Read Online Writ in Stone by Cora Harrison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cora Harrison
Ads: Link
soon as possible. I’m sorry to give you so many errands, Ardal.’
‘It’s a pleasure to serve you, Brehon.’ Ardal immediately rose to his feet and did not even give the platter of pies a second glance. As soon as the door closed behind him Mara went out to the kitchen.
‘Could you make some more spiced ale, Brigid, and perhaps heat a few more pies? Father Peter O’Lochlainn will be coming over in a few minutes and I’d like to give him something. I think these poor monks here have a hard life. They all look very thin, except for the abbot, of course,’ she added and Brigid rose to the bait immediately.
‘Oh, he’d look after himself all right,’ she sniffed. ‘One of my cousins used to work as a herdsman here and he said that it was always the best for the abbot. And him so holy!’
Brigid didn’t volunteer any information about Father Denis, noticed Mara. She would have if she had known. This was interesting. It meant that the news of the abbot’s son had not reached her and that surely meant that not many people knew of it. Certainly Turlough had never mentioned it. Brigid prided herself on knowing everything that went on in the kingdom of the Burren. The abbot must have been very careful and very discreet, and of course it was all a very long time ago. Probably, he had little to do with his son until fairly recently and he would have been announced to the monks as a distant relation, perhaps even a friend.
‘So you have twelve brothers here at the abbey and then with Father Abbot and you, the Prior, that makes fourteen monks that slept here last night,’ said Mara innocently.
Father Peter’s white thin face was flushed a rosy pink from the warm fire. He sipped slowly at his ale as if determined to make the exquisite pleasure last as long as possible and his toothless jaws chewed resolutely on the succulent pie. When he replied his voice was indistinct and he continued to mop up stray crumbs from his grey habit and slot them back into his mouth. Nevertheless the one-word answer was unmistakable.
‘Fifteen,’ he said.
‘Really? So where did the extra monk come from?’
Father Peter hesitated, eyeing her. There was a glint of amusement in his faded grey eyes.
‘Have some more ale,’ said Mara, hospitably insistent. Luckily Brigid had placed a good-sized flagon on the hob of the fireplace.
This time Father Peter tossed back the cupful with the careless abandon of a man who had resolved to make the most of this unexpected foretaste of paradise. He leaned forward and stated solemnly: ‘Brehon, I know I can rely on your discretion.’
‘Of course,’ said Mara. She also leaned forward so that their heads were almost touching. A single knotted piece of pine suddenly blazed up with a blue flame and then subsided into the red glow of the heart of the fire. Outside the window the snow continued to fall from a lead-heavy sky.
‘And you wouldn’t say a word about this to the man who is coming from Tintern Abbey?’
‘Not a word,’ said Mara solemnly. Who’s the man from Tintern Abbey, she thought, but there was no point in breaking the conspiratorial mood which had been established between them; she could always question him afterwards about this.
‘This Father Denis O’Brien, he’s the abbot’s son!’ said Father Peter in a sibilant whisper.
‘Really!’ exclaimed Mara. Her tone was amazed, with an undercurrent of incredulity. She had perfected this note from years of gossip with Brigid.
Father Peter nodded. ‘And that’s the God’s-honest-truth,’ he said with emphasis.
‘Strange that the abbot had him here for Christmas with the king himself present,’ said Mara in shocked tones.
Father Peter nodded. This time he himself leaned over and tipped a little more of the spiced ale into his cup. ‘God forgive me, but this is great stuff, Brehon,’ he muttered. He tossed it back and then smiled broadly at her. ‘The abbot brought him here because he knew that it was probably
‘It’s a pleasure to serve you, Brehon.’ Ardal immediately rose to his feet and did not even give the platter of pies a second glance. As soon as the door closed behind him Mara went out to the kitchen.
‘Could you make some more spiced ale, Brigid, and perhaps heat a few more pies? Father Peter O’Lochlainn will be coming over in a few minutes and I’d like to give him something. I think these poor monks here have a hard life. They all look very thin, except for the abbot, of course,’ she added and Brigid rose to the bait immediately.
‘Oh, he’d look after himself all right,’ she sniffed. ‘One of my cousins used to work as a herdsman here and he said that it was always the best for the abbot. And him so holy!’
Brigid didn’t volunteer any information about Father Denis, noticed Mara. She would have if she had known. This was interesting. It meant that the news of the abbot’s son had not reached her and that surely meant that not many people knew of it. Certainly Turlough had never mentioned it. Brigid prided herself on knowing everything that went on in the kingdom of the Burren. The abbot must have been very careful and very discreet, and of course it was all a very long time ago. Probably, he had little to do with his son until fairly recently and he would have been announced to the monks as a distant relation, perhaps even a friend.
‘So you have twelve brothers here at the abbey and then with Father Abbot and you, the Prior, that makes fourteen monks that slept here last night,’ said Mara innocently.
Father Peter’s white thin face was flushed a rosy pink from the warm fire. He sipped slowly at his ale as if determined to make the exquisite pleasure last as long as possible and his toothless jaws chewed resolutely on the succulent pie. When he replied his voice was indistinct and he continued to mop up stray crumbs from his grey habit and slot them back into his mouth. Nevertheless the one-word answer was unmistakable.
‘Fifteen,’ he said.
‘Really? So where did the extra monk come from?’
Father Peter hesitated, eyeing her. There was a glint of amusement in his faded grey eyes.
‘Have some more ale,’ said Mara, hospitably insistent. Luckily Brigid had placed a good-sized flagon on the hob of the fireplace.
This time Father Peter tossed back the cupful with the careless abandon of a man who had resolved to make the most of this unexpected foretaste of paradise. He leaned forward and stated solemnly: ‘Brehon, I know I can rely on your discretion.’
‘Of course,’ said Mara. She also leaned forward so that their heads were almost touching. A single knotted piece of pine suddenly blazed up with a blue flame and then subsided into the red glow of the heart of the fire. Outside the window the snow continued to fall from a lead-heavy sky.
‘And you wouldn’t say a word about this to the man who is coming from Tintern Abbey?’
‘Not a word,’ said Mara solemnly. Who’s the man from Tintern Abbey, she thought, but there was no point in breaking the conspiratorial mood which had been established between them; she could always question him afterwards about this.
‘This Father Denis O’Brien, he’s the abbot’s son!’ said Father Peter in a sibilant whisper.
‘Really!’ exclaimed Mara. Her tone was amazed, with an undercurrent of incredulity. She had perfected this note from years of gossip with Brigid.
Father Peter nodded. ‘And that’s the God’s-honest-truth,’ he said with emphasis.
‘Strange that the abbot had him here for Christmas with the king himself present,’ said Mara in shocked tones.
Father Peter nodded. This time he himself leaned over and tipped a little more of the spiced ale into his cup. ‘God forgive me, but this is great stuff, Brehon,’ he muttered. He tossed it back and then smiled broadly at her. ‘The abbot brought him here because he knew that it was probably
Similar Books
