Writ in Stone (21 page)

‘You’re probably right,’ agreed Banna, indifferent to the claims of her erring husband. ‘Though I’d say that the chances would be that Teige would have been elected king and then young Donal would have been the
tánaiste
.’

Interesting, thought Mara, more amused than shocked at the casual way that these two middle-aged matrons discussed the death of their king. Would Conor really have been rejected? And if so, would Murrough, rather than the easy-going Teige, have been elected?

‘I’ll tell you something else . . .’ whispered Ciara and then stopped abruptly as the parlour door was opened and the unassuming figure of Fachtnan appeared. Every eye immediately turned to him and all conversations ceased.

‘Would you come in now,
ban tighernae
?’ he said, looking over at Banna and Ciara. Both rose to their feet and then Banna sank down again as Ciara swept past her. Of course, Banna was no longer to be addressed as
ban tighernae
: that title ceased at the death of her husband.

The parlour was very silent for a few moments after she had gone. Mara looked around. Had anyone overheard that conversation between Ciara and Banna, she wondered. She thought not. Murrough was the nearest as he stood leaning on the mantelpiece over the fireplace, his face imperturbable and his mouth curved in a mocking smile as he surveyed the huddled figures around him. He might have heard, she decided; his smile seemed to show that he had not thought much of the surmising. She gazed at him speculatively and he turned and faced her with his eyebrows raised interrogatively. She lowered her eyes, but under her eyelashes she saw him leave the fireplace and cross the room to join Ardal and Frann by the window.

So what was the solution to this mystery? A small number of people, all within the one enclave: this should be an easy crime to solve. And yet her mind had gone through all the evidence, again and again, but without a solution. Deliberately she shut her eyes quite tightly, this time. In her mind she imagined names written in black charcoal on the whitewashed wall of the schoolhouse at Cahermacnaghten. Each name had a large black question mark beside it. Suddenly Mara seemed to see her way clearly. She stayed very still and then, one by one through her closed eyelids, she could see the names being wiped off the wall by the damp sponge that she kept on the window ledge beside it; soon only one name would remain and then she would know the truth. She remembered Father Peter’s words. ‘
The truth will come to you
,’ he had said
.
‘
Trust to God; He will open your eyes.
’ He had looked at her keenly and then added
:
‘
Your mind may already hold the key and some word, some sign, will reveal all to you.
’ A wise man, thought Mara. He had the wisdom that sometimes comes from a life of self-sacrifice and prayer. And he was correct; the truth had been there all the time, right at the back of her mind.

‘Ah, Brehon, I hope you have been looked after. I’ve just been talking with the Brehon from Tyrone, telling him all the details of this terrible affair.’ The abbot was looking pleased with himself, she thought, as she opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at him. No doubt Patrick had handled him carefully and Fachtnan, always a boy of great tact, would have played the role of silent, young assistant very carefully.

‘The Brehon decided to take the kitchen for the private conversations – does that suit you?’ he continued. ‘He would like to speak to Father Denis now.’ He raised an imperious finger and Father Denis hastened to leave the room. His young, narrowly handsome face looked tense, thought Mara, stealing a quick look at him while the abbot’s unfriendly eyes were on his son. She moved up the bench, hospitably leaving room for the abbot near to the fire. He took his seat gratefully and stretched his long thin fingers out to the fire. The kitchen was probably chillier than this room and he seemed to luxuriate in the heat for a moment before adding: ‘Do you wish to join him?’

‘No, no,’ Mara knew she sounded sleepy and relaxed. There was a question that she needed to ask and she thought now was the moment that she could insert it without too much significance attached.

‘So was Turlough embarrassed when he told you that he had changed his mind about taking the first hour of the vigil?’ She allowed a slight tinge of amusement to colour her voice and, listening to her question critically, she thought it sounded the right note.

The abbot smiled in return. ‘I don’t think he wanted to tell me himself – perhaps he had a little too much to drink that night. He left it to his cousin to tell me.’ His voice was indulgent – a man without faults making an allowance for a man with many.

‘Mahon, your brother?’ queried Mara.

‘No, no, it was Teige who came to me with the message from the king. I must say that I was a little upset. I asked Teige whether he could take the king’s place. He laughed it off; he said that he intended to sleep until ten in the morning,’ explained the abbot, a slight crease of annoyance deepening between his brows. ‘I asked him to tell the king that I felt that he should honour his promise given before so many witnesses. I did not receive a message back, but then I thought that I should ensure that someone was there in case the king defaulted. So I sent a note to Mahon. I thought it was the least he could do.’ For a moment his face darkened and then he made a perfunctory sign of the cross on his breast and added: ‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul.’

‘I see,’ said Mara thoughtfully. She decided not to question the abbot about why he felt his brother owed him a favour. She had heard Father Peter’s evidence about the quarrel between the brothers and Frann had corroborated that. There was a knock at the door and she rose to her feet.

‘That will be Teige with Ellice,’ she said. ‘I’ll let them in; don’t disturb yourself. You’ve had a hard day,’ she added solicitously and he looked back up at her gratefully.

Ellice was alone when Mara opened the door to her. She appeared white-faced and uneasy.

‘Here, let me take your cloak. You shouldn’t have come out on that wet ground in such thin shoes. And look at your hair; it’s all wet. You should have put up the hood of your mantle,’ she scolded, drawing the girl inside and warming the icy young hands within her own. The motherliness wasn’t feigned; by the light of the torch on the wall of the small entrance hall to the abbot’s house Mara could see the depth of unhappiness and almost desperation in the thin young face and the black eyes seemed filled with misery. There was no doubt that the girl was suffering.

‘I’m all right.’ Ellice gave her usual shrug.

‘You must look after yourself. We can’t have you falling ill as well. And you had no cloak on either when you went out to fetch something for Conor while your servants were at vespers, did you?’ Mara moved slightly so that the full torchlight was on Ellice. She watched carefully, but there was nothing but bewilderment to be seen.

‘I didn’t go out then, Brehon,’ she said in a puzzled tone. ‘I stayed with Conor the whole time. Why do you think that I went out?’ Suddenly she caught her breath. ‘I know what it is. Someone is trying to put the blame on to me. You don’t think that I had anything to do with that stone crashing down, do you?’

Mara said nothing. The tone sounded genuinely surprised, but Mara did not respond. She had learned the value of silence when interrogating. Sooner or later, the guilty person usually said too much.

‘Who is it who is supposed to have seen me?’ Now Ellice’s tone was aggressive. ‘Whoever they were, they must be lying.’ She faced Mara angrily. And yet, thought Mara, there is something feigned about that anger. Somehow there was a shadow of guilt over the girl. But was it guilt because she was betraying her sick husband and allowing another man to court her, and perhaps make love to her? Or was there perhaps a graver reason for this guilt? In either case, there was no point in prolonging the conversation. She would get no more out of Ellice. From outside came the sound of heavy footsteps and then a tap at the door. That would be Teige who had probably lingered to have a word with his cousin.

‘Ellice, you go into the abbot’s parlour,’ she said. ‘My assistant and the Brehon from Tyrone are taking notes about each person’s movements during the day. They’ll call you when they are ready for you. Father Denis is in there at the moment.’ She watched the girl’s thin face colour up and the dark eyes cloud over at that name. With desire? With fear? Mara wasn’t sure but she knew that Fachtnan would be careful and methodical in his fact-finding and Patrick would ask any question that he missed. Ellice could be safely left to them. She waited until the parlour door closed before opening the outside door and saying softly: ‘Did you see Turlough, Teige?’

Teige shook his head. A genial, happy man, she thought. His wife, Ciara, was genuinely fond of him and he appeared to idolize all of his children, though, of course, young Donal was the favourite. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said, ‘but you need not worry about him. His bodyguards are keeping an excellent watch at the Royal Lodge. Fergus was at the window of the king’s room when I passed the Royal Lodge, I could see his shadow through the gap in the shutters, and Conall was marching up and down outside. I saw your own servant, Cumhal, looking out of the kitchen window when I knocked on the door of the guest house.’

‘And Conor?’ she asked. ‘How is he?’

‘Not too well, poor lad,’ he said. ‘He was sleeping, but he was as white as snow. I think,’ he said echoing his wife’s words, ‘that Turlough will have to face the possibility that a sick boy like that cannot be
tánaiste –
even if he lives for a while longer, he’s just not suitable.’

‘So it may be that the king will have to call a meeting to elect a new
tánaiste
, in the New Year.’ Mara sounded thoughtful. ‘Do you think that, now Murrough has come back, he will be the choice of the clan?’

His face darkened with anger. ‘Never,’ he said emphatically. ‘I’m not saying that because I would hope to be king myself. What good would it be to me to be king? Turlough and I are the same age. The chances are that I will die before him, or not long after him. All the same I would hate to see the O’Briens ruled by a man like Murrough.’

Mara nodded in a satisfied way. He had told her what she wanted to know. ‘Do you know whether Murrough has been interviewed?’

‘He was the first,’ said Teige shortly. His tone was harsh. Did he dislike his cousin’s younger son because of former wrongdoing, or was it because of a certain rivalry for the position of
tánaiste?

‘In that case, I think I’ll take Murrough over to his father now. Hand me that torch, Teige. It’s quite dark out there and there are patches of ice everywhere.’

‘Take care,’ he said uncomfortably. He turned and lifted a pitch torch from its stone socket on the wall and handed it to her carefully. For a moment he looked as if he was going to say more, but then he just repeated the words and by the fierce light of the flaring pine pitch she could see how a worried frown pulled his heavy brows together before he turned to open the parlour door.

‘Murrough, come here,’ he said roughly. ‘The Brehon wishes to speak to you.’

Ardal, to Mara’s amusement, had retreated and now Murrough had been left in full possession of the lovely Frann. Despite the disapproving presence of the abbot by the fireside, the two at the window were enjoying themselves. He was whispering something into her ear. Her scarlet mouth was curved into a broad smile and her green-blue eyes shone with youth, vitality and a joy of living.

Murrough took time to whisper something else, which elicited a delightful chuckle from Frann, before he obeyed his cousin’s command. Frann looked after him regretfully as he strode across the room looking handsome and alert, his short red cloak swinging from his broad shoulder and contrasting well with his green, tight-fitting hose. There was no doubt that he was a fine figure of a man.

He was everything that a father could want in a son, thought Mara. He had charm, good looks, fine physique, brains, good health – he had everything, except the most necessary thing of all. He lacked integrity. She shared Teige’s feeling, no, Murrough would not be a good choice for
tánaiste
, but would Turlough agree to anything else? Somehow in his grief for his sick son, the faults of the other son were being overlooked.

‘My lady judge,’ he greeted her with his usual charm. ‘How very well you are looking! I must say that purple gown so suits you.’

‘I was thinking that you and I should have a quick chat before we go across to see your father; it is only right that you should know my feelings and that you should hear what I wish to say to your father about you,’ said Mara, firmly, reaching up for her mantle as she spoke.

‘Allow me.’ He was quick and adroit and obviously schooled in courtly manners. He took her mantle from its peg and arranged it solicitously around her shoulders. He had the front door of the abbot’s house open in a second and was bowing gracefully to her as she passed through.

‘I meant what I said, you know,’ he said as soon as they had started to walk beneath the cloisters’ roof. The grass of the central garth was now soaking wet and it seemed easier to walk all the way around the square in front of the chapter house, monks’ dormitory and abbot’s house on the east side and the refectory and the kitchen on the north side.

‘Meant what?’ She turned a preoccupied eye on him, holding the torch aloft. All her thoughts were on the interview ahead. What would Turlough say? More importantly, would she wound him by her words?

‘How beautiful you are looking?’ he said with a smile. ‘In fact, as you were sitting by the fire there with the abbot, I was just imagining you on your wedding day with your husband, what was his name?’ He pretended to think for a moment while she watched him with amusement. ‘What was his name? D . . . D . . . something . . . Dualta, wasn’t it?’

‘Your memory is getting poor,’ she said with a grim smile, walking on ahead of him. ‘You knew the name well enough this morning when you were writing that letter to the abbot.’