The Monk Who Vanished sf-7 Read online

  ‘Save your breath,’ Fidelma interrupted irritably. ‘Honour the man’s sacrifice by being worthy of it and reaching safety.’

  Eadulf fell silent, hurt by Fidelma’s curtness. He was, after all, more concerned with her safety than his own. However, he had realised, for the first time since he had known her, that she, too, could be inspired by fear.

  They did not speak again until they had reached the edge of the township and went along the main street, quickly passing the glowing lamp of the tavern of Cred. There were a few people on the street but no one seemed to notice them until they came to the blacksmith’s forge.

  In spite of the lateness of the hour, the smith was seated near to a glowing brazier which stood by his anvil. He was polishing a metal sword blade. He glanced up and recognised them.

  ‘I would have a care about being abroad after dark, lady,’ he greeted.

  Fidelma halted before him. She had entirely recovered her composure now and returned his gaze evenly. ‘Why so?’

  The smith cocked his head to one side in a listening attitude. ‘Have you not heard them, lady?’

  In the stillness of the evening the sounds of the baying wolves came faintly to their ears.

  ‘Yes, we’ve heard them.’ Her voice was tight.

  The smith nodded slowly. He did not cease in his polishing. ‘I have never known them nearer to the township,’ he observed. ‘I would hurry back to the abbey, if I were you.’

  He bent to his task as if engrossed. Then he raised his head again. ‘I think, as bó-aire of the township, I shall have to call a hunt tomorrow to flush these brutes out from their lairs.’

  It was not unusual for a local chieftain, or even a prince or the King himself, to organise a wolf hunt in order to keep the numbers of the savage beasts at an acceptable level. Yet it seemed to Eadulf that there was some other meaning behind the man’s words. He wondered whether he was right or whether he was hearing things which were not there due to the emotion of the evening’s events.

  Fidelma left the smith without another word and began to walk towards the tall, dark walls of the abbey, along the path by the great yew-tree. Eadulf hurried after her. Once out of earshot, he articulated his thoughts.

  ‘Do you think that he had some hidden meaning in his words?’

  ‘I do not know. Perhaps not. At this stage I think we should be prepared for anything.’

  ‘What is our next course of action?’

  ‘I think that should be obvious now.’

  Eadulf pondered for a moment or two.

  ‘Cred, I suppose? We must question her again.’

  Fidelma’s voice was approving in the gloom. ‘Excellent. Yes, we must go and have another word with Cred because if Samradán’s driver was correct, that innkeeper knows more of this than she has told us.’

  ‘Well, I think the solution is clear.’

  Eadulf sounded so positive that Fidelma was surprised.

  ‘You have solved our puzzle already, Eadulf?’ There was a faint sarcasm in her voice which he did not detect. ‘That is clever of you.’

  ‘Well, you heard what the driver said. The archer was receiving instructions from a prince. Are there so many princes who are enemies of Cashel?’

  ‘Many,’ she replied dryly. ‘Though I do confess that the Uí Fidgente did spring to mind. But we cannot accuse Donennach merely on thefact that the driver heard the archer address a man as rígdomna. Many princes would like to see the Eóghanacht fall from power. The greatest enemy of the Eóghanacht are the Uí Néill, particularly Mael Dúin of the northern Uí Néill, the King of Ailech. Their enmity goes back to the time of the ancestor of the Gaels Mile Easpain. His sons Eber and Eremon fought over the division of Eireann. Eber was killed by the followers of his brother Eremon. It is from Eremon that the Uí Néill claim their descent.’

  Eadulf was impatient. ‘This I know. And the Eóghanacht of the south claim their descent from Eber. But do you really think that Cashel is threatened by the Uí Néill of the north?’

  ‘That which grows in the bone is hard to drive out of the flesh,’ observed Fidelma as they came to the gate of the abbey and paused.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ protested Eadulf.

  ‘The Uí Néill have spent over a millennium hating the Eóghanacht and envying them their kingdom.’

  The monk in attendance at the gate was Brother Daig, the fresh-faced youth they had seen earlier. He seemed happy to see them.

  ‘Thanks be to God that you are safely returned. I have been listening to the cries of the wolves in the hills these last two hours or more. It is not an evening to be without shelter.’

  He drew the gate shut behind them.

  ‘We have heard them as well,’ Eadulf observed dryly.

  ‘You should be aware that there are many wolves in the woods and fields around here,’ Brother Daig went on good-naturedly. ‘They can be very dangerous.’

  Eadulf was just about to rejoin that he was all too well aware of it when he caught Fidelma’s warning glance.

  ‘You are most considerate, Brother,’ she said. ‘We will have a care the next time we venture abroad at dusk.’

  ‘There is cold food in the refectory, Sister, if you have not eaten,’ the young monk continued. ‘As the hour is late I am afraid that you have missed the hot food.’

  ‘It is of no consequence. Brother Eadulf and I will go to the refectory. Thank you for being so solicitous. It is most appreciated.’

  As they continued towards the refectory Eadulf whispered: ‘Should we not go to question Cred after our meal?’

  ‘As Brother Daig has said, the hour is late. Cred will keep until tomorrow. As soon as I have eaten I intend to go to bed and rest. It has been an exhausting day. We can start that task directly after breakfast.’

  Chapter Twelve

  It was the sound of war horns that awoke Fidelma only moments before Sister Scothnat, the domina of the guests’ hostel bust into her chamber, crying in a loud and fearful voice.

  ‘Rise and prepare to defend yourself, lady, we are under attack.’

  Fidelma sprung up in a moment of panic, now fully aware of the blaring horns and distant cries and screams. She started from her bed and struggled in the shadows to light a candle. The flickering light revealed Sister Scothnat standing at her chamber door, wringing her hands and weeping distractedly.

  Fidelma moved to her, seizing the woman by both arms. ‘Pull yourself together, Sister!’ she said sharply. ‘Tell me what is happening? Who is attacking us?’

  Scothnat paused in her distraction, cowed by the sharpness in Fidelma’s tone. Then she began to softly sob again. ‘The abbey, the abbey is under attack!’

  ‘But who is attacking it?’

  She saw that Sister Scothnat was too overcome with fear to answer her question.

  Fidelma turned and hauled on her clothing. It was still dark outside her chamber window and she had no idea what time it was although she felt it could not be long before dawn.

  Hurrying out of the chamber, she left Scothnat still sobbing behind her. She almost collided with a dark, muscular figure, hurrying in the opposite direction. Even in the gloom she recognised Eadulf.

  ‘I was coming to find you.’ His voice was anxious. ‘The abbey is being attacked by warriors.’

  ‘Do you know anything more?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing. I was aroused only moments ago by Brother Madagan. He has gone to ensure the gates are secured but I believe the abbey has little defence except its walls and the gates.’

  Suddenly the abbey’s great bell began to toll, the sound increasing in volume as the hands which tugged the bell-rope grew more frenzied with each chime. The sound was more a frantic peal for help than a solemn warning.

  ‘Let us see what we can discover,’ cried Fidelma above the din, heading down the corridor towards the main gate.

  Eadulf followed, protesting, ‘The other women have been led to a place of safety within the abbey vaults.’

  Fidelma di
d not bother to respond. She moved quickly and Eadulf was hard pressed to keep up with her. They hurried down the dark cloisters, through which several panicking brethren ran hither and thither, distracted and with no coordination.

  Fidelma became aware of the increasing sounds of war horns and the screams and cries of fighting from beyond the great walls of the abbey. They passed into the main courtyard. There they could see a group of young, more sturdy monks, trying to secure the wooden bars on the great central gate. Directing them was the rechtaire, the steward of the abbey, Brother Madagan.

  Fidelma hailed him as they came up.

  ‘What is happening? Who are the attackers?’

  Brother Madagan paused from directing his fellows.

  ‘Strange warriors, that’s all we know. So far they have not attacked the abbey directly. They seem more intent on sacking the township.’

  ‘Where is the abbot?’

  Brother Madagan pointed to a small square-built watch-tower which rose by the gate to a height of three storeys.

  ‘Forgive me, Sister-’ Brother Madagan turned away — ‘I must continue to see to our security.’

  Fidelma was already making for the tower, with Eadulf at her heels.

  Inside the tower a stairway led to each of the storeys. It was large enough for only one person to ascend at a time. Fidelma did not pause but raced upwards with Eadulf behind her.

  The lower floors were empty but they found Abbot Segdae on the top of the tower, standing behind what, if the place had been built with a martial purpose, would have been battlements. A wall surrounded the roof, rising to chest height. From this vantage point, one could see all around the abbey.

  Abbot Ségdae was not alone. Next to him stood the burly figure of the merchant Samradán. Segdae was standing behind the wall’s protection and gazing across the square towards the township beyond. His shoulders were hunched, his hands were two balled fists, held at his sides and his head thrust forward as he watched the scene grimly. Samradan seemed equally transfixed by the spectacle. Neither man acknowledged Fidelma nor Eadulf as they climbed onto the roof.

  Fidelma and Eadulf had already become aware of an unearthly red glow, a strange yellow-red flickering light bathing the frontof the abbey. Its curious colour of menace reflected off the low clouds which hung above them. It was obvious that many buildings in the township were already in flames. The screams and cries plus the protesting whinny of frightened horses filled the night air. There was a lot of movement beyond the abbey walls. Men on horseback, some brandishing flaming brands, others with swords, were riding to and fro across the square and moving through the streets among buildings. It was clear that it was the unprotected buildings of the town that were suffering the first onslaught. Now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the curious twilight, the gloom of the night, lit by the fires of burning buildings and movement of flaming torches, Fidelma could see something else. Here and there on the ground were dark mounds which were obviously bodies. Worse still, she saw people, singly or in small groups, running for their lives, being pursued by the mounted warriors. Now and then there came a scream as the flashing swords found a victim.

  Fidelma turned grimly to Abbot Segdae.

  ‘Are there no means of protecting Imleach?’ she demanded.

  The abbot seemed too shocked to answer at first. He suddenly looked a frail old man. Fidelma shook him roughly by the arm.

  ‘Ségdae, innocent people are being cut down. Are there no warriors near here whom we can call upon?’

  Almost reluctantly the hawk-faced abbot turned. His expression was dazed as he tried to focus on Fidelma.

  ‘The nearest are the warriors commanded by your cousin, the Prince of Cnoc Aine.’

  ‘Is there any way we can contact him?’

  Abbot Ségdae raised a hand as if to indicate the bell-tower on the far side of the abbey. The frantic tolling of the bell was continuing. ‘That is our only means.’

  Samradan was looking on the scene as one hypnotised; his face was ghastly. Fidelma had rarely seen such naked fear on a man’s face before. Even in that situation, a thought came to her mind. What was it that Vergil has written? Fear betrays unworthy souls. Why had that come to her mind? There was, so she believed, nothing uglier than fear on the face of a man.

  The burly merchant now turned to the abbot. ‘Do you think that they will breach the walls of the abbey?’ His voice held more than anxiety in it.

  ‘This is no fortress, Samradan,’ the abbot replied grimly. ‘Our gates were not built to keep out armies.’

  ‘I demand protection! I am only a merchant. I have done no harm …I am not a warrior to defend …’ His voice rose in sheer panic. It seemed to raise Abbot Ségdae from his lethargy.

  ‘Then get down to the vaults below the chapel with the women!’ he snapped. ‘Leave us to defend ourselves … and you!’

  The merchant almost cowered away from him.

  Fidelma gave an expression of disgust. She turned to Eadulf. ‘Take Samradan to the vaults and then ask Brother Madagan to come here,’ she said. Command suddenly came easily to her. She was of the Eóghanacht of Cashel and these were her people.

  Eadulf pulled the trembling merchant roughly away from the scene of death and destruction on which they gazed.

  Fidelma stood by Abbot Ségdae regarding the scene with growing anger.

  She could make out the smith’s forge erupting in sheets of flame. Several of the buildings were already destroyed. She turned her gaze to the shadowy figures of the horsemen, hoping she could make some identification of them but there was little to see in the darkness beyond men in war helmets, some with flashing shirts of chainmail. But there were no identifying badges on them.

  She heard a scuffling sound on the stairs and Brother Madagan came breathlessly onto the roof.

  He glanced grimly towards the burning town.

  ‘They have gone for the easy option first,’ he observed once more. ‘Once they have finished sacking the undefended township then they will make an onslaught on the abbey.’

  Abbot Ségdae suddenly gave a cry and fell backwards onto the floor. They turned to look at him in surprise. There was an ugly, bloody wound on his forehead. Fidelma glanced round, puzzled for the moment. She had heard the sound of something striking stone. She bent and picked up a small pebble.

  ‘A slingshot,’ she observed. ‘Best keep away from the walls.’

  Brother Madagan was already kneeling by the abbot.

  ‘I’ll send for Brother Bardan, the apothecary. The missile has struck his forehead. He is unconscious.’

  Fidelma moved carefully to the wall, keeping low down so that it afforded her shelter. The missile must have been delivered by a passing horseman and the shot had been a lucky one. It did not seem part of a concerted attack on the abbey as yet. The raiders were still riding backwards and forwards through the township.

  ‘When they do attack us, the walls will not keep out the warriors for long,’ muttered Brother Madagan, following her gaze and apparently reading her thoughts.

  Fidelma gestured towards the abbey’s bell-tower; the bell was still pealing.

  ‘Will that bring any help?’

  ‘It may but there is little counting on it.’

  ‘Then it is true that there are no warriors nearer here than Cnoc Aine who would come to our protection?’,

  ‘No. We can only hope that Finguine at Cnoc Aine is alerted.’

  ‘Six miles away,’ reflected Fidelma, thinking of the distance between Imleach and her cousin’s fortress. ‘Will they hear the tolling of the bell?’

  Brother Madagan grimaced. ‘While we may not count on it, there is a good possibility. It is a still night and the sound of our bell can carry.’

  ‘But we may not count on it,’ echoed Fidelma bitterly. She turned and gazed again on the scene of destruction. ‘Have we no way of knowing who these people are? Why would they attack the abbey?’

  ‘I have no idea. In the entire history of our community no
one has ever attacked this sacred spot.’ He suddenly paused and a troubled look crossed his features.

  ‘What?’ demanded Fidelma.

  Brother Madagan avoided her gaze. ‘The legend. Perhaps it is true?’

  For a moment Fidelma did not understand him and then she remembered.

  ‘The disappearance of the Ailbe’s Relics! Superstition. That is all.’

  ‘Yet the coincidence is great. The Holy Relics have disappeared. It is said if they leave this spot, then Muman will fall. They have done so and now the abbey is about to be destroyed!’

  Fired by her own apprehension Fidelma became angry.

  ‘Foolish man! The abbey is not destroyed yet and will not be if we put our minds to defending it.’

  Eadulf came hurrying back. He glanced at the prone body of the abbot in horror. ‘Is he …?’

  ‘No,’ Brother Madagan replied. ‘Ségdae has been struck by a missile. Can you find someone to fetch our apothecary, Brother Bardan?’

  Eadulf turned back down the stairway. Almost at once he was back. ‘A young Brother has gone for the apothecary.’

  Fidelma glanced grimly at him. ‘And how is Samradan?’

  ‘The merchant is being comforted by Sister Scothnat.’ Eadulf suddenly glanced across the wall towards the square in front of the abbey. ‘Look!’

  They followed his outstretched hand with their eyes.

  A band of half a dozen men had dismounted from their horses near the great yew-tree which grew before the abbey walls. They all bore axes and began to systematically hack at the ancient tree. They worked in coordination as if the matter had been carefully planned and was no mere whim of vandalism.

  Eadulf frowned, perplexed.

  ‘What is going on?’ he demanded in bewilderment. ‘In the middle of a raid, they are stopping to cut down a tree?’

  ‘God protect us!’ cried Brother Madagan. His voice was almost a despairing wail. ‘Can’t you see? They are cutting down the sacred yew-tree.’

  ‘Better that than they cut down people,’ observed Eadulf in black humour, still not understanding the significance of the raiders’ actions.

  ‘Remember what I told you,’ Fidelma spoke sharply. Even she had a sudden pale cast to her features. ‘This is the sacred tree symbol of our people said to have been planted by the hand of Eber Fionn himself, the son of Milesius, progenitor of the Eóghanacht of Cashel. It is an ancient belief among our people, Eadulf, that the tree is the symbol of our well-being. If the tree flourishes, we flourish. If it is destroyed …’