The Monk Who Vanished

Chapter Fourteen

There was no sign of Brother Bardan when they returned to the mortuary of the abbey. The room was deserted. Only the body of Brother Daig lay wrapped in its linen burial shroud on the table. There was also no sign of the body of the warrior. They left the apothecary’s and almost immediately encountered Sister Scothnat, looking rather pale and shaken after the events of the previous night.

Fidelma made enquiries about the whereabouts of Brother Bardan. Sister Scothnat did not know but thought that he might have gone to see Nion, the smith. She added that Brother Daig was to be interred in the abbey grounds that evening at sunset, according to custom, when a requiem, called the écnairc, would be sung over his grave.

‘What now?’ asked Eadulf as he followed Fidelma towards the gates of the abbey once more.

‘We will go in search of Brother Bardan.’

As they crossed the square towards the township, Fidelma noticed several of Finguine’s warriors resting from their exertions, sprawled around a fire near the old yew-tree. They passed by the smouldering ruins that had been Nion’s forge and looked up and down the main street.

There was more activity in the township than there had been earlier that morning. They could hear some noise not far off and turned a corner of a building to find out where it was coming from. It appeared that some of Finguine’s men were helping the surviving menfolk in digging a large grave in a field behind some of the buildings which, it seemed, had already been used as a burial ground before. A line of bodies, each in its linen grave clothes, lay to one side, ready for the excavation to be completed. A small group of womenfolk stood round the bodies uttering the usual cries of lamentation and clapping their hands in the traditional manner to express their sorrow.

Elsewhere, other men, women and children were toiling among the wreckage of the buildings that had been destroyed. Apart from the frenzied activity, there had been little change in the scene since they had been there a short time before.

‘I don’t see Brother Bardán anywhere,’ Eadulf observed.

‘He is probably somewhere about,’ Fidelma assured him as they passed back to the wreckage of Nion’s forge and looked down the street towards the blackened shell of Cred’s inn. ‘We’ll try along the street here; there seems to be a crowd of people up at the far end.’

They had not gone far when it became obvious that the people Fidelma referred to were converging on a figure who had just ridden into the end of the street. It was then they realised that the noise of the people were actually screams and shouts of anger and abuse. Even as they looked on in surprise, the foremost members of the crowd were reaching forth their hands and clawing at the man, dragging him from the ass which he was riding. He gave a shrill cry, waving his hands desperately in the air, before he disappeared under the surrounding people.

Fidelma started to run forward in alarm. As she did so, Finguine and a couple of his men appeared from a building in the street. Fidelma saw behind them the figure of Brother Bardan but more urgent things now demanded her attention.

‘What is it?’ cried Finguine as she rushed by with Eadulf in her train.

‘Bring your men, quickly!’ she flung over her shoulder.

They reached the edge of the crowd who were screaming abuse at the figure in their midst. The man had managed to regain his feet but was being pulled and punched and ill-treated. There was blood on his face.

‘Stop it! Stop it, I say!’ cried Fidelma, as she attempted to push her way through.

Finguine and his men caught up with her and followed her example, without asking questions, pushing people out of the way to get to the victim, shouting at them to stand back. Recognising the figure of the Prince of Cnoc Aine and two of his warriors, the crowd hesitated and then fell back a step or two.

Fidelma managed to reached the thin figure of the man who had been accosted.

He was slightly built, with greying hair. His clothes, which were now ripped and stained with blood and dirt, were of good quality. His cloak was trimmed with fox fur. A gold chain of office hung around his neck. He had a curious bird-like, jerking motion of his head. The neck was scrawny and the adam’s apple was prominent, bobbing in his agitation. Fidelma couldn’t make up her mind whether he reminded her of a bird or a ferret. Both creatures seemed to bear similarities to the man. The thought crossed Fidelma’s mind in a fraction of a second before she remembered the viciousness with which the people had attacked him.

Observing that the man was not too badly hurt, she glared at the people and held up her hand for silence. They continued to circle them, still yelling abuse. The hate and anger showed in their faces; yes, and fear as well.

‘What is the meaning of this?’

It was actually Finguine whose powerful voice finally quelled their outcry.

‘An Uí Fidgente!’ cried one man. ‘Look at him! Come to gloat over the death and destruction that his fellows have visited upon us.’

Fidelma glanced at the small, pale-faced man, whose blood-splattered face held an expression torn between fear and anger.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Are you of the Uí Fidgente?’

The little man drew himself up. His head barely reached her shoulder.

‘I am …’ he began.

The people interrupted with a collective howl of rage as they interpreted this as confirmation.

‘Wait!’ snapped Finguine. ‘Let the man speak. Besides, as you can see, he is no warrior. Warriors attacked you last night, not strangers riding on asses. Now speak, man, and explain who you are and what you are doing here.’

Still looking agitated, the little man decided to address himself to Fidelma.

‘It is true that I am of the Uí Fidgente but I am no warrior. What does this man say, that you were attacked by Uí Fidgente warriors? I’ll not believe it.’

‘As the Prince of Cnoc Áine says,’ pointed out Fidelma softly, ‘we were attacked last night.’

The man made to reply but his words were lost in new cries for vengeance.

Nion, the smith, had pushed his way forward, leaning heavily on a stick.

‘See? He admits that he is an Uí Fidgente. Let us kill him.’

The little man looked nervous and thrust out his chin, his anger overcoming his fear. ‘What hospitality is this, that you set on innocent wayfarers? Is there no respect for law in this place?’

‘Law!’ sneered Nion. He waved his hands to the smouldering buildings. ‘Did the Uí Fidgente who did this thing care anything about law? Come and count the bodies at our graveyard and then tell us how you of the Uí Fidgente admire law.’

The little man looked bewildered. ‘I know nothing of this. Furthermore, I would demand proof of your accusations.’

‘Proof, is it?’ cried another man in the crowd, supporting Nion. ‘We’ll show you the proof of a rope and a tree.’

Finguine’s sword was abruptly in his hand. ‘No one harms this man. The rule of law still runs in the territory of the Prince of Cnoc Aine.’

Fidelma shot a grateful glance at her cousin.

‘Be about your tasks,’ she instructed. ‘This man is in the custody of the Prince of Cnoc Aine and if he bears any responsibility for what has happened to you, then he will be heard before the courts.’

There was an angry muttering but with Finguine and his men standing there, each with drawn sword, the crowd reluctantly began to dispel.

The little man was wiping the blood from a scratch on his cheek. He was beginning to recover his courage and his pale face was suffused with a flush of anger.

‘Animals! I have never been greeted like this before. Compensation is due me, if you are Prince of Cnoc Aine.’

This last sentence was addressed to Finguine who had turned to him and was sheathing his sword.

‘I am Finguine,’ he affirmed shortly. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Solam of the Uí Fidgente.’

Fidelma’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Are you Solam the dálaigh?’

The little man smiled thinly. ‘That is precisely who I am, Sister …?’

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

Solam managed to contain his surprise very well.

‘Ah!’ It was an exclamation which appeared to mean many things. ‘I should have known that you would be here, Fidelma.’

‘And what are you doing here?’ demanded Finguine.

The little man pursed his lips and gestured towards Fidelma. ‘She will know.’

‘He is doubtless on his way to Cashel for the hearing,’ Fidelma responded. ‘Prince Donennach of the Uí Fidgente said he would be sending for Solam to represent him before the Brehons of Cashel, Fearna and the Uí Fidgente.’

Eadulf had caught hold of the dálaigh’s ass and led it forward.

‘I need to bathe and recover from this greeting,’ Solam announced irritably. ‘Is there no inn here?’

‘Your friends burnt it down and killed the innkeeper,’ one of Finguine’s men sneered.

The little man’s eyes flashed. ‘Have a care about further accusing the Uí Fidgente. I have heard also that we are under suspicion by some of attempting to assassinate the King of Muman!’

Fidelma regarded him with equal seriousness, then said, ‘These burning buildings did not ignite spontaneously, Solam. The great yew symbol of our land did not chop itself down. Nor did those whose bodies are about to be consigned to a mass grave, slaughter themselves. Do you want to go and look carefully at them?’

Solam grimaced in repugnance. ‘The Uí Fidgente are not responsible for the actions of outlaws and renegades. Where is your proof that we did this thing?’

It was Finguine who replied. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered grimly, giving Solam no other choice.

He led the way towards the newly dug grave where the women were still crying and clapping their hands in the lamentation of sorrow. Some of his warriors were still digging a grave. They paused as Finguine came up with the Uí Fidgente lawyer leading his ass and with the two warriors on either side of him. Fidelma and Eadulf brought up the rear.

Finguine walked to one body laid slightly apart from the others and not wrapped in the traditional linen shroud, but covered instead by an old horse blanket. The Prince tipped the edge of the blanket aside with the point of his sword. His gaze did not leave the face of Solam.

Under the horse blanket lay the corpse of the raider who had been slain.

‘Do you recognise him?’

Solam examined the corpse carefully and then shook his head.

‘You either speak the truth or you are a good liar,’ observed Finguine bluntly.

He returned the blanket to cover the face of the body, still using the tip of his sword. ‘I would advise you to continue your journey to Cashel immediately.’

Solam was proving to be a highly strung, impulsive little man whose excitable temper showed in his irritation. However, it also seemed that he had the quality of stubbornness.

‘Preposterous! I entered this township, was attacked, injured, accused unjustly and then, in need of hospitality — mine by right of law — am told to ride on. You are truly making my case strong when I plead at Cashel.’

Fidelma decided to take a hand.

‘Without proof of Uí Fidgente involvement in the raid, Solam does have a point, cousin,’ she ventured. ‘We cannot prove who the raiders were. Solam, therefore, is entitled to seek and receive hospitality and rest here on his journey to Cashel.’

Solam raised his chin defiantly. ‘I am glad that there is someone with sense in this land,’ he observed bitingly.

Fidelma’s cousin expressed his dissatisfaction with a long, irritable sigh. ‘Very well. Solam may seek hospitality but since these raiders destroyed the only inn in the township, I cannot suggest where he might receive it.’

‘At the abbey, of course,’ Solam replied.

‘You are not a religieuse.’

‘That does not matter. The rules of hospitality are there for everyone,’ interposed Fidelma. ‘Go to the abbey, Solam, and you will receive hospitality.’

Solam smiled, a little smugly, and turned to the abbey. Then he frowned and turned back, his stubbornness tempered by reality.

‘You don’t expect me to walk through the township again without protection, do you?’ he asked almost peevishly.

Fidelma looked at Finguine. She did not say anything but her cousin read the message in her expression.

The Prince of Cnoc Aine signalled to one of his warriors. ‘Escort the dálaigh safely across to the abbey gates then you may return to me.’

The man frowned and seemed about to protest but, seeing his Prince’s expression, shrugged.

When Solam had gone, Finguine turned to Fidelma with a shake of his head. ‘I hope you know what you are doing,’ he warned. ‘The longer that this man Solam stays here, the more his danger will increase. There are many who have lost relatives here.’

‘But if the Uí Fidgente are not responsible …?’ Fidelma posed the question.

‘You really think that Solam arrived here this morning by chance?’

‘We have no reason to suppose otherwise … at the moment,’ she replied.

‘I think we do. Why would someone who set out on a journey from the country of the Uí Fidgente to Cashel arrive here, in Imleach? We are far south of the road that leads from their lands towards Cashel.’

Fidelma smiled briefly. ‘Of that I am aware. But cunning is superior to strength. If Solam came here to enact some treachery let us observe what he does and where he leads us. That way we may set a snare for the wolf.’

‘Better to hold the wolf by the ears than let him loose among the sheep,’ Finguine countered.

‘We will not let him loose; just hold him on a long leash and see where he wants to go. Do not worry; I, too, do not believe he came here by chance.’

Finguine opened his mouth but Fidelma had already begun to walk away.

Eadulf was perplexed as he hurried after her.

‘I cannot make anything out of this. If the Uí Fidgente were the raiders last night, why would this man Solam come riding into the township this morning?’

‘Speculation without knowledge is pointless,’ Fidelma replied shortly.

They returned to the main street.

‘Now where did we see Brother Bardan?’

Eadulf silently rebuked himself. In the excitement of Solam’s arrival, he had forgotten the reason they had come to the township.

‘I did not see him,’ he replied.

Fidelma shook her head in mock-admonishment.

‘My cousin and two of his men came out of a house. Did you not see Brother Bardán behind them?’

Apologetically, Eadulf shook his head.

‘You didn’t see him?’

‘I saw the house where your cousin was,’ replied Eadulf. ‘It was that one, across the street there.’

Fidelma and Eadulf walked across to it. It was a single-storey house of stone which seemed completely untouched by the raid. Its thatched roof was still intact while the roofs of the buildings on either side had not been so lucky. On one side the thatch was scorched and on the other an area was totally burnt away. This house had been lucky.

Fidelma went to the door and struck it with her fist.

There was no response for a moment. Then they heard a shuffling sound.

The door opened and Nion, the smith and bó-aire of the township, stood there. He still wore the long cloak with the small silver solar brooch with three red garnets. He frowned at Fidelma.

‘What can I do for you, lady?’

His bandaged leg caused him to balance awkwardly against the door jamb, holding onto it with one hand.

Fidelma offered him a friendly smile. ‘You can sit down and take the weight off your wound, Nion. Then we will speak.’

Reluctantly, Nion found himself backed into his house by Fidelma. Eadulf followed her in and closed the door behind him. Nion hobbled to a stool and sat down, staring up at Fidelma with a puzzled look.

‘Is this your house?’ she asked, gazing round.

Inside, there was a single chamber with a great fire at one end. A ladder gave access to a loft where the sleeping quarters were.

‘Yes. The forge is where I work.’

‘I thought you said that you slept at the back of the forge?’ Eadulf asked suspiciously.

‘I said I was sleeping at the forge when the attack took place. If Iam working late, then I sometimes do so. This house is my right as bó-aire.’

Eadulf could not fault his response.

‘That is certainly so. And, as this is untouched while your forge is destroyed, it is certainly a lucky thing that you have the two houses. You do not have to have the indignity of having nowhere to sleep while your forge is being rebuilt.’

Nion made an expressive cutting motion with his hand. ‘You did not come here to congratulate me on my house, lady. Why are you here?’

‘I could not help noticing as I passed earlier, that my cousin and his warriors were here.’

‘Surely,’ the answer came back immediately. ‘Your cousin came to consult with me. I am, after all, the bó-aire.’

‘That is fair enough.’ She paused. ‘What was Brother Bardan doing here then? Did he need to consult you … as bó-aire, of course?’

Nion did not even blink at the sharpness in her tone.

‘Of course,’ he affirmed.

‘I see. Is it a matter of confidentiality if I inquire about the subject of his visit?’

‘No.’ Nion shook his head. ‘Though I can’t think why you are interested. Bardán came here to ask me if I would be prepared to bury the body of the raider who was killed last night. I gave permission for it to be buried near the graves of our people. That is all.’

It did seem plausible. Yet there was something troubling Fidelma.

‘Where is Brother Bardan now?’

Nion spread a hand around the room in a gesture which invited her to search.

‘I have no idea where he is. He left here when that sly Uí Fidgente lawyer arrived to check the damage which his kinfolk had done.’

‘You did not see which way Brother Bardan went when he left your house?’ Fidelma pressed him.

‘No. If you recall, I followed you to see what the furore was about.’

‘You arrived after most other people,’ observed Eadulf, clearly irritated by the smith’s evasive attitude.

Nion pointed to his injured leg. ‘I cannot exactly hurry,’ he said sarcastically.

Eadulf flushed.

‘My comrade did not mean to be insensitive.’ Fidelma smiled apologetically. ‘However, you cannot even hazard a guess as to where Brother Bardan might have gone?’

‘No. He’s probably at the cemetery …’

‘We’ve just comes from there,’ Eadulf said.

‘Then try at the abbey.’

Fidelma moved towards the door and halted, turning back to the smith.

‘While Solam is here, treat him with the respect due to any visiting dálaigh. We have no proof that he is other than what he is. If any harm comes to him, the culprit is answerable to the law.’

When Nion made no reply, she lifted the latch and Eadulf followed her out into the street.

Outside they paused.

‘You sounded as if you suspected him of something?’ Eadulf reproached her.

‘Did I?’ she mused but said no more.

They walked in silence back to the abbey. Eadulf said nothing further for it seemed that Fidelma had sunk deep in thought and he felt it wiser not to interrupt her.

By the time they returned to the abbey its bell was tolling for the midday Angelus.

Fidelma and Eadulf exchanged no words as they went into the chapel. It was an automatic decision, made separately, to join the other worshippers. The psalm chanting was led by the Abbot Ségdae, who seemed to have recovered something of his old spirit. His voice rang out above the chanting of his congregation.

‘Oculi omnium in Te aspiciunt et in Te sperant!’

The words stuck in Fidelma’s mind. She lowered her head and translated to herself: ‘The eyes of all things look to you and hope in you.’ It was as if Ségdae were reminding her of her responsibilities. Yet, for the first time in her life, she felt utterly confused. Usually, during the investigations she had undertaken, there was a single path to pursue. Now she found several paths and several mysteries that did not necessarily appear connected. But were they? She was not even sure.

She scarcely noticed the rest of service until the final psalm was sung and the congregation began shuffling towards the refectory for the etar-suth, or middle meal, of the day. As was the custom, all shoes and sandals were removed at the entrance to the refectory. She was hardly aware of removing her footwear, entering and sitting at one of the long, wooden dining tables. She was vaguely aware of Abbot Ségdae intoning the gratias in Latin then a soft murmur arose as the community began its meal.

As with most midday meals, it was a light meal of bread, cheese and fruits, with ale or water served, depending on taste. Fidelma ate mechanically, her mind still turning over the questions that vexed her mind.

Eventually she became aware of someone addressing her.

She glanced up and found it was the steward of the abbey, Brother Madagan, still wearing his bandage around his head and looking slightly pale but otherwise in good spirits. She realised that the refectory was almost empty now except for a few people, one of whom was Eadulf, who had been sitting by her side awaiting her to rouse from her thoughts. Brother Madagan slid onto a bench on the opposite side of the table.

‘I wanted to thank you and Brother Eadulf here for dragging me inside during the attack,’ Brother Madagan said. ‘I do not remember much between the time I was struck and coming to in the courtyard. It was Brother Tomar who told me what had happened. That poor misguided woman, Cred, struck down and poor young Brother Daig killed. You both risked your lives to save me.’

‘How is your wound, Brother, is it better?’ asked Fidelma, with a deprecating gesture. She found that, in spite of the steward’s effort to be friendly, there was nothing which endeared him to her. She still did not like him. The eyes were still cold and Fidelma felt that there was some merciless quality in the man.

‘Thanks be,’ acknowledged Brother Madagan. ‘The warrior luckily struck me on the skull with the flat of his sword. My head was pounding like the hammer of a smith on his anvil for a while. There is a lump the size of a camán ball.’

The camán ball, called a liathróid, was about four inches in diameter, made of some light, elastic material, such as woollen yarn, wound round and round and covered with leather. It was used in the game of hurley.

‘We thought that you had been killed for sure,’ Eadulf said.

‘The unGodly are not so easily victorious,’ Brother Madagan intoned piously. Yet there was a cold note of hatred in his voice.

‘Yet they inflicted much death and destruction,’ pointed out Fidelma.

Madagan’s eyes were like ice.

‘So Sister Scothnat has told me. Alas, I should not have tried to stop the raider by a plea to religious sanctuary. He could not have understood the term. Steel was all he understood.’

‘So you were regaining consciousness when you were dragged through the gates?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Yes. Though my mind is hazy and I think I was more unconscious than conscious. I remember feeling thankful when the abbey gates were banged shut. Then I do not remember much until I heard cheering. Sister Scothnat tells me that this was when your cousin, the Prince of Cnoc Aine, arrived and drove the raiders away.’

Fidelma looked thoughtful for a moment.

‘Do you remember being carried to your cell?’ she asked.

Madagan nodded slightly. He winced as the action caused the obvious ache to his cracked skull to worsen momentarily.

‘Do you remember anything beforehand?’

The steward considered for a moment. ‘Such as?’

‘You say that you remember being dragged into the courtyard?’

‘I do. I remember hearing some lamentation from the brethren over poor young Brother Daig. Indeed, he was no more than seventeen years.’

‘There was also the captured raider who lay trussed up nearby.’

Brother Madagan’s eyes flickered with momentary fire.

‘Sister Scothnat told me that he had been captured but not killed. Had I known then what I know now, I doubt not that I would have risen and killed him myself.’ Fidelma felt the intensity in his voice. He hesitated and relaxed. ‘You condemn me for the thought? A Brother of the Faith should not give voice to such natural feelings of hate and anger? Yet Daig was such a gentle soul and would have harmed no one. He had no violence in him and yet that animal struck him down. I will not pray for his soul, Sister Fidelma.’

There was a brief silence.

‘I will not ask you to,’ Fidelma replied gravely. ‘What I will ask you to do is cast your mind back to that time, Brother Madagan. Do you remember being carried back to your chamber?’

Brother Madagan rubbed his chin.

‘Vaguely. The apothecary came to check on each of us, I think. He bent over me. I was still trying to recover consciousness. He saw that I had received a blow on the head but not an open wound and told two young brothers to help me to my room and bathe and bind my head.’

‘The apothecary?’ Eadulf leant forward eagerly.

‘Brother Bardan. We have no other apothecary here.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I was carried to my cell as he instructed.’

‘Had he examined the others before you? Or did he examine you first?’ Fidelma asked.

‘As I recall — remember that I was only partially conscious — I think he examined Brother Daig first. He was quite moved by the fact that the boy was dead. They were close. It was only when Brother Tomar insisted that he must look to the living that he came to me. While he did so, two of the Brothers were removing the body of Cred and another two removing that of Brother Daig.’ He grimaced without humour. ‘I think that the last thing Iremember was hearing the whining merchant arguing with Brother Bardan.’

‘The merchant? Do you mean Samradán?’ asked Fidelma hastily. ‘Was he in the courtyard at that time? Surely he was hiding in the chapel vaults with the women of the community?’

‘No. I remember he was definitely in the courtyard and arguing with Brother Bardán. He was demanding something. Protection, I think. I recall now that Brother Bardán shouted to him that he should fend for himself because people lay dead and dying. I am afraid the merchant is a selfish man.’

‘Fend for himself for people lay dead and dying? Were those Bardán’s words?’

‘Yes. You have stirred my memory, Fidelma.’

‘So you were the last to be removed from the courtyard?’

‘With the exception of the raider,’ agreed Brother Madagan.

‘Well, it is good to see that you are recovering, Brother Madagan.’ Fidelma rose from her place, and Brother Madagan followed her example hesitantly.

‘Sister Scothnat says that the attack was carried out by the Uí Fidgente. Is that true?’

‘We do not know,’ corrected Fidelma. ‘It is only suspicion that lays the blame on them.’

Brother Madagan sighed.

‘We have to be suspicious of our enemies. It is our only defence against betrayal and treachery.’

‘Suspicion is the mother of suspicion, Brother Madagan,’ replied Fidelma. ‘If you let suspicion into your heart you will allow all trust to exit from it.’

‘You may be right,’ Brother Madagan said. ‘However, we may place our trust in God … but we should ensure our horse is tethered safely at night. I only ask because an Uí Fidgente has arrived here. I do not like him. He says he is a dálaigh.’

‘I know. He is what he says he is, Brother Madagan. His name is Solam and he proceeds to Cashel to plead the case of his Prince before the Brehons there. I am to plead against him.’

‘Is it so?’ Brother Madagan seemed about to say something else and then he smiled and left them almost abruptly.

Eadulf glanced at Fidelma.

‘Brother Bardán and Samradan were both in the courtyard with that warrior. My wager would be on Brother Bardan. I think he is our main suspect. The motive is obviously vengeance for the death of his friend, Brother Daig.’

Fidelma considered the matter for a moment.

‘Perhaps. There is a doubt in my mind. It could well be that the warrior was killed in order that he did not reveal who sent him and his comrades. Also, you are quite forgetting the disappearance of the contents of the warrior’s saddle bags from the stable. Why would Brother Bardan remove the contents of the saddle bags if he had killed the warrior merely out of vengeance?’

Eadulf groaned. He had indeed forgotten the very reason why they had set out to look for Brother Bardan in the first place.

‘We’d better find Brother Bardán,’ he said. ‘I did not see him at either the service or the meal.’

He was surprised when Fidelma replied: ‘We do not have to question him at the moment. We know where he was at the time when the warrior was stabbed. We know he had the time and opportunity. But I am not satisfied how it links up with everything else that has happened here. Are you sure that Brother Bardán did not come in for the meal?’

‘I didn’t see him.’

‘We shall keep an eye on him without alarming him.’

‘There has been no word about the discovery of the remains of Sarnradán’s driver,’ Eadulf added with an involuntary shiver.

Fidelma wrinkled her nose distastefully.

‘Sometimes those taken by wolves are never found. I will say a prayer for the repose of that poor man’s soul.’

They entered the cloisters and were about to cross the courtyard towards the guests’ hostel when Eadulf suddenly pulled Fidelma back into the shadows.

She opened her mouth to protest but was silenced by a finger placed to Eadulf’s lips. The Saxon monk jerked his head in the direction of the cloistered passage on the far side of the courtyard.

She looked across.

There was the small, pale-faced figure of Solam, the dálaigh of the Uí Fidgente. He was talking animatedly and waving his arms. He seemed excited. She was not sure to whom he was talking for the other figure stood behind one of the columns of the cloisters. That it was a religieux was obvious from what little she could see of the figure’s habit.

‘Our lawyer friend seems rather agitated,’ muttered Eadulf.

‘I wonder why?’ mused Fidelma. ‘Can we get near without being seen?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Let’s try anyway.’

They began to walk slowly and as quietly as they could along the cloistered corridor along one side of the courtyard before turning downthe other. They could hear Solam’s voice raised slightly but could not make out what he was saying.

Then his voice stopped, as if in mid-flow.

‘I think we have been seen,’ muttered Eadulf.

‘Walk on as if you are not aware of them,’ instructed Fidelma softly. She increased her pace slightly.

By the time they came to the corner, with a view along the far corridor, the two figures had vanished. Solam had obviously entered one of the nearby doorways which gave access to the guests’ hostel. Of the other figure they could hear the slapping of leather sandals on the flagged stones as the wearer hurried away. Eadulf ran forward and peered through the stone arches across the courtyard. A door banged on the far side.

At that moment, Abbot Ségdae appeared through another side door. He halted when he saw Eadulf standing there, a little breathless from the exertion of his sudden run.

‘I heard a door slamming,’ the abbot announced with disapproval in his voice.

Eadulf expression was bland. ‘Yes. I think a Brother left the courtyard hurriedly on the far side.’

‘Shame on him. Even in a hurry a member of the abbey is taught not to slam a door and disturb God’s peace in this holy place.’

Fidelma came up, overhearing the abbot’s remarks.

‘Sometimes the desire to fulfil a task quickly makes one forget one’s etiquette, Ségdae,’ she murmured.

‘If I discover the culprit, he will be given penance enough to remember the lesson,’ the abbot muttered irritably and strode off.

Fidelma turned to Eadulf with a meditative look.

‘Wasn’t it young Brother Daig who said that he was awakened in the night by a slamming door? I thought it was unusual for a member of a community to slam a door. Perhaps the same person has slammed a door on both occasions? A pity we do not know who it was.’

Eadulf smiled conceitedly.

‘But we do.’

Fidelma almost swallowed in surprise.

‘You recognised the person? Then tell me!’ she gasped impatiently.

‘The man half turned in the open doorway as he was closing it. The light was full on him as he was framed there. It was Brother Bardan.’