Writ in Stone

by Cora Harrison

  The abbot moved the candle up and down inspecting the work and then nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘Well done, Master Mason,’ he called down the steps where the blows from the mallet had ceased for a moment. ‘After a few years no one will know your work from the work of the mason who carved these stone flowers five hundred years ago.’

  ‘So the chancel was decorated when the abbey was originally built.’ Mara knew that, but it occurred to her that it would be well to end her interview with the abbot on a fairly friendly note.

  Father Abbot seemed relieved and began talking animatedly, showing her the carvings and the repairs that had been done over the centuries.

  ‘See here,’ he said, holding up the candle and showing her a faintly incised cross just below the fluted crown of an arch, ‘this is the mark of the original mason; his mark can be found all over the church. And here, look there where the curve of scallop shells outlines that arch, if you look closely you can see that some of these have been repaired: that was about a hundred years ago. I have a note about it in the abbey documents. Look, you can see that this time the mason signs his work with a pattern from the bible book.’

  Mara stood on her toes and found the mark, a small spiral ending in a loosely trailing curve. The illuminated copies of the Holy Book were all decorated with these spirals; even a few of her own law books showed the same ornamental drawings.

  ‘And now,’ continued the abbot triumphantly, ‘here we are fifteen hundred years after the birth of Christ and the mason now makes his mark with the Roman numeral for five hundred.’

  Mara looked. The abbot was right. It was not the Gaelic letter d with its curved sides and scrolled top, but a square-cut straight-edged D. She understood the abbot’s point; the use of this D probably showed a man who was literate.

  ‘Why five hundred?’ Mara spoke almost to herself, but the abbot went straight to the open doorway leading down to the vault and called out:

  ‘Master Mason, why do you use the Roman numeral five hundred for your mark?’

  The answer was a while in coming, but then slow heavy steps could be heard coming up. The man was coated in the grey dust of the plaster, even the seams of his face seemed to hold the fine powder, and when he spoke his voice was even huskier than before.

  ‘I am the five-hundredth mason in this part of Ireland, my lord,’ he said. ‘Or so my father used to tell me,’ he added.

  How does he know, thought Mara, but the abbot nodded with satisfaction. He was a man who liked everything to be neatly sorted. Mara could imagine how he would show this new work to visiting prelates and inform them that it was done by the five-hundredth mason in the west of Ireland.

  ‘Could you spare me a moment, Master Mason?’ she asked politely. ‘The king’s son, Murrough, said that . . .’

  The man gave a sudden start and she thought that, even under the coating of grey dust, his face turned a little paler. She hastened to reassure him.

  ‘The king knows of the merry prank that his son played,’ she said reassuringly. ‘No blame attaches to you. But Murrough reported that you were up and dressed when he woke and I wondered whether you had already been to the chapel.’

  The mason cleared his throat noisily, but when he spoke his voice was huskier than ever.

  ‘No, my lady,’ he said. ‘The king’s son is mistaken. I had slept in my clothes as it was so cold.’

  Understandable given the icy chill of that lay dormitory, but nevertheless Mara pursued her questions. ‘And you were standing at the shutters, were you not?’

  Murrough had not said that, but it was most likely that a man, rising from his bed, and finding everything frozen, would go to the shutters to see what the weather was like.

  The mason bowed his head and muttered something.

  ‘And did you see anything? See anyone?’

  He thought about this quite carefully and then shook his head. He looked over at the abbot and the abbot intervened.

  ‘If that is all, Brehon,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I think Master Mason had better be getting back to his work. The stone sarcophagus for my brother’s body will need to be finished soon.’

  ‘That is all, Father Abbot,’ said Mara courteously. Why had the abbot been so quick to cut short her questioning? And why did the mason look towards the abbot in such a marked manner? Normally he seemed to hang his head. She watched the man carefully as he shuffled away, his heavy boots bound with strips of linen so that his feet made no noise as he went down the steps to the vault beneath. She heard him pick up his mallet, but there was no sound of a blow. It seemed as if he were waiting for something, perhaps for the abbot to join him, to give him more instructions, or was there some other significance in the wait? Had he perhaps seen something when he looked out of the shutters in that early dawn? Had he seen the abbot visit the church that morning?

  The west door at the bottom of the church was pushed open allowing a stream of light to illuminate the darkness of the nave. Mara glanced around; no one had entered, but someone was there at the door, slowly pulling it shut again. The stealth of the action attracted her; someone was obviously trying to make as little noise as possible.

  Swiftly she marched down the centre of the nave and seized the handle of the door, pulling it wide open.

  ‘Ah, come in Father Denis,’ she said suavely. ‘Father Abbot and I were just speaking of you.’

  Father and son were very uneasy in each other’s presence, she thought, as she watched them stealing covert glances at each other. Did they share a guilty secret or was this just a lifetime habit where concealment was essential to allow this ambitious O’Brien priest to gain the approval of Rome? There had been a big change, during the last ten years, in these Cistercian abbeys. The easy-going lax behaviour of the Celtic church was no longer permissible; all had to be done according to the laws from Rome. Abbey after abbey in the whole of Ireland had been visited by abbots from England and from France and had been roundly condemned. The days had gone by when a powerful family, like the O’Briens, could automatically appoint a member of their own family to the position of abbot.

  ‘How old are you, Father Denis?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘I am thirty, my lady . . . Brehon,’ he answered.

  ‘And where did you spend your early life?’

  Father Denis glanced quickly at the abbot, but that stony face gave him no assistance so after a moment, he replied.

  ‘At Arra.’

  No ‘my lady’ – not even a ‘Brehon’ this time, she noticed. His voice was curt and almost aggressive.

  That’s not what Teige said, thought Mara.

  ‘From the time of your birth?’ she questioned.

  ‘I came to Arra when I was eight years old and stayed until I was eighteen,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘I see,’ said Mara thoughtfully. This meant that Denis had been fostered by his mother’s brother from that age. The relationship would be quite strong – what was it that Fithail, the judge, had said: ‘A man’s son is precious to him, but dearer to his heart is his foster child’? The O’Brien Arra, as he was known, would want to advance his foster-son in his chosen profession. Now, with Mahon O’Brien out of the way, the possibility of promotion to abbot was very strong – so long, of course, as no hint of scandal touched his name.

  ‘When did you find out that your father was Father Donogh, here?’ she asked bluntly.

  They both stiffened at that; there was an expression of outrage on the abbot’s face, but she ignored him, turning towards Denis. He was debating whether to tell the truth, or not, and she gave him a quick frown and impatiently tapped her foot on the stone floor.

  ‘About a year ago,’ he said after a pause. His eyes slid towards the face of his father and then looked away quickly.

  ‘His mother asked to see him on her deathbed and told him.’ The abbot’s tone was bitter.

  ‘Had you known she was your mother prior to that?’

  ‘No,’ said Father Denis. After a minute, he adde
d, ‘But I think I guessed. She often came to see me and once she gave me a chessboard.’

  Despite her dislike of this young priest, Mara felt a slight softening of the heart. It was not the right way to bring up a boy; he would always be wondering, always trying to guess, always insecure and unhappy. However, there was one more question that she had to ask.

  ‘I hear that you have contracted a marriage of the fourth degree,’ she said. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘What!’ Obviously that piece of gossip had not come to the abbot’s ears. He rounded on his son with fury and then glanced at Mara and shut his mouth firmly. Father Denis looked back at him with equal dislike. There was a sneer in his voice when he answered.

  ‘It is certainly true, but I don’t think that it is anyone’s business but mine.’

  ‘But perhaps something that should not be allowed to come to the ears of Rome if you wish for promotion,’ suggested Mara mildly.

  He didn’t answer this so she pressed home with her next question.

  ‘Did Mahon O’Brien know of this marriage of the fourth degree?’

  ‘No,’ he replied promptly.

  And yet Teige knew of it, thought Mara. Teige had nothing to do with that part of Galway, so his most likely source of information would be Mahon. She studied the young priest carefully. His high-bridged O’Brien nose was raised defiantly as if sniffing something evil-smelling, but his eyes were troubled and unhappy. No wonder that he looks so much of an O’Brien, thought Mara. His mother and father were first cousins – in fact, generation after generation of O’Briens married cousins; Turlough was one of the first to marry a MacNamara. The bone structure was bred into them and so was the ambition.

  ‘I put it to you that Mahon O’Brien did know of this marriage of the fourth degree and also did know that that you were, in fact, illegitimate, in the eyes of Rome, and of English law, of course. This means that the death of Mahon O’Brien has been providential for you.’ Mara watched the young priest’s face as closely as she could, but he had his features well under control.

  ‘I bore no ill-feeling towards Mahon O’Brien,’ he said stiffly. ‘If anything, like many others of our clan, I considered him more suitable than Teige O’Brien to be the tánaiste in the case of anything happening to the king’s son, Conor O’Brien.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara, ‘and what would be your objection to Teige O’Brien?’

  ‘It was the general view of the Arra fine that Teige O’Brien was a false flatterer who had gained a position near to the king by slandering other members of the family.’ His reply was prompt and unexpected; Mara concealed her surprise, but she wondered at his words. Teige O’Brien had always seemed to her to be a harmless, jovial man, fond of his wife and his family and of his cousin King Turlough.

  And then into the stillness came the sound of horse hoofs clattering over paved ground and then the startlingly loud summons of the gatehouse bell.

  ‘Guests?’ said the abbot with a puzzled air. ‘I expect no one.’

  Eleven

  Coic Conara Fugill

  (The Five Paths of Judgement)

  There are eight stages of a law case.

  1. Fixing a date for the hearing

  2. Choosing the proper path of judgement

  3. The giving of security

  4. The pleading

  5. The rejoinder or counter pleading

  6. The judgement

  7. The forus (explanation of the basis for the judgement)

  8. The conclusion

  By the time that Mara and the abbot had emerged from the church they heard the creak of the gate being opened and the sound of voices. Mara frowned in puzzlement; one of the voices was a light treble, a boy’s voice, and then another, very familiar, young voice replying. Leaving the abbot who was proceeding at his usual stately pace she hurried down the path.

  The younger of the boys had dismounted from his pony. His back was turned to her, but there was no mistaking the trim, neat head, capped with the fine black hair, the slim, upright figure, even the way that he was excitedly pointing to a golden eagle swooping overhead, all of these things were as well known to Mara as the skin on her own hands. The ten-year-old boy had been at her law school since he was five years old.

  ‘Shane!’ she called and he turned around instantly, his white teeth flashing in a huge grin.

  ‘Brehon!’ exclaimed his companion, a tall boy with a head of bushy curls. Fachtnan had also been with her since his fifth year and now, as a nineteen-year-old, he acted as her assistant as well as studying for his final legal examinations.

  ‘We got stuck in Galway by the snowstorm,’ said Shane.

  ‘But where is your father?’ asked Mara. Shane’s father was Brehon to the O’Neill family in the north of Ireland and had come to escort his son home for the Christmas break. Fachtnan’s home at Ossory had lain on their route and all three had left Cahermacnaghten two days ago.

  ‘I’m here, Mara.’ Patrick McBrethany emerged from the porter’s lodge to engulf her in a huge hug. He was a man well past middle age; Shane was the youngest of his six clever sons and Mara had felt very honoured that he had entrusted the five-year-old to her after they had met at a summer conference.

  ‘What happened?’ she gasped, disentangling herself.

  ‘Well, it’s as the wee lad says; we had just gone a few miles beyond Galway when the snowstorm hit us. We turned and went back to Galway and spent a couple of nights in an inn. We heard this morning that the road to the north was still blocked so we took passage in a boat across the bay and landed at Bealnaclugga. We didn’t know whether you would be here, or whether you would be still at Cahermacnaghten, so I was enquiring from the porter.’

  ‘Did he tell you our news, Patrick?’ asked Mara, eyeing him affectionately. He was a bear-like man, she always thought, not tall, but immensely broad in shoulder and with long arms. It was his head that impressed most people when they met him first. He had the head of a marble saint with the hairless ivory skin curving around the domed cranium. A full-lipped mouth and large parchment-coloured eyelids completed the impression of a head carved from stone. It was only when those eyelids snapped wide open, unveiling the intense intelligence of his sharp grey eyes, that the whole face suddenly came alive and the saint-like impression was lost.

  ‘No,’ said Patrick, his eyes hooded and his expression thoughtful.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Mara. Suddenly she felt cheerful. Here was someone to whet her brain against, someone to share the burden. ‘My lord abbot,’ she said, turning around to introduce the newcomers to him, ‘here is the O’Neill Brehon with his son, Shane, and my assistant, Fachtnan. Can we manage to find shelter for them within the abbey?’

  The abbot greeted Patrick warmly – King Conn O’Neill was powerful even in this part of the world and the abbot was never one to miss impressing a man of power or his representative.

  ‘I think, Brehon, if you would honour my poor house, that will shelter you more worthily than our guest house,’ he said with false humility.

  Mara concealed a smile. The four taoiseachs of the Burren would not be pleased to know that the abbot considered them of lower status than a Brehon from the north of the country.

  ‘That will be splendid,’ said Patrick heartily. ‘The wee lad and his friend can bed down with me.’

  ‘No, no,’ said the abbot quickly. Mara guessed that he didn’t want any rambunctious schoolboys to disturb the hallowed quiet of the abbot’s house. ‘Father Peter,’ he called as the prior emerged from the guest house and came hurrying up to greet the new arrivals, ‘have we got a spare room for these two young scholars?’

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Father Peter slowly after Mara had introduced him, ‘that it might be a good idea for the king’s bodyguards to sleep outside his doorway, or, even better, one inside the chamber and one outside the door. God forbid, but it would be a terrible thing if the murderer was to make another attempt on King Turlough’s life tonight.’

  Oh de
ar, thought Mara, I’m not sure that Turlough will be too pleased about that. That arrangement would leave little chance for the king to slip into her bedroom that night. However, there was no doubt but that it was a good idea. As the minutes and the hours slid away she was very conscious of the terrible danger of a second attack.

  ‘And then, of course, the two lads could have the bodyguards’ room,’ concluded Father Peter as she nodded her agreement.

  ‘Where is the king?’ asked the abbot, looking around.

  ‘He’s asleep in the parlour of the Royal Lodge,’ Mara said. ‘Fergal and Conall are on guard.’

  ‘It will soon be vespers,’ said the abbot reprovingly. ‘King Turlough will not want to miss that. The service tonight is especially to commemorate the anniversary of his great ancestor, Conor O’Brien.’

  ‘Lord bless us and save us,’ said Father Peter. ‘We’ve forgotten about the day of vigil!’

  ‘How could we find the time for . . .’ began the abbot furiously and then stopped abruptly and said with dignity to Patrick, ‘My brother has been murdered as he knelt in the church this morning.’

  ‘I am very sorry to hear that,’ said Patrick. He bowed to the abbot and then glanced quickly at Mara. She did not respond. Time for explanations later on when the two were alone. Now she must see to the needs of the travellers; Shane looked cold and his father looked tired.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch the king myself,’ said the abbot fussily as the monks began to move towards the church for the service of vespers. He set off towards the Royal Lodge and Mara did not attempt to stop him. It suited her to have Patrick to herself for the next hour; in front of Turlough it would be difficult to discuss the possibility of the king’s son or one of his near relatives being involved in the murder. She even withdrew to stand concealed below the eaves of the porter’s lodge when she saw the abbot come out, followed by Turlough and the two bodyguards.