few of its ornate decorations slightly damaged – it could easily be repaired; a small velvet cushion burned and saturated with water; and a one-inch piece of wood …
Valueless, or beyond all value? That depended on the belief of the assessor. Or did it depend on the beliefs of the injured party – and did the beliefs of the guilty party play a part also?
Despite herself, Mara smiled slightly. She so loved to wrestle with a complicated problem like this. The Brehons of Ireland had an annual meeting in August of each year, and she thought that the events of this year of 1519, when the world of religion in the European countries was beginning to change, might be a very interesting time for the lawyers of Ireland to debate. In secrecy, of course; the Pope might have a rule against laity discussing such matters. Yes, she thought, there could be an interesting discussion next year.
But in the meantime there was another problem for her to deal with. Her eyes went to Father MacMahon, now striding up and down as though he could not wait for the transgressors to be hauled back in front of him.
The law of the Church or the law of the king – which was in charge of this affair? Mara set her lips firmly. King Turlough Donn was away in the north of Ireland on an important mission. It was up to her, as the King’s representative, to take this matter firmly into her hands and to render justice with mercy according to the tenets of Brehon law. This was a Gaelic kingdom, not England, not Rome. Still, there was no point in anticipating trouble. She turned to her scholars.
‘Let’s go and search the round tower and see if we find anything,’ she proposed.
‘Clues,’ said Cormac enthusiastically, but it was the methodical Art who found the first clue.
At the bottom of the round tower, on its east side, just below where the door stood above head height, Sorley had planted a bush of fragrant lavender. Sheltered from cold winds, exposed to the sun and warmed by the retained heat from the stone wall behind it, the bush had flourished. It had reached a height of about four feet and then stopped growing, but year after year it had thickened and widened. On this fine day in early September the exquisite pale purple of the tightly-budded flowers seemed to glow in the heat and they were full of bees desperately seeking stores of honey before the winter.
But purple wasn’t the only colour to be seen. Lying on the far side of the clump was a small patch of deep rose. Art, careful as always, had not touched it, but called Mara instantly. For a moment she stood there, standing as he had directed her, halfway up the ladder that led to the raised doorway of the round tower, and gazed down. The shape of the object was hidden by the stems and flowers, but the colour was distinctive and she had seen it very recently.
The object, she thought, may have been held in the hand of someone who stood there on the ladder – perhaps taken off in order to hear better and then dropped. Or perhaps the bonnet was removed to show the one beauty – the silky blonde hair of a woman whose other beauties had been disfigured by scars,
But why not picked up? There could, she thought, be two possible reasons for that.
Mara went back down the ladder, skirted the wide bush and picked out the small, neat, finely woven bonnet dyed in that distinctive colour by the combination of blackberries and bilberries. She held it for a moment in her hand, reconstructing the scene.
Could Grace have followed the handsome young German over to the churchyard, climbed the ladder leading to the round tower, stood outside its massive door, perhaps put her ear to the large keyhole, removing her bonnet to hear all the better …?
And then something disturbed her. Perhaps Hans Kaufmann and Mór had shown signs of coming out, or perhaps she could not bear the murmurs any longer. But, of course, there was another possibility.
Could she have wanted to burn the relic in order to please a
Valueless, or beyond all value? That depended on the belief of the assessor. Or did it depend on the beliefs of the injured party – and did the beliefs of the guilty party play a part also?
Despite herself, Mara smiled slightly. She so loved to wrestle with a complicated problem like this. The Brehons of Ireland had an annual meeting in August of each year, and she thought that the events of this year of 1519, when the world of religion in the European countries was beginning to change, might be a very interesting time for the lawyers of Ireland to debate. In secrecy, of course; the Pope might have a rule against laity discussing such matters. Yes, she thought, there could be an interesting discussion next year.
But in the meantime there was another problem for her to deal with. Her eyes went to Father MacMahon, now striding up and down as though he could not wait for the transgressors to be hauled back in front of him.
The law of the Church or the law of the king – which was in charge of this affair? Mara set her lips firmly. King Turlough Donn was away in the north of Ireland on an important mission. It was up to her, as the King’s representative, to take this matter firmly into her hands and to render justice with mercy according to the tenets of Brehon law. This was a Gaelic kingdom, not England, not Rome. Still, there was no point in anticipating trouble. She turned to her scholars.
‘Let’s go and search the round tower and see if we find anything,’ she proposed.
‘Clues,’ said Cormac enthusiastically, but it was the methodical Art who found the first clue.
At the bottom of the round tower, on its east side, just below where the door stood above head height, Sorley had planted a bush of fragrant lavender. Sheltered from cold winds, exposed to the sun and warmed by the retained heat from the stone wall behind it, the bush had flourished. It had reached a height of about four feet and then stopped growing, but year after year it had thickened and widened. On this fine day in early September the exquisite pale purple of the tightly-budded flowers seemed to glow in the heat and they were full of bees desperately seeking stores of honey before the winter.
But purple wasn’t the only colour to be seen. Lying on the far side of the clump was a small patch of deep rose. Art, careful as always, had not touched it, but called Mara instantly. For a moment she stood there, standing as he had directed her, halfway up the ladder that led to the raised doorway of the round tower, and gazed down. The shape of the object was hidden by the stems and flowers, but the colour was distinctive and she had seen it very recently.
The object, she thought, may have been held in the hand of someone who stood there on the ladder – perhaps taken off in order to hear better and then dropped. Or perhaps the bonnet was removed to show the one beauty – the silky blonde hair of a woman whose other beauties had been disfigured by scars,
But why not picked up? There could, she thought, be two possible reasons for that.
Mara went back down the ladder, skirted the wide bush and picked out the small, neat, finely woven bonnet dyed in that distinctive colour by the combination of blackberries and bilberries. She held it for a moment in her hand, reconstructing the scene.
Could Grace have followed the handsome young German over to the churchyard, climbed the ladder leading to the round tower, stood outside its massive door, perhaps put her ear to the large keyhole, removing her bonnet to hear all the better …?
And then something disturbed her. Perhaps Hans Kaufmann and Mór had shown signs of coming out, or perhaps she could not bear the murmurs any longer. But, of course, there was another possibility.
Could she have wanted to burn the relic in order to please a
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