‘This affair has to be investigated,’ Father Miguel said, his sibilant Spanish accent lending a hissing quality to the Latin words. ‘Do I understand that the relic of the true cross has been completely destroyed? What an appalling thing. I wonder it was not better guarded.’
He looked belligerently at Father MacMahon and the priest bowed his head in shame. Sorley looked from one to the other, but no one offered to translate the Spaniard’s bitter words. However, the blazing anger in his eyes and the bitter note in his voice told its own story and Sorley, also, began to look shamefaced.
And yet there was a smugness about Father Miguel, thought Mara, which made her wonder whether the commercial success of the Spanish shrine was not also in his mind at that moment. Then she dismissed the thought. If the relic had been stolen, then the other pilgrims might have fallen under suspicion, but the destroying could only have been done by a person who rejected relics and all that they stood for.
Mara’s eyes rested gravely on each of the pilgrims in turn, ending with Hans Kaufmann, and only then did she speak.
‘I must ask each of you to dismount and to take your satchels into the church here,’ she said. ‘My assistant, Fachtnan, will accompany you. Could you,’ she turned and aimed her words at a space between Ardal O’Lochlainn and Nechtan O’Quinn so that she would not appear to be favouring one over the other, ‘escort the pilgrims and get them to wait until I come.’ She watched the six go off between the two men, following Fachtnan into the church, and sighed. The balance of power was going to be a difficult one in this case, small though the crime was. Feelings, she guessed, would run high and the different players would be keen to maintain their power. Ardal was a taoiseach, the chieftain of the second largest clan on the Burren, and Nechtan was not. However, his tower house was situated beside the church of Kilnaboy and his family had been, since ancient times, the coarbs, the ancient heirs of the monastic lands, and still received rents from them.
Kilnaboy was an interesting place. She remembered her father telling her about the significance of that ancient site on the south-eastern corner of the Burren. It had belonged to a group of monks and they had held sway in the lands there, had owned the rich fertile river meadows, the hillside with its ancient tombs, and their sway had even superseded that of the ancient kings. The monks had held out against Turlough’s ancestors on numerous occasions.
‘Come, boys,’ she said to her scholars once the door of the church had been closed by Ardal, ‘the pilgrims’ luggage will have to be examined and this is where you will all be so useful to me. Each of you must observe one of the pilgrims and never move your eyes from that person. Afterwards we will talk together and discuss our impressions, but in the meantime you must be silent and observant.’
Quickly she allocated the pilgrims to the boys: Domhnall had Hans Kaufmann; Slevin, Father Miguel; Finbar, the Italian monk, Brother Cosimo; and she, with the two younger boys, were to observe the three women – the nine-year-olds, she reckoned, were young enough to cause no offence to the prioress. And then she led them swiftly over into the cool shadiness of the church from which the noontime sun had departed. One by one the pilgrims had placed their leather satchels on a bench at the back of the building and one by one she demanded to see their travelling lamps and they fumbled in their bags and produced them.
Interesting, she thought, to catch glimpses of the contents of those satchels: something silk and trimmed with lace peeping out from Madame Eglantine’s satchel – surprising from such a religious lady as the prioress; Cosimo, the Italian friar vowed to poverty, had an extremely valuable cross studded with precious stones that gleamed from the depth of his bag – Mara saw Finbar’s eyes widen at the sight of it; and Father Miguel had a huge bundle of correspondence from something called Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición.
However, all of this was none of her business.
What was her business was that Hans Kaufmann could not produce a travelling lamp. He shrugged with a pretence of coolness, but his eyes watched hers.
‘I don’t bother,’ he said in fluent Latin. ‘I have eyes like a cat. I see through the darkness. I never carry a lantern.’
Mara took from her own satchel the distorted lamp and held aloft the shrivelled piece of vellum.
‘So these are not yours,’ she said, and as he hesitated she added, ‘The language is German – it is an indulgence. Am I right in thinking that you are against indulgences, that, like your leader, Martin Luther, you believe that the church is at fault in granting pardon for sins – that only God can forgive sins and that a piece of vellum or parchment will not, cannot, take the place of God in this matter? The person who burned the relic used this piece of vellum, this indulgence, to transfer the flame from the lamp to the velvet cushion which was placed underneath the relic.’
‘What!’ roared Father MacMahon. ‘Is this man a disciple of that anti-Christ, Martin Luther? Has he desecrated the citadel of our sacred relic?’
‘You devil, you fiend,’ muttered Sorley. He took a step forward and Hans Kaufmann retreated, but it was no good. His fellow pilgrim, the Italian friar, was just behind him and Cosimo instantly rounded on him.
‘So that is what you were at,’ he snarled. His age-marked hands crisped into fists. ‘And to think …’ Suddenly he stopped. His hand went to his belt and came back armed with a long, thin, wickedly pointed knife. Without hesitation his arm went up and aimed the knife at the German’s heart.
‘Here, steady,’ shouted Ardal. He spoke in Gaelic but the words seemed to penetrate through to the Italian. His arm and the deadly dagger were lowered, but by that time Hans Kaufmann was no longer there in front of him. Mara saw the German look towards the altar and the next instant he had left the bottom of the church, had bounded up the centre of it, gone through the screen, mounted the steps of the sacristy, and then he was beside the altar, one hand clutching the altar cloth.
‘I claim sanctuary,’ he shouted. ‘Let no one touch me here. The Lord will protect me and woe to him who will break the Lord’s sanctuary.’
The effect of his words was varied.
Father Miguel gave a gasp. He stood very rigid, staring at his fellow pilgrim.
The prioress said: ‘Sanctuary – does this little church in the middle of the country have such rights?’ And when no one answered her she turned haughtily to her sisters, lowering her voice, but not ceasing to talk.
In a moment the church was full of voices.
Father MacMahon said angrily, ‘Sanctuary was never meant for an unbeliever, for one who denies the means that God gives to man to save his soul from the fires of purgatory.’
‘I’ll get him out of there, Father.’ Sorley advanced three threatening steps.
‘Liar, blasphemer, villain, maligner of honest men!’ Brother Cosimo’s teeth gleamed, set edge to edge behind his grizzled beard and moustache.
‘Horsewhipping would be too good for him!’ Blad had come through the small door on the south and had joined the group at the bottom of the church. ‘He’s destroyed my livelihood, Brehon,’ he added in a low voice to Mara and she nodded. This was something that she felt Brehon law should take into account. This man had set up his inn in the sure and certain knowledge, as he saw it, that the relic of the holy cross would bring a steady stream of pilgrims to the remote church of Kilnaboy. She had, she thought, standing very still and waiting, as was her custom, for the storm of words to blow itself out, less sympathy for the priest – the church with its gold and diamond ornaments and its crimson carpet was of less importance to her than the livelihood of an honest, hard-working man and his daughter. Her scholars, she noticed, had moved a step nearer to the innkeeper, and Cormac, with his kingly father’s sympathy for his subjects that might be in trouble, patted him on the arm.
‘Death must be his punishment.’ Father Miguel’s voice was sharp and decisive and now he spoke Latin without that slightly hesitant lisp. He did not look at Mara, but addressed himself to Father MacMahon. ‘I take charg
e of this man in the name of the Holy Father and I will bring him to Spain where he will be tried by the Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición. If he is found guilty, then he will burn. You,’ he addressed himself to Nechtan Quinn, ‘will give me men to ensure that this criminal is kept in safe custody until I reach the Dominican Friar in the city of Galway. From there I will take him in chains by ship back to Spain.’
Nechtan O’Quinn cleared his throat hesitantly. ‘Well, the fact is that …’
Hans Kaufmann, Mara noticed, still stood quite erect by the altar, his feet firmly on the crimson carpet and his face turned from one to the other. When Father Miguel, the Dominican, spoke of the Spanish Inquisition he turned back towards the altar, took the altar cloth in a firm grip between his two hands and then turned back to face them. There was a murmur from the other pilgrims and Nechtan O’Quinn took a hesitant step forward and then moved back again. The door opened and the lovely face of his wife Narait appeared. Her large eyes travelled around the church and then saw the German standing at bay on the altar. She gave a sudden gasp and then stood clutching the door as if to support herself.
Ardal O’Lochlainn ignored them all. With a couple of strides of his long legs he followed the German up the church. The throwing knife in his left hand was stretched out and the other hand placed on the man’s shoulder.
‘The law of this country is the law of King Turlough Donn O’Brien and his representative here is the Brehon of the Burren.’ His voice was clear and emphatic. As always, Ardal, taoiseach of the powerful O’Lochlainn clan from a young age, effortlessly exuded power and authority, and the German, big though he was, stood very still under that hand. Ardal waited for a minute, confident and wholly in command. Then he looked down at Mara and asked respectfully, ‘What would you want done with this man, Brehon?’
At that moment Nechtan O’Quinn came forward. Gone was the hesitation that he’d showed earlier. Perhaps he was conscious that the eyes of his young wife were upon him, but whatever it was, his voice had cleared and the words came out fluently.
‘Niall O’Quinn, my great ancestor who fell at the battle of Clontarf, fighting side by side with Brian Boru, was the man who caused this church to be built,’ he said, spacing his words and giving even stress to each one of them. ‘He it was who laid out the termon, who fixed its boundaries with the River Fergus to the south and west and the tau cross by the ancient tomb to the north and the spring well to the east. And he laid down that his descendants would be coarbs of the monastic grounds and would receive one-fifth of the rents from the eight hundred acres. And he gave to the monks’ church the right of sanctuary for all that would seek it.’ When Nechtan said the last words he looked not at Mara but towards where his wife Narait had been standing. She flushed and looked away, and then after a moment’s hesitation walked out of the door with fast steps that seemed about to break into a run. And then she had gone from the church, allowing the door to crash closed behind her. Mara waited until the echoes subsided before translating Nechtan’s words into Latin.
It was interesting, she thought, that those very religious people – the Dominican friar from Spain, the Benedictine monk from Italy, the three women pilgrims from Wales, and even Father MacMahon of the very church of Kilnaboy – should stare at the man who invoked the sacred right of sanctuary with such undisguised anger and disgust. After all, that ancient privilege of some churches had existed for over 500 years. Even the wife of King Edward IV – King of England when Mara was a child – had, she understood, sought sanctuary in the abbey of Westminster in London during a time of trouble.
‘I have no objection to this man awaiting the verdict of the court in any place that seems fit to him,’ she said, making sure that her voice was divested of emotion. ‘All that I will stipulate is that he must not leave the kingdom until the hearing is complete and the fine is paid. In order not to inconvenience the pilgrims and delay them any longer than necessary on their journey to Aran, I propose to gather evidence this afternoon, if possible, and to hold the trial first thing tomorrow morning at the place of justice, Poulnabrone,’ she continued briskly, nodding to Fachtnan to translate her words into Gaelic. Father MacMahon, Blad, Nechtan and Ardal would all know about the procedure for trying law cases and crimes at the outdoor location at Poulnabrone beside the ancient dolmen in the centre of the Burren, but there would, she guessed, have to be explanations to the others afterwards.
‘But surely this man should be cast into prison,’ said the prioress, interrupting Fachtnan.
‘He is innocent until proved guilty,’ said Mara sweetly, with a glance at Hans Kaufmann. ‘And we have no prisons here in the kingdom of the Burren. The inhabitants are willing to be ruled by Brehon law and to pay the penalties given by the courts.’
Although the prioress spoke in English, Mara replied to her in Latin; she wished that her German was better, but though she had learned a little from her father when he came back from his pilgrimage she had found few opportunities for practice in recent years. Still, the man understood Latin and that was good enough. Latin was the common language for all European countries – as soon as any scholar entered her law school she began to teach them Latin, even at the age of five years. Fluency in that language was essential for their future as lawyers.
Deliberately she moved away from the pilgrims and up towards the altar. By now the German was sitting on the luxurious crimson carpet, lounging in a comfortable way, his back resting against the top step. He did not look alarmed at her progress towards him, but sat up as she approached and gave her a warm smile. Domhnall, despatched by Fachtnan, carried up a chair for his Brehon and placed it politely at the foot of the altar steps.
Mara sat down and with a gesture invited Hans Kaufmann nearer. Fachtnan beckoned to Domhnall and with his usual tact managed to get the other pilgrims to withdraw a little towards the back of the church. Brehon and the accused faced each other in the dim light.
‘It would make things much easier for me,’ Mara said frankly, ‘if you would just admit, now, that you were the one who set fire to the relic. After all,’ she could see by the half-smile that puckered his lips, that she was on the point of winning, ‘you only did it in order to gain publicity for the views of your master, Martin Luther. You want people to understand his message – is that not true? Why not admit it now? Your reasons can be given in public tomorrow to the inhabitants of the Burren, as well as to your fellow travellers. You will have an audience and, who knows, news of your gesture will be all over Europe in a year or so.’ Deliberately she kept her voice very low. These were not words that she wanted to be overheard by the other pilgrims.
He looked at her and a smile puckered his lips. ‘You’re a very original woman,’ he said, his voice also muted. He spoke Latin with great fluency, she noticed.
‘Save me trouble,’ she said, ignoring the compliment, but still finding pleasure in it. ‘Save me the trouble of gathering evidence and agree to plead guilty tomorrow. The sentence will be a fine – a fine to make restitution to the priest.’ Poor Blad, she thought with a moment’s compunction, but she could not really see how she could interpret the law so that he would be considered a candidate for restitution. Perhaps Father MacMahon would be able to buy a new piece of the true cross and then all would be well, she thought cynically. ‘Just tell me now that you plead guilty,’ she said aloud, and when he made no response she added, ‘and then your fellow pilgrims can all go to one of Blad’s suppers and to their beds and ride off for the ferry to Aran tomorrow. You, I think, will have to return to England – I don’t really want you to commit any more outrages on my king’s territory.’ She gave him a friendly smile and he responded with an attractive grin.
‘Back to Wexford?’ he queried.
‘Back to Wexford,’ she said firmly. And then could not resist adding, ‘You could always go to Walsingham and view the vial of the Virgin Mary’s milk. It should be an interesting experience.’
‘What will the fine be?’ There was a cautio
us note in his voice, but his very blue eyes sparkled.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Mara frankly. ‘I will have to look up my law books. Not more than you can pay, I should imagine.’
He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll do it,’ he assured her with a nod. ‘I’ll plead guilty.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now, do you wish to ride back with me?’ She turned and beckoned. ‘Perhaps, Ardal,’ she said as he approached, ‘you would be kind enough to give Herr Kaufmann a bed for the night and make sure that he attends the hearing at Poulnabrone tomorrow.’ No need, she thought, to spell it out to Ardal that the man should be kept under close watch so that he did, indeed, attend the hearing on the following day. Justice, in Brehon law, always had to be seen to be done.
‘No,’ said Hans Kaufmann. His reply was swift and his eyes went towards the Spanish priest, a look of apprehension in their very blue depths. The threat of the mighty Inquisition was a potent one. Even here in the remote west of Ireland tales were told about the burning of those who disagreed with the Roman doctrine. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I have claimed sanctuary and let him burn in hell whosoever breaks it.’
‘Very well,’ said Mara. Brehon law did not countenance violence and after all the man was, in theory, innocent until sentence was passed at Poulnabrone. ‘I’ll leave you now and make sure that you have everything that you need for the night. No need to go supperless to bed. Our Brehon law is concerned with compensation, not with revenge. Make full admittance and confession tomorrow and be prepared to pay the fine that is demanded of you, and then you can leave – but go east, not west, or the long arm of my law will pluck you from the remotest hiding place.’
‘I will go east,’ he said with a nod. ‘My work is only beginning.’
Cross of Vengeance (A Burren Mystery) Page 6