Writ in Stone (17 page)

‘I am thirty, my lady . . . Brehon,’ he answered.

‘And where did you spend your early life?’

Father Denis glanced quickly at the abbot, but that stony face gave him no assistance so after a moment, he replied.

‘At Arra.’

No ‘my lady’ – not even a ‘Brehon’ this time, she noticed. His voice was curt and almost aggressive.

That’s not what Teige said, thought Mara.

‘From the time of your birth?’ she questioned.

‘I came to Arra when I was eight years old and stayed until I was eighteen,’ he said stiffly.

‘I see,’ said Mara thoughtfully. This meant that Denis had been fostered by his mother’s brother from that age. The relationship would be quite strong – what was it that Fithail, the judge, had said: ‘A man’s son is precious to him, but dearer to his heart is his foster child’? The O’Brien Arra, as he was known, would want to advance his foster-son in his chosen profession. Now, with Mahon O’Brien out of the way, the possibility of promotion to abbot was very strong – so long, of course, as no hint of scandal touched his name.

‘When did you find out that your father was Father Donogh, here?’ she asked bluntly.

They both stiffened at that; there was an expression of outrage on the abbot’s face, but she ignored him, turning towards Denis. He was debating whether to tell the truth, or not, and she gave him a quick frown and impatiently tapped her foot on the stone floor.

‘About a year ago,’ he said after a pause. His eyes slid towards the face of his father and then looked away quickly.

‘His mother asked to see him on her deathbed and told him.’ The abbot’s tone was bitter.

‘Had you known she was your mother prior to that?’

‘No,’ said Father Denis. After a minute, he added, ‘But I think I guessed. She often came to see me and once she gave me a chessboard.’

Despite her dislike of this young priest, Mara felt a slight softening of the heart. It was not the right way to bring up a boy; he would always be wondering, always trying to guess, always insecure and unhappy. However, there was one more question that she had to ask.

‘I hear that you have contracted a marriage of the fourth degree,’ she said. ‘Is that true?’

‘What!’ Obviously that piece of gossip had not come to the abbot’s ears. He rounded on his son with fury and then glanced at Mara and shut his mouth firmly. Father Denis looked back at him with equal dislike. There was a sneer in his voice when he answered.

‘It is certainly true, but I don’t think that it is anyone’s business but mine.’

‘But perhaps something that should not be allowed to come to the ears of Rome if you wish for promotion,’ suggested Mara mildly.

He didn’t answer this so she pressed home with her next question.

‘Did Mahon O’Brien know of this marriage of the fourth degree?’

‘No,’ he replied promptly.

And yet Teige knew of it, thought Mara. Teige had nothing to do with that part of Galway, so his most likely source of information would be Mahon. She studied the young priest carefully. His high-bridged O’Brien nose was raised defiantly as if sniffing something evil-smelling, but his eyes were troubled and unhappy. No wonder that he looks so much of an O’Brien, thought Mara. His mother and father were first cousins – in fact, generation after generation of O’Briens married cousins; Turlough was one of the first to marry a MacNamara. The bone structure was bred into them and so was the ambition.

‘I put it to you that Mahon O’Brien did know of this marriage of the fourth degree and also did know that that you were, in fact, illegitimate, in the eyes of Rome, and of English law, of course. This means that the death of Mahon O’Brien has been providential for you.’ Mara watched the young priest’s face as closely as she could, but he had his features well under control.

‘I bore no ill-feeling towards Mahon O’Brien,’ he said stiffly. ‘If anything, like many others of our clan, I considered him more suitable than Teige O’Brien to be the
tánaiste
in the case of anything happening to the king’s son, Conor O’Brien.’

‘I see,’ said Mara, ‘and what would be your objection to Teige O’Brien?’

‘It was the general view of the Arra
fine
that Teige O’Brien was a false flatterer who had gained a position near to the king by slandering other members of the family.’ His reply was prompt and unexpected; Mara concealed her surprise, but she wondered at his words. Teige O’Brien had always seemed to her to be a harmless, jovial man, fond of his wife and his family and of his cousin King Turlough.

And then into the stillness came the sound of horse hoofs clattering over paved ground and then the startlingly loud summons of the gatehouse bell.

‘Guests?’ said the abbot with a puzzled air. ‘I expect no one.’

Eleven

(The Five Paths of Judgement)

By the time that Mara and the abbot had emerged from the church they heard the creak of the gate being opened and the sound of voices. Mara frowned in puzzlement; one of the voices was a light treble, a boy’s voice, and then another, very familiar, young voice replying. Leaving the abbot who was proceeding at his usual stately pace she hurried down the path.

The younger of the boys had dismounted from his pony. His back was turned to her, but there was no mistaking the trim, neat head, capped with the fine black hair, the slim, upright figure, even the way that he was excitedly pointing to a golden eagle swooping overhead, all of these things were as well known to Mara as the skin on her own hands. The ten-year-old boy had been at her law school since he was five years old.

‘Shane!’ she called and he turned around instantly, his white teeth flashing in a huge grin.

‘Brehon!’ exclaimed his companion, a tall boy with a head of bushy curls. Fachtnan had also been with her since his fifth year and now, as a nineteen-year-old, he acted as her assistant as well as studying for his final legal examinations.

‘We got stuck in Galway by the snowstorm,’ said Shane.

‘But where is your father?’ asked Mara. Shane’s father was Brehon to the O’Neill family in the north of Ireland and had come to escort his son home for the Christmas break. Fachtnan’s home at Ossory had lain on their route and all three had left Cahermacnaghten two days ago.

‘I’m here, Mara.’ Patrick McBrethany emerged from the porter’s lodge to engulf her in a huge hug. He was a man well past middle age; Shane was the youngest of his six clever sons and Mara had felt very honoured that he had entrusted the five-year-old to her after they had met at a summer conference.

‘What happened?’ she gasped, disentangling herself.

‘Well, it’s as the wee lad says; we had just gone a few miles beyond Galway when the snowstorm hit us. We turned and went back to Galway and spent a couple of nights in an inn. We heard this morning that the road to the north was still blocked so we took passage in a boat across the bay and landed at Bealnaclugga. We didn’t know whether you would be here, or whether you would be still at Cahermacnaghten, so I was enquiring from the porter.’

‘Did he tell you our news, Patrick?’ asked Mara, eyeing him affectionately. He was a bear-like man, she always thought, not tall, but immensely broad in shoulder and with long arms. It was his head that impressed most people when they met him first. He had the head of a marble saint with the hairless ivory skin curving around the domed cranium. A full-lipped mouth and large parchment-coloured eyelids completed the impression of a head carved from stone. It was only when those eyelids snapped wide open, unveiling the intense intelligence of his sharp grey eyes, that the whole face suddenly came alive and the saint-like impression was lost.

‘No,’ said Patrick, his eyes hooded and his expression thoughtful.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Mara. Suddenly she felt cheerful. Here was someone to whet her brain against, someone to share the burden. ‘My lord abbot,’ she said, turning around to introduce the newcomers to him, ‘here is the O’Neill Brehon with his son, Shane, and my assistant, Fachtnan. Can we manage to find shelter for them within the abbey?’

The abbot greeted Patrick warmly – King Conn O’Neill was powerful even in this part of the world and the abbot was never one to miss impressing a man of power or his representative.

‘I think, Brehon, if you would honour my poor house, that will shelter you more worthily than our guest house,’ he said with false humility.

Mara concealed a smile. The four
taoiseach
s of the Burren would not be pleased to know that the abbot considered them of lower status than a Brehon from the north of the country.

‘That will be splendid,’ said Patrick heartily. ‘The wee lad and his friend can bed down with me.’

‘No, no,’ said the abbot quickly. Mara guessed that he didn’t want any rambunctious schoolboys to disturb the hallowed quiet of the abbot’s house. ‘Father Peter,’ he called as the prior emerged from the guest house and came hurrying up to greet the new arrivals, ‘have we got a spare room for these two young scholars?’

‘I was thinking,’ said Father Peter slowly after Mara had introduced him, ‘that it might be a good idea for the king’s bodyguards to sleep outside his doorway, or, even better, one inside the chamber and one outside the door. God forbid, but it would be a terrible thing if the murderer was to make another attempt on King Turlough’s life tonight.’

Oh dear, thought Mara, I’m not sure that Turlough will be too pleased about that. That arrangement would leave little chance for the king to slip into her bedroom that night. However, there was no doubt but that it was a good idea. As the minutes and the hours slid away she was very conscious of the terrible danger of a second attack.

‘And then, of course, the two lads could have the bodyguards’ room,’ concluded Father Peter as she nodded her agreement.

‘Where is the king?’ asked the abbot, looking around.

‘He’s asleep in the parlour of the Royal Lodge,’ Mara said. ‘Fergal and Conall are on guard.’

‘It will soon be vespers,’ said the abbot reprovingly. ‘King Turlough will not want to miss that. The service tonight is especially to commemorate the anniversary of his great ancestor, Conor O’Brien.’

‘Lord bless us and save us,’ said Father Peter. ‘We’ve forgotten about the day of vigil!’

‘How could we find the time for . . .’ began the abbot furiously and then stopped abruptly and said with dignity to Patrick, ‘My brother has been murdered as he knelt in the church this morning.’

‘I am very sorry to hear that,’ said Patrick. He bowed to the abbot and then glanced quickly at Mara. She did not respond. Time for explanations later on when the two were alone. Now she must see to the needs of the travellers; Shane looked cold and his father looked tired.

‘I’ll go and fetch the king myself,’ said the abbot fussily as the monks began to move towards the church for the service of vespers. He set off towards the Royal Lodge and Mara did not attempt to stop him. It suited her to have Patrick to herself for the next hour; in front of Turlough it would be difficult to discuss the possibility of the king’s son or one of his near relatives being involved in the murder. She even withdrew to stand concealed below the eaves of the porter’s lodge when she saw the abbot come out, followed by Turlough and the two bodyguards.

‘The wee lad is as excited at being present at the wedding of his Brehon as he was to be going home,’ said Patrick, indicating Shane.

‘Ah,’ said Mara quietly, ‘well, I’m afraid that the wedding has been postponed due to the murder of the king’s cousin.’

Patrick’s white brows rose slightly at this, though he said nothing and his eyes remained thoughtfully bent on the ground. She knew that he was surprised; violent death happened in these war-like societies; it seldom interfered with any planned merriment. She turned to Shane and Fachtnan.

‘So you stayed the night in Galway,’ she said in a low voice. ‘That must have been fun. Did you have a look around the city?’

‘We went to see Malachy. We stayed in an inn overnight and then, in the morning, we went around and looked at the shops,’ said Shane. ‘Fachtnan told me that it is against the law for anyone with an O or a Mac in their name to strut or swagger in the streets of Galway so we had to go very quietly and keep our hoods up and our mantles well wrapped around us.’

‘If you can imagine Shane being quiet,’ said Fachtnan affectionately. He was always very good with the younger boys. He had been assistant at the law school for three months now and, though not as gifted academically as Mara’s former assistant, he was more successful at managing to combine friendliness with firmness.

‘Well, just try to keep very quiet now for a moment,’ said Mara, ‘or the king will insist on you going to church as well.’ She watched for a moment, but Turlough did not glance around and as soon as he disappeared into the church, she said hospitably, ‘Let’s go and see what Brigid can do in the way of food and hot drinks.’

‘Lord bless us and save us,’ said Brigid when they went into the small kitchen in the Royal Lodge. ‘Well, look at the two of you. I was worrying about you two. Cumhal was saying that the snow came down from the north so that you would have a hard journey of it.’

‘Could you feed and warm them, Brigid?’ said Mara. ‘The Brehon and I are going into the parlour and perhaps you could bring us something there. Join us when you are ready, boys.’

‘So, you see, I was fairly sure that the intended victim was King Turlough and not his cousin, Mahon O’Brien, but then there was something suspicious about that young priest, the illegitimate son of the abbot . . .’ finished Mara, dusting a few crumbs of cake from her fingers. The two boys were sitting quietly by the fire listening intently.