Writ in Stone (15 page)

The outer door was unlatched and then shut with great caution. Someone had come in and was stealing past the parlour, up the steps towards Banna’s room. Mara waited quietly. She was curious. At first she presumed that it was Banna’s maid, but those footsteps, quiet though they were, sounded far too heavy for the girl.

The footsteps passed Banna’s door, stepping gingerly, and then proceeded to steal up the next set of steps. Mara stayed very still, confident that the dark grey of her cloak kept her hidden against Frann’s door. It was a man, and a tall man; she could just see his shape outlined against the dim light. But which man was visiting Frann with such secret care? He came on, right up to the second storey landing, and paused. In the darkness, Mara could hear his breathing.

And then the outer door was pushed wide open and Murrough entered, shut it behind him and, without a glance upwards, noisily tramped his way into the parlour. That one minute of light had been enough, though. Mara had identified the figure.

‘I’m sorry, Ardal,’ she said courteously. ‘You’ve been waiting for me, probably. I just wanted to see Frann for a minute. Shall we go down together?’

‘No need to apologise, Brehon; no arrangement had been made. I merely came over to see whether I could assist you in any way.’ Ardal’s voice, after the first few seconds of silence, sounded unperturbed.

‘It’s dark, isn’t it. I was just thinking of going back to borrow a candle from Frann.’ Without waiting for an answer, Mara pushed open the door. Frann was now on her knees before the chest, taking out a gown and spreading it on the bed. Her hand was lovingly stroking the blue-green velvet and she looked up in a startled way. Mara stood slightly to one side to allow the girl to see the figure of Ardal O’Lochlainn.

‘Could I just borrow a candle, Frann?’

Mara’s voice was easy, but her eyes went quickly from the girl’s face to Ardal. There was no doubt in her mind. Frann looked at Ardal in the way that a woman looks at a lover. Ardal had quickly averted his eyes and looked at the floor while Frann, with pretty grace, bent down and lit a spare candle from the brazier and politely turned the handle of the holder towards Mara.

‘Thank you, Frann; we’ll leave it on the window ledge by the door.’

And, yes, indeed, my dear, you will look very sweet in that green gown, she thought, as she went down the stairs, following Ardal who politely held the candle high.

And there is no doubt that he is a very handsome and desirable man
, her thoughts continued as she waited while he opened the door for her. Tall, lean and athletic with those intensely blue eyes and his red-gold crown of hair, Ardal would be attractive to anyone. Lovemaking with him would be rather more fun than with the solid, boring Mahon.
You can do what you like, my pretty little Frann, as long as no murder is involved
, she thought, waiting while Ardal carefully blew out the candle and placed it on the window ledge.

‘You’ve known Frann before, then.’ Mara often found it best to make a quick statement rather than asking a question and it worked this time. Ardal turned a startled face at her, shut the outer door with less care than he had opened it and then after a few seconds for reflection, said guardedly, ‘Well, yes, I met her some months ago, in the summer.’

‘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 Cét
s 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

(On the Confirmation of Right & Law)

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?’