A MASS FOR THE DEAD

by Susan McDuffie

  “But then what of the scaffold that collapsed?” I asked. “Was not young Tormod sorely injured?”

  “Indeed, and a sad day that was. But I had cautioned the young amadan more than once to double-check his scaffolding before he goes up, and was he ever listening to me? He had his brother do it, and his brother is but a lad, just learning the trade, and not to be trusted. Headstrong Tormod is, and now he will be having the twisted hand to prove it. He may even walk with a limp, they were not sure of that last.”

  He looked at my leg, and caught himself. “Och, I am sorry Muirteach, I was not meaning anything by that.”

  “But could anyone have wished Tormod harm?” I asked, ignoring Calum’s last comment. “Was there anything about the scaffold that was at all suspicious?”

  “Nothing,” he assured me blandly, “for all that he is none so popular. But no mason would endanger another. You must know, Muirteach, accidents are no so uncommon in this trade.” And that, I supposed, was true enough.

  The sun was turning towards the west, the bells began to toll for Vespers, and of a sudden it became clear to me that I had spent enough time at the Priory for one day. I bid good-bye to Calum and prepared to leave, stopping by the chapel for a perfunctory prayer by my father’s bier and not waiting for the Mass, which was about to start. Gillecristus, busy with the service, could not detain me to learn what I had discovered, and shamefully I felt somewhat relieved at that. I had little of importance to tell him, and still less that I wanted him to know.

  My mind was a jumble of a few facts and many more suppositions and as I sailed the boat around the island back toward Scalasaig it was little enough I knew what to make of them all.

  As I beached the boat I saw Seamus waiting there, with Somerled beside him. He had probably been waiting there all day, I thought, a little guiltily. I had neglected the lad since our return from Islay, but perhaps Seamus himself had been needing some of that time to be feeling to rights again, after his overindulgence at His Lordship’s feast.

  My dog, however, raced back and forth, barking wildly as I approached in the boat, heralding my arrival to the entire port of Scalasaig. The fishermen unloading their boats showed little interest in Seamus, my dog or myself.

  “So and what were you discovering?” Seamus asked broadly, as I pulled the boat onto the shore.

  I scowled, and shrugged my shoulders. “Sure enough it seems my father was murdered by the sìthichean, for I am not knowing who did this. Come along then, and I shall tell you what I do know,” I added, seeing his disappointed face.

  I gathered up my satchel and we started to walk towards my house. Seamus knew both Tormod and his brother. Seamus’s mother, it turned out, was distantly related to Tormod’s mother, Chatriona. The boys had played together as children, although Tormod was some four or five years older. Seamus had not seen Tormod since his accident, and so it was easy enough to arrange to visit him along with Seamus tomorrow.

  We neared the collection of dwellings that comprised the village of Scalasaig. Seamus’s mother, Aorig, met us as we approached the door to my hut.

  “You should be feeding that dog, Muirteach. He was after my cheeses that I had just set out to cure in the sun.”

  “Seamus, did you not feed him?” I asked quickly, trying to shift the blame, but Aorig was not one to be fooled by that. She knew me too well.

  “You should not be expecting that Seamus will be feeding him without you leaving him something to give to the poor thing. He has his own chores to be doing, as he well knows, although he is happy enough to forget them when he can.”

  “Was he getting the cheeses, then?” I asked. Aorig was a good neighbor, and often asked me to share food with herself and her husband, and I was not wanting to inconvenience her.

  “No he was not. But it was no thanks to you. I gave the dog some burned porridge and he seemed happy enough to get it. But a big dog like that, he is needing more to eat than burned porridge.”

  “Well, he should be hunting for it, then.”

  “It was hunting he was, Muirteach. He was hunting my cheeses, and then my chickens, the big shaggy oaf that he is.”

  My dog was not fierce, in fact Uncle Gillespic had given him to me in disgust when it became apparent that the big gray deerhound was a pathetic hunter. I had named him Somerled, after the illustrious founder of Clan Donald, but this Somerled much preferred lounging by my fire and scrounging scraps from Aorig to any feats of valor. The bulk of him was warming in the hut, and he was company, of sorts, and never complained about my housekeeping. Aorig had described my dog very well.

  “Oh, and I was not telling you Muirteach; I have not seen you. Your uncle came by the day they found your father. It was after you were gone to Islay, that he came.”

  “What was he wanting?”

  Aorig shrugged. “I am not knowing for sure. But he was asking me where you were that night your father died. When I told them I had seen you in your house that night the worse for drink, and I had heard your snoring later, your uncle seemed aye happy, and was saying something about good finally coming out of your drinking. What was he meaning by that?”

  So Gillespic had even suspected me. The thought stung like a nettle weal. Although it hurt to think he had suspected me, grudgingly I admitted to myself that perhaps it had been canny of my uncle to make sure I had indeed been at home all that night. I had, after all, had little enough good to say of my father in the past few years.

  Just at this point Somerled choose to sound the alarm as one of Aorig’s chickens came round the corner, and in the general mayhem that ensued Seamus and I made our escape into my house. We were followed shortly by Somerled who limped in, whining, and settled by the fire, licking his hind leg. Aorig had clouted him, but saved her chicken.

  I had just started the fire against the evening chill, and was preparing to tell Seamus of my day, when his mother’s white-coifed head poked around the leather flap that served as my doorway.

  “Muirteach, there is a woman here looking for you. It is that daughter of the physician, I am thinking. I will be sending her in to you. And Seamus, I am needing you to go fetch the cattle back. And then we will be eating. If you want to join us, Muirteach, you will be welcome. But do not be bringing that dog of yours over at all.”

  I stood up quickly, oversetting the bucket of water, swore, and turned around, embarrassed by the mess of the hovel I called my house. Mariota stood in the doorway, her forehead wrinkling as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  “I was just coming back from Sheena’s,” she said somewhat apologetically, “and thought to stop and tell you what I found.”

  Her delicate nose wrinkled as she sniffed at the smoky air, which mingled aromatically with the dunghill out back. My fire always smoked, and the thatch, although filled with leaks when it rained, made a fine enough barrier to prevent the smoke escaping.

  “May I sit down?” she asked, and I hastily found the three-legged stool, dumped the cloak and dirty bowl that had been sitting on it on the bed, dusted it off and placed it by the fire.

  “Here,” I said. “I am sorry. I am not used to having women here.”

  “Fine I can see that,” she returned.

  “I was just returning from the Priory. Would you be wanting some drink? I’ve no food to offer you.”

  “I am not surprised by that,” Mariota said tartly, but, to my surprise, she accepted some uisgebeatha, after I had found a cup and wiped it out, and settled herself on the stool, gathering her skirts somewhat carefully around her. Somerled roused himself from his place by the hearth to come and lay his large head on her lap.

  “A fine big dog you have here,” she observed, as she scratched at his ears. Somerled responded to this gesture by trying to climb into her lap.

  “How is it you have a deerhound?” Mariota asked, as we tried to convince Somerled to get out of her lap. It was an understandable question, for usually none but the Lords owned deerhounds.

  “My uncle was giving him t
o me. The dog took a liking to me and he is a bad hunter.”

  “So what were you finding at the Priory?” she asked, after Somerled had finally settled back down at Mariota’s feet, leaning his bulk against her skirts.

  I scowled. “Brother Gillecristus, the sub-prior, swears that no canon could have committed such as act, for all that I am knowing they are as great a bunch of prideful fools as ever walked the earth.

  “A young mason fell from a scaffold the day before the murder, and I suppose someone could have held my father to account for it, as Gillecristus and my father argued over the construction shortly before that happened. But Calum Glas, the master mason, says it was an accident only, and no cause for suspicion. No one admits to knowing anything of any use, at all, at all,” I finished, in frustration, “but I am not sure I have been asking the right questions.

  “Brother Columbanus insists he was in the dormitory, asleep, when the Prior left, but it is clear he has no love for my father. And he is Sheena’s brother. I think Columbanus could easily have left, met the Prior when he was returning, and killed him then. Brother Donal said he heard someone leave the dormitory that night.”

  “Why? For his sister’s sake?”

  “Indeed, that is the way of it, I am thinking. It was clear he was not liking the Prior, from the little he did say.”

  “That is possible. And if he cares for his sister, it is plain that the Prior did not treat her well.”

  “What did you find at Sheena’s?”

  Mariota settled her skirts about her for a moment before she answered me

  “She is not an easy woman to talk to, Muirteach, but after awhile she opened up a bit to me. The wee bairn was peevish with the teething, and so I made a remedy for that, and gave her some wormwood for the bruising, and—”

  “Was she saying how she got the bruise?” I interrupted.

  “Aye, she was, but you must be waiting for me to tell you. You are not patient, are you Muirteach?” she asked, smiling a wee bit, but then she herself did not wait for my answer. “She told me the Prior hit her, that last night he came.”

  Well, that was as I had expected, really. “Did she say aught of Columbanus?” I asked.

  Mariota laughed. “Muirteach, she knows I am trying to help you. I do not think she would be saying much about Columbanus, even if she did know he had killed your father. He is her baby brother, for all that he is a grown man and a canon.”

  “And what of herself? She is a strong woman, after all.”

  Mariota shook her head. “She is truly grieving for him. And his death will mean nothing but trouble for herself and the bairns.”

  “She could have killed him,” I insisted stubbornly, “after he beat her.”

  “But why at the Strand?”

  “So they would not be finding the body back at her cottage, amadain.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mariota, but I could tell by the look around her mouth that she was not believing me. “Whoever hit him was tall, and struck him from behind,” she added.

  “Sheena is tall,” I replied, but Mariota did not answer that. “And there are her brothers as well. Perhaps they came, and found him beating her, and then they murdered him. They could have lied about the deer.”

  Mariota shook her head stubbornly, and I gave it up and tried a different tack. “Why was my father giving her that bruise? You were forgetting to tell me.”

  “You were not giving me the chance, Muirteach.”

  “Well, I am giving you the chance now,” I said sourly, then wished I could take my words back.

  “Did he need a reason? He could have hit her for anything that displeased him. She said he did not have any reason to beat her, but it was a feeling I was having, just, that she was not telling me all she knew of it.”

  The thought of it sickened me, but I knew my father well enough to know the truth of what Mariota said. My father had hit me, on occasion, as a child, when the temper was on him. Sheena could have done anything, or nothing at all.

  “So what is next?” Mariota asked, after a moment.

  “Seamus and I will visit Tormod.”

  “What of other people here on Colonsay?” she asked, after a moment. “Is there no one here who would have wanted the Prior dead? What of Tormod’s kin? Would they be blaming your father for his fall?”

  “Better to blame Calum Glas. And Calum is strong, but he would not be killing my father. He defended Calum, when Gillecristus wanted him taken off the job.”

  “What of someone from Islay? They could have beached a boat on the strand and waited for him, if they knew his habits.”

  “There is only my mother’s kin. And if they were going to kill him, they’d have been doing it eighteen years ago.” I thought a moment. “I shall have to return to the Priory.” The look on my face gave me away.

  “You are not liking it there,” Mariota observed. “Why?”

  “I spent my boyhood there,” I said. I could have said that I hated it there, and had hated my father the most of all, but I did not, and remained silent.

  “What of Gillecristus?” Mariota asked. “They argued. He benefits from your father’s death, does he not? Is he not likely to become the next Prior?”

  “I have never liked him,” I admitted. “He is ambitious. But he has known my father for many years; they founded the Priory together twenty years ago. They were close.”

  “Ambition could, perhaps, drive a man to murder,” mused Mariota.

  “I shall talk with him again, or perhaps Donal can find out something more.” So then there was no help but to tell her of Donal and how he was keeping his ears open for me, there.

  “Your Canon Donal seems a kind man,” she said. “So perhaps all was not bad at that place.”

  I did not answer. After awhile Mariota must have realized I was not going to say anything more, for she set her cup down on the floor, and stood up, brushing the dog hairs off her skirts. “I should be going,” she said. “My father will be waiting for me up at the Dun.”

  I stood awkwardly by the door as she left, that scent of elderflower wafting past me, then I went and filled my cup again with uisgebeatha.

  * * * * *

  The next morning Seamus and I set out early, to walk to Kilchattan where Tormod and his family lived. The morning was foggy. Somerled loped by my side, eager at the chance for the outing, leaving us every few minutes to chase a rabbit, then returning, after a minute or two, without catching any. He was, as I have already said, a lazy dog.

  We reached the little settlement of Kilchattan in good time. Tormod’s home lay somewhat before the old chapel, still used by the village. The homestead looked in good repair, well kept and tidy, with the thatching of the roof held down by rope netting weighted with rocks. We approached the door-flap and knocked on the stone walls of the house.

  An older woman answered our summons, short, round, and neat as her holding, with her hair tidily coifed and wrinkles of worry behind her blue eyes.

  “And whoever is it then?” she asked. “Och, it will be you, Seamus. It is good to be seeing you—how you have grown tall! And how is your mother faring?”

  Seamus replied Aorig was well, and gave Tormod’s mother the cheese that Aorig had sent. Chatriona told us her elder son was recovering, but still weak, and would be glad of our company for some short time as she ushered us inside.

  Some time was taken up with pleasantries while Chatriona settled us with some mead and bannocks by Tormod, and then took her spinning outside while we visited with her son. The lad lay propped up against the wall on his bed, a pile of bracken covered with blankets, in a corner of the cottage. One arm rested awkwardly on his blanket, and from the looks of the bandaged hand, with purplish bruises fading to yellow and green visible outside the bandages, he would have a hard time carving again. His face looked pale, as thin and angular as his mother’s was round, with a sour and a fretful look to it.

  “I was hearing of your accident, Tormod,” said Seamus, after we had greeted him, �
�and was just wondering how you were doing with it all. A sad thing indeed, to be hearing of it.”

  Tormod grimaced. “Aye, a foolish thing it was.”

  “How did the accident happen?” I asked.

  “The scaffolding collapsed. I am not knowing how or why, as I had Eogain check it before I went up.”

  “Eogain?” I asked.

  “That is Tormod’s wee brother,” interjected Seamus. “So he is working there as well?”

  Tormod nodded. “Aye. He is just fetching stones and the like now. But I had him check the scaffold. There looked to be nothing wrong with it. Calum Glas was the one who supervised the making of it. The master mason.” Tormod spat out these last words.

  “What are you saying Tormod?”

  He turned his head wearily. “Just that himself is always too busy, hurrying to get things done to the satisfaction of that Prior, to be looking to the safety of his scaffolding. He curries favor, does that man. I will not work for him again.”

  Whether Tormod meant that he would refuse to work for Calum or that he would not be able to work again I was not sure.

  “But surely he would see to the safety of his men?”

  Tormod shrugged and said nothing. I tried again. “Are you saying he would not?”

  “Och, I do not know. Fine he is always making up to Prior Crispinus, and lashing us with his tongue to work faster, so how would I be having the time to check that scaffolding before I am climbing up it?”

  Which could mean anything. After puzzling on it for a moment I decided Tormod must have meant that was the reason his brother had checked it.

  “Were you knowing that the Prior and Gillecristus were arguing? Gillecristus was wanting Calum taken off the job.”

  “That dried up old stick of a man!” Tormod scowled, which I noticed he did frequently. It was not a pleasant expression. “I am guessing who won that argument. I would not like to be crossing that Crispinus.”

  “Why not?”

  Tormod thought a moment before he answered. Finally he replied, “He is a man who will always be getting whatever it is that he is wanting, no matter what it is that is in his way.”