The Monk Who Vanished

Chapter Twelve

It was the sound of war horns that awoke Fidelma only moments before Sister Scothnat, the domina of the guests’ hostel bust into her chamber, crying in a loud and fearful voice.

‘Rise and prepare to defend yourself, lady, we are under attack.’

Fidelma sprung up in a moment of panic, now fully aware of the blaring horns and distant cries and screams. She started from her bed and struggled in the shadows to light a candle. The flickering light revealed Sister Scothnat standing at her chamber door, wringing her hands and weeping distractedly.

Fidelma moved to her, seizing the woman by both arms. ‘Pull yourself together, Sister!’ she said sharply. ‘Tell me what is happening? Who is attacking us?’

Scothnat paused in her distraction, cowed by the sharpness in Fidelma’s tone. Then she began to softly sob again. ‘The abbey, the abbey is under attack!’

‘But who is attacking it?’

She saw that Sister Scothnat was too overcome with fear to answer her question.

Fidelma turned and hauled on her clothing. It was still dark outside her chamber window and she had no idea what time it was although she felt it could not be long before dawn.

Hurrying out of the chamber, she left Scothnat still sobbing behind her. She almost collided with a dark, muscular figure, hurrying in the opposite direction. Even in the gloom she recognised Eadulf.

‘I was coming to find you.’ His voice was anxious. ‘The abbey is being attacked by warriors.’

‘Do you know anything more?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. I was aroused only moments ago by Brother Madagan. He has gone to ensure the gates are secured but I believe the abbey has little defence except its walls and the gates.’

Suddenly the abbey’s great bell began to toll, the sound increasing in volume as the hands which tugged the bell-rope grew more frenzied with each chime. The sound was more a frantic peal for help than a solemn warning.

‘Let us see what we can discover,’ cried Fidelma above the din, heading down the corridor towards the main gate.

Eadulf followed, protesting, ‘The other women have been led to a place of safety within the abbey vaults.’

Fidelma did not bother to respond. She moved quickly and Eadulf was hard pressed to keep up with her. They hurried down the dark cloisters, through which several panicking brethren ran hither and thither, distracted and with no coordination.

Fidelma became aware of the increasing sounds of war horns and the screams and cries of fighting from beyond the great walls of the abbey. They passed into the main courtyard. There they could see a group of young, more sturdy monks, trying to secure the wooden bars on the great central gate. Directing them was the rechtaire, the steward of the abbey, Brother Madagan.

Fidelma hailed him as they came up.

‘What is happening? Who are the attackers?’

Brother Madagan paused from directing his fellows.

‘Strange warriors, that’s all we know. So far they have not attacked the abbey directly. They seem more intent on sacking the township.’

‘Where is the abbot?’

Brother Madagan pointed to a small square-built watch-tower which rose by the gate to a height of three storeys.

‘Forgive me, Sister-’ Brother Madagan turned away — ‘I must continue to see to our security.’

Fidelma was already making for the tower, with Eadulf at her heels.

Inside the tower a stairway led to each of the storeys. It was large enough for only one person to ascend at a time. Fidelma did not pause but raced upwards with Eadulf behind her.

The lower floors were empty but they found Abbot Segdae on the top of the tower, standing behind what, if the place had been built with a martial purpose, would have been battlements. A wall surrounded the roof, rising to chest height. From this vantage point, one could see all around the abbey.

Abbot Ségdae was not alone. Next to him stood the burly figure of the merchant Samradán. Segdae was standing behind the wall’s protection and gazing across the square towards the township beyond. His shoulders were hunched, his hands were two balled fists, held at his sides and his head thrust forward as he watched the scene grimly. Samradan seemed equally transfixed by the spectacle. Neither man acknowledged Fidelma nor Eadulf as they climbed onto the roof.

Fidelma and Eadulf had already become aware of an unearthly red glow, a strange yellow-red flickering light bathing the frontof the abbey. Its curious colour of menace reflected off the low clouds which hung above them. It was obvious that many buildings in the township were already in flames. The screams and cries plus the protesting whinny of frightened horses filled the night air. There was a lot of movement beyond the abbey walls. Men on horseback, some brandishing flaming brands, others with swords, were riding to and fro across the square and moving through the streets among buildings. It was clear that it was the unprotected buildings of the town that were suffering the first onslaught. Now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the curious twilight, the gloom of the night, lit by the fires of burning buildings and movement of flaming torches, Fidelma could see something else. Here and there on the ground were dark mounds which were obviously bodies. Worse still, she saw people, singly or in small groups, running for their lives, being pursued by the mounted warriors. Now and then there came a scream as the flashing swords found a victim.

Fidelma turned grimly to Abbot Segdae.

‘Are there no means of protecting Imleach?’ she demanded.

The abbot seemed too shocked to answer at first. He suddenly looked a frail old man. Fidelma shook him roughly by the arm.

‘Ségdae, innocent people are being cut down. Are there no warriors near here whom we can call upon?’

Almost reluctantly the hawk-faced abbot turned. His expression was dazed as he tried to focus on Fidelma.

‘The nearest are the warriors commanded by your cousin, the Prince of Cnoc Aine.’

‘Is there any way we can contact him?’

Abbot Ségdae raised a hand as if to indicate the bell-tower on the far side of the abbey. The frantic tolling of the bell was continuing. ‘That is our only means.’

Samradan was looking on the scene as one hypnotised; his face was ghastly. Fidelma had rarely seen such naked fear on a man’s face before. Even in that situation, a thought came to her mind. What was it that Vergil has written? Fear betrays unworthy souls. Why had that come to her mind? There was, so she believed, nothing uglier than fear on the face of a man.

The burly merchant now turned to the abbot. ‘Do you think that they will breach the walls of the abbey?’ His voice held more than anxiety in it.

‘This is no fortress, Samradan,’ the abbot replied grimly. ‘Our gates were not built to keep out armies.’

‘I demand protection! I am only a merchant. I have done no harm …I am not a warrior to defend …’ His voice rose in sheer panic. It seemed to raise Abbot Ségdae from his lethargy.

‘Then get down to the vaults below the chapel with the women!’ he snapped. ‘Leave us to defend ourselves … and you!’

The merchant almost cowered away from him.

Fidelma gave an expression of disgust. She turned to Eadulf. ‘Take Samradan to the vaults and then ask Brother Madagan to come here,’ she said. Command suddenly came easily to her. She was of the Eóghanacht of Cashel and these were her people.

Eadulf pulled the trembling merchant roughly away from the scene of death and destruction on which they gazed.

Fidelma stood by Abbot Ségdae regarding the scene with growing anger.

She could make out the smith’s forge erupting in sheets of flame. Several of the buildings were already destroyed. She turned her gaze to the shadowy figures of the horsemen, hoping she could make some identification of them but there was little to see in the darkness beyond men in war helmets, some with flashing shirts of chainmail. But there were no identifying badges on them.

She heard a scuffling sound on the stairs and Brother Madagan came breathlessly onto the roof.

He glanced grimly towards the burning town.

‘They have gone for the easy option first,’ he observed once more. ‘Once they have finished sacking the undefended township then they will make an onslaught on the abbey.’

Abbot Ségdae suddenly gave a cry and fell backwards onto the floor. They turned to look at him in surprise. There was an ugly, bloody wound on his forehead. Fidelma glanced round, puzzled for the moment. She had heard the sound of something striking stone. She bent and picked up a small pebble.

‘A slingshot,’ she observed. ‘Best keep away from the walls.’

Brother Madagan was already kneeling by the abbot.

‘I’ll send for Brother Bardan, the apothecary. The missile has struck his forehead. He is unconscious.’

Fidelma moved carefully to the wall, keeping low down so that it afforded her shelter. The missile must have been delivered by a passing horseman and the shot had been a lucky one. It did not seem part of a concerted attack on the abbey as yet. The raiders were still riding backwards and forwards through the township.

‘When they do attack us, the walls will not keep out the warriors for long,’ muttered Brother Madagan, following her gaze and apparently reading her thoughts.

Fidelma gestured towards the abbey’s bell-tower; the bell was still pealing.

‘Will that bring any help?’

‘It may but there is little counting on it.’

‘Then it is true that there are no warriors nearer here than Cnoc Aine who would come to our protection?’,

‘No. We can only hope that Finguine at Cnoc Aine is alerted.’

‘Six miles away,’ reflected Fidelma, thinking of the distance between Imleach and her cousin’s fortress. ‘Will they hear the tolling of the bell?’

Brother Madagan grimaced. ‘While we may not count on it, there is a good possibility. It is a still night and the sound of our bell can carry.’

‘But we may not count on it,’ echoed Fidelma bitterly. She turned and gazed again on the scene of destruction. ‘Have we no way of knowing who these people are? Why would they attack the abbey?’

‘I have no idea. In the entire history of our community no one has ever attacked this sacred spot.’ He suddenly paused and a troubled look crossed his features.

‘What?’ demanded Fidelma.

Brother Madagan avoided her gaze. ‘The legend. Perhaps it is true?’

For a moment Fidelma did not understand him and then she remembered.

‘The disappearance of the Ailbe’s Relics! Superstition. That is all.’

‘Yet the coincidence is great. The Holy Relics have disappeared. It is said if they leave this spot, then Muman will fall. They have done so and now the abbey is about to be destroyed!’

Fired by her own apprehension Fidelma became angry.

‘Foolish man! The abbey is not destroyed yet and will not be if we put our minds to defending it.’

Eadulf came hurrying back. He glanced at the prone body of the abbot in horror. ‘Is he …?’

‘No,’ Brother Madagan replied. ‘Ségdae has been struck by a missile. Can you find someone to fetch our apothecary, Brother Bardan?’

Eadulf turned back down the stairway. Almost at once he was back. ‘A young Brother has gone for the apothecary.’

Fidelma glanced grimly at him. ‘And how is Samradan?’

‘The merchant is being comforted by Sister Scothnat.’ Eadulf suddenly glanced across the wall towards the square in front of the abbey. ‘Look!’

They followed his outstretched hand with their eyes.

A band of half a dozen men had dismounted from their horses near the great yew-tree which grew before the abbey walls. They all bore axes and began to systematically hack at the ancient tree. They worked in coordination as if the matter had been carefully planned and was no mere whim of vandalism.

Eadulf frowned, perplexed.

‘What is going on?’ he demanded in bewilderment. ‘In the middle of a raid, they are stopping to cut down a tree?’

‘God protect us!’ cried Brother Madagan. His voice was almost a despairing wail. ‘Can’t you see? They are cutting down the sacred yew-tree.’

‘Better that than they cut down people,’ observed Eadulf in black humour, still not understanding the significance of the raiders’ actions.

‘Remember what I told you,’ Fidelma spoke sharply. Even she had a sudden pale cast to her features. ‘This is the sacred tree symbol of our people said to have been planted by the hand of Eber Fionn himself, the son of Milesius, progenitor of the Eóghanacht of Cashel. It is an ancient belief among our people, Eadulf, that the tree is the symbol of our well-being. If the tree flourishes, we flourish. If it is destroyed …’

She did not finish.

Eadulf received the statement in silence. Once again he was confounded by the curious mysticism of this land that he had grown to love. On the one hand the country was more Christian than any of the Saxon kingdoms he knew of. On the other it was far more pagan than most Christian lands he knew. And Fidelma, the most rational and analytical of people was actually troubled by the fact that someone was cutting down the great yew-tree. Eadulf began to realise the true significance of that symbolism. He had always thought that in pagan times the trees had been worshipped. He now realised that this was but a special veneration for trees as symbolic of the oldest living things in the world. Living! What was happening through the destruction of this symbol, which was called ‘The Tree of Life’, was much more than an insult to the Eóghanacht dynasty of Cashel. It was a means of dispiriting them and their people.

There were many things he felt he ought to say but then considered it wiser to say nothing.

They could just hear, in spite of the tolling of the great bell, the axes of the attackers biting into the ancient wood with a rhythmic sound that seemed at odds with the din of destruction and death.

Brother Bardan, the apothecary, came up onto the roof followed byyoung Brother Daig, his assistant. Bardán immediately knelt by the abbot and examined his wound.

‘He has been struck a nasty blow but it is not life threatening,’ the apothecary commented after a cursory examination. ‘Brother Daig will help me carry him to his chamber.’ He glanced up at Brother Madagan. ‘What are our chances, Brother?’

‘Not good. They are not attacking the abbey as yet but they are cutting down the great yew.’

Brother Bardán gave a sharp intake of his breath and genuflected as he looked over the wall to confirm the truth of what Brother Madagan had said. For a moment he stood mesmerised by the sight beyond. The sound of axes being swung was clear now. The apothecary shook his head in dismay.

‘So that is why they are not attacking the abbey directly,’ he observed softly. ‘They do not have to.’

‘Oh, for a few good archers,’ Fidelma cried in frustration.

Brother Daig looked momentarily shocked. ‘Lady, we are of the Faith,’ he protested.

‘That does not mean that we should let ourselves be destroyed.’

‘But Christ taught …’

Fidelma made a typical gesture of impatience, a cutting motion of her hand. ‘Do not preach to me of poverty of spirit as a virtue, Brother. When men are poor in spirit then the proud and haughty oppress them. Let us be true in spirit and determined to resist oppression. Only then do we not court further oppression. I say again, a good archer might save this day.’

‘There are no such weapons in the abbey,’ Brother Bardan commented, ‘let alone men to use them.’ He turned back to the unconscious abbot. ‘Come on, Daig, we must see to the abbot’s welfare.’

They lifted the elderly abbot between them and carried him down the stairs.

For some time Fidelma, Eadulf and Brother Madagan stood in frustration watching the attackers hacking at the old tree. It was impossible for Eadulf to entirely empathise with the angry impotency shared by Fidelma and Madagan as they stood watching its destruction. He could intellectualise about its meaning but to actually feel the alarm and trepidation that the act was causing, was still beyond him.

His eyes suddenly caught sight of a movement and Eadulf pointed across the square.

‘Look! Someone is running towards the gates of the abbey. A woman!’

A shadow had detached itself from the burning buildings and wasrunning and stumbling forward in an obvious attempt to gain the protection of the abbey gates.

‘The gates are closed,’ Brother Madagan cried. ‘We must go down and open them for the poor creature.’

With one more quick glance at the scene below and realising that she could do no more from that vantage point, Fidelma turned and followed Brother Madagan and Eadulf to the courtyard.

At the gate they found Brother Daig who had apparently just returned after helping the abbot back to his chamber.

‘Get the gate open,’ shouted Brother Madagan as they hurried up. ‘There is a woman trying to enter!’

The young man hesitated with an alarmed expression. ‘But that might let the attackers in,’ he protested.

Eadulf simply pushed the young man aside and began to tug on the wooden bolts.

Brother Madagan joined him.

Together, they drew back the great wooden bars which secured the gates, much to the consternation of several of the other brethren who gathered behind Brother Daig. They appeared uncertain what to do. Eadulf and Madagan pulled the main gates inwards.

The running woman was a dozen paces away from the gates. Eadulf had a feeling that she seemed familiar. He moved forward to shout words of encouragement to her but, to his dismay, he saw that a mounted raider had began to pursue the woman and was about to overtake her.

Brother Madagan ran forward through the gates and was holding his crucifix before him as if it would turn back the approaching warrior just by the sight of it.

‘Templi insulaeque!’ he cried. ‘Sanctuarium! Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’

He had managed to insert himself between the woman and the approaching rider whose sword was upraised, the blade flashing against the light of the fires across the square.

The warrior’s sword arm swung back and Brother Madagan half spun, a splash of red across his forehead. Then he fell face down on the ground. Eadulf reached forward to pull the woman to safety but the attacker reached her first. His sword swung again and she gave a shriek as it smashed into the back of her head. The momentum still carried her forward and she stumbled into the abbey courtyard.

The forward motion of the charging horse of the pursuer also carried the warrior forward through the gates, the horse clattering into the paved courtyard. What happened next took place so quickly that no one had time to draw breath before it was over.

The momentum of the horse had knocked the wounded womanaside so that she spun forward, crashing against a wall, and fell onto the ground. Eadulf himself only had time to turn sideways to avoid being knocked down by the horse. As he swung round, some instinct had caused him to grab the leg of the rider and heave with all his might. The rider, already precariously balanced by the effort of his swinging sword arm, came unseated and, as Eadulf fell, he was dragged down from his saddle. The man fell hard but on top of Eadulf, driving the breath from him so that Eadulf lay stunned and unable to move.

The warrior was a professional. His fall cushioned by Eadulf, he half rolled over and sprung to his feet, coming up in a fighting crouch, sword in hand, ready to face any attack.

He was stocky but well-muscled. Thus much could be seen of him but he was clad in black dyed linen with an iron coat of chainmail, the luirech iairn, over a corselet made of bull-hide leather. From the knee down his legs were protected by leather asáin studded in brass; the leather encasing the lower legs was tied firmly. He bore a helmet of polished brass with a small visor over his eyes so that the only feature that could be seen in the flickering light of the courtyard’s brand torches was a thin red slit of a cruel mouth.

His shield was still on his horse which had clattered to a halt on the paved courtyard a short distance away, blowing and snorting from its strenuous run.

The warrior crouched, the sword, which he now held in both hands, swinging round to ascertain what dangers lurked around him. He momentarily relaxed when he saw only half a dozen clearly frightened religious huddling behind the gates and a solitary female religieuse who stood facing him.

The man straightened up and bellowed with laughter before raising his sword in a threatening gesture at the religious. They cowered back, causing him even more merriment. Then he realised that the female religieuse stood unmoved, regarding him, hands folded demurely in front of her. He relaxed in her tall, well-proportioned figure and pleasantly attractive features.

‘Who are you, warrior?’ Fidelma demanded.

The man blinked at the quiet authority in her voice. Then he smirked.

‘A man, a man compared with these eunuchs which you have surrounded yourself with, woman. Come with me and let me show you what a man can do.’

Fidelma’s eyes had flickered anxiously to Eadulf, who was still lying winded. Beyond the gate, Brother Madagan was probably dead. The woman also lay crumpled and inert. She let her eyes return to the warrior with open scorn.

‘You have already shown me what you can do,’ replied Fidelma in a quiet tone, without a hint of fear. ‘You have the murders of a Brother of the Faith and a defenceless woman on your hands. That makes you no man at all but something I scrape off the heel of my shoe with a stick after I have walked through a bog land.’

Her tone was so even that the warrior still stood smirking some moments after she had spoken. It took him a while to realise just what she had said.

He drew his thin mouth into an expression of rage.

‘You can come with me or die now!’

He made a threatening gesture with his sword.

One of the Brothers, it was the youthful Brother Daig, his face red with mortification at his earlier moment of cowardice, came forward as if to protect her. He did not even have time to speak but his movement caused the warrior to turn, sinking the metal point of his sword into Daig’s chest. The young man gave a grunt of pain and dropped to his knees, the blood gushing over his habit. He stared down at the wound as if he could not believe his eyes.

‘You are brave against unarmed boys and women,’ snapped Fidelma, who took a step forward but was halted as the point of the sword swung towards her. ‘Have you a name? Or are you ashamed of it?’

The warrior gasped at her audacity.

‘My name is not for the likes of you, wench. Do not think that because you are a woman you can insult me with impunity!’

Fidelma glanced down to where young Daig was trying to staunch the blood from his wound, his hand pressed over it.

‘You have already proved your branch of courage. As I am also unarmed, doubtless you will feel brave enough to show how despicable you really are.’

Brother Daig look up painfully. There were tears in his eyes. He glanced towards the group of frightened brethren and tried several times to speak before succeeding. ‘The gate, Brothers … the gate must be shut before others of this man’s tribe enter the abbey.’

Indeed, it was something that Fidelma had just realised. The longer the gate stood open, eventually other attackers would. notice it and enter the abbey. Then there would be nothing to prevent them from the wholesale slaughter of the community.

‘Do not try it, wench,’ grunted the warrior as he saw her anxious glance towards the gate. ‘You will be dead before you reach it. My comrades will be here in a few moments.’

Brother Daig gave a groan of pain as he tried to move forward. ‘Heis only one man, Brothers. He cannot kill you all. Shut the gate and disarm him!’

The warrior gave a hiss of anger and the steel of his sword struck the young Brother full in the neck.

Brother Daig fell backwards. There was no need to check whether he was dead or not. That much was obvious.

It was now that Eadulf finally began to recover his wind. He took several deep breaths and began to scramble to his feet, only to find himself pinned by the point of the raider’s sword.

‘The gate!’ cried Fidelma determinedly to the cowering religious. ‘Your Brother’s dying command must be accomplished!’

‘Move and this one dies,’ snapped the warrior, pricking Eadulf s shoulder with his sword.

‘Do it!’ cried Eadulf loudly, anger overcoming his personal fear.

The warrior’s gaze was distracted momentarily as he glanced to the religious to see if they were obeying Eadulf. It was a moment that Eadulf had hoped would come. He suddenly rolled away from the reach of the warrior’s sword point, diving towards the gate.

The warrior turned back to him, sword raised, but it was too late.

With a scream of rage he hurled himself forward as Eadulf began to push against the gate. Suddenly Fidelma was in his way. He turned his sword to strike her. Then he was flying through the air, he knew not how.

Only Eadulf, out of the corner of his eye, saw Fidelma spring forward. His heart lurched as he saw her but somewhere, dim in his memory, he recognised the stance she had taken with her body. He had seen her perform the feat a few times now. The first time had been in Rome. She was poised as if to take the blow from the descending sword on her unprotected head. Then it seemed as if she merely reached forward, caught the arm of the man and heaved her assailant into the air, over her hip, and sent him cannoning into the stone wall of the abbey wall. There was a strange thudding sound and, without even a grunt, the warrior fell to the ground, unconscious.

Fidelma had once told Eadulf that in ancient Ireland there had been a class of learned men who taught the time-honoured philosophies of her people. They journeyed far and wide and did not believe in carrying arms to defend themselves because they did not believe in killing people. But they had to protect themselves from attacks by thieves and bandits on the highways. Thus they were forced to develop a technique called troid-sciathaigid — battle through defence. Defence without the use of weapons. It was a method taught to many religious missionaries before they left Eireann and went into strange lands to preach the word of the new Faith.

‘Come on! Help Brother Eadulf!’ cried Fidelma. ‘Get those gates closed.’

She rushed forward herself to help but suddenly seemed to change her mind and ran on through the gates. Brother Madagan’s body lay only ten feet beyond.

‘Help me Eadulf, quickly!’ she called.

Realising what she intended, he went after her. They grabbed Brother Madagan unceremoniously between them, lifting him by the shoulders of his clothes and dragged him back within the gates just as the Brothers had recovered sufficiently to help swing the gates closed. They paused inside as the bolts were pushed home.

Fidelma was soon active again.

‘Bind that warrior!’ she cried to the Brothers who now stood about in shameful consternation that they had not acted before. ‘Disarm and bind him so he does no further harm.’

She glanced down at Brother Madagan. Eadulf was by his side, examining him.

‘He’s still alive,’ he announced with satisfaction. ‘The wound is not bad at all. So far as I can see, he only received the flat of the sword on his skull. The blood on his forehead is from a slight nick from the sword’s edge. He should recover consciousness soon.’

Fidelma glanced anxiously at Eadulf for there was blood on his habit where the warrior had pricked him with his sword point. ‘And yourself?’ she asked quickly.

Eadulf grinned and automatically raised a hand to his shoulder. ‘I have survived worse things. It was no more than a needle prick. The weight of the man was far worse when he fell on me. I might be stiff for a while.’

Fidelma was already moving to the crumpled body of the woman who was still stretched on the cobbles.

‘It is the innkeeper!’ Fidelma had recognised Cred under the bloodstained mask of her face. ‘By the Faith!’ she cried, ‘I think she still breathes.’

She bent and held up the woman’s head.

Eadulf looked quickly at the wound and then at Fidelma. He shook his head slowly. The injury placed the woman beyond any temporal help.

At that moment, Cred’s eyes opened. There was fear in them.

‘Hush!’ Fidelma spoke gently. ‘You are among friends.’

Cred groaned and rolled her eyes. She had difficulty in speaking. ‘I … I know … more …’ she gasped.

Eadulf turned to where one of the Brothers was waiting. ‘Fetch water!’ he snapped.

The man hurried off immediately.

‘Rest,’ Fidelma told Cred. ‘We will take care of you. Lie still.’

‘Enemies …’ gasped Cred. ‘I heard the archer speak. Enemies … the enemy is in Cashel. The Prince …’

Her head lolled back, though her eyes remained wide open.

Eadulf genuflected. He had seen enough death to know that there was an end to the tavern keeper’s life.

Fidelma stayed still a moment, frowning.

The monk who had been sent for the water returned with it and so Eadulf rose and set about reviving Brother Madagan. The steward of the abbey came round slowly.

Eadulf turned to the group of young brethren now standing like sheep awaiting someone’s orders.

‘Does Brother Madagan have an assistant?’ he demanded. ‘Is there an assistant steward of the abbey?’

There was a muttering and shuffling of feet.

‘It would have been Brother Mochta,’ offered one young man. ‘I wouldn’t know now.’

‘Well, until we find out, I shall take charge,’ Eadulf announced. ‘I want one of you to assist Brother Madagan to his chamber. He has had a nasty blow on the head. Get the apothecary. I want volunteers to take the bodies of Cred and Brother Daig to the mortuary and have this blood cleansed from the flagstones.’

‘Leave it to me, Brother Saxon,’ said one of the monks. ‘But what shall I do with the warrior?’

Eadulf turned towards the raider.

The man was now securely trussed up but had recovered consciousness. He was lying with his back against the wall secured by his feet, his hands tied behind his back. He was testing his bonds but ceased as Eadulf approached him.

‘You will wish that you had killed me, Brother,’ he snarled between clenched teeth.

‘You might wish that I had, my vicious friend,’ returned Eadulf grimly. ‘I would think your murderous friends out there will not think much of you, allowing yourself to be disarmed and captured by a woman. Indeed, an unarmed woman of the Faith who knocked you unconscious. What an epitaph for a warrior such as yourself. Aut viam inveniam aut faciam, eh? Victory or death is the warrior’s motto. But you managed to achieve neither.’

The warrior screwed up his mouth and tried to spit at Eadulf.

Eadulf smiled broadly and turned back to the helpful young monk who was waiting his orders.

‘Leave our valiant warrior where he has fallen, Brother …?’

‘Brother Tomar.’

‘Well, Brother Tomar, leave him there and get on with the other tasks first.’

Eadulf went across to Fidelma, who was still standing by Cred’s s body, looking down thoughtfully.

‘Do you know, I believe that Cred was not running to the abbey to seek shelter,’ she said, raising her eyes to his. ‘I think she might have been running here to see me.’ She sighed, then said: ‘Did the warrior tell you anything?’

‘Nothing. He has not identified himself.’

‘Well, plenty of time to question him later.’

Fidelma turned for the watch-tower. ‘Let us see what is happening out there first. If these warriors are going to attack the abbey, they appear to be delaying it. I find that puzzling. It is nearly dawn now.’

They returned to the roof of the tower and gazed out across the square towards the town. The buildings were still on fire but the blaze was not so intense as it had been earlier. Columns of black smoke were arising. What caught Fidelma’s attention immediately was the sight of the remains of the great yew-tree. Part of the trunk had been cut through and then ropes had obviously been fastened to it for it had been pulled over, causing a splintering. The severed tree had then been set alight.

Fidelma closed her eyes in anguish.

‘Never in over sixteen centuries since Eber Fion set up the yew as symbol of our fortunes has this ever happened,’ she said softly.

She frowned suddenly. She realised from the movements around the town that groups of raiders were reorganising themselves.

Fidelma also realised that the bell of the abbey was still clanging frantically. Indeed, it had never ceased. It was strange how she could have grown so used to the noise that she had not even noticed its continuing clamour.

‘Let that noise be stopped,’ she instructed Eadulf. ‘If no one has heard it by now and come to our aid, no one will.’

‘If I can find that young Brother Tomar he can see to it.’

He was about to go down the stairs when Fidelma stayed him.

‘Wait! There is a movement in the woods to the south. I think the raiders are gathering for their attack on the abbey at last!’

Eadulf came forward and followed her directions.

‘We will have no form of defence. If they can cut down that yew and destroy it in so short a time, then their axe-men would be able to break through the oak gates of the abbey within minutes.’

Fidelma reluctantly had to admit that Eadulf was right. ‘We might be able to negotiate with them,’ she said, but without conviction.

Eadulf said nothing but let his gaze sweep across the burning township and the remnants of the great yew-tree. With dawn casting its grey light across the hills they could see bodies scattered in profusion.

The youthful Brother Tomar came hurrying up the steps to join them.

‘I have done everything that you have asked, Brother Saxon,’ he told Eadulf. ‘Brother Madagan has recovered consciousness but is weak. Abbot Segdae has also recovered and is trying to organise the brethren to face our enemies with more discipline.’ He glanced rather shame-faced at Fidelma. ‘We did not acquit ourselves well at the gate when the warrior came, Sister. For that I must apologise.’

Fidelma was forgiving. ‘You are Brothers of the Faith and not warriors. There is no blame on you.’

She was still peering anxiously southward where she had detected the movement of a body of horsemen.

Brother Tomar followed her gaze.

‘Are they massing to attack the abbey?’ he whispered anxiously.

‘I fear so.’

‘I’d better warn the others.’

Fidelma gestured negatively. ‘To what purpose? There is no way to defend the abbey.’

‘But there might be a way of evacuating the Sisters of our order, at least. I have heard the abbot once speak of a secret passageway that leads into the nearby hills.’

‘A passageway? Then go; speak with Abbot Segdae at once. If we can evacuate some of the members of the abbey before these barbarians break in …’

Brother Tomar had already left before she had finished speaking. Eadulf now touched Fidelma on the arm and pointed silently. She followed his gesture and saw, at the north end of the burning town, a band of attackers riding away in the opposite direction to the oncoming column of horsemen.

‘Some of the attackers are leaving,’ he observed with curiosity. ‘Why?’

Fidelma turned from the column of disappearing attackers to look southwards again. The movement of horses she had seen in the dim early light had been revealed more fully as the tip of the sun broke across the top of the eastern hills, flooding the forest area with light. A body of twenty or thirty horsemen had emerged. She could see a fluttering banner among them.

It was a royal stag on a blue background.

‘That’s a Eóghanacht banner!’ she gasped.

The horsemen were galloping across the plain towards the abbey.

Fidelma turned to Eadulf. There was relief suddenly on her face. ‘I believe that they are men from Cnoc Aine,’ she said, excitement in her voice. ‘They must have come in answer to the tolling of the abbey bell.’

‘It would make sense as to why the attackers are leaving so hurriedly.’

‘Let us go down and tell the others.’

At the foot of the tower they found Brother Tomar and Abbot Ségdae. He looked slightly strained and pale and there was a bluish lump on his forehead but he seemed in control again. A trumpet note was echoing in the air as the column of horsemen approached the abbey. Abbot Ségdae recognised it. Fidelma did not have to explain.

‘Deo gratias!’ breathed the abbot thankfully. ‘We are saved! Quick, Brother Tomar, open the gates. The men of Cnoc Aine have arrived to give us aid.’

As the abbey gate swung open, the column of horsemen came to a halt in front of them. They were led by a young, good-looking, dark-haired warrior, richly clad and equipped for battle. He was evenly featured, with curly close-cropped red hair and dark eyes. He wore a blue woollen cloak fixed at the shoulder with a silver brooch. It was quite distinctive, wrought in the shape of a solar symbol with semi-precious garnets on each of the three radiating arms.

His eyes fell on Fidelma as she emerged through the gates, with the others, to greet them. His features split into a broad smile.

‘Lamh laidir abú!’ he cried, raising a clenched fist in greeting.

Eadulf had been long enough in Muman to recognise the battle cry of the Eóghanacht. A strong hand to victory!

‘You are welcome, cousin Finguine,’ Fidelma replied, also raising her clenched fist in greeting.

The young man leapt from his horse and embraced his cousin. Then he stood back and gazed around in dismay.

‘But I have arrived late rather than early,’ he said in disappointment. ‘Thank God that He has cast His mantel of protection over you, cousin.’

‘The raiders left riding towards the north only minutes ago,’ Eadulf offered.

‘We saw them,’ the Prince of Cnoc Aine nodded, glancing at him and observing his Saxon accent and tonsure. ‘My tanist and half of my men have already started in pursuit. Who were they? Uí Fidgente?’

Fidelma had to admit that it was a logical assumption. It was inthis very area, indeed, at Finguine’s very capital at Cnoc Aine, that the last great battle had been fought with the Uí Fidgente scarcely a year before.

‘It is hard to say, but the Prince of the Uí Fidgente is at Cashel, supposedly engaged in peace talks with my brother.’

‘So I have heard,’ observed Finguine dryly. His expression conveyed how much he distrusted such an event. But now he turned to the Abbot Segdae, noting his bruise. ‘Are you badly hurt, Father Abbot?’

Ségdae shook his head as he greeted the youthful Prince. ‘A bruise, that’s all.’

‘Has harm come to any other of the brethren? Are you all well?’

‘The most harm has been done to the township,’ replied the abbot, his face still anguished. ‘We have suffered one Brother killed and one bruised, like myself. But there must be many dead in the township. And, look …’

Finguine followed his gaze as did everyone else.

‘The sacred yew-tree of our race — destroyed!’ cried Finguine, his voice a cross between horror and rage. ‘There will be much blood to pay for this. This is an insult to all Eóghanacht. It will mean war.’

‘But war between whom?’ Fidelma posed the question without humour. ‘Firstly, we must identify those responsible.’

‘Uí Fidgente,’ snapped Finguine. ‘They are the only people who will benefit from this.’

‘It is an assumption only,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Never act before you know for sure.’

‘Well, we have captured one of the raiders,’ Eadulf reminded them. ‘Let us question him and make him tell us who he takes his orders from.’

Finguine appeared surprised at the news. ‘You have actually captured one, Saxon?’ He sounded impressed.

‘Well, Fidelma did the capturing,’ Eadulf corrected disarmingly.

Finguine turned to his cousin with a grin. ‘I should have known that you had a hand in it. Well, where is he? Let’s us see what we can get out of the cur.’

They walked back into the courtyard of the abbey, after Finguine had issued orders to his men to fan out through the township and see what they could do to help the injured and to quench the fires.

‘He is trussed up over here,’ Eadulf said, leading the way to where they had left the surly warrior.

The man was lying where they had left him, his back against the abbey wall, hands tied behind him, his legs outstretched beforehim, still tied at the ankles. His head was slumped forward a little on his chest.

‘Come on, man,’ cried Eadulf, moving forward. ‘Rouse yourself. It is time to answer a few questions.’

He bent and touched the warrior lightly on the shoulder.

Without a sound the warrior rolled over on his side.

Finguine dropped to his knee and placed his hand on the pulse in the man’s neck.

‘By the crown of Corc of Cashel! Someone has revenged themselves on this man. He’s dead.’

With an exclamation of surprise, Fidelma moved forward to her cousin’s side.

There was blood on the man’s chest. Someone had stabbed him through the heart.