Writ in Stone

by Cora Harrison

  It was the abbot. She could not mistake those tones of authority. She leaned out of the window as far as she could go. He was over by the stables near to the gate; she could just see the top of his head. His back was to her, but by his voice she knew that he was furiously angry.

  ‘Make all the speed that you can . . .’ She just caught those words but the strength of a sudden blast of wind from the west blew away the rest of the sentence. And then the abbey gate swung open and there was a noise of horse hoofs striking the limestone road.

  Mara quickly pulled on the other boot and plaited and coiled her hair with the speed of one who often had to respond to emergencies. In a moment she was down the stairs, smiling affectionately as she heard the sound of Turlough’s sleepy voice from his bedchamber. In a few minutes this would turn to a roar of rage, she knew, but she did not wait.

  The abbot was striding across the wet grass, his mantle sailing vigorously in a straight line behind him. He had seen her; she was sure about that, but it did not look as if he were going to stop so she called to him peremptorily. Even then he paused and looked at her with an expression of annoyance on his face, a busy man detained when he had serious matters on his mind. She ignored the expression and drew near to him.

  ‘Father Abbot, how did they get out? I thought the abbey gate was to be kept locked until I gave the word?’

  His thin lips tightened, but then he said in a resigned tone: ‘Father Denis stole the key from my chamber. I noticed he was missing at the service of prime. I only realized that when we were halfway through the service. I thought he had overslept. Once I came back to my house, I looked for him and found that his chamber was empty and then one of the lay brothers came running to tell me that the gate was wide open and two horses were missing.’

  ‘Two?’ queried Mara. Did he know about Ellice, she wondered, or was there any possibility of keeping this matter of the tánaiste’s wife a secret?

  He nodded solemnly. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Brehon,’ he said with a return of his usual pompous manner, ‘he did not go alone. The king’s daughter-in-law went with him. I have sent after the guilty couple, but whether we will catch them in time to prevent another sin, I don’t know.’

  ‘Another sin?’

  He bowed his head in an expression of humility but his nostrils flared like those of a warhorse and his grey eyes were as cold as the stone around them.

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? You gave many people the impression yesterday that you might have solved the case; the king’s younger son was saying that he thought it was all settled in your mind, and now the guilty ones have fled. So this man as well as being guilty of adultery and theft has probably also killed. He has broken almost every commandment in the laws of God. He should hang!’

  ‘Hang!’ For once Mara was taken off guard and her voice rose with astonishment. ‘Your own son!’

  The abbot said nothing, but his eyes spoke for him. There would be no forgiveness, no compassion to be expected from this man.

  ‘Your own son,’ repeated Mara quietly. She wondered whether he might be about to deny paternity, but he didn’t.

  ‘I live my life by the law of God, Brehon,’ he said loftily. ‘Justice has to be impartial.’

  ‘And how did they get out? Surely no lay brother disobeyed your instruction.’

  ‘Certainly not! I told you, the key was stolen. And from my own chamber! They must have seized the opportunity of Brother Porter’s absence at prime. And that’s not all, he also opened the wall cupboard in my own room and stole a valuable communion cup which is worth a hundred marks.’ The abbot, a thin man, seemed to swell with anger just as his clothes swelled with the wind. Then he rearranged his features into their usual stony calm. ‘However, Brehon,’ he continued, ‘you need not concern yourself further about this matter. I have told the lay brothers to bind the guilty man and to bring him before the judge in Galway. The crime was committed here at the abbey and should be judged by Roman law, not Brehon law.’

  ‘The crime was committed here in the kingdom of the Burren and as such will be judged by me,’ said Mara firmly. She eyed him steadily. Yes, there was no doubt that the abbot wanted to get rid of Father Denis as quickly as possible, but he was not prepared to see one of the most valuable possessions of the abbey disappear with him. This unwanted son could languish in a jail in Galway until the visit of the abbot of Tintern Abbey was over; that was obviously the plan.

  ‘Mara!’ The king had undoubtedly heard the news by now. His tousled head with its rough iron-grey hair was protruding out of the window and Mara hastened to obey the summons before any further indiscretion could betray the matter to the whole world.

  ‘I’ll see you in little while, Father Abbot,’ she said. ‘I must speak with the king first.’

  He said something, but the wind was rising now and his words only faintly reached her. She turned back to look at him and he repeated the words, loudly enough to be heard by the king at his window.

  ‘He will hang!’ he shouted. ‘I will allow nothing else. He is under the rule of Rome.’ He stopped for a minute and then said, more quietly, ‘As for her, the wife of the tánaiste, the king may deal with her as he wishes.’

  ‘So far as the theft of the communion cup is concerned, the abbot may be within his rights; it is a difficult point. We were discussing this at the last Brehons’ convention. The consensus of opinion was that these monastic communities could rule themselves according to their preferences, and could, if they felt it to be right, reject Brehon law and be subject to the law of England or Rome as they themselves are considered to be daughter houses of English abbeys and monasteries. However, where the murder of Mahon O’Brien is concerned, that is my affair to deal with.’ Mara kept her voice very quiet as she poured some more ale for Turlough and took another oatcake for herself. They were alone. Brigid had gone to fetch Fachtnan and Shane to tell them to saddle their ponies and even the two bodyguards were outside the door discussing the weather with Cumhal. ‘He seems determined that Father Denis will hang, one way or another,’ she added.

  ‘What!’ Turlough gulped down his ale. ‘He’s not going to bring English law into the Burren, not while there is a breath in my body. If this Father Denis is guilty of anything then he can be tried at Poulnabrone and can pay a fine. That will be more use to everyone than a dead man swinging by the neck.’

  ‘And what about Ellice?’ asked Mara, gulping down the last of her cake and taking down her mantle from the peg.

  ‘She had nothing to do with the murder,’ said Turlough defiantly, wiping his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘As for the other, well if she fancies this young priest, then that’s her affair. I’d like to have a word with the girl, though, before too much gets out. Give her a chance to think again. It’s not a good thing for her. I didn’t like the look of that fellow. She’s better off with Conor; he’s a decent lad, poor fellow.’

  ‘If we can catch up with them,’ said Mara, ‘you can do all the talking that you like, but there is no way that they can be allowed to ride off together now. I have said that no one was to leave the abbey without my permission and I am not going to have my authority flouted like that. In any case, you’re right; I don’t like the look of that young priest; Ellice should be given the chance to think again. We’ll take Cumhal as well as Fergal and Conall and then there will be Fachtnan, and Patrick will come too. I’ve sent over a note to him.’

  ‘He’s on his way across. Can you see him? He’s under the archway to the cloisters and there’s Father Peter outside the window. I wonder what he’s come for?’

  ‘I’ll go and talk to him.’ Mara quickly left the parlour and slipped past the group of men outside and opened the front door. If Conor’s condition had worsened during the night she wanted to be the first to know.

  Father Peter, however, was beaming sweetly, his small, thin face alight with pleasure.

  ‘Ah, Brehon,’ he said. ‘Could you tell the king that his son is very well this mor
ning.? He woke with no fever and he even talks of going out and walking by the seashore today.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Mara sincerely. ‘I even feared you were coming to tell the news of his death.’

  ‘No, no,’ Father Peter seemed genuinely shocked. ‘Who is talking of death? We’ve had a few setbacks during the last few days, that’s true, but it is understandable. A week ago I would have said that he would definitely live. He was putting on weight, regaining his strength. But, with the help of God, this is just a temporary business. He’s had a few shocks, but I’ll get him back to health again. With the wasting sickness, it’s just a matter of giving the patient time, good food, good air and rest. This is all very bad for him. The sooner it is all solved, Brehon, the better for everyone.’

  What will happen, though, if he finds out that his wife has left him for a young priest? wondered Mara. She cast a quick glance around. Patrick, seeing her occupied, changed direction and was now making for the stables. After he passed, the monks working in the cloisters had moved closer as if sharing a conversation. A couple of lay brothers, engaged in sweeping the paths, had heads together while the brooms stayed idle in their hands. When they saw her glance over at them, they took up work again, but she could guess what they were gossiping about. Soon everyone would know that Ellice had left the abbey in the company of Father Denis. Would there be any way of protecting Conor from the news?

  ‘The tánaiste’s wife has gone for a ride but when she has returned she will be delighted to hear that news,’ she said, looking at the small monk intently.

  ‘Gone?’ Father Peter’s thin lips puckered on the word, showing the toothless gums behind, but his voice was barely audible. A slight frown appeared between his brows and his sharp grey eyes looked a question at Mara and she nodded slightly.

  ‘The king and I are about to set off to meet her,’ she said, allowing her clear voice to rise and reach listening ears.

  Father Peter nodded solemnly. ‘The tánaiste and I might come and meet you on the way back,’ he said, raising his gentle old voice. ‘Perhaps not too far! Let us know when you are on your way back. When you get near you could send the boy.’ He beamed at Shane who had emerged, dressed for the journey, and was making his way towards the stables.

  Fachtnan was already holding Mara’s horse by the time they made their way to the stables. Turlough took the reins from him and assisted Mara into the saddle.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t think I could cope with all these things if you were not by my side. Why don’t we just leave the lot of them, ride away and spend Christmas at Cahermacnaghten?’

  ‘Let’s get this matter uncoiled first,’ said Mara lightly. He was not in earnest; she knew that. This murder had to be solved; it was not in his nature, no more than in hers, to shirk a duty.

  ‘Which way do we turn at the bottom of the road, Brehon?’ Shane’s clear, joyous voice came back to them as they started to ride through the gate.

  ‘Turn right,’ called Mara. Left just led to the small harbour at Béal an Chloga; right would bring them on to Cleric’s Pass and then, down the steep hill, on to the road to Galway.

  Shane and Fachtnan were still waiting, though, when they reached the bottom of the road that led out from the abbey gates.

  ‘There are some horses coming from the left, riding fast, Brehon,’ said Fachtnan as they drew near. ‘I thought we should wait to see who they are. Here they are now, coming around the corner.’

  ‘It’s that party of lay brothers that I saw setting out a while ago,’ said Mara in an undertone to Turlough. ‘They’ve given up the chase quickly. And why did they take that road?’

  The brothers were riding slowly, the foremost one with a long length of coiled rope clearly visible from his satchel. The abbot had thought quickly. Once surrounded, Father Denis could have been tied up and taken to Galway. There would be no mercy now for this son who had betrayed him and stolen from him.

  ‘They look as if they’ve lost the scent,’ observed Turlough.

  ‘Strange,’ observed Mara. ‘The abbot won’t be too pleased with them if they return so quickly without their quarry.’

  ‘Any sign of them?’ she asked crisply as they drew near to her. They looked startled and glanced from one to the other, but, impressed by the note of authority, the brother with the rope nodded his head and then shook it.

  ‘We’ve seen them, Brehon,’ he said. ‘But it’s no good. We were too late.’

  Mara frowned and he hastened to add: ‘They’ve taken a boat, Brehon. They were already out on the sea by the time we saw them.’

  ‘We saw the boat from the top of the hill and we could see two horses in it.’

  ‘We went right down to the harbour to be certain.’

  ‘It was no good. That east wind was taking them out quickly.’

  Now everyone was trying to speak; doubtless, they felt their story for the abbot could do with a preliminary rehearsal.

  Fachtnan licked his finger and held it up. ‘A north-easterly wind, now,’ he said.

  ‘They’ll never get to Galway against a wind like that,’ said Shane. ‘What do you think, Father?’

  Patrick nodded. ‘Even on a lake it would be hard to make progress against a headwind like that; with a heavy sea running like it is today, it will be nearly impossible.’

  ‘I know whose boat they have taken.’ A young brother who had not previously spoken took up the tale. ‘That boat belongs to Tearlach, you know, the son of big Séan.’ He turned to the brother with the rope who nodded knowingly.

  ‘This Tearlach is a druth, a half-wit, Brehon. I wondered who would be mad enough to take a boat out in a sea like this.’

  ‘They may be driven back on to the shore, Brehon,’ said Fachtnan thoughtfully. ‘Would it be worth riding towards the sea and looking for a likely spot?’

  ‘That’s worth a try.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the thing to do.’

  ‘We’ll come with you.’

  ‘They’ll probably come ashore at Baile Bheachtain.’

  All the voices were enthusiastic. No doubt this was a welcome break for these hard-working lay brothers. Also, it saved them from the abbot’s wrath if they returned so early with only failure to report.

  ‘They couldn’t be thinking of going to the Aran Islands, could they?’ asked Mara as they set off riding behind the lay brothers and the two boys.

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Turlough. ‘After all, Aran is mine. I don’t think anyone would shelter them there. No, they will be going to Galway; that’s out of my jurisdiction.’

  ‘He may have arranged the boat yesterday when the wind was slack, and then, this morning, he did not want to change his plans. He probably prevailed on this unfortunate Tearlach to take him,’ said Patrick shrewdly.

  ‘And, of course, Father Denis is from east Galway; he would not know too much about the sea.’

  ‘And the girl is quite reckless,’ said Turlough. There was a note of affection in his voice and Mara turned to him with an indulgent smile. He was such a kind man, she thought, so very different from his cousin, the abbot. She wondered whether there had been an agreement between the abbot and his son. You put no obstacle in the way of my becoming abbot of Knockmoy and I will disappear before your important visitor from Tintern Abbey arrives, he might have said. Or even: help me to achieve my ambition and I will not get in the way of your ambition. Like father, like son, she thought.

  They could see the boat clearly when they reached the harbour. It was a solid, heavily made wooden boat, what they called a Galway hooker. It was built for heavy seas: clinker built, and well painted. It had room for three sails, a main sail and two fore sails, but only one of them bore canvas.

  ‘Druth or no druth he’s handling that boat well,’ said Fachtnan appreciatively. ‘He’s doing the right thing; isn’t he, Cumhal?’ he called back. ‘He’s heading into the waves, not letting them hit him broadside.’ Cumhal had taught all the boys to sail in the choppy Atl
antic waters between Doolin and the Aran Islands, so he was an authority on all things to do with boats for the law scholars of Cahermacnaghten.

  Mara glanced back at her farm manager now and saw him shake his head ominously.

  ‘He’s doing his best,’ he grunted, ‘but no boat is going to last too long on a sea like that. His only hope is to head for the shore as soon as possible. He can’t possibly make Galway.’

  ‘Wind’s shifting,’ said Fachtnan, holding up a wet finger. ‘What do you think, Cumhal? It’s going around to the north again, isn’t it?’

  Everyone drew to a halt and all eyes were now on Cumhal, who moved his face around thoughtfully. ‘North-north-east,’ he said eventually. ‘Now’s his chance. If he turns his boat towards Drumcreehy Bay now they might all escape with their lives.’

  Could anyone escape from a sea like that? thought Mara. There were clouds of breaking white spray over the rocks at Black Head point; the sea was a dark green and churning like yeast moving in a beer cask and the thunder of the waves on the shore below almost deafened them.

  A sudden gust of wind had ripped the sail and only left tattered ribbons fluttering from the mast. Now the sea lashed the boat unmercifully. It was moving backwards and each giant wave, mountain-high, lifted it up, carried it to the pinnacle and then cast it down into a trough. The air was clear, with that strange yellow light that comes just before a storm, and Mara could just make out the figure of Ellice standing beside the two horses that were tied to the side of the small cabin. No doubt the animals were maddened by fear and Ellice was trying to soothe them. Turlough had said that she was a great horsewoman. Mara breathed a quick prayer for the girl’s survival from this terrible adventure.

  ‘Let’s go down to the bay,’ she said, and signalled when she saw that her words had not reached them.