The Monk Who Vanished sf-7 Page 4

  They reached the spot where the arrows had struck both Colgú and Donennach. Gionga pointed across the market square to a cluster of buildings on the far side.

  ‘When the first arrow struck, I looked round to see where it had come from. I saw a figure on the roof of that building there.’

  The building he indicated was fifty metres away on the far side of the market square. It had a flat roof.

  ‘It was as I saw him discharging a second arrow that I shouted but it was too late to warn Donennach.’

  ‘I see,’ mused Fidelma. ‘That was when you spurred your horse across towards the building?’

  ‘It was. A couple of my warriors came close after me. By the time we reached the building, the archer had jumped down, still with his bow in his hand. There was another man there with a sword. I cut them both down before they could use their weapons against us.’

  Fidelma turned to Donndubháin.

  ‘As I recall, you followed close behind, cousin. Does this accord with what you saw?’

  The heir-apparent shrugged. ‘More or less.’

  ‘That is an imprecise answer,’ remarked Fidelma quietly.

  ‘What I mean to say was that I saw the archer jump down and join his companion but I did not see them raise their weapons. They seemed to stand waiting for the warriors to come up to them.’

  Gionga snorted in disgust.

  ‘You mean, for us to come closer so that they could be sure of their targets?’ he sneered.

  Fidelma began to walk towards the building without comment.

  ‘Let us see what we might find there.’

  Donndubháin glanced at her, not understanding.

  ‘What would we find there? The assassins were both killed and the bodies removed. What can you find?’

  Fidelma did not bother to answer him.

  The building which Gionga and Donndubháin had identified was a low, single-storey building with a flat roof. It was a wooden structure. It looked more like a stable with two large doors at the front and a small side door. Fidelma, who had been born and spent her early years in Cashel, tried hard to remember what the building was. It was not a stable so far as she could recall but some sort of store house.

  She halted and examined it with a careful gaze.

  The doors and windows were shut up and there were no signs of life.

  ‘Donndubháin, do you know what building this is?’

  The tanist tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip.

  ‘It is one of the store houses of Samradán the merchant. I think he uses it for wheat storage.’

  ‘Where is Samradán?’

  Her cousin shrugged indifferently.

  Fidelma tapped her foot impatiently.

  ‘Make it your task to find him and bring him to me.’

  ‘Now?’ asked Donndubhain, startled.

  ‘Now,’ affirmed Fidelma.

  The heir-apparent of Cashel left to find the merchant, for even a Prince had to obey a dálaigh of the courts, aside from the fact that Fidelma was sister to the King. Fidelma walked around the wooden building, examining it. There was a small side door. She tried it and found it was locked. In fact, everything appeared shuttered and secured although, at the back of the building, she noticed a ladder leaning against the wall which had given access to the roof.

  ‘This was where I saw the assassins,’ Gionga pointed out. Fidelma glanced at him quickly. ‘Yet you could not have seen this from where you were crossing towards the front of the building.’

  ‘No. I saw only the archer, the man holding his bow. He stood on the roof and then he disappeared towards the back of it. I rode alongside the building just as the two men, one with the bow, the other with a drawn sword, emerged from behind the building.’

  ‘And at what spot did you strike them down?’

  Gionga gestured with his hand.

  The pools of blood had not dried up on the ground. They were sited at the back of the building but in view of anyone approaching from the square.

  Fidelma climbed the ladder onto the flat roof. Towards the front of the roof, behind a small wooden parapet, lay two arrows. They had not been hastily discarded for they were placed carefully. Perhaps the bowman had put them there ready to enable him to shoot several times with rapidity. Fidelma picked them up and examined the markings on them. She compared them with the arrow tucked into her corded belt, the one Eadulf had taken from Colgú’s arm. Her mouth compressed grimly. She recognised the markings on them.

  Gionga had joined her and was gazing at her moodily. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Just arrows,’ Fidelma said quickly.

  ‘Fidelma!’

  Fidelma peered over the parapet to where Donndubhain was standing below.

  ‘Have you found Samradan?’

  ‘I am told he is not in Cashel today. He is at Imleach trading goods with the abbey there.’

  ‘Presumably this Samradán does not live here?’

  Donndubhain gestured with his arm. ‘From the roof where you are you might see his house. It is the sixth house along the main street there. I know the man and have traded with him.’ His hand went absently to the silver brooch at his shoulder. ‘I am sure he cannot be involved in this matter.’

  Fidelma glanced along the street to the house which the tanist had indicated.

  ‘Well, it does not need answers from him to see what happened,’ Gionga cut in. ‘The assassins saw that this flat roof offered a strategic point from which to shoot at Donennach. They realised it was a store house; found a ladder and climbed up to await the arrival of my Prince. They thought they could get away in the confusion.’

  He turned to look at the land at the back of the building.

  ‘They could easily have escaped into the copse behind. Why-’ his face lightened — ‘I will wager that is where we will find their horses tethered, waiting.’

  He made to leave as if to prove his suggestion.

  ‘One moment.’ Fidelma stayed him with a quiet command.

  She was examining the distance between the roof and the spot where Colgú and Donennach had been struck Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Well, I will tell you one thing about our archer,’ she said grimly.

  Gionga frowned but did not say anything.

  ‘He was not a good archer.’

  ‘Why so?’ asked the Uí Fidgente warrior, reluctantly.

  ‘Because from this point and distance it would have been hard tohave missed his target twice in succession. He could well have missed the first time but certainly not the second time when the target was stationary.’

  She stood up and, taking the arrows with her, she went down the ladder with Gionga following. Her cousin was waiting for them at the bottom.

  ‘Did you hear Gionga’s suggestion about horses?’ she asked.

  ‘I did,’ Donndubhain affirmed non-committally. Fidelma received the impression that he did not think much of Gionga’s ideas.

  They moved towards the small copse of trees. There was no sign of any horses tethered.

  ‘Perhaps they had another accomplice?’ Gionga hazarded, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘He saw his companions struck down and fled, taking the horses with him.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Fidelma, her eyes examining the track on the far side of the copse. There were too many signs of horses and wagons there to draw any firm conclusions.

  Gionga stood scowling about him as if hoping to see the horses suddenly emerge from thin air.

  ‘What now?’ asked Donndubhain, hiding his satisfaction that the Uí Fidgente warrior had been proved wrong.

  ‘Now,’ sighed Fidelma, ‘we will go to Brother Conchobar’s apothecary and examine the bodies of these assassins.’

  The elderly Brother Conchobar was waiting for them at the door. He stood aside as Fidelma approached with Donndubhain and Gionga behind her.

  ‘I was expecting you, Fidelma.’ He grimaced wryly. ‘And didn’t I warn you that no good would come of this day?’

  Ov
erhearing this, Gionga snapped: ‘What do you mean by that, you old goat? Are you saying that you had prior warning of this deed?’

  Donndubháin reached out and put a warning hand on Gionga’s arm, for the warrior had seized the old man roughly by his shoulder.

  ‘Leave him alone. He is an old man and a faithful servant of Cashel,’ he said sharply.

  ‘He does not deserve to be treated thus,’ added Fidelma. ‘He saw evil in the patterns of the stars, that is all.’

  Gionga dropped his hand in disgust. ‘An astrologer?’ He exploded a small breath against half-open lips in an expression matching the sneer in his voice.

  The old monk readjusted his crumpled clothing with grave dignity.

  ‘Have the two bodies been brought safely to you?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘I have removed their clothing and laid them on the table but, as you instructed, I have not touched either of them.’

  ‘When we are finished, if we have not identified them, you may wash the bodies and wrap them in shrouds but where you will measure their graves I know not.’

  ‘There is always a space somewhere in the earth even for sinners,’ replied Conchobar, gravely. ‘However, the days of their lamentation will not be long.’

  Among the people of Eireann, the funeral obsequies often included twelve days and nights of mourning and weeping over the body which were called laithi na caoinnti — the days of lamentation — before which the bodies were laid in their graves.

  Inside the apothecary there stood a large broad plank table which was more than adequate to take the two bodies of the slain men. Indeed, this was not the first time that the table was used by Conchobar for laying out bodies as he was often called upon to perform the duties of mortician. The corpses lay side by side, naked except, for modesty’s sake, where the old monk had lain a strip of linen to mask their genitalia.

  Fidelma went to stand at the foot of the table, her hands folded before her; her eyes were narrowed slightly and they missed nothing.

  The first thing that she noticed, almost in grotesque amusement, was that one man was tall, thin and balding although his fair hair was worn long at the back as if to compensate for this fact, while the second man was short, of ample girth with a mass of curly, unruly greying hair. Side by side, their physical differences were almost comical. Only the fact that they were cadavers, the wounds of Gionga’s sword marking how they met their deaths, turned the comical into the grotesque.

  ‘Which of these two was the archer?’ Fidelma asked softly.

  ‘The bald one,’ answered Gionga at once. ‘The other was the accomplice.’

  ‘Where are the weapons that they carried?’

  It was Conchobar who retrieved the bow and quiver, which contained a few arrows, and a sword from a corner of the room.

  ‘The warriors who carried the corpses here brought these things with the bodies,’ the old monk explained.

  Fidelma gestured for the old man to lay the weapons aside. ‘I will examine them in a moment …’

  ‘One moment!’ Gionga ignored her. ‘Bring the quiver of arrows here.’

  Brother Conchobar glanced at Fidelma but she made no protest. She knew what Gionga had spotted on the roof of the warehouse and she realised that it was wise not to delay the point he was inevitablygoing to make. The apothecary held out the quiver to Gionga. The tall warrior selected an arrow at random and drew it out, holding it out before their gaze.

  ‘What would you say is the provenance of this arrow, tanist of Cashel?’ Gionga asked with a feigned expression of innocence.

  Donndubháin took the arrow and began to examine it carefully.

  ‘You know well enough, Gionga,’ interrupted Fidelma, for she was also versed in such matters.

  ‘I do?’

  Donndubháin looked unhappy.

  ‘The flights bear the markings of our cousin’s people, the Eóghanacht of Cnoc Aine.’

  ‘Exactly,’ sighed Gionga softly. ‘All the arrows in the assassin’s quiver bear the markings of the fletchers of Cnoc Aine.’

  ‘Has that some meaning? After all-’ Fidelma turned innocent eyes on the warrior — ‘arrows are easily acquired.’ She drew out a small knife from her marsupium. ‘This knife was made in Rome. I bought it when I was on a pilgrimage there. It does not make me a Roman.’

  Gionga flushed in annoyance and rammed the arrow back in the quiver.

  ‘Do not try to be clever, sister of Colgú. The provenance of the arrows is clear. And will be borne in mind when I report to my Prince.’

  Donndubháin flushed at the direct insult to his cousin. ‘There is only one dálaigh among us, Gionga, and she will make the report,’ he snapped.

  Gionga merely showed his teeth in a sneer.

  Fidelma ignored him and took the quiver and examined it. Apart from the markings on the flights of the arrows there was no other means of identifying it from a hundred and one other such quivers. She gestured for Conchobar to show her the bow. It was of good, sturdy workmanship and with no other distinguishing marks. Then she turned to the sword. It was of poor quality, rusting around its joints and not even sharpened. The handle was strangely ornamented with the carved teeth of animals. Fidelma had seen the style of sword before — it was called a claideb dét and, so far as she knew, only one area in Eireann produced such decoration on their swords. She tried to recall where it was but could not.

  ‘There, Gionga,’ she said, at last, ‘we have examined these weapons. Are you satisfied that we have done so?’

  ‘In that we can now identify the origin of the arrows — yes!’ replied the warrior.

  The door opened abruptly and Brother Eadulf entered the apothecary. He halted apologetically on the threshold.

  ‘I heard that you were about to examine the bodies,’ he said, a trifle breathlessly. He had obviously been hurrying.

  Fidelma turned to him anxiously. ‘How is my brother … and Prince Donennach?’ she demanded.

  ‘Comfortable. There is no danger but they will be sore and irritable for a few days. Do not worry, their wounds are tended and they are being nursed in good hands.’

  Fidelma relaxed and smiled. ‘Then you are just in time, Eadulf. I may need your eyes.’

  Gionga glowered in annoyance. ‘This foreigner has no business here,’ he protested.

  ‘This foreigner,’ Fidelma replied in measured tones, ‘is the guest of my brother and has been trained in the physician’s art at Tuaim Brecain. He has probably kept your Prince out of harm’s way by his medical skills. Also, we may need his expert eye in the observation of these bodies.’

  Gionga clenched his jaw in an expression of disapproval but made no further protest.

  ‘Come forward, Eadulf, and tell me what you see,’ Fidelma invited.

  Eadulf moved to the table. ‘Two men, one short, one tall. The tall one …’ Eadulf bent carefully over the body, examining it minutely. ‘The tall one died from a single wound. By the look of it, it was a sword thrust into the heart.’

  Gionga chuckled sarcastically. ‘I could have told you that for mine was the hand that did it.’

  Eadulf ignored him. ‘The second man, the short one, died from three blows. He had his back turned to his assailant when they were delivered. There is a cut in the neck that is a dire wound. A stab under the shoulder-blade which I do not think was mortal but the back of his skull has been smashed in, perhaps with the hilt of a sword. I would say that this man was running away when he was cut down by someone who was in a position above him. Perhaps someone on horseback.’

  Fidelma allowed her penetrating gaze to linger on the Ui Fidgente warrior. The silence was an accusation. Gionga thrust out his chin defensively.

  ‘It matters not how your enemy is slain, so long as he is rendered a threat no longer.’

  ‘I thought that you said this man threatened you with his sword?’ Fidelma asked quietly.

  ‘At first,’ snapped Gionga. ‘Then when I cut down his companion he turned and ran.’

 
‘And you could not capture him?’ Fidelma’s voice was sharp. ‘You had to kill him, in spite of the fact that he could have given us invaluable information about this deed?’

  Gionga shuffled his feet. ‘Such considerations do not enter one’s mind in the act of combat. The man was a menace and I eliminated that threat.’

  ‘A threat!’ repeated Fidelma softly. ‘He looks like an elderly man and his age and corpulence would have combined to make it easy for a young warrior, such as yourself, to disarm him. Anyway, I would remember this, Gionga of the Uí Fidgente: when a dálaigh asks you a question, it is the truth that they seek, not a lie to justify an action.’

  Gionga stared back aggressively but did not say anything.

  When Fidelma returned her attention to the cadavers, she found Eadulf bending over the head of the shorter corpse. There was an expression of amazement on his face.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

  Eadulf did not say anything but merely beckoned her to his side.

  Gionga and Donndubháin followed curiously.

  Eadulf had lifted the head slightly so that they could see the crown. There was a lot of dried blood on it where Gionga had smashed the back of the skull with the blow from his sword hilt.

  Fidelma’s eyes widened.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Gionga. ‘I see nothing except the wound I made. I freely admit that I made it. So what?’

  Fidelma spoke very quietly. ‘What Brother Eadulf is pointing out, Gionga, is that you will see there is a difference in the growth of the hair on this man’s crown to the hair surrounding the crown. As you will see, the hair surrounding the crown is thick and curly. There is a circle on the crown in which the hair is barely more than half an inch to an inch in length.’

  Gionga still could not understand what it meant.

  Realisation reached Donndubháin. first. ‘Does this mean that the man was in holy orders until recently?’

  ‘What?’ Gionga was startled. He peered forward as if to verify the fact that he had missed.

  ‘The corona spina of the Roman following,’ observed Eadulf who wore the same tonsure.