Writ in Stone by Cora Harrison

spoke of the same calfskin, but what she had not expected was that the script was identical. The careless, rushed letter a , the arrogant sweep of the letter m and the dashing tail of the letter s – all these things confirmed that the letter to the abbot had been written by the pilgrim. But why? And who was this false pilgrim? Mara’s agile mind rushed through the possibilities. And suddenly a name occurred to her: a man who needed to keep his face hidden from both Brehon and king, a man whose voice must not be heard, a man who resented the marriage between the Brehon and the king, a man who feared rivalry from the possible offspring of this marriage; now she knew who this pilgrim really was. There had, after all, been something very familiar about the tall figure with its jaunty, self-possessed bearing. She went to the door and called:
    ‘Please bring the pilgrim in.’
    He came in reluctantly, pushed by Fergal and Conall and guarded from the rear by Ardal. He stood there in the abbot’s parlour, his head bowed and his face still hidden. But now Mara had no doubts. Now she recognized the form and the build of the man and knew what would be shown at his unveiling.
    ‘My lord,’ she said to Turlough. ‘Here is your son, Murrough, come to greet you at this Christmas-tide.’

Five
    Córus Béscnai
    (The Regulation of Proper Behaviour)
    The unworthy son is deprived of his share of the inheritance because a son should be subject to his father.
    A proclaimed or outlawed son, a macc fóccrai, is called a son of darkness.
    Murrough, King Turlough Donn’s twenty-two-year-old younger son, had always been a man full of courage. Hardly a moment elapsed after Mara’s words when, with a contemptuous laugh, he shrugged off the pilgrim hood and then stripped off the gown and stood facing them all. He had shaved off the great curved moustache, the proud mark of all Gaelic warriors, and he was now clean-shaven except for a small trim beard. He was dressed in Christmas colours of red velvet doublet and knee-length green breeches, all in the latest fashion from the Tudor court of London, surmised Mara. With an aching heart she watched Turlough; the look of fury that he had summoned up, with clenched fists and bristling moustache, was struggling with the sorrowful affection for this rebellious young son of his, which showed in his green eyes.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ he barked.
    ‘It’s Christmas time. I wanted to see you, Father. I wanted to express my repentance. And I wanted to see my brother Conor. He’s not looking well.’ Murrough’s voice held just the right note of sorrow mingled with respectfulness. Soon, Turlough, a simple man who always expressed everything that was on his mind, and expected everyone else to do the same, would forgive this prodigal son and take him back to the bosom of his family.
    Mara narrowed her eyes. She did not believe in this repentance. No doubt, the Earl of Kildare, Murrough’s father-in-law, a man of great importance in the court of King Henry VIII and essential to the Tudor rule in eastern Ireland, had decided that Murrough would be of more use to him over here in the western kingdoms of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren than he would be hanging around London and living at the expense of the Kildare properties. It was time for her to take part in this family discussion.
    ‘And, of course, you wanted to wish your father well at the time of his marriage,’ she said sweetly.
    Murrough turned his gaze on her. ‘My lady judge,’ he said, sweeping her a courtly bow. ‘You are looking very well.’
    He was so like his father with the wide smile, the green eyes, brown hair and broad shoulders that Mara had to harden her heart. She allowed half a minute to elapse before holding out the piece of vellum to him.
    ‘Or did you? This is your hand here, is it not?’
    Mischievously he allowed his eyes to widen with horror as he read the scurrilous details of her divorce case. A smile puckered the