Suffer Little Children

Chapter Thirteen

‘That is Na Sceilig. See! There before us on the horizon.’

The speaker was Ross, standing on the stern deck of his ship. He was pointing out across the blue stretch of ocean. His deep green eyes, which reflected the changing moods of the sea, were narrowed. He was a short, stocky man, with greying, close-cropped hair; a grizzled veteran of forty years of sea-faring. His skin was tanned by the sea winds almost to the colour of nut. He was a man with a dour humour and always ready with a loud bellow when he was displeased.

His swift sailing barc was two days out from Ros Ailithir where Fidelma had negotiated a rather exorbitant price with the sailor to take them to the monastery of Fínán at Sceilig Mhichil and back again. The vessel had followed the coastal lanes, catching a faint wind blowing from the north-east which brought them around the southern extremes of Muman and then Ross had manoeuvred his vessel into the fast-flowing tide which sent them racing to the north.

Fidelma shaded her eyes with her hands and gasped at the spectacular rocks that thrust out of the sea before her. There were two islands — stark, fissured pyramids with castellated outcrops rising sheer and terrifying out of the dark, brooding seas — which were situated some eight miles from the mainland. Their sheer terrible magnificence caused Fidelma to catch her breath.

The name Sceilig implied rocks but she had not been prepared for such looming slatey masses.

‘On which island is the monastery?’ asked Fidelma.

‘That bigger island,’ indicated Ross, pointing to the pyramid-shaped spectacle rising over seven hundred feet out of the water.

‘But I cannot see any place to land, let alone a place to construct habitations,’ Fidelma protested, peering in amazement at the vertical sides of the island.

Ross knowingly tapped the side of his nose with a gnarled forefinger.

‘Oh, there is a place to land, right enough and, if you have a head for heights, you may climb up to the monastery, for it rests high up there.’ He pointed to the high peaks of the island. ‘The monks call the place Christ’s Saddle for it is so high. It is situated between those two points there.’

Fidelma became aware of a cacophony of noise from the wheeling seabirds. Great gannets, with six foot wingspans, wheeled, soared and circled. Now and then they would plummet vertically, a full sixty feet into the sea in search of fish.

The second island, particularly, seemed to be crowned by a ring of wheeling and crying birds. Fidelma thought at first that, by some miracle, it was snow capped until Ross pointed out that it was the excretions of birds built up over the long centuries.

‘They nest on the Little Sceilig,’ explained Ross. ‘Not just gannets, but gulls, cormorants, guillemots, kittiwakes, razorbills, shearwaters and fulmars and even other birds whose names I have forgotten.’

Cass, who had been standing silently by, suddenly remarked: ‘Here is an awesome place to chasten the soul.’

Fidelma smiled at him, amazed that his usually stolid mind could be so moved.

‘Here is a place to elevate the soul,’ she corrected, ‘for it shows just how insignificant we are in the great scheme of creation.’

‘I still cannot see why you would wish to come to this isolated place,’ Cass muttered, gazing at the breathtaking cliffs of the island.

Fidelma decided that it was time to relent a little and reveal what was in her mind.

‘Remember the vellum we found in Grella’s chamber? The letter Dacán wrote to his brother, Abbot Noé? He wrote it on the evening before he was killed and said that he had traced his quarry — remembered he used that word “quarry”? — to the monastery of Sceilig Mhichil. He was searching for the heir of the native line of kings of Osraige. I am following the belief that he was killed because of that knowledge and that the next step along the path to resolving the mysteries rests on that impregnable island which you see before you.’

Cass turned his gaze from the island to Fidelma and then back at the towering grey mass. He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

‘You expect to find whoever it was that Dacan was looking for on the island?’

‘Dacán certainly did.’

That Ross and his crew, like most seamen of the coastal waters, were highly skilled was demonstrated in the next few minutes as they negotiated to a landing place which had been invisible until they came within a few yards of it. The waves threatened to hurl the vessel against the crashing rocks as the water foamed around them, causing sea spray to drench everyone. It took a while to anchor close enough for anyone to land.

‘It is not good that we hold ourselves against the rocks of this landing place,’ cried Ross, having to shout to make himself heard above the crashing of the waves and cry of the seabirds. ‘When you have landed we will pull back from the island and stand off until such time as you signal us to pick you up.’

Fidelma raised her hand in acknowledgment and prepared herself to leap from the side of the boat onto the narrow granite ledge which constituted a natural quay.

Cass jumped first so as to secure a position and ensure he could catch Fidelma in order that she might land in safety.

As they turned along the narrow strip of rock they saw a brown-robed anchorite hurriedly approaching down a perilously steep path. They saw his brows drawn together in a frown as he examined them in obvious annoyance.

‘Bene vobis,’ Fidelma greeted.

The monk halted abruptly and the look of irritation intensified on his features.

‘We spotted a ship coming into land. This place is forbidden to women, sister.’

Fidelma raised her eyebrows dangerously.

‘Who is the Father Superior here?’

The monk hesitated at her icy tones.

‘Father Mel. But, as I have said, sister, our brothers dwell here in isolation from the company of women in accordance with the views of the Blessed Fínán.’

Fidelma knew that there were some monasteries where women were strictly excluded; for some, like Fínán of Clonard or Enda of Aran, believed that the scriptures taught that women were the creation of the Evil One and should never be looked upon. Such heretical teaching was an anathema to Fidelma, who was not at all approving of the support such an idea received from Rome, which was little less than an attempt to impose celibacy and the isolation of one sex from the other on the argument propounded by Augustine of Hippo that man was created in the image of God but women were not.

‘I am Fidelma, sister to Colgú, king of Muman. I am a dálaigh of the court, acting on the commission of the king, my brother.’

Never would Fidelma have used this form of introductionhad she felt there was any other way of overcoming this officious reception.

‘I am here to conduct an inquiry into an unlawful death. Now conduct me to Father Mel at once.’

The monk looked horrified and blinked nervously.

‘I dare not, sister.’

Cass ostentatiously loosened his sword in its scabbard, gazing upwards along the path by which the monk had descended.

‘I think you should dare,’ he said coldly, as if speaking aloud his thoughts.

The monk cast an anxious look at him and then back at Fidelma before compressing lips to conceal his angry frustration. They could see him fighting with his thoughts. After a moment or two he gestured in resignation.

‘If you can follow me, then you may reach Father Mel. If not …’ There was a trace of a sneer in his voice and he did not finished the sentence.

He turned and started off up the path which was a comfortable climb initially but then it suddenly narrowed. Indeed, the path almost ended and they were ascending along almost sheer falls from one rocky ledge to another although here and there steps had been cut by the monks into the precipitous sides of the rock. It was a tough ascent. The wind blew and buffeted at them, threatening at times to tear them from the climb and send them tumbling down the slopes into the turbulent frothy seas below. Several times Fidelma, her hair streaming, the head-dress dislodged, found herself going down on all fours and clinging on grimly to the rocks of the path in order to steady herself.

The anchorite, used to the ascent, merely quickened his pace and Fidelma, in anger, took chances in her attempt to keep up with the man. Cass, coming behind her, had to reach out a hand to steady her on several occasions. Then, at last, they came to a strange plateau, a small green place setbetween peaks with two stone crosses. From this point a series of steps led through fangs of rocks to another plateau where a stone wall, running along one side, was the only barrier between the plateau and the sheer cliff falling down to the sea.

Fidelma halted at the spectacular view to the white-capped Little Sceilig and the misty outline of the mainland beyond.

On the plateau was the monastery built by Fínán just over one hundred years before. There were six clocháns, or beehive-shaped huts of rock, with a rectangular-shaped oratory. Beyond them were other buildings and another oratory. Fidelma was surprised to see a small cemetery behind with slabs and crosses. She wondered how this inhospitable crag of an island could hold enough earth to bury anything. It was a wild, even cruel place on which to attempt an existence.

There were several brothers tending a small garden set behind an artificial shelter of stone-slabbed walls. She noticed, also to her surprise, that there were two wells.

‘This is truly an amazing place,’ she whispered to Cass. ‘No wonder the brothers are so obdurate about their privacy.’

The anchorite who had accompanied them had disappeared, presumably into one of the stone buildings.

They had been spotted by the gardeners who had halted their work and were muttering uneasily among themselves.

‘I do not think that they are pleased to see you, Fidelma,’ Cass said, his hand staying on the hilt of his sword.

The anchorite reappeared with the same abruptness as he had vanished.

‘This way. Father Mel will speak with you.’

They found a wizened-faced old man seated cross-legged in one of the beehive-shaped huts. It was small so that they either had to follow the old man’s example and seat themselves on some sheepskins which covered the floor or stay standing, slightly stooped. Fidelma gave the lead by lowering herself into a cross-legged position in front of the old man.

He gazed at her thoughtfully with bright blue eyes. His faceseemed hewed out of the rock of his island. Stern and granitelike. The lines were many and were etched deeply into his weather-beaten brown face.

‘In hoc loco non ero, ubi enim ovis, ibi mulier … ubi mulier … ibi peccatum,’ intoned the old man dispassionately.

‘I am aware that you have no wish to associate with women,’ Fidelma replied. ‘I would not intrude on your rule unless there was a greater purpose.’

‘Greater purpose? The association of the sexes in the Faith is contrary to the discipline of the Faith,’ grunted Father Mel.

‘On the contrary, if both sexes forsook each other there would soon be no people, Faith or church,’ returned Fidelma cynically.

‘Abneganbant mulierum administrationem separantes eas a monasteriis,’ intoned Father Mel piously.

‘We can sit here and discourse in Latin, if you like,’ Fidelma sighed. ‘But I am come on more important matters. I do not wish to impose myself where I am unwelcome, though I find it hard to believe that there are places within the five kingdoms of Éireann where our laws and customs have been so sadly rejected. However, the sooner I can get answers to my questions then the sooner I can depart from this place.’

Father Mel allowed an eyebrow to twitch in irritation at her response.

‘What is it you wish?’ he demanded coldly. ‘My disciple told me you were a dálaigh with a commission from the temporal king of this land.’

‘That is so.’

‘Then what must I do to help you fulfil your commission and allow you to depart swiftly?’

‘Do you have anyone from the land of Osraige in this monastery?’

‘We welcome everyone into our brotherhood.’

Fidelma checked her irritation at the unspecific response.

‘That was not what I asked.’

‘Very well, I am from Osraige myself,’ replied Father Mel with diffidence. ‘What would you ask of me?’

‘I believe that some time ago someone from Osraige found sanctuary here. A descendant of the native kings. An heir of Illan. If that is so, then I wish to see him for I fear his life is in danger.’

Father Mel almost smiled.

‘Then perhaps you wish to talk to me? Illan, of whom you speak, was my cousin, though I would not consider myself heir to any temporal glory.’

‘Is this true?’ Dacan had said the heir of Illan was being looked after by his cousin but she was hardly expecting the cousin to be this aging Father Superior.

‘I am not in the habit of lying, woman,’ snapped the old man. ‘Now, do you believe me to be in danger of my life?’

Fidelma slowly shook her head. Father Mel himself was certainly no threat to the security of the current petty kings of Osraige nor a possible rallying point for any future insurrection.

‘No. There is no danger for you. But I am told that there is a young heir of Illan. That his cousin, obviously yourself, was taking care of him.’

Father Mel’s face was set like stone.

‘There is no young heir to Illan on this island,’ he said firmly, ‘You may take my holy oath of office on it.’

Could this long, arduous journey have really been for nothing? Had Dacán made that same mistake? Father Mel could not take such an oath unless it were true.

‘Is there anything else?’ came Father Mel’s curt tone.

Fidelma rose to her feet trying to hide her disappointment.

‘Nothing. I accept the truth of what you say. You shelter no young heir of Illan.’ She hesitated. ‘Have you been visited by a merchant named Assid of Laigin?’

Father Mel met her gaze evenly.

‘There are many merchants that land here. I do not recall all their names.’

‘Then does the name of the Venerable Dacán mean anything to you?’

‘As a scholar of the Faith,’ replied the Father Superior easily. ‘Everyone has surely heard of the man.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Nothing else,’ affirmed the old man. ‘Now, if that is all …?’

Fidelma led the way from the building, bitterly disappointed. Cass followed with bewilderment on his features.

‘Is that all?’ he asked. ‘Surely, we did not come all this way for this?’

‘Father Mel would not have taken oath that there was no young heir of Illan in this monastery if there was,’ Fidelma pointed out.

‘Religious have been known to lie,’ countered Cass darkly.

They were suddenly aware of an anchorite, a flat-faced, lugubrious-looking man of middle age, blocking their path.

‘I …’ the man hesitated. ‘I overheard. You asked if there was anyone from Osraige here. Refugees.’

The monk’s face mirrored some deep conflict of emotions.

‘That’s right,’ she agreed. ‘What is your name?’

‘I am Brother Febal. I tend the gardens here.’

The monk abruptly took out of his robes a small object and handed it with all solemnity to Fidelma.

It was a corn doll. It was old, weather-worn, with the stuffing bursting out from broken joins where the weave had burst or torn.

‘What’s this?’ demanded Cass.

Fidelma stared at it and turned it over in her hands. ‘What can you tell us about this, brother?’

Brother Febal hesitated, throwing a look towards the hut of the Father Superior and he motioned them to follow a littleway down the path, out of sight of the main complex of buildings.

‘Father Mel has not told you the exact truth,’ he confessed. ‘The good Father is afraid, not for himself but for his charges.’

‘I was sure that he was being frugal with the truth,’ Fidelma replied gravely. ‘But I cannot believe he would lie so blatantly if there was a young heir to Illan of Osraige on this island.’

‘There is not, so he spoke the truth,’ Brother Febal replied. ‘However, six months ago he brought two boys to the island. He told us that their father, a cousin of his, had died and he was going to take care of them for a few months until a new home could be arranged for them. When the younger child became bored here, as young children would, the elder boy made him this corn doll to amuse him. When they left, I found that the boy had left it behind.’

Fidelma looked puzzled.

‘Two boys. How old?’

‘One about nine years old, the other only a few years older’

‘Then there was not an older boy with them? A boy reaching the age of choice?’

To her disappointment, Brother Febal shook his head.

‘There were only the two lads. They were from Osraige and cousins of Father Mel. That I know.’

‘Why do you tell us this?’ demanded Cass suspiciously. ‘Your Father Superior did not trust us with the truth.’

‘Because I recognise the emblem of the king of Cashel’s bodyguard and because I overheard that you, sister, are an advocate of the courts. I do not think that you seek to harm the boys. Above all, I tell you because I fear great danger may come to them and hope that you will help them.’

‘What makes you think that danger threatens?’ Fidelma asked.

‘Just over two weeks ago a ship arrived here with a religieux who took the two boys away with him. I heard Father Mel address the man as “honourable cousin”. Yet within daysanother ship arrived here on the same mission as yourself. There was a man who demanded the same information as yourself.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘A large, red-faced man, clad in a steel helmet and woollen cloak edged in fur. He claimed he was a chieftain and wore a gold chain of office.’

Fidelma swallowed in amazement.

‘Intat!’ cried Cass triumphantly.

Brother Febal blinked anxiously.

‘Do you know the man?’

‘We know that he is evil,’ affirmed Fidelma. ‘What did he learn about these boys?’

‘Father Mel told him the same story as he told you. But one of the brothers, just as this man was departing, unintentionally mentioned the two lads and the fact that they had been taken away a short time before by a religieux.’

‘And Intat went away?’

‘He did. Mel was outraged. He demanded that each of us forget the boys. But I have faith that you act in the children’s best interests. But not the man who came searching for them. If he finds the children …’ The monk ended with an expressive shrug.

‘We do seek to protect them, brother,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘It is true that they are in grave danger from that man, Intat. Do you know who the boys were, what their names were and where they have gone?’

‘Alas, even Father Mel would not pronounce their names but called them by the Latin forms of Primus and Victor. See on the doll, that piece of rag is marked with the words “Hic est meum. Victor”. It means, “this is mine, Victor” in Latin.’

‘Can you describe them?’ Fidelma did not point out that she knew well what the words meant.

‘Not really. They both had burnished copper-coloured hair.’

‘Copper-coloured?’ Fidelma felt frustrated, hoping to hear something which she might have recognised.

‘Did you learn where they were sent when they left here?’

‘Only that the religieux who took them was from an abbey somewhere in the south. The young one, Victor, was a nice child. Return this doll to him and I shall pray to Michael the Archangel, guardian of our little monastery, for their safety.’

‘Can you tell us about the religieux … what did he look like?’

‘That I cannot. He kept his robes wrapped around his body and head for the weather was inclement. I did not observe his features well. He was not young but neither was he old. That is all I can say.’

‘Thank you, brother. You have been most helpful.’

‘I will lead you down the path and signal your ship. My conscience is easy now that I have made confession to you of this burden.’

Cass laid a restraining hand on Fidelma’s arm.

‘Why don’t we go and confront that old goat again?’ he demanded. ‘Let’s tell him what we know and demand to know where this cousin has taken the two boys?’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘We will get nothing further from a man such as Father Mel,’ she replied. ‘Our path is back at Ros Ailithir.’

Once on board Ross’s barc again, the ship close-hauled along the thin, poking figures of the southern peninsulas of the kingdom, heading swiftly southward.

‘A long trip for so little,’ mused Cass, as he stood watching Fidelma turning the worn doll over and over in her hands.

‘Sometimes even a word or sentence might resolve the greatest puzzle and put it all into shape,’ countered Fidelma.

‘What did we learn from this arduous trip to Sceilig Mhichil that we did not suspect before? Had we questioned that old religieux further …’

‘Sometimes confirmation of knowledge is as important asthe knowledge itself,’ interrupted Fidelma. ‘And we have linked Intat into this mystery of Dacán’s killing. Dacán was looking for the son of Illan whom he thought was at the age of choice. Now we know there were two young sons, not at the age of choice at all. Intat arrives here looking for the offspring of Illan. Dacán was working for Laigin but Intat was a man of the Corco Loígde. There is a picture beginning to form here.’

‘Apart from Intat’s involvement in this conundrum, what else have we learnt?’ demanded Cass.

‘We have learnt that the monastery on Sceilig Mhichil has, as its patron, Michael the Archangel. That its very name means “rock of Michael”. And we have learnt that Mel called the man who collected the boys “honourable cousin”.’

Cass was not sure if Fidelma was joking.

‘But what practical information have we learnt?’ he demanded.

Fidelma smiled blandly.

‘We have learnt several other points. There are two heirs to Illan. They left Sceilig Mhichil two weeks ago about the same time that Dacán was murdered and they are now being hunted by Intat. I believe that Intat was looking for them when he burnt Rae na Scríne. I do not think he found them and I will lay a wager that they may be found at Ros Ailithir or nearby.’

‘If they are still alive.’ Cass suddenly became interested. ‘We don’t even know who they are. Two copper-haired lads. I have encountered no copper-haired boys. We don’t even know their true names. We know that Primus and Victor were not their real names. That presents no clue that we can follow.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Fidelma admitted thoughtfully. ‘Then, again …’ She shrugged abruptly and was silent.