She raised a hand in farewell and turned for the door, followed by Eadulf.
Once mounted, she saw Aona and his grandson, Adag, standing at the door, watching them.
‘Be vigilant!’ she called, turning her horse from the inn yard and along the road to Imleach.
They rode on in silence for a while. The path took them along the north bank of the Ara with the sky darkening perceptibly. To the south of them, the long wooded ridge of Slievenamuck stood framed against the light southern sky while, before them, the tip of the lowering sun was hovering above the western horizon. The road was easy and fairly straight, running across high ground away from the lowlands around Ara’s Well. To the north of them, some miles away, there rose yet another range of hills. When Eadulf inquired what they were called, Fidelma told him that they were the Slieve Felim mountains, a rough and inhospitable country beyond which lay the lands of the Uí Fidgente.
For the most part they rode in silence because Eadulf could see Fidelma’s brow creased in thought and in such circumstances, he knew it was ill-advised to interrupt her. She was doubtless turning the information they had been given over in her mind.
They had travelled about eight miles when Fidelma suddenly raised her head and became aware of her surroundings.
‘Ah, not far now. We are almost there,’ she announced with satisfaction.
Almost at once they emerged from the wooded track to an open hilly area. Eadulf needed no prompting to identify the great stone-walled building as being the abbey of St Ailbe. It dominated the little township which stretched before it, although there was a distance between the abbey walls and the edge of the main buildings of the town. Eadulf was aware that both abbey and town were surrounded by stretches of grazing land, edged with forests of yew-trees; yet they were trees of the Irish variety with their curved needles that marked them from the yew-trees with which he was familiar in his own land. The trees were tall and round-headed, some of them, curiously, seeming to grow out of many trunks, twisted and ancient.
‘This is Imleach Iubhair …’ Fidelma sighed. ‘The Borderland of Yew-Trees’. This is the land that my cousin, Finguine of Cnoc Aine rules over.’
The township was quiet. It was much smaller than Cashel and to call it a township seemed to be a compliment. But Fidelma knew that the abbey and its church had helped to develop a thriving market there. The area seemed deserted and she presumed everyone would be at their evening meal. Vespers had come and gone.
The market place appeared to be the square directly in front of the gates of the abbey. The far side of the square was formed by the collection of houses which made up the town. Only one or two other buildings gave a cursory marking to the closer sides of the square so even to call it a square was not to be entirely accurate. It was slightly too large. In the centre stood a massive yew tree which surely stood over seventy feet high, a venerable twisted sculpture of dark brown wood and green curved needles. It dominated even the great grey walls of the abbey.
‘Now that is a tree worthy of respect,’ Eadulf breathed as he halted his horse before it and gazed up.
Fidelma turned in her saddle and smiled at her companion. ‘What makes you say that, Eadulf? Do you know about this tree?’
‘Know about it? No. I merely remark on its size and age.’
‘That is the sacred totem of the Eóghanacht. Remember, I told you about it in Cashel?’
‘A totem! That is a silly pagan idea.’
‘What else is a crucifix but a totem? Each clan, each family, have what we call a sacred Tree of Life. This is our sacred. When a new king of the Eóghanacht is installed, he has to come here and take his oath under the great yew.’
‘The tree must certainly be centuries old.’
‘Over a thousand years,’ Fidelma remarked complacently. ‘It is said that it was planted by the hand of Eber Fionn, son of Milesius, from whom the Eóghanacht descend.’
Aware of the darkness closing in, and hearing the distant howl of wolves and the bark and the whine of watch-dogs about to be released for the night, they continued towards the gates of the abbey.
Fidelma halted her mare and reached forward in order to tug at the bell chain which hung beside the gates. There was a dull clanging sound of a bell from the interior.
A wooden panel slid noisily back behind a metal grille in one of the gates. A voice called: ‘Who rings the bell of this abbey at this hour?’
‘Fidelma of Cashel wishes entrance.’
Almost at once there seemed a flurry of activity behind the door. The panel slid back with a thud. Bolts were noisily withdrawn, their metal squeaking on metal. Then the tall wooden gates of the abbey were slowly pulled back.
Before Fidelma or Eadulf could move forward, a tall, white-haired figure came running forward from the gates.
Eadulf had seen Abbot Segdae a few times before. The prelate he had seen at Cashel was a tall, dignified man; a man of quiet authority. But the man who came running forward to greet them was wild-haired and appeared distracted. His usually serene, hawk-like features were haggard. He halted by Fidelma’s saddle, gazing up almost in the position of a worshipper at a shrine seeking solace.
‘Thank God! You are the answer to our prayers, Fidelma! God be thanked that you have come!’
Chapter Eight
Brother Eadulf stretched himself luxuriously in his chair before the glowing fire in the private chamber of the Abbot of Imleach. He still felt sore and uncomfortable. Eadulf did not like arduous journeys and even though the trip from Cashel to Imleach had been comparatively short it had certainly not been easy. He sipped with relish at the goblet of mulled red wine which the Abbot Segdae had provided. Eadulf sniffed the aromatic odours of the wine in appreciation. Whoever bought the wine for the abbey had good taste.
Facing him, on the opposite side of the large stone fireplace, sat Fidelma. Unlike Eadulf, she had not touched her wine but was sitting slightly forward in her chair, hands in her lap, the wine on a table by her side. She was gazing towards the dancing sparks on the burning logs as if deep in meditation. The elderly abbot had seated himself between them, directly in front of the fire.
‘I prayed for a miracle, Fidelma, and then I was told you were at the abbey gates.’
Fidelma raised herself from her thoughts.
‘I sympathise with your predicament, Segdae,’ she said at last. It was the first comment she had made since Abbot Segdae had explained to her and Eadulf about the disappearance of the Relics of St Ailbe with their keeper, Brother Mochta. Although she had never seen the Relics herself it was impossible to be unaware of their significance. ‘But my first priority must be to resolve the matter of culpability for the assassination attempt at Cashel. There are only nine days in which to do so.’
Abbot Ségdae’s features were elongated in an expression of consternation. Fidelma had explained how matters stood at Cashel already. There was no formality between the abbot and the sister of the King. Ségdae had served her father in the office of a priest and had known Fidelma since she was a baby.
‘So you have told me. But, Fidelma, you know, as well as I do, that the loss of the Holy Relics of St Ailbe will strike fear into all our people. Their disappearance portends the destruction of the kingdom of Muman. We have enemies enough to take advantage of this disaster.’
‘Those enemies have already attempted to slay my brother and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente. As soon as I have dealt with that, I promise, Segdae, that I shall give my mind to solving this matter. I am aware, perhaps more than most people, just how significant the Holy Relics of Ailbe are.’
It was then that Eadulf leant forward, putting down his goblet.
‘You do not suppose that the two events are somehow connected?’ he asked reflectively.
Fidelma glanced at him in momentary surprise.
Now and again Eadulf had the ability of stating the obvious when others had overlooked it.
‘A connection between the loss of the Holy Relics and the assassination
attempt on my brother … ?’ The corners of her mouth turned down in a grimace. She considered the matter. It was true, as the abbot had said, that the people of Muman believed that the Holy Relics of Ailbe acted as a shield for the well-being of the kingdom. Their loss would cause alarm and despondency. Could the attempted assassination be a mere coincidence? ‘There might be a connection,’ she conceded. ‘How better to overturn a kingdom than first to dispirit its people and assassinate its King?’
‘And remember that one of the assassins was a former religieux,’ Eadulf reminded her. ‘He might have knowledge of the meaning of the relics.’
Abbot Ségdae started for it was the first he knew of this fact.
‘Are you saying that a member of the Faith took up a weapon against his king? How can such a thing be? That a man of the cloth would take up the weapon of a murderer … It is unthinkable!’ Words seemed to fail him.
Eadulf gestured dispassionately. ‘It is not the first time that such a thing has been known.’
‘Not in Muman,’ Segdae responded emphatically. ‘Who was this son of Satan?’
‘He was doubtless a stranger to the kingdom,’ Fidelma replied, sipping her wine for the first time. ‘Aona, the innkeeper at the Well of Ara, said he spoke with a northern accent.’
Eadulf supported her. ‘I think that we are safe in assuming that the man was from the north. Even that strange tattoo of a bird on his forearm has been identified as one that only appears off the north-east coast and is not known here in the south. So this religieux is not a man from this area.’
The Abbot Ségdaehad suddenly frozen in his chair. His face had paled considerably. There was a curiously pinched look on his features. He was regarding Fidelma with an expression approaching horror. He made several attempts to speak before his dry throat allowed him to articulate the words.
‘Did you say this assassin carried the tattoo of a bird on his forearm? That he spoke with a northern accent?’
Fidelma affirmed it, wondering what was wrong with the old abbot.
‘Would you describe the assassin?’ Ségdae asked, a strange tension in his voice.
‘Rotund features, short, with a mass of curly greying hair. A fleshy individual of perhaps two score and ten years of age. The tattoo was on his left arm. The bird was a species of hawk … it is known as a buzzard.’
Abbot Segdae suddenly collapsed forward, hands to his head, moaning.
Fidelma rose and took an uncertain step towards the crumpled old man.
‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘Are you ill?’
It was some moments before the abbot regained his composure. ‘The person whom you are describing is Brother Mochta, the Keeper of the Holy Relics. The one who has disappeared from our abbey.’
There was a silence for several long moments.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Eadulf, feeling foolish as he said it, for the description left one in no doubt. There could surely not be two people sharing such a likeness.
Ségdae expelled the air from his lungs in an almost violent hiss. ‘Mochta was originally from the Clan Brasil in Ulaidh,’ he began.
‘A northern kingdom,’ Fidelma interjected for Eadulf’s benefit.
‘He had that same distinctive tattoo on his left forearm.’
Fidelma was silent for a moment as she considered the matter.
‘Then our mystery merely deepens, Segdae,’ observed Fidelma at last. Ignoring their puzzled looks, she went on. ‘When did you last see this Brother Mochta?’
‘I saw him last evening at Vespers.’
Vespers was the sixth canonical hour of the breviary of the Church, sung by the religious when Vesper the evening star rose in the sky.
‘Did he often leave the abbey?’ Fidelma pressed.
Ségdae shook his head. ‘To my knowledge, he hardly ever left the abbey since he came here to be our scriptor ten years ago.’
Eadulf raised his eyebrows and glanced meaningfully at Fidelma. ‘Did you say that he was your scriptor?’ he asked quickly.
Ségdae made an affirmative gesture. ‘He came here to work on our Annals and then became Keeper of the Holy Relics.’
‘Surely, in view of the value and significance of these relics,’ Eadulf began, ‘it was strange to appoint a man from another kingdom as their keeper?’
‘Brother Mochta was a pious and conscientious man who fulfilled his religious duties well and without thought of any particularism. He was devoted to this abbey and to his adopted land.’
‘Until now,’ Eadulf observed quietly.
‘He has been with us ten years, six of which were as Keeper of the Relics. Are you claiming that he stole the Relics and went to Cashel last night to kill King Colgú? It is impossible to believe.’
‘Yet if he was as you describe, even to the tattoo of the buzzard on his left forearm, then his body lies dead in Cashel, cut down while trying to flee from the scene of the assassination,’ replied Eadulf.
Abbot Ségdae hunched his shoulders in anguish. ‘But how is his bloodied and disorderly cell to be explained? Brother Madagan, my steward, and I immediately thought that Mochta had been attacked and wounded by whoever stole the Relics.’
Fidelma looked thoughtful. ‘That is a mystery that we must solve. In the mean time, it appears that we have a name to one of our dead assassins in Cashel.’
‘But an even greater mystery than before,’ sighed Eadulf. ‘If this Brother Mochta stole the relics and — ’
Fidelma interrupted him, reaching into her marsupium, the small leather purse at her waist, and holding out a piece of paper to the abbot. ‘I want you to see if you can identify this, Segdae.’ On the paper was the sketch of the crucifix which she had asked Brother Conchobar to make. She flattened the paper so that the abbot could see it.
The abbot reached for it in excitement.
‘What does this mean?’ he demanded as he gazed on the drawing.
‘Do you recognise it?’ prompted Fidelma.
‘Of course.’
‘Then tell us what it is.’
‘It is one of the sacred Relics of Ailbe. He was ordained Bishop in Rome, so the story goes. It was said the Bishop of Rome, Zosimus the Greek, presented him with this crucifix made by the finest craftsmen of Constantinople. It is of silver with five great emeralds. Who made this sketch and why?’
Carefully, Fidelma refolded the sketch and replaced it in her marsupium. ‘The cross was found on the body of the rotund assassin after he was slain by Gionga, the captain of the guard of the Uí Fidgente.’
Eadulf slapped his thigh with satisfaction. ‘Well, here is a mystery solved. Your Brother Mochta stole the Relics and then went to assassinate Colgú and Donennach.’
‘Is the crucifix still safe?’ Segdae asked anxiously.
‘It is being held at Cashel as evidence for the hearing.’
Abbot Ségdae sighed deeply. ‘Then at least one item of the Holy Relics is safe. But where are the rest? Did you find them?’
‘No.’
‘Then where are they?’ The abbot almost wailed in despair.
‘That we have to discover,’ asserted Fidelma. She drained her goblet and rose purposely. ‘Let me examine the chamber of Mochta. I presume that you have not disturbed it since your examination this morning?’
The abbot shook his head. ,
‘All remains as we found it,’ he replied, also rising. ‘But I am still shocked and bewildered that such a man as Brother Mochta could have done this deed. He was such a quiet man, not given to speaking out even on his own behalf.’
‘Atlissima quaeque flumina minimo sono labi,’ intoned Eadulf. Fidelma wrinkled her nose. ‘Perhaps that is true. The deepest rivers flow with the least sound. Usually, however, they leave some mark of their passage and that we must discover. Take us to Brother Mochta’s cell, Ségdae.’
Abbot Ségdae took up a lamp and led them from the room. As they passed down the corridors they could hear a faint noise rising from a distance.
‘The brothers are
at their clais-cetul,’ explained Abbot Ségdae as he saw Eadulf pause and listen.
It was a new phrase to Eadulf.
‘They sing in a choir,’ explained Segdae. ‘The term means the harmonies of the voice. Here we sing the Psalms in the manner of the Gauls, who are our cousins, rather than in the manner of the Roman classis.’
Eadulf became aware of a strange acoustical effect in this corner of the abbey. The voices of the chanting religious carried clearly from the chapel on the far side of the cloisters. He could even hear the words distinctly.
Regem, regum, rogamus
in nostris sermonibus,
anacht Noe a luchtlach
Diluui temporibus …
‘We beseech in both our languages,’ translated Fidelma reflectively, ‘the King of Kings who protected Noah with his crew in the days of the Flood …’
‘I have not heard the like before,’ Eadulf admitted. ‘This joining of Latin and Irish in a verse is quite strange.’
‘It is one of the songs of Colmán moccu Cluasaif, the lector of Cork. He composed it two years ago when we were under threat from the terrible Yellow Plague,’ explained Segdae.
They stood listening for a moment, for there was something hypnotic about the rising and falling of the chanting voices.
‘It is based, I think, on the prayer in the Breviary for the Commendation of the Soul,’ Fidelma hazarded.
‘That is exactly what it is, Fidelma,’ Segdae confirmed with appreciation. ‘It is good to see you are not neglecting your religious studies in spite of your growing reputation as a dálaigh.’
‘Which brings us back to why we are here, Ségdae,’ Fidelma added seriously.
The abbot continued to lead the way along the dark corridors of the abbey. Torches gave a shadowy, dancing light from their metal burners along the stone walls.
Darkness had fallen now and apart from the pungent smell of the torches and their deceptive lighting, the abbey was shrouded in darkness.
The Monk Who Vanished Page 9