So the sound, when it came, was startling in its intensity: almost like a jangled chord from a lute, a sudden, ping-like sound that made all heads turn, all except one.
From the altar came a scream.
Mara, like the others, had turned, saw, and then instantly turned back. In a moment she had reached the steps to the altar and held Shane in her arms for a minute before handing him to Patrick.
Dualta’s body, face down, lay slumped on the steps. In the centre of his back, slightly to the left, protruded a large arrow, feathered with a short, harsh pinion from a raven’s side. A steady stream of blood dripped down upon the steps.
Mara felt herself gently moved to one side and stood back, allowing Father Peter to approach the body. She felt her heart thud against her ribs and she took a couple of deep breaths.
‘He’s dead, poor soul,’ said Father Peter, feeling the wrist, and then turning the white head gently to one side and placing a finger over the lips beneath the white moustache.
‘Dead,’ echoed the abbot, stepping forward and waving the others away with an impatient wave of his hand. The untidy huddle of brothers and laity stepped back and then parted, turning around to stare at the white-faced girl who advanced up through their centre with the bow in her hand.
‘Well done, Ellice,’ said Mara firmly. She averted her eyes from the body at her feet and looked keenly at Shane, now struggling to free himself from his father’s embrace.
‘Are you all right?’ she questioned, noticing the trickle of blood from his neck that had already stained the top of his white léine.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, embarrassment flooding his face with crimson and then retreating to leave him unnaturally pale and shaking from head to foot. ‘That was a good shot, Ellice,’ he called, steadying his voice with an effort. ‘That was iontach!’
No higher praise could be bestowed, thought Mara, trying hard to distract herself. Despite her brave words she, also, had begun to shiver. A feeling of sickness welled up within her and she hoped that she was not going to faint. She still kept her eyes from the body on the floor, clenching her hands so that the nails drove painfully into her palms. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and she breathed slowly and deeply, fighting for control as she turned to face Turlough.
‘The boy had to be saved,’ he said quietly, answering the unspoken appeal in her eyes as he grasped her hand in his large warm palm. ‘It was the only way. No words of yours could have stopped him. He was a bitter and disappointed man who probably didn’t want to live. Thank God Ellice had the presence of mind to do what she did.’
Mara nodded. He could have said nothing better to help her to regain control over herself. She looked lovingly across at Shane, now in Brigid’s arms, and then at Patrick, standing there, eyes no longer hooded, but gazing intently at his youngest son. The whole church seemed filled with the relief of all. Everyone clustered around wanting to touch Shane, the women to hug him, the men to slap him on the back, even Frann and Banna were smiling at each other with relief. Conor proudly put his arm around Ellice and she responded by moving closer to him. Even the carpenter, a man who had worked side by side with Dualta, had given a satisfied nod when Father Peter had pronounced the mason to be dead.
‘Put down that bow!’ The abbot’s fury-filled words erupted from white lips.
Ellice turned to him in a puzzled way and then glanced down at the bow that still hung from her right hand. Ardal courteously took it from her and looked enquiringly at the abbot.
‘You have profaned the house of God!’ The words were spoken quietly, but the whole church immediately fell silent. Brigid took her arms away from Shane, turning towards the abbot, her freckled face blazing with indignation, but no one spoke.
‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Now the voice rang out and reverberated against the stone.
‘This man had already killed and was about to kill again, Father Donogh,’ said Turlough mildly, but Mara felt how his hand had tensed.
‘“Vengeance is mine,” saith the Lord.’
‘That would not have been much consolation to us all if the boy had been murdered as well as your own brother,’ thundered Turlough.
They faced each other like two bulls in the same field, these two members of the O’Brien royal family, shoulders squared, heads slightly lowered, eyes locked on eyes.
‘All things, that are unjust in this world, shall be made right in the next world,’ said the abbot loftily.
‘And yet,’ said Mara, taking a step forward, ‘you yourself said that the man who killed your brother, Mahon O’Brien, should be hanged.’ It was time to put a stop to this. Turlough would not fare too well in the swapping of pious quotations. The abbot turned to her furiously.
‘That is the law; ‘“thou shalt give a life for a life, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth”. So says the law, and the Church espouses that law. But only the law can authorize that death. Two wrongs do not make a right.’
‘The Church may think as she pleases,’ said Mara dryly. ‘This is the territory of the Burren and Brehon law prevails.’ Has the man gone mad? she wondered. Is this visit from the high-ranking monk from Tintern Abbey of such tremendous importance to him that any threat to an orderly picture of praying monks and distinguished guests is enough to make him lose sight of reason? Was the prospect of being abbot of Mellifont enough to make him offend his sovereign?
‘And you will impose a fine on this woman,’ sneered the abbot. ‘What is that in comparison with a God-given human life?’
‘There will be no fine.’
He was silent then, gazing at her with his raven-grey eyes.
‘If needs be, I will judge this case at Poulnabrone,’ said Mara clearly, looking around to make sure that her words reached all ears. She looked away from the abbot and fixed her eyes on Ellice’s thin white face. ‘But I can tell you now, according to the best of my knowledge and recollection of the judgement texts, that no fine will be imposed; no crime has taken place. The law is quite clear; blood may be spilled in order to save a life. The boy was in grave danger; we all saw the knife and can, even now, see its track on his neck. Ellice deserves the thanks and praise of us all.’
‘Well said,’ burst out Turlough. ‘She’s a girl of high courage. We’re all proud of her.’ He dropped Mara’s hand, enveloped Ellice in one of his bear-like hugs and then slapped Conor lightly on the shoulder.
‘Lucky lad,’ he said. ‘If I wasn’t going to be married to the most beautiful, most wonderful woman in the world then I’d be envious of you.’
There was a ripple of laughter at that and Mara hastened to put an end to it. There would be time for all of this afterwards; first Dualta must be given his due.
‘Father Abbot, will you give orders for a grave to be dug in the cemetery; I know that you have a strangers’ corner and this will be appropriate. Master Carpenter, will you be able to make a coffin; I will pay you for that work?’
‘No need for that,’ said the carpenter quickly. ‘We worked together for many years, and when he could keep away from the strong liquor there was no better worker. I would do it at my own expense, but it happens that there is a rough coffin of soft pinewood ready; I made it so that Master Mason, may God have mercy on him, could use it as a guide for making the stone tomb. I’ll take one of these young brothers and we’ll fetch it.’
He touched Brother Melduin on the shoulder and they both disappeared.
‘Will you give him absolution and anoint the body, Father Abbot?’ asked Mara.
He hesitated, but he could not refuse this; the oils were fetched immediately by Father Peter and placed into his hands. Turlough knelt down and the others followed his example. Mara took a step back so that she was standing beside Father Peter.
‘The grave,’ she whispered.
He nodded in reply. ‘Best get everything done quickly.’ His voice was barely audible to her ears and he got to his feet as softly as any cat. Mara saw him touch the shoulders of four strong lay brothers and they
all slipped to the dimness at the back of the church without attracting his abbot’s attention.
There was a certain bustle, anyway, as the carpenter with Brother Melduin, now returned through the cloisters’ door. They carried the makeshift coffin to the top of the church and placed it on the marble slab where, only a short time ago, the elaborate coffin of Mahon O’Brien had lain. Together they lifted the body of Dualta into it, turning him so that he lay on his side. Mara knew they did this so that the arrow would not need to be withdrawn, but she thought it gave Dualta an air as if he slept. Despite the widely staring eyes, there was something about him, now, that reminded her of the twenty-year-old when she had last seen him.
Brother Melduin withdrew, but the carpenter spent a few minutes bending over the coffin, straightening the legs and joining the hands together. Mara watched him appreciatively. Somehow his gestures spoke of a relationship, a comradeship between two people who worked together and who respected each other’s skill. She wished now that she had said more to Dualta when they talked there in the church. She wished that she had shown her appreciation of his talents, of the heights to which he had attained in a profession that he had adopted as a second best. Perhaps if she had done that he would not have taken that final fatal step.
Now the carpenter had finished his work. He straightened up and glanced at her. Brother Melduin had returned carrying a large plank. They would use this as a lid.
‘Wait!’ Mara swiftly crossed over to the pier where Dualta had left his candle earlier and groped around until her fingers touched the tiny stone harebell. Dualta had been working on this, the last replacement flower for the circle of flowers above. If he had lived this stone blossom would have taken its place, beside the others, on the frieze that encircled the tall column. Mara picked it up and held it to the light for a second. It was quite perfect: the five star-like points pricked out with careful exactitude. She carried it across and placed it in the coffin beside the right hand of the man who had fashioned it. If, sometime in the future, the bones of Dualta were uncovered he would be known as the artist who had carved some of these wonderful capitals, which adorned the clustered piers at the north transept. Perhaps the fame of this work would endure when the work of Brehon lawyers had been forgotten. She nodded to the carpenter and then stood back. Now was the time to close up the makeshift coffin.
The carpenter took the large plank, covered the coffin with it and then, taking the iron nails one by one from his pouch, hammered it securely to the crude box which was to be the final resting place for that handsome youth, son of a wealthy mason from Thomond, who had come, full of ambition, to the law school of Cahermacnaghten over thirty years ago.
Then there was a pause. The abbot had not moved. With knitted brows and compressed lips, he was standing staring at the patch of blood on the ground. He had blessed the coffin in a perfunctory fashion, but was now obviously brooding on that challenge to his authority, when the Brehon had brushed aside any question that this bloodletting in church was a crime. Everyone waited for his instructions.
He lifted his eyelids and stared coldly at Ellice, and Mara noticed that the girl flinched at his gaze. Then he raised a long forefinger and beckoned to a couple of young lay brothers. Mara guessed that they were being told to carry the coffin, but she guessed wrongly. They both nodded their heads, looked quickly and furtively at Ellice, then went and stood by the door to the cloisters waiting while the abbot retrieved the keys and unlocked the door, jerking his head at Brother Porter to accompany them. Still no one in the church moved, though several looked inquiringly at each other. The presence of the porter seemed to show that these brothers were being sent on an errand outside the gates of the abbey.
A few minutes later, the porter was back, alone, whispering in the abbot’s ear. Of course, thought Mara, Dualta had stolen the porter’s key to the great front gates of the abbey. However, she decided to keep silent. Why disturb the coffin now – surely there were other keys.
With an expression of annoyance, the abbot detached a key from his own bunch and handed it over. Now Mara guessed what was happening. She stepped a little to one side so as to be nearer to Brigid and said in a low tone: ‘See whether Brother Melduin knows where these two have been sent.’
By her side Turlough stirred impatiently. It was time for the dead man to be carried to the burial ground. The carpenter stood with one hand on the coffin obviously ready to take his share; but no man can carry a coffin on his own.
‘Father Abbot,’ said Turlough in tones which he strove to make sound low and reverential, ‘will some of your young brothers carry the coffin?’
‘I will ask no man to carry the body of a murderer.’ The tone was low and almost neutral, but the glance that flashed around the clustering monks held the whiplash of authority in it. No brother, whether lay or choir monk, would dare to offer now.
Mara felt the tears well up in her eyes. This man was once her husband. If they had stayed together, even if his death had been so untimely, sons would have been born who would, by now, have been old enough to perform that last simple service for him. There would have been other daughters, too; sisters to Sorcha, and their husbands would have lent broad shoulders.
‘I will carry the coffin, then.’ As unassuming as any farmer, Turlough stepped forward and stood beside one corner.
‘I will partner you, my lord,’ said Teige promptly with a quick malicious glance at his priestly cousin.
‘Come on, lad, match up with Master Carpenter; you two are much of a size,’ said Turlough impatiently to Murrough.
‘Garrett and I will take the head, my lord,’ said Ardal, stepping forward before Murrough had moved and in a few moments it was all arranged with the four younger men at the corners and the two middle-aged cousins in the centre positions.
Dualta would have been pleased to know that royalty and nobility were carrying his coffin, thought Mara, looking affectionately at Turlough. Cumhal, she noticed, was looking slightly shame-faced. However, he and Brigid had hated Dualta with a depth of bitter dislike which was in proportion to the height of their love for herself: she would not have given him an order to do what would have been distasteful for him. As it was, this was a princely cortège. Decisively she linked her arm to Ellice’s and walked behind the coffin, noticing with pleasure how Banna and Frann, still side by side, followed her. Soon those two would be friends. Frann had an engaging way about her and poor Banna would probably soon find herself in the position of second mother to the coming child.
Coming out into the bright fresh air was a relief after the dark, dank heaviness of the church. A few late evening streaks of sunlight silvered the heights of Abbey Hill and illuminated a small pink herb Robert, blooming in the shelter of the stone wall around the graveyard as happily as it had done right through the summer months. The fractured rays of the winter sun gilded the rain-washed rocks and the silver carapaces of the carline thistles. Mara sniffed the air; the strong north-westerly wind brought the smell of the Atlantic ocean even to this enclosed ground. There would only be another couple of hours of daylight, the sun would sink down behind the mountains of Connemara in the north-west and then would come the night before Christmas, a night to celebrate the birth of Christ and the turning of the old year.
She turned towards Ellice, feeling her tremble, and whispered reassuringly: ‘You did the right thing. None will blame you. You saved the boy’s life in the only possible way that you could. Thank God that you were there and that you had the skill and the courage to do it.’
Ellice said nothing but a little colour came into her white cheeks. If the day had not turned stormy, thought Mara, if Ellice and Father Denis had managed to reach Galway they would now be on their way and he would be alive, but then perhaps Shane would have died. Perhaps God was watching over them and arranging everything better than any man could do it. Perhaps if Conor’s health improved, he and Ellice would settle down to a happy marriage. The king should make sure that his son played more of a part i
n the governing of the kingdom and that Ellice, also, would have her role. I’ll talk to Turlough about this, she promised herself.
The grave was just being finished when they entered through the gate to the burial ground. The four lay brothers shovelled out the last few sods of the light, friable soil and then climbed out and stood with bowed heads. Father Peter, his grey cloak fluttering in the stiff wind, came forward. He looked around for the abbot, but, seeing no one, he himself began the service, first in Latin, and then rather movingly in Gaelic, praying that the man’s sins be forgiven and that his crime be not remembered, but rather that the good he had done and the beauty that he had created should live after the maker himself had turned to dust. The figures around the grave watched with solemnity, and in silence, until the coffin was lowered down to its final resting place. Then Banna sobbed quietly and Shane gave a sudden violent shiver and a loud hiccup. Up to now, childlike, he had been almost elated by his escape and by his admiration of Ellice’s skill, but now the awful realization of death had suddenly hit him.
‘Take Shane over to the Royal Lodge and give him a hot drink, Ellice,’ whispered Mara. Brigid would have been delighted to do this, but Mara felt that Ellice, also, should not be present when the earth was shovelled down over the coffin of the man she had killed. ‘And Conor had better go too,’ she added. It was bracing, but cold, out in the fresh air, and the delicate Conor would be better not standing around too long. In any case, in caring for the boy the couple would find a closeness which might otherwise be spoiled by mutual embarrassment. Mara’s eyes followed them with satisfaction. Ellice had an arm over Shane’s shoulders, but her other hand was firmly held by Conor.
Father Peter must have guessed her intentions, because he had made a quick gesture to the lay brothers to stay their hand for the moment. Once the three figures had gone through the small iron gate, they began to shovel quickly and soon the hole was filled with the fine-grained Burren soil.
I’ll bring some harebell seed in the summer and plant the grave with them, thought Mara, and then she blessed herself and turned away. Turlough was talking to Teige O’Brien, so Mara went over to Brigid.
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