The Second Death (Sister Fidelma Mysteries)

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘It’s down there!’ Aidan suddenly shouted, waving his arm. ‘You can hardly see it against the eastern sky.’

  Fidelma pulled rein and peered along the path which led towards the building on a hillock.

  ‘Well, we have not missed him on the roadway,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to go and take a look. It’ll soon be time to light a lantern at this rate,’ she added, glancing at the lowering sky.

  Aidan nudged his horse into the lead and moved along the path with Fidelma following. They came to the causeway and crossed it. Then Fidelma gave an angry exclamation. She had seen what Eadulf had seen – the broadening of the track and the signs of a passing vehicle.

  ‘Friend Eadulf had the right instinct,’ Aidan could not help commenting, but Fidelma did not reply. She was rebuking herself yet again for having ignored his suggestion.

  Twilight was creeping in as they trotted along the meandering track across the marshes. They halted for a moment below the rise, with its trees and manmade structure. Within a few moments they had negotiated the hillock and stood before what seemed to be collection of abandoned buildings surrounded by a low circular stone wall.

  Eadulf was swimming slowly upwards out of his black pool, struggling and gasping for air. He tried to move his hands, but his wrists were tied together behind him. Nor could he see, as something was covering his face. It took him a few moments to understand that a hood had been placed over his head. After that, he stopped struggling and tried to relax and breathe more easily.

  He knew that he was lying on a cold earthen floor, but his head and shoulders were propped up against a wall, which felt as if it were built of wood. He surreptitiously tested his other limbs. The pressure around his ankles told him that they were also bound, like his wrists.

  Lying there, his head aching from the sharp blow, the throbbing in his temples was agonising. He was almost glad of the darkness of the hood and he shut his eyes for a moment to try to block out the pain. It didn’t work. The next problem was that every time he inhaled, the hood – a smelly piece of old cloth – was drawn against his mouth, almost causing him to choke.

  Only after his assessment of his physical condition did he turn to a consideration of his current predicament and what had been the cause of it.

  He could remember the movement behind him as he entered the wicker outhouse. He also remembered trying to turn – but then came the blow on his skull which had sent him spinning into the blackness. So a hood had been placed on his head and he had been tied up. But by whom – and why?

  He lay for a while just listening, trying to separate any sounds around him from the drumming in his temples, but could hear nothing. He wondered how long he had been unconscious and whether Fidelma and the others had missed him, by now. Would Fidelma be able to find him? Well, it was no use waiting and hoping. What was the motto that his old teachers used to keep hammering home to him and his fellow students? A line from the Roman Varro – dei facientes adiuvant – the gods help those who help themselves. Well, he presumed that one God would do the same as the many pagan Roman gods. So he must help herself. But he must go carefully. He moved slightly, cleared his throat and called softly: ‘Is anyone there?’

  Almost at once, with a sinking feeling, he heard the catch on a nearby door being lifted.

  ‘So you’re awake at last, eh?’ The voice was male and harsh.

  Eadulf wet his lips, although his tongue was almost dry. ‘Who are you?’ he managed to reply.

  There was a laugh. ‘Still causing trouble, eh? Well, you couldn’t elude us.’

  ‘My throat is dry. I need some water!’ Eadulf countered, not understanding.

  This brought forth another sinister chuckle. ‘By the powers, you show some spirit. You should have been dead days ago. Go and fetch him and tell him that the man is conscious.’ This remark seemed to be addressed to a companion outside. Then the voice sounded closer to Eadulf’s ear: ‘You will have to wait a while longer, until he comes to have a word with you, so you had better relax or devote the time to praying to your gods.’

  The door shut and Eadulf realised that the man had left him alone in the room.

  Fidelma and Aidan sat astride their horses peering at the dark outlines of the building and its outhouses.

  ‘There is no sign of his horse,’ Fidelma observed. ‘Perhaps he did not come here, after all.’

  Aidan shook his head. ‘It was definitely this building he wanted to see. After all, it’s the biggest one so far. Plenty of space for an oxen team and wagon to shelter, and …’ Then he slid down and bent to examine the ground.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Fidelma.

  ‘Wheel ruts,’ the warrior replied. ‘The deep impressions of wheels from a wagon of a similar width to the one the girl was driving.’ He knelt to look closer. ‘Cloven hooves – and ones that were shod at that. Eadulf guessed right. An oxen wagon was definitely here.’

  ‘Then where is Eadulf’s horse?’

  ‘Perhaps round the back. He’s probably inside. One moment, I’ll light one of the lamps because it will be dark in there. I have my tenlach-teinid with me.’

  Each warrior of the King’s Bodyguard carried this ‘kindling gear’, as it was called, which was stored in a special belt bag so as to be close at hand when needed. Each warrior was trained to produce fire with amazing rapidity. For a warrior of Aidan’s experience, it was not long before he had the lamp alight.

  Fidelma had dismounted and hitched both their mounts to a nearby post.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she found herself whispering as she gazed about her. ‘If he is inside, then he should have heard our arrival.’

  ‘Well, there is only one way to find out,’ Aidan said, moving towards the door, holding the lamp aloft.

  Eadulf came awake with a start, breathing heavily, and cursing himself. He must have fallen asleep due to the pain in his head, the lack of air and the restrictions of his hands and feet. It was the noise of the door opening that had awoken him.

  A commanding male voice ordered: ‘Get him upright. We don’t want anything to happen until he has told us how they survived or where she is.’

  A pair of rough hands hauled him up and then pushed him back into a semi-sitting position against the wall.

  Eadulf tried to clear his mind, and although the pain was diminishing he felt confused and his thoughts did not come with their usual clarity.

  ‘Good,’ said the same voice. ‘Now bring the lantern and hold it before his face; then remove the hood so we can see him.’

  Behind the darkness of the hood, he saw a dim light coming close and could feel the warmth of its flame against his face. Then the hood was ripped away and the light of the lantern almost blinded him. He blinked several times, then as the lantern was put closer before his eyes he caught a glimpse of the hand adjusting it – a dirty, pudgy hand with thick fingers. He also saw a wristband. It was only a glimpse, but it shocked him into a clarity of thought. The wristband was simply a piece of plaited hemp rope, with something bright and shiny dangling from it, like a polished brass disc.

  He tried to open his eyes wider, but the light had been placed in such a way that he could not see his captors. Yet he was still aware of shadows in the room, beyond the lantern’s glare.

  Then he heard an angry gasp.

  ‘May the Red Screech Owl take you for a fool!’ shouted the commanding voice in sudden temper. ‘This is not him!’

  The light wavered in front of his eyes.

  ‘Keep the lantern where it is, you dolt! Do you want him to recognise us?’

  The light steadied, and Eadulf became aware of a face looming close to his. There was an overpowering fragrance, a strong, sweet-smelling scent. It seemed familiar but his thoughts were still chaotic and he could not identify it – yet for some inexplicable reason he associated it with the mead brewed in his village, Seaxmund’s Ham, when he was a youth.

  ‘How was I to know that it wasn’t him?’ Eadulf identified a new, almost whining voice ra
ised in protest. ‘I just saw the religious robes. We were told to hunt for a religieux and a girl, who were probably hiding in the marshes. No religieux comes into these parts anyway, so who else could it have been than those you sought? We knocked him on the head, bound him and brought him to this meeting place before sending for you.’

  ‘You idiots!’ sneered the man, who was obviously in charge. ‘This one wears the tonsure of Rome whereas the other …’ The scent was strong as the face came closer still. ‘Now, who are you?’

  Eadulf had recovered some of his equilibrium. He licked his dry lips. ‘A better question is who are you and what is the meaning of this?’

  ‘Your accent betrays you as a Saxon …’

  ‘I am an Angle,’ Eadulf corrected, trying to keep a sense of humour that he did not feel.

  ‘And your arrogance betrays the fact that you have pretensions of authority.’ There was a note of derision in his captor’s voice. ‘Your authority counts for little here. I ask again, who are you?’

  Eadulf quickly reviewed his options. The only one he could see that might work was to impress the man enough to release him.

  ‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the Land of the South Folk among the Kingdom of the East Angles. I am husband to Fidelma of Cashel, sister to Colgú, King of Muman.’

  A silence fell, to the point that even the spitting tallow in the lantern sounded loud. Then a soft whistle was emitted – he presumed it was from the man who was questioning him.

  ‘I have heard of Brother Eadulf,’ the voice said quietly. ‘I can see that you do not lie. What are you doing in the marshlands?’

  Eadulf thought rapidly. ‘I became lost. I was following a track to Durlus Éile, to the north and …’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  The answer came from one of the other men. ‘He was quite alone when we found him, lord…’

  ‘Shut up!’ barked the questioner. ‘And cover his head with the hood, you imbecile!’

  ‘Wait!’ cried Eadulf, but the hood came down over his head and the lantern was removed so that he was plunged into darkness again. ‘Wait! Who are you …?’

  He was aware of the light being removed from in front of him. Then it seemed the questioner had turned to address his companions. ‘You worthless scum! Of all men to mistake our quarry for – a relative of Colgú of Cashel. May the devil choke you!’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ the man with the whining voice asserted.

  ‘Not your fault? I put you in charge. Well, now you must repair your mistake. I want no trace of this business to lead to our Fellowship. I shall wait at the usual place. Come and find me when you have done so.’

  There was a bang at the door and this time Eadulf heard the whinny of a horse and then receding hoofbeats.

  The man with the whining voice seemed to be asking a companion: ‘Has he gone?’

  ‘That he has, my friend.’ The reply was from the man with the cold tones whom Eadulf had first heard when he recovered consciousness.

  ‘How was I to know?’ the other man moaned. ‘It was dark and I did not see him well. Anyway, he was wearing religious robes and that was all the description we were told. I am not to blame.’

  ‘Whether you are or not, my friend, he does blame you. What will you do? He placed you in charge. You know what he means by repairing your mistake. It is certainly not my mistake.’

  There was a moment’s silence, which was when Eadulf realised the danger he was in. He hesitated for a moment, trying to judge whether his verbal intervention would do him any good.

  ‘I know well what he means,’ the other man was responding. ‘But one thing I will not do in conscience is kill a relative of an Eóganacht, even if he is a foreigner. He is husband to the sister of Colgú, no less. Can you imagine the retribution that will fall on us?’

  ‘But how will they know?’ demanded the other. ‘What’s so special about the Eóganacht – even if they are noble?’

  ‘You are a man of Osraige. Doesn’t your own prince pay tribute to them?’

  ‘If you are not strong, then you need to be cunning. Osraige accepts the overlordship of the Eóganacht while it is in our interest to do so.’

  ‘Well, you forget that I am from the Corco Loígde,’ replied the other. ‘You don’t know the Eóganacht as I do.’

  ‘They are people like any other.’

  ‘That is where you are wrong,’ the other told him in an awed tone. ‘They are not only the descendants of the great Eibhear Fionn, son of Golamh, who brought the Children of the Gael to this land in the time beyond time, but they are protected by Mór Muman, after whom their very kingdom is named. You do not insult the goddesses who spawned the kings of the Eóganacht.’

  ‘Our gods and goddesses are just as strong as the brood of Mór Muman,’ jeered the other. ‘Besides, this man is just a Saxon.’

  ‘You may place your belief in Badh, but I tell you: I will not have the blood of the relative of an Eóganacht on my hands nor on my conscience. Only bad will come of it.’

  ‘So you want me to kill him? I shall do so, but I shall tell our lord that I had to do it since you were so afraid. If I don’t kill him, then what is your plan? Will you release this Saxon? If he finds out, then you will know the worst of it. No Eóganacht deity will protect you then.’

  There was a silence. Clearly the man in charge was thinking.

  ‘I am still your superior in the Fellowship. Who says I shall release him? All I have said is that I will not have his blood on my hands nor on my conscience.’

  ‘Then what is it to be? Do you want me to cut his throat for you?’

  Eadulf tensed himself, determined – as helpless as he was – to resist to the end.

  ‘You shall not touch him while I command,’ snapped the second voice. ‘I did not take service with him to fight the gods but to serve them. And if the goddess of the Eóganacht is affronted …’

  ‘But you have been left no other course.’

  ‘No one saw us bring him here. He is bound hand and foot, and hooded, with no chance of escape. So we will leave him to the will of his ancestors and of the ancestors of the Eóganacht. If the deities who bred their family will it, then it is their choice whether he lives or dies. His blood will be on their hands, not mine.’

  ‘That is a curious logic,’ snorted his companion. ‘What if they allow him to escape – what then? Our lord expects the foreigner’s death, no less. How will you answer to him?’

  ‘How will he know – unless you tell him? I will not challenge the gods even if our lord claims that he speaks for them.’

  ‘You forget, he is all-powerful.’

  ‘Then let him argue with the will of the gods. I prefer to argue with the Lord of—’

  ‘Shut up, you fool. If you are determined not to kill him, what will this foreigner know unless you tell him by using that name?’

  ‘Let us leave him to be disposed of as the gods will.’

  ‘So you are determined to defy our lord?’

  ‘Rather that, than the Goddess of Muman. Since you are so worried, you will leave here first, my friend. I shall be behind you with my sword. We will go as far as your farmstead, where I shall leave you. After that, you may run to him and tell him that I have disobeyed his will. But we will leave the Saxon here unharmed. For the last time I say: I will not defy the gods.’

  ‘Very well. But I give you fair warning. His revenge is merciless and his reach is long.’

  Eadulf had the impression of renewed darkness, and then he heard the door bang shut. Lying still for a moment or two, he realised that the lantern had been extinguished; quiet had descended. There was a lonely howl of a wolf in the distance and then the movement of horses which receded quickly.

  Bound hand and foot and hooded, he was alone and helpless.

  Aidan pushed open the door and, holding the lantern high, peered into the darkness.

  ‘Eadulf?’ he called. His voice echoed hollowly out of the darkness. There was a smell of musk and d
ecay in the once wealthy farmhouse, and they could hear scurrying noises.

  Aidan moved forward with his lantern, with Fidelma following closely behind. ‘Friend Eadulf? Are you in here?’ he called again.

  There was a sudden flapping of leathery wings and something flew across the room to perch beyond their line of vision, presumably on the roofbeams.

  ‘Bats,’ Aidan muttered, glancing upwards – and before he could say anything further there was an angry squeaking and the sound of pattering feet ‘Shrews,’ he identified. ‘This house is being reclaimed by the wild animals. Look!’

  They caught a sudden flash of chestnut fur in the lamplight and then it was gone, the beast scampering away, up the wall and out the roof.

  ‘What was that?’ Fidelma asked. ‘It was too big for a shrew.’

  ‘A pine marten,’ Aidan said absently, gazing round and holding the lantern higher. ‘Well, there is no sign of Eadulf here.’

  Fidelma held out her unlit lantern so that Aidan could transfer the flame. When her lantern was alight, she moved to the first door off the main room. ‘We might as well be thorough. After all, this was where he came, and the tracks outside confirm that he was correct to do so.’

  ‘I will make a circle of the house,’ Aidan announced. ‘With the fading light and this lantern I might just be able to see.’

  While Fidelma examined all the rooms that led off from the main one, Aidan disappeared outside. It was depressing to see how this prosperous habitation had fallen into such decay.

  He went back inside, saying, ‘There is no sign of his horse, but I think he has been here.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Aidan produced a torn piece of material which, though covered in mud, Fidelma recognised immediately as the brown homespun which was part of the clothing that Eadulf had been wearing.

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Caught on some splintered wood by one of the outside huts and I think torn off recently.’

  Fidelma’s lips compressed grimly. ‘So if he was here, where is he now?’

  ‘You saw nothing in any of the rooms?’ Aidan asked.

  ‘The only things that are moving in here are little creatures on four legs.’