Free Cross of Vengeance by Cora Harrison

was sharp and decisive and now he spoke Latin without that slightly hesitant lisp. He did not look at Mara, but addressed himself to Father MacMahon. ‘I take charge of this man in the name of the Holy Father and I will bring him to Spain where he will be tried by the
Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición.
If he is found guilty, then he will burn. You,’ he addressed himself to Nechtan Quinn, ‘will give me men to ensure that this criminal is kept in safe custody until I reach the Dominican Friar in the city of Galway. From there I will take him in chains by ship back to Spain.’
    Nechtan O’Quinn cleared his throat hesitantly. ‘Well, the fact is that …’
    Hans Kaufmann, Mara noticed, still stood quite erect by the altar, his feet firmly on the crimson carpet and his face turned from one to the other. When Father Miguel, the Dominican, spoke of the Spanish Inquisition he turned back towards the altar, took the altar cloth in a firm grip between his two hands and then turned back to face them. There was a murmur from the other pilgrims and Nechtan O’Quinn took a hesitant step forward and then moved back again. The door opened and the lovely face of his wife Narait appeared. Her large eyes travelled around the church and then saw the German standing at bay on the altar. She gave a sudden gasp and then stood clutching the door as if to support herself.
    Ardal O’Lochlainn ignored them all. With a couple of strides of his long legs he followed the German up the church. The throwing knife in his left hand was stretched out and the other hand placed on the man’s shoulder.
    ‘The law of this country is the law of King Turlough Donn O’Brien and his representative here is the Brehon of the Burren.’ His voice was clear and emphatic. As always, Ardal,
taoiseach
of the powerful O’Lochlainn clan from a young age, effortlessly exuded power and authority, and the German, big though he was, stood very still under that hand. Ardal waited for a minute, confident and wholly in command. Then he looked down at Mara and asked respectfully, ‘What would you want done with this man, Brehon?’
    At that moment Nechtan O’Quinn came forward. Gone was the hesitation that he’d showed earlier. Perhaps he was conscious that the eyes of his young wife were upon him, but whatever it was, his voice had cleared and the words came out fluently.
    ‘Niall O’Quinn, my great ancestor who fell at the battle of Clontarf, fighting side by side with Brian Boru, was the man who caused this church to be built,’ he said, spacing his words and giving even stress to each one of them. ‘He it was who laid out the termon, who fixed its boundaries with the River Fergus to the south and west and the tau cross by the ancient tomb to the north and the spring well to the east. And he laid down that his descendants would be
coarbs
of the monastic grounds and would receive one-fifth of the rents from the eight hundred acres. And he gave to the monks’ church the right of sanctuary for all that would seek it.’ When Nechtan said the last words he looked not at Mara but towards where his wife Narait had been standing. She flushed and looked away, and then after a moment’s hesitation walked out of the door with fast steps that seemed about to break into a run. And then she had gone from the church, allowing the door to crash closed behind her. Mara waited until the echoes subsided before translating Nechtan’s words into Latin.
    It was interesting, she thought, that those very religious people – the Dominican friar from Spain, the Benedictine monk from Italy, the three women pilgrims from Wales, and even Father MacMahon of the very church of Kilnaboy – should stare at the man who invoked the sacred right of sanctuary with such undisguised anger and disgust. After all, that ancient privilege of some churches had existed for over 500 years. Even the wife of King Edward IV – King of England when Mara was a child – had, she understood,