Night of the Lightbringer

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘What shall I do then?’ the Praecipuus asked weakly.

  ‘Forget the entire matter. You may leave it to me to deal with. The loss of the book and this conversation never happened. If you have indexed the book, expunge it. It does not exist. It has never existed.’

  The Venerable Gelasius sat for a while in silence after Praecipuus Pothinus had left. It was only a dry cough from the doorway of the adjoining chamber that made him swing around in his chair.

  A tall young man, handsome and with a permanent expression of amusement on his features, stood almost lounging in the doorway.

  ‘You heard all that?’ asked the Nomenclator.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Well, Brother Lucidus, it seems your warning that there might be an attempt on certain manuscripts in our archives was correct, although I did not suspect that it would happen so soon. But it is logical, I suppose. If ever a manuscript could do harm to the theological decisions of the councils over the last centuries, it is that one. It seems that the custodes have identified your countrymen as the suspects. Do you know who these men are?’

  ‘That I do not. I only heard a rumour yesterday that a plan was afoot to remove a Nazarene item from the archives, which is why I have come to see you this morning. The trouble is that the streets of Rome are thronging with pilgrims from the western islands.’

  ‘We must find these thieves!’

  The young man chuckled sourly. ‘You and your poor Praecipuus cannot even admit that the book existed, let alone that it has been stolen. All your guard saw was two of my countrymen being a little drunk and raucous outside the library building.’

  ‘We must find out who they are and whether they have taken the book,’ pressed the Nomenclator.

  ‘Pothinus was astute in observing that it is not often that a pilgrim, celebrating in the fashion that the custodes reported, would be carrying a tiag luibhair, a book satchel, as we call them. I think it is safe to say that they were responsible – and that the missing book was in the satchel.’

  ‘From what Pothinus says, they could now be on their way to one of our seaports to start their journey back to your homeland. We must retrieve that book, because in the wrong hands it could fuel a movement that might overturn the Faith throughout the whole of Christendom.’

  ‘You have said so before – and I know it. Unfortunately, it will be hard to track them down among the teeming hordes of pilgrims who come and go from this city, even though we know the land whence they came.’

  The Venerable Gelasius began drumming his fingers on his desk again. ‘Already, your island is of great concern to Rome; our advocates make slow progress against the differences of Faith that stand between us. We may have won the debates at the councils in Streonshalh and in Autun, but we have not yet won the hearts and minds of your people. Most of them stick rigidly to their insular traditions – except for the abbot of a place called Ard Macha. He has declared that he will accept the authority of Rome, but only if we recognise him as the Chief Bishop of the entire island.’

  Brother Lucidus grimaced. ‘There are many difficulties with that claim – namely, that there are numerous other claimants. The Abbot of Imleach, for instance, who is declared Chief Bishop in the south of the island, has similar claim – and half the island supports it. There are several others. The Blessed Fiacc’s Abbey of Sléibhte, for example, claims to be the oldest abbey in the island. Several other abbeys have put forward good arguments for their claims to be the primacy of the Faith in my country.’

  ‘Well, that is not my concern at this moment. The task of trying to bring the various churches in your island under the control of Rome is one that can wait. The fact is, this ancient text could do that cause irreparable damage. It must be recovered.’

  Brother Lucidus smiled thinly. ‘So you continually point out. However, I shall have to be the one to retrieve it for you.’

  ‘How do you intend to accomplish it?’

  ‘I shall track down these two Irish pilgrims and identify them. If they have already left for the Five Kingdoms with the book, I shall follow and get it back – or I shall destroy it.’

  ‘You sound very confident,’ the Venerable Gelasius observed, ‘but can you accomplish that much? First you will have to discover who the thieves are. What if you cannot do so? And how will you find the ancient text? Surely, there are many hiding places in your island.’

  ‘If the thieves are taking the book back to my country for the purpose of spreading the heresy it contains, then there are only a few places to which it could be taken. I have a very good friend, a great scholar, Brother Sionnach of the Abbey of Corcach Mór. His knowledge and contacts cover the Five Kingdoms. The island is not so big that I shall be unable to track it down. Indeed, the news of the acquisition of such a book to one or other abbey will be signalled throughout the island like a blazing beacon. The fraternity of scholars will hear of it almost immediately.’

  ‘Do you know of Fidelma of Cashel?’ the Nomenclator suddenly asked. ‘She was the woman lawyer of your country that I mentioned to Praecipuus Pothinus a moment ago.’

  The young man drawled, ‘Who, in the Five Kingdoms, has not heard of Fidelma of Cashel or of her companion, the Saxon Brother Eadulf? I have certainly heard of her but never met her.’

  ‘She might be of some help to you in your mission to recover the book. I will send her a message by one of the monks departing for that kingdom tomorrow, as I don’t wish to delay you now. I will say nothing of your task, apart from the fact that a book has been stolen and that you are authorised by me to retrieve it. Should you need her assistance, I shall tell her that you will identify yourself as Lucidus and give my name as your authority.’

  ‘I will contact her only if necessary,’ replied Brother Lucidus confidently. ‘And I shall not be using the name Lucidus after I reach the Five Kingdoms. I will use my native name while I am there. But, if I need the help of Fidelma or anyone else, I will use Lucidus and its meaning as a password. I am sure, however, that I can accomplish this mission without involving her.’

  ‘Then the sooner you depart, the sooner this may be accomplished, Brother Lucidus. May God go with you.’

  The young man inclined his head towards the Nomenclator and said with a cynical smile, ‘Amen to that, Venerable Gelasius. But this is a task, I believe, that I can accomplish alone, without even His help – or that of Fidelma of Cashel.’

  TWO

  ‘Can we look at the bonfire, athair?’

  Little Alchú’s voice was full of excitement as he pointed across the town square to a massive unlit pyre of logs and branches that rose, almost dominating the buildings that surrounded it. Eadulf regarded his young son with tolerant amusement.

  ‘What is there to see, little hound? At the moment, it is just a pile of old wood. It is tomorrow that it will be set alight and then it will be more interesting.’

  Aidan, the young warrior of the bodyguard of the Golden Collar, who had been designated as their companion for the ritual morning ride, gave an indignant snort.

  ‘The symbolism of that bonfire makes it more than just a pile of old wood, friend Eadulf,’ he protested.

  The three of them had just ridden down from the fortress gates of Cashel, the palace of Colgú, King of Muman, the most south-westerly and largest of the Five Kingdoms of Éire. They had halted their horses on the edge of the town square. Usually, Fidelma preferred to accompany her young son on the regular morning ride, but when she was busy with matters that fell to her lot as legal adviser to her brother, the King, it was Eadulf who escorted the child – but always with a member of the King’s bodyguard. It was not forgotten that the boy had once been abducted when he was a baby by the evil Uaman, lord of the passes of Sliabh Mis.

  ‘One bonfire is the same as another,’ Eadulf responded, but a close observer might have detected some apprehension behind his light-hearted dismissal. He knew well what the symbolism of the bonfire was and what it meant to the townsfolk who, for some days now, had b
een bringing in logs and branches from the surrounding woodlands.

  Aidan, who did not observe his uneasiness, shook his head in reproof. ‘You have been long enough in this kingdom, my friend, to know that there is a special time approaching.’

  ‘I know all about the festival of Samhain,’ Eadulf said.

  ‘So you must know that this is the time of darkness,’ the young warrior went on. ‘That is why the fires of Samhain are so special. When lit, they express our hope that we may survive the threatening shadows of the night and be reborn into light. Remember that tomorrow night, at the festival of Samhain, dark forces will surround us. There will be much evil abroad and all that is malevolent and vengeful will stalk the land.’

  Eadulf tried to restrain himself from nervously rebuking his companion for prattling on. Eadulf himself had been raised in the pre-Christian culture of his own people. In his village of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the land of the South Folk of the East Angles, there was a similar festival called the Modraniht, or ‘Night of the Earth Mother’. After this came the month of Blótmonath, the time of the sacrifices to the gods and goddesses in order to protect folk from the supernatural entities that inhabited the gloomy woods and desolate places, intent on wreaking harm, and vengeance. He suppressed a shiver. Christian missionaries had begun to convert the Kingdom of the East Angles to the New Faith and as a youth Eadulf had eagerly accepted their teaching. But the old ways and beliefs, beliefs practised from the time beyond time, did not vanish so quickly. There were still times when he found himself believing in the old ways; ways that the New Faith had not been able to suppress and therefore had tried to absorb. Even the great Roman Pope, Gregorius Anicius, had told his missionaries to stop destroying pre-Christian shrines and temples and simply re-dedicate them in the name of the New Faith. Therefore, many old practices and beliefs took on the mantle of the new religion.

  ‘Can’t we go and see the bonfire, athair?’ His son’s almost plaintive wail came again, interrupting his thoughts.

  Eadulf hesitated. ‘We’ll ride by it,’ he conceded with a sigh. ‘I promised your mother that we would call at Della’s to pick up some jars of honey.’ He added this as an unnecessary attempt at self-justification for the concession of allowing his son to cross by the wood pyre.

  They proceeded at a walking pace across the open ground towards the large but as yet unfinished bonfire. Although it was well after dawn, the town square was mostly deserted. Many people had already departed to their work or left to attend to the various daily tasks that kept the township thriving. Since the day when Conall Corc became King of Muman, and had ordered his fortress to be built on the great limestone rock, rising over sixty metres above the plains and visible for considerable distances, the small township that had arisen in its shadows had prospered and grown rich. It was now the heart of the Eóganacht territory.

  The few trees at the centre of the township were still in the process of changing from their summer hue, like the dome-shaped ash tree with its distinctive leaves, which thrived in the lime-rich soil. The square looked curiously bare now that the many wild flowers that had previously formed bright patches of colour had disappeared for the winter months. The sound of the distant ring of metal on metal broke the silence as a blacksmith plied his art. In the pauses they could hear the persistent ‘chee-ip’ call of sparrows nesting under the eaves of nearby buildings, making sure of their place of warmth for the time to come. The nearest building was the tavern of Rumann with its adjacent brewery. The large, good-natured figure of Rumann himself had just appeared at the door, preparing for the day’s business. The tavern-keeper saw them and raised his hand in greeting.

  Young Alchú had halted his pony, in spite of Eadulf’s instruction that they were not going to stop by the bonfire. He was leaning across his horse’s neck, staring at something among the wood.

  ‘There’s a bundle of rags in there, athair.’ The boy pointed. ‘What’s that for?’

  Before Eadulf could reply, Aidan exclaimed, ‘That’s a sure way to ruin a good bonfire! Rags just create smoke and will do nothing to aid a good blaze.’

  Leading his horse alongside the boy’s pony, he gazed to where Alchú had indicated, muttering, ‘What kind of idiot would shove rags into the base of a bonfire …?’ His voice died away and Eadulf, who had been riding slightly ahead, pulled rein and glanced back in annoyance at the delay, failing to see the warrior’s expression of shock.

  ‘Friend Eadulf,’ Aidan said quietly, ‘would you mind taking young Alchú across to Rumann and asking him to keep an eye on him for a moment or two, and then come back here?’

  Eadulf was surprised at the request, but quickly becoming aware that something was wrong, he did not argue but turned to his son, saying, ‘Come with me, little hound. We’ll get Rumann there to give you some cold apple juice.’

  A quick-witted lad, Alchú could sense the tension in the air. ‘Why can’t I stay and see what has been found here?’ he asked.

  ‘I am not sure anything has been found,’ Eadulf replied firmly. ‘It is just that we want to see why someone has put old rags among the wood, which will surely ruin it. Now, come along. We won’t be but a moment or two.’

  Reluctantly, the boy followed his father across to where the tavern-keeper, seeing their approach, came forward to greet them.

  ‘A good day to you, Brother Eadulf. I see you and your son are in good health. Is the lady Fidelma well?’

  ‘She is well indeed, Rumann,’ Eadulf assured him. ‘We noticed someone has pushed some old rags into the pile of wood for the Samhain fire. That is not good for the coming blaze. Aidan and I mean to deal with it before riding on, and I would be obliged if you could give young Alchú a drink and keep an eye on him while we do so.’

  ‘Certainly,’ the man replied, adding, ‘rags? But that is a ridiculous thing to do! Children playing games, perhaps? Even an idiot would not seek to ruin the sacred fires of Samhain on the night before they are to be lit. Curnan will not be pleased.’

  ‘Curnan?’ Eadulf frowned.

  ‘He’s a woodsman from the western woods beyond the town. He is in charge of the fire this year and will be upset to learn that it has been tampered with. Anyway, I’ll keep your boy here while you help Aidan. I shall tell Curnan all about it when he comes to finish building the bonfire.’

  Having given instructions to Alchú, Eadulf returned to Aidan who by now had dismounted and was poking agitatedly into the stack of wood and logs. Eadulf left his horse alongside Aidan’s and joined the warrior.

  ‘What is all the fuss about?’ he asked. ‘Surely we can remove a bundle of rags without such drama.’

  Aidan grimaced. ‘More drama will come, friend Eadulf. Those rags cover the body of a man.’

  ‘What?’ Eadulf stared at the warrior for a moment before slowly turning to look where Aidan had begun removing some branches.

  A pale arm had been uncovered, stiff and protruding from the pile.

  The two men did not exchange another word but fell to the task of removing as many branches as they could from what was obviously a corpse. While they were doing this, they had to be careful not to dislodge the entire structure of the huge bonfire. Before long, they were able to drag the body by the shoulders from its temporary tomb and away from the remaining pile without it collapsing. That done, they stood, breathing heavily from their exertions and staring down at the corpse.

  The dead man was dressed in the brown homespun of a religious robe. His slightly emaciated features were crowned by a rough-cut tonsure … the tonsure of the Blessed John rather than the distinguishing Roman cut of Peter, thus denoting that he followed the churches of the Five Kingdoms. The man had been approaching the end of the middle period of his life; his features were weatherbeaten and ill nourished. To Eadulf’s mind, the fellow hardly had the appearance of a religious – but that was a personal opinion. Just then, Eadulf caught an aroma on the air and sniffed. There was an overpowering smell of … what was it? He recognised it from his studies
of the healing herbs. The Greeks called it nardus but to the Romans it was lavandarius, for they used it to bathe with. The body positively reeked of it.

  Eadulf was about to look away when he realised that there was something strangely familiar about the man. He had definitely seen him before … but after some long moments of searching his memory, he could not place when or where.

  ‘Do you recognise him?’ he finally asked Aidan.

  ‘I was about to ask you the same question,’ replied the warrior. ‘I think that I have seen him somewhere before, but cannot be certain of it.’

  Eadulf knelt beside the corpse and started to make an examination of the man’s wounds.

  ‘He cannot have been dead long,’ he muttered, testing the stiffness of the man’s arms. ‘There is much blood and some of it not completely dry.’

  ‘Did he kill himself?’ asked Aidan. ‘Even I can see that his throat has been cut.’

  Eadulf could not help but smile at the young warrior’s question, despite the grim circumstances. ‘A man does not kill himself and then contrive to place his body in the bottom of a bonfire so that it will be consumed,’ he replied.

  ‘So he was murdered?’

  Eadulf pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘True, the throat has been cut … and savagely, too. However, you will also observe the tears in the robe, here.’ He drew back the robe so that the torn and bloody skin was visible. ‘There is one knife wound straight into the heart.’

  Aidan exhaled softly. ‘A religious, murdered here? It just doesn’t seem possible. Who would do this – and why?’

  ‘You are asking questions that I cannot answer, my friend.’ Eadulf pulled away the cowl of the robe from around the neck of the corpse and gently moved the head to one side. ‘He has also sustained a heavy blow on the back of the neck which, judging by the wound, would have been enough in itself to kill him.’