The Monk Who Vanished

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Is your wound healing, Segdae?’ asked Fidelma solicitously. She was fond of the old abbot who had been such a close friend to her family over the decades.

  ‘I am told that the bruise looks bad but the slingshot fortunately, did not break the skin. I have a lump and a bad headache. That is all.’

  ‘You must take care of yourself, Segdae.’

  The abbot smiled weakly. ‘I am an old man, Fidelma. Perhaps I should make way for a younger one here. It will be recorded by the annalists that during my years as Comarb of Ailbe I allowed his Holy Relics to be stolen, that I allowed the sacred yew-tree of Imleach to be cut down. In short, that I allowed the Eóghanacht to be disgraced.’

  ‘You must not think of resigning office,’ Fidelma protested. She had always thought of Ségdae as one of the permanent factors of the kingdom.

  ‘A younger man might not have been so stupid to stand on the tower as I did and allow himself to be felled by a slingshot,’ replied Ségdae ruefully.

  ‘Ségdae, if you were a captain of warriors, then I would tell you immediately to stand aside,’ Fidelma told him candidly. ‘But you are a captain of souls. It is not your task to organise a defence against attack. You are here to act as counsel and guide and be a father to your community. All acts of bravery must be judged by comparisons. Sometimes it is an act of bravery merely to live.’

  The abbot, who, in Eadulf’s eyes, seemed to have aged greatly since their arrival at the abbey, shook his head.

  ‘Make no excuses for me, Fidelma. I should have acted as the need arose. I failed my community. I have failed the people of Muman.’

  ‘You are a harsh judge of your own actions, Ségdae. Your community needs your wisdom more than ever. Not battle wisdom but the practical wisdom that you are renowned for. Make no hasty decisions.’

  The old man sighed and raised the bouquet of herbs to his face.

  Fidelma made a motion with her head to indicate to Eadulf that they should leave him to his contemplation.

  They found Brother Tomar at the abbey barns where their own horses were stabled. He was cleaning out the stalls.

  The stableman looked surprised at being disturbed twice by them in a short space of time.

  ‘Did you forget something, Sister?’ he asked.

  Fidelma came straight to the point.

  ‘The horse of the raider who was killed. Is it here in the stables?’

  Brother Tomar pointed to one of the stalls.

  ‘I have taken great care of it, Sister. I have rubbed it down and fed it. The horse is not to blame for the faults of the master.’

  Fidelma and Eadulf went to the stall. Fidelma was a good judge of horses and had ridden almost before she had learnt to walk. Her keen eye ran over the bay filly. She noticed a scar on its left shoulder and some sores from the rubbing of the bit and harness. Clearly the warrior had not been a good horseman or else he would have taken better care of the young mare. The scar confirmed that the horse had been in conflict. However, it was not a recent wound.

  Fidelma entered the stall and examined the hooves, one by one. The animal stood docilely enough for a horse can sense when a human knows what they are doing and means them no harm.

  ‘Anything of interest?’ asked Eadulf after a while.

  Fidelma shook her head with a sigh.

  ‘The beast is well shod, that’s for sure. There is nothing that indicates where it was shod or, indeed, from where it has come.’

  ‘We might ask Nion if he can identify the shoeing,’ suggested Eadulf.

  Fidelma came out of the stall and examined the harness hanging nearby.

  ‘I presume this was the harness that belonged with this horse, Brother Tomar?’ she called.

  The stableman was still sweeping among the stalls. He glanced across. ‘Yes. That saddle there belongs with it as well.’

  The bridle was of the usual single-rein type called a srían, whose rein was attached to a nose-band not at the side but at the top, and came to the hand of the rider over the animal’s forehead, between the eyes and ears, held in its place by a loop or ring in the face-band which ran across the horse’s forehead and formed part of the bridle.

  The saddle was a simple leather one which was strapped on top of an ech-dillat, a horse cloth, of a type that many warriors affected. Fidelma immediately noticed that a leather saddle bag was attached to the saddle by leather thongs.

  With a soft grunt of satisfaction, she bent forward, picked it up and opened it. To her surprise it was empty. There was not even a change of clothing in the bag. It was obvious that whatever had been inside had been removed.

  ‘Brother Tomar,’ she called, ‘did you unsaddle the young mare?’

  Brother Tomar ambled over, broom in hand, curiosity on his features. ‘I did.’

  ‘Was there anything in this saddle bag when you did so?’

  ‘I think so, though I did not look. It was heavy right enough. I put it there and did not touch it.’

  Fidelma stood staring at the empty bag, deep in thought as she examined the possibilities.

  ‘Has anyone else been around the stable since you put the horse in here?’ she finally asked Brother Tomar.

  The young stableman rubbed his chin reflectively.

  ‘Many people,’ he finally replied. ‘The Prince Finguine and some of his men. Many of the brethren have been here for various things.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This is a short route to one of our store houses. Many brethren went to the town to see what they could do to help and have come here to get supplies to take there to assist those who were in need.’

  Fidelma pursed her lips in frustration.

  ‘So if this saddle bag contained anything then, any one of many people could have examined it and removed things from it?’

  ‘Why would they wish to do so?’

  ‘Why, indeed?’ Fidelma said softly, more to Eadulf than the stableman.

  Eadulf set his jaw. ‘I see. The same person who stabbed the raider while we were not looking probably took his personal possessions? Once more we are prevented from identifying …’

  He paused when he saw Fidelma frowning at him.

  Brother Tomar was gazing at him in curiosity.

  ‘A bad day,’ the stableman said finally.

  ‘It will get better,’ Eadulf assured him.

  ‘I doubt it, Brother Saxon,’ the man replied. ‘There is too much blood shed for this spot ever to be purified again. Perhaps Imleach has been cursed. But vengeance is understandable. Many in this community were angered by the senseless death of poor Brother Daig.’

  ‘Time has a way of purifying places where senseless slaughter has been made,’ Fidelma asserted. ‘No place is cursed unless it be in people’s minds.’

  She took Eadulf by the elbow and, with a nod to the stableman, she guided her companion outside. Then she turned to Eadulf with an excited expression.

  ‘We have been overlooking the obvious about the killing of the warrior.’

  ‘What have we overlooked?’ Eadulf demanded.

  ‘That Brother Bardán was especially close to the young Brother. Vengeance is a word that Brother Tomar used. I think we should ascertain where Brother Bardán was when the warrior was killed.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  There was no sign of Brother Bardan when they returned to the mortuary of the abbey. The room was deserted. Only the body of Brother Daig lay wrapped in its linen burial shroud on the table. There was also no sign of the body of the warrior. They left the apothecary’s and almost immediately encountered Sister Scothnat, looking rather pale and shaken after the events of the previous night.

  Fidelma made enquiries about the whereabouts of Brother Bardan. Sister Scothnat did not know but thought that he might have gone to see Nion, the smith. She added that Brother Daig was to be interred in the abbey grounds that evening at sunset, according to custom, when a requiem, called the écnairc, would be sung over his grave.

  ‘What now?’ asked
Eadulf as he followed Fidelma towards the gates of the abbey once more.

  ‘We will go in search of Brother Bardan.’

  As they crossed the square towards the township, Fidelma noticed several of Finguine’s warriors resting from their exertions, sprawled around a fire near the old yew-tree. They passed by the smouldering ruins that had been Nion’s forge and looked up and down the main street.

  There was more activity in the township than there had been earlier that morning. They could hear some noise not far off and turned a corner of a building to find out where it was coming from. It appeared that some of Finguine’s men were helping the surviving menfolk in digging a large grave in a field behind some of the buildings which, it seemed, had already been used as a burial ground before. A line of bodies, each in its linen grave clothes, lay to one side, ready for the excavation to be completed. A small group of womenfolk stood round the bodies uttering the usual cries of lamentation and clapping their hands in the traditional manner to express their sorrow.

  Elsewhere, other men, women and children were toiling among the wreckage of the buildings that had been destroyed. Apart from the frenzied activity, there had been little change in the scene since they had been there a short time before.

  ‘I don’t see Brother Bardán anywhere,’ Eadulf observed.

  ‘He is probably somewhere about,’ Fidelma assured him as they passed back to the wreckage of Nion’s forge and looked down the street towards the blackened shell of Cred’s inn. ‘We’ll try along the street here; there seems to be a crowd of people up at the far end.’

  They had not gone far when it became obvious that the people Fidelma referred to were converging on a figure who had just ridden into the end of the street. It was then they realised that the noise of the people were actually screams and shouts of anger and abuse. Even as they looked on in surprise, the foremost members of the crowd were reaching forth their hands and clawing at the man, dragging him from the ass which he was riding. He gave a shrill cry, waving his hands desperately in the air, before he disappeared under the surrounding people.

  Fidelma started to run forward in alarm. As she did so, Finguine and a couple of his men appeared from a building in the street. Fidelma saw behind them the figure of Brother Bardan but more urgent things now demanded her attention.

  ‘What is it?’ cried Finguine as she rushed by with Eadulf in her train.

  ‘Bring your men, quickly!’ she flung over her shoulder.

  They reached the edge of the crowd who were screaming abuse at the figure in their midst. The man had managed to regain his feet but was being pulled and punched and ill-treated. There was blood on his face.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it, I say!’ cried Fidelma, as she attempted to push her way through.

  Finguine and his men caught up with her and followed her example, without asking questions, pushing people out of the way to get to the victim, shouting at them to stand back. Recognising the figure of the Prince of Cnoc Aine and two of his warriors, the crowd hesitated and then fell back a step or two.

  Fidelma managed to reached the thin figure of the man who had been accosted.

  He was slightly built, with greying hair. His clothes, which were now ripped and stained with blood and dirt, were of good quality. His cloak was trimmed with fox fur. A gold chain of office hung around his neck. He had a curious bird-like, jerking motion of his head. The neck was scrawny and the adam’s apple was prominent, bobbing in his agitation. Fidelma couldn’t make up her mind whether he reminded her of a bird or a ferret. Both creatures seemed to bear similarities to the man. The thought crossed Fidelma’s mind in a fraction of a second before she remembered the viciousness with which the people had attacked him.

  Observing that the man was not too badly hurt, she glared at the people and held up her hand for silence. They continued to circle them, still yelling abuse. The hate and anger showed in their faces; yes, and fear as well.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  It was actually Finguine whose powerful voice finally quelled their outcry.

  ‘An Uí Fidgente!’ cried one man. ‘Look at him! Come to gloat over the death and destruction that his fellows have visited upon us.’

  Fidelma glanced at the small, pale-faced man, whose blood-splattered face held an expression torn between fear and anger.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Are you of the Uí Fidgente?’

  The little man drew himself up. His head barely reached her shoulder.

  ‘I am …’ he began.

  The people interrupted with a collective howl of rage as they interpreted this as confirmation.

  ‘Wait!’ snapped Finguine. ‘Let the man speak. Besides, as you can see, he is no warrior. Warriors attacked you last night, not strangers riding on asses. Now speak, man, and explain who you are and what you are doing here.’

  Still looking agitated, the little man decided to address himself to Fidelma.

  ‘It is true that I am of the Uí Fidgente but I am no warrior. What does this man say, that you were attacked by Uí Fidgente warriors? I’ll not believe it.’

  ‘As the Prince of Cnoc Áine says,’ pointed out Fidelma softly, ‘we were attacked last night.’

  The man made to reply but his words were lost in new cries for vengeance.

  Nion, the smith, had pushed his way forward, leaning heavily on a stick.

  ‘See? He admits that he is an Uí Fidgente. Let us kill him.’

  The little man looked nervous and thrust out his chin, his anger overcoming his fear. ‘What hospitality is this, that you set on innocent wayfarers? Is there no respect for law in this place?’

  ‘Law!’ sneered Nion. He waved his hands to the smouldering buildings. ‘Did the Uí Fidgente who did this thing care anything about law? Come and count the bodies at our graveyard and then tell us how you of the Uí Fidgente admire law.’

  The little man looked bewildered. ‘I know nothing of this. Furthermore, I would demand proof of your accusations.’

  ‘Proof, is it?’ cried another man in the crowd, supporting Nion. ‘We’ll show you the proof of a rope and a tree.’

  Finguine’s sword was abruptly in his hand. ‘No one harms this man. The rule of law still runs in the territory of the Prince of Cnoc Aine.’

  Fidelma shot a grateful glance at her cousin.

  ‘Be about your tasks,’ she instructed. ‘This man is in the custody of the Prince of Cnoc Aine and if he bears any responsibility for what has happened to you, then he will be heard before the courts.’

  There was an angry muttering but with Finguine and his men standing there, each with drawn sword, the crowd reluctantly began to dispel.

  The little man was wiping the blood from a scratch on his cheek. He was beginning to recover his courage and his pale face was suffused with a flush of anger.

  ‘Animals! I have never been greeted like this before. Compensation is due me, if you are Prince of Cnoc Aine.’

  This last sentence was addressed to Finguine who had turned to him and was sheathing his sword.

  ‘I am Finguine,’ he affirmed shortly. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Solam of the Uí Fidgente.’

  Fidelma’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Are you Solam the dálaigh?’

  The little man smiled thinly. ‘That is precisely who I am, Sister … ?’

  ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

  Solam managed to contain his surprise very well.

  ‘Ah!’ It was an exclamation which appeared to mean many things. ‘I should have known that you would be here, Fidelma.’

  ‘And what are you doing here?’ demanded Finguine.

  The little man pursed his lips and gestured towards Fidelma. ‘She will know.’

  ‘He is doubtless on his way to Cashel for the hearing,’ Fidelma responded. ‘Prince Donennach of the Uí Fidgente said he would be sending for Solam to represent him before the Brehons of Cashel, Fearna and the Uí Fidgente.’

  Eadulf had caught hold of the dálaigh’s ass
and led it forward.

  ‘I need to bathe and recover from this greeting,’ Solam announced irritably. ‘Is there no inn here?’

  ‘Your friends burnt it down and killed the innkeeper,’ one of Finguine’s men sneered.

  The little man’s eyes flashed. ‘Have a care about further accusing the Uí Fidgente. I have heard also that we are under suspicion by some of attempting to assassinate the King of Muman!’

  Fidelma regarded him with equal seriousness, then said, ‘These burning buildings did not ignite spontaneously, Solam. The great yew symbol of our land did not chop itself down. Nor did those whose bodies are about to be consigned to a mass grave, slaughter themselves. Do you want to go and look carefully at them?’

  Solam grimaced in repugnance. ‘The Uí Fidgente are not responsible for the actions of outlaws and renegades. Where is your proof that we did this thing?’

  It was Finguine who replied. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered grimly, giving Solam no other choice.

  He led the way towards the newly dug grave where the women were still crying and clapping their hands in the lamentation of sorrow. Some of his warriors were still digging a grave. They paused as Finguine came up with the Uí Fidgente lawyer leading his ass and with the two warriors on either side of him. Fidelma and Eadulf brought up the rear.

  Finguine walked to one body laid slightly apart from the others and not wrapped in the traditional linen shroud, but covered instead by an old horse blanket. The Prince tipped the edge of the blanket aside with the point of his sword. His gaze did not leave the face of Solam.

  Under the horse blanket lay the corpse of the raider who had been slain.

  ‘Do you recognise him?’

  Solam examined the corpse carefully and then shook his head.

  ‘You either speak the truth or you are a good liar,’ observed Finguine bluntly.

  He returned the blanket to cover the face of the body, still using the tip of his sword. ‘I would advise you to continue your journey to Cashel immediately.’

  Solam was proving to be a highly strung, impulsive little man whose excitable temper showed in his irritation. However, it also seemed that he had the quality of stubbornness.