Free Writ in Stone by Cora Harrison Page A

go first. He always does, normally. No, he stayed there, standing beside the door to the cloister.’
    ‘Alone?’
    Father Peter shook his head. ‘Father Denis was with him. He seemed like he was waiting. They both seemed like they were waiting; waiting for the rest of us to go, perhaps. They were just . . .’ He broke off and got to his feet. The door of the nearby guest house had been flung open and the confused sound of voices filled the air. Mara jumped up also, her heart pounding. Let it not be Turlough, she prayed soundlessly. I’ll never forgive myself if something has happened to him. She was at the door as soon as the knock came.
    ‘Is Father Peter there?’ The scared young monk was white with apprehension. ‘We need Father Peter. The king’s son is unconscious.’
    Mara’s heart slowed down. It was nothing to be surprised at that Conor had fainted; he had looked almost bloodless the last time that she had seen him. She turned to her companion.
    ‘You go ahead, Father Peter,’ she said urgently. ‘I’m sure that your skills, with the help of God, will save him.’
    They were fetching Turlough, she noticed. She would wait for him and be by his side, if his son’s last hour had come. All else could wait.

Six
    Cáin Íarraith
    (The Law of Fosterage)
    The father of a child to be fostered pays a fee to the foster father. This fee corresponds to the honour price of the father. Thus, the fee for the son of a king of three kingdoms is thirty séts or fifteen ounces of silver, or fifteen cows. The fee for the son of an ocaire (small farmer) would be three séts, one-and-a-half ounces of silver, or two cows.
    When the child leaves fosterage, then the foster father gives the child a sét gertha (a treasure of affection).
    Conor was stretched on the bed, his face whiter than the sheepskin bedcovering and dark blue shadows etched under his closed eyes. Turlough dropped to his knees beside the bed and took one of the transparently thin hands within his own. All the humour and fun was gone from his face and his green eyes were large with tears. Murrough, the sick man’s brother, was there also, standing in the shadows. Ellice, the young wife, stood gazing out of the window. She turned as Mara came in, gave her one scornful glance and then turned back again, gazing on the snowflakes that still drifted down from the dark grey sky. There was such a look of angry bitterness on her face that Mara was appalled. She hesitated for a moment. Father Peter was giving quietly spoken orders to the three young monks. One was sent for herbal medicines, one for more charcoal for the brazier and one for some heated stones for the fire. If anyone could save Conor now, it would be Peter. There was nothing for her to do. She crossed the room and stood beside Ellice.
    ‘What happened?’ she asked in a low voice, scanning the young woman’s face.
    Ellice shrugged. ‘The monks brought him over after he got that fright. He thought his father had been killed. He sat by the fire for a while. Then he said that he felt a bit better.’ She shrugged her narrow shoulders again. Her dark eyes were hooded, but her compressed mouth spoke of anger and resentment.
    Mara said nothing, just continued to look out at the snow while keeping her attention fixed on the girl beside her. How old would she be? Mara remembered the year of the wedding. About five years ago, she thought. Shane, her youngest scholar, had just come to the law school. Ellice had been fourteen then. She must be about nineteen now and the mother of three children. The children were all placed in foster homes, as was the custom, and Ellice, herself, was probably bored. A permanently ill husband and nothing to do was probably a bad combination for a lively, intelligent girl of her age.
    ‘I went out,’ muttered Ellice suddenly and explosively. ‘I couldn’t stand hanging around. Then I came back and found him on the floor.’ She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and so