Cross of Vengeance (20 page)

‘Did Fachtnan send down that lozenge we took from the Italian monk?’

‘Not opium.’ Nuala shook her head firmly. ‘Mainly chamomile and a few other herbs – harmless and not particularly strong.’

‘So no possibility of one of those lozenges drugging the young German to the degree that he could have been undressed without a struggle,’ said Mara. ‘That seemed to be the only possibility in the luggage of the pilgrims. There was nothing in the three women’s bags, nor in the bag belonging to the Spanish priest. And their rooms have been searched also.’

‘You’re sure that he was murdered in the church?’ It was just like Nuala not to speculate on names or motives. She dealt with proven facts.

‘I can’t be sure, but we did find a soaked spot on the carpet, bottom step of the altar. It was very wet.’

‘Sticky?’

Mara shook her head. ‘No, just wet. Soaking wet. And the holy water font was completely emptied. I know it was full earlier in the day – I did the usual dip and flick into it on my way out of the church. And the container below it was empty also.’

‘Any stained cloths?’

Mara shook her head. ‘The boys searched very thoroughly.’

‘Any smell?’

‘Finbar thought it smelled holy,’ she said, and Nuala smiled for the first time.

‘Shows the power of suggestion,’ she said. ‘So you think that he was stabbed there on the steps. The murderer scrubbed out the stain where he bled – would have been a lot of blood, of course, there was some still on the capstone of the tomb. And then, in some way, the body was carried – perhaps thrown across the back of a horse – right out to the tomb.’

Mara sighed and got to her feet. ‘I must go back,’ she said. ‘It’s getting late; you’ll need your supper. And I must see that the boys get to bed early. We’re going to the bog tomorrow morning. Cumhal wants to set off at about five o’clock in the morning so that the main work is done before it gets too hot. We’ll be back about noon, and then go across to Kilnaboy again. Nechtan O’Quinn has asked us all to stay for the night and I think that the boys will enjoy that and perhaps I’ll get more inspiration when I am on the spot. I’ll walk around the church a couple of hours after sunset and sit there and try to reconstruct what happened.’

(
Law of Children
)

The relationship between a
felmacc
, pupil, and his master is similar to that of a foster father and his dalta, foster son. The
felmacc
must be taught board games, such as
fidchell
, chess, and must be instructed in all aspects of the profession of his master. The master is responsible for the safety of the
felmacc
.

W
hen the party from the law school set out to go to the bog the following morning, only three boys, Domhnall, Slevin and Finbar, accompanied Mara.

Art had not yet returned. With a pang of guilt Mara had remembered as soon as she got back that she had forgotten to ask Nuala about possible feverish and stomach complaints. But her mind was fully occupied with another matter.

Fachtnan had been a student teacher and then a full teacher at her law school for over seven years. During all of that time he had managed the pupils, even those not too much younger than himself, with a mixture of common sense, tact and quiet, firm authority. He very seldom complained of a scholar, but usually preferred to deal with matters himself.

But when Mara arrived back from her talk with Nuala she found him in an exasperated state. Cormac had been in one of his wild, silly moods and had translated a piece of Caesar’s wars in France into stupid schoolboy nonsense. Fachtnan did not offer to show it to her and said, when she enquired, that he had told Cormac to put it into the fire. She guessed that it might have had something about her in it because Fachtnan pretended that he had forgotten.

He was, however, quite adamant that Cormac should repeat the work, and Cormac was equally adamant that he had done his best and that the translation was too hard for him. Mara glanced at the Latin just to satisfy Fachtnan, but knew that his knowledge of what the boys could or could not achieve would be as accurate as her own. If anything, he was inclined to be a little more lenient.

No, there was no getting away from it, Cormac had to be punished, and as there was no corporal punishment in her school, then he had to be deprived of a treat. Cliona’s words – ‘
I suppose it’s difficult for him, too
’ – were in her mind, but she could not help it. Fachtnan’s authority had to be backed up; Cormac had to be disciplined for his insolence and bad behaviour, as well as for his idleness.

There was an odd look of almost satisfaction from him when she told him that he would have to stay behind tomorrow and do the work that he had failed to do the day before. He said nothing, just bowed in a formal way, almost as though aping Domhnall, and then went off to bed in the scholars’ house.

‘Ah, poor little fellow,’ said Brigid. ‘Sure, he’s only young. Likes to have a joke, doesn’t he? He’s like the King, God bless him. He’s going to be sorry afterwards, but he won’t admit it. Not he, he’s too proud! Still, I’ll get him something nice for his lunch and Cumhal thinks that you’ll all be back by midday. He’s taking everyone on the farm, just leaving young Seánie with me in case there’s any problem with the cows. With that crowd the turf will be soon loaded on the carts. You enjoy yourself, Brehon. You have enough to worry you at the moment. You always did love the bog – even when you were only two or three years old. I can remember myself and Cumhal taking you and you insisted on serving the food to all of the workers. You had your little basket full of cakes and you walked up and down the line of them when they sat on the wall for their lunch. Shame Cormac has to miss it.’

Mara concealed her exasperation. Brigid had looked after her when she was little, and then afterwards had been nurse to Sorcha, her daughter, was devoted to both of them, but now Cormac was the darling and could do no wrong.

‘What do you think about this murder, Brigid?’ She said the words in an effort to avoid an argument about Cormac’s punishment, but then found herself interested in Brigid’s ideas about the affair at Kilnaboy.

‘Struck down by God, they say; not that I believe that. Why would God give the satisfaction to that pagan of appearing like his beloved son? I ask you, Brehon, would that be right? No, you mark my words, Brehon, God didn’t do that. Some godless man did it and took the name of the Lord in vain,’ was Brigid’s viewpoint, and it interested Mara. Brigid had a great fund of common sense and could see to the heart of the matter very quickly.

And, of course, she was right. It was, the ancient saints thought, a privilege and a sign of sanctity to have the marks of the crucifixion on your body. Would Father Miguel, whose knowledge of biblical matters must be as good as Brigid’s, have given the honour of – what was the name for it? – the stigmata, that was it, bearing the five marks of the crucified Christ to a man whom he described as an anti-Christ? The answer to that, in the case of a very literate priest, was, she thought, in the negative.

But when it came to a man like Sorley, well, then she was not sure. And what about a lay person – might that not have occurred to him, or to her?

‘You put it out of your head for the moment and have a good day at the bog tomorrow morning, Brehon,’ said Brigid firmly. ‘You’ll come up with a name in a day or so. I was saying that to Eileen from Kilnaboy – came out here to know did I want to borrow her new cream skimmer; just to gossip, though, I’d say myself. So I said to her; “You don’t need to worry, Eileen; not you, nor anyone else in the parish. The Brehon, God bless her, she’ll know all about it in a couple of days. She puts all the facts into her brain, just like you and me put the cream into the churn. She gives them all a good stir, and out she comes with the solution.” That’s what I said to her, Brehon, and not a word of a lie!’ finished Brigid triumphantly.

‘I hope you are right,’ said Mara lightly, but she was touched by Brigid’s faith in her. Perhaps the air on the bog would work like the paddle in her brain, and the solution to this puzzling murder would surface just like a pound of the best butter.

‘I suppose that the people of Kilnaboy are very upset about the loss of the relic of the true cross, are they?’ she enquired. It was that more than the death of an unknown man which had sent Eileen over to garner some information from Brigid, she guessed.

Brigid sniffed. ‘Very puffed up they were about that; Kilnaboy people always think that they are something special. And of course they’ve got that wishing hole – you’ve heard about that hole – you put your arm in if you have rheumatics or anything like that, or else you put your leg in, you say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys and you wouldn’t credit it, but within a week, or a month or so, well, you’d be as good as new. Well, that’s what the people of Kilnaboy say, and it would be a brave person would give them the lie.’

‘I’m not sure that I’ve heard about that hole,’ said Mara idly, half-listening and half-meditating on her problems.

But then she stiffened as Brigid said: ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been over there, but it was outside the church – at the side of one of these old tombs. There was a loose stone – a stone that fitted into another stone – Cumhal will remember – but it was just beyond the churchyard. Funny little circular place – they used to gather the sheep there.’

‘I know where you mean, Brigid,’ said Mara. She was ominously still. Then she moved towards the stable yard and without a word, and avoiding the gaze of her dear old mare, Brig, but giving her an apologetic pat on the shoulder, she took the cob – the cob who was everyone’s horse and who was used for all of the odd jobs and errands on a busy farm like her own. Quickly she saddled it herself and rode out of the law school yard.

She was not going to be able to sleep until she verified her suspicions that this ancient hole, suddenly recollected by Brigid, was hiding a recent secret.

The sun had sunken down behind the mountain range to the west of the Burren by the time she reached Kilnaboy. The lights were on in the priest’s house and a couple of candles from within the church cast pools of light and shade on to the path around it. The tower house where Nechtan and his wife Narait lived in childless misery was illuminated in every window. The inn also had a cheerful blaze.

Mara did not go near to the stables, but rode the placid cob into the churchyard and urged him along the path that led
to the gorse-enclosed circle. It was getting dark now, but luckily the moon was waxing and its light fell along the path. Mara went steadily ahead, noting how the tall white flowers of the marsh maidens reflected and enhanced the light, whereas the crimson cranesbills were almost black.

This reminded her of the altar carpet and the blood that had been spilled on it, and she set her lips and went steadily on until she reached the tomb.

Without its deadly burden of the corpse of the false pilgrim, the tomb was just part of the landscape, one of the many hundreds that were dotted all over the kingdom of the Burren. But did it still hold a secret? Mara went first to one side and then to the other. And on the eastern flank she glimpsed what Brigid had reminded her of.

The large stone that formed the side of the wedge tomb had a flaw. Somehow the porous limestone had crumbled away with the acidity of the rainwater and had left a large, irregular oval-shaped hole in its side. And someone, in the dim and distant past, someone with infinite patience and skill, had carved a stone, a lump of limestone, so that it fitted almost exactly into the boulder.

And that was what was removed when the people of the parish, crippled with rheumatism, or possessing a withered arm, or broken leg, or an ankle that refused to heal, came here to this enclosed spot, took out the stone and thrust a limb into the gap left exposed.

Mara went down on her knees and carefully worked the limestone plug loose from its socket. Yes, there was the hole. And within the hole there was a gleam of white. Mara glanced back at the moon in the eastern sky and then leaned forward and reached in. Her fingers met fibre – soft, fine, well-woven wool. She drew the article from its hiding place. It was a doublet woven from the finest weavings. She put it aside and reached in again. This time she found linen, a shirt – full sleeves, but crumpled and smelling slightly of sweat – a pair of hose, braies and last of all two sturdy leather boots.

Mara held up to the light of the moon the braies and then the shirt – both were gleaming white and there was not a drop of blood on them. So whosoever murdered Hans Kaufmann in the church had murdered him when he was naked and had then carried his clothes out and hidden them inside this place sacred to the people of Kilnaboy when suffering from strains and aches of the limbs. But on their way they had dropped the codpiece worn by this fashionable young man.

Carefully Mara replaced all of the articles within their hiding place and then she picked up the stone. It took a little effort, but after some twisting and manoeuvring it fitted back into its hole. After it was replaced Mara sat very still for a moment.

That morning the five remaining pilgrims; Nechtan O’Quinn, who had lived here at Kilnaboy Castle all of his life, and his wife Narait who had been with him for two years; Father MacMahon; his sexton, Sorley; Blad; his daughter Mór – all had stood there while she showed them the naked body of the murdered man and not one of them had drawn her attention to the fact that there was a gap in the side stone of the tomb.

Did they think it didn’t matter?

Was the sight of the dead body so overwhelming that they forgot?

Or was there another more sinister reason?

(
How Many Kinds of Land Are There?)

1.
Best arable land suitable for corn, milk, flax, woad, honey, madder and fruit. It should be weed-free and not require manure.

2.
Hill arable land. Can grow good ash trees and has water nearby.