No one obeyed him, though. The line of men stood solid and unyielding. They knew this shore, thought, Mara. This was the last opportunity to rescue anything alive out of that rampant sea.
‘That’s Tearlach’s father, one of the women has just told me,’ said Cumhal, pointing to the giant figure standing resolutely at the front of the gallant line.
From out at the edge of the bay the great breaker travelled towards them. It was about halfway in when, close on its heels, came another, so much higher that it seemed to look down upon the first. A cry rose up from the crowd on the beach as the two waves merged forming a foam-fringed monster that swept rapidly in towards the shore.
For a few minutes it seemed as if the air grew very quiet. No one spoke. The last wave had sucked out a channel from the shingle and retreated with a terrible roar. The line of roped men advanced in its track, step by step, into the yellow foam. Only the lay brothers, on the end of the line, were standing on the shoreline now. The fishermen were up to their necks in the surf frantically searching amongst pieces of broken wood.
And then the wave hit the boat. For a moment it seemed as if all would be well as the wave lifted the boat and seemed to bear it towards the beach. But then the vast green hillside of the monster wave met the smaller retreating wave, and this seemed to curl up its side. The boat twisted and spun, and then its mast disappeared. Its black keel appeared for a moment and then that, also, was lost beneath the swelling water. The line of men turned and scrambled for the shore, clawing their way up the shingle bank with a terrible urgency written on every face.
They were no sooner on the top of the bank than the monumental wave hit the beach with a sound louder than any clap of thunder. It seemed to gather breath for a second and then came the awful scouring, sucking noise as it clawed a channel of shingle back into the sea again. The men hesitated for a moment, but then, with no word spoken among them, they turned, ran back down the shingle and allowed themselves to be sucked back out into the seething cauldron of the ocean.
‘Brave fellows,’ shouted Turlough in Mara’s ear. He put both of his arms around her and she stood there, glad of the warmth of his body, but filled with horror at the terrible waste of life which now seemed certain to be the result of that silly, amorous adventure. Once again only the lay brothers, on the end of the line, were standing on the shoreline now. The fishermen were in the boiling sea searching desperately for any bodies that might come ashore. Every second or two their heads turned out to sea to watch the progress of the next wave.
And then just as they started to move back towards the safety of the shore again a great shout went up. The women on the beach redoubled their prayers and Mara strained her eyes, opening them as widely as she could. A bundle of clothing floated on the foam of the incoming wave. In a moment the last man on the rope snatched it up and then was towed to safety by the other strong arms pulling. Mara broke free from Turlough’s arms and ran down the beach. He was behind her, she knew, but in a minute Fachtnan and Shane overtook them both. By now they all knew who had been snatched out of the seething sea. The long mane of sodden black hair hung down the fisherman’s back before he put her on the beach into the arms of a waiting woman and turned back to the sea again.
Ellice was crying with heartbroken sobs and the woman was rocking her like a baby. She set the girl on her feet and urged her up the slope towards the fire, but Ellice resisted, turning her tearful face towards the sea.
‘We’d better get her back to the abbey,’ said Mara in Turlough’s ear, but her own eyes were fixed on the crashing, tossing waves and she could not turn them away.
‘You take her back.’ Turlough’s eyes, like her own, were locked on to that heroic line of men, advancing and retreating at the pace of the breakers, and he did not look at her, but after another agonizing, empty-handed retreat he added: ‘How could I ever call myself by the name of king if I turned my back now on that poor father searching for his unfortunate son.’
Sixteen
Heptad Thirty-Five
There are seven cases in which the shedding of blood does not require a fine.
1. No penalty is incurred by a man who kills in battle with an unfriendly clan
2. No penalty is incurred by a man who kills a captive from an unfriendly clan if his
tuáth
or clan refuses to ransom him
3. No penalty is incurred by a man who kills a thief who will not desist from the crime when challenged
4. No penalty is incurred by a man who kills when his own life or another’s is challenged
5. No penalty is incurred by a man who kills in battle someone from a friendly clan or
tuáth
whose identity was not known at the time
6. No penalty is incurred by a physician who kills if his action resulted from an honest effort to cure
7. No penalty is incurred by an insane man who kills if he is out of his mind at the time
‘I’m afraid news has come at last. He’s dead,’ said Mara, watching Ellice comb out her long, wet hair over the heat from the brazier in the bedroom in the Royal Lodge. They were alone. Ellice had changed her drenched clothing and was now wearing a borrowed gown of Mara’s. She seemed dazed and had not spoken a word since the ride back from the beach. Mara looked at her keenly and then repeated the statement.
Brigid, who had just whispered the news to her mistress, departed quickly leaving Mara alone with the girl.
‘Who’s dead?’ Ellice spoke almost mechanically. Her voice was toneless and the words were spoken without curiosity.
‘Father Denis,’ said Mara, and added quietly. ‘And the poor boy, Tearlach, he’s dead also.’
There was no flicker of emotion on Ellice’s face and she continued to comb her hair.
‘What was the plan?’ asked Mara.
‘What?’ Ellice sounded confused, almost as if the words did not make sense to her.
‘What had you planned to do, you and this Father Denis? Where were you going?’
‘Oh.’ Now Ellice turned to face her, but her dark brown eyes were still dull and unresponsive. ‘We were going back to Knockmoy. Now that Mahon was dead, Denis thought that he could prevail on O’Brien of Arras to make him abbot. He had that in his mind. That mattered to him more than I mattered. He’s like the rest of the O’Briens – power-hungry – it’s bred into them.’
‘What was the hurry? Surely that could have been done after Christmas? Why did you run away?’
Ellice did not answer. She looked confused. Possibly her head had been struck by the mast, thought Mara. For a moment she thought to abandon the questioning, but then she hardened her heart. This affair had to be tidied up today. The guilty had to be accused and the innocent set free of any shadow of blame. This could not be done unless there was no shadow of doubt in her mind.
‘Who made the plan?’ she asked gently.
‘Denis,’ she said dully after a moment. ‘He said that he had to leave this place by before Christmas night. He had promised, he said.’
I was right, thought Mara. The abbot says nothing and Denis goes. However, he was too greedy when he stole the communion cup. This was the prize possession of the abbey and it would have to be shown to the visitor from Tintern Abbey. That was one of their functions, she had heard; they were supposed to check on all recorded goods. In the past, many of these handsome gifts had been melted down and the abbots had become wealthy, so now the Cistercians had set in place this programme of inspections by mother houses.
‘What drew the two of you together?’ she asked.
‘I suppose it was me,’ said Ellice after a long pause. ‘Yes, I wanted something to do, a bit of fun, a bit of excitement. I was sick of it all, sick of pretending, sick of doing nothing, sick of being tied here and my youth departing from me. I had nothing to do, nothing to look forward to.’
‘And then this Father Denis arrived, is that how it happened?’
‘That’s how it happened, I suppose,’ said Ellice, looking as if she was not quite sure of her words.
‘You were lovers?’ Mara made her voice sound casual and Ellice nodded just as casually.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said indifferently. ‘What else is there to do around here?’
‘And which of you was the one that murdered Mahon O’Brien?’
Ellice rose to her feet. ‘Neither of us,’ she said steadily. ‘That was just a bit of good luck for Denis . . .’ There was a long pause and Mara thought she had completed her sentence when Ellice suddenly, violently, threw the comb across the room and made for the door ‘. . . and now Denis is dead, so what can I do? I know what you are going to say,’ she said explosively. ‘And I suppose you are right. There is only one thing left for me to do now. When the fox is cornered he runs for his den, and I am going back to Conor.’ She pulled open the door and ran down the stairs so noisily that the bodyguard dozing on a chair in the small hall jumped to his feet in alarm and Brigid shot out of the kitchen. Both of them gaped as Ellice pushed her way past them and violently slammed the front door behind her.
‘Brigid, you could make a bundle of these wet clothes and send them over to the guest house,’ said Mara serenely. No need for Brigid to spend her time washing and drying the sea-soaked garments, she thought. Then she changed her mind. ‘No, just give me a basket and Shane and I will take them over.’ There was one more question that she wished to ask Ellice and this would make a good opportunity to do so. With some luck, the young priest had chatted with her.
Patrick, from his position at the window of the abbot’s parlour, saw her coming after she had left Shane at the guest house. He came to the door immediately.
‘I’m the only one in the house,’ he said as he admitted her. ‘Father Abbot has gone over to the church to receive the body of Father Denis. I’ve been sitting here by the window, studying Fachtnan’s list.’
‘I’ve a few things to add to that,’ said Mara when they were both back in the parlour and the door closed against any curious lay brother who might come in through the kitchen door.
Patrick looked at her curiously, but he did not question her, merely pushing the vellum and the inkhorn across the table to her. She read through the notes carefully, adding some more pieces of information, and then drew a neat straight line under Fachtnan’s notes. She sat back for a moment, leaning against the hard wood of the bench. She felt unutterably weary and an immense sadness was robbing her of her energy. She had known the truth last night, and if she had not shirked the revealing of it, telling herself that she had to be quite certain, perhaps she might have been able to save those two lives. Her mind went briefly to ‘Big Séan’ as they had called him. By now he was mourning the untimely death of his son and this death could perhaps have been prevented if she had acted decisively last night. With a sigh she sat forward. There must be no more deaths. The truth had to be revealed this afternoon. She made some additional notes; her training and her lifelong practice impelled her to do this, but her mind knew it was unnecessary. Every detail of her reasoning was seared into her brain.
Patrick watched her in a puzzled way, but did not attempt to question her. Never had she been more grateful for the taciturnity of a companion. When she had finished, she rolled up the vellum, tied it with a piece of pink linen tape from her pouch and then melted some wax in the heat of the candle and sealed the roll.
‘Keep this,’ she said to Patrick. ‘Keep it and only open it if the necessity arises.’ This was as far as she was prepared to go to admit that she knew she could be going into danger and, by the sudden raising of his eyelids, she knew that he understood. He said nothing, though, just nodded.
‘So,’ she said in a businesslike manner, ‘I think after the funeral the monks will have their usual time for recreation and then you can gather them all into the church. I’ll ask the abbot’s permission for this, but that is the best place. It’s the one room that will hold everyone and everyone must be there. Everyone must know the truth now, as some may wish to leave the abbey today.’
‘And what about you, will you need any help?’ he asked, looking at her keenly.
‘No,’ said Mara bleakly. ‘This matter I must handle myself,’
Father Denis’s body lay in the church. The storm was over and the hammer blows sounded clearly across the garth; the carpenter was hastily nailing the last board to the makeshift coffin. He would be buried quickly and quietly in the monks’ cemetery, and without the presence of anyone, other than the abbot himself and a few lay brothers to bear the coffin. This would take place before the funeral service for Mahon, the abbot, stony-faced, had decreed. Mara spoke with him briefly and then left him looking down soberly at the body of his dead child. The communion cup, battered, but still with all its jewels in place, had been retrieved from the leather satchel that was strapped firmly to Father Denis’s body, under his cloak. Would that be any consolation to the abbot, she wondered, glancing keenly at the icy features? Was there any compunction within him that he had abandoned his son all those years ago and had never willingly recognized him? Did he truly suspect his son of murder and would he have pressed for the death penalty for him? She did not know, but left him alone in the church to say his farewells.
‘I don’t care if she had anything to do with the murder of Mahon,’ said Turlough defiantly. ‘Don’t ask her. Let it be laid to Father Denis’s door. He’s beyond any justice of ours now. God will deal with him.’
‘How was Tearlach’s father?’ she asked, turning the conversation away from the investigation. Turlough, himself, had insisted on waiting and following the procession to the fisherman’s cottage, rather than the procession to the abbey. He had only just returned.
‘As well as you could expect; he seemed resigned. They live with death, of course, these fishermen. I told him that he would be compensated for his son’s death, that he would have the silver to buy a new boat, but he hardly took it all in. You’ll go to see him, won’t you, my love? You will be better than I. You will make him understand.’