Writ in Stone (12 page)

‘Father Peter,’ said Turlough happily. ‘Come in and join us. Have a cup of wine.’

‘No, my lord, wine is not for me,’ said Father Peter demurely. ‘I came to say that your son, the
tánaiste
, is awake and asking to see you.’

‘How is Conor?’ asked Turlough, the cheerful look fading from his face.

‘He has some fever,’ said Father Peter compassionately, ‘but, lord, don’t trouble yourself too much about that. The fever will help the body to fight the sickness. Will I tell him that you will come when you have finished your meal?’

‘We have finished now,’ said Turlough rising to his feet. Mara instantly rose also and slipped an arm through his. How long could Conor’s frail body last while those constant fevers racked it, she wondered as they went through the door and out into the cloister.

Eight

(Judgements of Trapping)

Outside, the air was still cold but the wind had died down and there was a hint of softness in the air. A pale watery gleam of sunshine streaked across the snow-covered heights of Gleninagh, casting blue shadows that deepened the divisions between the terraces so that the whole hill looked like the rampart-girded
dún
of some ancient legend. The buildings that walled the cloister had lost their patches of snow and now showed smoothly and severely grey against the white carpet of the enclosure. There was no one there, but as they passed under the archway beneath the lay dormitories, they saw an animated scene.

A large target of alderwood, covered with coils of twisted straw rope, had been set up at the north side on the garth, the ground between the guest houses and the church. One by one the monks were running up, snatching up a bow from the pile on the ground, fitting an arrow and aiming at the target. Then each would run to retrieve his arrow and another would take up the bow. It was a busy and cheerful sight with the young monks flushed with excitement and pleasure and even the abbot was indulgently smiling in the background.

‘Donogh was a great man with the bow when we were young,’ said Turlough in Mara’s ear. ‘Just you watch now. Abbot or no abbot, he’ll find an opportunity to show off his skill.’

‘Let’s see if he’s passed it on,’ said Mara quietly, watching Father Denis as he came to the top of the queue. He picked up the bow but then turned and bowed towards Ellice who was standing beside Murrough.

‘You’ll honour us, my lady,’ he said. His voice was smooth and respectful, but nevertheless it held a hint of intimacy.

A shadow passed over the abbot’s face but Ellice came forward eagerly, almost pushing Murrough aside. Father Denis handed the bow to her, standing very close to her shoulder as she lifted it and stretched back the bowstring.

‘I’ll tighten it,’ he said. ‘You like a taut bow.’

He was unnecessarily near to her, thought Mara, wondering at the effrontery of the man. After a minute’s hesitation the abbot stepped forward and stood beside her also, but she impatiently took a step away from him and turned back to Father Denis.

‘That’s just right,’ she said. ‘Give me the arrow.’

He picked it up and handed it to her with a smile. She laid the bow to her shoulder, fitted the arrow and then, almost carelessly, let fly. The arrow shot through the air and with a soft thud, landed almost directly in the centre of the target.

‘Now see if you can beat that, Denis,’ she said triumphantly, gazing teasingly at Father Denis.

There was a look of distaste on Turlough’s face and Mara acted swiftly. This girl, the king’s daughter-in-law, was flirting openly with a priest while her husband lay dying within the guest house. It was time to put a stop to this.

‘Father Abbot,’ she called. ‘I hear you are a great shot. Let’s see if you can get nearer to the centre.’

The abbot took the bow from Ellice’s hand with a deprecating look and spent a long time adjusting the string to his taste. Father Denis submissively stepped back into the line of monks and Ellice’s eyes followed him. A young monk handed the abbot an arrow and he fitted it to the notch and raised the bow. The arrow flew with deadly accuracy and hit the target in the exact centre.

‘A lucky shot,’ said the abbot modestly. He held out the bow towards Turlough.

‘My lord?’ he queried. Turlough shook his head.

‘Conor is unwell,’ he said quietly, with a glance at Ellice, who averted her gaze. ‘I must go to him.’

There was a cold damp feeling even in this sheltered place, thought Mara as they turned away. The air was no longer crisp and clear and dimpled slabs of snow, like fat white pancakes, slid down the stone slates of the church roof and collapsed into heaps of slush in the brimming lead gutters.

Mara had felt the west wind in her face as they came through the archway into the garth in front of the guest houses. The thaw had begun. Soon the snowfall, which had blocked roads and mountain passes, would be just a memory to be discussed over and over again, but possibly not to be repeated in the lifetime of many.

‘Should Ellice come with us?’ she asked tentatively.

‘No, no, let her enjoy herself.’ Turlough’s momentary irritation had vanished. ‘She’s a great shot,’ he said indulgently. ‘She amuses herself shooting birds around the abbey grounds.’

‘And what does the abbot think of that?’ asked Mara with interest. Even from the king’s daughter-in-law this seemed to be rather presumptuous behaviour.

‘Oh, he’s probably quite pleased as she always brings it to the kitchen and then he has it for his supper; one bird would not go far among fifty monks, but it does very nicely for one man. He’s a man who likes to feed well, in private, I’d say.’ Turlough dropped his voice slightly but from the amused glance that Father Peter threw over his shoulder the king was obviously clearly audible to him.

At the door to the guest house, Mara stopped for an instant. There was a loud hammering coming from the church. Everyone else stopped also. The monk running back with an arrow froze for a moment, his head turned towards the church, and even Murrough lowered the bow that he had just lifted and Teige O’Brien made the sign of the cross.

‘They’re opening the vault,’ said Turlough in her ear. ‘They seal it up after each burial and then hammer the mortar out when a new one has to take place. The last person to be buried there was Teige’s brother.’

Mara nodded. Soon Mahon O’Brien’s body would be placed there, but the killer was still at large and she had not yet even made up her mind as to who was the intended victim. Something nagged at the back of her mind. Some sentence uttered carelessly but bearing some significance. What was it?

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Turlough.

‘Nothing,’ she said and tucked her hand inside his arm with a quick glance behind to see that the two bodyguards were still in attendance. Until she could solve this case, then Turlough’s life might be in danger.

Conor’s room smelled of sweat. Conor himself was obviously in a high fever, his face flushed and his blue eyes large and empty of expression. He should never have gone out this morning into the icy snow. Ellice ought to have prevented him, thought Mara. Unless, of course, she was tired of this sick husband and wanted it all to be over as soon as possible.

‘Where is he, where is he?’ he was muttering. Father Peter came to the bedside and placed a cold hand on his forehead. It seemed to quieten Conor for a moment, but then the feverish mutterings broke out again. ‘I must see him, I must tell him.’

‘This is terrible,’ said Turlough, his voice broken. ‘I can’t bear to see him suffer like this. Can’t you give him something?’

‘There’s something worrying him, fretting him,’ said Father Peter. ‘He won’t rest until he gets it off his mind; he wanders, but then he comes back to himself and he knows what he is saying. He asked for you a few minutes ago.’

Turlough lowered his bulk to kneel beside his son. He reached out and took the emaciated hand within his large brown fist. Mara could see how he squeezed it as if he tried by this means to force some of his own life and energy into Conor’s veins. Conor shifted uncomfortably. The grip was too tight and Mara was about to whisper to the king when she noticed that the delirious sounds had ceased and that Conor’s large blue eyes, fixed on his father’s face, were now lucid.

‘I didn’t want anything to happen to you . . .’ he said and his voice was so weak that the words were barely audible.

‘No, no, no,’ said Turlough distressed. ‘Of course you didn’t.’

‘Ellice . . .’ Here Conor was interrupted by a bout of coughing. Father Peter slipped around to the other side of the bed and lifted him slightly, massaging his back. Mara came around and plumped up the pillows, keeping them in place while Father Peter lowered Conor back on to them. He coughed strongly once again and then looked back at the face so close to his own. His eyes were still clear. It was obvious that he knew his father.

‘She wants me to be king, and young Donough after me,’ he said.

‘Of course she does,’ said Turlough soothingly. ‘Yes, of course she does. That’s only natural. And so you will, too, please God.’

‘She says . . .’ the young voice was faint, just a frail sighing sound but it was perfectly audible. ‘She says . . . I won’t live to be king, she says, unless you die soon . . .’ His voice strengthened a little and the words came out quite clearly: ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with . . .’

And then, quite suddenly, his eyes shut and his head slumped on the pillow. Mara bent over him. For a moment she feared that he had died, but he was breathing softly but naturally. She placed her hand on his forehead. He seemed a little cooler.

‘Poor lad, poor lad,’ growled Turlough. His eyes were brimming with tears. He strode over to the window, opening the curtains and slipping inside them.

Mara got to her feet. Her gaze met Father Peter’s shrewd grey eyes and she found her own apprehensions mirrored in his.

‘Have a care to the king,’ he murmured.

Mara nodded and looked across to the two bodyguards. Conall was lost in thought, but Fergal was wide-eyed and startled. He had obviously heard Father Peter’s words and perhaps the words of the king’s son also. Hesitantly he moved across and joined the king at the window. Mara followed him.

Turlough had opened the shutters a little and was leaning out taking great gulps of the icy air. Conor and Ellice’s room was in a quiet place for the invalid at the back of the building and the view stretched for miles over the valley right as far as the Aillwee Mountain. Mara had little fear for Turlough’s safety at that window. The threat was from within the abbey, not from outside. Conor had relieved his mind, but now the weight was on her shoulders. Conor, himself, she ruled out instantly. He was as weak as a newborn kitten and had always been an amiable, if rather colourless, boy. His wife was a different matter, though. She was strong and healthy. She had pulled that bow as well as any of the men. A great horsewoman, too, according to the king; her muscles would have been toned by hours of riding; there was no doubt that she had the ability to swing a mason’s hammer. But would she have done it?

‘Come, my lord,’ said Mara, tucking her arm inside the king’s. She closed the shutters again and led him gently away. ‘Let us leave your son to Father Peter’s care. He is sleeping soundly now and that will help to break the fever.’

Although the snow on the ground and the roofs was melting fast, the white light from the heaped-up piles to the side of the paths dazzled them for a moment as they came out from the darkness of the guest house. Mara put up her hand to shield her eyes. The monks had gone; their hour of fun and recreation must be over. Only Murrough and Ellice were left shooting at the target. Through the archway to the cloister, Mara could see the abbot, with Father Denis, pacing up and down, deep in conversation. Mara focussed her eyes on the face of Father Denis. How did he feel to watch Ellice laughing uproariously with another man? And then suddenly she felt herself thrust violently aside.

‘
Dá n-ó pill fort!
’ swore Fergal, throwing himself across the body of his king.

Ellice, still laughing, had swung her bow around and was pointing the arrow directly at the king’s heart.

‘Take care!’ shouted Mara angrily.

‘All right, Fergal,’ grunted Turlough, disentangling himself with an uncertain glance at his daughter-in-law.

‘Only a joke,’ she said merrily. Without hesitation she loosed the arrow from her bow and it landed directly in the very centre of the target.

She’s a superb shot and as fast as lightning, thought Mara. I hardly saw her turn; certainly she took no time to aim, and yet the arrow was as placed as precisely as possible.

‘Not a good joke, Ellice,’ she said loudly and clearly and saw the abbot stop at the sound of her voice and then come hastening through the stone archway followed by the young priest.

‘Who taught you to shoot, Ellice?’ continued Mara in the tone of voice which would warn her scholars that the matter was serious.

‘The abbot,’ said Ellice sulkily. Murrough looked from one to the other, his mouth curved in an amused smile.

‘I’m sure, Father Abbot,’ Mara turned sharply towards the grey-cloaked figure, ‘I’m sure that you told your pupil never to aim an arrow at a living person. Now, I suggest that the target, the bows and the arrows be put away; the brothers have finished their recreation.’

‘I must go and see to my horse,’ said Father Denis smoothly. ‘I need to get back to Galway and I think I will find the roads easy to travel by tomorrow now that the thaw has come. My lord, you will excuse me,’ he bowed politely in Turlough’s direction. ‘My lady,’ another bow in Mara’s direction and then he was gone, striding across the slush towards the stables on the south side of the enclosure.’