A Game of Sorrows

TWENTY-ONE Defiled Sanctuary

Stephen sat a while with me, on the altar steps, and prayed. I had not the heart to join him, but took comfort in the rhythm of his murmured words until suddenly the sound of voices at the gate broke into the calm of the friary. He scrambled to his feet. ‘Murchadh,’ he said, and then, as to himself, ‘There is no time.’

He cast his eyes around him quickly, the closest I had seen him to a panic. He bit his bottom lip, calculating, calculating as ever. At last his eye lit on something. ‘The altar! Quick. Get you beneath it.’

I did not need two tellings and within a moment had laid myself under the sacrifice table of the church. Stephen had gone to a cupboard in the wall and brought out a heavy linen altar cloth, bordered in fine Flemish lace. He threw it hastily over the altar and I heard the sound of two large pewter candlesticks being moved to hold it down. ‘Now,’ he hissed, ‘pray for all you are worth. Pray to all the saints, and do not move from here if you value your life!’

And then he left me. The door of the chancel banged heavily shut behind him, and I was alone. The stone was cold and clean under my cheek. I tried not to think about the century of abominations committed on the altar above me, or the bones of the dead who lay buried in the church itself and were all I now had for company. I tried to think of my mother, but I could not bring a vision of her to life. All I could see was the single headstone, mottled already by creeping moss and the harsh blasts of salt and wind from the North Sea, that stood in St Mary’s kirkyard in Banff, where she had died but where, as I now realised, the woman who had been Grainne FitzGarrett had scarcely lived.

I had not much longer for reflection before the door from the east range opened again, and I heard the sound of sandalled feet scuttle quickly into the church and to the stalls. They settled themselves hastily and then voices rose in unison, no organ or music of any sort in accompaniment, in what I knew to be the ‘Salve mater’. A clear, young voice took the lead – Michael, I guessed – and was followed by other, older voices, the strong taking care not to overpower the weak, in a purity of sound that, as my friend the music master in Banff had often tried, in vain, to persuade me, could touch the soul. I stopped listening to the words, and sought some place of peace in the music.

But that peace was short-lived: before the friars had brought their devotion to its end, the noise of heavy boots coming down the stair from the dormitory found its way to the chancel, and was soon followed by that of curses unseemly in any house of God. I recognised the voices of Murchadh and his sons, and others I had heard at Dun-a-Mallaght. The door was kicked open with little ceremony, the holy voices fell away and the intruders clattered into the silence of the church.

‘And so, you skulk in here, Mac Cuarta. I wonder that you dare to show your face.’

Stephen must have risen from his stall. His voice was full, and there was no hesitation in it. ‘I skulk nowhere, Murchadh; this is the house of God.’

‘It is a den of vipers and thieves. Where is Seaton?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Do you lie in my face at the very altar, Mac Cuarta?’ Murchadh was consumed with rage. ‘You left my house in the night, and you took Seaton and the girl, Deirdre, with you. Now where are they?’

Again, I heard Stephen say, ‘I do not know.’ But this time it was no voice but the sickening, quick, drawing of a sword from its sheath that answered him.

‘I will fillet you from top to bottom and feed my dogs from your belly. Where is she?’ It was Cormac, all his habitual self-control gone.

Then I heard Ciaran’s voice. ‘Put your sword away, Cormac. You’ll get nothing from him: he’s too long in the saddle and the tooth to fear what we might do. But now, let me see …’

There was a pause, and I was in a terror that the altar cloth would be lifted the next moment, for the feet of the incursors were very near me. Then Ciaran spoke again; his very voice was smiling, and something in it sickened me. ‘That one; we will take that one.’

There was a flurry of movement, the scuffing of feet on the floor, the sound of flight, pursuit, capture, and ultimately, of Michael crying, ‘No, please no.’ But they took him anyway, as he and his brothers had known they would. ‘Take me instead,’ shouted one I had heard called Brian, but they didn’t even answer him.

‘He is just a boy,’ said Stephen, ‘just a young boy.’ And I knew there was no dissembling or pretence in the sorrow in his voice.

Two sets of booted feet had dragged Michael back up the aisle and out of a south door in the church. But Murchadh and others, Cormac with them, remained. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘five of you here and one out there – no one missing then, save for that withered old bitch Julia MacQuillan up the stairs there. I see her temper is no better now than it was fifty years ago. A poisonous child who grew up into a poisonous old woman, which her robes and her rosary can do little to mask.’

‘She was not greatly pleased to see you then?’ There was amusement in Stephen’s voice, in spite of the circumstances.

‘You would have thought we were there to rape her. God forbid. I would rather spend a night in St Patrick’s Purgatory than enter that chamber of hers.’

Relief coursed through me, and thanks for the redoubtable old nun: they had not got past her to Deirdre. But what of Andrew?

Others had the same question in mind. ‘Where is Boyd, the Scot who travelled with Seaton? You, apothecary, you were treating him. Where is he?’

‘He is not here.’

The sound of a hard slap. And Brian again coming angrily to his feet.

‘Sit down, priest. You will have your turn, when I have finished with your brother here. Now, apothecary, I ask you again: where is Andrew Boyd?’

‘You will find him there, in the earth, near MacDonnell’s chapel. My poor skills were too little, and came too late to keep him longer from his Creator. He passed from this world yesterday, a little before dusk.’

‘There is a fresh-dug grave out there,’ said one of the men.

‘You are not lying to me, old man, in this your house of God, before His altar?’ and a fist smashed down on the place above my head.

The apothecary’s voice was low but clear. ‘I am not lying to you.’

And then Cormac breathed a great sigh, as if some burden had been taken from him, and I realised that all he had wanted to know was that Andrew was dead.

‘Well, enough of such trifles,’ said Murchadh. ‘Would you not spare your boy, Mac Cuarta, for he has a pretty face, and I know how in these cold dark cloisters you churchmen value a pretty face.’

‘You disgust me.’

‘And you me, for it is but two nights ago that we pledged in the unity of our cause to support my son, and now you have taken from my care the two living grandchildren of Maeve O’Neill.’

‘I have taken nothing from your care, and I am as true to the cause I was sent on as the day I left Louvain. I rejoice, though, that the grandchildren of Maeve O’Neill are “in your care” no longer, for I doubt that they would be living much longer if they were.’

‘They have no cause to fear me.’

‘You beat and bound one of them, and took the other from the keeping of her family.’

Cormac spoke. ‘It was necessary. It was not safe for Deirdre to remain where she was.’

‘And her cousin? The Scot?’

‘He might have met the same fate as Sean.’

‘And it was necessary to bind and beat him to prevent it?’

‘He had been in commune with Finn O’Rahilly.’

‘You know as well as I do that Alexander Seaton never set foot on this island before that curse was laid.’

‘Aye,’ said Cormac, ‘and very convenient that was, too.’

Stephen had started to make some response, but his words fell away as a horrible, animal, cry came through the oak doors, the stones, the cracks in the stones of the church, searching in desperation for some relief from its pain.

‘Oh, God, dear God …’

‘Michael!’ cried Brian. I heard a scuffle as he was forced back down into his stall.

The cry came again, scarcely human. I was not worth this; whatever Stephen thought, or might want me for, I was not worth this. I turned from my side and began to push myself from the floor. Deirdre was safe, for even if they found her, Cormac would let no one lay a finger on her, and it was me they wanted. My hand was on the overhanging altar cloth, ready to pull it away, when Stephen shouted, ‘Stop! I will tell you.’

‘Say that again,’ said Murchadh.

There was a sound of some sort of whimpering now, very close to the south door.

‘I will tell you,’ repeated Stephen, utterly defeated. ‘They took ship two hours ago, the pair of them, for Rathlin. Seaton had left money with Boyd and came here to get it. It was still among the fellow’s belongings. He prayed at his companion’s grave a few minutes, and then hired some fishermen to row himself and Deirdre out to Rathlin. They were to wait there for a boat to Scotland, a small merchant vessel returning from Coleraine. I pleaded with him to leave the girl here, with us, but he would not listen, and she wandered so much in her mind she thought she was with her brother. I wish to God I had never set eyes on him.’

‘You may wish such a thing indeed,’ said Murchadh. He called to his torturers to bring Michael in. The door was opened and there was the sound of a heavy weight being dragged across the floor. They left it lying before the altar, inches from my face. I looked upon the thing, and suppressed a retch; I shut my eyes and turned my head away for fear I would vomit. Michael had told them he had seen nothing; they had taken out his eyes.

They did not hold back the friars this time as they left their stalls and went to their stricken brother. They had had what they wanted from here and would move on. I heard Murchadh’s men tramp out of the desecrated church, but he could not resist one last cruelty before he left. ‘Learn to tell the truth, boy, or next time it will be your tongue.’

Stephen went after them while Brian and another friar cradled Michael gently and the old apothecary bent over him, murmuring to himself about what he would need, what he was to do. Cormac had been the last to leave. I heard his voice as he hesitated at the door.

‘Stephen, believe me, that should not have happened.’

‘You will have to rein in your father, boy, or the shambles of ’15 will be as nothing to the disaster he will preside over.’

‘I will do it; have no fear, I will win over him. But first I must find Deirdre.’

‘Cormac, leave Deirdre. If it is meant to be, it will be. Leave her for now: you have greater things to attend to.’

‘I cannot. I am sorry about the boy, Stephen. I will send messengers to you soon.’

The door swung shut, and they were gone.

I waited until the brothers had lifted their young companion and carried him out of the church to the chapterhouse, where the apothecary would seek to do what he could for him. I was too ashamed to look at them, to present myself as the cause for which that vibrant, good young man had been so mutilated. When I was sure they had gone, I dragged myself out from beneath the altar, but could not bring myself to stand up. I sat there, wretched, on the floor, and watched, uncaring, as the rays of light sent their colours to play about my feet. A wooden crucifix, the body of Christ carved out upon it in ivory, had been knocked from the altar during some of what had just passed. I took it in my hand and examined it. Our saviour, in his agonies, brutalised and tormented by those so unfit to look upon him. Some of Michael’s blood was smeared on it. The cruelty of man to his fellow man. I pressed the cold ivory to my forehead and prayed, hopelessly, like a child: O Lord, let this not be; dear God, I will do anything, just let this not be.

I was like that when Stephen found me. He knew my state of mind, I think, better than I did myself. ‘Come now, it is a hard thing, but it has happened, and cannot be undone.’ He took the cross from my hand and set it back in its place, then set about persuading me to my feet. I got up heavily, reluctantly, and stood before him, waiting. I had nothing to say.

He breathed deep. ‘They have struck out for Rathlin, and will be back before dusk when they discover I have lied to them.’

‘And what will they do here then?’

‘Nothing if they have yet any of the sense they were born with. This friary is under the protection of Randall MacDonnell, Earl of Antrim. Murchadh has gone too far already, in the sacrilege he has perpetrated here today; anything further would be more than MacDonnell could tolerate, and Cormac would lose the one great support he must have if his rising is to succeed. It is not necessary that MacDonnell openly joins with his cause, just that he does not openly condemn it.’

‘And when is this rebellion to be?’

‘It was not to have been until the spring, when the worst of the winter storms would have passed and help could have been sent from abroad. The death of Sean has changed things.’ He said this last to himself as much as to me. ‘But sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. We have more pressing concerns today than the Irish rising. I must get you and Deirdre away from here before Murchadh and Cormac return.’

‘And Andrew Boyd also.’

He smiled. ‘I had forgotten. I have never in my life before known Gerard to lie: when he told Murchadh that Andrew was buried yonder in the churchyard, I think I believed him myself.’