Atonement of Blood Read online

  The newcomer glanced around, quickly examining the company from dark, sunken eyes set in a sallow face.

  Apparently interpreting his hesitation as awe at being in the company of the nobles of the Eóghanacht, Brehon Áedo rose from his seat next to the King and, with a friendly smile, motioned for the man to take his place.

  ‘Come and sit by me,’ Colgú invited. ‘I know Abbot Nannid of Mungairit well. How is the uncle of Prince Donennach? Does he continue in good health? Come, Brother, and you may tell me what message Abbot Nannid sends while we feast.’

  The religieux gathered himself and his shoulders seemed to straighten – and then he strode towards the dais. As he did so, his right hand slipped into his robe as if to reach for a document. Instead of seating himself at the chair that Brehon Áedo offered, his stride brought him to the side of Colgú – and then the unthinkable happened. A knife appeared in his hand as if it had been conjured out of thin air and he lunged forward. ‘Remember Liamuin!’ he cried in a tone that was almost a scream and struck Colgú full in the chest.

  The King stared uncomprehendingly at the blood spreading over his tunic. Everyone seemed frozen in a moment of silent shock. Then, as the knife descended once more, Brehon Áedo, with a cry, threw himself in front of Colgú. The knife struck him in the side of the neck, sinking deeply and killing the Brehon.

  The attacker was struggling to retrieve the knife from Áedo’s inert body as if he intended to strike again. He was still yelling the same words: ‘Remember Liamuin!’ Then he glanced up and saw Caol, commander of the King’s bodyguard, moving forward, his sword in hand, and renewed his frantic efforts to recover his knife. He had partially succeeded when Caol struck at him. The sword blow went straight to the man’s heart and it was obvious that he was dead even before he reached the floor.

  The cries of horror now rose in a deafening roar. Beccan was standing as if rooted to the spot, his face a deathly pale.

  Eadulf was the first to reach Brehon Áedo but one look told him that the Chief Brehon was beyond help. He pulled the body off the slumped figure of Colgú and made a quick examination. The King was unconscious and blood still seeped from the wound in his chest. Eadulf was aware of Fidelma standing anxiously just behind him.

  ‘He is still alive, but only just,’ he said.

  ‘With respect, I am best qualified to attend to the King.’ It was the voice of old Brother Conchobhar, the physician and apothecary who had tended Colgú and Fidelma since they were children.

  Eadulf immediately moved aside. The old man was right. There was no need to debate the issue.

  ‘Will he live?’ Fidelma demanded, her voice cracking with emotion.

  ‘I can only do my best,’ replied Brother Conchobhar tersely. ‘The rest will be up to God.’ He knelt at the King’s side and began to remove Colgú’s tunic and shirt, to examine the wound.

  People were still milling about the feasting hall, their voices raised in disbelief, some trying to tell the story as they had seen it.

  Now Finguine, the heir apparent, sprang up on a table and called for silence, clapping his hands to add emphasis.

  ‘This noise is not helping,’ he called, when the level of cacophony receded. ‘You must all disperse and allow our physicians to take care of the King.’

  Reluctantly, the guests began shuffling to the door of the feasting hall, which had been thrown open. Gormán stood to one side, sword in hand, awaiting orders.

  Brother Conchobhar glanced up at Eadulf. ‘We need to have him removed to his own bedchamber where we may treat his wound in more comfortable circumstances.’

  Eadulf looked round to find Beccan, the steward. The man still seemed to be in a state of shock. ‘Help me to carry Colgú to his bedchamber.’

  Beccan stared at him as if he did not understand.

  ‘I mean now!’ Eadulf said harshly.

  The steward blinked and then became aware of his responsibilities. He carefully helped to lift the inert body of the King while Brother Conchobhar moved forward, guiding the way from the feasting hall.

  Realising that Fidelma was about to follow them, Eadulf told her: ‘There is little you can do to help; better surely to find out who this assassin is and why he struck!’

  Fidelma stared at him for a moment, as if she would disagree. Then, knowing he was right, she turned back into the hall to where Brehon Aillín stood looking down at the bodies of Brehon Áedo and the dead religieux. Then Finguine was at her side with a goblet of wine. He held it out to her without speaking. She took it and swallowed two mouthfuls, feeling its warmth in her body, helping her blood to flow once more after the trauma of the last few moments. Everyone seemed to be confused, not knowing what to do.

  ‘I must take over until … until Colgú is recovered.’ Finguine’s voice was quiet. It was as if he were asking for her approval.

  Brehon Aillín coughed nervously before she could respond.

  ‘And as poor Brehon Áedo is dead, as his deputy I should therefore take charge of the legal matters.’ It was true that Brehon Aillín was next in seniority among the Council of Brehons. ‘But, of course, as the King’s sister as well as a dálaigh, I would appreciate your assistance, lady,’ he added courteously. ‘Your experience in such matters is well known.’

  ‘Very well, Brehon Aillín,’ Fidelma replied after a moment or two. ‘Any advice that you or my cousin Finguine need, is yours for the asking.’

  Finguine looked relieved that a possible awkward moment had been avoided. He turned to Brehon Aillín. ‘It was Gormán who admitted the assassin to the hall,’ he said. ‘I presume you will want to question him first?’

  The place was almost empty now. Apart from Brehon Aillín and Fidelma, only Finguine and Caol now remained amidst the empty tables still laden with uneaten food. Gormán had remained at the door and, on Caol’s summons, the young warrior advanced, his face pale and his manner nervous.

  ‘Tell me what you know about this man, Gormán,’ Brehon Aillín said, indicating the corpse of the assassin.

  Gormán pursed his lips and gave a little shrug. ‘There is little I can tell you. I was on duty outside the doors of the feasting hall, for it was my turn to act as sentinel. One of the guards from the main gates approached, accompanying this religieux.’

  ‘Who was the guard?’ asked Brehon Aillín.

  ‘Luan, the one they nickname the “hound”.’

  ‘Caol, send someone to find Luan,’ instructed Finguine before indicating that Gormán should continue.

  ‘Luan told me that the religieux had approached the gates, saying that he was Brother Lennán from Mungairit and had come with an important message for the King. He did not look suspicious. He looked just like an ordinary religieux. He confirmed his purpose to me and said his message was very important, but for the ears of Colgú only. Therefore I told him to wait outside while I entered the feasting hall and told the steward about him. Beccan went directly to Colgú and explained about the visitor. Beccan then signalled for me to admit the man and I did so. The rest you all saw for yourselves, for I had returned outside to my station.’ He sighed, turning his worried expression to Fidelma and adding sorrowfully, ‘I could not have prevented what happened, lady.’

  ‘No one is blaming you, Gormán,’ Fidelma told him. ‘We were all taken completely by surprise.’

  ‘So far, that tells us nothing,’ Brehon Aillín murmured. ‘We had better examine Brother Lennán’s corpse.’

  At that moment the door opened and Caol returned with another warrior. The man was looking about apprehensively as he was guided towards the group.

  ‘Is it true?’ the newcomer asked in a whisper. ‘Is the King badly wounded?’

  ‘It is true,’ confirmed Brehon Aillín, ‘but God be praised that he still lives. However, Brehon Áedo is dead. Now, I presume that you are called Luan? We need you to tell us about this man who has proved to be his assassin.’

  ‘I did not know,’ the guard burst out, obviously distressed. ‘I should have been suspicious … but he fooled me.’

  Brehon Aillín smiled thinly. ‘Just tell us what happened.’

  The guard stood frowning, as if forming his recollection.

  ‘I was on guard at the gates when the figure of a religieux came up the hill, walking easily and openly. He came to me and announced that he was Brother Lennán from the Abbey of the Blessed Nessán and that he had walked from Mungairit to bring an important message to King Colgú. I knew that the King would be celebrating the feast of Colmán and told the man so. He replied that his message was important, that he needed to see the King at once and that he would take responsibility for disturbing him. I ordered my companions to maintain their vigil at the gates and instructed Brother Lennán to follow me to the feasting hall. There I spoke with the warrior, Gormán, and handed over my charge to him.’

  Brehon Aillín was about to dismiss the man when Fidelma turned to the guard with a thoughtful expression.

  ‘One moment, Luan. Why did you say that you should have been suspicious? What gave you such a thought?’

  The guard looked unhappy, licking his dry lips for a moment.

  ‘Lady, it is a long way to come on foot from Mungairit in the land of the Uí Fidgente, yet this man strolled up to the gates here as if he had barely walked from the centre of the town, let alone from Mungairit. There was no sign of his having been on the road for any time. His clothes were not creased or dusty, and he did not even carry a walking staff.’

  ‘He could have travelled by horse or some other means, and also stopped along the way,’ Brehon Aillín commented. ‘That is what taverns and hostels are for.’

  ‘He did say that he had walked,’ Luan repeated. ‘I suppose that he could have changed his clothes and footwear before arriving at our gates. That would make sense.’

  ‘It is a good point,’ Fidelma said. ‘But not necessarily something to be suspicious about. You should not rebuke yourself, Luan. Even if you had voiced your concern, it would not have stopped the inevitability of what has taken place.’

  ‘There is something more…’ began Luan.

  ‘Which is?’ asked Brehon Aillín, sounding impatient.

  ‘Just before the feast started there was a downpour of icy rain. It did not last very long but it was heavy. Feel my tunic. I was on guard and could not find shelter in time.’

  He held out an arm and Fidelma reached forward and touched it. It was still damp.

  Luan continued: ‘The Brother arrived in dry clothes, within a short time of the heavy shower ending. So he could not have come far.’

  ‘You point is well taken, Luan,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘But even so, there could have been a logical explanation. I repeat: do not blame yourself. You may return to your duties.’

  As soon as Luan had left the feasting hall, Fidelma turned to where the body of the assassin was still sprawled on the floor where it had fallen. Nearby was the body of Brehon Áedo.

  ‘I think we can have poor Áedo’s body removed to the chapel while we see if the murderer’s body can tell us something as to his identity,’ she suggested.

  Brehon Aillín relayed the order to Caol, who summoned two attendants and instructed them to remove the body of the slain Chief Brehon of Muman. Aillín stood with Fidelma as she stared down at the body of the assassin before her. Then she knelt at his feet and, without touching anything, gazed at the man’s shoes. They were of the type called cuarán, shoes of leather with seven folds or layers to make the sole, which gave them the necessary thickness for hard wear. Unusually, the leather was stitched to cover a piece of wood to support the heel.

  ‘One thing is certain,’ she said. ‘Luan is correct. This man has not walked far in these shoes. They are fairly new and the leather on the soles has hardly been marked. They are of good craftsmanship, too. In no circumstances are they the footwear of a poor religieux. Oh, and can you see those score-marks on the leather on the inside parts of the sandals? What might that mean?’

  Brehon Aillín pursed his lips. ‘That this fellow had some impediment in walking, one foot scraping the other?’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘We saw no such impediment when he walked into the feasting hall. There is another explanation – that the score-marks were made by stirrups when the man was mounted.’

  Brehon Aillín looked a little embarrassed at this obvious deduction. ‘It is possible,’ he conceded.

  Fidelma continued her examination. ‘The robes are ordinary religieux robes without adornment. They are of good quality wool and woven well, but nothing remarkable.’

  ‘Except that the robes are dry,’ muttered Brother Aillín, ‘as Luan duly noted.’

  ‘He wears a criss, a belt of cordage,’ Fidelma continued, ‘but nothing else. One might expect a purse to be attached, such as that worn by a religieux who is travelling. Now let us turn him over on his back and see what else we can find.’

  They carefully turned the body onto its back.

  Fidelma allowed Brother Aillín to make a quick search of the clothing but he moved back and sighed, ‘There is nothing hidden other than what you see, but I will observe that his undershirt is unusual.’

  Fidelma leaned forward, and even before she felt the texture she could recognise the material. ‘Sróll?’ She did not hide her surprise.

  ‘Satin, indeed. A shirt of satin, not of flax or wool which most religieux would wear,’ confirmed the Brehon.

  ‘The clothing must be examined carefully to see if there are any marks of embroidery which might identify its origin,’ Fidelma told him. ‘It is strange that this man carries neither purse nor anything else that one would expect on a journey. So let us see what we can tell by his appearance.’

  She gazed down at the face of her brother’s attacker. It was only now on close examination that she realised the dead man was only in his mid-twenties or so. His gaunt, sallow face had, at first glance, made him appear far older. The cheeks and upper lip were cleanshaven, but with that telltale bluish quality which indicated that he had to shave more frequently than most. The hair around his tonsure was thick and almost blue-black, as were his eyebrows. The eyes, vacantly staring upwards, were dark as well. Having observed their colour, Fidelma bent forward and closed them, trying to disguise her distaste for the task as the body had now begun to grow cold. Then she forced herself to touch the skin where the tonsure of St John had been shaved, after the manner of the Five Kingdoms rather than that of St Peter of Rome.

  ‘You note how his pate is pale – a white circle of skin that is at odds with the sallow and weather-tanned skin of his face and arms? I think this tonsure was but recently cut.’

  ‘You doubt that he was a religieux?’ asked Brehon Aillín.

  ‘You must admit, he has proved to be an unusual religieux,’ replied Fidelma dryly. ‘But we can make no such deduction as yet. We only remark that the tonsure is but recent. Now let us remove and examine his clothing and see what we can make of his body.’

  ‘His body?’ frowned Brehon Aillín.

  ‘The man can change his clothing, the cut of his hair – even his features to some extent – but he cannot disguise his body.’

  ‘Perhaps I should examine the body, lady,’ muttered Brehon Aillín uncomfortably.

  ‘I have seen and examined enough corpses in my time, Aillín, as you well know. I do not need anyone to spare my modesty.’

  At that moment, Eadulf re-entered.

  ‘The King still lives,’ he announced, before anyone could ask the question. ‘The wound went deep but it is clean and there appears to be no infection. The bleeding has been halted and Brother Conchobhar is in constant attention. However, the King is still unconscious and perhaps that is a good thing, for sleep will help to heal the wound.’

  Fidelma compressed her lips for a moment. The only question in her mind that Eadulf had not answered was one that no one could answer at that time: would Colgú live? She took in some deep breaths before she indicated the corpse.

  ‘You come at an opportune time, Eadulf, for we need your skills. We were just about to examine the body of the assassin.’

  ‘What of his words before he struck? Has anyone recognised them?’ They stared at him blankly for a moment.

  ‘Remember Liamuin!’ Eadulf reminded them. ‘Who is, or was, Liamuin? What does the name mean?’

  ‘It is not a common name,’ replied Fidelma, disconcerted that she had forgotten all about what the assassin had called out as he struck with his dagger.

  ‘It is a female name,’ replied Finguine. ‘Doesn’t it mean “the comely one”?’

  ‘Liamuin is an unusual name but not an exclusive one,’ Fidelma reiterated. ‘Anyway, let us continue our examination of the assassin, for I think we were about to come to a conclusion that he was not necessarily a religieux.’

  ‘There seems to be no identification on the man to show where he comes from,’ Brehon Aillín said. ‘He could be disguised as a religieux. Under his robe he wears a satin undershirt.’

  Eadulf’s mouth twitched slightly to hide a cynical expression. ‘It is not exactly unknown for abbots, bishops and other wealthy prelates to clad themselves in such finery,’ he said.

  ‘But not a man purporting to be just a messenger and clad in simple robes as these,’ objected Brehon Aillín.

  ‘A point that is well taken,’ confirmed Eadulf. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He has good shoes, hardly worn, that do not reflect any lengthy walking. They have scuff-marks that might indicate he rode a horse,’ replied Fidelma. ‘He was certainly not caught in the rain shower which occurred not long before he arrived here.’

  ‘And have you noticed the other curious thing?’ enquired Eadulf. Fidelma raised an eyebrow slightly, but said nothing.

  ‘So far as I saw, when he attacked Colgú and now as he lays before us, there was no crucifix around his neck. Neither one that showed his poverty nor one that showed rank. It is odd that a member of the Faith would be without a cross.’