Night of the Lightbringer

by Peter Tremayne

  Everyone seemed to shuffle like naughty children before a parent and mumbled agreement.

  Outside the chapel Aidan, who had remained as witness to the event, grinned at Eadulf. ‘Are all councils of the religious like that?’

  ‘Some have been even worse,’ Eadulf replied, thinking of the debates he had seen at Streonshalh and Autun.

  ‘Did you say the horses are ready?’ Fidelma cut in, annoyed that she had been sidetracked with such childish bickering.

  ‘We can depart at any time,’ Aidan confirmed, but then added, ‘You have probably already seen the prospects for the day – they do not look good.’

  ‘We, too, can see the redness of the sky and know its symbolism,’ she replied solemnly. ‘However, symbolism is not always right. It might not rain at all.’

  The rain started to come down in heavy splatters as they were crossing the Hill of the Bullock. Clouds had literally raced in across the eastern hills so that the early stretch of red sky had vanished, leaving the darkening clouds scudding close to the ground in their westward advance. If the truth were known, Fidelma had noticed the noisy, protective circling of birds above their nests in the tall trees as they passed through the woodlands. She recognised the rooks at once, not only by their cries but by their glossy black plumage, which distinguished them from their more fearsome cousins the carrion crows and ravens. It was a sure sign of rain when the rooks behaved in such a fashion.

  But the rain held off as the little group emerged from the trees and onto the open hillside. Fidelma had hoped the threat would not materialise even after they stopped to check their path and her eye caught the swelling stems of the lesser trefoil – another sure indication of rain. They had pressed on. Then Eadulf, glancing across his shoulder, pointed to the hammer-headed clouds behind – and even before he could speak there came the reverberating rumble of distant thunder and then the rain started, swiftly increasing in intensity. The heavy woollen cloaks which they had put on were some protection, but not entirely. Icy winds blew from the east and eventually the rain was sheeting against their backs – which was slightly better than riding into the face of it. However, it was no good continuing in this manner and, since they were near the cabin which they had examined on the previous day, Fidelma suggested they might return there until the rain eased off.

  Aidan led the horses to the more sheltered side of the stone cabin. Thankfully, some scavenger, perhaps a wolf, had dragged away the carcass of the dog they had left abandoned. Inside, Fidelma and Eadulf set up a wooden bench and one solitary remaining chair so that they could make themselves comfortable. But the cabin was chilly and dank from its long disuse. Aidan, coming in, cast a professional eye around before contemplating the blackened, cold hearth. By the side of it he had spotted a pile of straw and kindling, and there were some logs that had been kept dry. Without asking permission from Fidelma, who was busy rubbing her arms to restore some warmth from the cold rain, he took the small pile of kindling and put it in the hearth.

  Every warrior who was accepted into the élite company of the Golden Collar carried with them the means of kindling fire in a small girdle pocket, so that the result was often called teine creasa or ‘fire of the girdle’. Each warrior had flint, steel and tinder which was also called tenlach-tein, fire of the hand. Usually the warriors preferred the kindling to be dried leaves of coltsfoot, so much so that the plant became known as sponc after the ignited tinder. Aidan proved no exception to the reputation of the warriors in being able to light a fire quickly and it was not long before a blazing log fire was making the travellers feel more comfortable. Soon they were able to remove their heavy woollen cloaks and relax in the warmth that the fire generated.

  Eadulf couldn’t help asking: ‘So what now? We may have to be here a while.’

  Fidelma pursed her lips in annoyance. ‘We will remain here until the rain clears.’

  Aidan was wandering about the interior, investigating it with interest, holding a candle, which he had lit as an aid to his observation.

  ‘So this is where you believe that Spelán was killed?’ he asked. He had waited outside on the previous day while Fidelma and Eadulf had examined the cabin. It had been up to Eadulf to tell him about their discovery.

  ‘It would seem so,’ Fidelma replied.

  Aidan was peering at the wooden bed which she had identified as the place where the shepherd had been tied down and ritually killed. Aidan shook his head in distaste and turned away – before something made him pause. Holding the candle stub, he bent to pick up an object from the floor.

  ‘It looks as if a bird has managed to get in here,’ he said.

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Eadulf.

  Aidan held the item up to the light. ‘A feather. Looks like a crow’s feather. This is the sort of place they’d get into, scavengers every one.’

  A peculiar look formed on Eadulf’s face. ‘Are you sure that is not a raven’s feather?’ he asked.

  NINE

  Fidelma looked up quickly after Eadulf had asked the question. ‘Are you suggesting that Brancheó has been in here?’ she asked.

  ‘That feather was not here yesterday,’ Eadulf replied. ‘She could have watched and waited until we had left. She wears a cloak of raven feathers. It would be easy to lose one.’

  Fidelma held out her hand to Aidan and he dutifully placed the feather in her palm. She examined it carefully. Then she put it into the marsupium on her belt.

  ‘There is a puncture mark in the spine of the feather as if a needle and thread had passed through,’ she disclosed. ‘I’ll keep it to see if I can identify it.’

  ‘I said there was something sinister about that woman,’ muttered Aidan.

  ‘That is what she wants people to think,’ replied Fidelma. ‘I still have no opinion, except that she has a link to Spelán.’

  Aidan shrugged and returned to his examination of the far end of the cabin. To Fidelma and Eadulf’s surprise, he suddenly seemed to concentrate on the wall. He held the flickering candle stub higher and took a step closer so that only a hand’s width separated his face from the stone of the cabin wall. Giving a soft grunt, he ran his hand over the surface.

  Fidelma watched him critically. ‘Whatever are you doing?’ she said crossly. ‘We searched the cabin thoroughly yesterday.’

  Aidan did not reply for the moment but had his hand on a small block of stone that seemed unevenly set in the wall. Pushing it from side to side, he soon had it coming loose.

  ‘Sorry, lady. It is my experience that loose stones of this sort are where people hide things in wall cavities; things that are of value to them. Ah …’

  While he spoke, he had tossed the stone on the floor and inserted his hand into the cavity. A moment passed and he withdrew something.

  ‘A piece of vellum with some writing!’ he exclaimed, holding it up in the candlelight.

  Fidelma and Eadulf exchanged a startled look. Such an item in a poor shepherd’s cabin was unusual, to say the least. However, there might be many explanations.

  Meanwhile Aidan had turned and held out the piece of vellum towards them. ‘It is written in some strange language of which I have no understanding. Anyway, I think I felt something else in the recess.’

  He turned back and thrust his hand in again. When he pulled the object out and found it was simply a small piece of rock, no bigger than a small pebble, he threw it on the bed.

  Fidelma was examining the vellum and asked Aidan to bring the candle nearer. He did so and Eadulf peered over her shoulder and immediately declared: ‘The letters on that side are Greek. It seems the vellum is cut from something and the text is but a fragment. I can’t remember it.’

  Fidelma turned the scrap over and there were some numerals in a column on the other side.

  ‘Greek words and a column of numerals on vellum in a shepherd’s cabin …’ Eadulf mused. ‘That’s unusual.’

  ‘To say the least,’ Fidelma agreed thoughtfully. She took the fragment to the solitary window in th
e cabin and held it up.

  ‘The text seems to be quite old, and appears to be formed in a different hand and with different ink than the numerals. I will have to ask Brother Conchobhar for his opinion, but I doubt whether it is relevant to our inquiry.’

  ‘Maybe the shepherd or his wife picked it up, thinking to use it to help light the fire,’ suggested Eadulf, and then realised he had said a stupid thing. Vellum was no good for that purpose; it might smoulder but would not burn well.

  ‘You forget that we know little about Caoimhe. She had a connection with the community at Ráth Cuáin which is the very reason why we are going there. It might be that she obtained it there.’ Fidelma turned to Aidan. ‘Your eyes are sharper than ours, Aidan. Continue looking around.’ Then she hesitated. ‘What else did you say you just found in the recess?’

  Aidan pointed to the bed where he had tossed the object. ‘It’s just that hard pebble, lady.’

  She bent over and picked it up. ‘It is a bit jagged and heavy for just a pebble. It’s not round at all. Give me your knife, Aidan.’

  She took the warrior’s heavy knife and moved back to the window, proceeding to scrape at the tiny object. Then, to their surprise, she went to the bucket of stale water and began to use it to wash the dirt away. Finally, she held up the tiny object, now bright and shiny.

  Aidan was the first to react. ‘Isn’t that silver? How would a poor shepherd come by a piece of silver?’

  Fidelma carefully placed it in her marsupium along with the vellum.

  ‘There are several questions to be answered. Although that piece of silver would not make him exceedingly rich, it is unusual that a shepherd has possession of it. You have done well, Aidan. Your eyes were definitely better than ours.’

  Nothing else was found, however, and the three travellers settled down to wait for the weather to improve. Slowly the deluge began to ease and finally cease altogether. The dark thunderclouds passed on with the rain, leaving long rolls of white clouds with faint blue sky seen between them.

  ‘It is time to move on,’ Fidelma announced. ‘The weather is clearing and we should be able to reach the Abbey of Ráth Cuáin in the dry.’

  As they breasted the hill and caught sight of the full extent of Ráth Cuáin, they halted their horses simultaneously as if at some unspoken order. It was their surprise at the impregnable ramparts of the abbey that had caused them to rein in. They had seen the place from a distance and knew it had been a fortress before an abbey – but they had expected to see the usual wooden walls and collection of huts and, perhaps, a stone-built chapel. But this was a fortress of stone; a fortress with watch-towers and a large sturdy wooden gate. The walls were high, the height of three tall men standing on each other’s shoulders. It certainly had the appearance of a military habitation rather than a religious one.

  ‘How could this have existed here less than half a day’s ride to Cashel without our knowing of it?’ breathed Fidelma.

  Aidan was equally amazed.

  ‘Truthfully I do not know, lady. As you are aware, the main roads from Cashel bypass this area, and it has become so secluded that it is rare that anyone comes this way. Of course, we have heard of the existence of a religious community but not of this imposing structure. I do not know what to say.’

  ‘Well, I can say that my brother will not be well pleased to learn that such a fortress has been allowed to exist so close to his capital without even the knowledge of the commander of the warriors of the Golden Collar,’ she observed dryly.

  ‘But it is called a religious community,’ protested Aidan. ‘Surely it is the Abbot of Imleach, the Chief Bishop of Muman, who should have reported it to the King?’

  ‘It is a matter that goes beyond who should have told what to whom,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Colgú should have been aware of it.’

  Eadulf could understand her concern, especially as there had been several conflicts in Muman since he had lived in the kingdom, and attempts to overthrow the influence of Cashel.

  ‘There is also the fact that Abbot Ségdae is dead and the new Abbot, Abbot Cuán, has discovered that this is an heretical community, according to the council now meeting in Cashel,’ he added. ‘It does seem curious that no one has whispered a word about this fortress to the King’s guards. No wonder it is called a Ráth.’

  ‘Well, our primary purpose is to make inquiries about Spelán and his wife Caoimhe. That won’t be achieved by just sitting here looking at this so-called abbey,’ Fidelma declared. ‘Come, let us find out the true nature of this community.’

  There were no sounds to indicate that their approach had been seen as they rode up to the tall, imposing oak doors. They were closed yet there seemed no watchman or gatekeeper. No one shouted a challenge. The great gates remained closed and a brooding silence hung over the impenetrable walls of stone. It was almost oppressively quiet. Eadulf could not even hear the cry of birds around the place. He shivered, trying to persuade himself that he had too much imagination.

  It was then his eye caught a carving on one of the great doors.

  ‘Fidelma …’ he whispered almost fearfully.

  ‘I have seen it,’ she said coolly without turning her head.

  Carved on the wooden door was an old Christian symbol. They had no difficult in recognising it as the ‘Tau-Rho’, which Brother Conchobhar had shown them carved onto the buttocks of the murdered shepherd.

  ‘This does not augur well,’ Eadulf muttered.

  ‘It augurs nothing at all,’ replied Fidelma in a tight voice. ‘Perhaps this is the symbol of the heretics that Brother Mac Raith told us about.’

  At a nod from Fidelma, Aidan nudged his mount forward to where a bell-rope hung. He pulled on it, sending out a surprisingly unmusical peal.

  There was no answer as the echoes died away.

  He repeated the exercise, this time with much more vigour. Some moments passed before a hollow voice came from the wall above. A pale face was peering down at them. They looked up to where the upper half of a dark figure could be seen, his features more or less obscured by a dark hood that was part of a black religious robe.

  ‘What do you seek here, strangers?’ came the harsh tones.

  ‘We are no strangers in this territory,’ Aidan snapped, irritated by the manner of their greeting. ‘It should be obvious what we require if you are the gatekeeper. We seek entry.’

  ‘As far as I am aware, warrior,’ replied the uncompromising tone, ‘you are strangers at this gate. This is the community of Ráth Cuáin. We admit no strangers unless we know whence they come and their purpose.’

  Aidan abruptly pulled aside his cloak and touched a hand to his golden torc.

  ‘Do you observe that?’ he shouted up. ‘If you recognise it, you will know what it means and know that I speak on behalf of the bodyguard of the King in whose territory your community lives; lives by his permission, will and protection.’

  ‘Not so, warrior,’ replied the figure, apparently unimpressed. ‘We are here by the permission, will and protection of our Faith and we answer to no other entity but the one true God.’

  ‘You are answerable to the King and to his Chief Bishop,’ Aidan shouted back. ‘Have a care lest you earn the King’s wrath!’

  Fidelma frowned with displeasure at the young warrior’s conduct, although she realised that he was more adept at military exchanges than diplomacy with members of the religious.

  ‘We fear no wrath other than it is from God!’ the figure had replied from the parapet of the wall. ‘The King and his Chief Bishop have no rights over us. So begone.’

  Fidelma now eased forward and stared up at the man who seemed to be turning away.

  ‘Wait! I am Fidelma of Cashel, sister to Colgú, King of Muman. I speak as a dálaigh. I would dispute in law that you are not bound in recognition of the Chief Bishop of Muman and therefore his acceptance of the authority of the King. There are many texts I could quote to you, if you are knowledgeable of the law of this land, which sets out the rights
and obligations of abbots and bishops to obey. They are under the jurisdiction of the judges of this land. So if you do not recognise the authority of the Chief Bishop or the King, perhaps you will recognise the authority of the laws of this land. Just as the King himself is answerable to the law, so is an unjust judge or a “stumbling bishop” – one who leads a community unmindful of his legal obligations.’

  ‘I am no lawyer,’ the figure replied curtly, ‘but merely the aistreóir, the gatekeeper, of this community.’

  ‘Then, gatekeeper, I suggest you go to find someone who will contend with me on law to see whether you are flouting it by refusing me entry to speak with your abbot, Abbot Síoda.’

  As the man hesitated, Fidelma added firmly: ‘I presume this community does have someone knowledgeable of the law? It is a requirement that all such communities should have someone who has even glimmerings of knowledge in these matters.’

  There was another pause and then the man simply said, ‘I shall return.’ Then he disappeared from the ramparts.

  Eadulf said sourly, ‘I thought we would have trouble as soon as I saw the nature of this place.’

  ‘We may yet be surprised,’ Fidelma replied quietly.

  The gatekeeper suddenly reappeared on the parapet.

  ‘What is it that you wish to see the Abbot Síoda about?’ he demanded.

  Fidelma took a deep intake of breath which she exhaled in a long, loud fashion for effect to show her frustration.

  ‘Tell Abbot Síoda that I wish to see him about his neglect of his duty of care to two members of the clan Sítae over whom he has guardianship, not only by virtue of his being abbot, but by being chieftain of this clan.’

  The aistreóir did not reply for a moment. Fidelma felt it a shame that she could not observe his features from the distance between them. Then he disappeared once more. They were made to wait again before there was a noise of bars being withdrawn from the wooden gates and they were suddenly face to face with the gatekeeper. Although he was not as old as they had first thought, his features were aged by their sallow tinge and by their gauntness. His lips were thin; he had a slit for a mouth. The eyes were dark – and it was as if he had no pupils. There was a distinct lack of humanity about the man as he stood regarding them with an expression of hostility.