The Monk Who Vanished sf-7

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘What are you up to?’ he demanded, recovering from his apparent surprise. He ascended the final stairs, sheathing his sword. ‘I thought I heard …’

  His eyes fell on Samraddn’s body and widened.

  ‘What happened?’

  Fidelma did not reply immediately.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded at last.

  ‘I was riding by. With all the people coming into Cashel for the hearing, I thought that I ought to check the watches around the town. I was in the back alley when I saw a light and noticed the back door was open and I saw figures moving. The dog seemed asleep and wondered whether there was something the matter. So I came in. I was downstairs and I heard a movement above. And here you are.’ He glanced dispassionately at Samradan’s body. ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘Of course not!’ snapped Eadulf. ‘We saw Fin — ’

  ‘We also saw the dog and the door open,’ Fidelma interrupted, lying naturally. ‘We have only just arrived ourselves.’

  ‘A robbery?’

  Fidelma pointed to a leather purse still tied to Samradán’s belt.

  Donndubháin leant across and opened it. He drew out a handful of silver coins.

  ‘Not a robbery then,’ he mused. ‘It can’t be something to do with the assassination? What would Samradán have to do with that?’

  ‘There seems to be nothing here to enlighten us,’ Fidelma said.

  Eadulf was puzzled as to why Fidelma was being so frugal with the facts.

  She turned down the stairway to the ground floor.

  Eadulf and Donndubhain followed.

  ‘If we can leave this matter in your hands,’ Fidelma told him, ‘Eadulf and I will return to the palace.’

  ‘I will alert the watch,’ the heir-apparent agreed. He went to the back door where he had left his horse and on the threshold paused as if a thought had struck him. ‘Have you searched Samradán’s stables at the back there? Perhaps it was robbery after all? Something to do with what he kept there?’

  ‘I thought Samradan kept all his trade goods at his warehouse on the market square?’ Fidelma said.

  ‘Whether he does or not, I would not know. But there is a stable which belongs to him on the other side of the stream there.’

  He pointed towards the dark shadow of a building at the back of the house.

  ‘Then we’d better see if there is anything there that can enlighten us,’ Fidelma replied.

  Donndubhain took down a lamp and lit it from the fire.

  He had left his horse tethered by the back gate of the yard and they passed the still drugged animal lying by its post. There was a small enclosure through which a stream passed, providing water for the house. Beyond it was a dark building, not large at all.

  ‘I didn’t know that this barn belonged to Samradán,’ Fidelma mused as they approached the building. Donndubháin led the way and opened the door for them.

  Inside were a couple of stalls. Two horses were stabled inside.

  ‘I didn’t know Samradán owned as many horses,’ Donndubhain muttered. ‘But these are not dray horses … they are thoroughbreds.’

  Fidelma’s gaze had encompassed the stables. There was certainly nothing else in there but the horses and tackle. The pungent smell of leather and the faint odours of hay and barley were almost overpowering to the senses.

  Fidelma went to the larger of the two animals, a great chestnut mare. She could see some long-healed scars on one shoulder and flank. Old wounds. The animal had been used as a war horse. She leant forward and patted its muzzle. Then she opened the stalls and went in. The mare stood calmly, allowing her hands to traverse its warm, sweaty coat. She glanced down at its hooves.

  ‘Not the sort of animal a mere merchant might own,’ observed Donndubháin.

  ‘A war horse, so it seems,’ she agreed. ‘But the other animal is not.’

  Fidelma turned her attention to the second horse. ‘It is a strong and well-bred mare but not a horse for battle. A good riding horse though.’

  She patted it and turned back.

  She found that Donndubháin was examining a saddle and bridle nearby.

  ‘Look, Fidelma,’ he said eagerly, ‘this is a warrior’s equipment. Look, there is no mistaking it.’

  Eadulf had already begun examining the richly equipped saddle. It was well ornamented.

  ‘The Prince is right,’ he muttered. ‘Here …’

  Attached to the saddle was a small, long sack. It was the shape of a quiver but not a quiver. It was where a warrior might carry a spare supply of arrows. Eadulf had undone the strings and drawn an arrow out.

  ‘Isn’t this …?’ he began.

  Fidelma took it and examined it. ‘Yes. The arrows have Cnoc Aine markings. The same arrows which our assassin friend, the archer, used. They are the same as those made by Nion the smith.’

  ‘And look at this …’ Donndubháin pointed to a silver emblem among the ornaments on the saddle.

  ‘Why,’ Eadulf said excitedly. ‘Isn’t that a boar which is the emblem of the Prince of the Uí Fidgente?’

  ‘Then we were right!’ cried Donndubháin. ‘Do you remember that we wondered if the assassins must have come on horseback and tethered them behind the trees at the back of Samradán’s warehouse? Didn’t we say that a third person must have led the horses away when the assassins were killed. And here they are, showing that Samradán was involved.’

  ‘Yet Samradán had been in Imleach for at least a week at that time,’ pointed out Fidelma.

  ‘Well, he could have instructed one of his men to place the horses here. An accomplice.’ Her cousin was momentarily crestfallen.

  ‘There is much that needs to be considered,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘The appearance of these harnesses certainly tends to clarify the puzzle. Is there anything in that saddle bag?’

  She pointed to the small leather bag that was attached. Donndubhain, undid the straps and opened it. He began to take out some items of clothing.

  ‘There’s nothing here but clothes,’ Eadulf said, in disappointment.

  ‘There’s nothing that tells us anything apart from the Uí Fidgente emblem which says a lot,’ observed Donndubháin. ‘But that is enough.’

  Fidelma reached for the bag and peered into it, feeling with her hand inside before returning it to him.

  ‘So it seems.’

  They left the stable and walked slowly back to the gate of the yard. They paused by Donndubháin’s horse.

  ‘Well, I will alert the watch about this murder,’ Donndubhain said, untying his horse. ‘Will you wait here until I raise the guard so that I may accompany you back to the palace?’

  ‘No,’ Fidelma replied. ‘We will make our own way back. It is not far. Don’t worry, we shall be safe, Donndubháin.’

  They watched him swing up and ride off into the night and then began to walk slowly back to the house. They passed through it and out into the main street. Isolated figures were still moving here and there, some late-night revellers scurrying back to their own houses from the inns and taverns. No one challenged nor bothered them as they continued towards the tall walls of the palace.

  ‘Well,’ ventured Eadulf, ‘the horses now prove completely that Samradán was involved. They must have been there since the attempted assassination.’

  ‘No. They have been there less than half an hour,’ Fidelma contradicted him with confidence. ‘Their coats were still sweaty from the exertion of being led from wherever they were hidden to being placed there.’

  Eadulf’s eyes widened. Then he was more amazed to hear Fidelma break into a soft chuckle. She paused by the light of a tavern and held out something for him to see.

  He peered closely at it. It was a tiny silver coin.

  ‘I found it tucked away in a corner of the bag. It had been overlooked.’

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Eadulf.

  ‘A coin of Ailech, the capital of the northern Uí Néill kings. It is called a píss.’

  ‘What does it mean
?’

  ‘My dear, Eadulf-’ he had not heard such contentment in her voice for some days now — ‘tonight has shown me the truth in this matter. My mentor, the Brehon Morann, once said that if you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, it must be theanswer. I know who is behind the assassination and conspiracy. In spite of attempts to mislead me and, indeed, to lay false trails which, I confess, did confuse me until this evening, I have sighted the fox!’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Great Hall of Cashel was crowded as Fidelma entered with Eadulf. Everyone was dressed formally for the occasion. Even Eadulf was wearing his best apparel and carrying his pilgrim’s staff which he now used to enhance his status. It was an egocentricity on his part.

  Eadulf smiled at Fidelma as he turned to take his place with those members of the court who were there merely as observers. Great importance was attached to procedure in the Irish courts and Eadulf had come to understand many of what he had regarded previously as mysteries.

  Fidelma had crossed to the centre of the hall to take a seat alongside Solam, the dálaigh of the Uí Fidgente. He sat next to Donennach, his Prince. Litigants always sat with their advocates in what was the airecht airnaide, the court of waiting.

  Directly opposite and facing them were three chairs behind a long, low table on which were piled several law texts. These chairs were reserved for the Brehons or judges. They constituted the airecht, the court itself. Behind the seats for the judges, on a dais at the head of the hall, was Colgú, seated on his ornately carved chair of office, and next to him, on his right-hand side, was Ségdae, who sat not as abbot but as bishop and Comarb of Ailbe, the First Apostle of the Faith in Muman. On the left-hand side, sat Colgú’s ollamh, Cerball, his chief bard and adviser. These three, the foremost men of the kingdom, were known as the cúl-airecht, the back court, overseeing that justice was done.

  To the right of the King’s seat were benches on which sat the táeb-airecht, the side court, which constituted scribes and historians who were to record the events, together with the petty kings and nobles, led by Donndubháin., the tanist, Finguine of Cnoc Aine and others who were to witness the proceedings to ensure that the kingdom acquitted itself properly and according to law.

  On the left-hand side was the airecht fo leithe, the court apart, in which were gathered all the potential witnesses. Here was seated, among others, Brother Mochta. It had surprised Eadulf to find that Brother Mochta had been named by Solam as his principal witness against Muman. Even more surprising was the fact that the reliquaryof Ailbe had been placed under safekeeping. Brother Madagan was also seated, ready to be called as a witness, as were Brother Bardan, Nion the bó-aire of Imleach, Gionga and Capa.

  Eadulf saw that the appearance of Mochta and the reliquary did not surprise Fidelma. She had assumed her seat quietly and sat, hands folded in her lap, gazing before her without focusing on any one object. Eadulf felt annoyed with her. Since she had revealed that she believed she knew the answer to the mystery, she had steadfastly refused to explain anything further to him. He felt unhappy. These last weeks he had the sense that Fidelma was becoming more irritable than usual, less open to confiding in him. He had come to regard himself as her ‘soul friend’, an anam-chara which every religious of Eireann had to discuss their temporal and spiritual problems with. It made him unhappy when she did not confide in him.

  Colgú’s steward came forward with his staff of office and banged it three times on the floor to bring the court to order. It drew Eadulf from his sad speculations.

  The Brehon of Cashel, Dathal, was the first of the judges to enter the court, according to protocol, because the court was sitting in Cashel. Dathal was not known as the ‘nimble one’ for nothing. His nickname applied to the quickness of his mind in legal matters. He was not a young man, but his hair had not yet turned grey. His dark eyes were penetrating and moved rapidly around, missing nothing; if they looked directly at you they seemed to penetrate right through. He was thin, lean and almost sallow. He was quick to anger and he did not accept fools gladly, especially if they were advocates pleading before him. He moved rapidly to the judges’ bench and took his seat on the right-hand side.

  Fachtna, the Brehon of the Uí Fidgente, followed quickly, taking his seat on the left. He was a little older than Dathal. He was also tall and almost emaciated in his appearance. His flesh was drawn tightly over his bony features so that it resembled more of a skull than a face. His skin was parchment-like with a crimson slash on both cheekbones. The eyes were grey, restless, and his lips were a thin slit of red. His hair was grey, parted in the centre, and drawn smoothly back and gathered with a ribbon. He gave the appearance of being in need of a good meal.

  Last came the Brehon Rumann of Fearna who took the central seat. Indeed, he would not only be chief of the judges but would undoubtedly make the decisions, for it seemed likely to all who gathered in the Great Hall that the judgements of the Brehons of Cashel and the Uí Fidgente would be biased to reflect the wishes of their respective Princes.

  As the Brehon Rumann moved to his seat, he did not look like a judge at all. He was short in stature and corpulent in his face and figure. He wore his silver hair long so that it fell in curls around the nape of his neck. The flesh of his benign features was like the fresh, pink skin of a child, newly scrubbed. The lips were red and full as if he were given to enhancing them with berry juice. The eyes were hazel yet with a brightness that made one think at first glance that they were of a pale colour. He had a general air of geniality about him. In spite of his companions, it was Rumann who dominated the scene. He exuded an air of quiet authority that commanded silence.

  When he had seated himself and a hush had fallen in the Great Hall, the steward banged once more on the floor with his staff of office. Abbot Ségdae rose. He raised his hand, holding up his first, third and fourth finger to represent the Holy Trinity. Eadulf had almost grown used to this difference to the Roman usage where the thumb, first and second finger were held up in the same symbolism.

  ‘Benedictio benedicatur per Jesum Christum Dominum nostrum. Surgite!’

  The blessing and the instruction to the court to ‘rise’ marked the beginning of the proceedings.

  The Brehon Rumann duly banged the table before him with a small wooden gavel. His voice was soft but commanding.

  ‘The five paths of judgement are embarked upon. This day was fixed for this hearing and the proper path of judgement was chosen. The securities have been given by the King of Muman and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente. Before we come to the tacrae, the opening statements of the advocates, I have to ask both advocates whether they are ready to proceed. It is their right at this time to make any request for a taurbaid, a postponement, of these proceedings.’

  He looked first at Fidelma and then at Solam.

  ‘I need not remind you that any postponement at this point must be supported by a good reason. The observance of a religious festival, an illness, a bereavement or other such matters will constitute a reasonable excuse.’

  When he paused, Solam smiled officiously. ‘We stand ready to press our case,’ he announced.

  ‘And we are ready to respond to it,’ replied Fidelma.

  ‘Excellent. As you may have realised, I shall be the voice of all three judges here today. You will address your remarks to me. As neither of you have appeared in my court before, I feel that I must tell you how I expect you to behave. I do not tolerate bad pleading in my court and I adhere to the letter of the Cóic Conara Fugill.’

  Eadulf knew well that this was the main book of instruction on procedures known as ‘the five paths of judgement’.

  ‘I will order any advocate to pay a fine who speaks in an undertone so that I cannot hear clearly what has been said; any advocate who tries to incite the court, or who loses their temper, or who argues in too loud a voice and abuses anyone; any advocate who opposes a known fact or starts to praise themselves. The fine for all such offences will be as prescribed by l
aw — the sum of one séd.’

  A séd was the value of one cow. It was a harsh fine. Inwardly Eadulf groaned. The Brehon Rumann was not going to be an easy judge before whom to argue.

  There was almost a breathless silence in the court now.

  ‘Let the tacrae begin.’

  Solam rose to his feet, nervous, birdlike in his motions. ‘Before I begin my plea, I must raise a protest.’

  The hush that had fallen was like a moment of calm before a storm breaks with all its fury.

  The tones of the Brehon Rumann became icy. ‘A protest?’

  ‘It is ordained in the procedures governing a court that litigants should sit with their advocates. Next to me sits the Prince of the Uf Fidgente, who is the plaintiff in this case.’

  A scowl passed across the cherubic-like features of the Brehon, turning that soft, chubby countenance into a hard, angry glare. ‘Is there a point to this?’

  ‘Behind you sits the other litigant in this case, the defendant, who is the King of Muman.’

  Behind the judges, Eadulf could see Colgú stir with embarrassment. The King was not allowed to speak during the proceedings except in exceptional circumstances.

  Brehon Rumann’s eyes had widened. For a moment he seemed about to protest and then Fachtna, the judge of the Uf Fidgente, with a sardonic smile of approval towards Solam, leant across to Rumann.

  ‘The advocate has a strong legal point in procedural rules. A litigant must be seated with his advocate. No exceptions are made in the texts. As defendant the King should be seated next to his dálaigh.’

  ‘Yet the same rules stipulate where the King must sit,’ pointed out Dathal from the other side of Rumann. ‘We are in the kingdom of Muman and at the King’s seat of Cashel. How can the King not sit in the place ordained by law?’

  ‘Yet the law says that his place, as defendant, is with his advocate,’ insisted Fachtna with his irritating smile. ‘The King is expected to observe the law with the meanest members of his kingdom.’

  Rumann raised his hands as if to pacify his fellow judges. ‘I wouldargue that one cannot impose law on the King. I can refer to heptads and triads of the ancient law books which advise that no one can stand in surety for a King for if the King defaults then the person standing surety has no means to secure compensation, for the King’s honour is more important than any claim.’