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Authors: Cora Harrison
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‘I don’t bother,’ he said in fluent Latin. ‘I have eyes like a cat. I see through the darkness. I never carry a lantern.’
Mara took from her own satchel the distorted lamp and held aloft the shrivelled piece of vellum.
‘So these are not yours,’ she said, and as he hesitated she added, ‘The language is German – it is an indulgence. Am I right in thinking that you are against indulgences, that, like your leader, Martin Luther, you believe that the church is at fault in granting pardon for sins – that only God can forgive sins and that a piece of vellum or parchment will not, cannot, take the place of God in this matter? The person who burned the relic used this piece of vellum, this indulgence, to transfer the flame from the lamp to the velvet cushion which was placed underneath the relic.’
‘What!’ roared Father MacMahon. ‘Is this man a disciple of that anti-Christ, Martin Luther? Has he desecrated the citadel of our sacred relic?’
‘You devil, you fiend,’ muttered Sorley. He took a step forward and Hans Kaufmann retreated, but it was no good. His fellow pilgrim, the Italian friar, was just behind him and Cosimo instantly rounded on him.
‘So that is what you were at,’ he snarled. His age-marked hands crisped into fists. ‘And to think …’ Suddenly he stopped. His hand went to his belt and came back armed with a long, thin, wickedly pointed knife. Without hesitation his arm went up and aimed the knife at the German’s heart.
‘Here, steady,’ shouted Ardal. He spoke in Gaelic but the words seemed to penetrate through to the Italian. His arm and the deadly dagger were lowered, but by that time Hans Kaufmann was no longer there in front of him. Mara saw the German look towards the altar and the next instant he had left the bottom of the church, had bounded up the centre of it, gone through the screen, mounted the steps of the sacristy, and then he was beside the altar, one hand clutching the altar cloth.
‘I claim sanctuary,’ he shouted. ‘Let no one touch me here. The Lord will protect me and woe to him who will break the Lord’s sanctuary.’
The effect of his words was varied.
Father Miguel gave a gasp. He stood very rigid, staring at his fellow pilgrim.
The prioress said: ‘Sanctuary – does this little church in the middle of the country have such rights?’ And when no one answered her she turned haughtily to her sisters, lowering her voice, but not ceasing to talk.
In a moment the church was full of voices.
Father MacMahon said angrily, ‘Sanctuary was never meant for an unbeliever, for one who denies the means that God gives to man to save his soul from the fires of purgatory.’
‘I’ll get him out of there, Father.’ Sorley advanced three threatening steps.
‘Liar, blasphemer, villain, maligner of honest men!’ Brother Cosimo’s teeth gleamed, set edge to edge behind his grizzled beard and moustache.
‘Horsewhipping would be too good for him!’ Blad had come through the small door on the south and had joined the group at the bottom of the church. ‘He’s destroyed my livelihood, Brehon,’ he added in a low voice to Mara and she nodded. This was something that she felt Brehon law should take into account. This man had set up his inn in the sure and certain knowledge, as he saw it, that the relic of the holy cross would bring a steady stream of pilgrims to the remote church of Kilnaboy. She had, she thought, standing very still and waiting, as was her custom, for the storm of words to blow itself out, less sympathy for the priest – the church with its gold and diamond ornaments and its crimson carpet was of less importance to her than the livelihood of an honest, hard-working man and his daughter. Her scholars, she noticed, had moved a step nearer to the innkeeper, and Cormac, with his kingly father’s sympathy for his subjects that might be in trouble, patted him on the arm.
‘Death must be his punishment.’ Father Miguel’s voice
‘I don’t bother,’ he said in fluent Latin. ‘I have eyes like a cat. I see through the darkness. I never carry a lantern.’
Mara took from her own satchel the distorted lamp and held aloft the shrivelled piece of vellum.
‘So these are not yours,’ she said, and as he hesitated she added, ‘The language is German – it is an indulgence. Am I right in thinking that you are against indulgences, that, like your leader, Martin Luther, you believe that the church is at fault in granting pardon for sins – that only God can forgive sins and that a piece of vellum or parchment will not, cannot, take the place of God in this matter? The person who burned the relic used this piece of vellum, this indulgence, to transfer the flame from the lamp to the velvet cushion which was placed underneath the relic.’
‘What!’ roared Father MacMahon. ‘Is this man a disciple of that anti-Christ, Martin Luther? Has he desecrated the citadel of our sacred relic?’
‘You devil, you fiend,’ muttered Sorley. He took a step forward and Hans Kaufmann retreated, but it was no good. His fellow pilgrim, the Italian friar, was just behind him and Cosimo instantly rounded on him.
‘So that is what you were at,’ he snarled. His age-marked hands crisped into fists. ‘And to think …’ Suddenly he stopped. His hand went to his belt and came back armed with a long, thin, wickedly pointed knife. Without hesitation his arm went up and aimed the knife at the German’s heart.
‘Here, steady,’ shouted Ardal. He spoke in Gaelic but the words seemed to penetrate through to the Italian. His arm and the deadly dagger were lowered, but by that time Hans Kaufmann was no longer there in front of him. Mara saw the German look towards the altar and the next instant he had left the bottom of the church, had bounded up the centre of it, gone through the screen, mounted the steps of the sacristy, and then he was beside the altar, one hand clutching the altar cloth.
‘I claim sanctuary,’ he shouted. ‘Let no one touch me here. The Lord will protect me and woe to him who will break the Lord’s sanctuary.’
The effect of his words was varied.
Father Miguel gave a gasp. He stood very rigid, staring at his fellow pilgrim.
The prioress said: ‘Sanctuary – does this little church in the middle of the country have such rights?’ And when no one answered her she turned haughtily to her sisters, lowering her voice, but not ceasing to talk.
In a moment the church was full of voices.
Father MacMahon said angrily, ‘Sanctuary was never meant for an unbeliever, for one who denies the means that God gives to man to save his soul from the fires of purgatory.’
‘I’ll get him out of there, Father.’ Sorley advanced three threatening steps.
‘Liar, blasphemer, villain, maligner of honest men!’ Brother Cosimo’s teeth gleamed, set edge to edge behind his grizzled beard and moustache.
‘Horsewhipping would be too good for him!’ Blad had come through the small door on the south and had joined the group at the bottom of the church. ‘He’s destroyed my livelihood, Brehon,’ he added in a low voice to Mara and she nodded. This was something that she felt Brehon law should take into account. This man had set up his inn in the sure and certain knowledge, as he saw it, that the relic of the holy cross would bring a steady stream of pilgrims to the remote church of Kilnaboy. She had, she thought, standing very still and waiting, as was her custom, for the storm of words to blow itself out, less sympathy for the priest – the church with its gold and diamond ornaments and its crimson carpet was of less importance to her than the livelihood of an honest, hard-working man and his daughter. Her scholars, she noticed, had moved a step nearer to the innkeeper, and Cormac, with his kingly father’s sympathy for his subjects that might be in trouble, patted him on the arm.
‘Death must be his punishment.’ Father Miguel’s voice
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