Writ in Stone by Cora Harrison Page A

corners of his lips and his eyes lit up with amusement.
    ‘Certainly not, my lady judge; how very shocking!’ The mockery was unmistakable.
    Ardal was looking uncomfortable, and the two bodyguards bewildered. It was time to put a stop to this. Turlough and his son would have to be allowed some privacy. She knew how it would go. Turlough would shout. Murrough would feign repentance. Turlough would soften. Murrough would make some promises. And then Turlough would take him back into the bosom of the family. The king was a man of warm affections. His sorrow at the parting from his son had been huge. Despite his abhorrence of English ways and English customs, and his deep disgust at the deeds of his son, Murrough was still his dearest child.
    ‘My lord, we will leave you,’ she said, putting the piece of vellum back into her pouch. ‘You and I will talk later. Fergal and Conall will stay on guard outside the parlour. Ardal, would you be kind enough to accompany me to the church?’
    The snow was beginning to fall heavily when they got outside. The rounded bulk of the abbey hill protected them from the full force of the north wind, but the cold was intense. A family group of half-grown grey crows huddled in the leafless trees above the church and even the insides of the twenty-foot walls were daubed with patches of snow like clotted cream against the grey of the limestone. The air was bitterly cold with that chill that seemed to penetrate even fur and wool.
    Ardal said nothing as they walked down the path from the abbot’s house to the church and Mara was grateful for that. Her mind was busy. She brushed aside the cancellation of her marriage by the abbot; all this pomp and ceremony mattered more to Turlough than to her. She was only grateful that her daughter Sorcha was expecting a baby at Christmas-tide and so could not be there. Sorcha would have been upset and Oisín, Sorcha’s husband, would have been outraged. What concerned her now was the possibility that Murrough, whom she knew from the past to be unscrupulous, could be the murderer. Could he have tried to kill his father? Conor, his elder brother, was very ill; everyone knew that. Did Murrough hope that the clan, with its great affection for his father, King Turlough Donn, would immediately elect him as tánaiste and, after the death of Conor, he would then be king of the three kingdoms of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren.
    A few of the young monks were indulging in an illicit game of snowballing on the north side of the church, she noticed with a sympathetic grin. She pretended not to see them as they withdrew into the corner behind the north transept. Let them enjoy themselves while the abbot was otherwise engaged, she thought. Unlocking the great west door with the huge key, her mind flitted through the sequence of events. Turlough had publicly declared his intention of spending the first hour alone in front of the shrine of his ancestor; Murrough had been present and could have heard that, could have crept into the church once the service of prime was over. In the church, kneeling facing the shrine, one hooded figure could look like another, and Turlough and his cousin, Mahon, bore quite a resemblance to each other. She stood for a few moments looking around her and then turned to her companion.
    ‘Ardal, you are very good to help me like this. Could I ask you to fetch the abbot? I really need to know which doors would have been open here this morning when Mahon O’Brien came to the church.’
    ‘Yes, certainly, Brehon, would you like me to leave you alone with the abbot, then?’
    Mara considered this for a moment and then shook her head. ‘No, if you don’t mind, Ardal. I would prefer you to stay.’ She considered trying to account for this, but then didn’t bother. Ardal would not feel that any explanation was due to him and she could hardly offer her real reason which was that she wanted to meet the abbot and discuss the murder with him without any of