The Monk Who Vanished

Chapter Ten

There was no need to ask directions to the smithy’s forge for the heavy breath of the bellows and the ring of iron on iron could clearly be heard as Fidelma and Eadulf came to the group of houses which were spaced along a main street within sight of the abbey gates. The forge was stone built with the furnace constructed on large flags. In one of the flagstones there was a small hole through which a pipe directed the air-current from the bellows into the fire.

The wheezy breath of the smith’s apparatus was supplied by an impressive four chamber air pump. Eadulf had heard that such a large bellows existed but had never seen one. He had also heard that it gave a more uniform blast to the furnace than the normal two chamber device. It was obviously much harder to work for they saw the smith, sweating at the fire, assisted by a sturdy bellows blower whose job was to raise and depress end chambers by standing on two short boards and raising one foot at a time in the manner of someone walking slowly and deliberately. The faster he walked the quicker the bellows worked.

The smith was a well built, muscular man in his thirties, wearing leather trousers but no shirt with only a buckskin apron to protect him from the sparks. He was holding a red-hot piece of iron in a tennchair, a pair of tongs. In the other hand he wielded his hammer and turning to a large anvil he smote the iron with a thunderous noise before turning to a water trough called a telchuma and plunging the iron in.

The smith saw them approaching and paused, spitting into the hot coals of his forge so that there was a momentary sizzling sound.

‘Suibne, get me more wood charcoal,’ he ordered his assistant without taking his eyes off them.

The bellows pumper jumped down from the boards and disappeared into a shed.

The smith drew the back of his hand across his face, wiping away the sweat, as they halted before him.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, examining them each in turn. ‘Do you seek me out as a smith or do you seek me out as bó-aire of this community?’

The bó-aire was a local magistrate, a chieftain without land whose wealth had been initially judged by the number of cows he owned, hence he was called a ‘cow chief. Small communities, such as a township, were usually ruled by a bó-aire who owed his allegiance to a greater chieftain.

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel,’ Fidelma introduced herself. She was more formal with the man once she heard that he held rank. ‘What is your name?’

The smith straightened perceptibly. Who had not heard of the King’s sister? The chieftain to whom he owed allegiance was Fidelma’s own cousin, Finguine of Cnoc Aine.

‘I am called Nion, lady.’

Fidelma drew out the arrows from her marsupium. The one from the assassin’s quiver and the other, broken one she had taken from Mochta’s chamber.

‘Tell me what you make of these, Nion,’ she asked without explanation.

The smith wiped his hands on his apron and took the arrows from her hands and, holding them up, examined them carefully.

‘I am no fletcher, although I have made arrow heads before now. These are of competent workmanship. The head on this one is made of bronze and constructed, as you see, with a hollow cro …’

‘A what?’ demanded Eadulf, leaning forward.

‘A socket. See there where the wood of the shaft is inserted? These are especially fine for you see that the head is fixed by a tiny metal rivet.’

‘And where would you guess they were made?’ pressed Fidelma.

‘No need to guess,’ replied the smith with a smile. ‘See the flight? That bears the symbol of a fletcher of Cnoc Aine and you are in that territory, as you must know, lady.’

Fidelma smiled thinly. ‘And would you be able to point to such a craftsman, Nion?’

The smith gave an unexpected roar of laughter. ‘See my neighbour there …’ he said, pointing to a carpentry shop nearby. ‘He makes the shafts and constructs the flights, while I make the heads and fix them in place. This arrow is one of a batch I made not above a week ago. I recognise the metalworking. Why do you ask, lady?’ he added, returning the arrows to her.

His assistant returned and emptied a bag of charcoal on the furnace fire, poking it with an iron rod.

‘I would like to know something about the man to whom you sold these arrows.’

At once the smith’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘If you have nothing to hide, Nion, you will tell me. Remember that you are answering the questions of a dálaigh and I hold you to your position as magistrate of this town.’

Nion stared at her as if trying to gauge her intentions and then shrugged. ‘Then as bó-aire to dálaigh, I will answer. I do not know the man. I merely called him the Saigteóir because he looked and acted like a professional archer. He came to my forge more than a week ago and wanted me to produce two dozen arrows. He paid me well for the task. He collected them a few days later and that is all I know.’

Eadulf was disappointed but Fidelma did not give up.

‘Sometimes memories have to be teased out,’ she observed. ‘You say the man looked like a professional archer. Describe him.’

After some hesitation Nion the smith described the bowman whom Gionga had slain. It was a good description and there was no doubting the identification of the man.

‘You spoke to him. How did he sound?’

The smith rubbed his jaw and then his eyes brightened. ‘He spoke roughly, like any professional soldier but he was not of the warrior caste; not a man born into the nobility of the craft of arms.’

‘Did you not ask what he was doing here?’ intervened Eadulf.

‘No. Nor would I ask him. Better not to ask a warrior why he wants weapons unless he wants to volunteer such information.’

‘I can understand that,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘So he volunteered no information?’

The smith shook his head.

‘Did he have any companion with him?’

‘No.’

‘You seem certain of that. Did he ride a horse?’

‘Oh yes. He rode a chestnut mare. I noticed that for the beast’s rear shoes needed fixing. One had been struck loose by a stone. I sorted out that problem at once.’

‘Could you tell anything from the horse?’ Fidelma knew well enough that a professional smith should tell in what style a horse was shod, sometimes even to identifying the geographical location of the smith who did the work.

‘That it was last shoed in the north was obvious,’ the smith replied at once. ‘I have seen that style before and know it is used by the smiths of Clan Brasil. I could also tell that the animal had seen its best years. It was not the sort of animal that a warrior of status would ride, though it was a war horse.’

‘So what else did you discern?’

‘Nothing. What business was it of mine?’

‘You are the bó-aire,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘It is your responsibilityto be aware of what takes place in your territory. These arrows that you sold to this archer were used in an attempted assassination on my brother, the King, and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente. Have you not heard?’

Nion stared at her without speaking. It was obvious that the news shocked him.

‘I had no hand in this affair, lady,’ he said anxiously. ‘I merely made the arrows and sold them. I did not know who the man was …’

Fidelma raised her hand to quiet his outburst.

‘I tell you this only to show that sometimes these matters can be your business, magistrate of Imleach. Bearing this in mind, is there anything else that you should tell me about this archer?’

There was no doubt that Nion was trying his best to think now, and he raised one hand to the back of his head to rub it as an aid to the process.

‘I can add nothing further, lady. But, of course, if he were a stranger in the area, then this archer must have stayed a few days within this vicinity in order to wait for the arrows. Perhaps the inn where he stayed might have further knowledge?’

‘Where would that inn be?’

Nion gestured eloquently. ‘Assuming that he did not seek shelter in the abbey itself, there is only Cred’s inn down the street at the far end of the town. It has a reputation and is not licensed by me. That is the abbot’s wish, incidentally. He has tried to close it down on moral grounds. But it is the only inn within the town. I think this archer must have stayed there. If he did not, then there is no further help that I can offer.’

Fidelma thanked the smith and left him standing, hands on his hips, feet splayed apart, regarding her with a suspicious look as she walked away with Eadulf.

‘If the archer had had his horse shod by a smith in the territory of Clan Brasil,’ volunteered Eadulf reflectively, ‘then perhaps he knew Brother Mochta? Didn’t the abbot say he came from Clan Brasil?’

‘Well spotted, Eadulf. But though Mochta came from Clan Brasil and the archer’s horse was shod there, we have been told that the archer’s accent does not place him as a native from those northern lands.’

Fidelma was silent a minute as she considered the matter. ‘We still have to place Brother Mochta in a relationship with this archer, if, indeed, we can square this mystery of the tonsure.’

Eadulf groaned softly in despair. ‘These links are so obvious but they fall on that one mystery of the tonsure.’

They had been proceeding along the main street to the far end ofthe township. There was a complex of small buildings standing apart from the others. Fidelma paused.

‘This looks like Cred’s tavern.’ She gazed back down the street. ‘Well, it is sufficiently out of the way here for the archer to have stayed without the smith necessarily knowing if he came from here or not.’

‘You mean that you suspected the bó-aire of lying?’

‘Not really,’ Fidelma replied. ‘But it is wise to be as precise as possible and double-check all the facts. Let us go in and speak with this Cred who seems so disapproved of in this community.’

Fidelma started forward but Eadulf held her back a moment, pointing up at the tavern sign. It was a muscular smith, swinging his hammer on an anvil.

‘Isn’t that a coincidence?’ he asked.

‘Not really,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘Creidne Cred was the divine artificer of the ancient gods of Ireland who worked in bronze, brass and gold. He was the one who made hilts for swords, rivets for spears and bosses and rims for shields during the war between the pagan gods and their enemies.’

‘Then one more thing, before we pass in. I heard both the abbot and the bó-aire say that this place was not licensed. What does that mean?’

‘It would appear to be a tavern which also brews its own ales but it is not a lawful one, what we call dligtech.’

‘Then surely the bó-aire, as the local law officer, can close it down?’

Fidelma shook her head with a smile. ‘It does not mean that this tavern is contrary to law but merely that the law takes no cognisance of it. What this means is, if a question of dispute arises, the person going into an unlawful tavern must be made aware of it for he has no legal grounds for taking action.’

‘I am not sure that I understand,’ replied Eadulf.

‘A lawful tavern keeper must pass three strict tests regarding the quality of the drink he serves. If he serves bad ale he can be challenged under law. In an unlawful house, if a person complains about the quality of the ale, then he cannot demand recompense under the law. Now, enough, let’s find this Cred.’

She passed into the tavern. The room seemed deserted except for two men in a corner drinking ale. They were roughly dressed, bearded men, who had the appearance of labourers. They glanced at Fidelma and Eadulf indifferently and carried on with their drinking and their soft-toned conversation.

There was a movement behind a curtained doorway which causedthem to turn and the curtain swung back to reveal a woman of ample proportions. She had obviously seen better days. She came forward eagerly but her face fell when she saw the nature of their apparel.

‘The abbey has better accommodation for the religious,’ she began uncompromisingly. ‘You will find this place a little too crude for the likes of the well bred and pious people.’

One of the two men chuckled wheezily in appreciation at what he considered was the woman’s wit.

‘We do not seek accommodation,’ Eadulf replied immediately and with a stern voice. ‘We seek some information.’

The woman sniffed and folded her flabby arms across her generous bosom. ‘Why seek information here?’

‘Because we believe that you can supply it,’ replied Eadulf uncompromisingly.

‘Information comes expensive, especially to a foreign cleric,’ the woman replied, hearing Eadulf’s accent. Her eyes examined him speculatively as if wondering how much he carried with him.

‘Then you will provide the information to me,’ Fidelma said quietly.

The woman’s eyes narrowed as they swung round on her.

Fidelma and Eadulf were aware that the two men had stopped their muttered conversation over their drinks and had turned to examine them without disguising the curiosity on their faces.

‘Perhaps I do not want to provide any information, even if I have it.’ The woman was implacable.

‘Perhaps,’ smiled Fidelma gently. ‘But withholding evidence from a dálaigh can be a serious matter.’

The woman’s eyes narrowed further. The corners of her mouth turned down. There was a tension in the room and the two men returned to their drinks but from their attitudes they remained acutely aware of the conversation of their hostess.

‘Where is the dálaigh who demands evidence of me?’ sneered the buxom woman.

‘I am here,’ Fidelma announced softly. ‘And I presume that you are Cred, the owner of this unlicensed inn?’

The woman let her arms drop to her side. Various expressions chased one another across her face as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether Fidelma was in earnest or not.

The woman flushed in annoyance. ‘I am the tavern keeper, Cred. I keep a good, respectable inn, licensed or not.’

‘That is a matter between you and your bó-aire. I need information. About a week ago there was a man passing through this township. He had the appearance of a professional archer and could not be mistakenfor anything else. He rode a chestnut mare with a loose shoe and so had business at the smith’s forge.’

Fidelma was aware that the two men had not resumed their conversation and were listening intently to what she was saying. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a third man enter the room from the back of the inn. She did not turn to examine him closely because she was too intent on gazing directly into the face of the hostess of the inn so that she could gauge her reactions. Yet she was aware that the third man had halted and was staring across the room towards them.

The woman, Cred, still stared defiantly back at Fidelma. ‘How do I know that you are a dálaigh?’ she countered. ‘I do not have to answer questions from any slip of a girl — religieuse or not.’

Fidelma reached under her habit and took out a cross on a golden chain. Its symbolism was well known throughout Muman. The Order of the Golden Chain was a venerable Muman nobiliary fraternity that had sprung from membership of the ancient elite warrior guards of the Kings of Cashel. The honour was in the personal presentation of the Eóghanacht kings. Fidelma’s brother had bestowed the honour on her because of her services to the kingdom. Cred’s eyes bulged a little as she recognised it.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, but in gentler, more complaisant tones.

‘I am …’ she began.

‘Fidelma of Cashel!’ The words came from the third man in a hushed breath.

The fat woman’s jaw sagged.

Fidelma allowed herself to glance at the man. He was dressed as the other two men, in rough working clothes. His weatherbeaten features spoke of an outdoor life. He jerked his head in a curious obeisance towards her.

‘I am from Cashel, too, lady. I work for …’

Fidelma’s thoughts had moved rapidly. ‘For Samradan the merchant? You three men are his drivers?’

The man was nodding eagerly. ‘That is so, lady.’ He turned to the hostess and added quickly: ‘Fidelma of Cashel is not only a dálaigh but sister of the King.’

Cred reluctantly bowed her head. ‘Forgive me, lady. I thought …’

‘You thought that you would help me by answering my questions,’ Fidelma cut in sharply, with a dismissive nod towards the man who had identified her. He moved to join his companions in their hurried, whispered conversation, casting surreptitious glances in her direction.

‘I … yes … Yes. The Saigteóir, we called him. He stayed two orthree nights a week ago. A tall man with fair hair. He spoke with a terse accent and invited no questions. He carried a long bow and no other weapon.’

The woman’s words came out in a rush.

‘I see. Did you gather anything else about him?’

Cred shook her head almost violently. ‘As I say, he was a man not given to talk,’ she said. ‘His words were chosen with care and no more than would convey his wants which were as few as his words.’

‘He had business at the smith’s?’

‘Even as you said. His horse had a loose shoe and I think he bought arrows from the smith as well, for when he arrived he had few arrows in his quiver but when he left here his quiver was full.’

‘You have a keen eye, Cred,’ Fidelma commented.

‘One has to have a keen eye in this business, lady. Guests can come and go leaving the innkeeper without payment. One has to be careful.’

‘He paid his dues?’

‘Oh yes. He seemed to have enough money. In fact, he had plenty of gold and silver coins with him.’

‘Did he visit anywhere else? The abbey for example?’ queried Eadulf.

The woman grunted wheezily. It was meant as a chuckle. ‘He was not the type to haunt abbeys or churches. No. He had the look of death on him.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘The look of death? Was he ill?’

Cred looked at him as if he were a simpleton. ‘Some go to battle because there is no other choice,’ she deigned to explain. ‘Others go and find they have an affinity for death and destruction and so roam the country selling their warrior skills to whoever will pay them to pursue the one thing they have grown to like — the inflicting of death and destruction on others. They become death itself. The Saigteóir had the pale hue of death on him. He was without emotion, without a soul.’

To their surprise the fat innkeeper genuflected.

‘I feel that in such men, their souls are already dead and they follow the blood and carnage merely waiting for their time to come.’

‘So he did not spend any time at the abbey?’ insisted Eadulf. ‘If not there, where else? If he were here two or three days, where else? This town is not so large that he would not be noticed.’

‘He did not spend much time in the town,’ the woman replied.

‘You sound certain,’ Fidelma observed.

‘Certain for the very reason that you have already stated. He atehere in the evening and slept here at night. But he left just after dawn and did not come back until the late afternoon. One of my neighbours saw him riding in the hills just to the south after his horse had been re-shod.’

‘What’s there? A farm? A tavern?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Nothing. Perhaps he was merely hunting.’

‘And in the days he was here he never spoke his name or mentioned anything about himself?’

‘And none dared asked him,’ confirmed the woman.

Fidelma suppressed a sigh of frustration that she had learnt so little. ‘I am obliged to you, Cred.’

‘Has he broken the law? What has he done?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Innkeepers like a fine tale to tell of those who have slept under their roofs.’

Fidelma regarded her for a moment and then said quietly: ‘He has achieved what you thought he was waiting to achieve.’

The innkeeper looked puzzled.

It was Eadulf who explained in a quiet tone. ‘He has achieved the death which you said that he was waiting for.’

Fidelma turned to the three drivers who were now trying to avoid her gaze. ‘A pleasant journey to you on the road to the land of the Arada Cliach.’

The man who had identified her frowned. ‘What makes you think we are going there, lady?’

‘Samradan told me.’

The three exchanged glances and then their spokesman forced a nervous smile. ‘Just so, lady. A pleasant journey to you.’

They left the inn of the ‘artificer of the gods’ and walked slowly back down the street in the direction of the abbey.

‘Well,’ observed Eadulf, ‘we have not learnt anything of significance about this archer. In fact, we do not appear to have learnt anything of significance at all.’

He was surprised when Fidelma reached out a hand to his elbow and propelled him to a corner of a building away from the main road.

‘On the contrary, I think we have learnt a great deal,’ she replied after she had glanced up the street behind them. ‘We will wait here a moment.’

Eadulf was astonished at her behaviour.

Fidelma took pity on him. ‘We have learnt that he was a professional archer but not of the warrior caste. So he was no noble. We have learnt he had had his horse shod in Clan Brasil. We have learnt where he obtained his arrows. We have learnt that he had a chestnut mare. We have learnt that he seemed to have plenty of money.We have learnt that he spent a few days riding in the hills south of here.’

Eadulf mentally ticked off the points. ‘But that is little enough. We more or less knew this much when we left Cashel?’

Fidelma raised her eyes to the heavens and gestured as if in despair. ‘Think, Eadulf! There are three important things that we have learnt about this archer. Two of those things raise important questions which we must resolve.’

‘You mean, where did he go to in the southern hills?’

‘That stands investigation, yes. But what else have we learnt?’

Eadulf hit his forehead with his clenched fist. ‘Of course! Where is his chestnut mare? He was without a horse when he was killed.’

Fidelma smiled and suppressed an exasperated sigh. ‘You are the most inconsistent person I know. Sometimes you point to the most obvious point that we have all overlooked. Other times you overlook the obvious which everyone else has accepted. You really are frustrating, Eadulf. Yes, I mean the matter of the archer’s mare. Where is it? It seems that there was another accomplice waiting with the horses of both assassins. This accomplice rode off with the horses to hide them once he knew that the archer and his friend had been killed by Gionga.’

‘Which means there is still a third assassin in Cashel?’

‘Perhaps more. How many are in this plot? And what of the other point we have learnt?’ pressed Fidelma.

Eadulf thought hard but could not identify any other point. Fidelma was patient.

‘The archer and his friend had hardly any money on them when they were killed. Cred, the innkeeper, tells us that the archer was not lacking in money. Where did he keep it?’ she suggested at last.

Eadulf pursed his lips, annoyed with himself for missing the obvious. ‘There is another question,’ he said. ‘Why are we waiting here?’

Fidelma smiled mysteriously and put her head around the corner of the building again to glance up the street. ‘The answer is on its way.’

At that moment, one of the drivers from Cred’s tavern, the one from Cashel who had recognised her, came hurrying along the street, gazing about him as if looking for something.

‘A person can signal with his eyes as well as his hands and mouth,’ Fidelma muttered to Eadulf.

The driver came abreast of them and Fidelma coughed. He gave a startled glance in their direction. Then, without acknowledging them, he dropped to one knee and began to fiddle with his boot.

‘Pretend that you are not talking with me,’ he whispered sibilantly, his eyes on his boot. ‘There are eyes and ears everywhere.’

‘What do you want with us,’ asked Fidelma, turning her head as if she were still talking to Eadulf.

‘I cannot discuss that here. Do you know the Well at Gurteen, the little tilled field?’

‘No.’

‘It is less than a mile north-east from this point. You proceed along a pathway towards the yew woods and come to a field bordered by a drystone wall. The well is just beyond the wall. You cannot miss it.’

‘We can find it.’

‘Be there at dusk and we shall speak. Tell no one about this meeting. It is dangerous for all of us.’

Then the driver rose and ambled off as if he had simply been adjusting his boot.

Eadulf exchanged a glance with Fidelma.

‘A trap?’ suggested Eadulf.

‘But why would the driver want to lure us into a trap?’

‘He and his friends might think we know more than we actually do,’ Eadulf suggested.

Fidelma considered this for a moment, head to one side, pondering. ‘No, I don’t think so. His fear of being seen talking with us was genuine enough.’

‘Well, I think it is dangerous to go … and at dusk no less. It is a trap for the fox.’

Fidelma grinned. ‘The fox never found a better messenger than myself,’ she replied.

Eadulf groaned in impatience at another of Fidelma’s axioms.

‘Don’t you have another proverb in this land — do not show your teeth until you can bite?’ he demanded sarcastically.

Fidelma chuckled. ‘Well said, Eadulf. You are learning. But tonight at dusk we shall be at the Well at Gurteen.’