The Monk Who Vanished

Chapter Eight

Brother Eadulf stretched himself luxuriously in his chair before the glowing fire in the private chamber of the Abbot of Imleach. He still felt sore and uncomfortable. Eadulf did not like arduous journeys and even though the trip from Cashel to Imleach had been comparatively short it had certainly not been easy. He sipped with relish at the goblet of mulled red wine which the Abbot Segdae had provided. Eadulf sniffed the aromatic odours of the wine in appreciation. Whoever bought the wine for the abbey had good taste.

Facing him, on the opposite side of the large stone fireplace, sat Fidelma. Unlike Eadulf, she had not touched her wine but was sitting slightly forward in her chair, hands in her lap, the wine on a table by her side. She was gazing towards the dancing sparks on the burning logs as if deep in meditation. The elderly abbot had seated himself between them, directly in front of the fire.

‘I prayed for a miracle, Fidelma, and then I was told you were at the abbey gates.’

Fidelma raised herself from her thoughts.

‘I sympathise with your predicament, Segdae,’ she said at last. It was the first comment she had made since Abbot Segdae had explained to her and Eadulf about the disappearance of the Relics of St Ailbe with their keeper, Brother Mochta. Although she had never seen the Relics herself it was impossible to be unaware of their significance. ‘But my first priority must be to resolve the matter of culpability for the assassination attempt at Cashel. There are only nine days in which to do so.’

Abbot Ségdae’s features were elongated in an expression of consternation. Fidelma had explained how matters stood at Cashel already. There was no formality between the abbot and the sister of the King. Ségdae had served her father in the office of a priest and had known Fidelma since she was a baby.

‘So you have told me. But, Fidelma, you know, as well as I do, that the loss of the Holy Relics of St Ailbe will strike fear into all our people. Their disappearance portends the destruction of the kingdom of Muman. We have enemies enough to take advantage of this disaster.’

‘Those enemies have already attempted to slay my brother and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente. As soon as I have dealt with that, I promise, Segdae, that I shall give my mind to solving this matter. I am aware, perhaps more than most people, just how significant the Holy Relics of Ailbe are.’

It was then that Eadulf leant forward, putting down his goblet.

‘You do not suppose that the two events are somehow connected?’ he asked reflectively.

Fidelma glanced at him in momentary surprise.

Now and again Eadulf had the ability of stating the obvious when others had overlooked it.

‘A connection between the loss of the Holy Relics and the assassination attempt on my brother …?’ The corners of her mouth turned down in a grimace. She considered the matter. It was true, as the abbot had said, that the people of Muman believed that the Holy Relics of Ailbe acted as a shield for the well-being of the kingdom. Their loss would cause alarm and despondency. Could the attempted assassination be a mere coincidence? ‘There might be a connection,’ she conceded. ‘How better to overturn a kingdom than first to dispirit its people and assassinate its King?’

‘And remember that one of the assassins was a former religieux,’ Eadulf reminded her. ‘He might have knowledge of the meaning of the relics.’

Abbot Ségdae started for it was the first he knew of this fact.

‘Are you saying that a member of the Faith took up a weapon against his king? How can such a thing be? That a man of the cloth would take up the weapon of a murderer … It is unthinkable!’ Words seemed to fail him.

Eadulf gestured dispassionately. ‘It is not the first time that such a thing has been known.’

‘Not in Muman,’ Segdae responded emphatically. ‘Who was this son of Satan?’

‘He was doubtless a stranger to the kingdom,’ Fidelma replied, sipping her wine for the first time. ‘Aona, the innkeeper at the Well of Ara, said he spoke with a northern accent.’

Eadulf supported her. ‘I think that we are safe in assuming that the man was from the north. Even that strange tattoo of a bird on his forearm has been identified as one that only appears off the north-east coast and is not known here in the south. So this religieux is not a man from this area.’

The Abbot Ségdaehad suddenly frozen in his chair. His face had paled considerably. There was a curiously pinched look on his features. He was regarding Fidelma with an expression approaching horror. Hemade several attempts to speak before his dry throat allowed him to articulate the words.

‘Did you say this assassin carried the tattoo of a bird on his forearm? That he spoke with a northern accent?’

Fidelma affirmed it, wondering what was wrong with the old abbot.

‘Would you describe the assassin?’ Ségdae asked, a strange tension in his voice.

‘Rotund features, short, with a mass of curly greying hair. A fleshy individual of perhaps two score and ten years of age. The tattoo was on his left arm. The bird was a species of hawk … it is known as a buzzard.’

Abbot Segdae suddenly collapsed forward, hands to his head, moaning.

Fidelma rose and took an uncertain step towards the crumpled old man.

‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘Are you ill?’

It was some moments before the abbot regained his composure. ‘The person whom you are describing is Brother Mochta, the Keeper of the Holy Relics. The one who has disappeared from our abbey.’

There was a silence for several long moments.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Eadulf, feeling foolish as he said it, for the description left one in no doubt. There could surely not be two people sharing such a likeness.

Ségdae expelled the air from his lungs in an almost violent hiss. ‘Mochta was originally from the Clan Brasil in Ulaidh,’ he began.

‘A northern kingdom,’ Fidelma interjected for Eadulf’s benefit.

‘He had that same distinctive tattoo on his left forearm.’

Fidelma was silent for a moment as she considered the matter.

‘Then our mystery merely deepens, Segdae,’ observed Fidelma at last. Ignoring their puzzled looks, she went on. ‘When did you last see this Brother Mochta?’

‘I saw him last evening at Vespers.’

Vespers was the sixth canonical hour of the breviary of the Church, sung by the religious when Vesper the evening star rose in the sky.

‘Did he often leave the abbey?’ Fidelma pressed.

Ségdae shook his head. ‘To my knowledge, he hardly ever left the abbey since he came here to be our scriptor ten years ago.’

Eadulf raised his eyebrows and glanced meaningfully at Fidelma. ‘Did you say that he was your scriptor?’ he asked quickly.

Ségdae made an affirmative gesture. ‘He came here to work on our Annals and then became Keeper of the Holy Relics.’

‘Surely, in view of the value and significance of these relics,’ Eadulfbegan, ‘it was strange to appoint a man from another kingdom as their keeper?’

‘Brother Mochta was a pious and conscientious man who fulfilled his religious duties well and without thought of any particularism. He was devoted to this abbey and to his adopted land.’

‘Until now,’ Eadulf observed quietly.

‘He has been with us ten years, six of which were as Keeper of the Relics. Are you claiming that he stole the Relics and went to Cashel last night to kill King Colgú? It is impossible to believe.’

‘Yet if he was as you describe, even to the tattoo of the buzzard on his left forearm, then his body lies dead in Cashel, cut down while trying to flee from the scene of the assassination,’ replied Eadulf.

Abbot Ségdae hunched his shoulders in anguish. ‘But how is his bloodied and disorderly cell to be explained? Brother Madagan, my steward, and I immediately thought that Mochta had been attacked and wounded by whoever stole the Relics.’

Fidelma looked thoughtful. ‘That is a mystery that we must solve. In the mean time, it appears that we have a name to one of our dead assassins in Cashel.’

‘But an even greater mystery than before,’ sighed Eadulf. ‘If this Brother Mochta stole the relics and — ’

Fidelma interrupted him, reaching into her marsupium, the small leather purse at her waist, and holding out a piece of paper to the abbot. ‘I want you to see if you can identify this, Segdae.’ On the paper was the sketch of the crucifix which she had asked Brother Conchobar to make. She flattened the paper so that the abbot could see it.

The abbot reached for it in excitement.

‘What does this mean?’ he demanded as he gazed on the drawing.

‘Do you recognise it?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘Of course.’

‘Then tell us what it is.’

‘It is one of the sacred Relics of Ailbe. He was ordained Bishop in Rome, so the story goes. It was said the Bishop of Rome, Zosimus the Greek, presented him with this crucifix made by the finest craftsmen of Constantinople. It is of silver with five great emeralds. Who made this sketch and why?’

Carefully, Fidelma refolded the sketch and replaced it in her marsupium. ‘The cross was found on the body of the rotund assassin after he was slain by Gionga, the captain of the guard of the Uí Fidgente.’

Eadulf slapped his thigh with satisfaction. ‘Well, here is a mystery solved. Your Brother Mochta stole the Relics and then went to assassinate Colgú and Donennach.’

‘Is the crucifix still safe?’ Segdae asked anxiously.

‘It is being held at Cashel as evidence for the hearing.’

Abbot Ségdae sighed deeply. ‘Then at least one item of the Holy Relics is safe. But where are the rest? Did you find them?’

‘No.’

‘Then where are they?’ The abbot almost wailed in despair.

‘That we have to discover,’ asserted Fidelma. She drained her goblet and rose purposely. ‘Let me examine the chamber of Mochta. I presume that you have not disturbed it since your examination this morning?’

The abbot shook his head.,

‘All remains as we found it,’ he replied, also rising. ‘But I am still shocked and bewildered that such a man as Brother Mochta could have done this deed. He was such a quiet man, not given to speaking out even on his own behalf.’

‘Atlissima quaeque flumina minimo sono labi,’ intoned Eadulf. Fidelma wrinkled her nose. ‘Perhaps that is true. The deepest rivers flow with the least sound. Usually, however, they leave some mark of their passage and that we must discover. Take us to Brother Mochta’s cell, Ségdae.’

Abbot Ségdae took up a lamp and led them from the room. As they passed down the corridors they could hear a faint noise rising from a distance.

‘The brothers are at their clais-cetul,’ explained Abbot Ségdae as he saw Eadulf pause and listen.

It was a new phrase to Eadulf.

‘They sing in a choir,’ explained Segdae. ‘The term means the harmonies of the voice. Here we sing the Psalms in the manner of the Gauls, who are our cousins, rather than in the manner of the Roman classis.’

Eadulf became aware of a strange acoustical effect in this corner of the abbey. The voices of the chanting religious carried clearly from the chapel on the far side of the cloisters. He could even hear the words distinctly.

Regem, regum, rogamus

in nostris sermonibus,

anacht Noe a luchtlach

Diluui temporibus …

‘We beseech in both our languages,’ translated Fidelma reflectively, ‘the King of Kings who protected Noah with his crew in the days of the Flood …’

‘I have not heard the like before,’ Eadulf admitted. ‘This joining of Latin and Irish in a verse is quite strange.’

‘It is one of the songs of Colmán moccu Cluasaif, the lector of Cork. He composed it two years ago when we were under threat from the terrible Yellow Plague,’ explained Segdae.

They stood listening for a moment, for there was something hypnotic about the rising and falling of the chanting voices.

‘It is based, I think, on the prayer in the Breviary for the Commendation of the Soul,’ Fidelma hazarded.

‘That is exactly what it is, Fidelma,’ Segdae confirmed with appreciation. ‘It is good to see you are not neglecting your religious studies in spite of your growing reputation as a dálaigh.’

‘Which brings us back to why we are here, Ségdae,’ Fidelma added seriously.

The abbot continued to lead the way along the dark corridors of the abbey. Torches gave a shadowy, dancing light from their metal burners along the stone walls.

Darkness had fallen now and apart from the pungent smell of the torches and their deceptive lighting, the abbey was shrouded in darkness.

‘Perhaps it would have been wise to wait until morning,’ muttered Eadulf, glancing around. ‘I do not think we will be able to observe much in this light.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘It is true that artificial light can be treacherous but I want to have a cursory examination for the longer things are left the more likely they are to fall into disarray.’

They fell silent as they continued along the echoing corridors of the abbey and across the cloisters.

‘The wind is from the south-west again,’ muttered the abbot as the torches nearby flickered violently. He halted in front of a door and bent to open it, then stood aside, holding the lamp for them to enter.

Once inside the light fell across the disordered chamber.

‘It is exactly as Brother Madagan and I found it this morning. By the way-’ Ségdaeturned apologetically to Eadulf — ‘I was going to suggest that you share his chamber tonight for we seem to be overcrowded in our guests’ hostel. It is only for this night, mind you. We have a band of pilgrims passing through on their way to the coast to take ship for the holy shrine of St James of the Field of the Stars.’

‘I have no objection to sharing a chamber with Brother Madagan,’ Eadulf replied.

‘Good. Tomorrow night our guests’ hostel will be relatively empty again.’

‘And am I to share a room this night?’ asked Fidelma absently as she examined the chamber.

‘No; I have set aside a special room for you, Fidelma,’ Ségdae assured her.

Fidelma glanced around the chaos in the lamplight. She disliked to admit it, but Eadulf had been absolutely right. There was little to be seen by artificial light in the room. Important items could be lost among the shadows. She sighed and turned.

‘Perhaps it is best to examine this room in the light of the morning.’ She did not look at Eadulf as she admitted it.

‘Very well,’ agreed the abbot. ‘I shall secure it again so that nothing is disturbed.’

‘Tell me,’ she said, as Ségdaewas bending to lock the room again after they had emerged back into the corridor, ‘you mentioned that there were pilgrims filling your guests’ quarters. Do you have any other travellers staying here?’

‘The pilgrims, yes.’

‘No other travellers?’

‘No. Oh … unless you count Samradan, the merchant. You must know him. He is from Cashel.’

‘I do not know him, although I am told that he is known to my cousin, Donndubhain. What can you tell me of him?’

‘Little enough,’ shrugged the abbot. ‘He trades frequently with the abbey, that is all. I think he has been doing so for the last two years or so. I know he is from Cashel. He comes here often with his wagons of goods and stays as our guest while we negotiate barter.’

Fidelma nodded thoughtfully. ‘Wagons, you say? Who drives them?’

‘He has three companions but they prefer to stay in the inn in the township outside the abbey.’ He sniffed in disapproval. ‘Not the best of places for it has no good reputation. It is not a lawful inn for it has no licence from the local bó-aire, the magistrate. I have had to intervene once or twice with the innkeeper, a lewd woman named Cred, concerning her morals …’

Fidelma interrupted. She was not interested in the morals of the woman, Cred. ‘How long has Samradan been with you on this trip?’

Ségdae stroked the side of his nose as if it helped the process of his memory. ‘You seem very interested in this Sarnradán? Is he suspected of anything?’

Fidelma made a negative gesture with her hand. ‘No. I was just interested. I thought I knew most people who dwelt in Cashel, or of them, but Samradán I do not know. How long did you say he has been staying in the abbey?’

‘A few days. No, more like a week to be precise. You will meet him at the morning meal, no doubt. Perhaps he will inform you of those things you need to know. And now, should I show you to your quarters for the night?’

Eadulf smiled, happy at the thought. ‘A good suggestion, lord abbot. I am exhausted. It has been a long day filled with incident.’

‘Once you have refreshed yourselves,’ went on the abbot, ‘you will doubtless want to join the brethren for the midnight services.’

He did not notice the woebegone expression on the face of the Saxon as he conducted them along a corridor and across a cloistered courtyard.

‘This is our domus hospitale,’ he said, indicating a door. ‘Our guests’ hostel,’ he added as he knocked once.

A figure appeared in the doorway. A short shadowy figure whose silhouette clearly identified the sex of the person.

‘This is our domina, Sister Scothnat.’

Eadulf had not realised until that moment that the Abbey of Imleach was a conhospitae, a mixed house in which religious of both sexes lived and worked together. Such ‘double-houses’ were rare among his own people but he knew that both the Britons and the Irish religious foundations were based on such cohabitation.

‘This is Sister Fidelma, Scothnat.’

Sister Scothnat bobbed nervously for she knew that Fidelma was the sister of the King.

‘I have your room prepared, lady,’ she announced breathlessly. ‘As soon as the abbot informed me that you had arrived, I prepared it.’

Fidelma held out a hand and touched Sister Scothnat lightly on the arm. Usually, among her fellow religious, she made no distinction of her relationship with the King of Muman. Only when she needed that extra authority did she make the point.

‘My name is Fidelma. We are, after all, Sisters of the Faith, Scothnat.’ She turned to Ségdae and Eadulf. ‘Until the midnight service, then. Dominus vobiscum.’

‘Dominus tecum,’ responded Ségdae solemnly.

The abbot conducted Eadulf across the cloistered courtyard once again into a corridor on the far side where they found a tall religieux who greeted them.

‘Madagan,’ saluted the abbot. ‘Excellent. We were coming in search of you. This is Brother Eadulf. Because of the pilgrims in the domus hospitale this night, I have suggested that he share your chamber as you have a spare bed there.’

Brother Madagan cast a searching glance over Eadulf, as if assessinghim. His eyes were cold and when he smiled there was no warmth in the expression.

‘You are most welcome, Brother.’

‘Good.’ The word on Ségdae’s lips seemed to be at odds with his unhappy tone. ‘Then, Brother Eadulf, I shall see you at the midnight service.’ With a distracted expression, the abbot disappeared.

‘I am the steward of the abbey,’ Madagan announced confidingly, as he drew Eadulf towards a door in the corridor. ‘My chamber is larger than most so I think you will find it comfortable.’

He threw open the door of a chamber which contained two small cots, one table and chair. A candle stood on the table. The whole was exceptionally neat with nothing else on the table by the candle except a small leather-covered book. Another table stood behind the door on which was a bowl, a jug of water, and some drying cloths.

Brother Madagan pointed to one of the two cots in the small cell. ‘That will be your bed, Brother … sorry, I cannot pronounce your Saxon name. It is hard to my poor ears.’

‘Ah’dolf,’ pronounced Eadulf patiently.

‘Does it have any meaning?’

‘It means “noble wolf’,’ explained Eadulf with some degree of pride.

Brother Madagan rubbed his chin pensively. ‘I wonder how that should be translated into our language? Perhaps, Conrí — king of wolves?’

Eadulf sniffed deprecatingly. ‘A person’s name does not need to be translated. It is what it is.’

‘Perhaps so,’ admitted the steward of the abbey. ‘May I say that you speak our language well?’

Eadulf sat himself on the bed and gently tested it. ‘I have studied at Durrow and Tuaim Brecain.’

Madagan looked surprised. ‘Yet you still wear the tonsure of a stranger?’

‘I wear the tonsure of St Peter,’ corrected Eadulf firmly, ‘cut in memory of the crown of thorns of Our Saviour.’

‘But it is not the tonsure that we of the five kingdoms wear nor that which the Britons nor the men of Alba nor Armorica wear.’

‘It is the tonsure of all those who follow the Rule of Rome.’

Brother Madagan pursed his lips sourly. ‘You are proud of your tonsure, noble wolf of the Saxons,’ he observed.

‘I would not wear it otherwise.’

‘Of course not. It is merely that it is outlandish to the eyes of the brothers here.’

Eadulf was about to make an end to the conversation when hesuddenly paused as a thought struck him. ‘Yet you must have seen it often enough before,’ he commented slowly.

Brother Madagan was pouring some water into a bowl to wash his hands. He glanced round at Eadulf and shook his head. ‘The tonsure of St Peter? I can’t say I have. I have not wandered far from Imleach for I was born near here on the slopes of Cnoc Loinge, just to the south. They call it the hill of the ship because that is the shape of it.’

‘If you have not seen this tonsure before, how would you describe Brother Mochta’s tonsure?’ demanded Eadulf.

Brother Madagan shrugged in bewilderment. ‘How would I describe it?’ he repeated slowly. ‘I have no understanding of your meaning.’

Eadulf almost stamped his foot in irritation. ‘If my tonsure seems so strange to you, surely the fact that Brother Mochta wore the same tonsure, until he started growing his hair recently, should have been a matter of some comment?’

Brother Madagan was totally confused. ‘But Brother Mochta did not wear a tonsure like the one you wear, Brother Noble Wolf.’

Eadulf controlled his exasperation, and explained, ‘But Brother Mochta wore the tonsure of St Peter until a few weeks ago.’

‘You are mistaken, Noble Wolf. Brother Mochta wore the tonsure of St John which we all wear here, the head shaven back to a line from ear to ear, so that the crown of thorns may be seen when we gaze upon the face of the brother.’

Eadulf sat down abruptly on his cot. It was his turn to be totally bewildered.

‘Let me get this clear in my mind, Brother Madagan. Are you telling me that Brother Mochta did not wear a tonsure similar to that which I am wearing?’

‘Assuredly not.’ Brother Madagan was emphatic.

‘Nor was he growing his hair to cover it?’

‘Even more assuredly. At least this was so when I saw him at Vespers last evening. He wore the tonsure of St John.’

Eadulf sat staring at him for a moment or two as he realised what the man was saying.

Whoever the slain monk was at Cashel, and in spite of the description, even down to the tattoo mark, it could not be Brother Mochta of Imleach. It could not. But how was such a thing possible?