The Monk Who Vanished sf-7

by Peter Tremayne

  The warrior screwed up his mouth and tried to spit at Eadulf.

  Eadulf smiled broadly and turned back to the helpful young monk who was waiting his orders.

  ‘Leave our valiant warrior where he has fallen, Brother …?’

  ‘Brother Tomar.’

  ‘Well, Brother Tomar, leave him there and get on with the other tasks first.’

  Eadulf went across to Fidelma, who was still standing by Cred’s s body, looking down thoughtfully.

  ‘Do you know, I believe that Cred was not running to the abbey to seek shelter,’ she said, raising her eyes to his. ‘I think she might have been running here to see me.’ She sighed, then said: ‘Did the warrior tell you anything?’

  ‘Nothing. He has not identified himself.’

  ‘Well, plenty of time to question him later.’

  Fidelma turned for the watch-tower. ‘Let us see what is happening out there first. If these warriors are going to attack the abbey, they appear to be delaying it. I find that puzzling. It is nearly dawn now.’

  They returned to the roof of the tower and gazed out across the square towards the town. The buildings were still on fire but the blaze was not so intense as it had been earlier. Columns of black smoke were arising. What caught Fidelma’s attention immediately was the sight of the remains of the great yew-tree. Part of the trunk had been cut through and then ropes had obviously been fastened to it for it had been pulled over, causing a splintering. The severed tree had then been set alight.

  Fidelma closed her eyes in anguish.

  ‘Never in over sixteen centuries since Eber Fion set up the yew as symbol of our fortunes has this ever happened,’ she said softly.

  She frowned suddenly. She realised from the movements around the town that groups of raiders were reorganising themselves.

  Fidelma also realised that the bell of the abbey was still clanging frantically. Indeed, it had never ceased. It was strange how she could have grown so used to the noise that she had not even noticed its continuing clamour.

  ‘Let that noise be stopped,’ she instructed Eadulf. ‘If no one has heard it by now and come to our aid, no one will.’

  ‘If I can find that young Brother Tomar he can see to it.’

  He was about to go down the stairs when Fidelma stayed him.

  ‘Wait! There is a movement in the woods to the south. I think the raiders are gathering for their attack on the abbey at last!’

  Eadulf came forward and followed her directions.

  ‘We will have no form of defence. If they can cut down that yew and destroy it in so short a time, then their axe-men would be able to break through the oak gates of the abbey within minutes.’

  Fidelma reluctantly had to admit that Eadulf was right. ‘We might be able to negotiate with them,’ she said, but without conviction.

  Eadulf said nothing but let his gaze sweep across the burning township and the remnants of the great yew-tree. With dawn casting its grey light across the hills they could see bodies scattered in profusion.

  The youthful Brother Tomar came hurrying up the steps to join them.

  ‘I have done everything that you have asked, Brother Saxon,’ he told Eadulf. ‘Brother Madagan has recovered consciousness but is weak. Abbot Segdae has also recovered and is trying to organise the brethren to face our enemies with more discipline.’ He glanced rather shame-faced at Fidelma. ‘We did not acquit ourselves well at the gate when the warrior came, Sister. For that I must apologise.’

  Fidelma was forgiving. ‘You are Brothers of the Faith and not warriors. There is no blame on you.’

  She was still peering anxiously southward where she had detected the movement of a body of horsemen.

  Brother Tomar followed her gaze.

  ‘Are they massing to attack the abbey?’ he whispered anxiously.

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘I’d better warn the others.’

  Fidelma gestured negatively. ‘To what purpose? There is no way to defend the abbey.’

  ‘But there might be a way of evacuating the Sisters of our order, at least. I have heard the abbot once speak of a secret passageway that leads into the nearby hills.’

  ‘A passageway? Then go; speak with Abbot Segdae at once. If we can evacuate some of the members of the abbey before these barbarians break in …’

  Brother Tomar had already left before she had finished speaking. Eadulf now touched Fidelma on the arm and pointed silently. She followed his gesture and saw, at the north end of the burning town, a band of attackers riding away in the opposite direction to the oncoming column of horsemen.

  ‘Some of the attackers are leaving,’ he observed with curiosity. ‘Why?’

  Fidelma turned from the column of disappearing attackers to look southwards again. The movement of horses she had seen in the dim early light had been revealed more fully as the tip of the sun broke across the top of the eastern hills, flooding the forest area with light. A body of twenty or thirty horsemen had emerged. She could see a fluttering banner among them.

  It was a royal stag on a blue background.

  ‘That’s a Eóghanacht banner!’ she gasped.

  The horsemen were galloping across the plain towards the abbey.

  Fidelma turned to Eadulf. There was relief suddenly on her face. ‘I believe that they are men from Cnoc Aine,’ she said, excitement in her voice. ‘They must have come in answer to the tolling of the abbey bell.’

  ‘It would make sense as to why the attackers are leaving so hurriedly.’

  ‘Let us go down and tell the others.’

  At the foot of the tower they found Brother Tomar and Abbot Ségdae. He looked slightly strained and pale and there was a bluish lump on his forehead but he seemed in control again. A trumpet note was echoing in the air as the column of horsemen approached the abbey. Abbot Ségdae recognised it. Fidelma did not have to explain.

  ‘Deo gratias!’ breathed the abbot thankfully. ‘We are saved! Quick, Brother Tomar, open the gates. The men of Cnoc Aine have arrived to give us aid.’

  As the abbey gate swung open, the column of horsemen came to a halt in front of them. They were led by a young, good-looking, dark-haired warrior, richly clad and equipped for battle. He was evenly featured, with curly close-cropped red hair and dark eyes. He wore a blue woollen cloak fixed at the shoulder with a silver brooch. It was quite distinctive, wrought in the shape of a solar symbol with semi-precious garnets on each of the three radiating arms.

  His eyes fell on Fidelma as she emerged through the gates, with the others, to greet them. His features split into a broad smile.

  ‘Lamh laidir abú!’ he cried, raising a clenched fist in greeting.

  Eadulf had been long enough in Muman to recognise the battle cry of the Eóghanacht. A strong hand to victory!

  ‘You are welcome, cousin Finguine,’ Fidelma replied, also raising her clenched fist in greeting.

  The young man leapt from his horse and embraced his cousin. Then he stood back and gazed around in dismay.

  ‘But I have arrived late rather than early,’ he said in disappointment. ‘Thank God that He has cast His mantel of protection over you, cousin.’

  ‘The raiders left riding towards the north only minutes ago,’ Eadulf offered.

  ‘We saw them,’ the Prince of Cnoc Aine nodded, glancing at him and observing his Saxon accent and tonsure. ‘My tanist and half of my men have already started in pursuit. Who were they? Uí Fidgente?’

  Fidelma had to admit that it was a logical assumption. It was inthis very area, indeed, at Finguine’s very capital at Cnoc Aine, that the last great battle had been fought with the Uí Fidgente scarcely a year before.

  ‘It is hard to say, but the Prince of the Uí Fidgente is at Cashel, supposedly engaged in peace talks with my brother.’

  ‘So I have heard,’ observed Finguine dryly. His expression conveyed how much he distrusted such an event. But now he turned to the Abbot Segdae, noting his bruise. ‘Are you badly hurt, Father Abbot?’

&
nbsp; Ségdae shook his head as he greeted the youthful Prince. ‘A bruise, that’s all.’

  ‘Has harm come to any other of the brethren? Are you all well?’

  ‘The most harm has been done to the township,’ replied the abbot, his face still anguished. ‘We have suffered one Brother killed and one bruised, like myself. But there must be many dead in the township. And, look …’

  Finguine followed his gaze as did everyone else.

  ‘The sacred yew-tree of our race — destroyed!’ cried Finguine, his voice a cross between horror and rage. ‘There will be much blood to pay for this. This is an insult to all Eóghanacht. It will mean war.’

  ‘But war between whom?’ Fidelma posed the question without humour. ‘Firstly, we must identify those responsible.’

  ‘Uí Fidgente,’ snapped Finguine. ‘They are the only people who will benefit from this.’

  ‘It is an assumption only,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Never act before you know for sure.’

  ‘Well, we have captured one of the raiders,’ Eadulf reminded them. ‘Let us question him and make him tell us who he takes his orders from.’

  Finguine appeared surprised at the news. ‘You have actually captured one, Saxon?’ He sounded impressed.

  ‘Well, Fidelma did the capturing,’ Eadulf corrected disarmingly.

  Finguine turned to his cousin with a grin. ‘I should have known that you had a hand in it. Well, where is he? Let’s us see what we can get out of the cur.’

  They walked back into the courtyard of the abbey, after Finguine had issued orders to his men to fan out through the township and see what they could do to help the injured and to quench the fires.

  ‘He is trussed up over here,’ Eadulf said, leading the way to where they had left the surly warrior.

  The man was lying where they had left him, his back against the abbey wall, hands tied behind him, his legs outstretched beforehim, still tied at the ankles. His head was slumped forward a little on his chest.

  ‘Come on, man,’ cried Eadulf, moving forward. ‘Rouse yourself. It is time to answer a few questions.’

  He bent and touched the warrior lightly on the shoulder.

  Without a sound the warrior rolled over on his side.

  Finguine dropped to his knee and placed his hand on the pulse in the man’s neck.

  ‘By the crown of Corc of Cashel! Someone has revenged themselves on this man. He’s dead.’

  With an exclamation of surprise, Fidelma moved forward to her cousin’s side.

  There was blood on the man’s chest. Someone had stabbed him through the heart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Night had made the raid seem more destructive than it had been in reality. There were a score of dead from the town and a further dozen or so were wounded or injured. Only half a dozen buildings had been burnt down. A few more buildings were damaged, though not beyond repair. Even so, the effect on such a small community as Imleach was devastating. Among the main buildings destroyed was the smith’s forge, a warehouse and the inn that had belonged to Cred.

  Abbot Ségdae and Brother Madagan, wearing their bandaged foreheads like insignia of distinction, had turned lauds into a short service of thanksgiving for the safe delivery of the abbey. Even the burly Samradan was there, looking somewhat shame-faced and irritable. Fidelma and Eadulf set off with her cousin, the Prince of Cnoc Aine, to walk to the town in order to assess the damage for themselves.

  Little was said about the great yew-tree whose wood still smouldered in front of the abbey. Its destruction was beyond mourning.

  The first person they saw as they walked across the square was Nion the smith, the bó-aire. Nion was leaning heavily on a stick and his leg had been bandaged. He wore a long woollen cloak wrapped around him against the morning chill. It was fastened at the shoulder by a silver brooch in the design of a solar symbol with three red garnets, similar to the one Finguine wore. He was staring morosely at the remains of his forge while his assistant, Suibne, was picking through the rubble. As they approached, they could smell the acrid stench of burnt wood mingling with other odours which they could not begin to identify, all rising together to make the atmosphere corrosive and caustic in their lungs.

  Nion did not glance up as they approached.

  ‘It is good to see you alive, Nion,’ Finguine greeted him. He seemed to know the smith of old.

  Nion looked up, recognising the Prince of Cnoc Aine, and bent his head slightly forward in acknowledgement.

  ‘My lord, thank God that you came in time. We might all have been slain and the whole town destroyed.’

  ‘Alas, I did not arrive in time enough to spare your loss, Nion,’replied the Prince of Cnoc Aine, looking grimly over the ruins of the forge.

  ‘I will survive, I suppose. There are others of our township who will not. We shall see what we can recover from the ashes.’

  Finguine shook his head sadly. ‘It will take a while to restore your forge,’ he observed. ‘A pity. It was only the other day that I thought to prevail on your craftsmanship and commission you to make me another of these silver brooches.’ He fingered the brooch on his cloak absently. Then he noticed Nion’s injury. ‘Were you badly wounded?’

  ‘Bad enough,’ Nion replied. ‘And I shall not be earning a living as a smith for a while yet.’

  ‘Were you here when the raid began?’ Fidelma intervened for the first time.

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Can you describe exactly what happened?’

  ‘Little to tell, lady,’ he said ruefully. ‘I was awakened by the clamour of the attack. I was asleep at the back of my forge. I ran out and saw upwards of a score of men riding through the streets. Cred’s tavern was already in flames. People were running hither and thither. I could not recognise who the attackers were; just that they were intent on burning the town. So I grabbed a sword from those I had been sharpening. I had my duty as bó-aire. I ran out, determined to save my forge and the town but — the cowards! — I was struck from behind. As I fell, another attacker speared me in the leg. Then the flames were eating at the forge. My assistant, Suibne, dragged me away and we took shelter.’ He glanced, embarrassed, at Finguine. ‘Although I am bó-aire, and it is my task to protect my people, I am not expected to commit suicide. There were no warriors here and none who could help me drive off the attack.’

  ‘You did not recognise the attackers? You do not know who they were or where they were from?’ pressed Finguine.

  ‘They rode from the north and returned to the north.’ The smith spat on the floor. ‘There is little need to ask who they were.’

  ‘But you do not know who they were for certain?’ insisted Fidelma.

  ‘Who else could they be but Dal gCais? Who else but the murdering Uí Fidgente would make such an attack on Imleach and destroy the great yew?’

  ‘But you do not know for sure?’ she stressed once again.

  The smith’s eyes narrowed in unconcealed anger. ‘Next time I meet an Uí Fidgente I will not need proof before I slaughter him. If I am wrong, I am prepared to go to hell just for the pleasure of taking one Uí Fidgente with me! Look what they havedone to my township.’ He flung out his arm expressively to the smouldering ruins.

  Finguine turned with a serious look to his cousin. ‘It is true that most of the people feel like this, cousin. Indeed, who else can it be but the Uí Fidgente?’

  Fidelma drew him and Eadulf out of earshot of Nion, away from the forge.

  ‘This is precisely what I need to find out,’ she said. ‘If it is the Uí Fidgente, so be it. But we must be sure. Donennach of the Uí Fidgente stays currently in Cashel to conduct a treaty with my brother. He and my brother were wounded in an attempted assassination. In a few days there will be a hearing in which we must prove Uí Fidgente duplicity or be held up before all the five kingdoms of Eireann as the aggressors. I do not want theories, I need proof of their involvement.’

  Finguine was sympathetic. ‘It was a pity someone took vengeance on your capti
ve. We might have been able to learn something from him.’

  ‘I wonder if vengeance was the motive to stab him in the heart and dispatch him so quickly and silently?’ Fidelma said the words absently as if pondering the matter.

  Finguine and Eadulf regarded her with surprise.

  ‘I am not sure what you are implying?’ the Prince of Cnoc Aine said hesitantly.

  ‘My implication is simple enough,’ she responded.

  ‘Do you think that he was murdered to prevent him revealing the identity of the attackers?’ Eadulf had more quickly understood the implication of what she had said.

  Fidelma’s expression told him that he was correct.

  Eadulf’s mind worked quickly. ‘But that would mean … surely, that would mean that a member of the abbey was working hand in glove with the raiders?’

  Fidelma shook her head at his tone of incredulity.

  ‘Or someone in the abbey,’ she corrected. ‘Is that so difficult to believe? Every strand of this mystery leads to this abbey.’

  Eadulf raised a hand and tugged at his ear thoughtfully.

  ‘I am casting my mind back. We left the warrior trussed up and went into the tower. Was he still alive when we came down, having heard the approach of Finguine? I cannot vouch for it.’

  ‘Nor I,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘Was he killed when we were in the tower or was he killed when we opened the gate and came out to greet Finguine?’

  ‘Well, if he had been killed when we were in the tower, there were several brethren still in the courtyard by the gates. There werethose involved in removing the bodies of Cred and Brother Daig to the mortuary and in helping Brother Madagan to his chamber.’

  Fidelma was reflective.

  ‘When we returned to open the gates, Brother Tomar was there with the Abbot Ségdae. There were a couple of other Brothers standing nearby. We hurriedly opened the gate and came out to greet Finguine. Someone could easily have stabbed the man during that time.’