Verdict of the Court (22 page)

Mara felt unable to stay down below in the main guard hall. She had no nursing skills – her girlhood had been spent in study of law texts and during her adulthood she always had her housekeeper, Brigid, who looked after any of the scholars or farm workers during illness. She gave a nod of approval to Shona who quietly, but competently, seemed to be directing all of the women and children in their work and then slipped out of the room and began, once again, to climb the steep steps to the roof.

Mara was about halfway up the stairway to the great hall when the first blow struck. The impact was so great that she gasped almost as though she had been struck in the midriff. Her ears had almost exploded with the thunderous sound. She stopped, put her hand against the twelve-foot-thick wall and felt a tremor go through it. This must be the action of the trebuchet. It was worse than she expected. When she went a few steps further she could see dust in the air ahead of her and then saw that one of the very small window loops, set on the outside of the castle wall, had its central mullion cracked in half and stones from above were dropping from the wall. There was a shout of exultation from outside and Mara, as she hastened up the steps, wondered for a moment how they could see what they had done and then remembered the report that the fog had lifted somewhat. A quick glance through the next small window on the tower staircase showed her the truth.

The last couple of men sent to reconnoitre reported that they dared not go more than a pace. The sky had cleared and a pale winter sun had lit up the marshy ground and the river beyond. Everything could be seen by the men with guns.

It must have just happened in that strange way that it often did in wintertime. Now she could see the river, the boats, the line of men on guard, and the muskets pointing towards the castle and beyond them another group of men clustered around a flat-bottomed boat.

But what took her attention was the trebuchet – that fearsome engine – the height and the size of it. As she watched she saw men unload some enormous rocks from a barge tied to the jetty. These were manhandled onto the machine, the great arm swung and once again, the mighty stones were lobbed through the air and with a deadly accuracy seemed to hit the same spot of Bunratty Castle because there was a great explosion, the ground trembled beneath her feet and she could see that one of the well-cut, squared-off stones from the outside of the castle – that castle which had been the pride and joy of O’Brien kings for the last seventy years or so – fell to the ground. Could any castle stand up to hours of bombardment like this; it almost seemed impossible, thought Mara. If the attacker concentrated on one tower, could they bring the whole castle down? The four towers were an integral part of the building, not an add-on. Mara grimaced – she felt that she probably knew the answer to her own question as she turned away from the window and went towards the stairway. Then at the sound of running feet pounding down the steps she drew back a little, but was immediately spotted by the young man racing downwards.

‘All women, children and wounded men to the basement!’ he exclaimed trying to sound authoritative.

‘Good idea,’ responded Mara, and bestowed a smile of approbation upon him.

The young man in his protective tunic of thick quilted leather cast a look at Mara but did not attempt to stop her as she proceeded upwards. The King’s wife could not be questioned. I should go down, thought Mara guiltily, but the thought of that basement with the dead bodies – and then her thoughts seemed to skid to a halt. The dead had been taken in there, but among those bodies of the slaughtered men-at-arms there should have been one other body, of course, the body of Brehon MacClancy. But now that body of the man murdered two nights ago had disappeared, had been dragged to the end of the basement, through the grille, and then had toppled down into the river. But why? And who had done that deed? She thought guiltily that in the immediate danger of this attack from the Knight of Glin she had almost forgotten her quest for the truth of that earlier death. But now, despite all the peril, her mind ranged over the evidence. What was it that the old man had said the night before his murder? That someone the King loved had betrayed him. It almost seemed to be too much of a coincidence that two days later Maccon MacMahon had unleashed this terrible attack on a man who had been his friend for forty years – and all just to make a good match for his daughter. Deep in thought, Mara passed the entrance to the King’s solar and went on up towards the roof. Why on earth didn’t MacClancy tell Turlough immediately if it had been something so serious?

And then she thought of a solution. It was probable that the attack had been scheduled for the following week when Maccon would have returned to his own home – but perhaps the Brehon’s words had prompted Maccon to send a message, perhaps to send his groom, to his ally with a message to attack more promptly. He would have surmised that he could get himself and his children to safety before the deadly trebuchet and the men armed with guns arrived. But if her surmise was true there would have been one thing that he had to do as soon as possible. It would have been imperative to stop the mouth of the man who threatened to tell the King about the treachery of one that he had considered a loyal friend.

So was MacMahon the murderer of Brehon MacClancy? It does seem very likely, Mara acknowledged to herself; although the evidence that her scholars had gathered did not seem to back this up – none had seen Maccon MacMahon approach Brehon MacClancy. And yet, could anyone have been sure of what happened on that festival night when all had been confused with loud music, flickering lights, continual movement? Deep in thought Mara pushed open the door and came out onto the roof.

She had just closed the door softly behind her when her eye was caught by something like a thunderbolt cutting through the air towards the castle. The trebuchet had flung its next missile, but this time it was not heavy rocks but a pot of fire that came hurtling through the air, not angled to hit low down on the tower, where the previous damage had been done, but aimed directly at the King himself.

‘Turlough, get down!’ screamed Mara, and trained to instant reaction by a lifetime of warfare, Turlough ducked down below the parapet. The pot of fire went straight over his bent back and struck a young man standing behind him. There was a stench of boiling tar, of searing heat and of burning flesh and almost instantly a scream which Mara thought that she would never forget. For a moment it looked as though the man wore a pot on his head. He snatched it off and instantly flung it over the parapet into the river. For a moment he stood there as everyone got to his feet and stared at him. Then came another terrible scream, almost immediately cut off. The man was a pillar of fire. Blazing tar dripped down over his head and ran down his face. As Mara watched the two eyes were gone, and then the nose shrivelled, the mouth was sealed. Hands outstretched he moved instinctively towards the parapet. Turlough left her side and went hastily towards him, and then pulled back and watched, grim-faced, while the boy plummeted down the wall and into the river. Mara did not see him hit the water, but she heard the splash and then a shot. Unbelievably the terrible death was followed by a cheer from the troops below and a series of cat-calls and derisive whistles.

‘Father wants to know what’s happening, he heard a thudding noise.’ Young Raour was at the door, his plump lips pursed and his eyes apprehensive.

‘Get out of here, get down to the basement with the women and the children, you and your father, go on, get out of here,’ yelled Turlough savagely. Mara knew what was in his mind. His grandson, Raour, was very much of the same age as that boy whom he had allowed, a few minutes ago, to go to his death. Raour, of course, could not know what had happened, and his face was white with shock to be spoken to so roughly by his easy-going grandfather who had so petted and indulged him. He backed out of the door without a word and Mara heard his footsteps going slowly down the steps. She brushed him from her mind and went forward and took Turlough’s hand, pressing it for a second and then dropped it as he turned to face the captain.

‘You did the right thing,’ she said to her husband in a low voice before standing back and allowing the two men to confer.

And of course, she thought, he did do the right thing to allow the boy to go to his death. Not even the best physician in the world could have healed those terrible burns – and even if they could the young man-at-arms would have been blind and dumb for the remains of his life – the more likely possibility, though, would have been that he would have died a few hours later in screaming agony. It had taken courage to do what he had done, and it had taken courage and compassionate understanding for Turlough to stand back to allow him to go over that parapet. But now provision had to be made for the living and all eyes turned towards Turlough.

‘We have no other choice; we can’t just stand here and allow them to raze the castle to the ground; we must sally forth. Let me get my hands on a few of those bastards and I’ll die happy.’ Turlough’s voice was harsh and almost unrecognizable.

‘You’ll die all right, my lord,’ said the captain uncompromisingly. ‘We haven’t a chance. We would have to sacrifice fifty men to their gunfire before we could get near enough to them and even then we mightn’t succeed. None of us knows enough about those guns – or that trebuchet, either – and they have boat-loads of stones; as for the guns, they’ll have brought plenty of ammunition. We haven’t that number of able-bodied men to sacrifice them to a chance of getting nearer – a spear once thrown can’t be recovered and you need to be at close quarters for the throwing knives to work. You know that yourself, my lord,’ he added and then instantly ducked down. Mara did the same; the captain had seen the swing of the giant sling on the trebuchet, she thought, as she cowered into the wall and pulled Turlough close to her, waiting apprehensively for another one of those blazing cauldrons of fire to land amongst them.

But nothing hit the roof. This time the trebuchet lobbed one of those huge rocks. The wall of the tower was hit again and there was another tremendous crashing and the ominous sound of falling stone came to all of their ears. They stayed very still for a moment, feeling the castle tremble and Mara wondered whether this might be the last day for her husband, her son, herself and all of the men and women at Bunratty.

‘There must be something we can do.’ She said the words aloud, but to herself only. Turlough was not listening. Then the door behind her had opened and Enda was with them and she turned towards him with hope that some solution might have occurred to this clever young man.

‘I was thinking,’ he began and then was interrupted by a roar from the men by the trebuchet. A white flag waved and Mara held her breath for a moment. Was it possible that they were going to surrender? One man had climbed up on top of the trebuchet, his head flung back and his arms held out in a gesture that seemed to demand attention.

‘Turlough O’Brien,’ he shouted in strangely accented Gaelic. ‘I call on you to surrender your castle.’ He did not wait for an answer, but continued loudly: ‘Before the day is ended all of your men will be dead and your fine castle will be a heap of stones if you don’t. These are our terms.’ He paused and then said even more loudly. ‘Surrender the castle to us and we will be merciful. All women and children go free. Men will be taken to Limerick prison and you, Turlough O’Brien, so-called chief of your people, will be taken to London to meet the King of England.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Mara. ‘Bargain with him, Turlough. You can’t let yourself be taken to England.’

Turlough snorted. ‘Do you think that I couldn’t outwit that crowd? They wouldn’t get far with me. I’d be a very troublesome prisoner for them to convey to London.’ There was a strange smile on his face and for a big restless man of action, he stood very still, and his eyes wore a thoughtful look.

He’s going to do it, she thought, her heart plummeting. She wished that she and Cormac had never come to this castle. Perhaps the thought of his wife and his youngest son being able to go free had influenced Turlough towards an uncharacteristic decision. She saw the captain look at him with an air of puzzlement.

‘I’ve found a bucket of tar in the basement, my lord.’ Enda interrupted the strange silence. ‘I have it outside the door. Could your men dip their throwing spears in that – I’ve brought up some candles. I’ll light the tar and your men can throw the spears.’

Isn’t it too far for throwing spears, thought Mara and looked to see Turlough’s reaction, but he only patted Enda on the shoulder, and said, ‘Good lad, good lad, good thinking; that will keep them busy. Peader, you organize that.’

‘Five minutes!’ he shouted back to the men on the ground, holding up a hand with five fingers displayed and then grasping his captain by the arm he pulled him back to the other side of the roof. Mara wondered what was going on. It was a strange feeling for her to be relegated to the position of an onlooker whose opinion was of no account. She was used to being the one who decided what action to take at a time of unrest and peril.

Enda, his face glowing, had brought in the bucket-full of cold tar with some candles lying on it and a covered lantern. Quickly he struck a light from his flint and steel and ignited the candle in the lantern and then the stumps of candles stuck into the tar. After a minute the heat from the candles caused the tar to become liquid. The men dipped their spears into it and then waited for the word. Several looked slightly puzzled. Mara thought that they were doubtful of the use of throwing those spears for such a distance. The captain and two other men had left the tower top, but others came across the central roof to join their King.

Turlough stood impassive at the parapet. One large hand with fingers splayed widely apart was held up and his lips moved – counting out the seconds, thought Mara. After what seemed more than a minute he lowered one finger and the bloodthirsty crowd below cheered and whistled.

‘Carry on, lads,’ said Turlough in a low voice, still maintaining his stance at the parapet. The hand that he held aloft was steady and he gazed out towards the river impassively, the prominent O’Brien nose making his face look like a carved statue.