Writ in Stone (22 page)

‘Yes,’ he went on thoughtfully, ignoring her words, but pausing to snap a last spike of ice from the roof over their heads, ‘I was just imagining you, aged fourteen, with your black hair hanging over your shoulders and your green gown matching those lovely hazel eyes, yes, you must have been very lovely.’

‘Murrough, stop this nonsense,’ said Mara, pausing to allow him to walk beside her. ‘You are not impressing me in the least. I need to discuss your future in the kingdom with your father, but first of all, there are a few questions that I need to ask you.’

‘I’m listening,’ he said with a wide smile.

‘And you will give a truthful answer.’

‘Of course.’ His smile was as false as the rest of him, she decided, but for Turlough’s sake she would endeavour to find the truth. If he were not guilty of this killing, and of the attempted killing, then that at least had to be established in deciding where he should make his home now that he was back in Ireland. She walked on, holding the torch to illuminate the stone flags of the path around the cloisters.

‘So,’ she said lightly, ‘you helped the abbot to put away the bow, arrows and target today after dinner?’

From the corner of her eye she saw his head turn. He looked at her guardedly.

‘Yes, you saw me yourself. You were the one that declared the pleasant hour of recreation was at an end and, of course, we all as usual instantly bowed to your command.’

There was definitely a note of resentment in his voice. Did Murrough hate her? she wondered. He had been a great favourite with his mother, she remembered Turlough saying. A favourite with both parents, then. He was definitely unhappy at the prospect of this late marriage between his fifty-year-old father, the king, and Mara, the Brehon of the Burren. But did he hate his father, also? She stopped again. She wanted to be able to see his face when she asked her next question.

‘So when you put the shooting equipment away, where did you put it?’

‘In the press,’ he said readily. ‘The good abbot, a man of God, keeps his weaponry close to hand in that little wooden press just inside the church.’

‘So why did you need to go up to the bell tower, then?’ Her question was quick and she hoped to catch him off guard. Indeed, he did look taken aback, but only for a moment. He gave a light laugh and then stepped back and waved to her to precede him through the archway leading from the cloisters to the garth in front of the Royal Lodge.

‘So, that’s the way of it,’ he said in amused tones. ‘I see where your questions are leading; you are trying to pin the blame on me for the attempted murder of my father, the king. No, I never went near the bell tower; you’re confusing me with the abbot. In any case, why should I try to murder my father? What could I gain by that? Remember Conor is the
tánaiste,
not I. No, I certainly didn’t attempt to murder my father, the king, today either in the early morning or at vespers.’

‘But perhaps your intended victim this afternoon was me,’ she countered quickly, turning around to look directly into his face.

He faced her blandly, his feelings well under his control.

‘Who could possibly want your death, my lady judge?’ he asked mockingly.

‘Because I am Brehon of the Burren,’ said Mara steadily. She did not move but stood facing him under the narrow stone archway. ‘Because whoever murdered the man this morning may well suspect that I now know who did the deed.’

‘And do you?’ He made the enquiry smoothly in a carefree voice, but his eyes, so like his father’s, watched her intently.

Mara walked on. ‘You would not expect me to tell you that,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘I suspect that you do.’ His voice sounded amused, but now she could no longer see him as he was behind her. Fergal, the bodyguard, had opened the shutters of the king’s room. She could hear his voice faintly. He was saying something; no doubt telling the king that she was coming. Then the bulky figure of Turlough joined him at the window. Mara caught her breath in a moment’s apprehension. How imprudent he was, standing there at an open window with the light behind him, an obvious target for a lurking assassin! She turned sharply so that the light from her torch fell on Murrough and, at the same moment, called out to them:

‘I will join you in a minute, my lord. Fergal, please close the shutters again.’

She was obeyed instantly by Fergal, who thrust his slight form in front of the king’s bulk, and then closed over the shutters rapidly. She breathed more easily. Did Murrough, under that padded doublet, carry the customary three javelins? She had seen him once at the fair at Coad and his skill was startling. The javelins flew from his hand with only a second’s pause between them and each one hit the precise centre of the straw-padded target. She kept the light of the torch shining on him for another moment and saw him grin mockingly. She lowered the torch and hastened towards the Royal Lodge.

‘Let me knock at the door,’ said Murrough, as he overtook her and then he hammered so vigorously that she only half-heard his words, but as she climbed the steps she knew that she had heard them correctly.

‘Yes,’ he had said. ‘I think you know. I thought when I looked at you there, sitting by the abbot’s fire, when you opened those sea-green eyes of yours, I thought that you looked like a marten cat who has seen its prey.’

Fourteen

(Ranks in Society)

A king who is overlord of three kingdoms has an honour price of twenty-four
séts,
twelve ounces of silver or twelve cows. He has responsibility for deciding alliances and for making the most profitable bargains for his people.

Conall answered the knock on the door, but Turlough was already thundering down the stairs and he immediately thrust aside his bodyguard.

‘My dear love,’ he said, enveloping Mara in one of his bear-like hugs, ‘my dear love, I’ve been worrying about you. I’m a poor warrior to be hiding away in a house while you are out there in danger. The more I think of it, no matter what Fergal says, I think that rock was meant to hit you.’

Mara disentangled herself and cast a quick glance at Fergal. He looked weary. No doubt he had been having a bad time for the last half hour.

‘It wasn’t a rock,’ she said lightly, ‘it was the carved head of St Bernard himself, so the mason tells me.’

‘Thank God that Brehon from Tyrone arrived and you were not there,’ continued Turlough, eyeing her anxiously. ‘There’s been no threats, no more near escapes, have there? You have been careful, have you not?’

‘So careful,’ said Mara, ‘that I did not even cross the cloister garth by myself. I took your son with me as a guard and protector.’

There was a gleam of humour from Murrough’s green eyes, but Mara looked away quickly and kept her face serious as Turlough nodded approvingly.

‘Let’s go into the parlour,’ she said. ‘Conall, will you ask Brigid to bring us supper whenever she likes? There is no hurry. You might have yours quite soon, though, while Fergal stays on guard outside the parlour door, and then Fergal can have his. After that will be plenty of time for us.’

‘I hope I am invited also,’ said Murrough meekly. ‘I’ve heard much of Brigid’s famous suppers from my lord.’ His beaming smile swept from Mara to his father and Turlough smiled in return. There was an air of relief about him as he looked at his broad-shouldered, handsome son. Mara thought of Teige’s words about the unsuitability of the fragile Conor for the position of
tánaiste
and knew that Turlough would have the same thoughts in his mind. He was very fond of his cousin, Teige O’Brien, but every man would prefer a grown son to succeed him.

‘Come on,’ he said, clouting Murrough affectionately on the shoulder just as if he were a small boy who had been caught stealing apples from the orchard. ‘Come in and sit down and behave yourself.’

Murrough meekly took a stool, allowing his father and Mara to occupy the cushioned bench in front of the fire. The parlour was beautifully warm. Brigid had obviously made good friends among the lay brothers and the brazier was heaped with a month’s allowance of charcoal. Turlough leaned back with a satisfied smile and slipped an arm around Mara. She allowed it to stay, but sat a little straighter. She wished that Turlough would realize that she was working. However much one side of her wished just to be his wife, there was no denying the decade of training and her years of office as Brehon of the Burren.

‘Murrough,’ she said crisply. ‘I would like to take you back to your arrival here at the abbey yesterday. You came in disguise as a pilgrim. Why was that?’

He turned a lazy eye towards her. ‘Because I wasn’t sure whether my father would forgive me or not,’ he said.

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Mara. ‘As a pilgrim, there would be no way that you could probe the king’s feelings for his disgraced son.’

He winced a little at the word ‘disgraced’.

‘Perhaps he was afraid that the abbot would not admit him,’ interposed Turlough helpfully.

Murrough bowed his head. ‘That was it, my lord,’ he said meekly.

‘And yet, having successfully entered and having seen your father and your brother, you still did not declare yourself,’ she said sharply. This was like a game of chess, she thought, and felt that slight exhilaration that she always experienced when battling with a worthy opponent.

‘I was unsure . . . I wondered what to do . . . I wasn’t sure whether . . . I wasn’t sure if I would be forgiven . . .’ Murrough tried to make his tone sound broken and he still hung his head, but Mara was sure that behind the lowered eyelids his eyes would be sparkling with amusement. He, like she, was almost enjoying this encounter.

‘Let me put the case, as we say at law school,’ she said rapidly. ‘You came here in disguise, you kept that disguise all yesterday evening, you made no attempt to make yourself known, not even to your brother or to one of your father’s cousins, who might have been able to intercede for you. You hid behind the pilgrim’s gown and then, this morning, having heard your father publicly declare, last night, that he would spend the first hour of the day alone, kneeling in front of the tomb of his ancestor, Conor Sudaine O’Brien, you entered the church, swung the mason’s mallet and killed the man. What do you say to that?’

From beside her Mara felt Turlough stir uneasily. His arm dropped down and from the corner of her eye she saw him turn to stare into the fire. As always, every fibre of her body was aware of him and she felt his distress as if it were her own. However, this matter could not be swept into a dark corner with the dead rushes; it had to be brought forth into the light of day and examined carefully.

‘Why should I want to kill my father?’ Murrough’s voice was calm and polite.

‘Because if your father were dead, the clan would probably instantly elect you as
tánaiste
and then, if Conor died, you would be king.’

Murrough thought about that for a moment and when he spoke there was a note of passionate sincerity in his voice.

‘I don’t want to be king,’ he said flatly.

Beside her, Mara felt Turlough give a start of surprise. She did not look at him but continued to study Murrough. The small parlour was well lit with two large, many-branched candlesticks, each holding a dozen beeswax candles, and she could see his face clearly. For once the mocking look was absent and he looked, not at her, but at his father. His voice was earnest and confident.

‘I suppose this is the real reason why I’ve come,’ he said. ‘I wanted to talk to you, father. I even wondered whether I could talk to you without you knowing who I was, perhaps disguise my voice or something.’

‘Talk now,’ said Turlough with an effort. ‘I’m listening.’

Mara sat back. This was between father and son. She would listen and judge and afterwards perhaps take up the questioning again. She could see from Murrough’s thoughtful face that he was marshalling his arguments.

‘You see, father,’ said Murrough eagerly, ‘I’ve spent the last few months in the court at Whitehall Palace, in London, and I’ve listened and I know how things are moving. There is no future in hanging on to this kingship. England is not going to allow Ireland to slip away from under its control. There is money in the coffers now. The re-conquest of Ireland is just a matter of time. Many of the clan leaders already recognize this. You should make terms with the king.’

‘I am the king.’ Turlough’s voice was hard as iron.

‘A petty kingdom! No, I meant King Henry VIII of England.’

‘I know what you meant, but I still say, I am the king, and while God preserves the breath within my body, I will stay king.’

‘No, but father,’ Murrough’s voice took on a pleading note. ‘Just listen to me. If the English decide to conquer the west of Ireland, you cannot stop them. You can’t win.’

‘I will fight,’ said Turlough passionately. ‘The O’Donnell will fight, so will Clanrickard; the O’Flaherty will fight until not a drop of blood is left in his body. The MacCarthy and O’Malley of the ships, they will be there. Even O’Kelly, God rot his soul, he would not be absent if our way of life was threatened. We will all fight together.’

‘Fight! With what?’

‘With swords, javelins, arrows, daggers, with our bare hands if needs be.’ Turlough’s voice rose to a roar.

‘Father, be reasonable. What good are swords and javelins against handguns and cannon? You’ve seen what a few handguns could do at the battle of Knockmoy! You haven’t seen cannons in action, though. I have. One blast from a cannon could reduce this abbey to a pile of shattered stone in two minutes.’

‘Cannon,’ sneered Turlough. ‘I’ve heard from Kildare about them. How do you think that this Henry VIII of yours will get them across the sea? Swim them? Swim them like the men from the islands swim their cattle?’

‘You spoke of O’Malley of the Ships,’ said Murrough evenly. ‘I have seen ships in England and they make O’Malley’s ships look like the toys of a young child. These English ships can hold cannons; they can hold thousands of men armed with guns. They will be coming over here.’