Cross of Vengeance by Cora Harrison Page B

again when Turlough returned from Donegal – just the two of us, she thought. They had too few moments together; Turlough had his duties as king of three kingdoms, and she hers as Brehon of the Burren and
ollamh
(professor) of the law school. The last occasion when she had climbed Mullaghmore – the holy mountain as it was known – had been on the eve of
Bealtaine
on the night before the first of May, the day of the big ceremonial occasion when every move, every word spoken by either their king or their Brehon would be watched and listened to with reverential interest by the people of the Burren.
    ‘Let’s approach by this way,’ she said to Fachtnan. ‘I would like to have a quick word with Nechtan O’Quinn before I see Father MacMahon – and the German pilgrim … or follower of Luther,’ she amended. She doubted whether he had ever been a pilgrim; his mission was other. No doubt shrines all over Europe were now bewailing the destruction of some cherished relic. What was going to happen in the future, she wondered? Would the doctrines of Luther have any effect on the Church of Rome? Whatever happened, she hoped that here in the west of Ireland it would not affect them too much. She and her fellow countrymen and women had come to a comfortable compromise with the more rigid doctrines of Rome. Many monks were married men who had the discretion to send their wives and children on visits to relatives when inspections were threatened from England – and quite a few priests were fathers of sons as well as fathers to their religious congregations. And frequently a son inherited his father’s position in the religious hierarchy. The church of the early
Céile Dé
still lived on in this remote spot.
    ‘If we turn this way, we will ride through the clump of trees and no one will see us arrive,’ said Fachtnan, breaking into her theological musings.
    ‘Good idea,’ said Mara, and told him of her conclusions.
    He nodded. ‘And we should make sure that the other pilgrims are on their way to Aran straight after the trial so that there is no trouble between them and Hans Kaufmann,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word with the O’Lochlainn and tell him that I heard the boat was leaving early because of the thunderstorm last night.’
    ‘Good idea,’ said Mara. Ardal would not question any message from her and would speed the pilgrims on their way while the German was still under the court’s protection. It was clever of Fachtnan to have thought of this. She reflected, with a moment’s regret, that he would have made a wonderful Brehon. He was thoughtful, intelligent and always very aware of the feelings of others and the need for careful handling in matters where pride and precedent were of the utmost importance. Still, his loss was her gain. She could ask for no better sounding board for her thoughts and worries.
    ‘Ride on ahead, boys, but wait for us when you come to the wall,’ she called, and then turned to Fachtnan and began to tell him her conclusions about the recompense due from Hans Kaufmann after the burning of the relic. Fachtnan was more religious than she and could probably spot any flaw in her solution.
    The boys had taken her permission to ride ahead with the exuberance of their age and their delight in the fresh and lovely September morning, and she had hardly finished her sentence to them before the noise of hoofs pounding on the limestone almost drowned the sound of her voice. She smiled to herself. There was something very endearing about them all, she thought, enjoying their energy and their sense of fun.
    ‘So that’s the way my mind is working,’ she finished, ‘and I was wondering …’ and then she stopped. Somehow in the last few moments the pounding noise of horses’ hoofs had stopped. She frowned, puzzled. Had something happened? They couldn’t have reached the churchyard wall so quickly. And those horses’ hoofs had not slowed gradually as they would have done had they seen their