The Leper's bell

Chapter Fifteen

Eadulf was dozing. He had almost fallen asleep when a noise startled him into wakefulness. There was a movement outside the door. He sprang up, back against the wall, behind the door. He glanced to where the stone lay. It should be well visible from the doorway. Then he heard the bolts being drawn back. He wished he had a weapon of some sort, but there was nothing to hand.

The door swung inward. A guttural voice said: ‘In you go. You will get your food later.’

Eadulf waited for the warrior to come forward into the cell. Was he blind? Why didn’t he see the stone? He heard Basil Nestorios begin talking in voluble Greek.

‘Silence!’ grunted the guard. ‘I don’t understand your heathen gibberish, and…’

The voice fell quiet. It seemed that Basil Nestorios was pointing to the stone in an attempt to make the warrior move forward into the cell. It finally worked. Eadulf heard a gasp and then the bulk of the warrior was inside the cell, beyond the door. Eadulf was on the man like a cat springing on its prey, his hands fastening round the warrior’s neck, clenching tight. The man was muscular and large; his big hands came up to tear at Eadulf’s grip. He swung this way and that as Eadulf clung on in desperation, refusing to let go and trying to constrict the man’s breath.

It seemed hopeless. The man was strong and struggled violently to dislodge Eadulf. Just when Eadulf was almost giving up, the man suddenly relaxed and crumpled to the floor. Eadulf went down with him and remained with tightened grip until he was sure the warrior was not faking. He kept a tight hold on the man’s neck for a few seconds more, then suddenly released his hold and sprang for the door, where Basil Nestorios stood. He slammed it shut and shot the bolts before the guard could stir. He leant against the door, panting for breath. A few minutes passed and then he looked at the physician.

‘How did it go with Uaman?’ he whispered urgently.

‘I am not sure,’ replied the man. ‘I mixed the potion and told the Evil One it was a new part of the treatment which he must drink. If he does, I would say it should be working already.’

Eadulf looked aghast. ‘You mean that you didn’t wait to ensure that he drank the mixture?’

Basil Nestorios shook his head. ‘The Evil One simply told the guard to take me back to the cell. I left the potion by his side in his chamber.’

Eadulf groaned softly. ‘Then we cannot rely on Uaman’s being incapacitated. We must get away from here immediately.’

‘But my medicine chest, my saddle bags … they are still in his chamber.’

Eadulf snorted in annoyance.

‘Abandon them for the time being. I am not going to waste time going to Uaman’s chamber to see if he is asleep in order to retrieve them. They’ll slow us down anyway.’

Basil Nestorios looked as if he would argue, but then he realised the logic of what Eadulf was saying.

‘Where how, then, Saxon friend?’

Eadulf looked about. He realised that the corridor they were in, like the others he had seen, ran around the outer wall in a circular fashion. There must be another level above this one where the windows were. He estimated, therefore, that they were on ground level.

‘If we follow round, this must lead out to the inner courtyard by the gates. If we can get there without being observed, and then through the gates, the tide should not be so far advanced as to prevent us getting to the mainland.’

Basil Nestorios pursed his lips. ‘It is already getting dark, though, and I think the tide comes soon after.’

‘Then let us not waste time debating,’ snapped Eadulf. ‘Follow me.’

He began to move through the narrow stone corridor, watching carefully for any means of exit or sign of movement from the guards. After a while he halted.

‘There is a small door in the inner wall just ahead. I think it must lead into the courtyard. There are neither bolts nor locks on it. Are you ready?’

The physician nodded quickly.

Eadulf moved to the door. There was a circle of metal that raised the latch by which the door was fixed. Eadulf reached out a hand and gave it a tentative twist. The latch lifted without any noise. He pushed it cautiously so that a crack to the outside appeared between the door and the jamb. He applied his eye and let loose a soft sigh.

The door did open into the inner courtyard. In fact, he could see the tall wooden gates that led to the exterior of the tower stronghold. Then he moved back and closed the door quickly and without noise, glancing to the puzzled Basil Nestorios.

‘There is a guard going round lighting the brand torches for the evening,’ he whispered in explanation.

The physician said nothing. Eadulf stood mentally counting the minutes until he felt the guard would have completed his task. There could be no more than half a dozen torches lighting the inner courtyard.

Carefully, he opened the door again and peered round.

The courtyard appeared deserted. The torchlight lit the area with an eerie glow. If the guards were patrolling it, the fugitives would be seen as soon as they emerged from the door. They would have to take that chance. Eadulf hoped that the guards would not be bothered about the interior of what appeared to be an impregnable fortress. After all, in their eyes, their prisoners were safe in the cells and there was no way out — unless the guard who had been escorting the physician was missed. They had to move now, for the longer they delayed the slimmer their chances of escape became.

Abruptly, there came the jangle of a distant bell.

Eadulf froze.

He heard Basil Nestorios exclaiming something in his own tongue that did not sound happy.

‘It’s Uaman’s bell,’ hissed the physician. ‘He cannot have taken the potion.’

‘Then it’s too late to do anything other than make for the gates. There are two iron bolts on them — see? I’ll take the top one, you take the bottom one, and don’t stop for anything.’

The bell was jangling urgently now.

Eadulf opened the door quickly and dashed across the courtyard to the gates. He felt rather than saw Basil Nestorios behind him. He grabbed at the top iron bolt and wrenched it back with a thud. The physician was almost in time with him. Eadulf pulled on the tall wooden doors just as a shout sounded behind him.

Eadulf hurried through the gap between the doors, closely followed by his companion. Then he skidded to a halt, eyes wide in dismay.

Outside, directly in front of him, stood a tall, broad-shouldered warrior, his sword already raised as if to strike. Eadulf stood frozen, petrified with shock as he recognised the features of the man in the torchlight from the brands in their holders on either side of the entrance.

‘Gormán!’ he gasped.

The warrior of Cashel’s eyes flickered over Eadulf’s shoulder and narrowed slightly.

‘Move, Brother Eadulf!’ he cried, his sword already beginning to swing.

Eadulf plunged forward, ducking in an automatic reaction to the shouted command. Then he swung round on his heel, nearly tripping himself in the movement. Behind him, as Basil Nestorios had also leapt aside, two of Uaman’s men had come through the gates, swords in hand.

Gormán’s slash caught one in the neck, either killing or disabling him. As the man fell sideways, his weapon dropped from nerveless fingers. The second warrior met Gormán’s next cut with a parry, and for a few moments blade clashed against blade. But the second warrior was no great swordsman, and the singing sword of Cashel’s élite golden-torqued warrior swept under his guard and caught him beneath the rib cage. With a grunt the man, still grasping his weapon, dropped to his knees, staring wildly before him. Then his eyes seemed to glaze and he fell forward on his face, dropping his blade.

‘Are there more behind you?’ cried Gormán.

Eadulf tried to find his voice. ‘Two or three,’ he croaked.

Gormán glanced at the physician. ‘Who is this?’

‘A fellow prisoner.’

They could still hear the jangling bell.

Gormán turned in the darkness and pointed to the shadows that denoted the shoreline.

‘The tide is coming in. We must get back. Do you know the way, Brother? The sand link to the shore is treacherous.’

The bell had suddenly stopped and an unearthly wail was sounding within the dark tower. It was scarcely human. Eadulf shivered. It was Uaman’s cry of rage.

‘That will bring his remaining warriors,’ Eadulf cried. ‘Let’s get to the shore where we will be safer.’ He turned and peered into the darkness. He was aware of the sibilant whispering of the sea on either side. ‘Straight ahead. Follow me.’

He walked forward, trying not to hurry and making sure each foot came down on firm sand before moving on. It took time. Halfway across, they could still hear the noise of shouting, a bell intermixed with screams. At one point, Eadulf dared glanced behind.

The burning brand torches, in their braziers hanging either side of the great doors of the tower, cast a light on the porch where they had left the two fallen warriors of Uaman. Another warrior, perhaps two — even three — were moving there, and he saw the crooked figure of Uaman himself, a thin, dark shadow, with his bell, standing framed in the doorway, screaming abuse.

‘They are coming after us,’ muttered Basil Nestorios, also glancing round.

Eadulf saw that Uaman was now leading the three warriors after them along the sandbank. All four carried torches to light their way and they thus had an advantage over their quarry. In spite of his dragging foot, Uaman was moving at an astonishing pace. It was clear that he had not taken the potion prepared by Basil Nestorios. Indeed, he appeared to be moving more quickly than his warriors. Eadulf increased his pace.

‘At this rate, we might make the shore but we will have to stand and fight,’ grunted Gormán, glancing behind.

‘Then we will stand and fight,’ replied Eadulf.

He realised that the incoming tide was now lapping at his feet. The water was coming in rapidly, but not rapidly enough, he thought bitterly.

A moment or so later, they were scrambling up on the firm bank before the dark trees. There they turned, preparing for the worst.

It was a curious, eerie sight that met their eyes. In the background the tall round Tower of Uaman rose on the island, dark and sullen, although its doors now stood open, still lit by the burning torches on either side. A shaft of silvery moonlight had somehow escaped between the low-lying clouds and danced with a thousand pinpricks of light on the sea. By this, they could see how quickly the tide was coming in. There was now little to be seen of the sand link to the island.

Uaman was not far from the shoreline now. Surprisingly, he was about ten metres ahead of his three warrior companions. His torch was raised in one dead white claw-like hand. It seemed his rage had taken the better of him, for he had no other weapon.

‘Look!’ Gormán suddenly whispered.

Eadulf followed the warrior’s seaward-pointing finger. Something dark was moving on the silvery waters of the sea, moving towards the strip of water that separated the island from the shore.

At first Eadulf did not understand what it was.

‘Tonn taide!’ whispered Gormán.

A tidal wave, higher than the average man, came pouring through the narrows. Within a second the three warriors behind Uaman, taking the full force of the water, were swept into the darkness, vanishing as their torches were extinguished. Uaman was closer to the shore and escaped the full force of the wave but he, too, was swept off his feet, though he managed by some miracle to cling tightly to his torch, keeping it above the waves. They saw, by its light, the waters recede for a moment or two; long enough for Uaman to clamber to his feet and start towards the shore. But the leper had been swept away from the main path, and as he moved forward, he began to sink rapidly into the sand.

‘The quicksand!’ muttered Gormán.

Already the clawing sand had reached Uaman’s waist and he was flailing about in panic. Eadulf began to move towards him but Gormán held him back.

‘You cannot help,’ the tall warrior muttered.

Eadulf was beside himself with anxiety.

‘Don’t you see, don’t you see…? He is the only one who knows what he has done with Alchú. The only one who can lead me to my baby.’

He started forward again, but the relentless sea was coming in once more and the sand was already up to Uaman’s chest.

‘Uaman!’ Eadulf yelled, moving as close as he dared. ‘Where is my baby? Where is Alchú?’

Uaman’s cowl had fallen from his white, bald skull of a head. In the flickering torchlight, they could see where the disease had eaten into his flesh.

‘My curse on you and the Eóghanacht! May you all never see the cuckoo or the corncrake. May you die screaming. May the cats eat your flesh. May you fester in your grave…’

The tidal wave returned a second time. The torch was extinguished. Uaman’s voice was silenced. Only whispering black waters could be seen at the spot where they covered his quicksand grave.

‘Es korakes!’ grunted Basil Nestorios with satisfaction in his voice. ‘To the ravens with him.’

Eadulf suddenly sat down in the darkness and cradled his head in his hands.

The nightmare was vivid.

The slow procession of religious emerged from the brass-studded oak doors of the chapel and into the cold, grey light of the central courtyard of the abbey. It was a large courtyard, flagged in dark limestone, yet on all four sides there towered the cheerless stone walls of the abbey buildings, giving the illusion that the central space was smaller than it actually was.

The line of cowled monks, preceded by a single religieux bearing an ornate metal cross, moved slowly, almost sedately. Heads bowed, hands hidden in the folds of their robes, they were chanting a psalm in Latin. Behind them, at a short distance, came a similar number of cowled nuns, also with heads bowed, joining in the chant on a higher note and harmonising with the air to make a descant. The effect was eerie, echoing in the confined space.

They moved to take positions on either side of the courtyard, standing facing a wooden platform on which stood a strange construction of three upright poles supporting a triangle of beams. A single rope hung from one of the beams, knotted into a noose. Just below the noose, a three-legged stool had been placed. Next to this grim apparatus, feet splayed apart, stood a tall man. He was stripped to the waist, his heavy, muscular arms folded across a broad, hairy chest. He watched the religious procession without emotion; unmoved and unashamed of the task that he was to perform on that macabre platform.

Fidelma was on her knees before the platform, held down by two viciously grinning women. One she knew by instinct was Abbess Ita of Kildare, who had caused her to leave that religious house, while the other was Abbess Fainder, the evil head of the abbey of Fearna. They held her in a strong grip, and even though she tried to struggle Fidelma found herself unable to move. She was forced to look up at the grim apparatus and executioner.

Then two strong religieux came forward, dragging a young man between them. He, too, was forced to his knees before the platform.

‘Eadulf!’ she cried as she recognised him. But his escort also held him tight so that he could not look at her.

Then a third man came forward holding a baby in his arms. It was handed up to the waiting executioner, who began to move forward towards the noose.

‘Help us, Eadulf! For God’s sake, help us!’

In her dream, Fidelma knew that she was screaming, but suddenly she came awake, moaning and struggling against the bonds that still tied her hands and feet. She was bathed in sweat.

There was a grey light seeping in at the window. She lay still for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts and rationalise the dream. She wished she could wipe her face of the perspiration that stood there.

The faint whinny of a horse came to her ears. She presumed it came from the stables but she heard movement below and voices were whispering. She rolled over to try to listen. Why would the Uí Fidgente be whispering? Suddenly, her heart began to beat faster. Could Colgú have worked out that she was being held somewhere and tracked her down to the hunting lodge at the Well of Oaks? Was there someone out there intent on her rescue? She uttered a quick prayer that it might be true.

Then there was a noise outside and the door opened. The harsh voice of Cuán came to her ears.

‘It must have been some wild animal making the horses restless. I can see no one.’

She felt a sudden black despair. For a moment she had been full of hope. There was some laughter downstairs.

‘Then we’d best be off. No one is looking for us now. Let’s take the woman and get back to our own country.’

‘I’ll saddle the horses,’ replied another voice. ‘Crond can bring the woman.’

Something else caught Fidelma’s ear now; there was a soft sound of scrabbling on the roof above her. Below she heard the door of the lodge open and then an agonised yell as something fell.

Cuirgí’s voice yelled: ‘Crond, get the woman. Quickly!’

Footsteps began to ascend the stairs rapidly just as a dark figure swung in through the shattered glass of the window and dropped on to the floor.

Crond burst in through the door, his sword ready. The figure rose, a sword appearing in his hand as if by magic. Fidelma gasped as she recognised him.

‘Conrí!’ she gasped, but the name went unheard as the blades of the two men clashed in a noisy exchange. The room was too confined for a sword fight but the blows were deadly as the two men sought to kill or injure each other. Crond made a series of rapid thrusts at his opponent’s torso. Had any blow landed, it must have been mortal. But Conrí was obviously not war chief of the Uí Fidgente for nothing. He parried each thrust and then pressed his own attack while Crond paused to rethink his strategy.

A swift thrust drew blood from Crond’s upper arm and seemed to anger him. In his fury he dropped his defence, for he raised his weapon for a blow leaving his right side unguarded. He looked almost comical in his surprise as Conrí’s sword sank deep between his ribs. He dropped his weapon, staggered back and then slowly collapsed on to the floor.

There was a brief silence. Then, down below, Fidelma became aware of shouting. A strange voice called up: ‘The lodge is ours, Conrí!’ Then Conrí had sheathed his sword and was cutting her bonds with a knife.

‘Fidelma! Are you injured? Are you all right?’

Fidelma could, at first, only nod as she massaged her wrists. The bonds had cut deep into the flesh, leaving harsh marks around them and her ankles.

‘How came you here, Conrí?’ she managed to ask at last.

The war chieftain gave her a grin. ‘Have you forgotten that we planned to meet here, lady?’

She smiled at his bantering tone. ‘But not in these circumstances,’ she returned in kind.

‘True indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Our story is simple. We did as I told you we would and went through the valley of Bilboa and waited for the chieftains at Crois na Rae. When they didn’t turn up, I decided to post half my men to cover the mountain passes, in case they went that way, and then to come back to make our rendezvous with you here. Because we waited a while, we could not reach here last evening, but came on through the night to arrive at dawn.’

‘How were you warned of the presence of the chieftains?’

Conrí shrugged. ‘I was more concerned with encountering your brother’s warriors, seeing that Colgú’s whole kingdom could be raised against us. So we approached the hunting lodge cautiously, leaving our mounts behind in a copse at some little distance. I was about to reconnoitre the stables when I spotted Cuán. I knew something was wrong.’

‘So how did you know where to find me?’

‘I told my men to cover the main door and then I climbed up to the roof. I saw you through the window. One of the chieftains went out through the main door and I think one of my men shot him. So I had to come through the window. I barely had time to regain my balance before Crond came bursting in.’

‘You knew him?’ queried Fidelma.

‘He was an Uí Fidgente chieftain. Am I not warlord of the Uí Fidgente? I know them all.’

‘Is he dead?’ Fidelma asked, coming slowly to her feet and looking down at Crond.

‘He is dead,’ confirmed Conrí, ‘but for the harm he has done, I shall not weep at his graveside.’

One of Conrí’s men came up the stairs to see if all was well, and informed them that Cuán had taken an arrow in the shoulder but would recover while Cuirgí had been captured without a struggle.

‘And your baby, lady, where is he?’ asked Conrí.

Fidelma shook her head. ‘That I do not know, my friend. They denied any knowledge of abduction or involvement in abduction. If this was not a plot by some Uí Fidgente to have these chieftains released, then I am at a loss to understand it.’

‘It is as I said, lady,’ Conrí replied. ‘Unless there is some rebellious group that we do not know of, the Uí Fidgente disclaim all knowledge of this matter. We have made our peace with your brother and we will remain at peace with him.’

Fidelma stamped her feet a little to restore her circulation. She looked up at Conrí.

‘Are you prepared to come with me back to Cashel and make that statement? To return these chieftains to my brother’s authority as a sign of good faith?’

‘Will we be under your protection? The Eóghanacht will not take kindly to Uí Fidgente in Cashel.’

Fidelma nodded. ‘You will be under my protection,’ she said gravely.

‘Then we shall come and gladly.’

‘Then let us break our fast and prepare for the journey back,’ she replied. Her brother would be thinking the worst about her disappearance. Fidelma’s relief at her rescue and the recapture of the Uí Fidgente chiefs was tempered by her frustration that the only apparent reason for Alchú’s disappearance and the killing of Sárait had ended in a blank wall through which she was unable to see further. The relief at her rescue was nullified by her feeling of fear for her baby and for Eadulf. She closed her eyes for a moment to hide her inward pain. Eadulf! Where was Eadulf now?