The Monk Who Vanished (17 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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Realising what she intended, he went after her. They grabbed Brother Madagan unceremoniously between them, lifting him by the shoulders of his clothes and dragged him back within the gates just as the Brothers had recovered sufficiently to help swing the gates closed. They paused inside as the bolts were pushed home.
Fidelma was soon active again.
‘Bind that warrior!’ she cried to the Brothers who now stood about in shameful consternation that they had not acted before. ‘Disarm and bind him so he does no further harm.’
She glanced down at Brother Madagan. Eadulf was by his side, examining him.
‘He’s still alive,’ he announced with satisfaction. ‘The wound is not bad at all. So far as I can see, he only received the flat of the sword on his skull. The blood on his forehead is from a slight nick from the sword’s edge. He should recover consciousness soon.’
Fidelma glanced anxiously at Eadulf for there was blood on his habit where the warrior had pricked him with his sword point. ‘And yourself?’ she asked quickly.
Eadulf grinned and automatically raised a hand to his shoulder. ‘I have survived worse things. It was no more than a needle prick. The weight of the man was far worse when he fell on me. I might be stiff for a while.’
Fidelma was already moving to the crumpled body of the woman who was still stretched on the cobbles.
‘It is the innkeeper!’ Fidelma had recognised Cred under the bloodstained mask of her face. ‘By the Faith!’ she cried, ‘I think she still breathes.’
She bent and held up the woman’s head.
Eadulf looked quickly at the wound and then at Fidelma. He shook his head slowly. The injury placed the woman beyond any temporal help.
At that moment, Cred’s eyes opened. There was fear in them.
‘Hush!’ Fidelma spoke gently. ‘You are among friends.’
Cred groaned and rolled her eyes. She had difficulty in speaking. ‘I … I know … more …’ she gasped.
Eadulf turned to where one of the Brothers was waiting. ‘Fetch water!’ he snapped.
The man hurried off immediately.
‘Rest,’ Fidelma told Cred. ‘We will take care of you. Lie still.’
‘Enemies …’ gasped Cred. ‘I heard the archer speak. Enemies … the enemy is in Cashel. The Prince …’
Her head lolled back, though her eyes remained wide open.
Eadulf genuflected. He had seen enough death to know that there was an end to the tavern keeper’s life.
Fidelma stayed still a moment, frowning.
The monk who had been sent for the water returned with it and so Eadulf rose and set about reviving Brother Madagan. The steward of the abbey came round slowly.
Eadulf turned to the group of young brethren now standing like sheep awaiting someone’s orders.
‘Does Brother Madagan have an assistant?’ he demanded. ‘Is there an assistant steward of the abbey?’
There was a muttering and shuffling of feet.
‘It would have been Brother Mochta,’ offered one young man. ‘I wouldn’t know now.’
‘Well, until we find out, I shall take charge,’ Eadulf announced. ‘I want one of you to assist Brother Madagan to his chamber. He has had a nasty blow on the head. Get the apothecary. I want volunteers to take the bodies of Cred and Brother Daig to the mortuary and have this blood cleansed from the flagstones.’
‘Leave it to me, Brother Saxon,’ said one of the monks. ‘But what shall I do with the warrior?’
Eadulf turned towards the raider.
The man was now securely trussed up but had recovered consciousness. He was lying with his back against the wall secured by his feet, his hands tied behind his back. He was testing his bonds but ceased as Eadulf approached him.
‘You will wish that you had killed me, Brother,’ he snarled between clenched teeth.
‘You might wish that I had, my vicious friend,’ returned Eadulf grimly. ‘I would think your murderous friends out there will not think much of you, allowing yourself to be disarmed and captured by a woman. Indeed, an unarmed woman of the Faith who knocked you unconscious. What an epitaph for a warrior such as yourself.
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam,
eh? Victory or death is the warrior’s motto. But you managed to achieve neither.’
The warrior screwed up his mouth and tried to spit at Eadulf.
Eadulf smiled broadly and turned back to the helpful young monk who was waiting his orders.
‘Leave our valiant warrior where he has fallen, Brother … ?’
‘Brother Tomar.’
‘Well, Brother Tomar, leave him there and get on with the other tasks first.’
Eadulf went across to Fidelma, who was still standing by Cred’s s body, looking down thoughtfully.
‘Do you know, I believe that Cred was not running to the abbey to seek shelter,’ she said, raising her eyes to his. ‘I think she might have been running here to see me.’ She sighed, then said: ‘Did the warrior tell you anything?’
‘Nothing. He has not identified himself.’
‘Well, plenty of time to question him later.’
Fidelma turned for the watch-tower. ‘Let us see what is happening out there first. If these warriors are going to attack the abbey, they appear to be delaying it. I find that puzzling. It is nearly dawn now.’
They returned to the roof of the tower and gazed out across the square towards the town. The buildings were still on fire but the blaze was not so intense as it had been earlier. Columns of black smoke were arising. What caught Fidelma’s attention immediately was the sight of the remains of the great yew-tree. Part of the trunk had been cut through and then ropes had obviously been fastened to it for it had been pulled over, causing a splintering. The severed tree had then been set alight.
Fidelma closed her eyes in anguish.
‘Never in over sixteen centuries since Eber Fion set up the yew as symbol of our fortunes has this ever happened,’ she said softly.
She frowned suddenly. She realised from the movements around the town that groups of raiders were reorganising themselves.
Fidelma also realised that the bell of the abbey was still clanging frantically. Indeed, it had never ceased. It was strange how she could have grown so used to the noise that she had not even noticed its continuing clamour.
‘Let that noise be stopped,’ she instructed Eadulf. ‘If no one has heard it by now and come to our aid, no one will.’
‘If I can find that young Brother Tomar he can see to it.’
He was about to go down the stairs when Fidelma stayed him.
‘Wait! There is a movement in the woods to the south. I think the raiders are gathering for their attack on the abbey at last!’
Eadulf came forward and followed her directions.
‘We will have no form of defence. If they can cut down that yew and destroy it in so short a time, then their axe-men would be able to break through the oak gates of the abbey within minutes.’
Fidelma reluctantly had to admit that Eadulf was right. ‘We might be able to negotiate with them,’ she said, but without conviction.
Eadulf said nothing but let his gaze sweep across the burning township and the remnants of the great yew-tree. With dawn casting its grey light across the hills they could see bodies scattered in profusion.
The youthful Brother Tomar came hurrying up the steps to join them.
‘I have done everything that you have asked, Brother Saxon,’ he told Eadulf. ‘Brother Madagan has recovered consciousness but is weak. Abbot Segdae has also recovered and is trying to organise the brethren to face our enemies with more discipline.’ He glanced rather shame-faced at Fidelma. ‘We did not acquit ourselves well at the gate when the warrior came, Sister. For that I must apologise.’
Fidelma was forgiving. ‘You are Brothers of the Faith and not warriors. There is no blame on you.’
She was still peering anxiously southward where she had detected the movement of a body of horsemen.
Brother Tomar followed her gaze.
‘Are they massing to attack the abbey?’ he whispered anxiously.
‘I fear so.’
‘I’d better warn the others.’
Fidelma gestured negatively. ‘To what purpose? There is no way to defend the abbey.’
‘But there might be a way of evacuating the Sisters of our order, at least. I have heard the abbot once speak of a secret passageway that leads into the nearby hills.’
‘A passageway? Then go; speak with Abbot Segdae at once. If we can evacuate some of the members of the abbey before these barbarians break in …’
Brother Tomar had already left before she had finished speaking. Eadulf now touched Fidelma on the arm and pointed silently. She followed his gesture and saw, at the north end of the burning town, a band of attackers riding away in the opposite direction to the oncoming column of horsemen.
‘Some of the attackers are leaving,’ he observed with curiosity. ‘Why?’
Fidelma turned from the column of disappearing attackers to look southwards again. The movement of horses she had seen in the dim early light had been revealed more fully as the tip of the sun broke across the top of the eastern hills, flooding the forest area with light. A body of twenty or thirty horsemen had emerged. She could see a fluttering banner among them.
It was a royal stag on a blue background.
‘That’s a Eóghanacht banner!’ she gasped.
The horsemen were galloping across the plain towards the abbey.
Fidelma turned to Eadulf. There was relief suddenly on her face. ‘I believe that they are men from Cnoc Aine,’ she said, excitement in her voice. ‘They must have come in answer to the tolling of the abbey bell.’
‘It would make sense as to why the attackers are leaving so hurriedly.’
‘Let us go down and tell the others.’
At the foot of the tower they found Brother Tomar and Abbot Ségdae. He looked slightly strained and pale and there was a bluish lump on his forehead but he seemed in control again. A trumpet note was echoing in the air as the column of horsemen approached the abbey. Abbot Ségdae recognised it. Fidelma did not have to explain.
‘Deo gratias!’
breathed the abbot thankfully. ‘We are saved! Quick, Brother Tomar, open the gates. The men of Cnoc Aine have arrived to give us aid.’
As the abbey gate swung open, the column of horsemen came to a halt in front of them. They were led by a young, good-looking, dark-haired warrior, richly clad and equipped for battle. He was evenly featured, with curly close-cropped red hair and dark eyes. He wore a blue woollen cloak fixed at the shoulder with a silver brooch. It was quite distinctive, wrought in the shape of a solar symbol with semi-precious garnets on each of the three radiating arms.
His eyes fell on Fidelma as she emerged through the gates, with the others, to greet them. His features split into a broad smile.
‘Lamh laidir abú!
’ he cried, raising a clenched fist in greeting.
Eadulf had been long enough in Muman to recognise the battle cry of the Eóghanacht. A strong hand to victory!
‘You are welcome, cousin Finguine,’ Fidelma replied, also raising her clenched fist in greeting.
The young man leapt from his horse and embraced his cousin. Then he stood back and gazed around in dismay.
‘But I have arrived late rather than early,’ he said in disappointment. ‘Thank God that He has cast His mantel of protection over you, cousin.’
‘The raiders left riding towards the north only minutes ago,’ Eadulf offered.
‘We saw them,’ the Prince of Cnoc Aine nodded, glancing at him and observing his Saxon accent and tonsure. ‘My
tanist
and half of my men have already started in pursuit. Who were they? Uí Fidgente?’
Fidelma had to admit that it was a logical assumption. It was in
this very area, indeed, at Finguine’s very capital at Cnoc Aine, that the last great battle had been fought with the Uí Fidgente scarcely a year before.
‘It is hard to say, but the Prince of the Uí Fidgente is at Cashel, supposedly engaged in peace talks with my brother.’
‘So I have heard,’ observed Finguine dryly. His expression conveyed how much he distrusted such an event. But now he turned to the Abbot Segdae, noting his bruise. ‘Are you badly hurt, Father Abbot?’
Ségdae shook his head as he greeted the youthful Prince. ‘A bruise, that’s all.’
‘Has harm come to any other of the brethren? Are you all well?’
‘The most harm has been done to the township,’ replied the abbot, his face still anguished. ‘We have suffered one Brother killed and one bruised, like myself. But there must be many dead in the township. And, look …’
Finguine followed his gaze as did everyone else.
‘The sacred yew-tree of our race — destroyed!’ cried Finguine, his voice a cross between horror and rage. ‘There will be much blood to pay for this. This is an insult to all Eóghanacht. It will mean war.’

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