The Second Death (Sister Fidelma Mysteries)

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘And our saddlebags and belongings?’ Fidelma demanded.

  ‘They are here as well,’ smiled the warrior. ‘Come now, the Abbot awaits us.’

  He led the way through more iron-studded wooden doors and across another courtyard. To one side was a stone-built chapel. Opposite this was another small building with iron-studded doors and, to Fidelma’s surprise, two warriors stood outside, seemingly to guard it. But straight in front of them was another building and it was to this that her captor led her. This opened into the main abbey buildings. He took her down a short corridor, paused before a strong-looking oak door and knocked.

  It was opened at once by a tall religieux. He was gaunt and pale-looking. His eyes were dark and his features almost expressionless. He said no word to Feradach, whom he clearly recognised, but stood mutely to one side to allow them to enter.

  The room within was large and rectangular, with a fire blazing at one end. Tapestries hung on the walls, covering its limestone blocks. The highlights in the room were picked out in black marble which, like the limestone, had been quarried locally. There was no sign of a crucifix or any other icons of the New Faith. In the centre of the room stood a large round oak table with handsome ornamental legs that had been expertly carved. Several chairs surrounded it, one of which was larger than the others – a high-backed chair, also carved to a high standard with creatures and figures which, to Fidelma’s surprise, she recognised from ancient myth. There was a triple-horned boar; then a horse with a woman petting its newborn foal – was that Epona, the old Horse Goddess? She saw a carving of a cauldron with a figure that seemed to be putting a body into it while on the other side a man was climbing out of it. This was the symbol of rebirth. On top of the chair, overlooking everything, was the sinister carved figure of a crow or raven.

  She peered around the large, high-ceilinged chamber, searching for some sign that she was in an abbey rather than a chieftain’s feasting hall. There was nothing to show they were in a religious building rather than a secular one.

  The young religious who had opened the door to them had moved to the fire and was putting another log onto it. There was a rope to one side of the fireplace and, after he had stoked the blaze, he tugged on this. Fidelma heard a distant, bell-like jangle and glanced at her guide, Feradach, who stood impassively just inside the door.

  Time passed in silence and then one of the tapestries seemed to be moving of its own volition. Behind it was hidden a side door and through this a figure emerged.

  The new comer was short, rotund and bald. He had a pleasant face, but his hazel eyes were very watery, as if their owner had either been crying or was unused to daylight. There was neither humour nor malice in his expression, but rather a comical air of innocence and bewilderment. He hardly looked at Fidelma but crossed to the grand oak seat and lowered himself carefully into it. He then nodded to Feradach.

  ‘Be seated,’ Feradach instructed.

  Fidelma looked at the seated figure in some amusement, but the rotund one’s eyes were lowered. Shrugging she took the nearest chair.

  The gaunt religieux, who had been standing near the fire, now came forward and cleared his throat.

  ‘I am Failge, the rechtaire, the steward of the abbey,’ he announced slowly, enunciating each word as if talking to someone who would find the language difficult. ‘This is Abbot Saran.’

  ‘And I am Fidelma of Cashel,’ she replied strongly, and without pause went on: ‘I demand an explanation of the extraordinary behaviour to which I and my companions have been subject!’

  ‘Fidelma of Cashel is said to be Sister Fidelma, a religieuse,’ replied the steward sternly. ‘You are not dressed as a religieuse.’

  ‘Fidelma of Cashel is said to be many things,’ she shot back. ‘Most of all she is a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts whose degree is anruth, and she can sit in the presence even of the High King if so invited.’

  Brother Failge regarded her without a change of expression. ‘You claim to be sister to King Colgú of Cashel …’ he began.

  ‘Not so,’ snapped Fidelma.

  The steward hesitated. ‘What?’ he gasped, looking in bewilderment towards Feradach. ‘But you told us—’

  ‘I do not claim it. I am his sister,’ Fidelma said loudly and belligerently.

  ‘Can you prove it?’ went on the confused steward.

  ‘If needs be. My Cousin Laisran is Abbot at Darú, which is only a short distance upriver.’

  ‘But he is not here,’ countered Brother Failge.

  Fidelma did not stifle her impatient sigh. ‘I notice my horse has been brought up to the abbey with those of my companions, who are warriors of the Nasc Niadh, the bodyguard of my brother. I trust you have searched the saddlebags that were still on the animals – or have you appropriated the contents?’

  ‘Nothing has been interfered with,’ Feradach said stiffly.

  ‘Then I suggest that you bring my saddlebag here.’

  Feradach looked quickly towards the still silent and almost immobile Abbot. But it was Brother Failge who made a motion with his hand to indicate that he should do as she asked.

  A silence fell as the warrior hurried out, closing the door behind him. Fidelma sat with her eyes on the stout Abbot but he did not raise his head or let his eyes meet her own. So she turned to the steward, who stood motionless at the Abbot’s side.

  ‘I suspect that you have already searched the contents of the bags. So is this to check if I know what those contents are? I trust that you will be capable of recognising what it is that you are about to be shown,’ she said with a malicious smile. ‘Or is your knowledge also limited?’

  The steward flushed. ‘I studied for five years and my degree is Sai,’ he said tightly. The degree was only one below the qualification that Fidelma held, although her degree had been taken in a secular bardic college and not in an abbey school.

  ‘And where did you study?’ She did not sound impressed.

  ‘Across the river here and up to the Bhearú lies the Abbey of Fiacc—’

  ‘I know it,’ intervened Fidelma. ‘It is at a place called Sléibhte.’

  The young man hid what could have been surprise or disappointment that she knew the place.

  At that moment, Feradach returned bearing her saddlebag. Fidelma took it from him and laid it on the table before her. From it she removed the golden chain, a symbol of the Nasc Niadh. She laid this to one side and then drew forth a small wand of white rowan, on which was fixed a figurine in gold. It was the image of an antlered stag, the symbol of the Eóganacht princes. The hazel wand emblem was the symbol by which Fidelma derived authority from her brother, Colgú, King of Muman, and with this wand she was able to command respect and speak as if she spoke with his voice. It was six years ago that her brother had handed that symbol to her when she went as his ambassador to Gleann Geis to negotiate on his behalf with a prince who had not recognised the New Faith. Six years ago since Colgú had made her a member of the élite order of the Niadh Nasc.

  She held it out to Brother Failge, who took it carefully from her hand and put it before the Abbot.

  ‘You do recognise these objects, don’t you?’ Fidelma asked cuttingly. ‘This is the symbol which shows that I speak in the King’s name and the emblem of my service to my brother, the King.’

  There was a wheezy sigh and it took Fidelma a moment to realise that it was the first sound she had heard from the Abbot. A curious shudder shook the man’s frame and he raised his head and looked at her with dark, impenetrable eyes. Then he began to speak. His words came out in a grating sound, as if something blocked his throat and prevented him from breathing properly.

  ‘Your credentials are impeccable. Why is the sister of Colgú here in the Abbey of Cainnech and making enquiries about a particular wagon?’

  ‘I am here in my capacity of a dálaigh, investigating two murders.’

  The rotund face of the Abbot did not show any emotion.

  ‘Murders? I was told you wished to fi
nd out about a particular wagon that may or may not have passed through this township.’

  ‘Since you have accepted my credentials, there is something I must ask before I discuss my business further, Abbot Saran. I suggest that my two companions are now released from their imprisonment. I am sure that you have also examined their saddlebags and found the golden torcs, the symbol of the Nasc Niadh, my brother’s bodyguards.’

  The Abbot turned towards Feradach and made a tiny motion with his pudgy hand. The warrior went to the door, opened it and whispered instructions to the warrior outside. Then he closed the door and returned to his former position.

  ‘It is being done as we speak,’ he said, but whether he was addressing Fidelma, Failge or the Abbot, Fidelma was not sure.

  ‘Now, you may tell us why you are here,’ the Abbot said slowly.

  ‘Tell me why I was imprisoned when I informed this warrior who I was,’ she asked next.

  It was the steward, Failge, who answered. ‘Fidelma of Cashel has a reputation – but as Sister Fidelma. You do not appear in the robes of a religieuse, nor do you introduce yourself as Sister Fidelma.’

  ‘That is because I have left the religious,’ she replied.

  This finally brought a response from the Abbot.

  ‘You have abandoned the New Faith?’ The simple question seemed to imply a deeper question hidden within it.

  Fidelma remembered the answer she gave to Abbot Ségdae, her brother’s religious adviser.

  ‘I said that I have left the religious, not that I have left the religion. I am a dálaigh by training, profession and inclination. I have accepted the position as legal representative of my brother, the King. I have not lived in a religious community since I left the Abbey of Cill Dara many years ago.’

  There was another wheezy sigh and the Abbot slumped back in his chair.

  ‘We were concerned that you might not have been who you said you were,’ Brother Failge told her, as if that explained everything. ‘And you were asking questions about that wagon and its occupants.’

  ‘I have already said that it is a dálaigh’s place to ask questions.’

  ‘True enough, but we were suspicious, especially when you said that the wagon was expected in Cashel.’

  ‘Why should you be suspicious?’ she asked, baffled.

  ‘Firstly, why are you interested in this wagon?’

  Fidelma made an impatient gesture. ‘The wagon of which we speak arrived in Cashel with two dead bodies. A young male religious and a young girl. Both had been murdered.’

  She was completely unprepared for the impact her words caused.

  There was a sharp exhalation of breath from Feradach at one side, and Brother Failge’s mouth opened as if to say something and remained agape. The Abbot, who had been toying with Fidelma’s willow wand of office, jerked back in his chair as if someone had jabbed him with a sharp instrument. His small eyes widened and his mouth formed an almost perfect ‘o’.

  ‘They are both dead? Are you sure?’ the steward asked urgently.

  Fidelma studied them all with interest. ‘So you know about this wagon and its occupants?’

  The Abbot regained his composure first. ‘Let us assure one another that we are speaking about the same wagon. Describe it, if you please.’

  ‘It is a foreign wagon. I have only seen them abroad and never in this country for they are built by no wainwright of the Five Kingdoms. The name the Romans give it is a rheda. I was told that it is a Gaulish word and that the Romans borrowed the design from the Gauls. It is large enough for six people to travel in comfort, is entered through a door and has windows, which in this case had a canvas covering over them. It is roofed as well, and the roof is curved so that any rain simply falls off. It has four wheels, iron-rimmed, and this one was drawn by a team of two oxen.’

  She nearly mentioned the brand-mark but held back, for she felt she should not volunteer all the information at her disposal.

  The Abbot leaned forward anxiously. ‘And the occupants of the wagon?’ he asked. ‘You say that you are sure they are both dead? How did they die?’

  ‘Both by poison. The male died before the girl. She also died of poison, but a few days after the male. She had joined the wagon train of a group of performers travelling to the Great Fair in Cashel. It seems likely that they passed through this township …’

  ‘We have had quite a few performers through here,’ intervened Feradach.

  ‘Baodain’s Performers.’

  The Abbot sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, they passed through the township not so many days ago. But the foreign wagon, with its occupants, had vanished some days before.’

  ‘What do you mean, it had vanished?’

  Abbot Saran glanced nervously at his steward. Again, Brother Failge replied for him.

  ‘The wagon that you spoke of, with the man and girl, left our township at least two or three days before Baodain and his performers passed through here.’

  ‘Two or three days?’ Fidelma stopped to think. ‘It was about that time afterwards that the girl drove out of the marshes and came upon Baodain’s wagons. She asked if she could follow them to Cashel. However, it was not long before she was overcome and died. The wagon and bodies were brought to Cashel and hence became the concern of my brother, the King, and myself as a dálaigh.’

  There was a lengthy silence while everyone digested the information. Finally, Fidelma spoke. ‘You obviously are acquainted with the wagon and its occupants, so I would request that you now share that knowledge with me. Also, perhaps you will explain why my asking about it caused the imprisonment of my companions and myself.’

  There was a pause. Then Abbot Saran, with a dramatic gesture, loosened the robes at his neck with a nervous tugging gesture, as if they had become too tight.

  ‘Come and stand by me, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he said in his grating tone. ‘I need to show you something.’

  Fidelma was puzzled but she rose from her chair and walked round the circular table to where the Abbot was seated. The steward stepped back to allow her to move closer.

  ‘You have heard from my voice that I find it uncomfortable to speak. Now regard my neck.’

  The Abbot opened his robe to reveal the bare flesh of his neck. A strange red wound was running around it. Not the kind of wound that implied an attempt to cut through his throat. It was more like a scorch-mark of a rough hempen rope having been pulled tight against the flesh.

  ‘That is a grievous wound,’ she observed quietly.

  ‘Grievous indeed, for I nearly died. I still feel that there is something swollen and dislodged in my throat,’ grunted the Abbot, pulling his robe back into place.

  ‘My condolences at your having sustained such an injury, but I am at a loss to understand why you are showing this to me.’

  ‘It is straightforward enough. The young man whose wagon you are enquiring about, tried to murder me by strangling me with a rope.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Brother Finnsnechta was staring at Ríonach in bewilderment. He looked from her to Eadulf and then back again as though he hadn’t understood.

  ‘You did what?’ he asked finally. His tone was one of shock.

  ‘Perhaps I had better explain,’ Eadulf volunteered, ‘for I have some knowledge of your laws and I do not think Ríonach is her best advocate.’

  The elderly hermit sat back and made a movement with his hand as if to invite Eadulf to speak.

  Eadulf felt that it was best if he was sparing with the details. He confined himself to saying that he had been lost in the marshes, had come across Rechtabra’s farm and was suddenly imprisoned by the farmer. Ríonach had freed him during her husband’s absence. Eadulf emphasised that it was obvious that the farmer ill-treated his wife and that she was in great fear of him. Rechtabra had come back suddenly, lunged at him with a knife with the intention of killing him, and verbally threatened Ríonach, saying that he would deal with her afterwards. Fearful of her life, Ríonach had seized a scillead and h
it him on the head in self-defence. Rechtabra had fallen to the floor and was dead. Eadulf added that he had immediately suggested they go to find a Brehon to report the matter, but the girl had been desperately fearful that she would not be believed, since her husband seemed to have many friends locally. She had suggested that they come to find Brother Finnsnechta and seek his advice first.

  Eadulf also decided to add that, while they had been discussing matters, two armed and aggressive friends of Rechtabra had called and he had been forced to trick them into becoming prisoners while he and the girl had escaped. It was a very sparse account of the reality, but Eadulf felt that it was enough for the time being.

  Brother Finnsnechta’s first question was about the welfare of the two prisoners.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Eadulf told him. ‘I was also concerned with the livestock on the farm, and not far from the farmstead we found a shepherd. I told him about the livestock and the death of Rechtabra. He promised to go there with his sons and will have doubtless released the men by now.’

  Brother Finnsnechta stared long and hard at Eadulf as if he found the story hard to accept.

  ‘So you came looking for a Brehon?’

  ‘As I said, Ríonach wanted to speak with you first. She recalled that you had been a friend of her mother’s when she was alive, and felt you would be able to give her protection and counsel.’

  The religieux looked sadly at Ríonach. ‘I will not disguise the fact that this is a serious matter. What you have done, child, is a grave crime in the eyes of the Faith. For such actions there are undoubtedly consequences.’

  The girl gave a protesting sob. ‘I had no other choice.’

  ‘There are always choices, child, when confronted with right and wrong.’

  Eadulf was surprised at the old man’s immediate condemnation.

  ‘I think we should examine the matter in the light of the law rather than as a matter of religious faith,’ he quietly advised.

  ‘Ah, the law. For someone who bears the tonsure of Rome, you will know that some of the Faith are trying to amend the lewd, pagan laws of this land.’