Cross of Vengeance (31 page)

When she returned to Cahermacnaghten the school was in session, but Cormac was in the kitchen teasing and tormenting Brigid’s fourteen-year-old assistant, Eileen.

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ he said defensively when he saw her. ‘I’m really bored with lying in bed – though I’m not quite well enough for lessons,’ he added quickly, and Eileen snorted derisively.

‘That’s good that you’re feeling better,’ said Mara calmly. ‘Would you like to come for a ride with me?’ She didn’t wait for a reply but went out to the stable.

‘I’ll take the cob, Cumhal,’ she said. ‘Poor old Brig has had her exercise for the day. Let her rest.’ While Cormac was saddling his own pony, she took down a pair of wide panniers, woven from supple willow stems, and handed them to Cumhal. Without comment he attached them to the sturdy cob.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Cormac as they rode across the limestone-paved fields of the high Burren. There was still a defensive note in his voice and after a moment he added, ‘Aren’t any of the others coming too?’

‘No,’ said Mara decisively, ‘this is just a family affair, just something for you and me, and your father, of course.’

He gave her a sidelong glance of puzzlement, but said nothing, and she reflected rather sadly that very few events or occasions just involved the three of them. During the long summer holidays – between the Trinity term and the Michaelmas term – when the other boys went back to their homes and their families, Cormac spent most of his time with his foster brother Art either on the farm or out in Setanta’s boat. He had a good life, and he was a confident, healthy, well-grown boy, but there must be times when he missed a special relationship with his parents. He didn’t have much to say to her, she thought sadly, as they rode in silence across the flat land of the High Burren. It was only when they reached the standing stones at Fannygalvin that Cormac stared up at the hillside ahead of them and said in puzzled tones: ‘Where on earth are we going?’

‘Cahercommaun,’ said Mara calmly.

‘Cahercommaun – Murrough’s place. Why are we going up there?’

‘That’s right, Cahercommaun.’ Mara did not answer his second question. She was looking up at the steep hill rising high above their heads and feeling thankful that she had not ridden her elderly mare.

Cahercommaun was a spectacular fortified household on the top of a cliff near to Carron. Three rings of semi-circular protective walling enclosed the inner site, each ring breaking off exactly at the perpendicular edge of the steep cliff. No enemy could approach this site without being in peril of death, either from throwing knives or from the immense heap of heavy stones that were piled up at every gateway, and on the edge of the cliff itself. As they climbed up the path, the sound of deep-toned barking came to them. No one ever approached Cahercommaun without the wolfhounds giving good notice to Murrough.

‘Well,’ said Mara, choosing her words carefully, ‘I’ve been thinking of getting another dog for some time. The trouble is that I don’t have a lot of time to spare for training a puppy. But now you are nine years old I think that you could help with that, or even take it over from me. What do you think?’

‘What? A wolfhound? A wolfhound puppy!’ Cormac’s face was blazing with excitement and pleasure.

Murrough was standing waiting for them when they reached the top. He would have guessed, of course, what they had come for, but first they had to be taken inside, given the customary refreshments and exchange news about the turf and the hay. Then there was a pause.

‘I was thinking of getting a puppy, Murrough,’ said Mara then. It was coming to the point rather too abruptly, she knew, but she was tired and somehow this place brought back sad memories of her beloved Bran.

‘Well, I’ve got just the dog for you!’ Murrough beamed. ‘I was hoping you might call. You won’t believe it, but I’ve got the living image of your Bran. Come and see them – there are six of them, God bless them, and they’re all lovely.’

Cormac was out of the room before either of them got to their feet. Across the yard he flew to the stone stable. It had a small wooden door closed in front of it, low enough for the bitch to get over, but high enough to stop the puppies from wandering and becoming prey to an opportunist wolf.

‘Let them out, Cormac,’ called Murrough.

The pups streamed out, grey ones, fawn ones, but Mara had eyes for only one: a beautiful little dog puppy, pure white, calm, reflective, with large intelligent eyes. Murrough was right: he was the image of her deeply mourned Bran.

‘What did I tell you?’ said Murrough, his voice echoing the excitement that was rising within her. This was a lovely dog, a perfect shape, from sloping shoulder to the narrow flanks and down to the long muscular thighs. White in colour, but with dark eyes, long tail slightly curved, a long, arched, strong neck. He was a beauty. Unlike the other pups he did not race around, but stood, collected and proud, looking across at Mara.

‘Brehon,’ called out Cormac, ‘could we have this one? I love him.’

And on a bed of straw her nine-year-old son was rolling in an ecstatic play-fight with an exuberant smoke-grey puppy, who was licking his ears and wriggling in his arms. One of these wild dogs, thought Mara, her heart sinking, who would undoubtedly be a handful, would need a huge amount of exercise and training, would probably cause trouble with neighbours until he got some sense, but would, she thought as a reluctant smile came to her lips, probably always adore Cormac and would provide him with fun and companionship.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘If you want him, you can have him. What will you call him?’

‘Smoke,’ he said without hesitation, raising his head from the dog’s face. ‘He’s grey – a real smoke colour – and it will always remind me of how exciting it was last night when that mad, crazy, religious freak set fire to the round tower with all that smoky wet turf.’