Writ in Stone (25 page)

‘Gone?’ Father Peter’s thin lips puckered on the word, showing the toothless gums behind, but his voice was barely audible. A slight frown appeared between his brows and his sharp grey eyes looked a question at Mara and she nodded slightly.

‘The king and I are about to set off to meet her,’ she said, allowing her clear voice to rise and reach listening ears.

Father Peter nodded solemnly. ‘The
tánaiste
and I might come and meet you on the way back,’ he said, raising his gentle old voice. ‘Perhaps not too far! Let us know when you are on your way back. When you get near you could send the boy.’ He beamed at Shane who had emerged, dressed for the journey, and was making his way towards the stables.

Fachtnan was already holding Mara’s horse by the time they made their way to the stables. Turlough took the reins from him and assisted Mara into the saddle.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t think I could cope with all these things if you were not by my side. Why don’t we just leave the lot of them, ride away and spend Christmas at Cahermacnaghten?’

‘Let’s get this matter uncoiled first,’ said Mara lightly. He was not in earnest; she knew that. This murder had to be solved; it was not in his nature, no more than in hers, to shirk a duty.

‘Which way do we turn at the bottom of the road, Brehon?’ Shane’s clear, joyous voice came back to them as they started to ride through the gate.

‘Turn right,’ called Mara. Left just led to the small harbour at Béal an Chloga; right would bring them on to Cleric’s Pass and then, down the steep hill, on to the road to Galway.

Shane and Fachtnan were still waiting, though, when they reached the bottom of the road that led out from the abbey gates.

‘There are some horses coming from the left, riding fast, Brehon,’ said Fachtnan as they drew near. ‘I thought we should wait to see who they are. Here they are now, coming around the corner.’

‘It’s that party of lay brothers that I saw setting out a while ago,’ said Mara in an undertone to Turlough. ‘They’ve given up the chase quickly. And why did they take that road?’

The brothers were riding slowly, the foremost one with a long length of coiled rope clearly visible from his satchel. The abbot had thought quickly. Once surrounded, Father Denis could have been tied up and taken to Galway. There would be no mercy now for this son who had betrayed him and stolen from him.

‘They look as if they’ve lost the scent,’ observed Turlough.

‘Strange,’ observed Mara. ‘The abbot won’t be too pleased with them if they return so quickly without their quarry.’

‘Any sign of them?’ she asked crisply as they drew near to her. They looked startled and glanced from one to the other, but, impressed by the note of authority, the brother with the rope nodded his head and then shook it.

‘We’ve seen them, Brehon,’ he said. ‘But it’s no good. We were too late.’

Mara frowned and he hastened to add: ‘They’ve taken a boat, Brehon. They were already out on the sea by the time we saw them.’

‘We saw the boat from the top of the hill and we could see two horses in it.’

‘We went right down to the harbour to be certain.’

‘It was no good. That east wind was taking them out quickly.’

Now everyone was trying to speak; doubtless, they felt their story for the abbot could do with a preliminary rehearsal.

Fachtnan licked his finger and held it up. ‘A north-easterly wind, now,’ he said.

‘They’ll never get to Galway against a wind like that,’ said Shane. ‘What do you think, Father?’

Patrick nodded. ‘Even on a lake it would be hard to make progress against a headwind like that; with a heavy sea running like it is today, it will be nearly impossible.’

‘I know whose boat they have taken.’ A young brother who had not previously spoken took up the tale. ‘That boat belongs to Tearlach, you know, the son of big Séan.’ He turned to the brother with the rope who nodded knowingly.

‘This Tearlach is a
druth
, a half-wit, Brehon. I wondered who would be mad enough to take a boat out in a sea like this.’

‘They may be driven back on to the shore, Brehon,’ said Fachtnan thoughtfully. ‘Would it be worth riding towards the sea and looking for a likely spot?’

‘That’s worth a try.’

‘Yes, that’s the thing to do.’

‘We’ll come with you.’

‘They’ll probably come ashore at Baile Bheachtain.’

All the voices were enthusiastic. No doubt this was a welcome break for these hard-working lay brothers. Also, it saved them from the abbot’s wrath if they returned so early with only failure to report.

‘They couldn’t be thinking of going to the Aran Islands, could they?’ asked Mara as they set off riding behind the lay brothers and the two boys.

‘Unlikely,’ said Turlough. ‘After all, Aran is mine. I don’t think anyone would shelter them there. No, they will be going to Galway; that’s out of my jurisdiction.’

‘He may have arranged the boat yesterday when the wind was slack, and then, this morning, he did not want to change his plans. He probably prevailed on this unfortunate Tearlach to take him,’ said Patrick shrewdly.

‘And, of course, Father Denis is from east Galway; he would not know too much about the sea.’

‘And the girl is quite reckless,’ said Turlough. There was a note of affection in his voice and Mara turned to him with an indulgent smile. He was such a kind man, she thought, so very different from his cousin, the abbot. She wondered whether there had been an agreement between the abbot and his son.
You put no obstacle in the way of my becoming abbot of Knockmoy and I will disappear before your important visitor from Tintern Abbey arrives
, he might have said. Or even:
help me to achieve my ambition and I will not get in the way of your ambition.
Like father, like son, she thought.

They could see the boat clearly when they reached the harbour. It was a solid, heavily made wooden boat, what they called a Galway hooker. It was built for heavy seas: clinker built, and well painted. It had room for three sails, a main sail and two fore sails, but only one of them bore canvas.

‘
Druth
or no
druth
he’s handling that boat well,’ said Fachtnan appreciatively. ‘He’s doing the right thing; isn’t he, Cumhal?’ he called back. ‘He’s heading into the waves, not letting them hit him broadside.’ Cumhal had taught all the boys to sail in the choppy Atlantic waters between Doolin and the Aran Islands, so he was an authority on all things to do with boats for the law scholars of Cahermacnaghten.

Mara glanced back at her farm manager now and saw him shake his head ominously.

‘He’s doing his best,’ he grunted, ‘but no boat is going to last too long on a sea like that. His only hope is to head for the shore as soon as possible. He can’t possibly make Galway.’

‘Wind’s shifting,’ said Fachtnan, holding up a wet finger. ‘What do you think, Cumhal? It’s going around to the north again, isn’t it?’

Everyone drew to a halt and all eyes were now on Cumhal, who moved his face around thoughtfully. ‘North-north-east,’ he said eventually. ‘Now’s his chance. If he turns his boat towards Drumcreehy Bay now they might all escape with their lives.’

Could anyone escape from a sea like that? thought Mara. There were clouds of breaking white spray over the rocks at Black Head point; the sea was a dark green and churning like yeast moving in a beer cask and the thunder of the waves on the shore below almost deafened them.

A sudden gust of wind had ripped the sail and only left tattered ribbons fluttering from the mast. Now the sea lashed the boat unmercifully. It was moving backwards and each giant wave, mountain-high, lifted it up, carried it to the pinnacle and then cast it down into a trough. The air was clear, with that strange yellow light that comes just before a storm, and Mara could just make out the figure of Ellice standing beside the two horses that were tied to the side of the small cabin. No doubt the animals were maddened by fear and Ellice was trying to soothe them. Turlough had said that she was a great horsewoman. Mara breathed a quick prayer for the girl’s survival from this terrible adventure.

‘Let’s go down to the bay,’ she said, and signalled when she saw that her words had not reached them.

‘Look!’ screamed Shane. ‘Look at the two men!’

Mara peered, but his young eyes were more long-sighted than hers. She could only see Ellice. She waited for a moment, her eyes straining through the distance.

‘They are fighting,’ yelled Fachtnan. ‘Look, Brehon, the two men at the tiller.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘The monk is trying to wrestle the tiller from Tearlach.’

‘He’ll have the boat over!’

‘Look at the way it is spinning in the waves.’

‘He’s mad, that monk; he should leave the tiller to the man in charge of the boat. He’s crazy, look! He’s dragging Tearlach away from the tiller.’

Now the boat was broadside to them and Mara could dimly see the two figures. A huge wave swept over the boat and its prow plunged straight down into the trough that was sucked out of the sea when the wave passed on rapidly towards the shore. For a moment it looked as if it would capsize, but then it was afloat again.

‘They’ve gone overboard.’ Fachtnan’s yell was loud enough to be heard over the thunder of the shingle.

‘They’re gone, Brehon,’ shouted Shane, turning around to her. His young face had turned white and his dark blue eyes were wide with horror.

‘They’re gone all right,’ said a lay brother gloomily in the calm before the next crash of the breakers. ‘Poor Tearlach, that will break his father’s heart. A harmless poor soul, no trouble to anyone and a great boy with the boat.’

‘Let’s get down to the bay,’ shouted Mara, urging on her horse and letting them follow her.

As they galloped across the hill they could see the boat. Oddly enough it now seemed to be steering a steady course inland going straight in towards the shingle beach.

‘It’s the girl is at the tiller, Brehon.’ Fachtnan gasped. The wind was now blowing directly in their faces, making voices almost impossible to hear, but Mara thought she heard Turlough’s voice uttering something like a cheer.

Within ten minutes, they were down on the flat land of Drumcreehy Bay. They were not alone. People were streaming out of the fishermen’s cottages, many carrying ropes, others nets, a few women with blankets. By the time that they reached the beach, a fire had been kindled of driftwood, its flames shooting out flickering tongues of blue. The men were beginning to line up along the shingle, lashing themselves together with a long rope. The man at the head of the line, a huge fellow with a weather-beaten face, held a spare rope in his hand. The noise of the breakers was now diminished; the tide had begun to turn and there was an ominous sucking noise as each wave retreated from the beach.

‘I’m going down there!’ In a moment the lay brother was climbing off his horse, pulling out the rope from his satchel. Rapidly he stripped off his monk’s gown and cloak; clad just in his
léine,
he raced down the beach and lashed himself to the end man, holding out the rope as another and then another lay brother joined him.

‘No, Fachtnan!’ Mara spoke sternly. ‘I am responsible to your father for you.’

He gave her a quick nod of acquiescence; he was always a biddable lad, she thought.

‘There are probably enough men on the rope now, anyway. If anyone does make the shoreline, these will be enough to be able to haul them in. Come on, Shane; let’s find some more driftwood for the fire. They’ll need warming when they are hauled ashore.’

The optimism of youth, thought Mara. Her eyes were on the heavily swelling cauldron of the sea and she doubted whether anyone could emerge alive out of that.’

‘They don’t light the fire for that reason,’ said Cumhal, after the two boys had gone. ‘There’s a sandy spit goes out here. If the boat can beach on it, it might be saved. They may not know yet that the boat has lost its master. It would take great skill to bring that boat ashore and there’s just that girl at the tiller.’

‘Look at her!’ said Turlough. ‘There’s breeding for you! There’s courage, too! What a queen she would make!’

All that Mara could see of Ellice was a figure standing resolutely at the tiller and a skein of black hair whipping around her head.

‘By the grace of God, she’s pointing the boat towards the sand,’ continued Turlough. His voice rose to a roar: ‘Come on, girl, come on! You can do it!’

In a moment, everyone on the beach took up the cry: all arms began to gesture. Some of the women fell to their knees, praying aloud the passionate Gaelic words calling on St Brendan, the saint of the sailors, on St Patrick, and on the Blessed Mary, Star of the Sea.

‘She knows what to do; someone must have told her about the spit of sand. She spends hours on this beach,’ said Turlough. He made an impatient movement as if to get off his horse, but Mara put her hand on his with a quick glance towards the two bodyguards still watchful beside him.

‘There is nothing you can do, my lord,’ she said. ‘Ellice is in the hands of God, now.’

There was a new danger, she could see. The tide had turned. It was retreating and every outgoing wave sucked the boat back. The wind, just when it was needed most, seemed to drop a little and the incoming waves did not have so much force behind them. There was nothing Ellice could do but hang on to the tiller, though Mara could see how she cast glance after glance upwards at the useless pieces of sail snapping in the wind.

‘Look, Brehon!’ Shane was running up towards her, ‘Look, look out to sea!’

Mara followed the direction of his raised arm and saw what he pointed at. Right out far, outside the curve of the bay, there was an enormous wave, mountain high and approaching with frightening rapidity.

‘Move back, everyone,’ shouted Turlough. ‘Move back; you’ll all be drowned.’