There was a gloriously warm fire blazing in the huge fireplace in the parlour. Mara shook the snow from her mantle and hung it up behind the door. Ardal did the same while she dragged two stools near to the warmth.
‘I’ve got a couple of my pies, too,’ said Brigid, coming almost instantly with the steaming cups and closely followed by her husband Cumhal bearing a platter of small pies.
‘I’ve been keeping these warm; I knew that you would be cold,’ she continued, putting the drinks on the stove and taking the pies from her husband.
After they had gone, Mara busied herself giving Ardal the cup and a pie. He was not a natural gossip, she knew, and she wondered how to get all the information without it sounding as if she were just curious.
‘It’s a very serious affair this, Ardal. I am very worried about the king’s safety. I need to know everything possible about the other people who were at the abbey last. So unless it would break any vow of silence I would like you to tell me all that you know about the abbot, his son, the priest, and the abbot’s relationship with his brother Mahon O’Brien,’ she said frankly, after a minute’s pause to pick the right words. If it had been anyone else, she thought, she would just say: ‘Oh, do tell,’ and then they would have a delicious gossip together.
Ardal swallowed a large gulp of the spiced ale, but when he spoke it was with no reluctance and his voice was calm and practical.
‘Father Denis is a man in his early thirties,’ he said. ‘Someone pointed him out to me last night and that’s what I would judge him to be. I hadn’t seen him since he was a boy.’
‘Last night!’ exclaimed Mara.
Ardal nodded. His face was set into serious lines, but his eyes looked worried. She resolved not to interrupt him again.
‘Yes, Father Denis is spending Christmas here at the abbey.’
With his holy father, the abbot, thought Mara, a bubble of laughter suppressed within her throat.
Ardal took a bite of his pie and then with a look of appreciation took another almost immediately. Mara sipped her ale and tried to look relaxed.
‘Yes, I would say that he is about thirty,’ continued Ardal. ‘It would be a young age for promotion, but Father Denis had hoped to become the abbot of Knockmoy since the former abbot was removed by the head of the Cistercian Order at the beginning of this month.’ He looked at her, inviting comment.
‘I see,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘And why was the former abbot removed?’
Ardal coughed with a slight air of embarrassment. ‘Apparently he was in the habit of having his hair washed by a woman.’
Mara nodded. She did not trust her voice to comment on this so she gazed steadily at the fire until the rising giggle had been stifled.
‘Anyway, the abbey of Knockmoy is within the territory of Mahon O’Brien.’
‘The uncle of Father Denis,’ commented Mara, her voice now under control.
‘Just so! However, Mahon O’Brien refused to back his application, in fact he declared his intention of reporting to Rome that Father Denis is the son of a professed priest and an unmarried woman and, as illegitimate, would be barred from such high office.’
‘I see,’ said Mara thoughtfully. Under Brehon law there was no such thing as illegitimacy; the only question was whether the father acknowledged the son. However, under Roman law and English law, the position, she knew, was quite different. ‘It does happen, though, doesn’t it?’ she queried. ‘I thought that there was something like this with the Bishop of Killaloe and his son who is an archdeacon.’
‘Oh, it happens,’ agreed Ardal, ‘as long as no one bothers Rome about it.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Mara. ‘A few sons here or there or a few wives for that matter, shouldn’t condemn a priest. It would make him more human,’ she added light-heartedly.
Ardal gave another one of his polite coughs and Mara returned to the subject. ‘So this Father Denis would have little reason to be fond of his uncle Mahon O’Brien.’
‘Little reason,’ confirmed Ardal.
‘And where did he stay last night, Ardal? Do you know?’
‘I think,’ said Ardal thoughtfully, ‘that he would have stayed last night at the abbot’s house.’
‘And so would have gone to church with him at prime,’ said Mara. But did he return to the abbot’s house once the service was finished, she wondered? She looked over at Ardal and wished that he were different. What she needed now was someone to debate possibilities, even to make wild guesses. She missed her law scholars. She normally discussed all her cases with them. By now they would all have been speculating freely and her mind would have taken sparks from theirs.
‘Ardal, you have been very good,’ she said decisively. ‘I wonder could I ask you to do two more things for me. Could you ask your cousin, Father Peter O’Lochlainn, to come and see me for a few minutes and then could you go over to the guest house and tell Banna that the abbot is having her husband’s body coffined and that I will be with her as soon as possible. I’m sorry to give you so many errands, Ardal.’
‘It’s a pleasure to serve you, Brehon.’ Ardal immediately rose to his feet and did not even give the platter of pies a second glance. As soon as the door closed behind him Mara went out to the kitchen.
‘Could you make some more spiced ale, Brigid, and perhaps heat a few more pies? Father Peter O’Lochlainn will be coming over in a few minutes and I’d like to give him something. I think these poor monks here have a hard life. They all look very thin, except for the abbot, of course,’ she added and Brigid rose to the bait immediately.
‘Oh, he’d look after himself all right,’ she sniffed. ‘One of my cousins used to work as a herdsman here and he said that it was always the best for the abbot. And him so holy!’
Brigid didn’t volunteer any information about Father Denis, noticed Mara. She would have if she had known. This was interesting. It meant that the news of the abbot’s son had not reached her and that surely meant that not many people knew of it. Certainly Turlough had never mentioned it. Brigid prided herself on knowing everything that went on in the kingdom of the Burren. The abbot must have been very careful and very discreet, and of course it was all a very long time ago. Probably, he had little to do with his son until fairly recently and he would have been announced to the monks as a distant relation, perhaps even a friend.
‘So you have twelve brothers here at the abbey and then with Father Abbot and you, the Prior, that makes fourteen monks that slept here last night,’ said Mara innocently.
Father Peter’s white thin face was flushed a rosy pink from the warm fire. He sipped slowly at his ale as if determined to make the exquisite pleasure last as long as possible and his toothless jaws chewed resolutely on the succulent pie. When he replied his voice was indistinct and he continued to mop up stray crumbs from his grey habit and slot them back into his mouth. Nevertheless the one-word answer was unmistakable.
‘Fifteen,’ he said.
‘Really? So where did the extra monk come from?’
Father Peter hesitated, eyeing her. There was a glint of amusement in his faded grey eyes.
‘Have some more ale,’ said Mara, hospitably insistent. Luckily Brigid had placed a good-sized flagon on the hob of the fireplace.
This time Father Peter tossed back the cupful with the careless abandon of a man who had resolved to make the most of this unexpected foretaste of paradise. He leaned forward and stated solemnly: ‘Brehon, I know I can rely on your discretion.’
‘Of course,’ said Mara. She also leaned forward so that their heads were almost touching. A single knotted piece of pine suddenly blazed up with a blue flame and then subsided into the red glow of the heart of the fire. Outside the window the snow continued to fall from a lead-heavy sky.
‘And you wouldn’t say a word about this to the man who is coming from Tintern Abbey?’
‘Not a word,’ said Mara solemnly. Who’s the man from Tintern Abbey, she thought, but there was no point in breaking the co
nspiratorial mood which had been established between them; she could always question him afterwards about this.
‘This Father Denis O’Brien, he’s the abbot’s son!’ said Father Peter in a sibilant whisper.
‘Really!’ exclaimed Mara. Her tone was amazed, with an undercurrent of incredulity. She had perfected this note from years of gossip with Brigid.
Father Peter nodded. ‘And that’s the God’s-honest-truth,’ he said with emphasis.
‘Strange that the abbot had him here for Christmas with the king himself present,’ said Mara in shocked tones.
Father Peter nodded. This time he himself leaned over and tipped a little more of the spiced ale into his cup. ‘God forgive me, but this is great stuff, Brehon,’ he muttered. He tossed it back and then smiled broadly at her. ‘The abbot brought him here because he knew that it was probably his last opportunity to try to persuade Mahon O’Brien to nominate the lad as abbot of Knockmoy.’
‘And did it succeed?’
‘Not a bit of it,’ he said with emphasis. ‘There was a big quarrel yesterday morning. I was in the chapter house writing up the big book and I heard every word of it.’
‘I can’t imagine the abbot quarrelling.’ And this, thought Mara with surprise, was actually true. The abbot was always so icily cold, so remote, so sure of himself, that it was hard to imagine him condescending to quarrel. Still perhaps love for one’s child can change natures. Her feelings warmed slightly towards him.
‘And what did he say?’ She took a companionable sip from her cup and Father Peter responded instantly.
‘He yelled at him, really yelled at him. “You’ll regret this, Mahon O’Brien,” that’s what he yelled.’ Father Peter lowered his gaze for a moment and then looked at her. She could see that struggle between loyalty to his abbot and the desire to round off his tale struggling on his small pinched face, but then the love of a good story won almost instantly and he ended triumphantly: ‘“You’ll regret this, Mahon O’Brien; you’ll regret this at your dying moment.” And that’s what he said, Brehon.’
Mara considered this for a moment. It probably didn’t mean too much, just the war-like O’Brien blood triumphing over the layer of Christianity, she thought dispassionately. However, there was no doubt that not much more than twenty-four hours later Mahon O’Brien was lying dead in the abbey church. It would probably have been about half an hour after the service of prime that he had been killed, she thought. She tried to picture the scene.
‘Do you remember this morning, Father Peter, at the service of prime, do you remember the monks filing out of the church? It would have been very dark, I know, but you would have had candles, wouldn’t you?’
Father Peter nodded emphatically. ‘That’s right, Brehon, every choir monk has a candle; even the abbot has his own candle.’
So each face would have been lit up, thought Mara.
‘Just describe the scene for me, Peter,’ she said slowly. Her concentration was so intense that she called him Peter, as did Ardal.
He was quick-witted and did not question her.
‘Father Abbot went down to the back of the church and he unlocked the west door. Then he went to the cloisters’ door, on the south side, as always – mostly he goes out first, but this morning he just stood there so we all stood up. I was the first, because I am by way of being second-in-command. We turned and went towards the back of the church. We go up the night stairs, you know, the stairs that lead to the monks’ dormitory.’
‘And you went up first?’
Father Peter shook his head. ‘No, I stood there and allowed them all to go ahead of me. That’s the custom; it’s my responsibility to see them all safely into their beds.’
‘And there was no one in the church for the service of prime, except the choir monks, the abbot and Father Denis O’Brien,’ asserted Mara, expecting a ready agreement, but Father Peter hesitated.
‘Well, that’s what you would expect,’ he said hesitantly, ‘but it was strange, because as I walked down with my candle, I half-thought I saw a movement at the back of the church.’
‘But you didn’t recognize anyone?’
Father Peter shook his head. ‘Far from it; I wouldn’t even be sure that there was a person there, just a movement or a shadow, a bat perhaps.’
She did not pursue it. She would allow him to turn it over in his mind. He was sharp and clever and would come back to her if anything awakened his memory to a more certainty. ‘And then?’ she asked.
‘Well, we all went down the church and turned to the left once we reached the night stairs.’
‘And the abbot had already gone?’
‘No,’ said Father Peter, and his voice sounded startled. ‘No, and I’ve only just realized that. No, he didn’t go first. He always does, normally. No, he stayed there, standing beside the door to the cloister.’
‘Alone?’
Father Peter shook his head. ‘Father Denis was with him. He seemed like he was waiting. They both seemed like they were waiting; waiting for the rest of us to go, perhaps. They were just . . .’ He broke off and got to his feet. The door of the nearby guest house had been flung open and the confused sound of voices filled the air. Mara jumped up also, her heart pounding. Let it not be Turlough, she prayed soundlessly. I’ll never forgive myself if something has happened to him. She was at the door as soon as the knock came.
‘Is Father Peter there?’ The scared young monk was white with apprehension. ‘We need Father Peter. The king’s son is unconscious.’
Mara’s heart slowed down. It was nothing to be surprised at that Conor had fainted; he had looked almost bloodless the last time that she had seen him. She turned to her companion.
‘You go ahead, Father Peter,’ she said urgently. ‘I’m sure that your skills, with the help of God, will save him.’
They were fetching Turlough, she noticed. She would wait for him and be by his side, if his son’s last hour had come. All else could wait.
Six
Cáin Íarraith
(The Law of Fosterage)
The father of a child to be fostered pays a fee to the foster father. This fee corresponds to the honour price of the father. Thus, the fee for the son of a king of three kingdoms is thirty séts or fifteen ounces of silver, or fifteen cows. The fee for the son of an ocaire (small farmer) would be three séts, one-and-a-half ounces of silver, or two cows.
When the child leaves fosterage, then the foster father gives the child a sét gertha (a treasure of affection).
Conor was stretched on the bed, his face whiter than the sheepskin bedcovering and dark blue shadows etched under his closed eyes. Turlough dropped to his knees beside the bed and took one of the transparently thin hands within his own. All the humour and fun was gone from his face and his green eyes were large with tears. Murrough, the sick man’s brother, was there also, standing in the shadows. Ellice, the young wife, stood gazing out of the window. She turned as Mara came in, gave her one scornful glance and then turned back again, gazing on the snowflakes that still drifted down from the dark grey sky. There was such a look of angry bitterness on her face that Mara was appalled. She hesitated for a moment. Father Peter was giving quietly spoken orders to the three young monks. One was sent for herbal medicines, one for more charcoal for the brazier and one for some heated stones for the fire. If anyone could save Conor now, it would be Peter. There was nothing for her to do. She crossed the room and stood beside Ellice.
‘What happened?’ she asked in a low voice, scanning the young woman’s face.
Ellice shrugged. ‘The monks brought him over after he got that fright. He thought his father had been killed. He sat by the fire for a while. Then he said that he felt a bit better.’ She shrugged her narrow shoulders again. Her dark eyes were hooded, but her compressed mouth spoke of anger and resentment.
Mara said nothing, just continued to look out at the snow while keeping her attention fixed on the girl beside her. How old would she be? Mara remembered the year of the we
dding. About five years ago, she thought. Shane, her youngest scholar, had just come to the law school. Ellice had been fourteen then. She must be about nineteen now and the mother of three children. The children were all placed in foster homes, as was the custom, and Ellice, herself, was probably bored. A permanently ill husband and nothing to do was probably a bad combination for a lively, intelligent girl of her age.
‘I went out,’ muttered Ellice suddenly and explosively. ‘I couldn’t stand hanging around. Then I came back and found him on the floor.’ She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and so did Mara. Turlough was talking in loud anguished tones into Conor’s ear, trying desperately to rouse him, Father Peter was patiently feeding drops of a cordial from a flagon into the sick boy’s mouth and Murrough was lounging at the bed head, looking appraisingly down on his brother’s corpselike face. No one was paying any attention to the two women at the window.
‘It must have been a terrible shock for you.’ Mara’s comment was perfunctory, just a means to keep the conversation going while she studied the young wife.
‘I’m used to it.’ Ellice’s shrug would have once been a very pretty gesture in the blooming raven-haired beauty that she was a few years ago, but now, even at the age of nineteen, discontent and unhappiness had soured her face, turned her slim body into an angular thinness and her well-cut features into sharpness. ‘I thought that he was getting a bit better, though. We’ve been staying here at the abbey for the past month and Father Peter has been doctoring him. He’s even been taking him for walks by the sea.’
‘And you?’ queried Mara.
Again the shrug. ‘What does it matter about me?’ she said sullenly. ‘I hung around. Nothing for me to do. He was getting better, though. I thought that at least he would last . . .’
And then Ellice stopped. Perhaps she felt that she had said too much. Last? Mara studied the girl thoughtfully as she rubbed the frost patterns from the diamond-shaped half-frozen panes of glass and leaned forward to peer out at the snowy scene. Last until when? Did Ellice mean last until Christmas was over, or was there perhaps a more sinister meaning behind her words. Last for long enough to be declared king? If that was her meaning, then had she any hand in the killing of the man in the church, the man she had every reason to believe was Conor’s father, the king? She was a tall girl, strong and well-made, a great horsewoman. The sheer weight of that mason’s hammer would be enough to kill if one had the strength to lift and swing it – no extra strength would be needed for the blow. She examined the girl appraisingly, noting the width of her shoulder, the strong neck, the broad muscular hands.
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