‘Oh!’ She allowed the exclamation to stand. He could take it as a question or a comment. Again she had to wait for a few seconds before he said any more.
‘I went to see Mahon’s limekiln. I was thinking of setting up something like that, myself, at Lissylisheen. We have a quarry there and we could easily do it. He was telling me that he made lots of silver from it. He said it was the best thing that he had done, it was far less risky than fishing.’
‘I see.’ Mara knew that Ardal’s energy was always seeking new outlets. ‘What did you think of it?’ He obviously had not gone ahead with setting up a limekiln business. Brigid, or Cumhal, would undoubtedly have told her if there had been any talk of that.
‘I decided against it.’ His tone was firm now and quite assured. ‘I didn’t want any of my people to work in those conditions. I saw a girl’s hands; they were in a terrible state.’
‘Frann’s?’ queried Mara, and then when he hesitated, she added, ‘She told me that she worked there. That was how Mahon got to know her.’
Ardal nodded. ‘This was before Mahon got to know her.’
Got to know her in the biblical sense, thought Mara wickedly. Ardal was a man of high honour, he would not have dallied with Frann if she were another man’s property, but before, yes, well, he might have spent a pleasant evening or two. Mara could just imagine how Frann’s strange beauty would have beguiled him. She would have told her sad story, shown her damaged hands, roused his pity and then probably his desires. He would have seemed a very good prospect before the master of the limekiln himself came on the scene.
‘So you haven’t seen her since then,’ she said pleasantly.
He looked uncomfortable and her interest sharpened. ‘Well, yes, I have, as a matter of fact.’
She waited and then he blurted out. ‘Mahon wanted a horse for her a couple of months ago. I had a nice, quiet chestnut mare so I took it over there.’
‘I see,’ nodded Mara, suppressing a smile. Ardal O’Lochlainn had many horsemen working for him. It was astonishing that a taoiseach would trouble himself to go all that way just to sell one mare. Obviously Frann had made a memorable impression on him when he saw her the first time.
‘She was a horsewoman, then?’ Mara hoped that her question sounded innocent and was pleased to see a frank smile play around his well-moulded lips.
‘Why no, she had never even sat upon a horse before; she began to pick it up well, though, after a few days.’
No doubt the tuition was pleasurable to both, thought Mara. But how far had the relationship progressed? Would it have gone far enough for Ardal to think of getting rid of Mahon? Would he have known about the deeds giving Frann those rich pieces of property? Mara looked at the bright blue eyes and then dismissed the thought. No, Ardal was rich enough; the property would not have been a motive – but the girl herself, now that was a different matter. In any case, there was no need for Frann to have shown the Brehon these scrolls if Ardal had already read them to her. What was Mahon thinking while these riding lessons were going on? She suddenly realized that she knew very little about the dead man. Turlough had disliked him and dismissed him as a sanctimonious bore, but somehow Frann’s account of him had shown a different picture.
‘Ardal,’ she said suddenly and impulsively, ‘could you tell me something about Mahon O’Brien?’
‘A good businessman,’ said Ardal judiciously. ‘He seemed to be successful in anything that he undertook and of course he had extensive properties; he had the whole of one of the Triocha Céts and, of course, the baile biataigh. You may remember that those were the lands where there was a dispute with Teige O’Brien and then there was . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mara. This recital of lands could go on for a long time, she knew from experience. ‘Yes, thank you, Ardal, but what I really meant was what was he like? What sort of man was Mahon?’
His eyes suddenly grew cold. ‘I’m afraid that I couldn’t tell you about that, Brehon. I hardly knew the man.’
‘I see,’ said Mara. ‘Well, I must leave you now, Ardal. I see Father Peter coming from the guest house and I want a quick word with him.’ Purposely she did not look to see where Ardal was going, but from the sound of his firm footsteps he appeared to be tramping in the direction of the church. She smiled to herself: as soon as she moved away, she guessed that he would go back to Frann.
‘How is the tánaiste?’ Father Peter was looking cheerful, so her question was casual. She guessed that there was no great problem with Conor. It seemed to be part of this condition of the wasting sickness that the sufferer appeared well at one time of the day and almost at the point of death at another.
‘Sleeping peacefully and the blood beats strongly, thank God.’ Father Peter’s answer was brief and from the enquiring look he turned upon her, Mara knew that he guessed she had something else upon her mind.
‘You mentioned something about the man from Tintern Abbey,’ said Mara coming directly to the point. There was no point in dissimulating with this clever priest. ‘I wondered was that the important guest that the abbot was talking about last night?’
‘It was, indeed.’ Father Peter’s eyes sparkled with pleasure as one who was pleased at an inquiry from a clever scholar.
‘And,’ said Mara, feeling her way carefully, ‘this would be a Cistercian monk, would it not?’
‘Abbot,’ said Father Peter tersely. ‘Head of the whole meitheal, God forgive me for using an expression like that about our holy brothers in England.’
‘So, very important.’
‘Very, very important.’ Father Peter gave a quick glance around and lowered his voice. ‘This holy abbot has been appointed by Rome to give a report on all of the Cistercian abbeys in Ireland.’
‘So Father Donogh wants a good report for Sancta Maria Petris Fertilis, well that’s only natural, I suppose.’ Mara’s voice was mild and only faintly interested; there would be more to come, she knew.
‘Not just that.’ Father Peter gave another hasty glance around. ‘You don’t keep up with the news from other parts of the country, Brehon. God love you, why should you? You have enough to do in your kingdom, but you’ve heard of the abbey of Mellifont?’
Mara nodded. This was the biggest Cistercian abbey in the whole of Ireland.
Father Peter gave her a gentle, toothless smile. ‘Well, the abbot there died a few weeks ago. A messenger came last week to tell the news and to say that no successor had been appointed. Then, three days later, a messenger to announce the visit of Father Abbot from Tintern Abbey. We’ve all been kept busy since. Everything has been scrubbed and repaired; every piece of silver in the house has been polished, lists made, all ready to show when the great man arrives.’
‘I see,’ said Mara. And she did see. A lot of what had puzzled her was now clear. Father Donogh O’Brien, like all the O’Briens, was ambitious. This abbey here in the Burren was too small, too unimportant for a man of his ability and high lineage; now he had the golden opportunity of attaining an important position which would match his talents. No wonder he wanted the burial of his brother out of the way before the abbot from Tintern Abbey arrived. The surprising thing was that he hadn’t also moved this embarrassing, illegitimate son of his out of the way before the arrival. Rome would not be impressed by such an episode in his past history.
Or did the abbot have a plan about this?
Ten
Di Astud Chirt & Dligid
(On the Confirmation of Right & Law)
A cleric, without family to pay his fine, who commits murder, must go into exile for ten years. He undertakes seven years of penance and during that time must abstain from all food, beyond the minimum to ensure life. After another three years of exile he must return, make what compensation that he can and offer himself as son to the bereaved person.
The abbot was coming out of his house when Mara came out of the guest house and she walked resolutely towards him. He only saw her as she came through the archway and on to the cloisters. For a
moment, it looked as if he was going to disappear inside again, but Mara called out a quick greeting and he stood very still, watching her come. Funny how like his face, with that high-bridged nose and wide forehead, is to Turlough’s, she thought and yet there was a world of a difference: the one heavily moustached with a high colour, the other clean-shaven, pale-faced. But the greatest difference was in the eyes. Turlough had light green eyes, sparkling with fun and affection, while the abbot’s eyes were as grey and as cold as the stone around them.
‘Could you spare me a few minutes, Father Abbot?’ said Mara briskly. ‘We’ll go inside, shall we?’
The sky was very dark and a heavy drizzle of thick, soft rain, more wetting than any showers, was beginning to fall. The surrounding mountains were veiled and the birds silent.
‘I was just on my way to the church. I have to give instructions to Master Mason about the vault. He will need to prepare the space for the body of my brother,’ said the abbot.
‘It will only take a few minutes,’ said Mara resolutely. From the church she could hear the sound of the heavy mallet crashing against stone and guessed that the mason would already have had his instructions. The coffins of the dead members of the O’Brien derbhfine were always placed inside stone chests, made from slabs of the limestone that paved the fields and then the lids sealed with mortar before the vault was closed up again.
The abbot compressed his thin, bloodless lips, but he bowed slightly and stood aside to allow her to enter the house. Confidently she opened the door to the parlour and went within. The room was warm with a good fire of turf burning in the chimney. Clearly the abbot did not feel that the austerity he imposed on his brother monks applied to him. No wonder that Father Denis preferred to stay in these comfortable surroundings rather than in the monks’ dormitory, even at the risk of arousing comment. Mara seated herself by the fire and looked up at the abbot. He remained standing for a long minute, an expression of impatience on his face, but she did not speak so eventually he had to seat himself opposite to her.
‘And, of course, you knew that your brother, Mahon O’Brien, was to take the king’s place at dawn this morning in the church.’ She said the words quietly.
He looked at her in an annoyed fashion, but then as she raised one eyebrow, he nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, I did.’ His voice was as impatient as his expression. He glanced over his shoulder towards the door, clearly indicating that he wanted to go about his business.
‘And did your son, Father Denis, know?’
‘No,’ he said briefly. Obviously he had decided that it wasn’t worth denying the relationship.
‘How do you know?’
He said nothing so she continued. ‘Did he tell you that he didn’t know?’
‘We didn’t discuss the matter,’ he said stiffly.
‘And yet you spent a long time talking after the service of prime and on other occasions today. Don’t deny it; I observed you.’
‘We had other matters to consider,’ he said after a long pause during which he managed to convey a sense of outraged displeasure.
‘Such as the abbey of Knockmoy.’ Mara heard with pleasure how crisp and authoritative her voice sounded. How dare this hypocrite give such pain to Turlough? She would love to cry his sin aloud to the people of the Burren.
He said nothing so she pressed on. ‘I understand that there will be no problem now about Father Denis’s appointment as abbot to Knockmoy. Is that true?’ she added sharply when he did not answer.
‘It’s not a matter for me,’ he said after a while.
‘But there is now no obstacle,’ she persisted.
He looked at her. By the light of the fire, she could see his grey eyes glitter. She could read their expression well. There was fear there, and hatred also. Was the fear for himself or for his son, she wondered? The hatred was undoubtedly directed at her. Suddenly she remembered Brigid’s words. Was she in danger from this man?
‘Qui tacet, consentire videtur,’ she said to him in Latin, but still he didn’t answer. She waited for a moment and then translated into Gaelic: ‘“He who remains silent is seen to consent”, is that true of you?’ He shot her an angry glance – whether for assuming that he needed a translation, or because he resented the insinuation, she did not know. Still he did not reply. She didn’t care. Sometimes no answer was as revealing as a flow of words.
‘So the death of Mahon O’Brien smoothed the road to promotion for your son,’ she stated, looking intently at him, then leaning over and carelessly tossing another few sods of turf on the fire.
He had himself under control by the time she looked back, but for a moment the smooth face had been marred by a fury that could not have been surpassed by his famous ancestor, Teige, the Bone-splitter. Why should he look so angry about this? This time the anger did not seem to be directed at her, but had erupted at the word ‘son’.
‘So you see,’ she continued, still pretending to occupy herself with the fire, but at the same time covertly studying his narrow face. This man puzzled her. ‘I must ask questions of all who may have had an interest in causing the death of either King Turlough Donn, or his cousin, Mahon O’Brien, your brother.’
He did not respond and she had not expected him to do so. It was time for some plain questions to which she would expect plain answers.
‘I understand that the custom here is for you to be the first to leave the church after a service. Why did you and your son stay behind in the church this morning after the service of prime?’
‘I wished to see how far Master Mason had got with the reparation of the carvings. I wanted to make sure that all was ready for Christmas.’ He answered more readily than she had expected. Obviously he had been prepared for this question.
‘And did you?’ Her reply was purposefully fast. She would have to throw him off balance to get at the truth.
‘Did I?’ He tried to make his tone sound puzzled. She looked full into his face now and he evaded her eyes.
‘Did you talk to the mason?’
Now he was in a quandary. She could see him wondering whether perhaps the mason had been in the church, wondering whether he might be caught out in a lie.
‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘I was feeling tired and I thought I would go back and have an hour’s rest before breakfast, as I had advised the brothers to do. Tomorrow night will be a long night for us all. The tradition is that we stay awake from matins to dawn. Of course, the days are very short at this time of the year so it is customary to give the brothers extra sleeping time when the weather is bad and the light is poor. No, I decided that I would see the mason later on.’
‘It wouldn’t have taken long to stroll across the church floor and look at the carvings?’ she said sharply and when he didn’t reply she got to her feet.
‘Let us go and look at them now. You were on your way when I delayed you.’
Without waiting for an answer she swept through his parlour door, passing a lay brother in the small dark hallway. He went to the door and opened it and then she saw that this was the young brother who had read during their dinner of salted cod.
‘Thank you, Brother Francis,’ she said politely and then, as she and the abbot walked side by side along the eastern side of the cloister, she said in a low voice to him, ‘I understand that young brother is an O’Kelly from Galway?’
‘That is correct.’ Again there was that sideways look as if he endeavoured to read her mind. She stopped, then turned and faced him fully and the abbot’s eyes slid away from hers.
‘Surprising that he did not attach himself to one of the Galway abbeys, Knockmoy, for instance.’
He gave her a sidelong glance and then said after a slight pause for reflection, ‘Actually he was at Knockmoy.’
‘And why did he transfer?’
‘There was some sort of trouble,’ said the abbot, picking his way carefully through the words like a man would tread over sharp stones. He began to move forward again towards the church.
‘Wh
at sort of trouble?’ asked Mara impatiently. No wonder this abbot annoyed Turlough so much!
‘Well,’ said the abbot reluctantly, ‘there was an enquiry into the former abbot’s behaviour and Brother Francis O’Kelly gave evidence.’
He shut his mouth tightly and Mara did not press him further. In any case she was not sure that she could trust her voice as an unholy glee was bubbling up inside her. So it was Brother O’Kelly who gave witness to the shocking affair of the hair-washing by a woman, she thought. It must have been a wonderful scene in front of some sour-faced prelate from Rome. She fell back a little and allowed the abbot to precede her through the cloisters’ door to the church while she arranged her face into a suitably grave expression.
‘One minute, Brehon, I’ll just light a few candles.’ His voice came back to her and almost instantaneously a sudden light shot into her own mind. Could Father Abbot have engineered the whole affair? Bribed this Brother Francis? The young monk looked dull and self-satisfied. Offered him a new position, and perhaps a promise of promotion and at the same time he would do a great service to his own clan. With the war-experienced Turlough dead, and Conor as king, the O’Kellys could probably easily defeat the O’Brien clan. This would give Brother Francis a motive, but would the abbot have any reason to wish death on his cousin, Turlough, who had always been so generous in his gifts to the abbey? On the other hand, it seemed too much of a coincidence that Brother Francis’s evidence had been instrumental in removing the former abbot from Knockmoy; it was very likely that the abbot had engineered that.
The church was now quite dark so the light of the candle threw the stone carvings into startling relief. On the top of one of the fluted pillars, there was a circle of twelve carved harebells and beneath them had stood twelve stiff, upright poppy heads. Five of these poppy heads had broken off during the three centuries since and the gaps had been filled in with almost perfect replicas. The stems were so finely carved and the rounded sides, each capped with a brittle circle, were carefully scored. The poppy heads looked as if they could be crushed between finger and thumb; only the gleaming white of the limestone showed that these had not just been plucked from the herb garden.
Writ in Stone Page 12