Writ in Stone (20 page)

‘That young brother, there,’ he said, pointing, ‘he came over to tell us that the cook had a warm drink waiting for us in the kitchen. You see, Brehon, our hands get very cold working here hour after hour so we take five minutes in the warmth and get the feeling back into our fingers. The abbot permits that.’ He was fluent and confident and the finger he pointed unwaveringly indicated Brother Francis.

‘Could you step forward, please, brother,’ said Mara. She waited until he had done so before proceeding. ‘You are Brother Francis from the abbey of Knockmoy, are you not?’ She decided not to mention that he was an O’Kelly, one of a clan that was at war with King Turlough Donn O’Brien.

He gave a half-nod and a quick glance at the abbot. Mara slid her eyes in the direction also. The abbot was looking annoyed, but that was a fairly permanent expression with him. He did not look ill at ease, she decided. She turned back to the carpenter.

‘Master Carpenter, can you remember whether the young brother accompanied you back to the kitchen?’

‘No, he didn’t, Brehon. I remember that when he delivered his message that he knelt down in front of the altar and crossed himself.’

‘A perfectly proper action for a brother.’ The abbot’s intervention was delivered in dry, measured tones but his glance at Brother Francis was curiously intent, almost, thought Mara, as if some message was delivered.

‘And did you go up to the bell tower?’ she continued, looking hard at the young face.

He shook his head. ‘No, Brehon, I just said a quick prayer and then left. I’m sorry that it escaped my memory.’

‘I see,’ said Mara continuing to study him. ‘Ah,’ she said as a knock sounded on the door to the cloisters, ‘that will be Fachtnan and Cumhal. Any sign?’ she asked as the two slid past the abbot and entered.

Fachtnan shook his head, ‘No, Brehon,’ he replied. ‘Only the
tánaiste
and his wife are in the guest house; the rest of the buildings are empty.’

Mara nodded: ‘Perhaps, Father Abbot,’ she said politely, ‘everyone who was not in the church between vespers and dinner could now disperse at your bidding and those others, who did visit the church during that time, could perhaps be questioned in your parlour by my assistant and my colleague, the Brehon from the Tyrone. However, I will ask that no one leave the precincts of the abbey without my express permission. Hopefully this crime of murder will soon be solved, but in the meantime, all must stay here.’ She could rely on Patrick to keep the abbot sweet, she thought. Shane, she noticed, had already been taken under Brigid’s motherly wing. Without waiting for an answer she walked across to Turlough.

‘Stay in the guest house until I arrive,’ she said in a rapid undertone. ‘Keep Fergal and Conall with you at all times. I think we will eat there tonight.’

‘You seem to be in more danger than I.’ Turlough looked shaken, she thought, and she hastened to reassure him.

‘No, no, I’ll keep Cumhal with me, but I think that was just a case of the stone rolling to the right, and thank God that it did.’

‘I always did say that too much church-going was bad for your health,’ said Turlough with a grin. He had obviously believed her reassuring words. He was as brave as a lion, himself, and would face any danger, but a possible danger to Mara had shaken him momentarily. She did not know the truth of that latest planned assignation but she knew that she had to ensure that he was safe. Only her own brains and perhaps some luck could bring a happy conclusion to this Christmas-tide mystery.

Mara watched the church clear of people. She said no more until they had all gone, except Cumhal, who in response to a quick nod from her waited discreetly at the end of the church, then she turned to the mason. The carpenter had picked up the splintered chair and had carried it to his workbench close to where Cumhal stood. She had no further questions for him, but it occurred to her that there was a question that she had not asked, a question to which the mason would have an answer.

‘This block of limestone that fell from the bell tower, Master Mason, how heavy would that have been?’

He looked back at her impassively.

‘Not very heavy, Brehon.’

‘Not for you, perhaps, but could a woman have carried it upstairs?’

He shrugged and turned his face away, sorting through some unworked pieces of limestone. He probably did not know the answer to that question, she thought. His muscles would have been trained by this work from the time that he was a boy; a weight that would be impossible for a woman would be of little consequence to him. There was only one way to find out: she came near to him, bent down and picked up a block similar in size to the one that had tumbled down from the bell loft. The weight surprised her, but she staggered off resolutely towards the night stairs.

‘No need to carry it up; that stone was up in the bell tower already.’ His voice was so husky that for a moment she could hardly understand the words, but then as their import reached her she thankfully placed the heavy lump on Ardal’s chair and turned back to him.

‘How do you know?’ she asked.

He came across the floor, lifting the block from the chair and replacing it as if were feather light, before answering.

‘I know that piece of limestone,’ he said with a brief glance over to where the smashed remains still lay on top of the splintered chair.

Mara’s eyes followed his. Her attention had been fixed on the broken chair earlier and she had not scrutinized the stone that had caused the damage, but now she could see a rounded forehead, a carved eyelid and she realized that it was a large head.

‘St Bernard,’ said the mason. ‘You find him a lot in Cistercian abbeys. The wooden bell tower was only put up fifty years ago. That head was probably moved then and never replaced. The tower has not been finished; the plans are to build it from stone and to extend it down here to ground level. The head will probably be replaced when that happens.’

Mara pondered. If that heavy block of limestone were already in the bell loft, then it would have been a matter of minutes for the assassin to put it in place.

‘But no one was seen to go to the bell loft,’ she said aloud, almost speaking to herself.

The mason had already begun to chip at his block, but he stopped at the sound of her voice.

‘No one,’ he said in husky voice, ‘that a wise man would see.’

Mara considered this. It was perhaps an invitation.

‘A wise man would tell what he saw and leave it to the Brehon to protect him,’ she said neutrally.

‘Who can protect against the king’s son,’ he said. And now his voice was almost inaudible.

Mara moved closer to him and said a rapid undertone, ‘There is no danger. I would never betray your confidence. Tell what you know and tell it quickly.’

He looked at her doubtfully and then seemed to make up his mind. ‘The king’s son, he who disguised himself as a pilgrim . . .’

‘Murrough,’ she said and he nodded.

‘He came into the church. I heard him with the abbot. I think they were putting away the bow and arrows. He, Murrough, lingered. I was in the vault, measuring up the space. I don’t think that he saw me. I thought nothing of it at the time. What is the old saying? ‘A king’s son may go, where a humble man may not follow.’ It was not for people like myself to question him.’

‘He lingered?’ queried Mara. ‘In the nave? By the altar?’

‘I heard him go up the steps to the bell loft.’ The mason’s gruff voice was emphatic. He stroked his white beard, turning his head away from her glance and bent over his work again. She thought he would say no more, but then he added in a curiously formal phrase: ‘I know not what he did up there.’

Thirteen

(On Legal Entry)

False witness is one of the three falsehoods which God avenges most severely on a
Tuáth
(kingdom).

(On the Confirmation of Right and Law)

•
Famine

•
The slaughter of a people

•
Plague

It was quite dark by the time that Mara emerged from the church. A faint watery strip of moonlight showed through the speeding clouds, just enough to cast a dim light on the shadowy path that skirted the cloisters. From behind her she could hear the voices of the carpenter and the mason; night was closing in now and their work would be finishing. Candlelight sparkled from the closed shutters of the abbot’s house and the sound of voices came from within. Mara rapped on the door and Teige O’Brien immediately opened it.

‘How’s Turlough?’ he whispered with a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that his words were heard by her only.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, surprised. ‘I’ve been in the church. Why? Have you heard anything?’ Despite herself, she could not help a note of alarm. It was only about ten minutes since she had seen Turlough, but she had a feeling that events were leading up to a climax.

‘No, nothing.’ He hastened to reassure her. ‘It’s just that so many things seem to be happening so quickly. It’s hard to believe that Mahon’s death only happened nine or ten hours ago. Come inside by the fire. Let me take your mantle.’

He bustled around her, helping her to shed the heavily furred mantle, hanging it up on one of a row of pegs in the narrow passageway that led to the stairs and then ushering her into the parlour.

All voices ceased when she entered. Teige took her over to the fireplace and plumped up the cushions on the padded bench that stood at right angles to the blazing fire. There was a flagon of spiced ale standing on the stone hob beside the chimney and he poured her a cup and handed it to her. Mara accepted it gratefully; the church had been icy-cold. She sipped it eagerly and then glanced around.

The abbot’s parlour was a small room and yet the groups of people seemed to keep at a distance from each other almost as if they feared the thrust of an assassin’s knife if they stood too close. To her amusement, most seemed to stand with their backs firmly pressed against one of the walls. Finn O’Connor and his wife were chatting loudly together about a long-past Christmas. Father Denis was pretending to leaf through a prayer book; though his eyes flashed from beneath his lids as he took quick surreptitious glances around the room. Brother Francis stood beside him, muttering in his ear. Ardal, near the window, was being gallant to Flann, shielding her from the cold wind that blew through the shutters, while his cousin, Banna, standing against the opposite wall, glared at him furiously and then turned to mutter to Teige’s wife, Ciara O’Brien. Strange, thought Mara. Neither Frann nor Banna had admitted visiting the church and yet here they both were, doubtless to give their evidence.

‘The two wives of my poor cousin have remembered saying a prayer for his soul,’ whispered Teige, following the direction of her eyes.

‘I see,’ returned Mara, her voice as low as his. ‘Who remembered first?’

‘Frann, I think. When Ardal left her to go into the abbot’s house she suddenly remembered.’ Teige had turned so that his back was now to the room. There was an amused smile on his lips. He reminded Mara of Turlough. He had the same mischievous twinkle in his pale green eyes and the same generous mouth under the large war-like moustache. It was interesting how alike all these cousins were, and yet how different their destinies. Turlough, Teige, Mahon and the abbot were all cousins, all grandsons of the same man, and yet the one was king of three kingdoms, two were mere
taoiseach
s of minor clans and the last was just a head monk of a small obscure abbey.

Mara turned her head back to look all around the room again. There was no sign of the abbot. He must be in with Fachtnan and Patrick. She would not interrupt, she thought. It was good for Fachtnan to have this responsibility. Hopefully he would pass his final examination this year and then he would be a qualified lawyer. Conducting an investigation like this would be valuable experience for him, if he ever managed to become a Brehon.

‘Teige,’ she said. ‘Would you go and fetch Ellice over here? Father Peter will be with Conor so she can leave him for the moment.’

I’ll deal with her myself, she thought. This matter has to be cleared up by tomorrow. She leaned back for a moment and closed her eyes. Banna was whispering loudly to Teige’s wife, Ciara, saying something about a son – perhaps Mahon had told her that Frann was expecting – perhaps this business with dangling a ring above a pregnant stomach was a well-known way of forecasting the sex of the unborn child.

‘I know,’ said Ciara in a low, soothing voice. ‘That’s men for you; a son is all-important to them. Take Teige, for instance. You wouldn’t believe what he’s like with Donal, our eldest. He’d give him the moon and stars if he could. Anything that boy wants, he has to have immediately. Sometimes, I think that the rest of us matter less to him than Donal’s little finger.’

‘Mahon was saying that . . .’ Banna was beginning to sound more cheerful. No doubt the familiar gossip about the shortcomings of husbands was raising her spirits. From under her eyelids Mara could see how the bereaved widow cast a quick glance in the Brehon’s direction and then, apparently reassured that she would be unheard, went on in a sibilant whisper:

‘Mahon was saying that Teige only wanted to be
tánaiste
so as to pass the office on to his son. Many of the
fine
and two or three of the septs wanted Mahon for
tánaiste
and as many wanted Teige.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Ciara. ‘Well, as God is my witness, Banna, I wouldn’t say this to many, but I’ve heard that no one wants a boy dying of the wasting sickness for
tánaiste
.’ Frann was now laughing uproariously at a remark by Ardal so Ciara obviously saw no reason to lower her voice as she added: ‘Of course, if Turlough had been killed this morning, then Conor would have been king and Teige the
tánaiste.’