,’ were his first words even before he greeted either of them. ‘That must be a great relief to you, Brehon, and to you, Turlough. A clean end to an unworthy life! Better for Donogh, too. Who would want a son like that! A man who would strike down a man just to gain a position for himself! It was a cowardly, dastardly crime and the world is better off without that Father Denis. Ah, there’s Ardal, now. I’d know his knock anywhere. He’ll be coming to congratulate you, too.’

  Ardal, more cautious than Teige, merely murmured a greeting, but he cast a quick eye of enquiry at Mara. She smiled blandly at him and went upstairs to put on her black gown.

  The church was full as they entered. The light had begun to fail outside, but the dark interior was lit up with hundreds of sweet-smelling candles of beeswax. Nothing had been spared to make this burial mass impressive. The long stone altar, in front of the three tall pointed windows, was draped in black velvet and so was the coffin. The church was full: lay brothers on the north side of the nave at the back of the church, servants, workmen on the south side and the higher ranking people further up in the nave.

  Chairs had been found for Patrick and Fachtnan who were in the third row and Shane was sitting, like a page, on a cushion between Conor and Ellice. All rose to their feet at the entry of the king with his Brehon and stayed standing until they seated themselves. A new chair had been found for Mara, she was glad to note. It would have chilled her to sit on the original chair, no matter how well repaired. It was difficult enough to turn her mind from that terrible outpouring of hatred and malice that had sent the block of stone on its fateful path. She turned her head slightly, first to one side and then to the other. Yes, all were here: Murrough beside Conor, the four taoiseachs and the two wives of the dead man.

  ‘Subvenite, Sancti Dei . . .’ sang the abbot, sweeping out from the sacristy and standing with head bowed before the altar. Everyone stood at his entry and then sank to their knees.

  The trained voices of the choir monks took up the responsory, calling on Christ to receive the soul of Mahon O’Brien and on the angels to lead him into the bosom of Abraham.

  ‘Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis . . .’ sang the abbot and the monks responded.

  Not a bad man, Mahon O’Brien, thought Mara. A dull, fussy, sanctimonious sort of man, she had thought him when they met last night, but he certainly did not deserve to die there from an assassin’s blow at a time of life when he was probably happier than he had ever been. He would have had his baby to marvel over, doubly precious since he had waited so long for an heir, and if this baby were a girl that would not matter – Frann was young and strong and there would be many children to come. She added her prayer that God might give him eternal rest and that perpetual light might shine upon him, but knew that it was up to her, as Brehon, to name his murderer in public, no matter what the cost.

  Had the abbot received her note? she wondered, watching him walking around the bier sprinkling holy water on the coffin. No answer had come from him, but he was an incommunicative, arrogant man.

  ‘Domine, exaudi orationem eum,’ he sang with a steady voice and then came the final words of the Mass for the Dead: ‘Requiescat in pace.’

  Then the two cousins of the dead man came from their places in the church and stood beside the bier: Turlough at the head with the abbot opposite him and then came Teige. Conor had started to move, but Turlough had waved him back impatiently and Murrough, with an expression of amusement on his face, moved forward and stood at the fourth corner. The choir monks took up their candles and led the way towards the small chapel in the north transept, standing in two straight lines to allow the coffin to be carried between them. The rest of the congregation stood up and moved to the north aisle, crowding between the piers of the transept. Banna was sobbing noisily and leaning heavily on Ciara O’Brien’s arm; Frann made no sound, but her young face was solemn, its matt pallor a little whiter than usual.

  One of the lay brothers, or perhaps the mason, had unlocked the door to the vault during the service and now it gaped wide open. A solitary candle flickered unsteadily from its depths. A heavy smell of damp and decay seemed to drift upwards and several of the congregation took an uneasy step backwards.

  ‘De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine . . .’ sang the monks and the awful gaping hole of the depths before them gave to their clamouring voices a hollow, ominous sound.

  At the head of the steps that led to the vault the abbot made a sign and all of the pall-bearers stopped. Father Peter, without pausing in the chanting, jerked his head slightly and four strong young lay brothers came forwa
rd, all of them of the O’Brien clan, surmised Mara. Certainly Brother Melduin was amongst them. Deferentially they took the weight of the top end of the coffin on their shoulders, while Turlough and Father Donogh moved back near to Teige and Murrough. Now eight men bore the weight, but even still it was a difficult matter to manoeuvre the coffin safely down into the vault. Mara held her breath until it was down and, looking around afterwards, she could see the relief on other faces.

  The mason then slipped unobtrusively after them down the steps. His would be the final task. Once the coffin was placed within the stone chest he would seal it and then the vault itself would be closed up again until another O’Brien of the Burren came to be laid to rest there. What was Teige thinking, wondered Mara, or the abbot? In all probability one of these would be the next to be laid there in that mouldering place. She moved impatiently. What was the point of all these stone vaults where the body corrupted until nothing but bones were left? The monks’ cemetery, with its well-tended apple trees, was a much more practical solution. Let the dead help to nourish the living.

  ‘Et lux perpetua luceat eis . . .’ sang the monks once again as the pall-bearers came back up to the lighted church, leaving the mason, and the dead body of Mahon O’Brien, down in the dark vault.

  ‘Amen’. The final word was heartfelt. All would be glad to get away from this gloomy moment. Already some were moving towards the back of the church.

  ‘I’ll join you in a while, my love,’ whispered Mara to Turlough. As she spoke she beckoned to Cumhal. He came instantly and stood by her side patiently waiting for instructions. The device worked; Turlough went ahead, followed by his bodyguards and by Teige O’Brien and Ardal and once they were out of sight Mara just repeated to Cumhal her instructions to Patrick and then dismissed him. She returned to her seat and waited there quietly. Soon all, monks and laity, had left and she was alone.

  But not quite alone: one man remained.

  Seventeen

  Heptad Twenty-Five

  A Brehon who hears a case is entitled to a lóg mbérlai (a payment for legal language) of one twelfth of the amount involved in each case.

  If the Brehon’s verdict is wrongly disputed, a fine of six séts, three ounces of silver, or three milch cows must be paid as recompense for the loss of face.

  A Brehon appointed by the king is given lands and other gifts.

  Mara stayed sitting on her chair until he approached her. The church was very still and very dark. Just one candle stayed alight beside the west door; all others had been extinguished. A faint gleam of daylight from the north-west came through the window above the door to the cloisters and dimly illuminated the stone piers of the chancel, showing the newly executed carvings standing out brightly against the work of long-dead masons. Above her head the raw, broken timberwork of the bell loft still gaped menacingly.

  She heard his footsteps before she saw him. They came slowly, as if he were unsure. After a few moments, he stopped and she wondered whether he would suddenly break into a run and flee through the west door. He wouldn’t, she decided. Oddly enough, she felt that she knew him sufficiently well to be sure that was not in his character. She said nothing and did not move nor turn her head.

  He carried a simple candleholder with one candle of tallow burning smokily on it, but before he came near, he bent down and put it on the broad base of one of the fluted piers that supported the arch to the south aisle. It illuminated one small, newly carved harebell, lying on the floor ready to be plastered into its place on the frieze, but threw a shadow over the man. Now she could not see his face.

  ‘No need for that,’ she said quietly as she watched him straighten up. ‘I know the truth.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ he replied. ‘You are clever; I’ll grant you that.’

  She sighed. ‘Rather more hard-working than clever,’ she said. ‘I’ve never believed in sitting around and letting things come to me. I’ve sifted the evidence and yours is the name that has come up again and again. The problem was that, for many hours, I just couldn’t see any motive, so I dismissed the evidence.’

  He got up and picked up his candle and came back to her with it in his hand.

  ‘I’d have thought that I gave you something to think about,’ he observed. ‘It could have been any of them. What about the abbot, didn’t you suspect him? There was no love lost between these brothers, you know. I tried to point you in his direction – and towards some others, too.’

  ‘You told some lies, laid some false trails, but in the end the truth emerged.’

  ‘How did you know? How did you guess? You didn’t in the beginning. Don’t lie. I know you too well. You certainly didn’t guess yesterday morning.’ His voice was rough and threatening, but she did not flinch.

  ‘Was it only yesterday?’ Mara spoke wearily. ‘It seems an age. But, yes, you are right. I didn’t guess in the beginning. I suppose you were watching for that. You were observing me.’

  ‘I was alert for it, yes.’ He placed the candle on the floor between them and sat down heavily on Turlough’s chair.

  She disliked seeing him sit there. For a moment she felt like ordering him to get off it, but what did it matter? Soon all would know the truth.

  ‘All through the morning, I wondered, but by the afternoon, I reckoned that you had other matters to think of. I saw you, heard you . . . more than you ever realized; I listened to conversations; I knew what was going on. I thought that, as you hadn’t recognized me straightaway, you would never stumble on the truth.’

  ‘Someone said something yesterday at dinner time and this stayed in my mind,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘He said . . . it was the O’Lochlainn that said it . . . he said that it seemed to be a violent and hate-filled attack. Whenever I came up with a name – and there were certainly people who had reasons to kill the king or the king’s cousin – then the motives were always for money or for power.’ She was silent for a moment thinking of Ellice and of Murrough, of Teige who loved his son so much, of the abbot, of Father Denis, even of Frann. None of these had reasons to hate the victim.

  ‘That’s what I reckoned,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Unless you knew who I was, you would never solve this crime. Why should I want to kill that man, what was his name? That Mahon O’Brien, the king’s cousin.’

  ‘But then you had made a mistake. You tried to cover it up, but you knew that a suspicion had come into my mind.’ Mara paused and then added: ‘So you attempted to kill me.’

  His voice was deeper and lower now, a savage note in it as he said: ‘Why not? You were trying to wreck my life forever . . . not for the first time, either. You took everything that I had and now you wanted to take my life away, as well.’

  ‘Not your life,’ said Mara. ‘You know the law better than that. Open admission of the crime and compensation to the victim, that is what is required.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’ he sneered. ‘You haven’t heard the abbot, have you? This crime was committed on church soil; Roman law will prevail. He will want the murderer hanged.’

  ‘I am Brehon of the Burren,’ said Mara simply. ‘My word goes on the Burren. You will not hang.’

  ‘I will certainly not hang,’ he said with determination, ‘and I will pay no fine. You won’t shame me in public, again, either.’

  And when she said nothing, he added, ‘I’m not going to stand there at Poulnabrone, as I did twenty years ago.’

  ‘Why did you kill him?’ asked Mara, ignoring this.

  There was a silence and then he gave a short laugh.

  ‘That was a mistake,’ he said.

  ‘You thought it was the king; I know that. This was one of the reasons why I knew it had to be you; another who might have had a motive to kill the king knew of the switch,’ her mind went to her suspicions of Teige O’Brien, before she added, ‘you did not. You thought that the arrangement had been unaltered, that the king was going to do the first hour of the vigil. You went down, killed him, returned to the lay dormitory and then Murr
ough woke up and saw you, fully clothed, even with your boots on, standing at the window.’

  ‘What if he were lying?’

  ‘It was possible,’ admitted Mara. ‘But why should Murrough lie?’

  ‘I’m surprised that you did not recognize that he had as much opportunity to kill the king as I had, and of course, far more of a motive. And what about the stone in the bell tower?’

  ‘So far as the bell tower was concerned, the evidence against Murrough was given by the mason, that very mason who had primed Murrough with details of my divorce. That was a mistake that you made. You had probably drunk too much when you told him that the name of my first husband was Dualta. Even the king, his father, did not know that and Murrough was only a baby nineteen years ago.’

  ‘So, when you saw my mason’s mark, that I signed my work in the church with the letter ‘D’ writ in stone, you guessed.’

  ‘No, not then, although that stayed at the back of my mind and it served to verify my conclusion. No, you betrayed yourself when you said: “a king’s son may go, where a humble man may not tread”. That brought me back to the law school immediately. I could hear my father’s voice quoting Fithail: it was one of his favourite quotations. I wondered why a mason should use those words. They showed an education either at a law school, or perhaps at a bardic school. I never knew what had happened to you, once our marriage was dissolved, never cared, I suppose, but I knew that your father had been a mason.’