group. Nechtan O’Quinn’s men, flamboyant in their red jerkins bearing the O’Quinn badge, and armed with prominent knives and throwing spears, were lined to the front and back of the three men and three women, enclosing them in a cordon of militant iron. And behind them, came another solid block of O’Lochlainn men, red heads flaming, blue eyes steady and cold. Ardal O’Lochlainn was a man who commanded the complete loyalty of his clan, and if he had not been totally loyal and devoted to his king, to Turlough Donn O’Brien, Mara would have been worried at the number of men-at-arms he kept, and trained, at his tower house so near to her law school.
Nechtan O’Quinn wore a triumphant air and his eyes avoided those of his wife, Narait, who had drawn near to the entrance gate as soon as the noise of horses’ hoofs had sounded on the limestone road. The beauty of eye and colouring had failed her in this moment and she looked pale, older and rather frightened. Like everyone else in the churchyard she was looking at one man.
In the front of the pilgrims, riding boldly erect, was the magnificent tall, broad figure of Hans Kaufmann. He looked at the group of people awaiting the arrival – Narait, Father MacMahon, Blad the innkeeper and his daughter Mór, Sorley the sexton, the man whose life’s blood had gone into enshrining, cherishing and guarding what he had considered to be one of the most sacred objects that the world held, a relic of the true cross – and then, unbelievably, Hans Kaufmann smiled. He smiled mockingly and lifted his hand to Sorley in a slight salute, as if to say, that was my lucky toss of the dice. Then he put his head back and roared with a great burst of laughter as though he were a spectator at some play.
Sorley started and glared at him. He took one step forward, fist raised, but Ardal O’Lochlainn, who was in the front of the cavalcade, shook his head firmly at the sexton and Mara felt a moment of thankfulness for his loyalty and his good judgements. She must, she made a mental note, remember to tell Turlough how very helpful Ardal had been to her. Turlough would be pleased. His opinion of the
taoiseach
of the O’Lochlainn clan on the Burren had always been high.
‘Madame, Madame, Madame,’ called out the prioress in agitated fashion, riding out from the group and towards Mara. ‘Why have you brought us back here – I understand that it is by your orders that our sacred journey has been interrupted? You cannot possibly think that I or my sisters or these gentlemen could have had anything to do with such a terrible thing.’
‘Probably not a crime, but an accident,’ said Hans Kaufmann in a light, careless tone. Mara saw him look appraisingly around the churchyard and then cast a shrewd glance at Ardal O’Lochlainn. Ardal looked straight back at him and there was a cold look in his eyes. Ardal’s suspicions, like her own, were directed at the German pilgrim, thought Mara. He had, after all, been recently to Rome and had heard all about the former German monk, Luther, and his impassioned outburst against such practices as the sale of indulgences and relics. Quite a few German pilgrims might be finding themselves under suspicion these days. Father Miguel, also, was looking at Hans Kaufmann and there was an ugly expression on his face. Mara felt a slight coldness go down her spine as she remembered the tales of the terrible Spanish Inquisition where thousands and thousands of innocent Jews and Muslims had been burned to death – and now the same thing was happening to Christians, who, like Martin Luther, rejected some of the teachings of Rome.
‘This affair has to be investigated,’ Father Miguel said, his sibilant Spanish accent lending a hissing quality to the Latin words. ‘Do I understand that the relic of the true cross has been completely destroyed? What an appalling thing. I wonder it was not better guarded.’
He looked belligerently at Father MacMahon and the priest
Nechtan O’Quinn wore a triumphant air and his eyes avoided those of his wife, Narait, who had drawn near to the entrance gate as soon as the noise of horses’ hoofs had sounded on the limestone road. The beauty of eye and colouring had failed her in this moment and she looked pale, older and rather frightened. Like everyone else in the churchyard she was looking at one man.
In the front of the pilgrims, riding boldly erect, was the magnificent tall, broad figure of Hans Kaufmann. He looked at the group of people awaiting the arrival – Narait, Father MacMahon, Blad the innkeeper and his daughter Mór, Sorley the sexton, the man whose life’s blood had gone into enshrining, cherishing and guarding what he had considered to be one of the most sacred objects that the world held, a relic of the true cross – and then, unbelievably, Hans Kaufmann smiled. He smiled mockingly and lifted his hand to Sorley in a slight salute, as if to say, that was my lucky toss of the dice. Then he put his head back and roared with a great burst of laughter as though he were a spectator at some play.
Sorley started and glared at him. He took one step forward, fist raised, but Ardal O’Lochlainn, who was in the front of the cavalcade, shook his head firmly at the sexton and Mara felt a moment of thankfulness for his loyalty and his good judgements. She must, she made a mental note, remember to tell Turlough how very helpful Ardal had been to her. Turlough would be pleased. His opinion of the
taoiseach
of the O’Lochlainn clan on the Burren had always been high.
‘Madame, Madame, Madame,’ called out the prioress in agitated fashion, riding out from the group and towards Mara. ‘Why have you brought us back here – I understand that it is by your orders that our sacred journey has been interrupted? You cannot possibly think that I or my sisters or these gentlemen could have had anything to do with such a terrible thing.’
‘Probably not a crime, but an accident,’ said Hans Kaufmann in a light, careless tone. Mara saw him look appraisingly around the churchyard and then cast a shrewd glance at Ardal O’Lochlainn. Ardal looked straight back at him and there was a cold look in his eyes. Ardal’s suspicions, like her own, were directed at the German pilgrim, thought Mara. He had, after all, been recently to Rome and had heard all about the former German monk, Luther, and his impassioned outburst against such practices as the sale of indulgences and relics. Quite a few German pilgrims might be finding themselves under suspicion these days. Father Miguel, also, was looking at Hans Kaufmann and there was an ugly expression on his face. Mara felt a slight coldness go down her spine as she remembered the tales of the terrible Spanish Inquisition where thousands and thousands of innocent Jews and Muslims had been burned to death – and now the same thing was happening to Christians, who, like Martin Luther, rejected some of the teachings of Rome.
‘This affair has to be investigated,’ Father Miguel said, his sibilant Spanish accent lending a hissing quality to the Latin words. ‘Do I understand that the relic of the true cross has been completely destroyed? What an appalling thing. I wonder it was not better guarded.’
He looked belligerently at Father MacMahon and the priest
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