Night of the Lightbringer

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘May I see this keeper of books?’

  The abbot intervened with a shake of his head. ‘He died during the late summer. You may take it that what Sister Fioniúr says is the truth of what he advised.’

  Fidelma turned back to the herbalist. ‘Tell me what you can about the shepherd.’

  Sister Fioniúr shrugged. ‘He was a vainglorious little man. I met his woman a few times when she came to the abbey to sell herbs to me. She would often have bruises which she claimed were caused by accidents. I suspected otherwise. She also confessed that he was without religion. He was not of the local clan, the Sítae. I believe that he was a man without morals who came searching for someone to support him because he had no money and was too lazy to earn any through his own efforts.’

  ‘Did you not report your suspicions about his abuses to anyone?’

  The herbalist made a negative shrug and Fidelma did not feel it would advance things to pursue the matter.

  ‘So the abbey did not buy the sheep from him?’ she pressed.

  ‘Of course not,’ the other woman said. ‘They were not his to sell. As I say, the keeper of books confirmed the decision. In fact, I was told that the sheep were not Caoimhe’s either.’

  ‘Explain,’ Fidelma instructed.

  The abbot intervened again. ‘When Caoimhe’s family were wiped out by the Yellow Plague six or seven years ago, she was left with neither land nor other property. The land her family used for their small crop and a herd of cows was granted them by my father as lord of the territory. So, as is the law, it reverted to my father. When Caoimhe presented herself to him and pled her case that she had been left alone without family or support, he followed the law and allowed her to remain in her cabin, use the land and gave her a small flock to tend for her subsistence for as long as she lived. Her tribute to this community for this was one ram and one pregnant ewe to be paid in the spring of each year.’

  ‘Why did Spelán think that the flock was his to sell?’

  ‘He was, by all accounts, an ignorant man,’ Sister Fioniúr pointed out. ‘I observed that Caoimhe was not a young woman. She was past childbearing age, alone in a cabin, with land and a flock of sheep. Spelán thought he could use her to his advantage and as for her, she seemed willing enough to put up with his abuse.’

  ‘So you can confirm that he had no means of sustaining himself?’

  Abbot Síoda answered for her. ‘He was reported to be a landless itinerant. He had no claim on any property.’

  ‘And you can confirm that Caoimhe was not married to him?’

  ‘Certainly by none of the ten legal forms of marriage according to our laws,’ concurred the abbot.

  ‘With your permission and that of the lady Fidelma,’ Sister Fioniúr interrupted, smiling politely at them all, ‘I have much work to attend to. May I withdraw now?’

  ‘Only one more point,’ Fidelma replied, staying her. ‘How would Spelán have come into some wealth during this summer?’

  ‘It’s the first that I have heard of the shepherd having any money,’ Abbot Síoda declared emphatically, glancing at the herbalist.

  ‘He was living in Caoimhe’s cabin, frankly in disgusting conditions,’ Sister Fioniúr said with a slight shudder. ‘I have never heard he had any assets.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he was able to go to Rumann’s tavern in Cashel and purchase drinks for himself on many occasions.’

  The abbot shrugged. ‘Then I have no idea nor any interest in how he came by his resources, for there was nothing that he could take from that wretched cabin. Not long ago, I sent one of the members of the abbey – in fact, it was the new keeper of books, Brother Gébennach – to assess the state of the place as I will require it for another shepherd. I was told that the cabin was almost derelict, although Spelán was still there. He was warned that he had to leave by the time of the Samhain feast.’

  ‘The merchant who informed you that Spelán was murdered would not have known that the murder took place in his cabin two nights ago,’ Fidelma remarked quietly, watching for the effect.

  The abbot looked shocked while Sister Fioniúr’s features lost even more colour.

  ‘How can anyone tell such a thing?’ The herbalist was bewildered. ‘The body was found in Cashel, lady.’

  ‘Yes – how are you so sure that he was killed in his cabin, not in Cashel?’ Abbot Síoda asked angrily. ‘Do you think it was our way of ensuring he left the cabin – by carving our sacred symbol on him and carrying out the killing with pagan rites? That is wicked nonsense!’

  ‘Well, someone ensured that he left the cabin – and this world,’ Fidelma replied tersely.

  ‘Then what about the crone Spelán hired to curse the abbey in the manner of the Old Faith when he could not extract what he claimed was Caoimhe’s land or property from us?’ Sister Fioniúr asked.

  The abbot’s lips suddenly formed a silent whistle. ‘But there you have it! The crone found he had no means to pay and so took her retribution on him!’

  Fidelma frowned slightly. ‘Are you saying that he actually hired a woman to curse the abbey?’

  ‘He did,’ confirmed the herbalist. ‘She threatened the abbey, saying that we would be destroyed by the time of the feast of Samhain. The woman came to the gates of the abbey and started to perform her ritual. I had the stable lads chase her away. I told the abbot about it when he returned.’

  ‘Did you know who this crone, as you call her, was?’

  ‘She was a strange woman in a raven-feather cloak,’ replied Sister Fioniúr. ‘That is all I know.’

  ‘It all happened while I was away,’ said the Abbot, ‘and was reported to me after my return. The woman has not been back since she was chased from the gates of the abbey.’

  ‘Find the woman and you have found the killer,’ declared Sister Fioniúr.

  There was a silence for a few moments and then the abbot turned to the herbalist. ‘There is no need to trouble you longer, Sister, and keep you from your work.’

  The young herbalist nodded quickly to the abbot and Fidelma and then withdrew.

  Fidelma remained seated in thoughtful repose for a moment. Then she said: ‘You mentioned that your new keeper of books was sent to tell Spelán to quit the cabin.’

  ‘Brother Gébennach, who has recently joined the abbey,’ agreed the abbot. ‘He went to the cabin and saw Spelán, who also showed him the grave of Caoimhe behind the cabin. And now …’

  The abbot leaned forward, seized the small hand-bell on his desk and shook it rapidly. A moment later the emaciated-looking Brother Tadhg appeared. Fidelma rose and addressed the gatekeeper.

  ‘You have heard that the one-time shepherd, Spelán, was found murdered. Did you know that the Tau-Rho symbol was engraved on his buttocks, presumably as some part of a ritual at the time of his death?’

  ‘I did not.’ Brother Tadhg’s features remained expressionless. ‘Has the dálaigh come here to accuse us?’ The question seemed to be put to the abbot. ‘Anyone would know that the Tau-Rho symbol was widely used among the early members of the Faith.’

  ‘But dropped in favour of the Cho-Rho symbol,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Therefore, few people use or know the Tau-Rho symbol these days.’

  ‘We have many enemies who know our symbol,’ Brother Tadhg argued. ‘Plenty of our fellow so-called Christians would like to destroy us, especially those at the Abbey of Imleach. Such enemies of our Faith could easily have made the mark to denigrate and implicate us.’

  ‘While accepting that point, I have to say that I came here only seeking information and not to accuse this community,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘I am simply after the truth. But there is little here for me to pursue.’ She suddenly smiled at the abbot and inclined her head. ‘If Brother Tadhg will lead me back to the courtyard, my companions and I will take our leave. Abbot Síoda, I thank you for your enlightenment and your help.’

  The young man acknowledged her thanks with a frown, uncertain whether she was being sarcastic or not.

&
nbsp; Fidelma was following the gatekeeper to the door, when she halted abruptly and turned, breathing deeply. ‘You seem to appreciate the strong aroma of lavender. It permeates the air here.’

  ‘I regret if this scent is not to your liking,’ replied the abbot, irritated, as if he saw her broaching a new subject as an excuse to delay her departure.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Fidelma smiled, ‘I am much pleased by it but wish I could find someone to distil the essence this well for me. Is it something that you have distilled yourself?’

  The young man shook his head. ‘My talent does not lie with such arts of wizardry. Yet I do confess that it is distilled here in the abbey.’

  ‘And is it produced to sell?’

  ‘It is an essence our herbalist mixes for this community alone. She produces it among her other cures and protections from the many evils with which we are beset.’ He went on. ‘We were exceedingly fortunate when she came here, having heard that we follow the philosophies of Psiloanthropism. In the time that she has been with us, she was been invaluable to the community and that is why I have appointed her my deputy.’

  Brother Tadhg grunted. ‘I must remind the abbot that I disapprove of her permitting ivy to grow and spread from the hedges of her herb garden so that it creeps up the kitchen walls. I have warned her several times that it weakens the walls and soon I will have to get it cut away if it is allowed to continue its growth. It is destructive.’

  ‘But she is doubtless a good herbalist – and isn’t ivy used to deaden the pain of corns according to the ancient remedies?’ Fidelma observed brightly.

  Brother Tadhg made no reply but simply held open the door and, taking the hint, Fidelma left with a final incline of her head in the direction of Abbot Síoda.

  In the courtyard stable, she found Eadulf and Aidan anxiously waiting for her.

  ‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ complained Eadulf. ‘We were wondering whether to come and look for you.’

  ‘No need for concern.’ She frowned a warning to him not to start asking questions in front of the gatekeeper. ‘The abbot and Brother Tadhg here have been most co-operative in answering the questions that I needed to put to them. Now we can return to Cashel.’

  Aidan led the horses out of the stable and they made their formal appreciation and farewells to the gatekeeper. Brother Tadhg seemed torn between relief and suspicion as he replied as courtesy dictated. The heavy, forbidding gates of Ráth Cuáin closed behind them with a dull vibration.

  It was not until they had ridden some way off that Eadulf could restrain himself no longer.

  ‘What happened?’ he demanded.

  Fidelma explained as they continued to ride down the hill.

  ‘But it does not seem to tell us much, apart from giving us more suspicions,’ Eadulf objected.

  ‘It might not present us with a quick solution but there are two matters that have occurred which I think are worthy of investigation. Firstly, I would like to check that Spelán’s woman is truly buried by the cabin.’

  Eadulf grimaced in distaste. ‘Do you think Spelán killed his woman for her sheep? He would surely not have been so stupid. Yet if he did, who then killed Spelán? Did Abbot Síoda execute him as revenge, when he learned what had happened? Hence the sign of his community carved on Spelán’s body?’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘You are forgetting the second matter. Brancheó. I don’t doubt that this was the crone that Spelán persuaded to curse the abbey. We must find her.’

  Fidelma fell silent and she glanced at the sky. Seeing her do this, Aidan said: ‘We have enough daylight left and the rains have softened the earth for digging if you want to check for the body of Caoimhe at the cabin. Surely there will be a spade there?’

  Fidelma did not respond immediately. They were out of sight of Ráth Cuáin now, and so she swung her horse back around the lower slopes of the hill towards the south-west, in the direction of the cabin. They had only been a short time on the track when Aidan called softly again. ‘Do you see that patch of woodland ahead? I suggest that when we get among the cover of the trees, we halt and conceal ourselves by the track.’

  Fidelma’s attitude did not change apart from a slight tension in her body. When Eadulf began to turn towards the young warrior, Aidan warned him: ‘Don’t look round, friend Eadulf. We are being followed.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Eadulf hissed. ‘It is not that woman, Brancheó, again?’

  ‘It is a man,’ responded Aidan. ‘He is riding an ass but keeps a discreet distance behind us. I think he has been following us ever since we left the abbey.’

  ‘Then we shall find out why he is following,’ Fidelma declared. ‘Well observed, Aidan. We shall do as you say.’

  The wooded area was not large and the cover sparse but they hid themselves as best they could from the track. It was not long before their shadow came in sight. He was, indeed, riding on a tired-looking ambling ass. He seemed not to guide the beast but let it follow the path at will. He was a young religieux in black robes and a symbol hung on a silver chain around his neck. In spite of his clothing, he had the build of a warrior, with head held erect and shoulders straight, and his eyes moved quickly from side to side as if searching for hidden dangers. He was handsome, which showed because the hood of his robe was not raised, with well-formed, sun-bronzed features and dark hair. Although he wore a look of gravity as became his calling, there was something about the eyes and the creases at the corner of his mouth that showed a lively sense of humour.

  Aidan was the first to break cover, causing the man on the ass to pull up sharply, one hand reaching automatically to his belt as if it expected to find a sword hilt there. At the last moment the action changed as if he was reassuring himself his purse was in place.

  ‘Who are you, my friend?’ he demanded, recovering from his surprise. His voice was deep and somnolent as though every phrase was measured for a song.

  ‘Better it is to know who you are, my friend,’ Aidan responded. ‘Better to know who you are and why you have been following us. Perhaps you should dismount.’

  By now Fidelma and Eadulf had emerged to join Aidan. The newcomer looked from one to another of them in surprise but did not seem intimidated.

  ‘I was following no one,’ he protested, as he swung down from his ass and faced them.

  ‘So it is just coincidence that your path has followed our own from Ráth Cuáin, even when we left the main track for Cashel and turned back to go to a certain cabin?’ There was a challenge in Aidan’s voice.

  The young religieux thrust out his chin defensively.

  ‘I do not care what path you take. Because I shall be passing the cabin, which had been occupied by the shepherd Spelán, Abbot Síoda asked me to stop by and check on it,’ he told them.

  ‘For what purpose, exactly?’ Fidelma wanted to know.

  ‘I was informed that the shepherd who dwelled there is dead, so could I ensure that all was right within it so that the abbot might dispose of it.’

  ‘We were told that it had already been examined and the shepherd had been ordered to vacate it.’

  ‘True. I was asked to perform that task some weeks ago. It was one of my first jobs when I joined the abbey. Spelán showed me the place where he had buried Caoimhe. I blessed the grave, as it seemed no one had done so. And then I gave him due notice to vacate as the abbot had asked. Today, since I was due to ride past the cabin, he asked me to make sure that all was still in order there as the shepherd had been found dead. Also, I must inspect the grave.’

  ‘Why should the cabin be disturbed?’

  ‘The abbot told me that he had been informed that the man, Spelán, had been killed there.’

  ‘I see. And where are you off to?’

  ‘Do you have the right to question me in this fashion?’ protested the young religieux.

  ‘I am a dálaigh,’ she replied curtly. ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

  He considered this for a moment. ‘You have just seen the abbot,’ he said. ‘
Now I understand. Very well, if you must know, I am going no great distance – just to Ara’s Well across the great river. I am meeting a fellow keeper of books from the Abbey of Mungairit. We have agreed to exchange some books.’ He gestured to the leather satchel that hung from his saddle as if inviting them to check on the veracity of his statement.

  ‘A keeper of books?’ Fidelma frowned slightly. ‘Then your name is Brother Gébennach.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Your name implies that your family were captive at one time,’ observed Fidelma, momentarily giving in to her favourite hobby.

  ‘So you have an interest in the meaning of names?’ The young man smiled. ‘In this case you have been deceived by the similar-sounding root of the word.’

  ‘Then I conclude that your name derives from the root gébech. Does that mean you work at illuminating manuscripts at the abbey?’

  ‘I am not an illuminator but the leabhar coimedach – the keeper of books,’ replied the other with a certain amount of pride. ‘I illuminate knowledge.’

  ‘You are surely youthful to be a librarian.’

  ‘I have had six years of study and have attained the degree of Cli.’

  ‘A degree in the secular schools, I suppose, and not the ecclesiastical ones,’ mused Fidelma, for the degree of cli was not obtainable in the latter.

  ‘Just as your degree is from Brehon Morann’s law school,’ replied Brother Gébennach almost belligerently.

  Fidelma’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘You seem to know something about me, but a moment ago you were asking if I had authority to question you?’

  ‘At that time you had not introduced yourself. It is hard not to have heard of you, lady. Even in Rome your name is mentioned.’