[Sister Fidelma 25] - The Devil's Seal Read online

  The Déisi comprised a small principality south of the river whose princes owed allegiance to the King of Muman.

  ‘Could rebellious youths have committed such butchery?’ Enda asked dubiously.

  ‘I have heard that there was bloodshed over a cattle raid these youths carried out near Garbhán’s fort. They have been proclaimed élúdaig, absconders before the law, outlaws, losing their rights in society. This is why they have probably taken to murder and brigandage,’ replied Gormán.

  Enda glanced round and noticed some lengths of rope still coiled on the boat.

  ‘The best thing to do is get these corpses onto the boat and cover them as decently as we can. That way, we can protect their bodies from the ravens. Then, if I am not mistaken, we are only a short ride from the chapel of Brother Siolán. We can use the rope to tow the boat along the river with our horses from the bank. I am sure that the good Brother Siolán will offer these men a Christian burial.’

  Gormán agreed and waded to the boat to pull it closer to the bank. Enda and Dega lifted the first corpse, the elderly religieux, and placed it in the vessel while Gormán was securing one end of the rope to the bow.

  ‘It’s a light craft, therefore I think we can get away with one horse pulling it,’ he said with satisfaction, stepping back onto the river bank.

  It was while his companions were lifting the next corpse, that of one of the boatmen, that a movement caught the corner of Gormán’s eye. At first he thought it was one of the intimidating ravens and turned to meet the threat. Then his eyes widened. It was coming from the body of the younger religieux.

  In a moment, he had fallen to one knee beside the man and was feeling for a pulse point in the neck.

  ‘By the powers!’ he exclaimed in a shocked voice. ‘This one is still alive.’

  Enda brought the goatskin water bag immediately from his horse and poured some of the liquid across the lips and face of the man. He was a handsome fellow with dark hair. There was bruising on the side of his head, but Gormán’s trained eye observed that there were no other deep cuts or abrasions.

  The trickle of the water brought momentary consciousness, and suddenly the young man was striking out and moaning as if in the belief that he was still under attack. But he had no strength and Gormán was easily able to contain his threshing arms.

  ‘It’s all right, all right.’ His voice was calm and reassuring. ‘You are among friends.’

  The young man coughed, muttered something in a harsh-sounding language that Gormán felt was familiar but did not understand, then he relapsed into unconsciousness.

  ‘Will he survive?’ demanded Enda, peering over Gormán’s shoulder.

  ‘We must get him to Brother Siolán,’ replied Gormán. ‘He has the knowledge of healing.’

  Enda was frowning at the face of the young religieux.

  ‘He is a stranger to me and yet . . . yet I swear those features are familiar. What language was it he spoke?’

  Gormán shrugged, disclaiming knowledge. Then: ‘Help me place him in the boat. It will be an easier way of transporting him than trying to put him on a horse.’

  The young man did not recover consciousness while he was settled in the boat away from the three corpses that had been his companions.

  Enda volunteered to stay on the boat with one of the oars to help guide it while Gormán, having had one last look at the debris on the bank, to make sure that they had left nothing of importance behind, took the other end of the rope and secured it to his saddle. Enda, using the oar, and with the help of Dego on the bank, pushed the craft away from the muddy bank. Gormán then began to walk his horse along the water’s edge. It was difficult at first, and now and then Enda had to use the oar to keep the boat from embedding itself into the mud. It was not long, however, before Gormán and Enda achieved a means of hauling the boat along at a reasonable pace. Behind Gormán rode Dego, leading Enda’s horse and ready to help should difficulties arise. All were uncomfortably aware that behind them, the dark ravens seemed to be following as if reluctant to part with their intended meal – the corpses in the boat.

  Cill Siolán, the little chapel of Brother Siolán, was situated on a straight stretch of the river and marked by a wooden quay from which a path led to the nearby chapel and the cabin where Brother Siolán lived. As well as the path from the river, there was a track which led to the large settlement called the Field of Honey, which lay further to the west. Set apart from the river and track, Siolán’s hut was nestled in the surrounding forests that spread over the hills towards the distant prominence of the Sliabh na mBan.

  The three warriors guided the boat, with its grisly cargo, to the quay. As Gormán secured the craft, Enda looked up at the sky.

  ‘We have no hope of reaching the Field of Honey before nightfall now.’

  ‘At least we don’t have to camp in the open,’ Dego said. ‘I’ve heard Brother Siolán is quite hospitable.’

  A voice hailed them and a stocky figure in religious robes came trotting down the path to the quayside. He was a fleshy-faced man with bright blue eyes and a mass of sandy hair. By his side moved a large wolfhound, with wary eyes.

  ‘Gormán! It is good to see you again. What brings . . .?’ The greeting stopped short as his eyes fell on the contents of the boat. ‘In God’s name, what has happened?’

  ‘Brigands,’ explained Gormán succinctly. ‘Probably those Déisi outlaws that there has been talk about. But one of the victims still lives and so we need your immediate aid.’

  Brother Siolán did not waste time with further questions.

  ‘Bring him up to the cabin so that I may examine him.’ He turned and gave staccato orders to his hound; the beast loped off back to the cabin porch and lay down, ever-watchful.

  Gormán turned to Enda. ‘We two shall carry him. Dego, you see to the horses. We’ll help you later with the burial of the corpses,’ he added to Brother Siolán.

  Gormán and Enda lifted the unconscious young religieux from the boat and, between them, carried his inert body up the pathway to Brother Siolán’s cabin. He let them in and pointed to the bed, asking, ‘How long ago did this happen?’

  ‘We are not sure, Brother,’ Gormán said breathlessly. ‘But it can’t have been that long ago. Will the man live?’

  Brother Siolán was bending over the young religieux, examining him.

  ‘The only wound seems to be the abrasion on the side of his head. Has he regained consciousness at all?’

  ‘Only momentarily,’ Gormán replied.

  ‘A good sign anyway. It seems that the blow rendered him unconscious, which probably saved his life as the attackers may have thought they had killed him. Let us hope that the blow has caused no internal injuries. However, he will doubtless suffer headaches when he recovers consciousness.’

  He turned to a cupboard. ‘I have a paste of crushed flowers of a plant that grows nearby. That will cleanse and soothe the wound. Then when he comes round, I will try him with an infusion from the bark of the white willow. That should take away the headache. Then you can tell me in detail what has happened.’

  ‘We ought to bury the poor man’s companions before we sit down to recount our story,’ suggested Gormán. ‘The ravens have been following the boat since we discovered it and the corpses.’

  Brother Siolán was apologetic. ‘Of course. But do you have any idea of who these people are?’

  ‘Only that they are two religious and two boatmen. We think the religious are strangers to this country. Maybe they came all the way upriver from Láirge’s harbour.’

  The harbour lay close to the mouth of the River Siúr and was a place where many ocean-going vessels made landfall.

  ‘I see this one has the tonsure of Rome,’ noted Brother Siolán. ‘Well, time enough for speculation. I’ll tend to him. Go, take the corpses to the back of the chapel here, secure the boat and you’ll find an enclosure and fodder for your horses behind this hut.’

  ‘What about your hound?’ asked Enda, with a nervous glance at the dog, which seemed to be suspiciously watching their every move.

  ‘Figleóir? What? Oh, I see.’ Brother Siolán grinned. ‘Don’t worry about him. He won’t bother you now that he sees we are friends.’

  ‘Figleóir, that’s a good name for a watch-dog,’ Enda observed dryly. The name meant ‘a watcher’.

  It was well after dark when all the tasks had been accomplished. The corpses had been buried and the graves marked. The boat had been searched again for any clues of its origin, and now the three warriors had crowded into the cabin of Brother Siolán to relax in front of a warm log fire. The rescued religieux still lay on Brother Siolán’s bed but was now breathing more easily.

  ‘He’s fallen into a natural sleep,’ Brother Siolán explained, as he served a meal to the hungry warriors. He had already provided a jug of home-brewed ale, which they sipped appreciatively.

  ‘Is that a good sign?’ asked Enda. ‘Sleeping so long?’

  ‘It is. So now, what brings members of the Nasc Niadh, the élite bodyguard of our King, along the banks of the Siúr? What is the news from Cashel?’

  Gormán stretched himself before the comforting fire. ‘We can tell you little enough of recent news from Cashel as we have been away over a week, on an errand to investigate some dispute at the Ford of Fire.’

  Áth Thine, Ford of Fire, was a crossing point between the Kingdoms of Muman and neighbouring Laighin – which often proved a cause for skirmishes and conflict.

  ‘Then we came south-west by means of the Mountain of Women and hence to the river. Our plan was to ride to the Field of Honey before turning north back to Cashel.’

  ‘I heard a rumour that Caol is no longer the Commander of the King’s Bodyguard,’ remarked Brother Siolán.

&
nbsp; Gormán hesitated a moment before replying: ‘That is so.’

  Enda was grinning and there was pride in his voice when he said, ‘Gormán is being too modest. He neglects to tell you that he is the newly appointed commander.’

  Brother Siolán’s eyes widened. ‘Then congratulations are in order.’

  Gormán seemed embarrassed. ‘Colgú has placed a great trust in me,’ he admitted. ‘I shall do my best to fulfil his expectations.’

  ‘Yet Caol was surely too young to retire from the command?’ mused the religieux.

  ‘Caol decided that he wanted to become a farmer,’ put in Enda, ignoring the disapproving glance from Gormán. ‘He has gone to farm somewhere west of the River Mháigh, on the borders of the Luachra territory.’

  Brother Siolán looked surprised and was about to make a comment when Gormán said hurriedly, ‘You may have heard that King Colgú has recovered from his wound and is well.’

  Only a few months had passed since there had been an attempt to assassinate the King.

  ‘I heard Caol slew the assassin. I suppose he had earned the right to be able to retire to follow a more peaceful calling,’ reflected Brother Siolán. ‘And how is the King’s sister, the lady Fidelma? Is she well?’

  ‘When we left Cashel, she was very well.’

  There was a sudden groan from the figure on the bed and Brother Siolán moved swiftly across to him. It was clear the young religieux was regaining consciousness and becoming aware of his surrounding. Brother Siolán gave him a few sips of liquid from a beaker which Gormán presumed was some herbal concoction to help him.

  The young man sat up, massaging his head. He seemed to be asking a question ìn a language that none of them understood.

  When Brother Siolán asked how he was, the man hesitantly replied in the same language but with a curious accent. ‘What happened?’ he asked groggily.

  ‘You were attacked by brigands and left for dead. Unfortunately, your companions were all killed in the attack. Luckily, these warriors found you and brought you here.’

  The young man groaned again, partly in his discomfiture and partly from the confirmation of the news he must have expected.

  ‘Do you remember what happened?’ asked Gormán, rising from his seat to come closer. ‘Do you recall your name?’

  The young man licked his lips for a moment. ‘I am called Brother Egric. We were being transported upriver when our vessel was approached by a larger vessel manned by half-a-dozen men. They greeted us in friendship and we thought they were just passing by, but all of a sudden they attacked us. I saw one of our boatmen fall with an arrow in his back. Our craft was driven into the bank. I was travelling with the Venerable Victricius. He tried to remonstrate with the attackers, who were all young men, but they laughed and then one of them hit him about the head with a war axe. I turned to flee, and something hit me on the side of the head. I had a passing thought that I was dead. I am not sure what happened next. I seemed to be in some dream until I woke just a moment ago.’

  Brother Siolán nodded sympathetically. ‘You are safe now, my friend. I am Brother Siolán. My little chapel is not far upriver from where you were attacked and where these good warriors found and brought you here. Alas, as I said, your companion and the boatmen are all dead. We have buried them behind the chapel.’

  A look of pain crossed the young man’s features.

  ‘The Venerable Victricius is dead?’ he repeated as if he could not believe it.

  ‘He is dead, indeed,’ confirmed Gormán.

  Brother Egric sighed. ‘And our belongings? Has everything been stolen?’

  ‘Only a few items remain. That which was not destroyed was carried away by them. It looks as though you were attacked by robbers.’

  ‘Did you retrieve anything?’ There was a curious eagerness in his tone.

  ‘We did, mainly items of clothing. They are piled in that corner.’ Gormán nodded in that direction. ‘But first some questions. You have told us your name and that of your dead companion. Where have you come from? Where were you going?’

  The young man rubbed his forehead. ‘We – that is, the Venerable Victricius and I – came to this country five days ago. We landed at a place called Láirge’s harbour and arranged for two boatmen to take us upriver. Is this river still called the Siúr? It is? Then we were to land at a place called Cluain Meala where we were told we would find a guide.’

  ‘A guide? To go where?’

  ‘To a place called Cashel.’

  ‘Cashel . . .’ Gormán was surprised. He had expected any foreign religious to be travelling to Imleach, the oldest and largest abbey in all Muman.

  ‘We were to meet a Brother Docgan in Cluain Meala.’

  ‘Brother Docgan?’ Gormán glanced at Brother Siolán who looked bemused. ‘The name is unfamiliar to us. It sounds Saxon. Indeed, your own name and accent make you a Saxon.’

  The young man shook his head and winced from the pain. ‘I am an Angle; but perhaps you would not know the difference,’ he said weakly.

  Gormán chuckled. ‘That is where you are wrong. I have a good friend who makes a point of correcting people when he is called a Saxon.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Our King’s sister, the lady Fidelma, is married to an Angle.’

  ‘Then I must surely meet with him,’ the young man replied gravely. ‘From which kingdom of the Angles does he come?’

  ‘From the Kingdom of the East Angles, he says,’ replied Gormán.

  The young man turned to regard him with an expression of astonishment.

  ‘But so do I!’ he announced. ‘I am from the Land of the South Folk in the Kingdom of the East Angles.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Gormán asked excitedly, ‘have you heard of Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham?’

  ‘Eadulf?’ The name was issued as a strangled gasp by the religieux. There was a silence during which he seemed to be gathering his thoughts before he answered slowly. ‘My name is Egric of Seaxmund’s Ham: I am brother to Eadulf, who was our hereditary gerefa, as was our father before him.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the Land of the South Folk of the Kingdom of the East Angles, is summoned to the presence of Colgú, King of Muman.’

  For a moment, Eadulf stared in amusement at the solemn face of the steward of the palace of Cashel, comptroller of the King’s household. Then he assumed an equally solemn expression, for he knew that the rotund Beccan, who had served only months in his office of rechtaire, or steward, was a stickler for protocol. Eadulf had been told by Gormán that the steward’s punctiliousness was affected because he was a comparative stranger to the palace. He came from the southern part of the kingdom, south of the Siúr, and had come to oversee the kitchens. A few months later the previous steward had retired to his family and farm, and Beccan was suddenly elevated to this new position.

  ‘Eadulf, husband to Fidelma of Cashel, sister of King Colgú, will obey this summons,’ Eadulf answered with equal gravity. Then he could not help relaxing his features in a smile. ‘So what does Colgú want of me? Why summon me, and not Fidelma?’

  Beccan’s fleshy features assumed a disapproving look.

  ‘It is not my place to guess the desires of the King, only to relay his orders.’

  Eadulf sighed at the steward’s uncompromising tone. ‘I’ll come immediately.’

  Fidelma and Alchú, their four-year-old son, were out riding with Aidan, one of the King’s bodyguards, as escort. Therefore there was no one to whom to explain his absence. Eadulf set off after the steward who led him from the chambers they occupied, across the courtyard to the main building of the palace complex which contained the private chambers of the King.

  ‘I wonder if this summons has anything to do with the arrival of Abbot Ségdae and his companions last night?’ he mused aloud as they proceeded.

  Ségdae, Abbot of Imleach and Chief Bishop of Muman, had arrived at dusk the previous evening with his steward, Brother Madagan, and a foreign religieux. They had immediately retired to the guest quarters. As a regular visitor to Cashel, both as spiritual adviser and member of the King’s council, Ségdae’s arrival did not usually arouse any comment. But it was unusual that the abbot had not joined them for the evening meal.