Night of the Lightbringer

by Peter Tremayne

  In the darkness she gave Eadulf a quick embrace and turned for the wooden fence that enclosed the herb garden. Eadulf linked his hands to form a stirrup to propel her over it. Then he and Aidan went to take up their positions in the shelter of the rocks beyond the abbey walls.

  Fidelma had always had pride in her agility. At least several times a week she would practise the exercises that went through the ancient defensive techniques – the art of troidsciathagid that the missionaries were taught before they were sent to take the Word of the New Faith into foreign lands. It was said that it was used by the ancient adepts before the coming of Christianity and, as such, was frowned upon until it was realised that it was unwise to send people into unknown lands among potential thieves and robbers who might attack and even kill them when they had no defence. Didn’t the New Faith exhort people not to kill? What better defence could they have than to adopt the ancient ‘defence through battle’; the unarmed combat of their pagan forbears. Several times this knowledge had saved Fidelma from the attentions of would-be antagonists. It gave her a suppleness and strength that usually went with a younger person, along with quick reflexes.

  It took her but little time to scale the wooden walls of the abbey’s herb garden and she dropped down onto the soft, freshly turned earth of some plant beds. Their fragrances rose into the air and seemed familiar, but were not immediately known to her.

  It was lucky that the night was cloudless, so the moon and stars actually provided a shadowy light for, as she looked up at the walls of the abbey, no faint glow of a lamp or candle showed from the black interior. In a way, that was a welcome thing for the conditions she needed. A path led through the garden and she was able to follow it easily to the door that gave access into the abbey buildings. As she had expected, it was locked. Nevertheless, she was smiling confidently to herself.

  The abbots of Ráth Cuáin, even in their role as chieftains of the clan area, appeared to possess an imperfect knowledge of defence. The front of the abbey was certainly well protected by high walls, an impregnable gate with a suspicious gatekeeper, along with those high walls which encircled the community. Here, however, at the rear, they had relied on the rocky – almost cliff-like in places – slopes as a barrier. True, the back door was strong, but they had allowed ivy to make its way up the walls. The dark green growth ascended almost ten metres to the roof of the buildings. Fidelma knew how tenaciously it clung and this she was counting on as she approached the faint honeyed scent where some of its leaves had been crushed. It had just ceased its flowering period but little patches of yellow flowers showed light against the foliage. Inconsequentially, the fact that it was claimed by the ancients that ivy was a symbol of fidelity came into her mind, although the berries were slightly poisonous. It led to the thought that this was not so in Eadulf’s country: she ought to remind him to treat the ivy with respect because of the differences in the species. She blinked to clear her mind of such random thoughts and peered upwards.

  She saw what she was looking for some five or six metres above her. It was a darkened window that appeared to have no glass to obstruct an entrance through it. She reached into her marsupium, hanging as usual from her criss or belt, and took the lámann, the strong leather gloves that she usually wore when riding, and put them on. She knew the ivy had many fibrous, adhesive-covered roots that enabled it to climb so vigorously over the walls, and she would need to protect her hands.

  Taking a deep breath, she seized the growth and pulled experimentally. It clung fiercely to the grey stone wall beneath it. Using her full weight, she hung on for a moment. It continued to hold. Slowly she began to climb, hand over hand, up towards the inviting aperture. Surprisingly, it did not take her long. Almost before she felt an ache in her arm muscles, she was beside the open window and scrambling in undignified manner over the sill before tumbling onto the stone-flagged floor of a corridor beyond.

  She sat huddled for a few moments to regain her breath and to rub her painful upper arms. The corridor was darker than the exterior, for the pale orb of the moon did not really penetrate into the building. She became aware that there were several doors along this passageway; she presumed they were part of the living quarters. Setting off quietly, she tiptoed along the corridor to the end where a spiral staircase of stone steps descended to the lower floors of the building. She went down carefully, for there was nothing to hold onto, keeping to the broader end of the steps with her back against the wall for balance.

  She had actually descended into the kitchen area and there was warmth from the fireplace where the coals had only recently been extinguished for the nighttime. Obviously the cooks here were careful, for she had heard several stories of how even mighty abbeys had been burned to the ground because of carelessness when fires had not been thoroughly doused. Now she saw the outline of the door that had blocked her entrance, forcing her to climb the ivy. It took but a few moments to cross to it and feel how it was fastened. There were two great iron bolts and a lock. An instinct caused her to feel on the wall at the side of the door and she was almost immediately rewarded by finding a key hanging on a hook. She decided to take the chance of inserting the key in the lock and releasing it before putting the key back in place. Then she gently withdrew each bolt.

  She stood still for a moment in the gloom. At least if she had to depart by this door in a hurry there would now be nothing to impede her progress.

  With a little more confidence, she turned and felt her way through the kitchen and into the next large chamber. Even in the gloom she could see that this was the refectory, with long tables and benches. It seemed to house a substantial community for what she had initially reckoned was only a small abbey. She had passed through the praintech or feasting hall and eased through the main door at the end to find herself in the main courtyard of the abbey complex. Here she had to halt and take care, for there were several brand torches flickering around this inner courtyard. She moved quickly back into the shadows as she caught the slap of leather soles on the stone flags.

  The dark outline of a tall figure crossed the far end of the courtyard and disappeared.

  She looked swiftly around. She would, indeed, have to be watchful, for it seemed that not all the community was asleep. If the memory of her previous visit served, the library building that she was seeking was through an archway to her right, across a smaller courtyard and then she would have to ascend some stone stairs to a second level to access the library. But to get to that archway would be risky; the building on the corner was well lit and it was into this building that the tall figure had entered.

  The fact that she had heard the slap of leather on the stone flags caused her to bend and remove her own stout brogan, the shoes she usually wore when out in the countryside. Then, walking swiftly and silently, like a cat, she moved along the courtyard, keeping among the shadows of the walls. Reaching the corner building, the one that was lit, she paused, listening carefully.

  She could now hear some low conversation – but to her astonishment it was of a kind that she did not associate with a clerical establishment. There was suppressed mirth and several lewd words and expressions that she felt were more in keeping with warriors’ encampments than a religious community. She strained forward to see if she could make out something intelligible from the ribaldry but could not. So, with a mental shrug, she moved forward again. She reached the corner without mishap, then something made her pause. It was as well she did so, for a door suddenly opened nearby, and a voice spoke from just a metre or two away.

  ‘Your men were stupid to shoot before they were certain of their target. And if they had done so, what then? To kill a dálaigh, an Eóghanacht of Cashel at that, would bring the entire army of the King down on us. That would be disastrous now that I have arranged the transport back to the coast. We should leave here tomorrow or the next day.’

  The voice was familiar, but speaking so softly, she could not place it. She was sure she had heard it before – and recently.

 
‘My apologies,’ answered another voice and she recognised immediately that it was Febal who was speaking. It was impossible to mistake his clear, well-modulated tones. ‘I told them not to shoot at the woman but thought that if they hit the warrior or the foreigner who accompanies her, it would be a good way of warning them off.’

  ‘Warning?’ The first speaker was clearly displeased. ‘Things have gone beyond giving warnings! In fact, they were entirely out of hand before I arrived. Killing the traitor was one thing, but the silly bizarre manner of the ritual was insane.’

  ‘Well, you know whose idea that was, and it wasn’t mine. The aim was to frighten people. Had I been in charge I would have simply killed and buried the fellow. I have no time for the perverse sense of humour your relative displays at times.’

  ‘Instead, that humour as you call it, immediately caused the dálaigh to start investigating,’ sneered the other. ‘And were you instructed to go to Cashel and pretend to be looking for someone who had wronged your sister?’

  Febal chuckled. ‘Personally, I thought it was a pretty good notion, especially as the story was based on truth – except that I was the rogue who seduced the sister of my chieftain. That’s why I had to leave Connacht.’

  ‘I was told you claimed to be looking for a man called Fursaintid. What made you come up with that name?’

  ‘It’s something Spelán said before he died. He found out that a man making inquiries about our activities was called the “light kindler” or some such name. Obviously, there was only one matter this “light kindler” could be investigating and it fell to me to protect what we were doing.’

  ‘But “light kindler”?’

  ‘Spelán must have told his woman about this before he died because she identified Sionnach as that person. So I dealt with them both.’

  ‘But “Sionnach” does not have that meaning. Are you sure he was the man?’

  ‘Brancheó identified him as such and it was clear to me that Sionnach was investigating our activities.’

  ‘What I don’t understand was why you killed the woman in a similar way to Spelán?’

  ‘It was meant to distract the dálaigh from the real cause of Spelán’s death. Make her think that it was some ancient cult group of which they had fallen foul. Anyway, there was no other way but to kill her as well. The fool was about to reveal everything.’

  ‘One stupidity leads to another,’ replied the other voice in suppressed anger. ‘I tell you, this dálaigh is clever. The more she is unable to explain things, the more determined she becomes to resolve matters. She is tenacious.’

  ‘Had your relative not decided to try to extract information from Spelán and become a little over-zealous in her efforts, we would not have had to attempt to disguise things with the threefold death rite and—’

  ‘Stupidity! All of it! Now we must be prepared to move everything down to the coast as soon as possible and halt any further attacks because that dálaigh will come back soon. I know it. You must leave well alone for a while. This affair has engendered too much interest in this place.’

  ‘The men will not like it. There is no reason; there is still much profit to be made,’ grumbled Febal.

  ‘I will tell you whether there is reason or not,’ the other said curtly. The door was slammed shut.

  Fidelma stepped back into the darkness as she heard the man moving away. If he came by the corner of the building where she stood, there was nowhere in the courtyard to hide now. One man she might be able to deal with, but he would call out, the scuffle would be noisy and there were obviously several warriors inside the building.

  But the man did not appear. He had gone in another direction. Her heart sank, for it was surely the same direction in which she had intended to go. She chanced a cautious look around the corner of the building and saw the back of the tall figure going through the arch that she had identified as leading to the small courtyard before the library in which Abbot Síoda had greeted her. It was Febal. She moved silently after him, pausing when she reached the arch.

  There was only one brand torch lit and that was on the far side by the steps that led up to the library. She peered round to try to discern where the man had gone. Febal could not possibly have reached the steps and gone into the library before she got to the archway. Then she heard a lewd chuckle almost next to her. It was so close that she flinched before reasoning in a split moment that the column of the arch was between Febal and herself, shielding her in the darkness. Then a woman’s answering chuckle came.

  ‘I have been fretting for you,’ came her lascivious tone.

  ‘I had to speak with your brother first. He seems displeased at what we have done.’

  ‘He is always worried. Forget him,’ she replied.

  ‘I understand he has all the arrangements in hand. Then there will soon be no need for secrecy.’

  ‘I said forget him. There are other things to think of now.’

  There came a seductive murmur. ‘Indeed – and the whole night is ahead of us …’

  There came the sounds of an intimate embrace and Fidelma was aware of a distinctive scent wafting through the air before a door was shut quietly.

  Fidelma was left leaning against the wall of the arch, trying to still her pounding heart and breathe naturally again. At least she had heard from Febal’s own mouth that he admitted killing Spelán, Sionnach and Brancheó. Proving why he had done so was another matter.

  Two narrow escapes were two too many, she told herself. However, since all was quiet now, she decided to continue with her task. She moved swiftly across the small courtyard to the flight of stone stairs and, without pausing, she ascended them quickly. Luck continued to be with her, for the door of the library was unlocked. She slid quickly inside.

  She stopped for a moment and inhaled the scent of lavender, as she had before when she had entered the library. It was then the thought struck her: it was this same aroma that had predominated when she had examined the corpse of Spelán.

  She pushed herself away from the door and squinted around the room. Now that she was here, she had to find the book with the seal of Vitalian, the Bishop of Rome.

  In the gloom of the library, however, she was beginning to regret her confidence. But she was convinced that the book marked Non videbunt: habere occultum was central to unravelling this mystery: it undoubtedly was the missing book that the Venerable Gelasius had mentioned. After all, it had the Bishop of Rome’s seal on it and he would hardly be sending a book that he wished no one to see to an heretical sect. She felt her way to the desk and found a candle in its holder. She would have to try to light it in order to search for the book. And how on earth was she going to locate it among so many in the library? She rebuked herself for not having thought this matter through.

  She reached into her marsupium in search of her tenlach-teined, the flint and tinder, and then changed her mind. It would take an age to ignite the candle and, moreover, the light could be seen and bring people to investigate before she had found the book and escaped. She turned back to the desk, reaching out with her hands to feel among the objects and hoping for the best luck of all. But she knew it was a forlorn hope even before she started. The abbot would not have left such an important item lying around.

  It was then she felt the prick of cold metal just below her left ear and a harsh voice said: ‘Remain very still, woman, if you want to live.’

  The voice held no emotion, and she sensed that if she so much as twitched, the metal would bite deeply into her neck.

  Fidelma stood in frozen immobility. The point was still at her throat, which meant that someone else must be gripping her wrists and binding them none too gently behind her with a rough cord. Before she could react in any way, a blindfold was put on her eyes and secured at the back of her head. She made an attempt to speak … and then something hard and painful smashed against her skull. She felt a curious unreal moment of consciously knowing that she had received a blow and then … then she was falling into a dark space
, twisting and turning in a neverending abyss.

  SEVENTEEN

  It seemed that only a moment or two had passed when Fidelma became aware of a throbbing in her head and soreness at the back of the skull. She blinked several times but it was black and she realised that she still had the blindfold secured over her eyes. It was cold; the chill cut through her very fibre and she was shivering violently. She attempted to move but her hands were tied fast behind her, the cord cutting into her wrists. Her mouth was not obstructed by a gag of any kind so she tried to coax some saliva around its gritty interior with her tongue. Eventually her voice came out like a crow’s croak. She swallowed and made another try at speaking.

  ‘I’d like to sit up.’

  There was no reply but a strange scuttling sound.

  ‘I’d like some water,’ she said again in a stronger tone, and this time she noticed that her voice had a curious echo to it. There was no response. She listened carefully. The silence felt oppressive and the chill and dampness surely meant she was no longer in the library. Things slowly began to make sense again. She had been knocked out and taken somewhere else. But where?

  She also realised that she was lying on her back on cold stone flags. She reached out with her tied hands behind her and almost immediately encountered a wall. Gradually, she eased herself into a semi-sitting position and then pushed back so that she could rest her shoulders and head against the wall.

  She wondered how much time had passed since she had been knocked unconscious. Had Eadulf and Aidan realised something had gone wrong? She hoped they were already on their way back to Cashel to raise help. Then her thoughts turned to those who had attacked her in the library. She had no idea who they were – but they must have known who she was; even if they had not known at the time they made the assault, they would have realised soon afterwards – and that was why they had brought her to this place.

  Where was she?

  The smoothness of the stone flags on which she was sitting made her think that it was not an ordinary cave; she must be in some underground room or cellar – a tech talman. The coldness and stone made her decide that it was too large to be a fotholl, usually a wood-lined cavity or room for storing food. This was a fair-size souterrain probably used for the same purpose. Ráth Cuáin would certainly have one. Someone had told her once that the fortress or abbey was built on caves. Who was that? Ah, it was something the hermit Erca had said. She shivered suddenly, for she realised that it could also have another purpose: it could be an underground burial chamber. She had encountered such places in abbeys in the past.