The Monk Who Vanished (26 page)

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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‘Who are you?’ he cried, his voice cracking with fear.

Eadulf halted with an expression of utter amazement on his features.

Fidelma pushed by Eadulf and fought to find her voice. ‘Have no fear, Brother Mochta. I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

The rotund religieux visibly relaxed and, with a sigh, fell back on his palliasse.

Eadulf continued to stare at the recumbent form in fearful astonishment. ‘But you are dead!’ he blurted.

The round-faced man raised himself again on one elbow. Although there was pain on his face, he was clearly amused.

‘I would disagree with you, Brother Saxon,’ he replied. His tone was droll. ‘But if you can prove it, I will accept your judgement. God’s truth, I feel near enough to death not to argue.’

Eadulf moved forward and stared down, examining the man’s features carefully.

It was true. There could be no doubt about it. The man lying before him, perched on one elbow, grinning up at him, was the same moon-faced man whom he had last seen dead in the mortuary of Cashel. It was the same man, even to the tattoo of the bird which Eadulf now identified on the injured man’s left forearm.

Chapter Eighteen

Fidelma seated herself by the man on the palliasse. She did not seem unduly surprised at the appearance of the moon-faced religieux who had, apparently, last been seen by them dead in the apothecary of Brother Conchobar of Cashel.

‘How bad are your wounds, Brother Mochta?’ she inquired with some solicitude.

‘Painful still but I am told they will heal,’ replied the man.

‘Told by Brother Bardán, of course?’

The man grimaced in an affirmative gesture.

Eadulf could not take his eyes from the man whose features did not deviate in one jot from the dead assassin, except … Eadulf could not quite place it. There was something else, of course. This man still wore the Irish tonsure of St John, his forehead shaved back to a line from ear to ear. But there was another indefinable difference.

‘I presume that Brother Bardan has been treating your injuries while you have been hiding here? You trusted no one?’

‘It is hard to trust anyone, especially if you have been betrayed by someone whom you have known all your life; flesh and blood that you have grown up with. Once betrayed by your own kin, how can you trust anyone else?’

Fidelma motioned to Eadulf to sit down. Reluctantly, Eadulf did so, still unable to take his eyes from the portly monk.

‘You are referring to your twin brother, of course?’ Fidelma asked.

‘Of course.’

Eadulf surprise became apparent on his features. ‘His twin brother?’ He echoed stupidly.

Brother Mochta nodded sadly. ‘My twin brother! You do not have to mince words with me, Sister. Brother Bardan told me how he was killed in Cashel. Yes, he was my twin brother, Baoill.’

‘I had begun to suspect as much,’ Fidelma said with little satisfaction in her voice. ‘One person cannot be in two places nor wear two distinctive tonsures. The answer to that conundrum could only be that there must be two people. How can two people look so exactly alike?
It can only be that they are related, siblings, no less. And, even further, it can only be that they are twins.’

Brother Mochta nodded morosely. ‘Identical twins,’ he agreed. ‘How did you find me here? I suppose Bardan told you where I was? We talked about it yesterday, after the attack. He was beginning to be confident that we could trust you. But then he saw you being friendly with the Uí Fidgente lawyer, Solam. Solam has been keen to discover my whereabouts.’

‘Is that when Bardán identified some remains as being you?’ asked Fidelma.

‘I did not like that idea but Bardan felt it was the only way to stop Solam continuing to search for me. To buy us some time to discuss what best we should do.’

‘Perhaps you had better tell us in your own words what happened to bring you to this state,’ she invited.

Brother Mochta looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Can I trust you?’

‘I cannot answer that,’ replied Fidelma. ‘All I can tell you is that I am Colgú’s sister and my loyalty is to Muman. I am a
dálaigh
and took an oath to uphold the law above all things. If that is not sufficient for you to trust me, then I can add nothing further.’

Brother Mochta compressed his lips for a moment in silence as if struggling to make up his mind.

‘How much of the story do you know?’ he finally asked. Fidelma shrugged. ‘Little enough. I know that you faked your disappearance, taking most of the Holy Relics with you. I presumed that your brother managed to steal one of the items, Ailbe’s crucifix, in which struggle you probably received your injury. Not trusting anyone, you hid here and Brother Bardan kept you supplied with food and medicine. Where is he now, by the way?’

Brother Mochta was puzzled.

‘Brother Bardan? I have not seen him since last night? Didn’t he send you here?’

Fidelma leant forward, eyes narrowed. There was an edge to her voice.

‘Are you saying that he has not been here at all this morning?’

The injured monk shook his head. ‘I am expecting him sometime for we decided last night that our best course of action was to seek protection, especially after the attack.’

‘What manner of protection?’

‘Bardán decided to go to the Prince of Cnoc Aine and tell him the story. We knew that Finguine was a friend to the abbey and a loyal cousin to the King. We agreed to lay the matter before him
and Finguine could then make the decision as to whether to tell you. When you came, just now, I thought that Finguine or Bardán had sent you …’ He broke off, looking disturbed. ‘How did you find me?’ he insisted.

‘With luck,’ muttered Eadulf, still perplexed by the whole matter.

‘Why didn’t you confide in me and tell me that you were safe as soon as I came to the abbey?’ demanded Fidelma, annoyed that so much time had been lost by the subterfuge.

Brother Mochta gave a tight smile. There was some pain in it and he eased his left leg carefully to take some pressure from his wound.

‘We do not know you to trust you, Sister. We did not know who were our friends and who were our enemies.’

‘I am the King of Cashel’s sister,’ Fidelma repeated.

‘But a sister who has been a long time away from the kingdom and

…’ Brother Mochta glanced towards Eadulf. ‘There is also the matter of keeping company with a cleric of the Roman order.’

Eadulf flushed angrily. ‘Is that a disqualification in this land?’

‘It is a fact that those who argue for the Rule of Rome are not always friends to those of us who follow the ways of our fathers.’

‘Do you or Bardán really suspect that I could betray my brother and this kingdom?’ interrupted Fidelma.

‘Blood is no cement for unity of purpose,’ replied Mochta calmly. ‘I have learnt that the hard way.’

‘Perhaps you are right. Why not trust Abbot Ségdae who would have been the natural support to turn to in time of crisis!’

‘The Father Abbot is an honourable man. He would not have approved of my plan to hide the Holy Relics. He would have maintained them in the chapel, believing them to be safe. But then what? That would practically invite the attack on the abbey. Why do you think that the raiders did not attack the abbey itself? Because they found out that the Holy Relics were not there.’

‘You know who the raiders were?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘I have a good idea.’

‘Very well. Let’s hear your story from the beginning,’ invited Fidelma. ‘Your brother, Baoill, was part of a conspiracy to bring down the Royal House of Cashel. How did this come about?’

Brother Mochta lay back and tried to gather his thoughts.

‘It is best that I start at the beginning. I was born in the territory of Clan Brasil …’

‘That we already know,’ Eadulf interrupted only to be met with a frown of irritation from Fidelma.

‘Go on, Mochta,’ she invited.

‘I am a northerner, therefore. My brother and I were, as you realise,
identical twins. We were so alike that no one could recognise us apart; not even our mother at times. We grew up as wild and rebellious youths. When we were approaching the age of choice, our distracted father paid a wandering tattooist to inscribe an emblem on our forearms so that he might tell us apart. We bribed the tattooist to place exactly the same emblem on both our left forearms. A bird of prey …’

‘A buzzard,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘I recognise it. What made you choose that particular bird?’

Mochta grimaced. ‘Because it is only found on our wild north-east coast and it was familiar with the tattooist who also came from that area. There was no other reason.’

‘I see. Continue.’

‘Our father was angry with us when he discovered our prank. In fact, he had been angry with our growing youthful rebelliousness and high spirits for some time. When the time came, and we reached the age of choice, he told us that the choice before us was a simple one. We could choose what to do in life so long as we both left home and persecuted him no more.’

‘So you went into the religious life,’ Eadulf prompted when the monk paused, reflecting. ‘A strange sort of life for such high-spirited youths. Surely there were other occupations more suited?’

‘Our high spirits were damped when the door of our father’s house shut against us, Brother Saxon. Somehow we both decided to enter the abbey of Armagh, which is in our clan lands where Patrick …’

‘We know of the history of Armagh,’ Fidelma assured him shortly.

‘Well, we both trained as
scriptors
there. Then we began to grow apart. My brother decided to follow the Rule of Rome which is encouraged at Armagh. I felt our traditional ways were better and so I rebelled against Armagh and adopted the tonsure of St John. I had a fair reputation for my penmanship and so I bade farewell to my brother and wandered for a while, being welcomed at several abbeys and even at chiefly courts who were in need of a scribe. That is how I eventually arrived in this kingdom and joined the community of Imleach. That was ten years ago.’

‘Did you keep in touch with your brother during that time?’ Mochta shook his head. ‘Once or twice only. Through him I learnt that our parents had died. We had an older brother who took over their farm. But we had all became strangers to one another.’

‘And you saw no more of your brother until recently?’

‘That is right. Baoill had, it seems, become a more fanatic adherent of Rome than ever, which is to be understood for Ultan, the Comarb
of Patrick, his abbot and bishop of Armagh, is in favour of extending the rule through all the five kingdoms.’

Fidelma made an affirmative gesture. ‘I know of Ultán’s ambition to unite all the churches in the five kingdoms in the manner of Rome, with one central primacy and rule. It will never work here because it is against our culture.’ She paused and was apologetic. ‘I take it that you disagreed with your brother’s views?’

‘Even as you say, Sister. I believe in the traditions of our people and not in these new ideas that spring from foreign places.’

‘So how did you come to meet your brother again?’

‘As you may know, from being a
scriptor
I had risen to become the Keeper of the Holy Relics of Ailbe. There is no need to tell you what those Relics symbolise in this kingdom?’

‘No need at all,’ agreed Fidelma gravely.

‘Well, a week or two ago, a man came to the abbey and asked to see me. He looked like a professional warrior. Tall, with long fair hair and …’

‘Armed with a bow?’ Eadulf chimed in. ‘An archer?’

Mochta nodded. ‘Yes. He had the appearance of a professional archer. He told me that he had a message from my brother, Baoill, who wanted to meet me. He stressed that because of certain matters, which he left unexplained, Baoill wanted to meet me alone and in secret. The archer was staying in the inn run by Cred. Intrigued by this approach, I went to Cred’s inn. She opened the door and, thankfully, I did not see anyone else. For the Father Abbot frowned on that place. His anger would have been great if he knew that I was visiting anyone there.’

‘Go on.’

‘Cred told me that the archer was waiting for me in an upstairs room. And so was my brother, Baoill. After we had exchanged greetings, as only two brothers who had not seen each other for a long time could do, we fell to talking politics … church politics mostly. It was then that I became aware of his views. Once he knew mine, he suddenly avoided the subject. He was a clever man, that brother of mine.

‘He turned the conversation by saying that he had heard that I was one of the scribes working on the ‘Annals of Imleach’. I confirmed that I was. He asked me what date had I given to the foundation of Armagh. I told him that its foundation I had accorded to the year of Our Lord Four Hundred and Forty-Four. He then asked, on what date I had placed the repose of Patrick. So I told him the Year of our Lord Four Hundred and Fifty-Two. These dates were not in dispute.

‘It was when he started to ask about the dates accorded to St Ailbe and the foundation of Imleach that I saw what he was after. He told
me that the northern scribes were placing those dates nearly a hundred years after Patrick.’

‘I saw the notes you had made on the subject for the “Annals”,’ Fidelma said. She drew the vellum out of her
marsupium.
Mochta glanced at it and nodded.

‘I stand by what I say. When I told Baoill that it was absurd for Ailbe’s dates to be made so much later because he preached the Faith in Muman before Patrick and, indeed, had jointly baptised the King of Muman - your own ancestor Oenghus Nad Froích - with Patrick at Cashel, Baoill began to argue with me again.’

‘But what does this bickering about dates mean?’ demanded Eadulf, trying to follow but succeeding only in being bewildered.

‘I understood from my brother that he was trying to persuade me to record Ailbe as someone who came after Patrick. To state that Ailbe and his followers founded Imleach after Armagh had been established. He even wanted me to assert that Ailbe should not be regarded as patron of Muman and that Cashel be accorded the title “The Rock of Patrick”. He wanted my writing to support the claims that Armagh had the historical right to claim to be the primacy of the Faith among all the five kingdoms.’

The Monk Who Vanished (26 page)

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