Writ in Stone (7 page)

‘Yes, certainly, Brehon, would you like me to leave you alone with the abbot, then?’

Mara considered this for a moment and then shook her head. ‘No, if you don’t mind, Ardal. I would prefer you to stay.’ She considered trying to account for this, but then didn’t bother. Ardal would not feel that any explanation was due to him and she could hardly offer her real reason which was that she wanted to meet the abbot and discuss the murder with him without any of the feelings of awkwardness about his decision not to marry her which might occur if they were alone together.

The abbot looked ill at ease when he arrived. Mara watched him amusedly. She felt a certain satisfaction that he had obeyed her summons so promptly.

‘Ah, my lord abbot, I would like to discuss the security arrangements about your church.’ Her voice was cool and crisp and she could see him wince.

‘We rely on the protection of the Almighty God, Brehon,’ he said. He tried to make his voice sound as usual, but she was pleased to note an uncertain timbre to it.

‘And yet a man was murdered here in the church of God,’ she said mildly.

He bowed and did not reply and then she felt somewhat ashamed. After all, it was his own brother who had been killed and, although rumour said that there was not much love lost between them, nevertheless this must be a heavy blow. She hastened to put the meeting on a more amicable footing.

‘I will be glad of your help and your knowledge, my lord abbot; we need to use all the wisdom that God has given us to find out about this sad affair,’ she said portentously and he nodded.

‘First of all can I give you my heartfelt condolences on the death of your brother,’ she added politely.

This time he bowed and Mara thought that his face softened slightly. But still he said nothing and there was a wary alertness about the way that he looked at her.

‘Just one thing puzzles me a little, Father Abbot,’ she said carefully. ‘I understand that you sent a note to Mahon O’Brien telling him that Teige had brought a message saying that King Turlough had changed his mind about the early morning vigil. Is that correct?’

He considered this for a moment and then said stiffly: ‘That is correct.’

‘So why did you think that it was the king’s body that had been found?’

He was ready for this question. He had all the mental alertness of the O’Brien family. ‘I presumed that his own bodyguards would know the king,’ he said. ‘It would not be unknown for him to change his mind,’ he added triumphantly.

True enough, thought Mara. However, it was still strange. And there was no doubt that his eyes were uneasy. There was a tension within him as if he were a man under great strain. She glanced around. ‘Are all of these doors locked at night?’

The abbot shook his head. ‘Only the west door,’ he said. ‘The door to the night stairs that connects with the monks’ dormitory is left open for the night services, as is the door to the lay dormitory.’

‘What about the door to the cloister?’ Ardal asked. The abbot turned to him in a startled and slightly affronted way.

‘Of course,’ he said firmly. ‘That is the way that I would enter myself from my house.’

‘And the west door,’ queried Mara. ‘Would Mahon O’Brien have found that open when he crossed over from the guest house, or would he have had to ask for the key?’

‘I opened that myself, after the service of prime had finished.’

‘Did any of the men in the lay dormitory attend the service of prime, other than the lay brothers, I mean?’

The abbot shrugged. ‘I really could not tell you. My thoughts were on the service and my eyes were directed towards the altar.’

‘And did you open the west door before the monks departed or after?’

‘Before,’ he said. ‘The custom is that I leave the church first.’

So perhaps one man could have remained within the church, perhaps hidden behind one of the beautifully carved pillars, or perhaps have stolen in afterwards.

‘Ardal,’ she said aloud, ‘would you be kind enough to kneel over there in front of the tomb and pull your hood over your head.’ He did so without a word, neatly avoiding the body and the large stain of blood on the tiled floor, and Mara walked over to the cloisters’ door and from there to the door that led to the monks’ night stairs and the lay night stairs and lastly to the west door. From all doorways only a vague hooded shape could be seen. Certainly there would be nothing to distinguish the king from his cousin Mahon O’Brien in that dim light and from those angles.

‘Thank you, Ardal,’ she said aloud. She turned to the abbot. ‘Father Abbot, you may give orders for the body of your brother to be prepared for burial. The church may now be cleaned and purified. I have finished my business here. Will you come with me, Ardal? We’ll go across to the guest house now.’

Even though Mara had deliberately left the church by the west door – as far away as possible from the abbot’s parlour – the thunderous sound of Turlough’s voice came clearly to their ears as they crossed the trampled snow, through the guest house garth, on their way to the guest house.

‘What’s my marriage to do with you? How dare you . . .’

‘So it looks as if anyone could have got into the church this morning, Brehon,’ said Ardal hurriedly. He was obviously trying to cover up the king’s voice by starting a conversation. He would want to spare her the embarrassment of hearing herself discussed.

She smiled up at him, grateful for his sensitivity, though inwardly amused. Dear Ardal, always the soul of nobility!

‘That’s right, Ardal, at least anyone from the abbey,’ she said and then, hunting around to continue the conversation as Turlough’s voice rose and swelled like the sound of a stormy sea, she added, ‘Father Abbot didn’t get on that well with his brother Mahon O’Brien, I seem to remember. Do you know anything about that, Ardal?’ Ardal O’Lochlainn bred horses on the rich limestone land of the Burren and sold them in Galway. He had many friends among the merchants in Galway city and among the chieftains in the surrounding lands. He, if anyone, would know all about Mahon O’Brien.

‘Well, I think it was because of his son, the priest.’ Ardal glanced around nervously. He would be loath to offend the abbot, but with Turlough roaring like a bull there was no point in low voices.

‘Mahon’s son? I thought he had no children.’

‘No, the abbot’s son. It happened a long time ago when Father Abbot was a young monk. He wasn’t abbot, then, of course.’ Ardal’s voice was apologetic.

‘Of course,’ agreed Mara solemnly.

Well, well, well, she thought. The old hypocrite! Her spirits soared. Turlough will enjoy this, she thought. She herself did not care that much about the abbot’s decision not to marry them, but one glance at Turlough’s face had shown her the depth of his hurt feelings.

‘Come into the Royal Lodge, Ardal,’ she said, tucking her arm inside his. ‘We’ll go to the guest house in a minute, but I feel frozen and I’m sure that you are also. Brigid,’ she called as she opened the door, ‘could you bring some of your wonderful spiced ale into the parlour for myself and the O’Lochlainn.’

There was a gloriously warm fire blazing in the huge fireplace in the parlour. Mara shook the snow from her mantle and hung it up behind the door. Ardal did the same while she dragged two stools near to the warmth.

‘I’ve got a couple of my pies, too,’ said Brigid, coming almost instantly with the steaming cups and closely followed by her husband Cumhal bearing a platter of small pies.

‘I’ve been keeping these warm; I knew that you would be cold,’ she continued, putting the drinks on the stove and taking the pies from her husband.

After they had gone, Mara busied herself giving Ardal the cup and a pie. He was not a natural gossip, she knew, and she wondered how to get all the information without it sounding as if she were just curious.

‘It’s a very serious affair this, Ardal. I am very worried about the king’s safety. I need to know everything possible about the other people who were at the abbey last. So unless it would break any vow of silence I would like you to tell me all that you know about the abbot, his son, the priest, and the abbot’s relationship with his brother Mahon O’Brien,’ she said frankly, after a minute’s pause to pick the right words. If it had been anyone else, she thought, she would just say: ‘Oh, do tell,’ and then they would have a delicious gossip together.

Ardal swallowed a large gulp of the spiced ale, but when he spoke it was with no reluctance and his voice was calm and practical.

‘Father Denis is a man in his early thirties,’ he said. ‘Someone pointed him out to me last night and that’s what I would judge him to be. I hadn’t seen him since he was a boy.’

‘Last night!’ exclaimed Mara.

Ardal nodded. His face was set into serious lines, but his eyes looked worried. She resolved not to interrupt him again.

‘Yes, Father Denis is spending Christmas here at the abbey.’

With his holy father, the abbot, thought Mara, a bubble of laughter suppressed within her throat.

Ardal took a bite of his pie and then with a look of appreciation took another almost immediately. Mara sipped her ale and tried to look relaxed.

‘Yes, I would say that he is about thirty,’ continued Ardal. ‘It would be a young age for promotion, but Father Denis had hoped to become the abbot of Knockmoy since the former abbot was removed by the head of the Cistercian Order at the beginning of this month.’ He looked at her, inviting comment.

‘I see,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘And why was the former abbot removed?’

Ardal coughed with a slight air of embarrassment. ‘Apparently he was in the habit of having his hair washed by a woman.’

Mara nodded. She did not trust her voice to comment on this so she gazed steadily at the fire until the rising giggle had been stifled.

‘Anyway, the abbey of Knockmoy is within the territory of Mahon O’Brien.’

‘The uncle of Father Denis,’ commented Mara, her voice now under control.

‘Just so! However, Mahon O’Brien refused to back his application, in fact he declared his intention of reporting to Rome that Father Denis is the son of a professed priest and an unmarried woman and, as illegitimate, would be barred from such high office.’

‘I see,’ said Mara thoughtfully. Under Brehon law there was no such thing as illegitimacy; the only question was whether the father acknowledged the son. However, under Roman law and English law, the position, she knew, was quite different. ‘It does happen, though, doesn’t it?’ she queried. ‘I thought that there was something like this with the Bishop of Killaloe and his son who is an archdeacon.’

‘Oh, it happens,’ agreed Ardal, ‘as long as no one bothers Rome about it.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Mara. ‘A few sons here or there or a few wives for that matter, shouldn’t condemn a priest. It would make him more human,’ she added light-heartedly.

Ardal gave another one of his polite coughs and Mara returned to the subject. ‘So this Father Denis would have little reason to be fond of his uncle Mahon O’Brien.’

‘Little reason,’ confirmed Ardal.

‘And where did he stay last night, Ardal? Do you know?’

‘I think,’ said Ardal thoughtfully, ‘that he would have stayed last night at the abbot’s house.’

‘And so would have gone to church with him at prime,’ said Mara. But did he return to the abbot’s house once the service was finished, she wondered? She looked over at Ardal and wished that he were different. What she needed now was someone to debate possibilities, even to make wild guesses. She missed her law scholars. She normally discussed all her cases with them. By now they would all have been speculating freely and her mind would have taken sparks from theirs.

‘Ardal, you have been very good,’ she said decisively. ‘I wonder could I ask you to do two more things for me. Could you ask your cousin, Father Peter O’Lochlainn, to come and see me for a few minutes and then could you go over to the guest house and tell Banna that the abbot is having her husband’s body coffined and that I will be with her as soon as possible. I’m sorry to give you so many errands, Ardal.’

‘It’s a pleasure to serve you, Brehon.’ Ardal immediately rose to his feet and did not even give the platter of pies a second glance. As soon as the door closed behind him Mara went out to the kitchen.

‘Could you make some more spiced ale, Brigid, and perhaps heat a few more pies? Father Peter O’Lochlainn will be coming over in a few minutes and I’d like to give him something. I think these poor monks here have a hard life. They all look very thin, except for the abbot, of course,’ she added and Brigid rose to the bait immediately.

‘Oh, he’d look after himself all right,’ she sniffed. ‘One of my cousins used to work as a herdsman here and he said that it was always the best for the abbot. And him so holy!’

Brigid didn’t volunteer any information about Father Denis, noticed Mara. She would have if she had known. This was interesting. It meant that the news of the abbot’s son had not reached her and that surely meant that not many people knew of it. Certainly Turlough had never mentioned it. Brigid prided herself on knowing everything that went on in the kingdom of the Burren. The abbot must have been very careful and very discreet, and of course it was all a very long time ago. Probably, he had little to do with his son until fairly recently and he would have been announced to the monks as a distant relation, perhaps even a friend.

‘So you have twelve brothers here at the abbey and then with Father Abbot and you, the Prior, that makes fourteen monks that slept here last night,’ said Mara innocently.

Father Peter’s white thin face was flushed a rosy pink from the warm fire. He sipped slowly at his ale as if determined to make the exquisite pleasure last as long as possible and his toothless jaws chewed resolutely on the succulent pie. When he replied his voice was indistinct and he continued to mop up stray crumbs from his grey habit and slot them back into his mouth. Nevertheless the one-word answer was unmistakable.