Cross of Vengeance (29 page)

But the ladder was too short. Too short by about six feet.

It was probably the same ladder that Ardal had used on the day when Hans Kaufmann set fire to the relic. It reached to the small window slit but no further. The top of the ladder and Blad’s knees were a good six feet below.

‘Just keep on holding him, Brehon,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Can you catch this noose?’ He threw a length of rope. She missed but unperturbed he threw it again. This time she managed to catch it. ‘Just slip this noose under his arms, no hurry, now, Brehon, we’ll have him safe. Over his head, over his shoulders. That’s the way.’

Mara held Cormac tightly to her with one arm and tried to do Blad’s bidding with the other. The rope was stiff and unyielding, but she managed to get it over her son’s head, over his shoulders. It was now over her child’s elbows, and then one by one she lifted the heavy arms, praying that she would not let him slip.

‘Done it,’ she said, and recognized that her voice was shaking almost uncontrollably.

‘That’s the way,’ said Blad calmly. By now he was on the top rung of the ladder, balancing with one foot wedged into the mullion in the centre of the window slit and the other on the ladder.

He reached up a large hand and seized the rope. Mara could feel how it tightened around Cormac’s chest.

‘Come on now, little fellow, let’s be having you,’ he said. ‘How about one of Mór’s cakes now, how would you like that for a late supper?’

The light wasn’t good enough to see Cormac’s face, but Mara could have sworn that there had been a flicker from his eyelashes against her cheek at those words. She held him very firmly, with her two arms around his waist while Blad, quite at ease on top of the ladder, held the rope from further down.

‘That’s nice and tight and firm now,’ said Blad after a minute. ‘We just need to lower him down; they’re ready for him down there. Don’t you worry, Brehon.’

‘Let me take his weight, Blad,’ said Mara firmly, throwing every ounce of authority into her voice. It was too risky, she thought, for Blad, swaying precariously towards the top of the ladder, to dangle a well-built nine-year-old boy from the end of the noose. ‘I won’t drop him,’ she added.

‘Just hoist him up as far as you can, Brehon. Hold the part of the rope near his chest and play it out – let it run through your hand.’ Blad’s voice was soothing. For a moment he wobbled then straightened himself again. He was balanced very precariously and despite the weight of the men at the bottom, Mara saw the ladder sway. Blad continued to hold the rope himself, quite near to the noose, but by stretching up as far as he could he now steadied himself by putting the fingers of one hand inside the conical wooden framework of the small roof. ‘Ready now, lads,’ he sang out to the watchers below, ‘we’re going to lower him down. One of you stand out there on the mattresses and catch him as he comes.’

‘I’ll catch him; I’m very strong.’ Again it was the English voice. Grace was standing below them, balancing on top of the mattresses and feather beds. One of Blad’s men stood beside her, but she had her arms stretched upwards and Mara, with Blad’s help, played out the rope, gradually lowering Cormac until he ended up in Grace’s arms. There was an excited cheer.

‘Now you, Brehon,’ said Blad, going ahead to give her space, and Mara wrapped her skirts around her legs and went down the ladder as quickly as she could. Cormac was still in Grace’s arms when she got to the ground, and the look on the woman’s face made her fight the impulse to snatch her son back into her own arms.

‘He’s coming to himself,’ said Grace softly. She bent her face down and placed her lips next to the boy’s mouth. ‘He’s breathing strongly and well,’ she said.

‘So he is,’ said Nechtan, holding a lantern up. ‘The colour is coming back into his face.’

Cormac’s eyelids fluttered and Mara held her breath. Was he coming back to full consciousness, or was he still drifting in and out of a stupor caused by the amount of smoke that he had inhaled?

‘Where’s Father Miguel?’ came Finbar’s voice, unmistakable with its lilting Cloyne accent.

Then Cormac’s eyes opened fully.

‘You
amadán
, Finbar,’ he said in clear, strong tones which held a trace of annoyance, ‘you’ve made a mess of things; you shouldn’t have let him into the tower.’

(the Law of Marriage)

There are two kinds of rape:
‘forcor’
, forcible rape, and
‘sleth’,
where a woman was subjected to intercourse without her full consent.

‘Sleth’
of a woman who normally frequents alehouses, without a male member of her family in attendance, will carry no penalty.

In the case of
‘forcor’
, the rapist must pay the honour-price of his victim’s husband, father or son. He must also be responsible, if necessary, for any children that result from the rape.

In addition to the honour-price, the
‘éraic’
or full body fine must also be paid in the case of a rape of a nun or of a ‘girl in plaits’.

T
he burned remains of Father Miguel’s body had been recovered and hastily buried by the time Mara returned to Kilnaboy the following day. Blad and Mór had given Cormac the promised midnight supper, which had turned into an impromptu feast. No beds were sought and they all remained there in the big hall of the inn, some sleeping, some talking, some eating, some sipping wine until dawn had begun to show at about five o’clock. Then Mara had taken the boys back to the law school at Cahermacnaghten, leaving them to sleep for a few hours and then to be supervised by Fachtnan and Brigid, with instructions to Brigid that Cormac was not to play at hurling, if Brigid could prevent it, but was, if possible, to spend the day sleeping or reading quietly in his bed. He seemed well, but Mara was worried about the amount of smoke that he had breathed in. He was to be excused lessons for the day, she told Fachtnan when he arrived, and if he seemed to be unwell, Cumhal was to take him down to be checked over by Nuala.

It took a strong effort for Mara to tear herself away from her son, but the pilgrims were due to set off on their postponed visit to Aran at noon and she wanted to see them before they left, to tie up the loose ends of the case of the false pilgrim.

It was about an hour before noon when she reached Kilnaboy. She had a quick word with Father MacMahon who was shaking his venerable old head at the idea that the Spanish priest could have lit a fire in the tower, almost burning to death the son of the King and his Brehon.

‘Poor man,’ he said charitably. ‘His mind must have been turned by the terrible events of the last few days. Do you think, Brehon, that he had anything to do with the death of the sacrilegious man who burned the relic of the true cross? It does seem as though he had, doesn’t it?’

Mara shook her head sadly. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that Father Miguel believed that death to be the work of God himself.’

And, she thought, that was what the Spanish priest had truly believed. God alone knew what he had had in his mad, perverted brain as he set fire to the tower when a boy had summoned him to see the devil mask and silhouette of a nine-year-old capering around by the light of the lantern, but as to the death of the German, of the false pilgrim – of that crime she truly believed that Father Miguel had been innocent. His belief that it had been the work of God had completely convinced her. And if he really believed that God had struck down the guilty man, well, then it followed that he himself was blameless.

Brother Cosimo had not committed the murder either, she thought. A man who would steal a jewelled cross would not let a pouch full of coins remain untouched.

And Father MacMahon himself – too old, too helpless – how could he have stripped a man, killed him and then taken out the body and placed him on a tomb? Neither he nor Sorley would have had the intensity of hate to do a deed like that.

And Blad – no, of course not. He would not have had the time to set up the elaborate display; he was busy with his guests – and why do it? His business could only be brought back if another relic was purchased in the place of the one that was destroyed. If Blad had resorted to violence, he would have threatened the pilgrim, then taken the valuable bag of coins in recompense and allowed the man to go free. Or, more likely, he would have trusted the king’s Brehon to impose a suitable fine and hoped that the money would be used to buy another relic.

Mara took leave of Father MacMahon and walked across to the inn to see Mór. The kitchen was empty of all when she looked in there, but Mór herself was sitting on a bench outside the window looking across at the river running calmly down through the meadows. She had an unusually meditative expression on her face and it did not change as Mara sat beside her.

‘You’re back, Brehon,’ she said, and the words were a statement, not a question.

‘I’m back,’ agreed Mara. She noted an apologetic note in her voice and sought to explain it.

‘It would,’ she said ruefully, ‘probably seem good sense to you that I should abstain from more enquiries and that the matter should be allowed to die, that the story of the night of the Feast of the Holy Cross should be buried in the grave where Hans Kaufmann now lies, but I cannot leave it like that. I must know the truth and only you can tell me what happened in the early part of that night.’

She stopped and waited, but Mór said nothing. After a minute, Mara resumed. ‘I suppose it was your words about the breakfast that first took my attention,’ she said apologetically. ‘There were only two reasons why there should be no arrangement about breakfast for the man who had claimed sanctuary – the first was that this man was going to escape during the night and therefore would need no breakfast …’ Mara glanced sideways at Mór, but the innkeeper’s daughter showed no change of expression.

‘The other,’ she continued, ‘and I do believe this to be the true explanation of the facts, was that there was no question of breakfast because you were going to see him again long before that.’ She paused for a while, thinking about Mór’s amused expression when she had last asked about the breakfast. And then when the woman still said nothing, she added quietly, ‘You and he had a good supper together – you had carried across from the inn two covered baskets; witnesses related this. One, of course, would have held food, but the other, I guess, would have held a couple of flasks of your father’s best wine – and a couple of goblets. And then, somehow or other, the wine got spilled.’

A smile curved Mór’s lips. Mara could picture the scene – the supper, the hand holding, the kisses, and then the spillage of wine on top of the precious crimson carpet. Then the frantic cleaning, the water brought from the holy water font, the scrubbing with cloths, and then …

‘He told you you owed him another flask of wine,’ she ventured, and saw the smile broaden on the lips of the innkeeper’s daughter. Of course, Mara thought, looking back; the carpet had smelled of wine as well as incense, but at the time she had assumed it was the communion wine –
a holy smell
, had said Finbar, who had been an altar boy for the monks at the abbey in Cloyne where his father’s school was located.

‘Let me guess,’ she went on, purposely keeping her voice to a non-committal, non-judgemental tone, ‘he wanted to make love. You are a pretty girl, he was a virile man who had drunken quite a bit of wine, you were already … friends, lovers. He proposed to do it there and then, but you …’

‘I knew that they were all around, Brehon.’ Mór suddenly threw caution away. ‘It was not that I minded, you understand; we … we had been together before, but who knows, one of those busybodies, Father MacMahon, or that old woman, Sorley, or even the O’Lochlainn, any one of them could have come along to check on him. And if they found the church locked and knew that I was inside …’

‘I know,’ Mara nodded. Of course she knew that Mór and Hans Kaufmann had been together before. She thought back to the missing key and the convenient little windowless chamber on the first floor of the round tower. Hans Kaufmann, she reflected indignantly, had used Mór; she was to him not just a recreation, but a tool in his fanaticism, a means to an end.

‘The missing key,’ she said aloud.

Mór’s eyes fell before hers. There was a short silence, but then she raised them. ‘That’s right, Brehon,’ she said.

‘And you wished to be together again; I can understand that.’ Mara’s voice was soothing. There would be, she knew, no trace of censure in her tone. She felt none. Why should Mór not enjoy the company of a handsome young man?

Mór stared at her for a moment, but then she nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, I wished for it as much as he,’ she said defiantly. ‘It might have happened there and then if the wine had not been spilt, but that broke the mood. I knew that Father MacMahon would throw a fit; I just had to get that carpet clean. And by the time I had got most of it mopped up then I thought of other things. And I told him that I would come back later.’

‘So you took back the basket and the cloths that you had used to swab the crimson carpet,’ stated Mara. That carpet, of course, had been of vital importance. Unfortunately it had taken the comment of the serving boy to make her realize that – his comment and that of her daughter Sorcha, Domhnall’s mother came to her mind.

‘
Blood is brown when it dries
,’ he had said.

And sometime, away back among unremembered trivia, was Sorcha’s voice saying: ‘
Mother, you must treat a red wine stain instantly or else you get a blue-black mark even on a red cloth
.’

The stain that was left on the carpet had been blue-black. So no blood had been spilled within the church …

‘Go on,’ said Mara, looking across at Mór, ‘you cleaned up the wine stain, it spoiled the mood, but you promised to come back later with another flask full of the best Burgundy.’

‘That’s right.’ Mór nodded.

‘And you kept your word?’

‘I told him,’ said Mór, ‘that I would delay for a while before I came back. It was already starting to rain and I thought that the O’Lochlainn and his steward would seek shelter
. Wait for a couple of hours
, that was what I said to him, Brehon.’