Master of Souls (3 page)
Authors: Peter Tremayne
Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #blt, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #Medieval Ireland
He was about to ask another question when the sound of galloping horses came to his ears. He joined the abbess to peer from the doorway of the stone hut and saw several horsemen riding swiftly along the track just below them. One of the men gave a sudden cry, pointing up towards them. The company changed direction and within a moment a dozen or so rough-looking warriors had surrounded them, their horses stamping and giving out great smoky wreaths of hot breath. The warriors carried their swords in their hands. Esumaro saw that in their midst was a shorter figure swathed from head to foot in grey robes so that no part of the body was visible. The cowl was drawn well down over the head. The figure was slight and the shoulders were rounded.
The Abbess Faife went forward and stood facing them with a frown.
‘What do you seek here?’ she demanded authoritatively.
The leading horseman, a coarse-looking man with a rough black beard, and a scar across his forehead, chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound.
‘Why, we seek you and your religious brood, woman. Our master has need of you. So you are to come with us.’
Esumaro felt himself go cold. He recognised the voice as that of the leader of the wreckers from whom he had escaped. What was his name? Olcán!
‘We serve only one master, that is the Christ, Jesus,’ the abbess was replying. ‘We are on our way to—’
‘I know where you thought you were going, woman,’ snapped the man. ‘But I know where it is that you are now destined for. You will soon serve another master.’ He spoke as if in a dark humour. ‘Come, we have no time to waste.’
The abbess stood resolutely.
‘I am the Abbess Faife of Ard Fhearta. Put up your swords and depart in peace. For we intend to go on to Bréanainn’s mount and—’
Esumaro noticed that the black-bearded leader had glanced in the direction of the small grey-robed figure. There was an almost imperceptible movement of the cowled head.
But it happened without warning. It happened quickly.
The bearded leader simply leant forward from his saddle and thrust his sword swiftly into Abbess Faife’s heart.
She was dead before she began sinking to the ground with an expression akin to surprise. As she fell back, the leader of the warriors turned to the abbess’s shocked companions.
‘I presume that no one else wants to argue with me? Gather your bundles and walk ahead of us or you will remain here with your abbess … and join her in the Otherworld.’
Any cries of distress were silenced by momentary disbelief at what had happened.
Then the young religieuse who had first discovered Esumaro threw herself on her knees by the body of the slain abbess.
‘You have killed her!’ she sobbed, seeking in vain for a pulse. ‘Why did you kill her? What kind of brute are you? Who are you?’
The man raised his sword again in a threatening manner.
‘You ask too many questions, woman. Do you wish to remain here with her?’
Esumaro moved quickly forward, holding up a hand as if to ward off
the man’s blade. At the same time, he bent swiftly and raised the young woman from the ground.
the man’s blade. At the same time, he bent swiftly and raised the young woman from the ground.
‘Now is not the time to protest!’ he whispered quickly. ‘Not if you want to live.’
She paused for a fraction, glancing at the threatening warrior, turned her eyes to Esumaro and then nodded quickly, regaining her composure with just a tightening of the mouth to show the effort it took. As she rose, she reached out one hand as if to touch the breast of the abbess. Only Esumaro saw her fingers clutch at the thong that held the abbess’s cross and wrench at it quickly. It came apart in her hold. She turned as if she was allowing Esumaro to help her away from the body and pressed the cross into his hands.
‘You had better become one of us, until we find out what this means,’ she muttered under her breath. Esumaro was surprised at the girl’s quick thinking.
He took the cross. As his fingers closed over it, the voice of the warrior’s leader snapped at him.
‘You! That man there!’
Esumaro turned to him with narrowed eyes.
‘Who are you?’ The leader was looking suspiciously at him. ‘You are not of the community of Ard Fhearta. I had not heard that a Brother of the Faith was accompanying this band.’
Esumaro thought rapidly, glancing towards the still silent figure hidden in the grey robes.
‘Why … I am … Brother Maros, accompanying these Sisters in the Faith to Bréanainn’s mount for the vigil.’
‘Yet you do not wear the symbol of the Faith on your robes?’
Esumaro hesitated a moment. Then he held up the crucifix the quick-thinking young religieuse had passed to him.
‘I was adjusting it when you and your men rode down on us. Do I have your permission to finish replacing it round my neck?’
‘You are not from these parts?’ The warrior’s voice was suspicious when he heard Esumaro’s accent.
‘We of the Faith have to travel far and wide in search of souls to save,’ intoned Esumaro with what he hoped was the correct tone of reverence.
The young woman, defiance on her features, came to his help.
‘Brother Maros joined us at the abbey of Colman. He is a noted scholar from Gaul.’
The warrior frowned suspiciously. Again he seemed to glance for instruction to the grey-robed figure.
‘From Gaul? How did you get to the abbey of Colmán? There have been no ships reaching there in many months.’
‘I came to the port of Ard Mór in the south and have spent some months travelling through your country. How else would I speak your language so well?’
The warrior thought for a moment, glanced again at the small silent figure and shrugged. He seemed to see logic in the reply but was not completely satisfied.
‘Yet you do not wear a tonsure. All religious wear tonsures.’
It was the young woman who answered for him.
‘Brother Maros is a follower of the Blessed Budoc of Laurea, a learned scholar in his own land. His followers do not wear a tonsure.’
The warrior’s eyes narrowed at her intervention.
‘Can’t he answer for himself?’ he snapped.
Esumaro edged forward protectively in front of the young woman.
‘I can. It is as my Sister in the Faith, Sister Easdan, says. I follow the Blessed Budoc.’ He was glad he remembered the name that Abbess Faife had identified the girl with.
The black-bearded leader grunted, seemed about to say something, and then glanced once more at the robed figure. It was as if some communication passed between them again for he turned away and gestured for the company to move.
‘Forward now and in silence,’ he called. ‘Remember, it is up to you if you wish to live or die. My men will be watchful.’
Esumaro turned his head to the young Sister Easdan with a look that he hoped conveyed his gratitude. He would have to ask her who this Budoc was. But what situation had he landed himself in? God in heaven! What evil had he been plunged into?
I
t was still dark when Abbot Erc left his warm chamber in the great abbey of Ard Fhearta, throwing his woollen cloak around his bent shoulders, to make his way through the
vallium monasterii.
It was still dark although he could see that the clouds were low in the sky and the rain was fine like an icy spray against his face. The winter sun would not rise for several hours yet but the community of the abbey would soon be waking to the tolling of the bell that announced the start of a new day. For the ageing abbot this was a special day, for it was the feast of the Blessed Ite, ‘the bright sun of the women of Muman’, who had fostered and taught Bréanainn, the founder of Ard Fhearta. Today, special prayers would be offered in the tiny oratory where, it was said, Bréanainn had first read the principal triad of Íte’s teachings to those men and women whom he had called together at this place. He had exhorted them, as Íte had, to have a pure heart, live a simple life, and be generous with their love. Since then the community had lived as a
conhospitae,
a mixed community, men and women working together in the service of the New Faith.
t was still dark when Abbot Erc left his warm chamber in the great abbey of Ard Fhearta, throwing his woollen cloak around his bent shoulders, to make his way through the
vallium monasterii.
It was still dark although he could see that the clouds were low in the sky and the rain was fine like an icy spray against his face. The winter sun would not rise for several hours yet but the community of the abbey would soon be waking to the tolling of the bell that announced the start of a new day. For the ageing abbot this was a special day, for it was the feast of the Blessed Ite, ‘the bright sun of the women of Muman’, who had fostered and taught Bréanainn, the founder of Ard Fhearta. Today, special prayers would be offered in the tiny oratory where, it was said, Bréanainn had first read the principal triad of Íte’s teachings to those men and women whom he had called together at this place. He had exhorted them, as Íte had, to have a pure heart, live a simple life, and be generous with their love. Since then the community had lived as a
conhospitae,
a mixed community, men and women working together in the service of the New Faith.
Abbot Erc paused for a moment outside the small, stone-built
aireagal
- the house of prayer, as it was called, although many of the brethren preferred to use the Latin term
oraculum.
Then he pushed open the wooden door and stood for a moment in the utter darkness of the interior. He was surprised that there was no light inside and his immediate reaction was irritation. It was the task of the
rechtaire,
the steward of the community, to ensure that a lamp was always lit in the
aireagal.
He had also expected the Venerable Cinaed to be waiting for him so that together they could bless the oratory and light the altar candles ready for the morning prayers.
aireagal
- the house of prayer, as it was called, although many of the brethren preferred to use the Latin term
oraculum.
Then he pushed open the wooden door and stood for a moment in the utter darkness of the interior. He was surprised that there was no light inside and his immediate reaction was irritation. It was the task of the
rechtaire,
the steward of the community, to ensure that a lamp was always lit in the
aireagal.
He had also expected the Venerable Cinaed to be waiting for him so that together they could bless the oratory and light the altar candles ready for the morning prayers.
He turned and looked back through the gloom and misty rain towards the darkened buildings of the abbey behind him.
There was no sign indicating that the Venerable Cinaed was on his way. That was unlike the abbey’s oldest scholar. Cináed was reputed to be so old that many of the younger religious felt he must surely have known Bréanainn himself. The truth was that Cinaed had, indeed, known some older members of the abbey who had, in turn, known the blessed founder. He had been at Ard Fhearta longer than anyone else and when Erc had been elected by the community to be abbot here, he had been worried by the thought that it was a position which Cinaed should rightfully hold. But Cinaed was content to confine himself to his cell with his manuscripts and writing materials and indulge in his scholastic pursuits. He occasionally taught the young ones in the arts of calligraphy and composition. More important, while the Venerable Cináed was a religieux he was not ordained into the priesthood and showed no inclination to be so. However, it was a tradition that as the oldest member of the community he should assist in the ceremony of blessing the oratory on Íte’s feast day.
Abbot Erc paused for a moment or two longer and then turned to the shelf by the door on which he knew a tallow candle stood. A tinderbox reposed close by. He reached out, feeling rather than seeing in the gloom, and with a practice born of long years he was able, after a few minutes, to ignite the shavings to produce a flame for the candle.
Feeling a little calmer, he moved forward into the
aireagal
and came to a halt before the altar.
aireagal
and came to a halt before the altar.
Awkwardly, he lowered himself to his knees, placed the spluttering candle before him, and stretched out his arms to make a symbolic crucifix form with his body in order to intone the
cros-figill,
the Cross prayer before the altar.
cros-figill,
the Cross prayer before the altar.
He was about to start the ritual when he noticed something on the flagstones just before him. He frowned and reached forward. It was a bronze
crotal,
a closed bell: a pear-shaped metal form in which was a loose metal ball, which created the musical tone. As he picked it up, he realised that its surface was wet … sticky wet. He drew his hand away and looked at it in the light of the candle. The sticky substance was blood.
crotal,
a closed bell: a pear-shaped metal form in which was a loose metal ball, which created the musical tone. As he picked it up, he realised that its surface was wet … sticky wet. He drew his hand away and looked at it in the light of the candle. The sticky substance was blood.
Abbot Erc reached for the candle and clambered to his feet, peering round in the gloom. The
aireagal
was clearly empty, unless … He looked at the altar and noticed the dark stains before it.
aireagal
was clearly empty, unless … He looked at the altar and noticed the dark stains before it.
‘Is there anyone there?’ Abbot Erc’s nervous question came out as a croak. He cleared his throat. ‘In the name of God, is there anyone there?’ he called in a stronger tone.
There was no reply.
He moved forward. The altar was a solid block of limestone, carved with the names of the
Sanctissimus Ordo,
the first holy saints of Eireann. He edged round it, holding the candle high.
Sanctissimus Ordo,
the first holy saints of Eireann. He edged round it, holding the candle high.
The body was stretched on its back with its hands above the head as if someone had dragged it behind the altar by the outstretched arms. There was blood all over the skull, matting the white hair, and it was obvious that someone had used some heavy cudgel to batter the head.
The abbot let out a low moan.
‘Oh, my God! Not again! Not again!’
Abbot Erc had recognised the corpse immediately. It was the Venerable Cinaed.
The
rechtaire
was so excited that he quite forgot to knock on the door of Abbot Erc’s chamber. He burst in, causing the grey-haired abbot to glance up from his chair as he sat before the blazing fire. He frowned with annoyance towards the youthful, fresh-faced steward.
rechtaire
was so excited that he quite forgot to knock on the door of Abbot Erc’s chamber. He burst in, causing the grey-haired abbot to glance up from his chair as he sat before the blazing fire. He frowned with annoyance towards the youthful, fresh-faced steward.
‘They have arrived,’ cried Brother Cú Mara. Before the abbot could reprimand him, he went on, ‘They have been seen approaching the abbey. The lord Conrí rides at their head. I will go and greet them at the gates.’
Before Abbot Erc could say a word in reply, the young steward, seeming to forget all sense of place and protocol in his excitement, turned and hurried off, leaving the chamber door open and a draught whistling through.
The abbot put down the goblet of wine he had been sipping and rose to his feet. He shuffled to the door, paused a moment and then, with a sigh, shrugged and closed it.
Although he kept a passive expression on his features, he had to admit that he shared something of the steward’s excitement. It had been ten days since he had asked Conrí, warlord of the Uí Fidgente, for help. Last month, six young female members of the community had left the abbey with Abbess Faife. They had only been gone a few days when Mugrón, a merchant who was well known at Ard Fhearta, had arrived at the abbey with horrifying news. He had found the body of Abbess Faife near the roadside south of the Sliabh Mis mountains. There had been no sign of her six companions. By coincidence, Abbess Faife’s nephew, Conrí, the warlord of the Uí Fidgente, was visiting the abbey at the time. Having recovered the body of the abbess and attended the rituals of burial, Conrí
had assured Abbot Erc that he knew of only one person, a
dálaigh,
who could solve such a mystery as that now facing them. He had left the abbey with two warriors, promising to find the
dálaigh
and return to the abbey as soon as possible.
had assured Abbot Erc that he knew of only one person, a
dálaigh,
who could solve such a mystery as that now facing them. He had left the abbey with two warriors, promising to find the
dálaigh
and return to the abbey as soon as possible.
And now Conrí was returning. But in the meantime a second tragic mystery had occurred: the murder of the Venerable Cinaed.
Abbot Erc shivered slightly as he remembered finding the Venerable Cináed’s body in the oratory. God! What evil cursed the great abbey that such things could happen? The abbot stared moodily into the fire and wondered what manner of person it was whom Conrí was bringing to his abbey to resolve these mysteries and in whom he had so much faith.
Conrí, King of Wolves, warlord of the Uí Fidgente, paused on the brow of the hill and patted the neck of his bay stallion. He was tall and well-muscled, with a shock of black hair, grey eyes and the livid white of a scar across his left cheek. In spite of that, he was a handsome young man whose humour was especially marked when he smiled. It was the smile that changed the haughtiness of his expression into a look of boyish mischievous fun. He turned to his companions and pointed north-westward across the plain.
‘There is the great abbey of Ard Fhearta, lady.’
His companions were a red-haired religieuse and a stocky man wearing the tonsure of St Peter. Behind them rode two young but dour-looking warriors. The woman and her companion edged their horses close to Conrí and followed the line of his outstretched arm.
‘Well, Conrí, our journey has not been long from Cashel,’ observed the woman.
‘It is as I promised,’ agreed the young warrior. ‘I am only sorry that I felt no other choice was left to me but to ask you to come here to help us.’
The religieuse’s companion grimaced sceptically. ‘Since you put your case so well, Conri, how could we refuse you?’
Conrí glanced suspiciously at him.
‘I have no eloquence, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied shortly. ‘I think the lady Fidelma was persuaded by the strangeness of the facts.’
Brother Eadulf was about to make some rejoinder when Sister Fidelma held up a hand and put her head slightly to one side.
‘Listen! What is that noise?’
There came to their ears a faint rhythmic sound like the distant pounding of a drum. It seemed to have a slow but regular beat.
‘Have you never been in this corner of Muman, lady?’ asked Conrí. He always addressed Fidelma by her rank as sister to Colgú, king of Muman, rather than her religious title.
‘I have not crossed beyond the Sliabh Luachra, the mountain barrier that divides us from the heartland of the Uí Fidgente,’ she replied. Then she grinned mischievously, adding, ‘For obvious reasons, as you will appreciate, Conrí.’
It was not so long ago that the Uí Fidgente chieftains had led their people into a futile war to overthrow her brother, newly placed upon the throne at Cashel. The Uí Fidgente had been defeated at Cnoc Áine scarcely two years ago. Out of their defeat, young Conrí had been elected as the new warlord, and he had proved his diplomatic skills by forging an alliance with Cashel on behalf of the new chief Donennach.
‘I thought these lands belonged to the Ciarraige Luachra, not the Uí Fidgente?’ Brother Eadulf was snappish. He had disapproved of this journey from the start. However, he had decided to do some research in the library of Cashel before they had set off.
Conrí did not lose his good humour.
‘Two generations ago, our chieftain Oengus mac Nechtain brought the Ciarraige Luachra into our territory. But you are right, Brother Eadulf, the main Uí Fidgente territory is more to the north-east.’
‘So what is the sound we hear?’ Fidelma demanded, reverting to the unanswered question that she had posed.
‘That is the sound of the sea. We are scarcely six kilometres from it.’
‘I have been closer to seashores before and not heard such a noise.’
‘Before the abbey, beyond those hills, is a wide sandy shore which runs south to north some eleven or twelve kilometres. We call it Banna Strand, the sandy seashore of the peaks. The sea is so very high and tempestuous here, even on the calmest days, and its rollers are so thunderous, that you might feel as if the earth is trembling as you get nearer. The winds that whip off the sea are fierce at times and produce a good robust air by which the people here prosper in health, or so I have been told by the apothecaries.’
Brother Eadulf viewed the scene before him with critical eyes.
‘It does not seem that the trees prosper,’ he observed. ‘Those that are
inclined to grow are bent almost along the ground. They are gnarled and distorted like phantoms from another world.’
inclined to grow are bent almost along the ground. They are gnarled and distorted like phantoms from another world.’
Not for the first time, during the two days of their journey from Cashel, Fidelma shot Eadulf a glance of disapproval at his carping tone. Then she turned back to the vista that stretched before them.
The abbey, its buildings enclosed by a circular defensive wall like most of the monastic settlements in these parts, was built on the crown of a hill. Round the bottom of the hill a river meandered its way to the sea. Eadulf could see a number of fortified homesteads and farms dotted here and there across the valley and reminded himself that until recently the Uí Fidgente had been a very martial people. There seemed to be no clusters of buildings immediately outside the walls of the abbey, which unlike some of the great monasteries was clearly not used as a centre of habitation.
Conrí was at pains to point out the number of holy wells in the vicinity, the standing stones and thriving farmsteads. ‘Ard Fhearta is over a hundred years old,’ he told them, and there was pride in his voice. ‘It was built by the great Bréanainn—’
‘Of the Ciarraige Luachra,’ Brother Eadulf could not help but interpose. ‘I have read the story.’
‘The name Ard Fhearta means “height of the graveyard”, doesn’t it?’ Fidelma mused, ignoring him. ‘So the abbey is built on the site of an old pagan burial ground?’
‘As are many abbey foundations and churches of our new Faith,’ agreed Conrí. ‘I am told by Abbot Erc that the purpose of doing so is to sanctify the old sites so that all our ancestors may join us in the Christian Otherworld.’
Brother Eadulf frowned. His people, the South Folk, who traced their descent to Casere, son of the great god Woden, had believed that the only way to achieve immortality was to die sword in hand, the name of Woden on their lips. Then and only then would they be allowed into the afterlife, to sit with the gods in the great hall of the heroes. Now and then the indoctrination of his early years rose and fought with his conversion to the New Faith. Eadulf still sought guarantees, and that was why he had rejected the teachings of the Irish who had converted and educated him for the more fundamental absolutes of Rome.
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