The Monk Who Vanished (16 page)

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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Fiction, #tpl, #Mystery, #Historical, #Clerical Sleuth, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: The Monk Who Vanished
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There were many things he felt he ought to say but then considered it wiser to say nothing.
They could just hear, in spite of the tolling of the great bell, the axes of the attackers biting into the ancient wood with a rhythmic sound that seemed at odds with the din of destruction and death.
Brother Bardan, the apothecary, came up onto the roof followed by
young Brother Daig, his assistant. Bardán immediately knelt by the abbot and examined his wound.
‘He has been struck a nasty blow but it is not life threatening,’ the apothecary commented after a cursory examination. ‘Brother Daig will help me carry him to his chamber.’ He glanced up at Brother Madagan. ‘What are our chances, Brother?’
‘Not good. They are not attacking the abbey as yet but they are cutting down the great yew.’
Brother Bardán gave a sharp intake of his breath and genuflected as he looked over the wall to confirm the truth of what Brother Madagan had said. For a moment he stood mesmerised by the sight beyond. The sound of axes being swung was clear now. The apothecary shook his head in dismay.
‘So that is why they are not attacking the abbey directly,’ he observed softly. ‘They do not have to.’
‘Oh, for a few good archers,’ Fidelma cried in frustration.
Brother Daig looked momentarily shocked. ‘Lady, we are of the Faith,’ he protested.
‘That does not mean that we should let ourselves be destroyed.’
‘But Christ taught …’
Fidelma made a typical gesture of impatience, a cutting motion of her hand. ‘Do not preach to me of poverty of spirit as a virtue, Brother. When men are poor in spirit then the proud and haughty oppress them. Let us be true in spirit and determined to resist oppression. Only then do we not court further oppression. I say again, a good archer might save this day.’
‘There are no such weapons in the abbey,’ Brother Bardan commented, ‘let alone men to use them.’ He turned back to the unconscious abbot. ‘Come on, Daig, we must see to the abbot’s welfare.’
They lifted the elderly abbot between them and carried him down the stairs.
For some time Fidelma, Eadulf and Brother Madagan stood in frustration watching the attackers hacking at the old tree. It was impossible for Eadulf to entirely empathise with the angry impotency shared by Fidelma and Madagan as they stood watching its destruction. He could intellectualise about its meaning but to actually feel the alarm and trepidation that the act was causing, was still beyond him.
His eyes suddenly caught sight of a movement and Eadulf pointed across the square.
‘Look! Someone is running towards the gates of the abbey. A woman!’
A shadow had detached itself from the burning buildings and was
running and stumbling forward in an obvious attempt to gain the protection of the abbey gates.
‘The gates are closed,’ Brother Madagan cried. ‘We must go down and open them for the poor creature.’
With one more quick glance at the scene below and realising that she could do no more from that vantage point, Fidelma turned and followed Brother Madagan and Eadulf to the courtyard.
At the gate they found Brother Daig who had apparently just returned after helping the abbot back to his chamber.
‘Get the gate open,’ shouted Brother Madagan as they hurried up. ‘There is a woman trying to enter!’
The young man hesitated with an alarmed expression. ‘But that might let the attackers in,’ he protested.
Eadulf simply pushed the young man aside and began to tug on the wooden bolts.
Brother Madagan joined him.
Together, they drew back the great wooden bars which secured the gates, much to the consternation of several of the other brethren who gathered behind Brother Daig. They appeared uncertain what to do. Eadulf and Madagan pulled the main gates inwards.
The running woman was a dozen paces away from the gates. Eadulf had a feeling that she seemed familiar. He moved forward to shout words of encouragement to her but, to his dismay, he saw that a mounted raider had began to pursue the woman and was about to overtake her.
Brother Madagan ran forward through the gates and was holding his crucifix before him as if it would turn back the approaching warrior just by the sight of it.
‘Templi
insulaeque!’
he cried.
‘Sanctuarium!
Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’
He had managed to insert himself between the woman and the approaching rider whose sword was upraised, the blade flashing against the light of the fires across the square.
The warrior’s sword arm swung back and Brother Madagan half spun, a splash of red across his forehead. Then he fell face down on the ground. Eadulf reached forward to pull the woman to safety but the attacker reached her first. His sword swung again and she gave a shriek as it smashed into the back of her head. The momentum still carried her forward and she stumbled into the abbey courtyard.
The forward motion of the charging horse of the pursuer also carried the warrior forward through the gates, the horse clattering into the paved courtyard. What happened next took place so quickly that no one had time to draw breath before it was over.
The momentum of the horse had knocked the wounded woman
aside so that she spun forward, crashing against a wall, and fell onto the ground. Eadulf himself only had time to turn sideways to avoid being knocked down by the horse. As he swung round, some instinct had caused him to grab the leg of the rider and heave with all his might. The rider, already precariously balanced by the effort of his swinging sword arm, came unseated and, as Eadulf fell, he was dragged down from his saddle. The man fell hard but on top of Eadulf, driving the breath from him so that Eadulf lay stunned and unable to move.
The warrior was a professional. His fall cushioned by Eadulf, he half rolled over and sprung to his feet, coming up in a fighting crouch, sword in hand, ready to face any attack.
He was stocky but well-muscled. Thus much could be seen of him but he was clad in black dyed linen with an iron coat of chainmail, the
luirech
iairn,
over a corselet made of bull-hide leather. From the knee down his legs were protected by leather
asáin
studded in brass; the leather encasing the lower legs was tied firmly. He bore a helmet of polished brass with a small visor over his eyes so that the only feature that could be seen in the flickering light of the courtyard’s brand torches was a thin red slit of a cruel mouth.
His shield was still on his horse which had clattered to a halt on the paved courtyard a short distance away, blowing and snorting from its strenuous run.
The warrior crouched, the sword, which he now held in both hands, swinging round to ascertain what dangers lurked around him. He momentarily relaxed when he saw only half a dozen clearly frightened religious huddling behind the gates and a solitary female religieuse who stood facing him.
The man straightened up and bellowed with laughter before raising his sword in a threatening gesture at the religious. They cowered back, causing him even more merriment. Then he realised that the female religieuse stood unmoved, regarding him, hands folded demurely in front of her. He relaxed in her tall, well-proportioned figure and pleasantly attractive features.
‘Who are you, warrior?’ Fidelma demanded.
The man blinked at the quiet authority in her voice. Then he smirked.
‘A man, a man compared with these eunuchs which you have surrounded yourself with, woman. Come with me and let me show you what a man can do.’
Fidelma’s eyes had flickered anxiously to Eadulf, who was still lying winded. Beyond the gate, Brother Madagan was probably dead. The woman also lay crumpled and inert. She let her eyes return to the warrior with open scorn.
‘You have already shown me what you can do,’ replied Fidelma in a quiet tone, without a hint of fear. ‘You have the murders of a Brother of the Faith and a defenceless woman on your hands. That makes you no man at all but something I scrape off the heel of my shoe with a stick after I have walked through a bog land.’
Her tone was so even that the warrior still stood smirking some moments after she had spoken. It took him a while to realise just what she had said.
He drew his thin mouth into an expression of rage.
‘You can come with me or die now!’
He made a threatening gesture with his sword.
One of the Brothers, it was the youthful Brother Daig, his face red with mortification at his earlier moment of cowardice, came forward as if to protect her. He did not even have time to speak but his movement caused the warrior to turn, sinking the metal point of his sword into Daig’s chest. The young man gave a grunt of pain and dropped to his knees, the blood gushing over his habit. He stared down at the wound as if he could not believe his eyes.
‘You are brave against unarmed boys and women,’ snapped Fidelma, who took a step forward but was halted as the point of the sword swung towards her. ‘Have you a name? Or are you ashamed of it?’
The warrior gasped at her audacity.
‘My name is not for the likes of you, wench. Do not think that because you are a woman you can insult me with impunity!’
Fidelma glanced down to where young Daig was trying to staunch the blood from his wound, his hand pressed over it.
‘You have already proved your branch of courage. As I am also unarmed, doubtless you will feel brave enough to show how despicable you really are.’
Brother Daig look up painfully. There were tears in his eyes. He glanced towards the group of frightened brethren and tried several times to speak before succeeding. ‘The gate, Brothers … the gate must be shut before others of this man’s tribe enter the abbey.’
Indeed, it was something that Fidelma had just realised. The longer the gate stood open, eventually other attackers would. notice it and enter the abbey. Then there would be nothing to prevent them from the wholesale slaughter of the community.
‘Do not try it, wench,’ grunted the warrior as he saw her anxious glance towards the gate. ‘You will be dead before you reach it. My comrades will be here in a few moments.’
Brother Daig gave a groan of pain as he tried to move forward. ‘He
is only one man, Brothers. He cannot kill you all. Shut the gate and disarm him!’
The warrior gave a hiss of anger and the steel of his sword struck the young Brother full in the neck.
Brother Daig fell backwards. There was no need to check whether he was dead or not. That much was obvious.
It was now that Eadulf finally began to recover his wind. He took several deep breaths and began to scramble to his feet, only to find himself pinned by the point of the raider’s sword.
‘The gate!’ cried Fidelma determinedly to the cowering religious. ‘Your Brother’s dying command must be accomplished!’
‘Move and this one dies,’ snapped the warrior, pricking Eadulf s shoulder with his sword.
‘Do it!’ cried Eadulf loudly, anger overcoming his personal fear.
The warrior’s gaze was distracted momentarily as he glanced to the religious to see if they were obeying Eadulf. It was a moment that Eadulf had hoped would come. He suddenly rolled away from the reach of the warrior’s sword point, diving towards the gate.
The warrior turned back to him, sword raised, but it was too late.
With a scream of rage he hurled himself forward as Eadulf began to push against the gate. Suddenly Fidelma was in his way. He turned his sword to strike her. Then he was flying through the air, he knew not how.
Only Eadulf, out of the corner of his eye, saw Fidelma spring forward. His heart lurched as he saw her but somewhere, dim in his memory, he recognised the stance she had taken with her body. He had seen her perform the feat a few times now. The first time had been in Rome. She was poised as if to take the blow from the descending sword on her unprotected head. Then it seemed as if she merely reached forward, caught the arm of the man and heaved her assailant into the air, over her hip, and sent him cannoning into the stone wall of the abbey wall. There was a strange thudding sound and, without even a grunt, the warrior fell to the ground, unconscious.
Fidelma had once told Eadulf that in ancient Ireland there had been a class of learned men who taught the time-honoured philosophies of her people. They journeyed far and wide and did not believe in carrying arms to defend themselves because they did not believe in killing people. But they had to protect themselves from attacks by thieves and bandits on the highways. Thus they were forced to develop a technique called
troid-sciathaigid -
battle through defence. Defence without the use of weapons. It was a method taught to many religious missionaries before they left Eireann and went into strange lands to preach the word of the new Faith.
‘Come on! Help Brother Eadulf!’ cried Fidelma. ‘Get those gates closed.’
She rushed forward herself to help but suddenly seemed to change her mind and ran on through the gates. Brother Madagan’s body lay only ten feet beyond.
‘Help me Eadulf, quickly!’ she called.

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