The Monk Who Vanished

by Peter Tremayne

  Fidelma began to walk across the paved courtyard towards the large entrance of the royal chapel. The sound of children’s playing caused her to glance up as she walked. She smiled as she saw some young boys using the chapel wall to play a game called roth-chless, the ‘wheel-feat’. It had been a favourite game of her brother’s when they were young because it was the one game that Colgú knew he could beat her at. It was a game that relied on the strength of the arm because it consisted of throwing a heavy, circular disc up a tall wall. Whoever managed to cast the disc up farthest was the winner. According to ancient legend, the great warrior Cúchullain hurled a disc up so high that it went up beyond the wall and roof of the building.

  There was a scream of delight from the children as one of their number made a particularly good cast with the disc. A grizzled hostler passing near the children stopped to reprimand them.

  ‘A silent mouth sounds sweetly,’ he admonished, wagging his finger and using almost the same proverb that Brother Conchobar had just quoted to her. The servant turned and, observing Fidelma, saluted. Behind him, Fidelma saw a couple of the young boys pulling faces at his back but pretended that she had not observed them.

  ‘Ah, my lady Fidelma, these young ones,’ sighed the elderly servant, deferring to her royal status, as did everyone in Cashel. ‘Truly, my lady, their noise pierces the tranquillity of the hour.’

  ‘Yet they are merely children at play, Oslóir,’ she returned gravely. Fidelma liked to know the names of all the servants at her brother’s palace. ‘A great Greek philosopher once said, “Play so that you may become serious”. So let them play while they are young. There are plenty of years ahead of them in which to be serious.’

  ‘Surely silence is the ideal state?’ protested the hostler.

  ‘That depends. Too much silence can be painful. There can be a surfeit in all things, even honey.’

  Smiling at the children, she turned towards the doors of the royal chapel and was about to ascend the steps when one of the doors swung open and a young religieux in a brown woollen homespun habit emerged. He was a thickset young man whose abundance of curly brown hair was cut into the corona spina, the circular tonsure of St Peter of Rome. His dark brown eyes carried a humorous twinkle and were set in pleasant and almost handsome features.

  ‘Eadulf!’ Fidelma greeted him, ‘I was just coming to find you.’ Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the kingdom of the South Folk, had been sent as an emissary to the King of Cashel by no less a dignitary than Theodore, Archbishop of Canterbury. He grimaced pleasantly in salutation.

  ‘I was expecting to find you at the services this morning, Fidelma.’ Fidelma grinned, one of her rare mischievous grins. ‘Do I hear a criticism in your voice?’

  ‘Surely one of the first duties of a religieuse is to attend the Sabbath morning service.’ The Irish Church held to Saturday as the Sabbath day.

  ‘Indeed, I attended lauds first thing this morning,’ rejoined Fidelma waspishly. ‘That was before first light when, so I was told, you were still sleeping.’

  Eadulf flushed slightly.

  Fidelma immediately felt contrite and reached out a hand to touch his sleeve.

  ‘I should have warned you that on the feastday of Saint Ailbe, it is the custom of our house to attend lauds in order to give special thanks for his life. Besides that, my brother had to leave Cashel before first light to ride to the Well of Ara. We were early abroad.’

  Eadulf was not mollified but he fell in step with Fidelma as they turned to walk back across the courtyard towards the entrance to the Great Hall of Cashel.

  ‘Why is this feastday so special?’ he asked, somewhat peeved. ‘Everyone is giving praise for St Ailbe, though, I freely confess, I know nothing of his life nor work.’

  ‘No reason why a stranger to this land would know about him,’ observed Fidelma. ‘He is our patron saint, the holy protector of the kingdom of Muman. This is the day when the Law of Ailbe is proclaimed to our people.’

  ‘I see,’ acknowledged Eadulf. ‘I understand why this day is made special. Tell me, why he is regarded as the protector of Muman and what is this Law of Ailbe?’

  They walked together through the palatial reception room, across the Great Hall of the palace building which, at this hour of the morning, was almost deserted. Only a few servants moved discreetly about, laying fires in the great hearth or cleaning the chamber, sweeping the paved stone floors with brushes of twigs.

  ‘Ailbe was a man of Muman, born in the north-west of the kingdom in the household of Crónán, a chief of the people of Cliach.’

  ‘Was he the son of this chief?’

  ‘No. He was the son of a servant to the chief who had become pregnant and died giving birth. There is argument over who his father was. The chief was so enraged that his birth had killed a favourite servant that he would have smothered the child. The story goes that the baby was taken from Cliach and left to die in the wild but was found by an old female wolf who raised him.’

  ‘Ah, I have heard many such stories,’ observed Eadulf cynically.

  ‘Indeed, you are right. We only know that when Ailbe grew to manhood he went abroad and converted to the New Faith in Rome and was baptised there. The Bishop of Rome gave him a present of a beautiful silver crucifix as a symbol of his office and sent him back to Ireland to become bishop to the Christians. This was even before the Blessed Patrick set his feet on our shores. My ancestor, the first Christian King of Muman, Oenghus mac Nad Froích, was converted to the Faith by Ailbe. And Ailbe and Patrick both took part in the baptismal ceremony of the King here on this very Rock of Cashel. King Oenghus then decreed that Cashel would henceforth be the primacy of Muman as well as continuing to be the royal capital and Ailbe would be first shepherd of the flock in the kingdom.’

  They took a seat by a window in the Great Hall which overlooked the western end of the township below, giving an outlook across the plains to the distant south-western mountains. Eadulf stretched himself and found he had to quickly smother a yawn in case Fidelma might feel insulted. She did not notice for she was gazing towards the shimmering forests in the distant valley. Part of her mind was still thinking about old Brother Conchobar and his gloomy prediction. She wondered if it did relate to the safety of her brother, Colgu. It was no secret that he had gone to the Well of Ara, a ford on the River Ara, to meet the arch-enemy of the Kings of Cashel. The princes of the Uí Fidgente had been enemies to her family for as long as she could remember. True, Colgú had taken his personal bodyguard, but could harm really threaten him? She became aware that Eadulf was asking something.

  ‘How is it, then, that he is called Ailbe of Imleach? Not Ailbe of Cashel? And what is this Law of Ailbe?’

  Eadulf was always eager to pick up what information he could about the kingdom of Muman.

  Fidelma brought her gaze back to him and smiled apologetically for her drifting.

  ‘The Kings of Cashel accepted that only Ailbe held ecclesiastical authority in our kingdom. Armagh, which is in the northern Uí Néill kingdom of Ulaidh, is now trying to assert that it is the primacy of all Ireland. We, in Muman, maintain that our primacy is Imleach. That is what makes Ailbe important to us.’

  ‘But you said that the primacy was Cashel,’ Eadulf pointed out in confusion.

  ‘It is said that as Ailbe grew old, an angel appeared to him and told him to follow to Imleach Iubhair, which is not too far distance from here, and there he would be shown the site of his resurrection. This was symbolic because Imleach was once the ancient capital of the kingdom before King Corc chose Cashel in pagan times. It takes its name from the sacred yew-tree which is the totem of our kingdom.’

  Eadulf made a clicking sound with his tongue to express his disapproval of pagan symbolism. A convert to Christianity himself, he, like most converts, had become vehement in his new belief.

  ‘Ailbe left Cashel and went to Imleach and built a great abbey there,’ continued Fidelma. ‘There was an ancient sacred well which he blessed and co
nverted to God’s use. He even blessed the sacred yew-tree. When Ailbe’s abbey was set up there, a flourishing community sprang up. When Ailbe’s work was done, the saintly man passed to heaven. His relics still remain at Imleach where he is buried. There is a legend …’

  Fidelma paused, smiled and shrugged apologetically. If the truth were known she was really talking for the sake of keeping her thoughts occupied against the anxiety that kept gnawing in her mind for the safety of her brother at the Well of Ara.

  ‘Go on,’ pressed Eadulf, for he enjoyed the effortless way Fidelma recalled the legends of her people, making the ancient gods and heroes seem to come to life before his fascinated eyes.

  Fidelma glanced across the valley again, towards the road which led across the great River Suir and then further across the valley where the road led towards the Well of Ara. There was no sign of any movement on the road. She turned her attention back to Eadulf.

  ‘It is a fact not to be approved of, but many of our people believe, with an extraordinary faith, that should Ailbe’s relics be stolen from us, there would be nothing to save this land from falling to our enemies. Ailbe’s name in ancient legends was given to a hound which guarded the borders of the kingdom. Some say that Ailbe the saint was named after that mythical hound so that the people look to our saint as being the embodiment of the hound, always protecting our borders. If his relics were taken from Imleach, then the Eóghanacht dynasty would fall from Cashel; the kingdom of Muman would be rent in twain and there would be no peace in the land.’

  Eadulf was clearly impressed by the legend.

  ‘I had no idea that such beliefs were still held by your people,’ he commented, with a slight shake of his head.

  Fidelma grimaced wryly.

  ‘I am not one to countenance such superstitions. But the people believe it so strongly that I would hate to put it to the test.’

  She glanced up and caught sight of a movement at the edge of the distant forest. She focused carefully and then her features broke into a broad smile of happy relief.

  ‘Look Eadulf! Here comes Colgú and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente with him.’

  Chapter Three

  Eadulf peered through the window, towards the expanse of green cultivated fields which lay between the outskirts of the town and the river some four miles or more away. Halfway along the road was a woodland and from its edge he could only just make out a column of riders emerging. He glanced quickly at Fidelma, silently admiring her eyesight, for he could, as yet, make out few details beyond the fact that they were horsemen. That she could recognise the approach of her brother was more than he was able to manage.

  They watched in silence for a moment or two as the column moved along the road which led towards the town below the castle walls. Now Eadulf was able to pick out the brightly coloured banners of the King of Muman and his followers, together with banners which he did not recognise but presumed belonged to the Prince of the Uí Fidgente.

  Fidelma suddenly grabbed his hand and pulled him up and away from the window.

  ‘Let us go down to the town and watch their arrival, Eadulf. This is an exciting day for Muman.’

  Eadulf smiled softly at her sudden bubbling enthusiasm and allowed himself to be pulled after her across the Great Hall.

  ‘I confess, I do not understand this. Why is the arrival of the Uí Fidgente prince so important?’ he asked as he followed her into the courtyard of the palace.

  Fidelma, assured of his following her, dropped her hand and assumed the more sober gait of a religieuse.

  ‘The Uí Fidgente are one of the major clans of Muman dwelling west beyond the River Maigne. Their chieftains have often refused to pay tribute to the Eóghanacht of Cashel, refusing even to recognise them as Kings of Muman. Indeed, they claim a right to the kingship of Muman by the argument that their princes descend from our common ancestor Eóghan Mór.’

  She conducted the way quickly across the courtyard, passing the chapel, and through the main gates. The warriors on sentinel duty there smiled and saluted her. The sister of Colgú was well respected among her own people. Eadulf walked easily beside her.

  ‘Is their claim true?’ he asked.

  Fidelma pouted. She was proud when it came to her family which, Eadulf knew from experience, did not make her unusual from most of the Irish nobility he had encountered. Each family employed a professional genealogist to ensure that the generations and their relationship with one another was clearly and accurately recorded. Under the Brehon Law of succession which delineated who should succeed by means of the approval of an electoral college made up of specified generations of the family, called the derbfhine, it was important to know the generations and their relationships to one another.

  ‘Prince Donennach, who arrives with my brother today, claims that he is the twelfth generation in male line from Eóghan Mór whom we look to as the founder of our house.’

  Eadulf, missing the subtle sarcastic tone, shook his head in amazement as he wondered at the ease with which the Irish nobility knew the status of their relatives.

  ‘So this Prince Donennach descends from a junior branch of your family?’ he asked.

  ‘If the Uf Fidgente genealogists are truthful,’ Fidelma replied with emphasis. ‘Even so, junior only in terms of the decisions of the derbfhine which appoint the kings.’

  Eadulf sighed deeply.

  ‘It is a concept that I still find hard to understand. Among the Saxons it is always the eldest male child of the senior line of the family, the first born male, for good or ill, who inherits.’

  Fidelma was disapproving.

  ‘Exactly. Good or ill. And when that first born male proves an unsuitable choice, is crippled in mind, or rules with ill-counsel, your Saxon family have him murdered. At least our system appoints the man who is best fitted for the task, whether eldest son, uncle, brother, cousin or youngest son.’

  ‘And if he proves an ill-governing king,’ Eadulf was stung to reply,

  ‘don’t you also have him killed?’

  ‘No need,’ rejoined Fidelma with a shrug. ‘The derbfhine of the family meet and dismiss him from office and appoint another more suitable. Under the law, he is allowed to go away unharmed.’

  ‘Doesn’t he then incite rebellion among his followers?’

  ‘He knows the law as do any potential followers and they know that they would be regarded as usurpers for all time.’

  ‘But men are men. It must happen.’

  Fidelma’s face was serious. She inclined her head in agreement. ‘Indeed, it does happen - sometimes! That is why this reconciliation with the Uí Fidgente is so important. They have been constantly in rebellion against Cashel.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Their justification is the very reasons that we are discussing. Our family, the family of Colgú and my father Failbe Fland, trace our descent from Conall Corc, who was son of Luigthech, son of Ailill Flann Bec, the grandson of Eóghan Mór, the founder of our house.’

  ‘I will accept your word for that,’ smiled Eadulf. ‘These names are beyond me.’

  Fidelma was patient.

  ‘The Ui Fidgente line claim descent from Fiachu Fidgennid, son of Maine Muinchain, another son of Ailill Flann Bec, grandson of Eóghan Mór. If their genealogists are truthful, as I say.’ She pulled a wry expression. ‘Our genealogists think that their pedigrees were forged in order that they might have a claim on the kingship of Cashel. But, if this be a happy day, we shall not argue with them.’

  Eadulf struggled to follow her.

  ‘I think I understand what you are saying. The split between your family and these Uí Fidgente began between two brothers, Luigthech, the eldest, and Maine Munchain, the youngest.’

  Fidelma smiled sympathetically but shook her head.

  ‘If their genealogists are correct, Maine Munchain, the progenitor of the Uí Fidgente, was the eldest son of Ailill Flann Bec. Our ancestor Luigthech was his second son.’

  Eadulf threw up his arms in des
pair.

  ‘It is hard enough to follow your Irish names but as to your precedents of generations … You are now saying that the Uí Fidgente have a better claim over the kingship because they descend from the eldest son?’

  Fidelma was annoyed at his lack of understanding.

  ‘You ought to appreciate our laws of kingship- succession by now, Eadulf. It is a simple enough matter. Maine Muncháin’s line was deemed, by the derbfhine of the family, to be unsuitable to be kingship material.’

  ‘I still find it hard to follow,’ admitted Eadulf. ‘But from what you say, the Uí Fidgente descend from a senior line, in primogeniture terms, and this makes them reluctant to accept your family’s authority at Cashel?’

  ‘Senior line or not, your primogeniture does not enter into our law system,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘And this happened nearly ten generations ago. So long ago that our genealogists, as I say, maintain that the Uí Fidgente are not really Eóghanacht at all but descend from the Dairine.’

  Eadulf raised his eyes to the heavens.

  ‘And just who are the Dáirine?’ he groaned in despair.

  ‘An ancient people, who nearly a thousand years ago were said to have shared the kingship of Muman with the Eóghanacht. There is still a clan called the Corco Lofgde to the west who claim they are descended from the ancient Dáirine.’

  ‘Well, my simple brain has taken in enough genealogy and too many names.’

  Fidelma chuckled softly at the comic look of woe on his face but her eyes remained serious.

  ‘Yet it is important that you should know the general politics of this kingdom, Eadulf. You will recall how last winter we came across a plot by the Uí Fidgente to foment rebellion here and how my brother had to lead an army to face them in battle at Cnoc Aine? That was scarcely nine months ago.’

  ‘I do remember the events. How can I forget them? Was I not captured by the conspirators at that time? But wasn’t the ruler of the Uf Fidgente slain in battle?’

  ‘He was. Now his cousin Donennach is Prince of the Uí Fidgente and among his first actions was to send messengers to my brother and seek to negotiate a treaty with him. Donennach comes to Cashel to negotiate the peace. This is the first peace between the Uf Fidgente and Cashel in many centuries. That is why today is so important.’