Eadulf turned back into the corridor and took down one of the lanterns that lit it.
‘Hold it higher. . here.’
He did so.
She sighed and pointed down at the sill of the window. Eadulf could see some blood smudges.
‘The hand of our attacker as they climbed out of the window on to the ledge that runs just beneath. A short distance along, they turn the corner and are in a different corridor. It seems these outside ledges have been much in use.’
Eadulf was staring at the window and the bloodstain. His face suddenly cleared.
‘Do you mean. .?’ he began, but Fidelma had turned away.
‘Put back the lantern and let us go to see how Fergus Fanat fares.’
Brother Conchobhar looked up from his workbench as Fidelma and Eadulf entered and smiled grimly.
‘I thought it would not be long before you came along.’
‘How is he?’
‘At least he is not dead,’ replied the elderly apothecary. ‘However, he remains unconscious.’
‘What are his injuries?’ asked Eadulf, who knew something of the physician’s art.
‘I believe he was struck twice on the back of the head. There are two distinct wounds. The skin is split open but I do not think the bone of the skull is broken. We can only wait and see if he awakes from the darkness into which he has plunged.’
‘Do you know when we are likely to be able to speak to him?’ Fidelma sounded disappointed.
‘Lady, there are limitations to my knowledge. He may wake soon or he may not wake at all. I have known such cases. Unless he wakes, he cannot take food or drink and he will die. That is how it sometimes happens with wounds that cause this lengthy loss of consciousness.’
Fidelma compressed her lips in a thin line for a moment. ‘May we see him?’
‘Little point, but you may,’ the old man replied, sliding from his stool and taking them into the back of his apothecary, which served as a place to treat the wounded and to prepare the dead for burial. Fidelma was reminded that just hours before Muirchertach Nár had rested here, being prepared for his removal to the chapel of Cashel.
Fergus Fanat lay as if he were asleep, his shallow breathing making no noise. Brother Conchobhar had bound the wounds around his head but other than that there was no sign of injuries.
Fidelma stood looking down for a moment and then she shook her head. ‘You are right, Brother Conchobhar. There is little to be done here except wait. But the waiting is for you and not for us. We have other things to do now.’
She turned, and was leaving the apothecary when she paused by his work bench and sniffed. ‘That is a familiar scent. What is it?’
Brother Conchobhar glanced at the mortar and pestle on his bench.
‘I am crushing lavender,’ he said. He used the Irish term lus na túis — the incense herb.
‘It has a comforting fragrance,’ Fidelma observed.
Eadulf agreed. ‘I believe it was brought to Britain by the Romans some centuries ago. They used the flowers to scent their baths, and hence we call it after their word lavare.’
Brother Conchobhar endorsed Eadulf’s knowledge. ‘I grow it in my lúbgort, my herb garden. Some people like to use it as a relaxant, or as cumrae, a fragrance, as the Romans once did. It is very aromatic.’
‘So I notice,’ replied Fidelma, thanking the old apothecary as they went out into the courtyard, where Caol was waiting for them.
‘What news, lady?’ he asked hopefully.
‘None,’ she replied. ‘He is still unconscious. However, we may need you. Come with us.’
She led the way to the hostel for the religieuse. The place was in darkness and it seemed that everyone was asleep. However, as they drew near, the flinty-eyed brusaid, the hostel keeper, challenged her. Fidelma identified herself.
‘I can let you in, lady, but not the men,’ protested the old woman.
‘That’s all right,’ Fidelma replied. ‘They can wait here. I want to see the sisters Sétach and Marga.’
The old woman took a lantern and, while Eadulf and Caol waited outside, Fidelma followed her into the dormitory rooms.
Sister Sétach was in her bed but awake and sat up with a frown as they approached.
‘What is this?’ she demanded shrilly. ‘Do you come to haunt me?’
Fidelma glanced at the neighbouring bed. It was empty.
‘How long have you been here,’ she asked brusquely.
‘Since I came to bed after the communal meal ended.’
‘You have not stirred?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Show me your hands,’ demanded Fidelma.
‘My hands?’ Sister Sétach looked astonished.
‘Show me!’
Reluctantly, the woman held out her hands to Fidelma. Fidelma glanced at them by the light of the lantern. It was obvious that they had been washed recently and in a hurry, for Fidelma noticed that some flecks of soap had dried on them unnoticed. Her features remained impassive.
‘Where is Sister Marga?’ She nodded to the empty bed.
Sister Sétach shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
Fidelma felt that her ignorance was feigned. ‘Yet you say that you have been here the whole time?’
‘It is true,’ Sétach insisted. ‘I came here and she was preparing for bed. I fell asleep and awoke only moments before you came in. She was not here then.’
‘So she left after you fell asleep? You seem to have slept well. I thought that you had difficulty sleeping?’
‘I fell asleep,’ snapped Sister Sétach.
Fidelma hesitated a moment. ‘At what time was your meeting with Sister Marga, Fergus Fanat and Brother Drón this evening?’
This time, the expression of incomprehension on the woman’s face did not seem to be feigned.
‘Our meeting?’ she repeated, puzzled.
‘Did Sister Marga and Fergus Fanat meet you and Brother Drón this evening?’ Fidelma said slowly.
Sister Sétach shook her head in bewilderment. ‘We had no meeting.’
‘Was such a meeting discussed?’
‘What purpose could such a meeting have?’ countered the woman.
Fidelma’s breath came out in an exasperated sigh. ‘Was such a meeting mentioned or arranged?’
‘Of course not. Why should such a meeting be arranged?’
‘Very well. If or when Sister Marga returns, the hostel keeper is to be informed and she must inform me. Is that understood?’
Fidelma hurried to rejoin Eadulf and Caol.
‘I thought our attacker might have been Sétach,’ she muttered, a little disappointed that her suspicion seemed to have been unfounded.
Eadulf was not surprised. ‘Because of her ability to climb along narrow ledges? That occurred to me.’
‘Her hands were unmarked. Yet there was a bloodstained hand print on the sill of the window where the attacker had climbed out. Of course, that is not conclusive. However, Marga is missing. Significantly, according to Sétach, neither she nor Fergus Fanat made any arrangement to see her and Brother Drón this evening. Sister Marga did not tell us the truth.’
‘Sister Sétach could be lying,’ Eadulf pointed out.
‘She could,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Alas, we cannot ask Fergus Fanat and get to the truth that way. But we can ask Brother Drón.’
They came to Brother Drón’s chamber and knocked on the door. There was no answer, and, when a further knocking did not elicit a response, Fidelma impatiently opened it and entered. Caol came behind her holding the lantern high. The chamber was empty. The bed had not been slept in. There was no sign of Brother Drón.
‘It still lacks a few hours until dawn,’ Caol pointed out. ‘Drón must be still in the fortress, for the gates will still be closed, and in any case, no one would go out into an unfamiliar countryside in the dead of night.’
‘We must check,’ replied Fidelma, leading the way down to the main courtyard.
The guard at the gate l
ooked sheepish.
‘Brother Drón, the hawk-faced man from Cill Ria? A boy came with a message for him and he took his horse and left about an hour ago. There was no instruction to detain him. He told me that he had to be at some place by first light. Some religious place, I think it was.’
‘You let a stranger out into the countryside in the middle of the night?’ thundered Caol.
‘But I had no orders not to. I did seek the advice of the noble Finguine when one of the religieuse earlier sought permission to leave to go to visit someone in the township. But that was before the gates were closed for the night.’
Fidelma stared at him. ‘A religieuse? Do you know her name?’
‘She gave it as Sister Marga, lady,’ replied the unhappy man.
Fidelma stifled a groan. ‘Was she on horseback?’
‘I don’t think so, lady.’
Fidelma was already hurrying across the cobbled patch to the stables.
The gilla scuir was seated on a hay bale with another of the guards and a fidchell board between them. They rose guiltily as Fidelma entered.
‘Is Abbot Ultán’s horse still here?’ she asked.
The stable lad nodded immediately and pointed.
‘Still here, lady,’ he confirmed.
‘Is there any other horse missing?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘Any other horse?’ The stable lad was bemused for a moment and then shook his head. ‘They are all accounted for with the exception of Brother Drón’s horse. He rode off on it some time ago. Is there something wrong?’
But Fidelma was frowning. ‘So Marga is on foot and Drón on horseback.’
‘Do you think it was Marga who attacked Fergus?’ asked Eadulf. ‘Do we go after them?’
Fidelma was about to reply when there was shouting from outside the gates. The guard said something in response, then swung the gate open a fraction to let a figure enter. To their surprise, Brother Berrihert pushed his way in, halted, saw them by the stables in the light of the lanterns and came hurrying across. He barely acknowledged Fidelma but let forth a flood of Saxon to Eadulf, speaking quickly and with emphasis. Fidelma had a working knowledge but could not follow all that was said by the intense, pale-faced religieux.
‘Eadulf, I need your help. My father is missing.’
‘Ordwulf?’
‘I fear my father plans to kill Brother Drón. When I found him gone tonight I came here to warn you. The guard has just told me that Brother Drón has already left the fortress. I should have told you before that Ordwulf has thought of nothing else but vengeance killing. But he is my father, you understand. I cannot tell you the full story but he blamed Abbot Ultán and still blames Brother Drón for the death of my mother. I need your help, and. .’
Fidelma interrupted. ‘You mention Drón and death. What do you mean? My Saxon is not good enough to understand everything you say. Speak in Latin if it is more comfortable than Irish.’
Berrihert frowned in annoyance. ‘We have no time. .’he began.
‘There is always time for a clear explanation,’ snapped Fidelma.
Brother Berrihert took a deep breath. ‘My father says that Ultán and Drón were responsible for my mother’s death, his wife’s death. It is. .’
Fidelma made a gesture with her hand. ‘I have heard the story from your brothers. I understand it. You say that your father is about to kill Drón? Where are they?’
Brother Berrihert lifted his arms helplessly. ‘I do not know, lady. I had a feeling that my father had something planned yesterday, but it seemed that Drón went off with the hunt. I heard my father cursing to himself about Drón going in the wrong direction and thwarting him.’
‘The wrong direction?’ Fidelma frowned.
‘I did not understand what he meant. But now I think that my father sent a message to Drón asking him to go to some spot where my father planned to kill him.’
Fidelma turned and beckoned the guard to join them. ‘You said that Brother Drón mentioned some place where he was going? A religious place? Can you remember anything else?’
‘I cannot remember, lady. It was some place of pilgrimage, I think.’
Fidelma closed her eyes and groaned. ‘Fool!’
The guard looked shocked. She opened her eyes.
‘Not you. Me!’ She turned to Eadulf. ‘It’s the Well of Patrick, just south of here. Marga told me that Sétach had told her that Drón had received a message before he set out on the hunt, telling him that Marga was meeting her lover at this place. He was about to ride there when Sétach told him Marga was following the hunt in the other direction. That message came from Ordwulf, I’ll wager it.’ She turned to Brother Berrihert. ‘Would your father know about the Well of Patrick?’
Brother Berrihert closed his eyes in agony. ‘On our journey here, my brothers and I went there because it was blessed by the great apostle of the Faith. We went to sip the sacred water from the well and seek a blessing on our new life here in your land. We took our father.’ He suddenly let out a low moan. ‘My father seemed impressed by the isolation of the glade and apparently noted its location in his mind. He knows it is not far away from here.’
‘The Well of Patrick,’ muttered Fidelma. ‘By the honey fields. An ideal spot for a murder. Once it was a sacred place for the Druids and then Patrick visited it when he baptised my ancestors here on the Rock of Cashel. Patrick went south to purify the well in the name of the New Faith.’ She glanced at the sky. ‘An hour or two before dawn. Get our horses ready, Caol. You will have to come with us.’
‘I must come too,’ declared Brother Berrihert.
Caol looked questioningly at Fidelma for guidance and she nodded. ‘He can mount up behind you.’
Caol went off shouting instructions to the gilla scuir to saddle their horses.
In a short time, the four of them, on three horses, were heading south-east from Cashel along the road towards the field of honey, a small settlement that lay on the banks of the river Siúr. Initially, in the darkness, Caol led the way with a sure determination. It was not long before the grey of the oncoming day lit their path. It was fully light long before they skirted the western bank of the smaller river Mael and then crossed a marshy stream passing below a hill on which stood an ancient pillar stone, rising higher than any man on the hilltop. Eadulf knew it was ancient and that local clerics had carved crosses on both its south and north faces to expunge any pagan spirits that remained there. But some of the ancient customs remained, for Fidelma had told him that it was the habit of the chief of the Déisi to bring his warriors to the spot before they embarked on any hosting against an enemy and to lead them sun-wise round the ancient stone.
Just south of this ancient landmark was the little vale that Fidelma had once told him of, a place where she used to play as a child, and where a spring rose, once sacred to the old religion, but converted by the Blessed Patrick to a Christian Holy Well.
They rode on in grim silence for a while, and when Fidelma judged that they were close enough to the glade she raised a hand and halted.
‘Best to leave the horses here and go on on foot,’ she said quietly. ‘A path leads through those trees there and down into the small dale. Let us hope that Brother Drón is not here before us.’
They tethered their horses and moved off quietly, with Fidelma leading them for she knew the way well. They were just starting down the path into the small hollow when a plaintive cry came to their ears.
‘For the love of God, stranger, spare me. It was not I. Not I!’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fidelma recognised Brother Drón’s voice. Before she had time to consider what to do, Brother Berrihert had pushed by her and gone crashing down the path. She knew enough of the Saxon language to hear him shouting: ‘Father! For God’s sake. Put down your weapon!’
The response was immediate.
‘Stop there, Berrihert! Come closer and this pig dies now.’
Following Berrihert, Fidelma and the others came into the small holl
ow at whose centre the sacred spring rose. The first thing that she noticed was the figure of Brother Drón tied against a tree trunk, face towards the trunk, arms spread round it as if in an embrace. Behind him, holding a double-edged battleaxe of the type she had been told Angles and Saxons used in warfare, was the old warrior, Ordwulf.
Brother Berrihert had halted at the bottom of the pathway and they came to a stop behind him. Ordwulf did not seem astonished to see them.
‘So you have brought your Christian friends with you, my son?’ he sneered. ‘That is good. They can witness this act of retribution.’
Brother Drón gave another long moaning cry. ‘Save me, save me, I beseech you.’ His voice ended in a sob.
Ordwulf smiled grimly. ‘Tell them what you told me, you unspeakable pig.’
‘It was not I, I told you. It was Ultán who ordered it. Ultán.’
Brother Berrihert cleared his throat nervously.
‘Father,’ he said softly, ‘we all know how our mother died. But Ultán is dead.’
‘Aye, but not by my hand, more is the pity,’ cried the old warrior. ‘It should have been my hand that struck that vermin down. But now it is left to me to strike down his lackey.’
‘Do you think our mother would want this revenge?’ demanded Brother Berrihert.
‘She was Aelgifu, daughter of Aelfric, a noblewoman of Deira who adhered to the old ways of our people. You would have done well to remember that, before you decided to go with these Christians.’ Ordwulf was uncompromising.
‘What good will killing this man do?’
‘He and his evil master had Aelgifu beaten to death. They dared lay hands on my lady. I was not there to save her. But I am here to take vengeance as is the right and custom of our people. His master is dead and now he will die. It is a just retribution.’
Ordwulf took a pace forward, his battleaxe raised. Caol went to move, his hand going to his sword hilt.
‘Tell your friends to stop where they are, or this pig’s death will be that much quicker.’
Fidelma laid a restraining hand on Caol’s arm.
‘You would not make it across the clearing before the old man dealt the death blow,’ she pointed out quietly.
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