‘And then?’ asked Mara.
‘I suppose,’ said Grace dully, ‘that I sort of knew the truth really. I could smell the blood. It was pouring rain. I could hear the drops pattering on the grass, but even still I could smell that sort of … You know,’ she said suddenly and unexpectedly, ‘there is a copper mine near to where I live and blood smells like that, it smells like copper. And then there was a flash of lightning and I could see his legs – just his legs, nothing else – and I tried to tell myself that he was all right, just standing there.’
‘He had slumped over the capstone, was that it?’
Grace nodded. ‘Yes, just there. I knew that no one could stand there in the pouring rain for so long without moving. I thought he might be unconscious, that I might be able to escape, so I slipped out past his legs. And then there was another flash of lightning and I saw his eyes, just staring up at the sky, wide open, and then I knew that he was dead. He was there, with his legs on the ground, slumped over, his head turned upwards towards the sky.’
‘And the weight of his body was across the capstone.’
‘That’s right. Once I realized that he was dead, I was terrified. I thought that I would be hanged or burned to death. So the idea just came to me to pretend that he had been struck down by God.’
Mara nodded. The body would still have been quite pliable and the girl would easily have been able to arrange it on the slab, arms outstretched, feet together.
‘And then I went back to the church. There was no one around. I picked up the clothes and I carried them back and pushed them well in under the slab and put the stone back. All the blood seemed to be washed away by the rain.’
And then she added the remaining touches – the crown of thorns, the making of the holes in the hands and feet – it all took a certain cool courage, but perhaps it was just desperation, thought Mara.
‘Where did you get the prayer?’ she asked.
‘I had it in my pouch; that was why I went to the church. I was going to give it to him. I wanted him to pray for forgiveness, to save his immortal soul before it was too late.’
God is not mocked. A fitting final judgement …
Nineteen
Maccslechta
(Son Sections)
A boy who is adopted into a kin group may be able to have rights of inheritance if the adopting parents pay a fee (lóg fóesma). A contract must be drawn up, bound by securities and agreed by the head of the kin group. He does not gain automatic entitlement to a full share of kin-land, but only to the land under the direct ownership of the adopting father.
Mara stood and waved a farewell. Six pilgrims had come here on the eve of the Feast of The Holy Cross and now only four left. Side by side in the churchyard lay the other two, each in his own way believing intensely in the religion to which he had given his devotion, and yet each lacking in humanity and a respect for their fellow human beings. Hans Kaufmann believed that he knew better than others and was prepared to destroy what they believed in, and yet he himself was a seducer and a rapist. As for Father Miguel, well, he believed so intensely in his own narrow view of God and the devil that he was prepared to be an arsonist and perhaps a murderer. Mara could hardly bear to think of Father Miguel. She would never know whether he had in fact firmly supposed that the small figure capering around in a horned mask was really the devil, or whether he was prepared to punish the audacity of a nine-year-old child by burning him to death. Whatever it was, he had suffered a terrible end, and she hoped that the smoke had rendered him unconscious before the flames reached him.
There was one more thing that she wanted to do before she left Kilnaboy.
Nechtan was standing by his barn talking to his steward when she went past the church and towards the castle. She exchanged a few pleasant words with him and went on to give her thanks to Narait for her hospitality.
Narait was sitting listlessly by the window when Mara came in, but roused herself to make anxious enquiries about Cormac.
‘Disgusted with himself for blacking out like that,’ said Mara with a smile. ‘He’d have much preferred to play the hero and put the fire out single-handed.’ She wondered about apologising for the loss of the devil’s costume, but decided to say nothing. Cormac had worried about the nature of a recompense for this on his way home, and she thought that she should leave the matter to him. There was something else that she wanted to discuss with Narait.
‘Narait, have you ever thought of adopting a baby,’ she said, coming to the point in a straightforward way. Before Narait could speak, she went on, ‘There is a motherless little boy near here, he’ll be the most beautiful child, with golden hair and blue eyes. His mother died in childbirth, his father has deserted the children, and they are with their grandparents at the moment. The older children will be cared for – they will work on their grandfather’s farm and help him and their grandmother; they are happy children who have been well brought up, but that little baby needs a mother’s love and a mother’s care.’
And then she sat back and watched the effect of her words. There would be no problems if Nechtan and Narait decided to adopt the motherless child of poor Aoife. Nechtan would have an heir to his position as coarb of the ancient monastic lands of Kilnaboy and Narait would have a beautiful child to love. Mara had not actually seen the baby herself, but all of Aoife’s children had, like the poor girl herself, been blond, beautiful and blue-eyed. The wet nurse that Muiris and Áine had found would probably be happy to go on feeding the baby – the grandparents themselves would have their hands full with the other eight children, and Rory, if he ever reappeared, could make no objection. It was the perfect arrangement – a stroke of genius, thought Mara, with a slightly smug feeling of self-congratulation as she watched the colour flood into Narait’s face, her eyes light up and her lips begin to curl into a tremulous smile.
‘Go and talk to Nechtan, he’s out by his barn,’ said Mara indulgently. ‘I’ll wait here for a moment – I have something to sort out in my mind and would welcome a quiet few minutes on my own. If you and Nechtan are happy about the idea, I’ll drop in to see Muiris and Áine, the grandparents, on my way home and then you can ride over to their farm tomorrow. Nechtan knows Muiris well; his lands march with yours on Roughan Hill. You’ll have to see the baby, of course, but I’m sure that you will love him as soon as you have him in your arms.’
Narait almost flew out of the room and Mara, watching through the window, saw her run in the direction of the barn. She smiled with satisfaction and turned her thoughts back to the affair of the false pilgrim. The truth had to be told to the people of the Burren, she decided. She owed them that. No man’s death in her territory must go unaccounted for. She would tell them of the attempted rape, also, and would tell them what her verdict had been. Few would care that much, she decided, but she would put the legal arguments before them, ask whether there were any questions and then, if there were none, she would move quickly on to the next case. Within a few months the death would be forgotten – unless, of course, this Martin Luther made such a stir in the world that religions changed and a new type of pilgrim arrived at Kilnaboy anxiously seeking the grave of the man who was marked by God with the stigmata of his own son.
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. Wit
hout 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.’
Cross of Vengeance (A Burren Mystery) Page 24