Suffer Little Children Read online

  He admired the way Colgú’s young sister did not seem to have any fear of the plague. He would not have associated so freely with these children had it not been for the fact that he did not wish to be shamed in front of Fidelma. So he repressed his fear and did as he was bid by her.

  Fidelma chatted gaily in an attempt to keep up the spirits of the shocked and frightened children. She seized on what inconsequential topics she could, asking the young Sister Eisten where she had acquired the remarkable-looking crucifix she wore. After some prompting, Sister Eisten confessed that she had once been on a pilgrimage, which had lasted three years. Fidelma had to interrupt to say she had not thought Eisten old enough to have had such experience, but Eisten was older than her looks, being twenty-two years of age. She had journeyed with a group of religieuse to the Holy Land. She had found herself in the town of Bethlehem and made a pilgrimage to the very birthplace of the Saviour. It had been there she had purchased the ornate crucifix from local craftsmen. So Fidelma encouraged her to talk about her adventures, merely to keep the children occupied and content.

  Inwardly Fidelma was far from happy. She was disconsolate, not at the idea of contact with potential plague carriers but at the fact that the conditions of her journey were even worse than they had been when, earlier that day, she had been bemoaning the weather and the cold and damp. At least she had been dryshod on horseback then. Now she was stumbling through the mud and slush of the track, trying to keep a delicate balance with the young baby in her arms. The child was constantly whimpering and trying to twist and turn, which made matters worse. Fidelma did not wish to cause alarm but even in the half light she had observed a tell-tale yellow tint to the child’s skin and the fever on its little brow. Now and then, in order to keep the child from wriggling loose in her grip, Fidelma almost lost her footing in the mud which oozed around her ankles.

  ‘How much farther is it to Ros Ailithir?’ she allowed herself to ask after they had been walking two hours.

  It was Sister Eisten who was specific.

  ‘Seven miles from here, but the road does not get easier.’

  Fidelma momentarily clenched her teeth and did not reply.

  The gloom of dusk was rapidly spreading from the east, merging with the gloomy low-lying clouds and, almost before she realised it, a thick night fog was obscuring the roadway. The weather had not cleared yet as Cass had predicted.

  Fidelma regretfully called a halt.

  ‘We’ll never make it to the abbey like this,’ she told Cass. ‘We’ll have to find a place to stay until morning.’

  As if to emphasise the dangers of night travel, a wolf pack began to yelp and bay in unison across the hills. One of the little girls began to cry, a plaintive, painful whimpering which twisted Fidelma’s heart. She had learnt that the copper-haired sisters were named Cera and Ciar. The fair-haired young lad was called Tressach while the other boys, as she had guessed, were brothers – Cétach and Cosrach. This much information had she been able to extract from them during their short journey through the cold woods.

  ‘The first thing is to light some torches,’ Cass announced. ‘Then we will have to find a shelter.’

  He handed the reins of his horse to the elder boy, Cétach, and went to the side of the road where the woods bordered it. Fidelma listened to the snapping of twigs and a soft cursing as Cass searched for tinder dry enough to make and light a brand torch.

  ‘Do you know if there are any dry places near here in which we can shelter?’ Fidelma asked Sister Eisten.

  The young religieuse shook her head.

  ‘There is only the forest.’

  Cass had succeeded in lighting a bundle of twigs, but they would not burn long.

  ‘Best if we kindled a fire,’ he muttered as he rejoined Fidelma. ‘If there is nothing else, at least the trees might afford some shelter. Perhaps we can find enough bushes to create some protection. But it will be a cold night for the children.’

  Fidelma sighed and nodded assent. There was little else to do. Already it was impossible to see more than a few yards. Perhaps she should have insisted that they remain in the village for the night. At least it would have been warm among the smouldering ruins. Still, there was little point in self-reproach now.

  ‘Let’s move into the wood, then, and see if we can find a dry spot. Then we’ll get what sleep we can.’

  ‘The children haven’t eaten since this morning,’ Sister Eisten ventured.

  Fidelma groaned inwardly.

  ‘Well, there is nothing to be done until it is light, sister. Let us concentrate on getting warm and as dry as we can. Food must be a later consideration.’

  It was Cass’s sharp eyes that managed to spot a small clearing among the tall trees where a large bush extended itself almost in the manner of a tent over a fairly dry area of twigs and leaves.

  ‘Almost made for the task,’ he said brightly. Fidelma could imagine him smiling in the darkness. ‘I’ll tether the horses out here and light a fire. I have a croccán, my kettle, with me and so we may have a hot drink. You and Sister Eisten can get the children under the bush.’ He paused and added with a shrug: ‘It’s the best we can do.’

  Fidelma replied: ‘Yes.’ There was little else to say.

  Within half an hour, Cass had a reasonable fire alight and had set his croccán, filled with water, to boil upon it. It was Fidelma who insisted that they add herbs to the mixture, which she said would help protect them from the night chills. She wondered if Cass or Eisten would realise that an infusion of the leaves and flowers of the herb drémire buí was used as a protective against the scourge of the Yellow Plague. No one commented as the drink was handed around, although the children complained against the bitterness of the mixture. Soon, however, most of them were asleep – more from exhaustion than any other cause.

  The cry of wolves continued to break across the strange nocturnal sounds of the wood.

  Cass squatted before the fire, feeding its hungry flames with salvaged pieces of wood which hissed and spat with their unsuitability but, at least, generated enough heat to burn and send out some sort of warmth.

  ‘We’ll move on at first light,’ Fidelma told him. ‘If we move at a reasonable pace then we should be at the abbey by mid-morning.’

  ‘We need to keep a watch tonight,’ Cass observed. ‘If not to make sure that Intat and his men are close by, then merely to ensure the fire is fed. I’ll take the first watch.’

  ‘Then I’ll take the second,’ Fidelma insisted, drawing her cloak closer around her shoulders in a vain effort to create more warmth from the garment.

  It was a long, cold night but apart from the baying of distant wolves and the cry of other nocturnal creatures, nothing happened to disturb their uneasy peace.

  When they all awoke in the grey, listless light of the morning, with the ice chill of the new day, it was Sister Eisten who discovered that the baby had died in the night. No one mentioned the yellow hue to the waxy texture of the babe’s skin.

  Cass dug a shallow grave with his sword and, against the bewildered sobbing of the younger children, Sister Fidelma and Sister Eisten uttered up a quiet prayer as they buried the tiny corpse. Sister Eisten had not been able to recall its name.

  By then, the clouds had rolled away and the anaemic autumnal sun was hanging low in the pallid blue sky – bright but without warmth. Cass had been right about the change in the weather.

  Chapter Four

  The midday Angelus bell was sounding as Fidelma and her party came within sight of the abbey at Ros Ailithir. The journey had taken longer than she had estimated for, though the day was warm and bright, the road was still sodden and muddy and the passage was difficult.

  The abbey was larger than Fidelma had imagined it would be; a vast complex of grey stone buildings standing, as she had already been informed, on the hillside at the head of a narrow inlet of the sea. It was an inlet too long and narrow to be called a bay. She noticed briefly that there were several ships riding at anchor ther
e before turning her gaze back to the diversity of grey buildings. There were several large structures all contained behind tall dark granite walls which followed a oval course around them. At their centre she could make out the imposing abbey church. It was a remarkable and unusual building. Most churches in the five kingdoms were built on circular patterns but this was built in a crucifix style with a long nave and a transept at right angles. Fidelma knew that this style was becoming more popular among the new church builders. Next to this was a lofty cloictheach, or bell house, from which the solemn chimes echoed across the small valley depression which led down to the sea.

  One of the children, it was the younger of the two black-haired boys again, gave a low moan and started to tremble. His brother spoke sharply but quietly to him.

  ‘What ails him?’ Cass demanded. He was standing the closest to the two boys, the younger one being seated on his horse.

  ‘My brother thinks that we may be harmed if we go where there are grown-ups,’ the elder replied solemnly. ‘He is scared after what happened yesterday.’

  Cass smiled gently at the younger boy. ‘Have no fear, son. No one down there will harm you. It is a holy abbey. They will help you.’

  The elder whispered sharply to his young sibling again and then, turning, said to Cass: ‘He will be all right now.’

  All the children were showing signs of fatigue now; fatigue and agitation after their terrifying experience. In fact, they were all exhausted both physically as well as emotionally. The unease and restiveness of the cold night’s halt had not refreshed them and they had experienced a hard trek that morning from the woods to the coast. Weariness showed on everyone’s face.

  ‘I had not realised that the abbey was so large,’ Fidelma observed brightly to Cass to instil some air of normality into the depressed company. However, it was also true that she was impressed by the vastness of the buildings which dominated the inlet.

  ‘I am told that hundreds of proselytes study here,’ replied Cass indifferently.

  The bell suddenly ceased its clamouring.

  Fidelma motioned them forward again. She felt a passing unease because she had ignored the call to prayer. Time enough to stop and pray when she and her exhausted charges were safely under the protection of the walls of the abbey. She glanced anxiously towards Sister Eisten. The plump young woman seemed to be lost in melancholy thought. Fidelma put this down to the woman’s shock at the death of the baby that morning. Soon after they had set out, she had lapsed into a malaise, a maudlin contemplation, and did not seem to be at all conscious of her surroundings. She walked automatically, her head bent downwards, eyes on the ground, and made no response when spoken to. Fidelma had noticed that she did not even bother to raise her eyes when they had come within sight of Ros Ailithir, and heard the chiming of the bell. Yes; it was better to get the party to the abbey rather than halt to indulge in ritual prayers along the roadway.

  As they neared the walls of the abbey, she became aware of a few religieux at work in the surrounding fields. They seemed to be cutting kale, presumably to feed cattle. A few curious glances were cast in their direction but, generally, the men bent diligently to their work in the cold, autumnal morning.

  The gates of the abbey stood open. Fidelma frowned when she saw, hanging by the side of the gate, a writhe, or bundle of twisted branches of osiers and aspen. It struck a chord in her memory but she could not identify it. She was still trying to dredge her memory about the symbolism of the writhe when she had to turn her attention to a thickset, middle-aged man in the robes of a religieux who stood in the gateway waiting for them. Where his hair grew long from his tonsure, it was speckled grey. He looked a muscular man and his grim visage seemed a warning that he was not someone to trifle with.

  ‘Bene vobis,’ he intoned in a deep baritone, making the ritual greeting.

  ‘Deus vobiscum,’ Sister Fidelma responded automatically and then decided to dispense with the rest of the usual courtesies. ‘These children need food, warmth and rest,’ she said without further preamble, causing the man’s eyes to widen in astonishment. ‘So does the Sister here. They have had a bad experience. I have to warn you that they have been exposed to the Yellow Plague so your physician needs to examine them immediately. Meanwhile, my companion and I wish to be taken to Abbot Brocc.’

  The man stuttered in his surprise that a young anchoress should utter so many orders before she had been ritually admitted to the hospitality of the abbey. His brows drew together and he opened his mouth to voice his protest.

  Fidelma interrupted before he could speak.

  ‘I am Fidelma from Cashel. The abbot should be expecting me,’ she added firmly.

  The man stood with open mouth, gulping like a fish. Then he drew himself together as Fidelma swept by him, leading her charges through the gates. The monk turned and hurried after her, catching up with her as she entered the large, stone flagged courtyard beyond the gate.

  ‘Sister Fidelma … we, that is …’ He was clearly flustered at the abrupt manner of her entrance. ‘We have been expecting you this last day or so. We were warned … told … to expect you … I am Brother Conghus, the aistreóir of the abbey. What has happened? Who are these children?’

  Fidelma turned to the doorkeeper and replied tersely: ‘Survivors from Rae na Scríne which has been burnt by raiders.’

  The religieux stared from the pitiable children to the plump, young Sister Eisten. His eyes widened as he recognised her.

  ‘Sister Eisten! What has happened?’

  The young woman continued to stare moodily into space and did not acknowledge him.

  The monk turned back to Fidelma clearly disconcerted.

  ‘Sister Eisten is known to us in this abbey. She ran a mission at Rae na Scríne. Destroyed by raiders, you say?’

  Fidelma inclined her head in brief acknowledgment.

  ‘The village was attacked by a group of men led by someone called Intat. Only Sister Eisten and these children survived. I demand sanctuary for them.’

  ‘You also mentioned something about plague?’ Brother Conghus seemed confused.

  ‘I am told that the reason for this horrendous attack was that there was plague in the village. This is why I ask that the physician of the abbey be summoned. Do you fear the plague here?’

  Brother Conghus shook his head.

  ‘With God’s help, most of us have discovered an immunity in this abbey. We have had four outbreaks of the pestilence during this last year but it has claimed only a few lives from the young scholars. We no longer have fear of the disease. I will get someone to take poor Sister Eisten and her charges to the hostel where they will be well taken care of.’

  He turned and waved a hand to a passing young novice. She was a tall girl, slightly broad in the shoulders with a carriage that seemed clumsy.

  ‘Sister Necht, take this sister and the children to the hostel. Tell Brother Rumann to summon Brother Midach to examine them. Then see that they are fed and rested. I will speak with Midach shortly.’

  His orders were issued in a series of staccato bursts. Fidelma noticed that the young girl hesitated, staring in open-mouthed surprise as she seemed to recognise Eisten and the children. Then she seemed to make a conscious effort to pull herself together and hurried forward to shepherd the children and the plaintive, plump Eisten away. Brother Conghus, assured his orders were being obeyed, turned back to Fidelma.

  ‘Brother Midach is our chief physician while Rumann is our steward. They will take care of Sister Eisten and the children,’ he explained unnecessarily. He pointed the way forward across the courtyard. ‘I will bring you to the abbot. Have you come directly from Cashel?’

  ‘We have,’ confirmed Cass as they followed him. The warrior in Cass paused to draw attention to a matter Fidelma had neglected. ‘Our horses need a rub down and feeding, brother.’

  ‘I will attend to your horses just as soon as I have conducted you to the abbot,’ Conghus replied.

  The doorkeeper of the ab
bey started to hurry with somewhat unseemly haste across the paved yard, through the complex of buildings, pausing from time to time to urge them to follow with as much speed as they could. Fidelma and Cass complied, however, with a more leisurely pace which was governed by their fatigue. The walk seemed interminable but, at last, having ascended the stairs of a large building, set slightly apart from the others, the aistreóir halted before a dark oak door and motioned them to wait while he knocked and disappeared behind it. Only moments passed before he re-emerged and, holding wide the door, gestured for them to go inside.

  They found themselves in a large vaulted chamber whose cold grey stone walls were relieved by colourful tapestries, each illustrating something of the life of Christ. A fire smouldered in the hearth and there was the smell of incense permeating through the room. The floor was carpeted with soft woollen rugs. The furniture was rich and the ornaments extravagant in their opulence. The abbot of Ros Ailithir did not appear to believe in frugality.

  ‘Fidelma!’

  A tall man rose from behind a dark, polished oak table. He was thin, with a hook nose, piercing blue eyes, and his red hair was cut in the tonsure of the Irish church, shaven at the front to a line from ear to ear and the hair hanging long at the back. There was something about his facial appearance which, to the discerning eye, suggested a relationship to Fidelma.

  ‘I am your cousin, Brocc,’ the thin man announced. His voice seemed to boom with a deep bass quality. ‘I have not seen you since you were a child.’

  The greeting was meant to be a warm one yet there was some false note in the abbot’s voice. It was as if part of his thoughts were elsewhere while he was trying to summon a welcome.

  Even when he stretched out both hands to take Fidelma’s own in greeting, they were cold and flaccid and also seemed to belie the attempted tone of welcome in his voice. Fidelma had little recollection of her cousin from her exuberant childhood. Perhaps that was understandable for Abbot Brocc was at least ten or fifteen years her senior.

  She returned his greeting with a degree of studied formality and then introduced Cass.