The Monk Who Vanished sf-7

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘There was certainly time to kill him and any one of the brethren could have been responsible.’ Eadulf sighed.

  ‘That does not help me much, cousin, to identify the raiders,’ interrupted Finguine. ‘A dead man can’t tell tales.’

  Fidelma looked at her cousin for a moment and then smiled knowingly. ‘Sometimes a dead man can reveal much,’ she replied solemnly. ‘As the dead warrior is the only evidence we have of the raiders, I think we should go and examine him and his belongings. There might be a clue on him.’

  They were turning back to the abbey when one of Finguine’s men, who had been examining the fallen yew-tree, came hurrying across and whispered urgently to the Prince. Finguine turned to them with a smile of triumph.

  ‘I think that we have the confirmation we need to apportion blame,’ he announced with satisfaction. ‘Come.’

  They followed the man to the yew-tree. He stood aside and pointed to part of the unburnt wood, to something engraved on the fallen trunk. It was a symbol, a crude carving of a boar.

  ‘The emblem of the Prince of the Uí Fidgente.’ Finguine did not have to explain.

  Fidelma regarded it for a moment.

  ‘It is interesting that, during what was a stealthy night attack, someone went to great pains to let us know who the attackers were,’ she mused.

  At that moment a clear note on a trumpet sounded.

  It was Finguine’s men returning, those whom he had sent to chase the raiders.

  They came riding into the township, their horses dusty and tired. Their leader saw Finguine and rode over, halting and sliding from his mount. Even as his feet touched the ground he was shaking his head in disgust.

  ‘Nothing,’ he growled angrily. ‘We lost them.’

  Finguine frowned in displeasure. ‘Lost them? How?’

  ‘They crossed a river and we lost their tracks.’

  ‘Which way were they going when you lost contact with them?’ asked the Prince of Cnoc Aine.

  ‘North, veering towards the mountains, I would say. But we lost their tracks in the Dead River. They could have turned in any direction from there. I believe that they continued north.’

  ‘Didn’t you scour the north bank to find out where they left the river?’ demanded Finguine.

  ‘We rode a mile or so in both directions in order to pick up their tracks but we were unable to do so. There was a lot of stony ground there.’ The man sounded bitter at his Prince’s rebuke.

  ‘I did not mean to criticise your ability,’ Finguine assured him. ‘Go, get some food and rest.’

  The warrior was turning back to his men when his eyes fell on the shattered ancient yew-tree.

  ‘This is a bad sign, Finguine. It is an evil augury,’ he stated quietly.

  The Prince of Cnoc Aine’s mouth was a thin line. ‘The only thing that this means is that those who did it will be brought to justice,’ he snapped.

  ‘Just a moment,’ Fidelma called after the warrior as he began to lead his horse away. ‘What makes you think that they continued in a northerly direction from the Dead River?’

  The man glanced back. He hesitated and then shrugged. ‘Why would you ride as if the Devil were on your tail, directly north, and then turn aside at the river in a different direction? They were obviously in a hurry to get back to the safety of their own territory.’

  ‘Perhaps they rode for the river knowing that it might be a good place to lose any pursuers?’ Eadulf posed the question for Fidelma.

  The warrior regarded him with a sour look. ‘I won’t preach a sermon, Brother, if you do not lead warriors in battle. I still say they were heading north.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should have gone north as well?’ replied Fidelma blandly.

  The warrior was about to respond when Finguine signalled him to leave.

  ‘He is a good man, cousin,’ Finguine said, defensively. ‘It is bad manners to question a warrior’s decision.’

  ‘I still think that he made the wrong decision. If he thought they were going north he should have followed his intuition.’ Fidelma glanced towards the fallen yew-tree. ‘Everywhere I turn in this matter I am left with supposition, with guesses. I want more than a carving on a tree. Anyone can carve such a well-known symbol.’

  Finguine looked surprised. ‘You mean that you will ignore this evidence?’

  ‘No. I never ignore evidence. But such evidence as this needs to beconsidered more carefully than simply reacting to it. I want something more than a drawing which might have been left purposely to make us believe it was a boastful acclamation of the raiders.’

  ‘Perhaps we should examine the body of the warrior next?’ ventured Eadulf after a moment. ‘As you have said, it might give us some clues as to his identity.’

  They left Finguine continuing to examine the damage in the township and went back to the abbey. Eadulf suddenly asked: ‘You don’t suppose all these things are coincidences, do you?’

  ‘Not connected?’ Fidelma considered the proposition seriously.

  ‘Coincidences do happen.’

  ‘The reason why we started out on this journey to Imleach was because of the attempted assassination in Cashel. That brought us to the abbey. When we arrived here, we found that Brother Mochta, Keeper of the Holy Relics of Ailbe, had vanished with those relics and that one of the relics had been carried by one of the assassins and that person is thought to be Mochta, except we have the contradictory evidence of the tonsure. The attack on the abbey and the township and the destruction of the sacred yew of the Eóghanacht might be coincidence but it seems unlikely.’

  ‘I do not see the connection,’ protested Eadulf, who did not notice the slight smile playing around the corners of Fidelma’s mouth.

  ‘Let us consider the connections then,’ Fidelma said. ‘The finding of the relic on the assassin. The fact that the assassin was a religieux and that his description fits that of Brother Mochta even down to the tattoo of a particular bird on his forearm. These are facts, not coincidences.’

  ‘How do you deal with the mystery of the tonsure?’ Eadulf asked irritatingly. They had halted in the cloistered courtyard of the abbey.

  ‘What of the fact that the other assassin, the one called the archer, Saigteóir, was known to have spent a few days here in Imleach? He bought his arrows from Nion the smith here. Why was Samradán’s driver killed when he was revealing that the archer also met Brother Mochta here and another man whom he addressed as ‘rígdomna’, the title of a prince. These are facts.’

  ‘True. But I will give you another fact which does not make sense,’ Eadulf offered. ‘There is the fact that the timescale does not really coincide. That makes no sense. How could this Brother Mochta be seen in Imleach at Vespers wearing a tonsure of St John and less than twelve hours later be in Cashel with the remnants of a Roman tonsure over which he had been growing hair for several weeks?’

  Fidelma waved the objection aside. ‘What of the fact that the Cashel merchant, Samradan, whose warehouse was the point from which theassassination attempt was launched, is here in Imleach? It was his driver who told us about the archer for which he paid with his life. Is that a coincidence?’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t know. We must have a further word with Samradan.’

  Fidelma smiled. ‘On that point I agree with you.’

  ‘I still believe that we might be putting facts together which are unconnected,’ Eadulf persisted.

  Fidelma restrained a chuckle. She enjoyed it when Eadulf summarised matters for it helped in her consideration of the facts. Often she used him as devil’s advocate to sort out her own ideas but she could not tell Eadulf that.

  ‘I think that we can be certain of one thing,’ Eadulf summed up. ‘That is I believe that Nion, the smith, is right. I know little of these people you call the Uí Fidgente but everyone seems agreed that their hand is behind this attack. They can’t all be wrong.’

  ‘Eadulf, if I did not have to present proof but only suspicion to a court, I do not doubt tha
t we would have all the Uí Fidgente convicted within the hour. But that is not how our laws work. Proof is what is needed and proof we must obtain or declare the Uí Fidgente to be innocent.’

  Brother Tomar was crossing through the courtyard at that moment.

  ‘Do you know where the merchant Samradan is?’ called Fidelma. Brother Tomar shook his head quickly. He was, so she had found out, the stableman at the abbey. He was a rough-mannered country youth who preferred the company of his animals than the company of people.

  ‘He has left the abbey.’

  Brother Tomar was about to move on when Fidelma stayed him. ‘Left?’ she asked. ‘To go to the township?’

  ‘No. He left with his wagons.’

  ‘Did his drivers escape unhurt? I thought I saw Cred’s tavern burnt to the ground.’

  Brother Tomar responded in a morose tone. ‘So I understand from one of the drivers. It seems that only two of the drivers escaped from that carnage for Samradán arrived here with three drivers and he has left with two of them. The two wagons came to the abbey, each driven by one man, and Samradan joined them. They set off on the road north.’

  ‘North,’ muttered Fidelma.

  ‘Samradán did tell you that he was going north,’ Eadulf reminded her.

  ‘So he did,’ Fidelma agreed slowly. ‘North.’

  Brother Tomar waited hesitantly. ‘That is correct, Sister. I heard him instruct his drivers to head for the ford on the Dead River.’

  Fidelma thanked the stableman and she and Eadulf continued their way in search of the apothecary.

  It turned out that Brother Bardán was alone in the mortuary room of the abbey when they entered. The apothecary and mortician was putting the finishing touches to the winding sheet of his late friend, the young Brother Daig. His eyes were red and there were tearstains on his cheeks.

  He glanced up with an angry look. ‘What do you seek here?’ he asked in an irritable tone.

  ‘Calm yourself, Brother.’ Fidelma spoke in a pacifying voice. ‘I realise that you were close to poor young Daig. We are not here to intrude on your grief but we must examine the body of the raider.’

  Brother Bardan gestured in annoyance to the far side of the chamber.

  ‘The body lies on the table in that corner. I will not prepare it for burial. It deserves no decent Christian service.’

  ‘You are within your rights,’ Fidelma agreed, unruffled, for the apothecary was aggressive as if he expected her to argue. ‘Where is the body of Cred? Is it also here?’

  ‘Her body was already prepared and taken by her relatives to the cemetery of the township. I am told there are many people slain in the attack who must be buried this day.’

  Fidelma turned to where the body of the dead warrior lay and motioned Eadulf to join her.

  The arms and legs of the man had not even been unbound. His helmet still covered his head and the visor was still drawn over the upper features.

  With a click of her tongue to indicate her displeasure, Fidelma reached forward and removed the helmet. The man was in his early thirties. His features were coarse and, in life, were doubtless made hard by the life he led. There was the pale mark of an old sword wound on his forehead. He had a bulbous nose and the grossness of his features inclined her to think that he had been given to an abundance of drink and food.

  ‘Untie his hands and feet, Eadulf.’

  Eadulf did as she instructed while she stood staring down, hoping there was something that might identify the man. Now that she could view him in a more relaxed state, her first impression was confirmed that he had the appearance of a professional warrior. Yet his chainmail shirt was old and there were areas of rust eating into the links in patches.

  She helped Eadulf remove the belt from which his weapons had hung. Then they removed his mail shirt and leather jerkin. Underneath it, he wore a black dyed linen shirt and kilt. There was nothing to identify who he was nor where he had come from.

  She observed that whoever had killed him had slipped a dagger through a joint of the mail shirt and under the ribcage. It would have been a swift and instantaneous death. Eadulf, on her instructions, set to work to remove the shirt and undergarments.

  There were no identifying marks on the body, just a number of old scars from wounds which confirmed that the man had spent his life as a professional warrior.

  ‘And not a good warrior at that,’ responded Fidelma when Eadulf commented on the fact.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He has been wounded too many times. If you want the better warrior, look for the man who inflicted those wounds not the one who received them.’

  Eadulf accepted this wisdom in silence.

  ‘Surely it is strange that he does not carry a purse?’ Fidelma pointed out after a while.

  Eadulf drew his brows together as he tried to understand the point she was making.

  ‘Ah.’ His face lightened. ‘You mean that if he were a professional warrior, a mercenary, he would want payment for his services?’

  ‘Precisely. So where would he put his purse?’

  ‘He would leave it at home.’

  ‘And if he were far from home, what then?’

  Eadulf shrugged, unable to answer.

  ‘He might leave it somewhere meaning to return and pick it up after the raid. That is a dangerous practice. No; most professionals tend to carry their wealth with them.’ Her face suddenly brightened. ‘Maybe he had saddle bags. I had almost forgotten that we have his horse here as well.’

  She looked across to where Brother Bardán was finishing his task. ‘What do you mean to do with the body of this man?’

  ‘Let it rot, for all I care,’ returned the apothecary in an uncompromising tone.

  ‘It will rot, surely,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘But a decision has to be made whether you want to let it rot here or elsewhere.’

  Brother Bardán sighed. ‘It will not be buried within the abbey grounds among our brethren, next to …’ He half gestured towards the body of Brother Daig. ‘I will send for Nion, the bó-aire, and ask him to remove the body to the town burial ground.’

  ‘Very well.’ Fidelma turned back to Eadulf and said quietly, ‘We will go to the stables and examine the warrior’s horse and harness.’

  Eadulf picked up the man’s sword as they were about to leave.

  ‘Have you examined the sword?’ he asked.

  She shook her head and reached for it. It was about thirty-five inches in length, the blade nearest the point splayed out in almost a leaf shape before narrowing down to the hilt. The hilt was riveted on. There were six rivets.

  ‘This is no poor man’s sword,’ Eadulf said, with a frown. ‘I am sure that I have seen a similar style of sword just recently.’

  ‘You have,’ she replied with irony. ‘It is the same style as the one carried by our assassin. Remember? This is a claideb dét.’

  ‘A sword of teeth?’ translated Eadulf literally. ‘I thought it was made of metal like any other.’

  Fidelma smiled patiently and pointed to the handle. ‘The hilt is ornamented with the carved teeth of animals. As I recall, there is only one territory in Éireann’s five kingdoms where the smiths indulge in such embellishment. If only I could recall where. It is such a distinctive ornamentation.’

  ‘You mean that it might indicate where this man came from?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘It will only tell us where the sword was manufactured. But, speaking of coincidences as we were, surely it is not coincidence that both the assassin and this raider carried such a distinctive weapon?’

  Eadulf considered the point and nodded assent. ‘What did you say it was called — claideb dét?’ he asked, examining the weapon with a new regard.

  ‘Macheram belluinis ornatam dolatis dentibus,’ she explained in Latin. ‘A sword ornamented with the carved teeth of animals. Hang onto it, Eadulf. It may well be important.’

  She made a final examination of the body and the clothing.

 
‘No,’ she finally said, ‘there is little here by way of identification. All we know is that this man is no amateur but whether he was a professional in the service of some prince or whether he was just an outlaw raiding the country in search of booty, it is impossible to say. Most of what he is wearing can come from any corner of the five kingdoms with …’

  ‘With the exception of his sword,’ Eadulf interrupted.

  ‘With the exception of his sword,’ echoed Fidelma. ‘But that is of no use to me unless I can remember what people it was who specialised in decorating their sword hilts in such a fashion.’

  She turned to the door of the mortuary, glancing at Brother Bardán. ‘I have finished with the body of the raider.’

  The apothecary nodded curtly. ‘Do not worry. It will be disposed of.’

  Outside Eadulf grimaced disapprovingly. ‘I see that Brother Bardan does not take the Faith’s teaching of forgiving one’s enemies too seriously. “Be you kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake has forgiven you.” Perhaps he should be reminded of the text?’

  ‘Ephesians, chapter four,’ Fidelma identified the quotation. ‘I rather think that Brother Bardan is one of those who prefer to hand his enemies over to God’s forgiveness and show none himself. But then he is a man with all the frailty of men. Daig meant a lot to him.’

  Eadulf suddenly realised what she meant and said no more.

  As they passed back through the cloisters they found Abbot Segdae sitting in the shade, his head sunk on his shoulders. He was still wearing his bandage and was sniffing at a small bunch of herbs.

  He glanced up as they approached and smiled weakly. Then he gestured with the bunch of herbs.

  ‘Brother Bardan says the aroma of these will help with my headache.’

  ‘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.’