Suffer Little Children Page 4

  Fidelma turned to warn Cass and suggest they withdraw in case the men be hostile, but she saw a movement behind them by the trees that lined the road.

  Two more men had emerged onto the road with bows strung and aimed. They said nothing. There was nothing to be said. Cass exchanged a glance with Fidelma and simply shrugged. They turned and waited patiently while two or three of the men, who had obviously been putting the village to the torch, came running up the hillock to halt before them.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded their leader, a large, red-faced individual, soot and mud staining his face. He carried a sword in his hand but no longer held the brand torch in the other. He had a steel war bonnet on his head, a woollen cloak edged in fur and wore a gold chain of office. His pale eyes were ablaze as if with a battle fever.

  ‘Who are you?’ he shouted again. ‘What do you seek here?’

  Fidelma gazed down at his threatening figure as if she were unperturbed. Her artificial disdain hid her fears.

  ‘I am Fidelma of Kildare; Fidelma of the Eóganachta of Cashel,’ she added. ‘And who are you to halt travellers on a highway?’

  The big man’s eyes widened a fraction. He took a step forward and examined her closely without answering. Then he turned to examined Cass with equal attention.

  ‘And you? Who are you?’ He asked the question with a brusqueness that implied he had not been impressed to learn that Fidelma was related to the kings at Cashel.

  The young warrior eased his cloak so that the man might look on his golden torc.

  ‘I am Cass, champion of the king of Cashel,’ he said, putting all the cold arrogance he could muster into his voice.

  The red-faced man stood back and gestured to the others to lower their weapons.

  ‘Then be about your business. Ride away from this place, do not look back, and you will not be harmed.’

  ‘What is happening here?’ Fidelma demanded, nodding towards the burning habitations.

  ‘The curse of the Yellow Plague sits on this place,’ snapped the man. ‘We destroy it by flame, that is all. Now, ride off!’

  ‘But what of the people?’ protested Fidelma. ‘On whose orders do you do this thing? I am a dálaigh of the Brehon Court and sister to the heir-apparent of Cashel. Speak, man, or you may have to answer before the Brehons of Cashel.’

  The red-faced man blinked at the sharp tone in the young woman’s voice. He swallowed for a moment, gazing up at her as if he could not believe his ears. Then he said angrily,

  ‘The kings of Cashel have no right to give orders in the land of the Corco Loígde. Only our chieftain, Salbach, has that right.’

  ‘And Salbach has to answer to the king at Cashel, fellow,’ Cass pointed out.

  ‘We are a long way from Cashel,’ replied the man stubbornly. ‘I have warned you that there is Yellow Plague here. Now begone lest I change my mind and order my men to shoot.’

  He motioned with his hand to the bowmen. They raised their weapons again and extended the bowstrings. The arrow flights were firm against their cheeks.

  Cass’s features were taut.

  ‘Let us do as he says, Fidelma,’ he muttered. If even a finger slipped, the arrow would find a sure target. ‘This man is one who does not reason except with force.’

  Reluctantly Fidelma drew away and followed Cass as he urged his horse to retrace its steps back along the roadway. But as soon as they were beyond the bend in the hills, she reached forward and gripped his arm to stay him.

  ‘We must go back and see what is happening,’ she said firmly. ‘Fire and sword to deal with a plague village? What manner of chieftain would sanction such a thing? We must go back and see what has happened to the people.’

  Cass looked at her dubiously.

  ‘It is dangerous, sister. If I had a couple of men or even were I on my own …’

  Fidelma snorted in disgust.

  ‘Don’t let my sex nor holy order put fear in your heart, Cass. I am willing to share the danger. Or are you afraid of the plague?’

  Cass blinked rapidly. His masculine warrior pride was stung.

  ‘I am willing to go back,’ he replied distantly. ‘I was but concerned for you and your mission. However, if you demand to return, return we shall. But it would be best not to go directly back. Those warriors might be waiting in case we do. I am more concerned about them than of the plague. We will ride around the hills a little and then leave our horses to find a vantage point to observe what we can before we return to the village.’

  Fidelma reluctantly agreed. The circuitous route did make sense.

  It was half an hour before they found themselves hiding behind a clump of shrubs on the outskirts of the still-burning buildings. The wooden constructions were crackling in the great fire while some were crashing in on themselves in a shower of sparks and billowing smoke. It would not be long, Fidelma realised, before the village was simply a black, smouldering mess of charcoal. The red-faced man and his followers seemed to have disappeared. There were no sounds of humanity against the crack and occasional roar of the flames.

  Fidelma rose slowly to her feet and eased a piece of her head-dress across her mouth to protect her lungs from the billowing smoke.

  ‘Where are the people?’ she demanded, not really expecting an answer from Cass, who was staring in incomprehension as he surveyed the flaming wreckage of what had been a dozen homesteads. She had her answer even before the question was out of her mouth. There were several bodies lying between the burning homesteads; men, women and children. Most of them had been struck down before their homes had been set ablaze. They were certainly not victims of plague.

  ‘Sister Eisten’s cabin was over that way,’ pointed Cass, grimly. ‘She ran a small hostel for travellers and an orphanage. I stayed when I journeyed through here six months ago.’

  He led the way through the smoke and swirling debris to a corner of the village. There was a building by a rock over which water gushed from a natural well spring. The hostel had not been completely destroyed because it had been built mainly of stones, piled one upon another. But the wooden roof, the doors and what contents the building had once had, were now no more. Now it was a pile of hot, smouldering ashes.

  ‘Destroyed,’ muttered Cass, hands on hips. ‘People slain and no sign of plague. There is a mystery here.’

  ‘A feud?’ hazarded Fidelma. ‘Perhaps a reprisal for something this village had done?’

  Cass shrugged eloquently.

  ‘When we get to Ros Ailithir we must send a message to the chieftain of this area telling him of this deed and demanding an explanation in the name of Cashel.’

  Fidelma was inclined to agree. She glanced reluctantly at the eastern sky. It would not be long before dusk. They had to be on their way to the abbey or night would fall long before they reached it.

  The shrill wail of a baby, at that time and in that place, was totally unexpected.

  Fidelma glanced quickly around to try to locate the origin of the noise. Cass was already ahead of her, scrambling up an incline to the edge of a wood on the fringes of the village behind the burnt-out religious hostel.

  Fidelma saw no alternative but to hurry behind him.

  There was a movement in the shrubbery and Cass reached forward and caught something which writhed and yelled in his clutch.

  ‘God preserve us!’ whispered Fidelma.

  It was a child of no more than eight years of age, dirty and dishevelled, yelling with fright.

  There was another movement further on among the trees. A young woman emerged from behind some shrubs; her face was fleshy and white where it was not smeared with soot and dirt. Anxiety was engraved on her features. In her arms she cradled the wailing infant while around her skirts, clutching at their folds, were two little copper-haired girls who were obviously sisters. Behind her stood two dark-haired boys. They all appeared to be in a state of distress.

  Fidelma saw that the woman was scarcely out of her teens though dressed in the robes of a religieuse. In s
pite of the baby’s near concealment of it, Fidelma noticed she wore a large and unusual crucifix. It was more in the Roman style than the Irish but it was also elaborate and encrusted with semi-precious stones. In spite of her apparent youthfulness, hers was a plump, round-faced figure which, normally, would have had an air of protective motherliness. Now she seemed to be trembling uncontrollably.

  ‘Sister Eisten!’ cried Cass in surprise. ‘Have no fear. It is I, Cass of Cashel. I stayed at your hostel six months ago when I was passing through this village. Do you not remember me?’

  The young religieuse peered closely at him and shook her head. However, relief began to show in her features as she turned her dark eyes questioningly to Fidelma.

  ‘You are not with Intat? You are not of his band?’ she demanded, half fearfully.

  ‘Whoever Intat is, we are not of his band,’ Fidelma replied gravely. ‘I am Sister Fidelma of Kildare. My companion and I are journeying to the abbey of Ros Ailithir.’

  The muscles in the young sister’s face, so tightly clenched before, began to relax. She tried to fight back tears of shock and relief.

  ‘Have … have they … gone?’ she finally jerked out. Her voice was vibrating in fear.

  ‘They appear to have gone, sister,’ Fidelma assured her as best she could, stepping forward and holding her hands out to take the baby. ‘Come, you look all in. Give me the child, that you may rest and tell us what happened. Who were they?’

  Sister Eisten lurched backward as though she was afraid to be touched. If anything, she clutched the baby tighter to her chest.

  ‘No! Do not touch any of us.’

  Fidelma paused in puzzlement.

  ‘What do you mean? We cannot help you until we know what is happening here.’

  Sister Eisten stared at her with wide, expressive eyes.

  ‘It is the plague, sister,’ she whispered. ‘We had the plague in this village.’

  The grip in which Cass absently held the young boy, who was still wriggling, seemed suddenly powerless. His body stiffened. The boy wrenched himself away.

  ‘Plague?’ whispered Cass, taking an involuntary step backwards. In spite of his previous attitude, faced by confirmation of the presence of the plague, Cass was clearly troubled.

  ‘So there is plague in the village after all?’ demanded Fidelma.

  ‘Several in the village have died of it during the last few weeks. It has passed me by, thanks be to God, but others have died.’

  ‘Is there any among you here who are sick?’ pressed Cass, peering anxiously at the children.

  Sister Eisten shook her head.

  ‘Not that Intat and his men cared. We would have all died had we not hid …’

  Fidelma was staring at her in growing horror.

  ‘You would have been struck down whether you suffered the plague or not? Explain! Who is this Intat?’

  Sister Eisten stifled another sob. She had nearly reached breaking point. With some gentle prompting, she explained.

  ‘Three weeks ago the plague appeared in the village. First one person and then another caught it. It spared neither sex nor age. Now these children and myself are all that remains of the thirty souls who once dwelt in this place.’

  Fidelma let her eyes travel from the baby, scarce more than a few months old, to the children. The two copper-haired little girls were no more than nine years old. The young boy, who had fair hair, who had removed himself from the side of Cass to stand defensively behind Sister Eisten, was also about their age. The two taller boys, scowling faces, black hair, and grey, suspicious eyes, were older. One could not be more than ten years old while the other was perhaps fourteen or fifteen. They seemed to be brothers. She returned her gaze to the plump, trembling young religieuse.

  ‘You have not fully explained, sister,’ Fidelma cajoled, knowing that the young woman might break down in a flood of tears. ‘You are saying that this man Intat came and killed people, burnt your village, while there were still many healthy people here?’

  Sister Eisten sniffed loudly and apparently tried to gather her thoughts together.

  ‘We had no warriors to protect us. This was a farming settlement. At first I though the attackers were frightened that the plague would spread to neighbouring villages and were trying to drive us into the mountains so that we might not contaminate them. But they began to kill. They seemed to especially delight in slaughtering the young children.’

  She gave a low moan at the memory.

  ‘Had all the menfolk of this village succumbed to the plague, then?’ demanded Cass. ‘Was there no one to defend you when this attack came?’

  ‘There were only a few men who tried to prevent the slaughter. What could a few farmers do against a dozen armed warriors? They died by the swords of Intat and his men …’

  ‘Intat?’ queried Fidelma. ‘Again, Intat. Who is this Intat whom you keep mentioning?’

  ‘He is a local chieftain.’

  ‘A local chieftain?’ She was scandalised. ‘He dared to put a village to fire and sword?’

  ‘I managed to get some of the children and take them to safety in the woods,’ repeated Sister Eisten, sobbing as she recalled the scenes of carnage. ‘We hid while Intat did his evil work. He fired the village and …’ She stopped, unable to continue.

  Fidelma gave a sharp exhalation of breath.

  ‘What great crime has been committed here, Cass?’ she asked softly, staring down to the still burning houses.

  ‘Could someone not have gone to the bó-aire, the local magistrate, and demanded protection?’ demanded Cass, visibly shaken by Sister Eisten’s tale.

  The plump sister grimaced bitterly.

  ‘Intat is the bó-aire of this place!’ she exclaimed with anger. ‘He sits on the council of Salbach, chieftain of the Corco Loígde.’ She seemed about to give way to exhaustion. Then she drew herself up, thrusting out her chin. ‘And now you have heard the worst; now that you know that we have been exposed to the plague, leave us to perish in the mountains and go your way.’

  Fidelma shook her head sympathetically.

  ‘Our way is now your way,’ she said firmly. ‘You will come with us to Ros Ailithir, for I presume that these young children have no other family who will nurture them?’

  ‘None, sister.’ The young religieuse was staring at Fidelma in wonder. ‘I ran a small house for the orphans of the plague and they are my charges.’

  ‘Then Ros Ailithir it is,’

  Cass was looking slightly worried.

  ‘It is still a long way to Ros Ailithir,’ he whispered. Then he added more softly: ‘And the abbot may not thank you for exposing the abbey to any contact with the plague.’

  Fidelma shook her head.

  ‘We are all exposed to it. We cannot hide from it nor burn it into non-existence. We have to accept God’s will whether it passes us by or not. Now, it is getting late. Perhaps we should stay here tonight? At least we will be warm.’

  The suggestion drew instant protest from Sister Eisten.

  ‘What if Intat and his men return?’ she wailed.

  Cass agreed: ‘She is right, Fidelma. There is that likelihood. It is best not to stay here in case Intat remains close by. If he realises that there are survivors then he may wish to finish this terrible deed.’

  Fidelma reluctantly gave in to their objections.

  ‘The sooner we start out then the sooner we shall arrive. We shall ride as far as we can towards Ros Ailithir.’

  ‘But Intat has driven off our animals,’ Eisten protested again. ‘Not that there were any horses but there were some asses …’

  ‘We have two horses and the children can sit two or three together on them,’ Fidelma assured her. ‘We adults will have to walk and we may take turns carrying the baby. Poor thing. What happened to the mother?’

  ‘She was one of those whom Intat slew.’

  Fidelma’s eyes were steely cold.

  ‘He will answer before the law for this deed. As bó-aire he must real
ise the consequences of his actions. And answer he shall!’ There was no vain boast in her voice; merely a cold statement of fact.

  Cass watched with undisguised respect as Fidelma quietly but firmly took charge, collecting the children and placing them on the horses, taking the baby to give the exhausted young Sister Eisten a chance, so far as she was able, to recover herself. Only the younger of the two black-haired boys seemed reluctant to move from the shelter of the woods, doubtless still terrified of what he had seen. It was his elder brother who finally persuaded him with a few quiet words. The elder boy was disinclined to take the opportunity to ride on the horse but strode alongside it, insisting that as he was approaching the ‘age of choice’ they should regard him as an adult. Fidelma did not argue with the solemn-faced lad. They set off along the track in the direction of the abbey of Ros Ailithir with Cass silently hoping they would not encounter Intat and his band of cut-throats along the way.

  Cass could understand, however, the fears that drove villagers to turn on their fellows. He had heard many a story of the Yellow Plague devastating whole communities not only among the five kingdoms of Eireann but beyond its shores from where the virulence was said to have originated. Cass realised that any genuine fear of the spread of plague did not absolve Intat and his men from their responsibilities under the law. To burn out an entire community because of fear of contagion was understandable but wrong. What he also knew, and realised that Fidelma knew it also, was that, as bó-aire, Intat would appreciate that if word reached Cashel of this terrible deed then he would have to face the consequences. He had only let Fidelma and Cass continue their journey unmolested in the belief they would not find out what had happened. If Intat realised that they had doubled back and come across survivors of his horrendous slaughter then their lives might be forfeit. Best to put distance between this place and themselves.