Writ in Stone (13 page)

‘I must go to the stables, too,’ said Ellice defiantly. ‘I might be able to walk my mare around for a while. She’s like me; she hates to be kept locked up indoors.’

She did not look in Turlough’s direction, but gave Mara a glance of bitter dislike as she ran after Father Denis, her bright red, fur-lined mantle blowing back behind her in the strong south-westerly wind.

‘She’s tired of being cooped up; she’s very young,’ said Turlough indulgently.

‘Hmm,’ said Mara, her eyes following the pair. Ellice had now caught up with Father Denis. They seemed to be talking earnestly. For a moment Father Denis stood very still, looking down at her, and then he strode on again. Once more, Ellice quickened her steps to a run and was by his elbow, still talking earnestly, and then they were around the corner and out of sight.

‘We keep them in the press at the end of the church,’ the abbot was saying to Murrough, who had gathered up the bows and arrows. ‘Yes, the target goes there also.’ He seemed to think that some explanation was needed so he said hastily, ‘Our sister house at Islandlough was attacked while the monks were at prayer and the communion cup and plate was stolen. Now all my monks are trained to use a bow and they can be found quickly and easily if the need arises.’ He bustled ahead of Murrough who made little of the weight of the target in addition to the bows and arrows. Turlough looked proudly after his son. He was indeed a son to be proud of, charming manners, handsome face and a well-built body. Mara’s eyes followed his. This was another problem and it had to be addressed.

‘Turlough,’ said Mara urgently. ‘Where is Murrough going after this?’

An uncertain look came into Turlough’s face. His green eyes clouded over, even his war-like moustache seemed to droop.

‘I don’t know,’ he said shortly. ‘Perhaps he’ll go to Kildare. He seems to be great friends with his father-in-law, the earl.’

‘Let’s come inside,’ said Mara, holding his elbow and urging him gently into the Royal Lodge.

‘Brigid,’ she called as soon as she had shut the door behind them. ‘Brigid, bring some spiced pies and some hot wine to the parlour. The king and I are still hungry.’

Brigid popped out from the kitchen. ‘I’m not surprised after that dinner,’ she said. ‘I’ll just be one minute, my lord. You go upstairs, there is a good fire burning in the brazier,’ she said to her mistress before disappearing back into the kitchen.

‘Salted cod!’ Her voice came faintly back to them as she shut the door.

Turlough and Mara looked at each other and both laughed.

Thank God for Brigid, thought Mara. Suddenly the tension between both dissolved and they went, hand in hand, up the stairs and into the parlour.

The room was dimly lit with one candle, but it was warm and snug with heavy curtains pulled across the wooden shutters and a hot, smokeless fire of bright red charcoal burning in the iron brazier. Mara went around lighting more candles while Turlough stretched himself on the cushioned settle before the fire.

‘Salted cod!’ repeated Turlough with deep enjoyment as she came to sit beside him.

‘The abbot was probably just trying to show how holy he is,’ said Mara. ‘I suppose it is a fast day, today.’ She would say no more about Murrough, for the moment, she thought. She would enjoy a half hour of Turlough’s company but then she would have to continue with her enquiries. The snow on the roads and on the mountain passes would definitely have thawed by tomorrow. Father Denis would leave, Murrough would probably ride east; it made sense for him to join his father-in-law and his wife on their lands near Dublin. Others, too, would want to leave. The travellers in the lay dormitories, the workers in the church, they would all want to be home by Christmas.

‘Is there any possibility that Ellice would want to kill you,’ she asked abruptly.

He turned an amazed face on her. ‘Why on earth would the girl want to do that?’ he asked.

‘If you died this morning,’ she said flatly, ‘Conor would be declared king; he is the
tánaiste,
and Ellice would be queen. Even if Conor died soon after, her honour price would always be that of a queen, and she might be the mother of a future king.’

‘A little girl like that!’

‘Not so little,’ said Mara. ‘She’s strong, healthy and she aimed that arrow directly at you.’

He laughed uncomfortably. ‘That was just a joke,’ he said.

‘She could have swung that mallet this morning,’ said Mara mercilessly. ‘She chose one of the heaviest bows today and she handled it like a man.’

‘Here is your wine,’ said Brigid, coming in with a quick knock and bearing a tray with two silver wine cups and a flagon of steaming wine on it.

‘I’ll just go back and get some pies,’ she continued. She paused, looking at her mistress.

‘I’ll come and help you,’ said Mara rising to her feet. Brigid could perfectly well have fitted a platter of pies on the same tray. The signal was obvious. Brigid had something that she wanted to say to her.

The kitchen was warm and dark and filled with the aromatic smell of Brigid’s famous spiced pies warming on a stone beside the fire. Mara took one in her hand and nibbled at it absent-mindedly. Certainly the abbot’s dinner had not been very satisfying, she thought.

‘Brehon,’ said Brigid. She had taken a wooden platter from the shelf, but made no move to transfer the hot pies to it.

‘Yes, Brigid,’ said Mara looking at her attentively. There was a shape and a form, like a dance, to these conversations with Brigid; skip one stage and the whole pattern was lost.

‘I’m not one to gossip, as you know, Brehon.’

‘No, of course not, Brigid.’ Mara’s voice sounded the right note of reassurance, backed by eagerness to hear the latest news.

‘It’s just that some of the lay brothers were talking about something in the kitchen and I felt you should know.’

Mara took another bite of the spiced pie and waited.

‘I was just getting some butter from the pantry and I heard them. They were talking about Ellice, the wife of the
tánaiste.
And they were saying that she would be lonely when Father Denis went back to Galway.’

‘She hasn’t known him long, though, has she?’ queried Mara in a casual fashion. ‘Just a few days, isn’t it?’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Brehon, he’s been here at the abbey off and on for a few months. He’s always riding over and staying for a few days and the word is that he comes to see her. He’s some sort of relation to the abbot,’ added Brigid, showing that the abbot’s secret was not known to the lay brothers among the monks.

‘Surely he just comes to see the abbot.’ Mara’s voice was causal and beautifully calculated to get the last ounce of gossip from Brigid who gave a hasty glance over her shoulder towards the shuttered window and then lowered her voice.

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Brehon. One of the lay brothers, a young fellow, who sees to the horses, saw them kissing and cuddling in the stable. And when she was shooting at that target one day he was standing behind her, and him a priest, no less, and he was pretending to help her to hold the bow right, but his hands were . . . well, you can guess, Brehon!’

‘I can indeed, Brigid,’ said Mara with enormous enjoyment. ‘And you think that I should tell the king about this?’

‘Wouldn’t do any harm to drop a bit of a hint,’ said Brigid cautiously. ‘She should be in looking after her sick husband, poor lad. He doesn’t seem as if he is too long for this world, God bless him and save him. Cumhal was saying to me this morning what a blessing it was that nothing happened to the king. Conor is
tánaiste,
but would the clan want to name him? No, mark my words, there would be trouble.’

Mara nodded, watching Brigid load the platter with the hot pies. Of course, no man could be king, or
taoiseach
until he had been ‘named’ by the clan. The ceremonial circling sunwise around a mound or a cairn, the handing over of the peeled rod, all these things would be just the preliminaries to the moment when the clan named him as
the
O’Brien. Unlike the laws of inheritance in England, where the eldest son automatically became king at the moment of the death of his father, under Brehon law, the clan had to ratify the appointment. It would be unusual, but not unheard of, for the clan to refuse to nominate the
tánaiste
.

‘I’d better get back,’ she said thoughtfully, taking the platter from Brigid. ‘The king will be starving.’ She did not thank Brigid; it was understood between them that once the piece of gossip was imparted, no further mention would be made of it. There was some more information that she needed, though, and Brigid would be the best person to get it from.

‘I suppose no one from the lay dormitory heard Mahon O’Brien go out this morning,’ she said casually as she turned to go out of the kitchen. ‘Or anyone else, either, from the guest house, perhaps?’ she added over her shoulder. Her eyes met Brigid’s and then Brigid rifled through the stores in one of her baskets and then gave an artistic jump.

‘Would you believe it,’ she said. ‘I’ve come without enough ginger. I’ll see if Mahon O’Brien’s servants have any. If not, I’ll try the abbey kitchens.’

‘I’ll see you in a while, then,’ said Mara with a satisfied nod. She had just reached the top of the stairs when she heard the front door of the Royal Lodge slam behind Brigid.

‘You’ve been a long time,’ grumbled Turlough as she came in. Greedily he snatched two spiced pies from the platter and crammed them into his mouth.

‘I’ve been talking to Brigid,’ she said quietly, as they both sat down again on the cushioned bench by the fire. ‘She’s been telling me some kitchen gossip about Ellice.’

‘Don’t want to hear it,’ mumbled Turlough. He chewed for a moment, looked at her defiantly and took a large bite from a third pie.

‘That’s not like you,’ she said gently, but she did not press him. He was frightened; she knew that. He was as brave as a lion and was famous for his prowess in the battlefield where he was always to be found at the front of his clansmen; what he could not endure was any hurt to the warmth of feeling that he possessed for his family. Ellice was one of his family; he would hear nothing against her.

I will have to think over this case in my own mind, thought Mara. She wished she knew for sure whether Mahon had been the intended victim, or was it, as seemed likely, Turlough? If Ardal were right, someone hated the victim badly enough, not just to kill, but to lash out again and again in a frenzy of hatred. Who could that person be? If it had been Ellice, then the killing would be a matter of ambition: a killing to achieve an end rather than through any feelings of dislike for Turlough. He always seemed fond of her and sympathetic towards her position.

What about Murrough, though? What did Murrough feel about Turlough, the father who had publicly cast him off? She cast a quick look at Turlough; his face was drawn and unhappy. He looked tired, an elderly man over-burdened with problems that gnawed at his affectionate nature. Quietly she put some more charcoal on the brazier and slipped her hand into his. It would do him good and do her good just to sit peacefully and silently for a while in the warm, candle-lit room.

‘Have some more wine while it is still hot,’ she said softly and filled his cup.

He drank quickly with an abrupt nervous tilting of the cup and then his head sank down on his chest. His eyelids drooped. She got up quietly and took some cushions from the seat by the window and placed them at the end of the bench. Gently she pressed his head until it lay on the cushions.

‘Lie down for a few minutes, my love,’ she said and seated herself on the stool opposite to him. She had never loved him so much, she thought, as she looked at him stretched out there deep in an exhausted slumber. She envied him for a moment. It would be good to be able to forget everything in a heavy doze. However, that was something that she could not do. Her mind was busy and active sorting through possibilities, but she had an inner conviction that somewhere, in something that was said, she had the clue to the early morning murder. If only she too could sleep, perhaps suddenly a name would spring to her mind when she woke. She sighed. It was unlikely, she thought. From the age of five, her life had been a hardworking one; the answer to her problem would, as usual, be found in a tireless commitment to hear every possible piece of evidence and then the careful sifting of the statements.

She stood up and moved across to the window. The king’s bodyguard, Conall, was marching up and down outside the lodge; Fergal must be indoors, perhaps in the guards’ room downstairs. As she watched she saw Brigid appear and with a quick over-the-shoulder glance at Turlough, she took her fur-lined mantle from the back of the door, opened it cautiously and ran lightly down the stairs.

She thought she made almost no sound, but Fergal immediately appeared from the guards’ room. She smiled at him.

‘The king sleeps,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’ll leave him in your care.’ She hesitated for a moment and then added, ‘Let no one come to him, unless you are present yourself. Those blows this morning may have been meant for him, and yet most of those present here at the abbey are friends, relations or members of his clan. Remember this, Fergal.’

He paled a little at her words, but nodded silently. He had understood what she meant. He had been as shaken as she this morning when Ellice had turned her deadly bow and aimed it at the king.

‘And tell Conall, also,’ she said as she slipped through the heavy oaken door. She left it slightly open; Brigid would be coming in and she did not want the king’s sleep to be interrupted.

The thaw was coming fast; the air was softer and the wind had turned to the south-west. The snow’s reign would soon be over. The subtle silver-grey of Gleninagh Mountain showed its curved terraces, clear and sharp, as the rain washed away the whiteness that had blurred and clogged its sculpted outline. Water dripped from the black branches of the nearby ash trees and a blackbird sang melodiously.