Free Writ in Stone by Cora Harrison Page B

did Mara. Turlough was talking in loud anguished tones into Conor’s ear, trying desperately to rouse him, Father Peter was patiently feeding drops of a cordial from a flagon into the sick boy’s mouth and Murrough was lounging at the bed head, looking appraisingly down on his brother’s corpselike face. No one was paying any attention to the two women at the window.
    ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you.’ Mara’s comment was perfunctory, just a means to keep the conversation going while she studied the young wife.
    ‘I’m used to it.’ Ellice’s shrug would have once been a very pretty gesture in the blooming raven-haired beauty that she was a few years ago, but now, even at the age of nineteen, discontent and unhappiness had soured her face, turned her slim body into an angular thinness and her well-cut features into sharpness. ‘I thought that he was getting a bit better, though. We’ve been staying here at the abbey for the past month and Father Peter has been doctoring him. He’s even been taking him for walks by the sea.’
    ‘And you?’ queried Mara.
    Again the shrug. ‘What does it matter about me?’ she said sullenly. ‘I hung around. Nothing for me to do. He was getting better, though. I thought that at least he would last . . .’
    And then Ellice stopped. Perhaps she felt that she had said too much. Last ? Mara studied the girl thoughtfully as she rubbed the frost patterns from the diamond-shaped half-frozen panes of glass and leaned forward to peer out at the snowy scene. Last until when? Did Ellice mean last until Christmas was over, or was there perhaps a more sinister meaning behind her words. Last for long enough to be declared king? If that was her meaning, then had she any hand in the killing of the man in the church, the man she had every reason to believe was Conor’s father, the king? She was a tall girl, strong and well-made, a great horsewoman. The sheer weight of that mason’s hammer would be enough to kill if one had the strength to lift and swing it – no extra strength would be needed for the blow. She examined the girl appraisingly, noting the width of her shoulder, the strong neck, the broad muscular hands.
    And then Ellice gave an exclamation of annoyance. Quickly she unlatched the windowpane and pushed it open, dislodging great white cakes of snow that clung to the outside of the thick green glass.
    ‘What’s he doing, the old grey crow?’ she muttered. Mara craned her neck over Ellice’s shoulder. The abbot was coming through the snow of the garth between the cloister and the guest house. A young monk, with a candle that wavered dangerously in the cold air, preceded him. That was not all, however. The abbot had a black stole around his neck and in his hands was obviously the box bearing the sacred oils. The abbot was coming to give the last rites to Conor.
    ‘No!’ Ellice’s startled exclamation roused Turlough and he turned an annoyed expression towards his daughter-in-law. Ellice did not hesitate. She was out of the room in one bound and clattered down the stairs. Mara followed her quickly. Nothing should be allowed to disturb Conor, now. She was down the stairs almost as quickly as the girl and caught her arm before the knock came to the door.
    ‘Wait and see what Father Peter says,’ she whispered. The door above had opened so noiselessly that she knew who was following them. It could only be Peter. Turlough had never opened or closed a door quietly in his whole life.
    ‘Lord love you, there’s nothing to be upset about.’ He was down the stairs and beside them in a second. His toothless jaws were bared in an appealing smile and he patted Ellice’s shoulder as if she were only four years old. ‘He’s doing fine, your husband, the blood beats strongly in his wrist and he is breathing well. With the help of God he has many years of long life ahead of him.’
    Mara went to the door and opened it quickly before there was any loud hammering to