Cross of Vengeance (7 page)

Fachtnan was Mara’s assistant teacher. He had first been a scholar in her school, had managed with enormous difficulty to pass the lowest grade for qualification as an
aigne
,
and had stayed on as her assistant, trying desperately to pass the further examinations but finding a poor memory an insuperable handicap. Mara valued him immensely, not just for his gentle, kind nature but for his intelligence and his deep understanding. Eventually, when it became plain that he could progress no further, she had offered him this position as a permanent teaching assistant. It had been an impulse that she had never regretted, and now she often wondered how she could have managed without his companionship, his intuition and his caring relationship to the scholars that she taught. Six years ago he had become betrothed to Nuala the physician who owned property at Rathborney – only a couple of miles from the law school. As Nuala was Mara’s cousin and as dear to her as a daughter, it had been one of the happiest days in Mara’s life when Fachtnan and Nuala had married, and now they had three small girls – worshipped by their father.

Mara came forward now, her hands outstretched. ‘Fachtnan,’ she said impulsively. ‘You are just whom I was wishing for. What made you come? How on earth did you know about this?’

‘The O’Lochlainn sent one of his men to go to Cahermacnaghten, and Cumhal immediately sent someone down to Rathborney with a message,’ explained Fachtnan. Mara nodded in understanding. Ardal would have known that she would value help and had thought of her even in the course of the headlong chase to arrest the passage of the pilgrims to Aran.

‘That was like Ardal,’ she exclaimed thankfully. ‘Domhnall, you tell Fachtnan what happened. Art and Cormac, you go and have another look around the churchyard and see whether you can discover any more clues. Slevin and Finbar, go and ask Blad whether you could check the pilgrims’ bedrooms to see whether anything may have been left behind.’

She waited till they were all occupied and then mounted the ladder and went into the small, windowless first-floor room of the tower. Yes, she thought, a very cosy and private place for an assignation. With the key in her possession, Mór would have not failed to take advantage of it. Mara remembered the wink and the whisper in the ear of the German. Had others noticed it also? Of that she could not be sure.

(Great Traditions)

And this is the
Seanchus Mór
. Nine persons were appointed to arrange this book. Three bishops: Patrick, Benen and Cairnech; three kings: Laeghaire, Corc and Daire; two Brehons, learned in law: Rosa mac Trechim and Dubhthach; and one poet: Fengus.
Nofis
, therefore, is the name of this book that they arranged, that is the knowledge of nine persons.

It was said of St Patrick that there were three offences which he particularly forbade among the Irish:

1. Killing trained oxen.
   
2. Offences against milch cows.
   
3. Arson – in particular the burning of church buildings.
   

T
he small group of pilgrims was dwarfed by the size of its escort. Ardal, or his steward Danann, had picked up additional men from the tower house of Lissylisheen and were riding in the van of the group. Nechtan O’Quinn’s men, flamboyant in their red jerkins bearing the O’Quinn badge, and armed with prominent knives and throwing spears, were lined to the front and back of the three men and three women, enclosing them in a cordon of militant iron. And behind them, came another solid block of O’Lochlainn men, red heads flaming, blue eyes steady and cold. Ardal O’Lochlainn was a man who commanded the complete loyalty of his clan, and if he had not been totally loyal and devoted to his king, to Turlough Donn O’Brien, Mara would have been worried at the number of men-at-arms he kept, and trained, at his tower house so near to her law school.

Nechtan O’Quinn wore a triumphant air and his eyes avoided those of his wife, Narait, who had drawn near to the entrance gate as soon as the noise of horses’ hoofs had sounded on the limestone road. The beauty of eye and colouring had failed her in this moment and she looked pale, older and rather frightened. Like everyone else in the churchyard she was looking at one man.

In the front of the pilgrims, riding boldly erect, was the magnificent tall, broad figure of Hans Kaufmann. He looked at the group of people awaiting the arrival – Narait, Father MacMahon, Blad the innkeeper and his daughter Mór, Sorley the sexton, the man whose life’s blood had gone into enshrining, cherishing and guarding what he had considered to be one of the most sacred objects that the world held, a relic of the true cross – and then, unbelievably, Hans Kaufmann smiled. He smiled mockingly and lifted his hand to Sorley in a slight salute, as if to say, that was my lucky toss of the dice. Then he put his head back and roared with a great burst of laughter as though he were a spectator at some play.

Sorley started and glared at him. He took one step forward, fist raised, but Ardal O’Lochlainn, who was in the front of the cavalcade, shook his head firmly at the sexton and Mara felt a moment of thankfulness for his loyalty and his good judgements. She must, she made a mental note, remember to tell Turlough how very helpful Ardal had been to her. Turlough would be pleased. His opinion of the
taoiseach
of the O’Lochlainn clan on the Burren had always been high.

‘Madame, Madame, Madame,’ called out the prioress in agitated fashion, riding out from the group and towards Mara. ‘Why have you brought us back here – I understand that it is by your orders that our sacred journey has been interrupted? You cannot possibly think that I or my sisters or these gentlemen could have had anything to do with such a terrible thing.’

‘Probably not a crime, but an accident,’ said Hans Kaufmann in a light, careless tone. Mara saw him look appraisingly around the churchyard and then cast a shrewd glance at Ardal O’Lochlainn. Ardal looked straight back at him and there was a cold look in his eyes. Ardal’s suspicions, like her own, were directed at the German pilgrim, thought Mara. He had, after all, been recently to Rome and had heard all about the former German monk, Luther, and his impassioned outburst against such practices as the sale of indulgences and relics. Quite a few German pilgrims might be finding themselves under suspicion these days. Father Miguel, also, was looking at Hans Kaufmann and there was an ugly expression on his face. Mara felt a slight coldness go down her spine as she remembered the tales of the terrible Spanish Inquisition where thousands and thousands of innocent Jews and Muslims had been burned to death – and now the same thing was happening to Christians, who, like Martin Luther, rejected some of the teachings of Rome.

‘This affair has to be investigated,’ Father Miguel said, his sibilant Spanish accent lending a hissing quality to the Latin words. ‘Do I understand that the relic of the true cross has been completely destroyed? What an appalling thing. I wonder it was not better guarded.’

He looked belligerently at Father MacMahon and the priest bowed his head in shame. Sorley looked from one to the other, but no one offered to translate the Spaniard’s bitter words. However, the blazing anger in his eyes and the bitter note in his voice told its own story and Sorley, also, began to look shamefaced.

And yet there was a smugness about Father Miguel, thought Mara, which made her wonder whether the commercial success of the Spanish shrine was not also in his mind at that moment. Then she dismissed the thought. If the relic had been stolen, then the other pilgrims might have fallen under suspicion, but the destroying could only have been done by a person who rejected relics and all that they stood for.

Mara’s eyes rested gravely on each of the pilgrims in turn, ending with Hans Kaufmann, and only then did she speak.

‘I must ask each of you to dismount and to take your satchels into the church here,’ she said. ‘My assistant, Fachtnan, will accompany you. Could you,’ she turned and aimed her words at a space between Ardal O’Lochlainn and Nechtan O’Quinn so that she would not appear to be favouring one over the other, ‘escort the pilgrims and get them to wait until I come.’ She watched the six go off between the two men, following Fachtnan into the church, and sighed. The balance of power was going to be a difficult one in this case, small though the crime was. Feelings, she guessed, would run high and the different players would be keen to maintain their power. Ardal was a
taoiseach
, the chieftain of the second largest clan on the Burren, and Nechtan was not. However, his tower house was situated beside the church of Kilnaboy and his family had been, since ancient times, the
coarbs
, the ancient heirs of the monastic lands, and still received rents from them.

Kilnaboy was an interesting place. She remembered her father telling her about the significance of that ancient site on the south-eastern corner of the Burren. It had belonged to a group of monks and they had held sway in the lands there, had owned the rich fertile river meadows, the hillside with its ancient tombs, and their sway had even superseded that of the ancient kings. The monks had held out against Turlough’s ancestors on numerous occasions.

‘Come, boys,’ she said to her scholars once the door of the church had been closed by Ardal, ‘the pilgrims’ luggage will have to be examined and this is where you will all be so useful to me. Each of you must observe one of the pilgrims and never move your eyes from that person. Afterwards we will talk together and discuss our impressions, but in the meantime you must be silent and observant.’

Quickly she allocated the pilgrims to the boys: Domhnall had Hans Kaufmann; Slevin, Father Miguel; Finbar, the Italian monk, Brother Cosimo; and she, with the two younger boys, were to observe the three women – the nine-year-olds, she reckoned, were young enough to cause no offence to the prioress. And then she led them swiftly over into the cool shadiness of the church from which the noontime sun had departed. One by one the pilgrims had placed their leather satchels on a bench at the back of the building and one by one she demanded to see their travelling lamps and they fumbled in their bags and produced them.

Interesting, she thought, to catch glimpses of the contents of those satchels: something silk and trimmed with lace peeping out from Madame Eglantine’s satchel – surprising from such a religious lady as the prioress; Cosimo, the Italian friar vowed to poverty, had an extremely valuable cross studded with precious stones that gleamed from the depth of his bag – Mara saw Finbar’s eyes widen at the sight of it; and Father Miguel had a huge bundle of correspondence from something called
Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición
.

However, all of this was none of her business.

What was her business was that Hans Kaufmann could not produce a travelling lamp. He shrugged with a pretence of coolness, but his eyes watched hers.

‘I don’t bother,’ he said in fluent Latin. ‘I have eyes like a cat. I see through the darkness. I never carry a lantern.’

Mara took from her own satchel the distorted lamp and held aloft the shrivelled piece of vellum.

‘So these are not yours,’ she said, and as he hesitated she added, ‘The language is German – it is an indulgence. Am I right in thinking that you are against indulgences, that, like your leader, Martin Luther, you believe that the church is at fault in granting pardon for sins – that only God can forgive sins and that a piece of vellum or parchment will not, cannot, take the place of God in this matter? The person who burned the relic used this piece of vellum, this indulgence, to transfer the flame from the lamp to the velvet cushion which was placed underneath the relic.’

‘What!’ roared Father MacMahon. ‘Is this man a disciple of that anti-Christ, Martin Luther? Has he desecrated the citadel of our sacred relic?’

‘You devil, you fiend,’ muttered Sorley. He took a step forward and Hans Kaufmann retreated, but it was no good. His fellow pilgrim, the Italian friar, was just behind him and Cosimo instantly rounded on him.

‘So that is what you were at,’ he snarled. His age-marked hands crisped into fists. ‘And to think …’ Suddenly he stopped. His hand went to his belt and came back armed with a long, thin, wickedly pointed knife. Without hesitation his arm went up and aimed the knife at the German’s heart.

‘Here, steady,’ shouted Ardal. He spoke in Gaelic but the words seemed to penetrate through to the Italian. His arm and the deadly dagger were lowered, but by that time Hans Kaufmann was no longer there in front of him. Mara saw the German look towards the altar and the next instant he had left the bottom of the church, had bounded up the centre of it, gone through the screen, mounted the steps of the sacristy, and then he was beside the altar, one hand clutching the altar cloth.

‘I claim sanctuary,’ he shouted. ‘Let no one touch me here. The Lord will protect me and woe to him who will break the Lord’s sanctuary.’

The effect of his words was varied.

Father Miguel gave a gasp. He stood very rigid, staring at his fellow pilgrim.

The prioress said: ‘Sanctuary – does this little church in the middle of the country have such rights?’ And when no one answered her she turned haughtily to her sisters, lowering her voice, but not ceasing to talk.

In a moment the church was full of voices.

Father MacMahon said angrily, ‘Sanctuary was never meant for an unbeliever, for one who denies the means that God gives to man to save his soul from the fires of purgatory.’

‘I’ll get him out of there, Father.’ Sorley advanced three threatening steps.

‘Liar, blasphemer, villain, maligner of honest men!’ Brother Cosimo’s teeth gleamed, set edge to edge behind his grizzled beard and moustache.

‘Horsewhipping would be too good for him!’ Blad had come through the small door on the south and had joined the group at the bottom of the church. ‘He’s destroyed my livelihood, Brehon,’ he added in a low voice to Mara and she nodded. This was something that she felt Brehon law should take into account. This man had set up his inn in the sure and certain knowledge, as he saw it, that the relic of the holy cross would bring a steady stream of pilgrims to the remote church of Kilnaboy. She had, she thought, standing very still and waiting, as was her custom, for the storm of words to blow itself out, less sympathy for the priest – the church with its gold and diamond ornaments and its crimson carpet was of less importance to her than the livelihood of an honest, hard-working man and his daughter. Her scholars, she noticed, had moved a step nearer to the innkeeper, and Cormac, with his kingly father’s sympathy for his subjects that might be in trouble, patted him on the arm.