Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Peter Tremayne
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
About the Book
Epigraph
Principal Characters
Map
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Historical Afterword
A Selection of Recent Titles by Peter Tremayne
The Sister Fidelma Mysteries
WHISPERS OF THE DEAD
THE LEPER’S BELL
MASTER OF SOULS
A PRAYER FOR THE DAMNED
DANCING WITH DEMONS
THE COUNCIL OF THE CURSED
THE DOVE OF DEATH
THE CHALICE OF BLOOD
BEHOLD A PALE HORSE
THE SEVENTH TRUMPET
ATONEMENT OF BLOOD
THE DEVIL’S SEAL
THE SECOND DEATH
PENANCE OF THE DAMNED
NIGHT OF THE LIGHTBRINGER *
BLOODMOON *
* available from Severn House
BLOODMOON
Peter Tremayne
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY
This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2018 by Peter Tremayne.
The right of Peter Tremayne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8818-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-929-0 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-974-9 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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ABOUT THE BOOK
Ireland. AD 671.
Sister Fidelma has a mission, and she is sworn by oath to reveal her purpose to no other. The secret investigation leads Fidelma and her companions to the abbey of Finnbarr to question the abbot. But before they have a chance to speak to him, the abbot is found murdered – and the young girl suspected of the crime has fled the scene.
Despite their protests, Fidelma’s cohorts agree to accompany her in pursuit of the girl for answers. But as vicious rumours spread, accusing Fidelma’s family, the Eóghanacht Kings of Cashel, of conspiring to assassinate the High King and abduct his wife, Sister Fidelma’s life is placed in mortal danger.
Unable to tell the truth of her quest to anyone, including her husband Eadulf, Fidelma’s time is running out – and now she has no choice but to face the challenge, and her enemies, alone.
Sol vertetur in tenebras et luna in sanguinem antequam veniat dies Domini magnus et horribilis.
The sun will turn into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes.
Joel 2–31
Vulgate Latin of translation of Jerome, 4th century
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
Sister Fidelma of Cashel, a dálaigh or advocate of the law courts of 7th-century Ireland
Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the land of the South Folk, her companion
Enda, warrior of the Nasc Niadh or Golden Collar, the King of Cashel’s bodyguard
At Cluain, in the territory of the Uí Liatháin
Grella, wife to Cenn Fáelad, High King of the Five Kingdoms
Cairenn, her companion
Loingsech, bodyguard to Grella
Antrí of Cluain
At Finnbarr’s Abbey, Corcaigh
Abbot Nessán
Brother Ruissine, the abbey steward
Oengarb of Locha Léin, a lawyer
Brother Lúarán, a physician
Imchad, a ferryman
In Ciarraige Cuirche territory
Tassach, a farmer
Anglas, his wife
Cogadháin, an innkeeper
Cogeráin, his son
Fécho, captain of the Tonn Cliodhna, coastal vessel
Iffernán, his chief helmsman
Ard Nemed, the Great Island
Artgal, Prince of the Cenél nÁeda
Corbmac, his rechtaire or steward
Murchú, captain of a Cenél nÁeda warship
At Ros Tialláin
Tialláin, the chieftain
Gadra, his second in command
Prince Aescwine, commander of a Gewisse (Saxon) warship
Beorhtric, Aescwine’s second in command
Áed Caille, an Uí Liatháin bow-maker and a prisoner
Fínsnechta, son of Dúnchad
At Baile an Stratha
Mother Báine, keeper of a hostel
At the community of Doirín
Éladach, an Gréicis (the Greek), brother to Glaisne, a prince of the southern Uí Liatháin
Pilib, his rechtaire or steward
Petrán, a warrior
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The events in this story follow in chronological sequence from Night of the Lightbringer. The year is still AD 671 and the month is known in Old Irish as Meadhónach Gaimrid (sometimes Geamhrad), the ‘middle of winter’, which equates with the month we now call December, after the Latin ‘tenth month’ (decem) of the Julian calendar.
The setting is mainly in the territory of the Uí Liatháin in what is now east Co. Cork. The chief fortress was in the north of the territory at Caisleán Uí Liatháin (fortress of the Uí Liatháin), Anglicised today as Castlelyons, but most of the action takes place on the southern coast.
The Anglicised form of Cork was derived from ‘Corcaigh’, the Great Marsh of Munster. The River Dabrona, as recorded by Ptolemy, was later known as the Sabrann but became the Laoi and hence to be Anglicised as the River Lee. Cluain is now Cloyne, ‘the meadow’, and Eochaill, ‘the place of the yew trees’, is Youghal. Eochaill stands at the estuary of Abhainn Mór, the Great River, which the English came to call the Blackwater, running 169
kms (105 miles) from its sources in the mountains of Mullach an Radhairc through the province of Munster to empty into the sea.
CHAPTER ONE
‘Why have we stopped?’
The imperious tone of the woman leaning out of her ornate carriage made the young warrior, who had signalled the halt, turn his horse and ride the short distance back to the vehicle to answer her.
They had emerged from a thick forest onto a narrow track at the head of a wild and windswept valley. The weather was bleak and cold, a typical midwinter day. The craggy hills on either side of the valley before them were bare of growth, and granite rocks protruded, dominating the landscape. There were only a few trees here and there, and the landscape was brown with dead bracken and patches of thorn bush. There was little of the winter green that one might expect to see in this southern area, as in the forest they had just travelled through.
The warrior, Loingsech, looked tired and cold, in spite of his heavy woollen cloak trimmed with badger fur. But he halted his horse by the carriage and saluted the woman respectfully.
The carriage in which she sat was a four-wheeled one, called a cethairríad, drawn by four strong horses. It was clearly no ordinary vehicle, for it was of red yew panelling on a heavy oak frame, carved by expert craftsmen and with gold ornamentation. Moreover, it was an enclosed vehicle, except for the box on which sat the ara, or driver, and a cairpthech, or chariot-warrior, whose job was to act as guard. The ownership of such a valuable vehicle could be deduced, by those with knowledge, for there was an aurscarted, a carving, on the red yew of the door of the carriage. It was an upraised hand, the symbol of the Uí Néill, the High Kings of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann. The single riderless horse tethered at the rear of the carriage was a curiosity.
The woman who leant out of the vehicle was tall, in her late twenties, with hints of fiery red in her otherwise blond hair. She was attractive, but worry lines could be discerned around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. There was an expression of anxiety about her features though her demeanour showed that she was used to giving commands and, moreover, to having them obeyed. She fixed the young warrior with icy blue eyes.
‘Loingsech, why have we stopped?’ she demanded again.
The young man inclined his head in respect. ‘Lady, we have arrived at the valley of Cluain. But I do not like the gloomy look of it. It seems too deserted. It has a menacing appearance.’
For a moment the woman looked surprised. Then the taut line of her mouth broke into a cynical smile.
‘Are you so fearful, Loingsech?’ she taunted. ‘Are you not a warrior of the Fianna Éireann?’
The young man flushed. ‘I merely observe how bare and deserted this valley appears compared with the thick, lush forests that surround this isolated spot. It is as if God has cursed it so that it is devoid of growth.’
‘I swear you are fearful, Loingsech,’ mocked the woman.
‘I am fearful of no living person,’ the warrior protested.
‘No person living … or dead?’ she taunted further. ‘Have no fear, warrior, the abbey of Cluain should lie only a little way further along this valley track.’
She turned to her companion, sitting in the shadows of the vehicle. ‘It is fortuitous that we have stopped here, for it is now time we parted company.’
The figured stirred. It was a young girl, hardly older than her early twenties.
‘I am ready, lady.’
The woman nodded slowly. ‘You know what you have to do?’
‘I should be in Finnbarr’s Abbey by tomorrow morning. I am then to rejoin you in Cluain by the end of the week at the latest.’
‘Excellent. Go with God.’
The girl bowed her head and climbed down from the carriage unaided. She walked nimbly to the rear of it and untethered the horse. Mounting with the fluid motion of a practised horsewoman, she rode away at a swift trot towards the forest to the north-west, making no farewell gesture. The woman watched her departure, then, satisfied, sank back among cushions that furnished the interior of the coach and called to the driver to move on.
The buildings that they came across a short time later seemed as bleak and deserted as the valley itself. Crumbling blocks of dark, weather-worn limestone were piled in such a way as to create an uneven wall enclosing a half-ruined chapel and, just visible beyond it, several round bothán, cabins for habitation. There appeared to be no sign of life, even when the young warrior rode up to the great oak gates and brought out his stoc, or trumpet, to blow the customary blast announcing the arrival of an important visitor.
The echoes of the note died away but there was no answer. There was no sound except the angry cacophony of disturbed birds, their calls blending together in a nerve-shattering chorus.
The young warrior moved forward, frowning, and pushed on the gates. They swung open easily at his touch.
He nudged his horse forward a few paces and then halted, suddenly rigid. There was a discernible pause as he stiffened in the saddle, a short bolt of wood protruding from his left shoulder. The horse, surprised and nervous, had jerked its head, twisting the reins from the hand of the injured warrior. With a shrill frightened sound, the horse reared and then turned, uncontrolled, and bounded away with the severely wounded young man clinging to the saddle, blood gushing from his shoulder.
Before the cairpthech, the chariot-warrior, could rise to draw his weapon, two more bolts from a hidden crossbow had embedded themselves into his flesh. He looked surprised as he fell, and it did not take an expert eye to see that he was dead before he hit the ground. The horses pulling the carriage reared up in fright as his body bounced over their backs. The driver’s cry of alarm was half-choked in his throat as he, too, fell back in his seat. The horses stamped and snorted nervously.
The woman, leaning from the window, stared in bewilderment at the bodies of her fallen entourage; she realised they were beyond helping her now. She reluctantly turned her gaze from them as she became aware of men moving forward to surround the carriage.
A mocking baritone voice called: ‘Come and join us, lady.’
Her jaw set determinedly, the woman climbed down from the coach. Her quick eye took in the three men who confronted her. Two of them were aiming curious-looking weapons at her. She remembered that she had seen such weapons before, at Tara, carried by warriors from the Pictii of Alba, known to her people as the Cruithne, accompanying their envoys to her husband’s court. They were crossbows, vicious weapons that could be used at fairly close quarters to release their bolts with deadly effect. The third man’s features were totally concealed by a mask. His clothes appeared to be of good quality and an ornately worked sword hung in an elaborate scabbard at his side. They belonged to no common warrior or thief.
‘Where is Antrí?’ she demanded, but her air of authority was somewhat forced. ‘This is not how it was arranged!’
‘Walk with me, lady,’ the masked man replied, indicating the open gates of the abbey. His tone was civil and yet, curiously, held a threatening note.
‘Know you that I am Grella, wife to Cenn Fáelad mac Blaithmaic, High King, descendant of the Síl nÁedo Sláine, heir of Niall –’
The man gave a cynical laugh and made a gesture of cutting her short with his hand.
‘I know you well enough, lady,’ he said. ‘What other reason would I have for inviting you to be my guest?’
‘Who are you?’ she demanded, puzzled. ‘I seem to know you, but you are not Antrí.’
She glanced at his two armed companions. They were poorly dressed but their clothes seemed to belie their status; they both had well-trimmed hair and beards and carried weapons of quality.
‘Thank the powers I am not Antrí,’ the man said.
‘Your voice is familiar. Where is Antrí? Are you not those sent to meet me?’
‘Alas, it is not for me to introduce myself at the moment,’ her captor said in an amused tone. ‘Suffice to say, I know who you are and you will shortly know who I am. Let me say for the mome
nt that I disapprove of the so-called Abbot Antrí making a separate transaction that betrayed his original agreement.’
He led her through the gates and towards one of the crumbling buildings. He paused before it and pushed open the door. Inside, a man in the brown homespun robes of a religieux was tied to one of the wooden poles that supported the roof. A gag was in his mouth. His wide, frightened eyes stared at them above the gag.
‘Antrí!’ Grella exclaimed as she recognised the man.
Her captor reached forward to pull the door shut again.
‘Your cousin Antrí, who claims to be abbot, has not been very cooperative. No matter. It is you we wanted.’
‘Who are you?’ she demanded again, this time more hesitantly. ‘The men of Éireann use only longbows. Those are Pictish weapons.’ She indicated the crossbows. ‘You are not Cruithne?’
‘Your knowledge is great, lady. But the Saxons also use these weapons. I am surprised you did not mistake us for Saxons.’ He seemed to smile as he spoke, as if there were some hidden meaning to his comment.
‘What do you want of me?’ Grella replied in frustration. ‘Why have you imprisoned Abbot Antrí?’
‘We can dispense with Abbot Antrí.’ Her captor made a dismissive gesture. ‘It is your company that we want … for a while, at least. As I have requested – walk with me.’
He led her back towards the gates.
She now saw that behind the gates was a line of a dozen bodies, all clad in religious robes. She could see they were all dead. She swallowed nervously.
‘What has happened here?’ she asked quietly.
Her guide waved a hand in the direction of the bodies. ‘Well, I know that Christians are keen to join their God in the Paradise of which they talk so much. You could say that we have just helped to hasten their wish. I’m sure they would all accept that sacrificing their lives in this world will have eased their entry into the next.’
‘Who were they? Abbot Antrí’s community?’ she demanded, her voice rising in fear now. ‘Who are you?’
‘They are indeed your cousin Antrí’s so-called disciples, or should I be more accurate and say that they are his paid followers? Members of the religious they were certainly not, no more than Antrí was an abbot.’
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