The Monk Who Vanished

Chapter Thirteen

Night had made the raid seem more destructive than it had been in reality. There were a score of dead from the town and a further dozen or so were wounded or injured. Only half a dozen buildings had been burnt down. A few more buildings were damaged, though not beyond repair. Even so, the effect on such a small community as Imleach was devastating. Among the main buildings destroyed was the smith’s forge, a warehouse and the inn that had belonged to Cred.

Abbot Ségdae and Brother Madagan, wearing their bandaged foreheads like insignia of distinction, had turned lauds into a short service of thanksgiving for the safe delivery of the abbey. Even the burly Samradan was there, looking somewhat shame-faced and irritable. Fidelma and Eadulf set off with her cousin, the Prince of Cnoc Aine, to walk to the town in order to assess the damage for themselves.

Little was said about the great yew-tree whose wood still smouldered in front of the abbey. Its destruction was beyond mourning.

The first person they saw as they walked across the square was Nion the smith, the bó-aire. Nion was leaning heavily on a stick and his leg had been bandaged. He wore a long woollen cloak wrapped around him against the morning chill. It was fastened at the shoulder by a silver brooch in the design of a solar symbol with three red garnets, similar to the one Finguine wore. He was staring morosely at the remains of his forge while his assistant, Suibne, was picking through the rubble. As they approached, they could smell the acrid stench of burnt wood mingling with other odours which they could not begin to identify, all rising together to make the atmosphere corrosive and caustic in their lungs.

Nion did not glance up as they approached.

‘It is good to see you alive, Nion,’ Finguine greeted him. He seemed to know the smith of old.

Nion looked up, recognising the Prince of Cnoc Aine, and bent his head slightly forward in acknowledgement.

‘My lord, thank God that you came in time. We might all have been slain and the whole town destroyed.’

‘Alas, I did not arrive in time enough to spare your loss, Nion,’replied the Prince of Cnoc Aine, looking grimly over the ruins of the forge.

‘I will survive, I suppose. There are others of our township who will not. We shall see what we can recover from the ashes.’

Finguine shook his head sadly. ‘It will take a while to restore your forge,’ he observed. ‘A pity. It was only the other day that I thought to prevail on your craftsmanship and commission you to make me another of these silver brooches.’ He fingered the brooch on his cloak absently. Then he noticed Nion’s injury. ‘Were you badly wounded?’

‘Bad enough,’ Nion replied. ‘And I shall not be earning a living as a smith for a while yet.’

‘Were you here when the raid began?’ Fidelma intervened for the first time.

‘I was.’

‘Can you describe exactly what happened?’

‘Little to tell, lady,’ he said ruefully. ‘I was awakened by the clamour of the attack. I was asleep at the back of my forge. I ran out and saw upwards of a score of men riding through the streets. Cred’s tavern was already in flames. People were running hither and thither. I could not recognise who the attackers were; just that they were intent on burning the town. So I grabbed a sword from those I had been sharpening. I had my duty as bó-aire. I ran out, determined to save my forge and the town but — the cowards! — I was struck from behind. As I fell, another attacker speared me in the leg. Then the flames were eating at the forge. My assistant, Suibne, dragged me away and we took shelter.’ He glanced, embarrassed, at Finguine. ‘Although I am bó-aire, and it is my task to protect my people, I am not expected to commit suicide. There were no warriors here and none who could help me drive off the attack.’

‘You did not recognise the attackers? You do not know who they were or where they were from?’ pressed Finguine.

‘They rode from the north and returned to the north.’ The smith spat on the floor. ‘There is little need to ask who they were.’

‘But you do not know who they were for certain?’ insisted Fidelma.

‘Who else could they be but Dal gCais? Who else but the murdering Uí Fidgente would make such an attack on Imleach and destroy the great yew?’

‘But you do not know for sure?’ she stressed once again.

The smith’s eyes narrowed in unconcealed anger. ‘Next time I meet an Uí Fidgente I will not need proof before I slaughter him. If I am wrong, I am prepared to go to hell just for the pleasure of taking one Uí Fidgente with me! Look what they havedone to my township.’ He flung out his arm expressively to the smouldering ruins.

Finguine turned with a serious look to his cousin. ‘It is true that most of the people feel like this, cousin. Indeed, who else can it be but the Uí Fidgente?’

Fidelma drew him and Eadulf out of earshot of Nion, away from the forge.

‘This is precisely what I need to find out,’ she said. ‘If it is the Uí Fidgente, so be it. But we must be sure. Donennach of the Uí Fidgente stays currently in Cashel to conduct a treaty with my brother. He and my brother were wounded in an attempted assassination. In a few days there will be a hearing in which we must prove Uí Fidgente duplicity or be held up before all the five kingdoms of Eireann as the aggressors. I do not want theories, I need proof of their involvement.’

Finguine was sympathetic. ‘It was a pity someone took vengeance on your captive. We might have been able to learn something from him.’

‘I wonder if vengeance was the motive to stab him in the heart and dispatch him so quickly and silently?’ Fidelma said the words absently as if pondering the matter.

Finguine and Eadulf regarded her with surprise.

‘I am not sure what you are implying?’ the Prince of Cnoc Aine said hesitantly.

‘My implication is simple enough,’ she responded.

‘Do you think that he was murdered to prevent him revealing the identity of the attackers?’ Eadulf had more quickly understood the implication of what she had said.

Fidelma’s expression told him that he was correct.

Eadulf’s mind worked quickly. ‘But that would mean … surely, that would mean that a member of the abbey was working hand in glove with the raiders?’

Fidelma shook her head at his tone of incredulity.

‘Or someone in the abbey,’ she corrected. ‘Is that so difficult to believe? Every strand of this mystery leads to this abbey.’

Eadulf raised a hand and tugged at his ear thoughtfully.

‘I am casting my mind back. We left the warrior trussed up and went into the tower. Was he still alive when we came down, having heard the approach of Finguine? I cannot vouch for it.’

‘Nor I,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘Was he killed when we were in the tower or was he killed when we opened the gate and came out to greet Finguine?’

‘Well, if he had been killed when we were in the tower, there were several brethren still in the courtyard by the gates. There werethose involved in removing the bodies of Cred and Brother Daig to the mortuary and in helping Brother Madagan to his chamber.’

Fidelma was reflective.

‘When we returned to open the gates, Brother Tomar was there with the Abbot Ségdae. There were a couple of other Brothers standing nearby. We hurriedly opened the gate and came out to greet Finguine. Someone could easily have stabbed the man during that time.’

‘There was certainly time to kill him and any one of the brethren could have been responsible.’ Eadulf sighed.

‘That does not help me much, cousin, to identify the raiders,’ interrupted Finguine. ‘A dead man can’t tell tales.’

Fidelma looked at her cousin for a moment and then smiled knowingly. ‘Sometimes a dead man can reveal much,’ she replied solemnly. ‘As the dead warrior is the only evidence we have of the raiders, I think we should go and examine him and his belongings. There might be a clue on him.’

They were turning back to the abbey when one of Finguine’s men, who had been examining the fallen yew-tree, came hurrying across and whispered urgently to the Prince. Finguine turned to them with a smile of triumph.

‘I think that we have the confirmation we need to apportion blame,’ he announced with satisfaction. ‘Come.’

They followed the man to the yew-tree. He stood aside and pointed to part of the unburnt wood, to something engraved on the fallen trunk. It was a symbol, a crude carving of a boar.

‘The emblem of the Prince of the Uí Fidgente.’ Finguine did not have to explain.

Fidelma regarded it for a moment.

‘It is interesting that, during what was a stealthy night attack, someone went to great pains to let us know who the attackers were,’ she mused.

At that moment a clear note on a trumpet sounded.

It was Finguine’s men returning, those whom he had sent to chase the raiders.

They came riding into the township, their horses dusty and tired. Their leader saw Finguine and rode over, halting and sliding from his mount. Even as his feet touched the ground he was shaking his head in disgust.

‘Nothing,’ he growled angrily. ‘We lost them.’

Finguine frowned in displeasure. ‘Lost them? How?’

‘They crossed a river and we lost their tracks.’

‘Which way were they going when you lost contact with them?’ asked the Prince of Cnoc Aine.

‘North, veering towards the mountains, I would say. But we lost their tracks in the Dead River. They could have turned in any direction from there. I believe that they continued north.’

‘Didn’t you scour the north bank to find out where they left the river?’ demanded Finguine.

‘We rode a mile or so in both directions in order to pick up their tracks but we were unable to do so. There was a lot of stony ground there.’ The man sounded bitter at his Prince’s rebuke.

‘I did not mean to criticise your ability,’ Finguine assured him. ‘Go, get some food and rest.’

The warrior was turning back to his men when his eyes fell on the shattered ancient yew-tree.

‘This is a bad sign, Finguine. It is an evil augury,’ he stated quietly.

The Prince of Cnoc Aine’s mouth was a thin line. ‘The only thing that this means is that those who did it will be brought to justice,’ he snapped.

‘Just a moment,’ Fidelma called after the warrior as he began to lead his horse away. ‘What makes you think that they continued in a northerly direction from the Dead River?’

The man glanced back. He hesitated and then shrugged. ‘Why would you ride as if the Devil were on your tail, directly north, and then turn aside at the river in a different direction? They were obviously in a hurry to get back to the safety of their own territory.’

‘Perhaps they rode for the river knowing that it might be a good place to lose any pursuers?’ Eadulf posed the question for Fidelma.

The warrior regarded him with a sour look. ‘I won’t preach a sermon, Brother, if you do not lead warriors in battle. I still say they were heading north.’

‘Then perhaps you should have gone north as well?’ replied Fidelma blandly.

The warrior was about to respond when Finguine signalled him to leave.

‘He is a good man, cousin,’ Finguine said, defensively. ‘It is bad manners to question a warrior’s decision.’

‘I still think that he made the wrong decision. If he thought they were going north he should have followed his intuition.’ Fidelma glanced towards the fallen yew-tree. ‘Everywhere I turn in this matter I am left with supposition, with guesses. I want more than a carving on a tree. Anyone can carve such a well-known symbol.’

Finguine looked surprised. ‘You mean that you will ignore this evidence?’

‘No. I never ignore evidence. But such evidence as this needs to beconsidered more carefully than simply reacting to it. I want something more than a drawing which might have been left purposely to make us believe it was a boastful acclamation of the raiders.’

‘Perhaps we should examine the body of the warrior next?’ ventured Eadulf after a moment. ‘As you have said, it might give us some clues as to his identity.’

They left Finguine continuing to examine the damage in the township and went back to the abbey. Eadulf suddenly asked: ‘You don’t suppose all these things are coincidences, do you?’

‘Not connected?’ Fidelma considered the proposition seriously.

‘Coincidences do happen.’

‘The reason why we started out on this journey to Imleach was because of the attempted assassination in Cashel. That brought us to the abbey. When we arrived here, we found that Brother Mochta, Keeper of the Holy Relics of Ailbe, had vanished with those relics and that one of the relics had been carried by one of the assassins and that person is thought to be Mochta, except we have the contradictory evidence of the tonsure. The attack on the abbey and the township and the destruction of the sacred yew of the Eóghanacht might be coincidence but it seems unlikely.’

‘I do not see the connection,’ protested Eadulf, who did not notice the slight smile playing around the corners of Fidelma’s mouth.

‘Let us consider the connections then,’ Fidelma said. ‘The finding of the relic on the assassin. The fact that the assassin was a religieux and that his description fits that of Brother Mochta even down to the tattoo of a particular bird on his forearm. These are facts, not coincidences.’

‘How do you deal with the mystery of the tonsure?’ Eadulf asked irritatingly. They had halted in the cloistered courtyard of the abbey.

‘What of the fact that the other assassin, the one called the archer, Saigteóir, was known to have spent a few days here in Imleach? He bought his arrows from Nion the smith here. Why was Samradán’s driver killed when he was revealing that the archer also met Brother Mochta here and another man whom he addressed as ‘rígdomna’, the title of a prince. These are facts.’

‘True. But I will give you another fact which does not make sense,’ Eadulf offered. ‘There is the fact that the timescale does not really coincide. That makes no sense. How could this Brother Mochta be seen in Imleach at Vespers wearing a tonsure of St John and less than twelve hours later be in Cashel with the remnants of a Roman tonsure over which he had been growing hair for several weeks?’

Fidelma waved the objection aside. ‘What of the fact that the Cashel merchant, Samradan, whose warehouse was the point from which theassassination attempt was launched, is here in Imleach? It was his driver who told us about the archer for which he paid with his life. Is that a coincidence?’

‘Perhaps. I don’t know. We must have a further word with Samradan.’

Fidelma smiled. ‘On that point I agree with you.’

‘I still believe that we might be putting facts together which are unconnected,’ Eadulf persisted.

Fidelma restrained a chuckle. She enjoyed it when Eadulf summarised matters for it helped in her consideration of the facts. Often she used him as devil’s advocate to sort out her own ideas but she could not tell Eadulf that.

‘I think that we can be certain of one thing,’ Eadulf summed up. ‘That is I believe that Nion, the smith, is right. I know little of these people you call the Uí Fidgente but everyone seems agreed that their hand is behind this attack. They can’t all be wrong.’

‘Eadulf, if I did not have to present proof but only suspicion to a court, I do not doubt that we would have all the Uí Fidgente convicted within the hour. But that is not how our laws work. Proof is what is needed and proof we must obtain or declare the Uí Fidgente to be innocent.’

Brother Tomar was crossing through the courtyard at that moment.

‘Do you know where the merchant Samradan is?’ called Fidelma. Brother Tomar shook his head quickly. He was, so she had found out, the stableman at the abbey. He was a rough-mannered country youth who preferred the company of his animals than the company of people.

‘He has left the abbey.’

Brother Tomar was about to move on when Fidelma stayed him. ‘Left?’ she asked. ‘To go to the township?’

‘No. He left with his wagons.’

‘Did his drivers escape unhurt? I thought I saw Cred’s tavern burnt to the ground.’

Brother Tomar responded in a morose tone. ‘So I understand from one of the drivers. It seems that only two of the drivers escaped from that carnage for Samradán arrived here with three drivers and he has left with two of them. The two wagons came to the abbey, each driven by one man, and Samradan joined them. They set off on the road north.’

‘North,’ muttered Fidelma.

‘Samradán did tell you that he was going north,’ Eadulf reminded her.

‘So he did,’ Fidelma agreed slowly. ‘North.’

Brother Tomar waited hesitantly. ‘That is correct, Sister. I heard him instruct his drivers to head for the ford on the Dead River.’

Fidelma thanked the stableman and she and Eadulf continued their way in search of the apothecary.

It turned out that Brother Bardán was alone in the mortuary room of the abbey when they entered. The apothecary and mortician was putting the finishing touches to the winding sheet of his late friend, the young Brother Daig. His eyes were red and there were tearstains on his cheeks.

He glanced up with an angry look. ‘What do you seek here?’ he asked in an irritable tone.

‘Calm yourself, Brother.’ Fidelma spoke in a pacifying voice. ‘I realise that you were close to poor young Daig. We are not here to intrude on your grief but we must examine the body of the raider.’

Brother Bardan gestured in annoyance to the far side of the chamber.

‘The body lies on the table in that corner. I will not prepare it for burial. It deserves no decent Christian service.’

‘You are within your rights,’ Fidelma agreed, unruffled, for the apothecary was aggressive as if he expected her to argue. ‘Where is the body of Cred? Is it also here?’

‘Her body was already prepared and taken by her relatives to the cemetery of the township. I am told there are many people slain in the attack who must be buried this day.’

Fidelma turned to where the body of the dead warrior lay and motioned Eadulf to join her.

The arms and legs of the man had not even been unbound. His helmet still covered his head and the visor was still drawn over the upper features.

With a click of her tongue to indicate her displeasure, Fidelma reached forward and removed the helmet. The man was in his early thirties. His features were coarse and, in life, were doubtless made hard by the life he led. There was the pale mark of an old sword wound on his forehead. He had a bulbous nose and the grossness of his features inclined her to think that he had been given to an abundance of drink and food.

‘Untie his hands and feet, Eadulf.’

Eadulf did as she instructed while she stood staring down, hoping there was something that might identify the man. Now that she could view him in a more relaxed state, her first impression was confirmed that he had the appearance of a professional warrior. Yet his chainmail shirt was old and there were areas of rust eating into the links in patches.

She helped Eadulf remove the belt from which his weapons had hung. Then they removed his mail shirt and leather jerkin. Underneath it, he wore a black dyed linen shirt and kilt. There was nothing to identify who he was nor where he had come from.

She observed that whoever had killed him had slipped a dagger through a joint of the mail shirt and under the ribcage. It would have been a swift and instantaneous death. Eadulf, on her instructions, set to work to remove the shirt and undergarments.

There were no identifying marks on the body, just a number of old scars from wounds which confirmed that the man had spent his life as a professional warrior.

‘And not a good warrior at that,’ responded Fidelma when Eadulf commented on the fact.

‘How do you know?’

‘He has been wounded too many times. If you want the better warrior, look for the man who inflicted those wounds not the one who received them.’

Eadulf accepted this wisdom in silence.

‘Surely it is strange that he does not carry a purse?’ Fidelma pointed out after a while.

Eadulf drew his brows together as he tried to understand the point she was making.

‘Ah.’ His face lightened. ‘You mean that if he were a professional warrior, a mercenary, he would want payment for his services?’

‘Precisely. So where would he put his purse?’

‘He would leave it at home.’

‘And if he were far from home, what then?’

Eadulf shrugged, unable to answer.

‘He might leave it somewhere meaning to return and pick it up after the raid. That is a dangerous practice. No; most professionals tend to carry their wealth with them.’ Her face suddenly brightened. ‘Maybe he had saddle bags. I had almost forgotten that we have his horse here as well.’

She looked across to where Brother Bardán was finishing his task. ‘What do you mean to do with the body of this man?’

‘Let it rot, for all I care,’ returned the apothecary in an uncompromising tone.

‘It will rot, surely,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘But a decision has to be made whether you want to let it rot here or elsewhere.’

Brother Bardán sighed. ‘It will not be buried within the abbey grounds among our brethren, next to …’ He half gestured towards the body of Brother Daig. ‘I will send for Nion, the bó-aire, and ask him to remove the body to the town burial ground.’

‘Very well.’ Fidelma turned back to Eadulf and said quietly, ‘We will go to the stables and examine the warrior’s horse and harness.’

Eadulf picked up the man’s sword as they were about to leave.

‘Have you examined the sword?’ he asked.

She shook her head and reached for it. It was about thirty-five inches in length, the blade nearest the point splayed out in almost a leaf shape before narrowing down to the hilt. The hilt was riveted on. There were six rivets.

‘This is no poor man’s sword,’ Eadulf said, with a frown. ‘I am sure that I have seen a similar style of sword just recently.’

‘You have,’ she replied with irony. ‘It is the same style as the one carried by our assassin. Remember? This is a claideb dét.’

‘A sword of teeth?’ translated Eadulf literally. ‘I thought it was made of metal like any other.’

Fidelma smiled patiently and pointed to the handle. ‘The hilt is ornamented with the carved teeth of animals. As I recall, there is only one territory in Éireann’s five kingdoms where the smiths indulge in such embellishment. If only I could recall where. It is such a distinctive ornamentation.’

‘You mean that it might indicate where this man came from?’

‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘It will only tell us where the sword was manufactured. But, speaking of coincidences as we were, surely it is not coincidence that both the assassin and this raider carried such a distinctive weapon?’

Eadulf considered the point and nodded assent. ‘What did you say it was called — claideb dét?’ he asked, examining the weapon with a new regard.

‘Macheram belluinis ornatam dolatis dentibus,’ she explained in Latin. ‘A sword ornamented with the carved teeth of animals. Hang onto it, Eadulf. It may well be important.’

She made a final examination of the body and the clothing.

‘No,’ she finally said, ‘there is little here by way of identification. All we know is that this man is no amateur but whether he was a professional in the service of some prince or whether he was just an outlaw raiding the country in search of booty, it is impossible to say. Most of what he is wearing can come from any corner of the five kingdoms with …’

‘With the exception of his sword,’ Eadulf interrupted.

‘With the exception of his sword,’ echoed Fidelma. ‘But that is of no use to me unless I can remember what people it was who specialised in decorating their sword hilts in such a fashion.’

She turned to the door of the mortuary, glancing at Brother Bardán. ‘I have finished with the body of the raider.’

The apothecary nodded curtly. ‘Do not worry. It will be disposed of.’

Outside Eadulf grimaced disapprovingly. ‘I see that Brother Bardan does not take the Faith’s teaching of forgiving one’s enemies too seriously. “Be you kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake has forgiven you.” Perhaps he should be reminded of the text?’

‘Ephesians, chapter four,’ Fidelma identified the quotation. ‘I rather think that Brother Bardan is one of those who prefer to hand his enemies over to God’s forgiveness and show none himself. But then he is a man with all the frailty of men. Daig meant a lot to him.’

Eadulf suddenly realised what she meant and said no more.

As they passed back through the cloisters they found Abbot Segdae sitting in the shade, his head sunk on his shoulders. He was still wearing his bandage and was sniffing at a small bunch of herbs.

He glanced up as they approached and smiled weakly. Then he gestured with the bunch of herbs.

‘Brother Bardan says the aroma of these will help with my headache.’

‘Is your wound healing, Segdae?’ asked Fidelma solicitously. She was fond of the old abbot who had been such a close friend to her family over the decades.

‘I am told that the bruise looks bad but the slingshot fortunately, did not break the skin. I have a lump and a bad headache. That is all.’

‘You must take care of yourself, Segdae.’

The abbot smiled weakly. ‘I am an old man, Fidelma. Perhaps I should make way for a younger one here. It will be recorded by the annalists that during my years as Comarb of Ailbe I allowed his Holy Relics to be stolen, that I allowed the sacred yew-tree of Imleach to be cut down. In short, that I allowed the Eóghanacht to be disgraced.’

‘You must not think of resigning office,’ Fidelma protested. She had always thought of Ségdae as one of the permanent factors of the kingdom.

‘A younger man might not have been so stupid to stand on the tower as I did and allow himself to be felled by a slingshot,’ replied Ségdae ruefully.

‘Ségdae, if you were a captain of warriors, then I would tell you immediately to stand aside,’ Fidelma told him candidly. ‘But you are a captain of souls. It is not your task to organise a defence against attack. You are here to act as counsel and guide and be a father to your community. All acts of bravery must be judged by comparisons. Sometimes it is an act of bravery merely to live.’

The abbot, who, in Eadulf’s eyes, seemed to have aged greatly since their arrival at the abbey, shook his head.

‘Make no excuses for me, Fidelma. I should have acted as the need arose. I failed my community. I have failed the people of Muman.’

‘You are a harsh judge of your own actions, Ségdae. Your community needs your wisdom more than ever. Not battle wisdom but the practical wisdom that you are renowned for. Make no hasty decisions.’

The old man sighed and raised the bouquet of herbs to his face.

Fidelma made a motion with her head to indicate to Eadulf that they should leave him to his contemplation.

They found Brother Tomar at the abbey barns where their own horses were stabled. He was cleaning out the stalls.

The stableman looked surprised at being disturbed twice by them in a short space of time.

‘Did you forget something, Sister?’ he asked.

Fidelma came straight to the point.

‘The horse of the raider who was killed. Is it here in the stables?’

Brother Tomar pointed to one of the stalls.

‘I have taken great care of it, Sister. I have rubbed it down and fed it. The horse is not to blame for the faults of the master.’

Fidelma and Eadulf went to the stall. Fidelma was a good judge of horses and had ridden almost before she had learnt to walk. Her keen eye ran over the bay filly. She noticed a scar on its left shoulder and some sores from the rubbing of the bit and harness. Clearly the warrior had not been a good horseman or else he would have taken better care of the young mare. The scar confirmed that the horse had been in conflict. However, it was not a recent wound.

Fidelma entered the stall and examined the hooves, one by one. The animal stood docilely enough for a horse can sense when a human knows what they are doing and means them no harm.

‘Anything of interest?’ asked Eadulf after a while.

Fidelma shook her head with a sigh.

‘The beast is well shod, that’s for sure. There is nothing that indicates where it was shod or, indeed, from where it has come.’

‘We might ask Nion if he can identify the shoeing,’ suggested Eadulf.

Fidelma came out of the stall and examined the harness hanging nearby.

‘I presume this was the harness that belonged with this horse, Brother Tomar?’ she called.

The stableman was still sweeping among the stalls. He glanced across. ‘Yes. That saddle there belongs with it as well.’

The bridle was of the usual single-rein type called a srían, whose rein was attached to a nose-band not at the side but at the top, and came to the hand of the rider over the animal’s forehead, between the eyes and ears, held in its place by a loop or ring in the face-band which ran across the horse’s forehead and formed part of the bridle.

The saddle was a simple leather one which was strapped on top of an ech-dillat, a horse cloth, of a type that many warriors affected. Fidelma immediately noticed that a leather saddle bag was attached to the saddle by leather thongs.

With a soft grunt of satisfaction, she bent forward, picked it up and opened it. To her surprise it was empty. There was not even a change of clothing in the bag. It was obvious that whatever had been inside had been removed.

‘Brother Tomar,’ she called, ‘did you unsaddle the young mare?’

Brother Tomar ambled over, broom in hand, curiosity on his features. ‘I did.’

‘Was there anything in this saddle bag when you did so?’

‘I think so, though I did not look. It was heavy right enough. I put it there and did not touch it.’

Fidelma stood staring at the empty bag, deep in thought as she examined the possibilities.

‘Has anyone else been around the stable since you put the horse in here?’ she finally asked Brother Tomar.

The young stableman rubbed his chin reflectively.

‘Many people,’ he finally replied. ‘The Prince Finguine and some of his men. Many of the brethren have been here for various things.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is a short route to one of our store houses. Many brethren went to the town to see what they could do to help and have come here to get supplies to take there to assist those who were in need.’

Fidelma pursed her lips in frustration.

‘So if this saddle bag contained anything then, any one of many people could have examined it and removed things from it?’

‘Why would they wish to do so?’

‘Why, indeed?’ Fidelma said softly, more to Eadulf than the stableman.

Eadulf set his jaw. ‘I see. The same person who stabbed the raider while we were not looking probably took his personal possessions? Once more we are prevented from identifying …’

He paused when he saw Fidelma frowning at him.

Brother Tomar was gazing at him in curiosity.

‘A bad day,’ the stableman said finally.

‘It will get better,’ Eadulf assured him.

‘I doubt it, Brother Saxon,’ the man replied. ‘There is too much blood shed for this spot ever to be purified again. Perhaps Imleach has been cursed. But vengeance is understandable. Many in this community were angered by the senseless death of poor Brother Daig.’

‘Time has a way of purifying places where senseless slaughter has been made,’ Fidelma asserted. ‘No place is cursed unless it be in people’s minds.’

She took Eadulf by the elbow and, with a nod to the stableman, she guided her companion outside. Then she turned to Eadulf with an excited expression.

‘We have been overlooking the obvious about the killing of the warrior.’

‘What have we overlooked?’ Eadulf demanded.

‘That Brother Bardán was especially close to the young Brother. Vengeance is a word that Brother Tomar used. I think we should ascertain where Brother Bardán was when the warrior was killed.’