Cross of Vengeance (16 page)

Brother Cosimo had a faintly scornful smile on his lips and there was a confident air about him.

There was, of course, the possibility that a man might have two daggers.

‘Fachtnan,’ she said when she returned to the church, ‘could you escort Brother Cosimo back to the inn – return his lozenges, but retain one for testing. And bring me Father Miguel so that I may question him.’

She waited until the two had departed before turning to her scholars.

‘If you had committed a murder and held a blood-soaked knife – and you had two knives in your possession – and there was a corpse in front of you, well, how would you get rid of it?’ she enquired.

‘Throw it into the bushes,’ suggested Finbar.

‘Climb a tree and stick it into the bark so high that no one would notice it,’ was Cormac’s imaginative response.

‘Dig a hole and bury it,’ said Slevin.

‘Three good ideas,’ said Mara with a nod of approval. ‘What do you think, Domhnall?’

He didn’t answer for a moment. A thoughtful boy, he considered all possibilities before speaking. And when he did speak, she thought, rather sadly, that he was probably correct.

‘I think that I would throw it into the centre of the River Fergus, Brehon,’ he said, and she sighed.

‘I hope you are not right, Domhnall,’ she said. ‘We’ll never find it there.’ But even as she spoke she acknowledged that it was probably the most likely place that any murderer would have thrown the knife. The River Fergus, after all, ran deep and wide, just on the south side of the inn. It would have been an ideal place in which to consign the murder weapon – once at the bottom of the water it might never be found again.

(Judgements about Neighbourhoods)

In all neighbourhoods there are common rights to seaweed if it is required as a fertilizer, and it has been thrown up on to the high tide line.

Duilsc
(edible seaweed) which grows on rocks also is common property.

But grazing rights for cattle belong to the owners of the land that adjoins the shore.

F
ather Miguel was in a very different mood to Brother Cosimo. He was suave, at ease and outwardly very co-operative. He asked several interested questions about Brehon law, immediately emptied his bag, efficiently sorting out the clothes and the personal belongings from the holy objects such as his beads, his tiny relic of a bone from St Eustace’s foot, which he explained had preserved him on many occasions from death at sea during storms. There was no sign of any medicines – lozenges or powders of any kind.

But, thought Mara, was that an inevitable sign of innocence? After all, the River Fergus flowed outside the windows of the pilgrims’ bedrooms. It would have been as easy to dispose of some poppy syrup, or even some lozenges, as to throw a knife into its depths.

Mara, busy with her thoughts, allowed Father Miguel to talk on and ignored the fact that the four boys had drawn nearer to see this miraculous relic and its sacred powers. Cormac, the foster son of Setanta the fisherman, was particularly interested in the bone and asked many searching questions on how it actually performed its miraculous duties – whether it was a matter of calming the storm from the heavens above, or whether it instructed the master of the boat, in some secret way, of the correct way of proceeding. Did it tell when to lower or raise the sail or anything useful like that? And if so, did it actually talk, or else just put an idea into your head? The questions poured out from him and he looked furious when Father Miguel adopted a lofty air of preserving a secret about the holy powers.

‘
Dat
,’ said Cormac to Mara, in explanation, ‘always says that a man is master of his own fate when he is in a boat during a storm.’ He turned back to Father Miguel with the self-assurance which seemed to have been bred into him by his princely birth and enhanced by his frequent stays at King Turlough’s tower house at Bunratty in the kingdom of the Burren.

‘My foster father, Setanta, says, “
You must work with sea, not against it
,”’ he quoted, adding, ‘that’s what he’s always told me, and he is a fisherman, so he probably knows more about it.’ He left it unsaid whether he meant Setanta was superior in knowledge to God or to Father Miguel, and for the first time the Spanish priest began to lose his urbane charm and self-possession.

‘You are too young to understand,’ he said shortly. ‘The relics of our blessed Christ and of his followers have powers over the sea which have nothing to do with men’s rules and customs. You know what the Bible says, don’t you? “
The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea
.”’

‘
Dat
says that the waves in Aran Sound are mightier than any other waves in the world, but he’s able to manage his boat in them with no help from anyone; he never calls on God,’ said Cormac, stubborn as always.

‘Thank you, Cormac, that is enough. This Spanish Inquisition, Father Miguel,’ said Mara, intervening on the nautical discussion, ‘could you explain a little bit to me about this. How does it work? What is the justification for burning someone whose view of God differs from your view?’

‘There is only true faith, and any man who does not believe as the Pope directs is a heretic,’ he said sternly. ‘It’s difficult to explain it to a woman but I will try. You see, dear lady, heretics destroy the bonds of society by weakening the basic authority on which all institutions rest; their mere existence brings down the vengeance of heaven on the regions in which they live or where the acts of heresy have been committed – such as here at Kilnaboy. I have told Father MacMahon that the round tower, the place where the sin against God was committed, must be cleansed from top to bottom and must then be reconsecrated. I must remind him of this.’ He stayed silent for a moment and she watched his face carefully. There was an intense and brooding expression on it and she was reminded of her words about a fanatic. This Father Miguel was a fanatic – but was he insane? That she could not tell. So far there was little evidence. She could see that his eyes, burning with fervour a few minutes ago, now seemed as though shutters had been drawn over them. He obviously decided that he would say no more about the Spanish Inquisition and so turned to her with a false smile.

‘Now what is it that you wish to look at among my poor belongings, Brehon? You are welcome to see all that I possess, with the exception of one thing. The documents of the Holy Inquisition are not open to profane eyes.’

‘Very well,’ said Mara quietly. ‘But I wish to be assured that the name of the dead man, the name of Hans Kaufmann, does not appear in them. I know Spanish, but my assistant, Fachtnan, does not. You may show him the individual pages with confidence that he will not be able to read any secrets and let him check that the name does not appear.’

She waited until Fachtnan stepped forward and then watched carefully to make sure that all of the pages were displayed in front of him.

It was a very cursory glance that was permitted to Fachtnan, but after his nod Mara felt reasonably satisfied that nothing was written down in these which dictated the murder of the German pilgrim. That, of course, did not mean that Father Miguel had not decided to do the deed after the destruction of the relic. He was a big man, much older than Hans Kaufmann, of course, but he might have been able to move the dead body. But how did he manage to strip the clothing, leaving no marks or bruises, unless, of course, the German pilgrim was unconscious after the administration of some drug?

There was nothing of great significance among the Spanish priest’s possessions – his clothes were of a poorer quality than those of the Italian, there were no jewelled crosses, but there was a big batch of prayers. Yet nothing about ‘
God is not mocked’
. Could he have had that prayer, and if so, could it have been placed on the brow of the corpse on the ancient tombstone?

One by one, Mara turned over his belongings and then asked to see his knife. While she was carefully inspecting this, and checking, by the light of the candle, for any sign of bloodstains, a voice from behind suddenly piped up.

‘I think that the Inquisition is abominable. Imagine burning someone to death because he did not share your view about God,’ said Cormac O’Brien, the youngest of a long line of the kings of Ireland; the voice of his ancestors – of Turlough of the Triumphs, Brian of the Battles and of Teige the Bonesplitter – gave to his childish tones a confidence which made his words ring to the rafters.

Father Miguel wheeled around, fury inflaming the skin over his cheekbones, and causing him to clench his fists. ‘What did you say?’ he growled.

‘Cormac, go and wait outside,’ said Mara coolly. ‘Wait until I come out to you.’

‘I might as well help Sorley with replacing the thatch on the roof of the round tower while I am waiting for you; that’ll be interesting, at least,’ said Cormac defiantly as he strolled to the door. To Mara’s fury she saw him exchange a wink with Finbar, who sniggered. Domhnall moved a little nearer and glared at Finbar so Mara said nothing. There was, she thought, some excuse for the twelve-year-old, who was so lacking in confidence and who now hoped to have his first real friend during his time at the Burren; for her son, Cormac, there was no excuse. He had been a member of the law school since he was five years old and knew that he had to keep silent while accompanying the Brehon on legal business.

‘What is your opinion, Father Miguel, about the death of Hans Kaufmann?’ she enquired, deciding to ignore Cormac’s intervention. He was a hard, cruel man, and to apologise to him for her son’s behaviour might make him feel that he had the upper hand.

He paused for a moment before answering; it seemed as though the question took him aback. She could see the denial, the assertion of ignorance trembling on his lips, but she kept her eyes fixed on him, and after a minute he gave her an answer which in turn took her slightly aback.

‘
God is not mocked,’
he said defiantly. ‘
Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap
.’

Mara looked at him steadily. ‘I find that an interesting quotation,’ she said sternly. ‘Were you the person who placed that quotation from St Paul on the forehead of the murdered man?’

She waited for a moment for the answer, raising an eyebrow when none was forthcoming.

‘Come now,’ she said. ‘The question is an easy one. Surely you can answer it.’

The silence in the church was intense and it seemed to last several minutes. Glancing momentarily across at her scholars, she could sense that Domhnall seemed to be holding his breath. But almost immediately her eyes returned to Father Miguel. There seemed to be a struggle going on in the dark-skinned, dark-eyed face before her. For a few moments she almost thought that he might be going to confess to the murder. But then he glared at her.

‘I must be about God’s business. The devil may still be present in that tower,’ he said wrathfully. With hands that seemed to shake, he crammed his belongings back into the satchel, picked it up, turned on his heel and left the church without answering her question. Her scholars stared after him, wide-eyed with surprise. They were so used to the deference with which everyone on the Burren treated their Brehon, so used to the fact that, as the king’s representative every courtesy was due to her, and her verdicts instantly obeyed, that this defiance by a Spanish priest shocked them.

‘Do you think that he is guilty, Brehon?’ asked Fachtnan after a moment.

Mara thought hard. ‘It is possible,’ she said. ‘What do you all think?’ she asked, looking around at her scholars.

‘What did he have to gain from the murder?’ asked Slevin.

‘Nothing, really,’ said Finbar tentatively. ‘All that money was left in Hans Kaufmann’s pouch. You’d think that the murderer would have stolen it from the satchel – though perhaps he had intended to do that, but didn’t have time to visit the church since we came so early in the morning and we discovered the body …’

His words tailed off. He was looking at Domhnall, whose face showed that he was deep in thought.

‘Well reasoned,’ praised Mara, but she also looked at Domhnall.

‘You can get satisfaction from doing something that is nothing to do with any monetary gain,’ said Domhnall slowly. ‘Like scoring a goal in hurling, or climbing to the top of a wall of rock.’ He looked, not at his fellow scholars, but at Mara, and she could see that he was considering the matter carefully. When he spoke again his voice was full of confidence. ‘I think that Father Miguel is the type that might get satisfaction from what he saw as his duty to God. He wouldn’t need to steal. He probably did believe that Hans Kaufmann was possessed by the devil and killing him might have given him … a sort of inward glow,’ he finished, and Mara burned with pride in him.

Domhnall O’Davoren, the son of her blue-eyed and fair-skinned daughter Sorcha – a girl who had no interest in the law, and who, though artistic, and talented in anything to do with the hands, had found difficulty with what Brigid called ‘book learning’. Sorcha had given birth to this boy who had inherited the brains and passion for the law from Mara’s father, his great-grandfather, the Brehon of the Burren. He had also inherited the dark eyes and black hair of the O’Davorens – not just through Mara and her father, but from his father Oisín, also an O’Davoren and a distant cousin of Mara. He had come to the law school at the age of eight, and from his first days in the schoolroom she had been sure that he would be a worthy heir to the position that his ancestors had held.

Cormac, her son by her second marriage, probably had a different future ahead of him, she thought sadly. He had plenty of brains, but so far didn’t appear to have a lawyer’s temperament.

‘You may well be right, Domhnall,’ she said aloud and looked across at Fachtnan, waiting to hear what he would say.

‘Revenge is probably only a valid motive if there is something slightly insane about a man – in my opinion, anyway,’ he said carefully. ‘The question is whether Father Miguel appears to be unbalanced.’