The Monk Who Vanished

Chapter Three

Eadulf peered through the window, towards the expanse of green cultivated fields which lay between the outskirts of the town and the river some four miles or more away. Halfway along the road was a woodland and from its edge he could only just make out a column of riders emerging. He glanced quickly at Fidelma, silently admiring her eyesight, for he could, as yet, make out few details beyond the fact that they were horsemen. That she could recognise the approach of her brother was more than he was able to manage.

They watched in silence for a moment or two as the column moved along the road which led towards the town below the castle walls. Now Eadulf was able to pick out the brightly coloured banners of the King of Muman and his followers, together with banners which he did not recognise but presumed belonged to the Prince of the Uí Fidgente.

Fidelma suddenly grabbed his hand and pulled him up and away from the window.

‘Let us go down to the town and watch their arrival, Eadulf. This is an exciting day for Muman.’

Eadulf smiled softly at her sudden bubbling enthusiasm and allowed himself to be pulled after her across the Great Hall.

‘I confess, I do not understand this. Why is the arrival of the Uí Fidgente prince so important?’ he asked as he followed her into the courtyard of the palace.

Fidelma, assured of his following her, dropped her hand and assumed the more sober gait of a religieuse.

‘The Uí Fidgente are one of the major clans of Muman dwelling west beyond the River Maigne. Their chieftains have often refused to pay tribute to the Eóghanacht of Cashel, refusing even to recognise them as Kings of Muman. Indeed, they claim a right to the kingship of Muman by the argument that their princes descend from our common ancestor Eóghan Mór.’

She conducted the way quickly across the courtyard, passing the chapel, and through the main gates. The warriors on sentinel duty there smiled and saluted her. The sister of Colgú was well respected among her own people. Eadulf walked easily beside her.

‘Is their claim true?’ he asked.

Fidelma pouted. She was proud when it came to her family which, Eadulf knew from experience, did not make her unusual from most of the Irish nobility he had encountered. Each family employed a professional genealogist to ensure that the generations and their relationship with one another was clearly and accurately recorded. Under the Brehon Law of succession which delineated who should succeed by means of the approval of an electoral college made up of specified generations of the family, called the derbfhine, it was important to know the generations and their relationships to one another.

‘Prince Donennach, who arrives with my brother today, claims that he is the twelfth generation in male line from Eóghan Mór whom we look to as the founder of our house.’

Eadulf, missing the subtle sarcastic tone, shook his head in amazement as he wondered at the ease with which the Irish nobility knew the status of their relatives.

‘So this Prince Donennach descends from a junior branch of your family?’ he asked.

‘If the Uf Fidgente genealogists are truthful,’ Fidelma replied with emphasis. ‘Even so, junior only in terms of the decisions of the derbfhine which appoint the kings.’

Eadulf sighed deeply.

‘It is a concept that I still find hard to understand. Among the Saxons it is always the eldest male child of the senior line of the family, the first born male, for good or ill, who inherits.’

Fidelma was disapproving.

‘Exactly. Good or ill. And when that first born male proves an unsuitable choice, is crippled in mind, or rules with ill-counsel, your Saxon family have him murdered. At least our system appoints the man who is best fitted for the task, whether eldest son, uncle, brother, cousin or youngest son.’

‘And if he proves an ill-governing king,’ Eadulf was stung to reply,

‘don’t you also have him killed?’

‘No need,’ rejoined Fidelma with a shrug. ‘The derbfhine of the family meet and dismiss him from office and appoint another more suitable. Under the law, he is allowed to go away unharmed.’

‘Doesn’t he then incite rebellion among his followers?’

‘He knows the law as do any potential followers and they know that they would be regarded as usurpers for all time.’

‘But men are men. It must happen.’

Fidelma’s face was serious. She inclined her head in agreement. ‘Indeed, it does happen — sometimes! That is why this reconciliationwith the Uí Fidgente is so important. They have been constantly in rebellion against Cashel.’

‘Why so?’

‘Their justification is the very reasons that we are discussing. Our family, the family of Colgú and my father Failbe Fland, trace our descent from Conall Corc, who was son of Luigthech, son of Ailill Flann Bec, the grandson of Eóghan Mór, the founder of our house.’

‘I will accept your word for that,’ smiled Eadulf. ‘These names are beyond me.’

Fidelma was patient.

‘The Ui Fidgente line claim descent from Fiachu Fidgennid, son of Maine Muinchain, another son of Ailill Flann Bec, grandson of Eóghan Mór. If their genealogists are truthful, as I say.’ She pulled a wry expression. ‘Our genealogists think that their pedigrees were forged in order that they might have a claim on the kingship of Cashel. But, if this be a happy day, we shall not argue with them.’

Eadulf struggled to follow her.

‘I think I understand what you are saying. The split between your family and these Uí Fidgente began between two brothers, Luigthech, the eldest, and Maine Munchain, the youngest.’

Fidelma smiled sympathetically but shook her head.

‘If their genealogists are correct, Maine Munchain, the progenitor of the Uí Fidgente, was the eldest son of Ailill Flann Bec. Our ancestor Luigthech was his second son.’

Eadulf threw up his arms in despair.

‘It is hard enough to follow your Irish names but as to your precedents of generations … You are now saying that the Uí Fidgente have a better claim over the kingship because they descend from the eldest son?’

Fidelma was annoyed at his lack of understanding.

‘You ought to appreciate our laws of kingship- succession by now, Eadulf. It is a simple enough matter. Maine Muncháin’s line was deemed, by the derbfhine of the family, to be unsuitable to be kingship material.’

‘I still find it hard to follow,’ admitted Eadulf. ‘But from what you say, the Uí Fidgente descend from a senior line, in primogeniture terms, and this makes them reluctant to accept your family’s authority at Cashel?’

‘Senior line or not, your primogeniture does not enter into our law system,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘And this happened nearly ten generations ago. So long ago that our genealogists, as I say, maintain that the Uí Fidgente are not really Eóghanacht at all but descend from the Dairine.’

Eadulf raised his eyes to the heavens.

‘And just who are the Dáirine?’ he groaned in despair.

‘An ancient people, who nearly a thousand years ago were said to have shared the kingship of Muman with the Eóghanacht. There is still a clan called the Corco Lofgde to the west who claim they are descended from the ancient Dáirine.’

‘Well, my simple brain has taken in enough genealogy and too many names.’

Fidelma chuckled softly at the comic look of woe on his face but her eyes remained serious.

‘Yet it is important that you should know the general politics of this kingdom, Eadulf. You will recall how last winter we came across a plot by the Uí Fidgente to foment rebellion here and how my brother had to lead an army to face them in battle at Cnoc Aine? That was scarcely nine months ago.’

‘I do remember the events. How can I forget them? Was I not captured by the conspirators at that time? But wasn’t the ruler of the Uf Fidgente slain in battle?’

‘He was. Now his cousin Donennach is Prince of the Uí Fidgente and among his first actions was to send messengers to my brother and seek to negotiate a treaty with him. Donennach comes to Cashel to negotiate the peace. This is the first peace between the Uf Fidgente and Cashel in many centuries. That is why today is so important.’

They had walked from the gates of the fortress down the steep path which led to the bottom of the Rock of Cashel and followed the road round until it entered the outskirts of the market town below. The town itself lay less than a quarter of a mile from the great Rock of Cashel.

They found the people of the town were already gathering to witness the entry of their King with the Prince of the Uí Fidgente and his retinue. The column of riders had arrived at the western gateway to the town as Fidelma and Eadulf reached the eastern gate to take up their positions with a group standing to one side of the broad market square.

A group of seven warriors on horseback led the column. Then came Colgú’s standard bearer. The fluttering blue silk bore the golden royal stag of the Eóghanacht of Cashel. Following the standard, the King of Muman sat his horse well. He was a tall man with red, burnished hair. Not for the first time Eadulf was able to mentally remark on the similarity of facial features between him and his sister. There was no mistaking that Fidelma and Colgú were related.

Next came another standard bearer. The banner he held aloft was a fluttering white silk on which there was a mystical red boar in thecentre. Eadulf presumed this was the standard of the Uí Fidgente Prince. Behind this standard rode a young man with thickly set features which were dark but as handsome as the red-haired King of Muman. In spite of claims to a common ancestry there was nothing that reminded Eadulf of any form of relationship between the Prince of the Uí Fidgente and the King of Muman.

The leading horsemen were followed by several warriors, many bearing the emblems of the Order of the Golden Chain, the elite bodyguards of the Eóghanacht kings. At the head of these warriors rode a young man, not much younger than Colgú himself. He bore a vague similarity to Colgú, though his features seemed a little coarser, and his hair was black, even as the Prince of the Uí Fidgente. He sat on his horse with ease but there was a pride to his bearing. His dress spoke of conceit in his appearance as well. He wore a long blue dyed woollen cloak which was fastened at the shoulder by a glittering brooch. It was silver and in the shape of a solar emblem, its five radiating arms marked at each end by a small red garnet stone.

Donndubháin, as Eadulf knew well, was the tanist or heir-apparent of the King of Cashel. He was cousin to Colgú and Fidelma.

There was no doubting the pleasure of the people at the sight of the company as they began to cheer and applaud their arrival. For most the sight of the King of Cashel and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente riding together meant the end of the centuries of feuds and bloodshed; the start of a new era of peace and prosperity for all the people of Muman.

Colgú was relaxed and acknowledged the cheers with a wave of his hand although Donennach sat rigidly and it seemed that he was extremely nervous. His dark eyes flickered from side to side as if watching warily for signs of hostility. Only now and then did a quick smile cross his features as he inclined his head stiffly, from the neck only, to acknowledge the applause of the demonstrative crowd.

The horsemen were crossing the market square to approach the path which led upwards to the rocky outcrop of the seat of the Cashel kings. Even Donennach of the Uí Fidgente’s eyes widened a little as he gazed upwards to the dominating fortress and palace of Cashel.

Donndubháin raised his arm as if to signal the column of warriors to swing round in order to approach the fortress road.

Fidelma had pushed her way forward to the edge of the crowd, followed by the anxious Eadulf, meaning to greet her brother.

Colgú caught sight of her, his face splitting into a grin of urchin-like quality which was so like Fidelma at moments of intense amusement.

Colgú drew rein on his horse and leant forward abruptly to greet his sister.

It was that action which saved his life.

The arrow impacted into his upper arm with a curious thud, causing him to cry out in pain and shock. Had he not halted his horse and bent down, the arrow would have impacted in a more mortal target.

In the shock of the moment, everyone seemed to stand as if turned into stone. It seemed a long time but it was less than a couple of seconds before another cry of pain rang out. Donennach, the Prince of the Uí Fidgente, was swaying in his saddle, a second arrow sticking in his thigh. In horror, Eadulf watched him sway and then topple from his horse into the dust of the road.

The impact of the falling body caused everyone to burst into a frenzy of activity and commotion.

One of the Uí Fidgente warriors drew forth his sword with a cry of ‘Assassins!’ and urged his mount forward towards a cluster of buildings a short distance away across the square. A moment later, some of his men were following him while others hurried to their fallen Prince and stood over him with drawn swords as if expecting an assault on him.

Eadulf saw Donndubhain, Colgú’s heir-apparent, also with drawn sword, go racing after the Ui Fidgente warriors.

Fidelma was among the first to recover her wits. Her mind was racing. Two arrows had been shot at her brother and his guest and both, miraculously had missed. Obviously, the Uí Fidgente warrior had seen the path of their flight and pinpointed the buildings as hiding the bowman who wished to strike down the King of Cashel and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente. Well, there was no time to consider that now. Donndubháin had also gone in chase of the assassins.

‘See to Donennach,’ she cried to Eadulf, who was already pushing his way through the Prince’s reluctant bodyguard. She turned to where her brother was still sitting astride his horse, a little in shock, clutching at the arrow which was embedded in his arm.

‘Get down, brother,’ she urged quietly, ‘unless you want to continue to make yourself a target.’

She reached forward and helped him dismount, which he did, trying not to groan aloud from the pain of his wound.

‘Is Donennach hurt badly?’ he asked between clenched teeth. He still held one hand clutching at his blood-soaked, pain-racked arm.

‘Eadulf is looking after him. Now sit down on that stone while I remove the arrow from your arm.’

Almost reluctantly her brother sat down. By this time, two of Colgú’s men, including Capa, the captain of the bodyguard, had hurried forward but their drawn swords were superfluous. Peoplewere crowding round their King with a mixture of advice and questions. Fidelma waved them back impatiently.

‘Is there a physician among you?’ she demanded, having examined the wound and realised that the arrow head went deep. She was afraid to pry it loose for fear of tearing the muscle and creating more damage.

There was a muttering and shaking of heads.

Reluctantly, she bent down and hesitantly touched the shaft. It would take too long to send someone to find and bring old Conchobar hither.

‘Hold on, Fidelma,’ cried Eadulf, pushing his way back through the crowd.

Fidelma almost sighed with relief for she knew that Eadulf had trained in the art of medicine at the great medical school of Tuaim Brecain.

‘How is Donennach?’ Colgú greeted him, his face grey with pain as he struggled to remain in control.

‘Concentrate on yourself for the time being, brother,’ admonished Fidelma.

Colgú’s features were set grimly.

‘A good host should see to his guest first.’

‘It is a bad wound,’ Eadulf admitted, bending forward to examine where the arrow head had embedded itself in Colgú’s arm. ‘Donennach’s wound, I mean, though your own is no light scratch. I have ordered a litter be constructed so that we can carry Prince Donennach up to the palace where we may attend him better than here in the dust of the road. I suspect the arrow has entered Donennach’s thigh at a bad angle. But he was lucky … as, indeed, you are.’

‘Can you remove this arrow from my arm?’ pressed Colgú.

Eadulf had been examining it closely. The Saxon smiled grimly. ‘I can but it will hurt. I would prefer to wait until we can take you back to the palace.’

The King of Muman sniffed disdainfully.

‘Do it here and now in order that my people may see that the wound is no great one and that an Eóghanacht King can bear pain.’

Eadulf turned to one of the crowd. ‘Whose house is nearest in which there is a glowing fire?’

‘The blacksmith’s stands across the street there, Brother Saxon,’ replied an old woman, pointing.

‘Give me a few moments, Colgú,’ Eadulf said, turning and making his way to the smith’s forge. The smith himself was one of the crowd, having left his forge to see what the commotion was about. He now accompanied Eadulf with interest. Eadulf took out his knife. The smithlooked on in surprise as the Saxon monk turned the knife for a while in the glowing coals before returning to Colgú’s side.

Colgú’s jaw was set and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘Do it as quickly as you can, Eadulf.’

The Saxon monk nodded curtly.

‘Hold his arm, Fidelma,’ he instructed quietly. Then he bent forward and taking the shaft of the arrow, he eased it with the tip of the knife and pulled quickly. Colgú gave a grunt and his shoulders sagged as if he were going to fall. But he did not do so. His jaw clenched so hard that they could hear his teeth grinding. Eadulf took a clean linen cloth, which someone offered, and bound the arm tightly.

‘It will do until we get back to the fortress.’ There was satisfaction in his voice. ‘I need to treat the wound with herbs to prevent infection.’ He added quietly to Fidelma, ‘Luckily the tip of the arrow made a clean entry and exit.’

Fidelma took the arrow from him and examined it with a frown. Then she thrust it into her waist cord and turned to help her brother.

The young flush-faced heir-apparent pushed his way back through the crowd. He was now on foot. He examined Colgú, standing supported by Fidelma, with an anxious glance.

‘Is the wound bad?’

‘Bad enough,’ replied Eadulf on the King’s behalf, ‘but he will survive.’

Donndubhain exhaled slowly.

‘The assassins have been run to earth by Prince Donennach’s men.’

‘They can be dealt with once we have removed my brother back to the palace together with the Prince of the Uí Fidgente,’ Fidelma said sharply. ‘Here, help me with him.’

Eadulf had turned away to where a litter had been constructed for the wounded Prince of the Uí Fidgente. The man lay in pain on it. Eadulf had placed a tourniquet around the top of the thigh. He checked the litter and then signalled to the Uí Fidgente warriors to lift it carefully and follow him and the group escorting Colgú up the path to the palace.

They had not even began to proceed before there came the sound of horses and an outcry.

The mounted members of Donennach’s bodyguard came riding back across the square. Behind their horses, dragging along the ground, were two limp forms, their wrists secured by rope to the pommel of the leading horseman.

Fidelma had spotted them and turned from her brother with an angry cry on her lips to criticise such barbarity. To see any man,even a would-be assassin, so ill-treated, was a cause of anger. But the protest died away on her lips as the riders halted. Even a cursory glance at the blood-stained bodies showed her that both men were already dead.

The leading warrior, a man with a bland oval face and narrowed eyes, swung off his horse and strode to the litter of his Prince. He saluted swiftly with the blood still staining his sword.

‘My lord, I think you need to look at these men,’ he said harshly.

‘Can’t you see that we are carrying your Prince to the palace to have his wound tended?’ demanded Eadulf angrily. ‘Do not bother us with this matter until the more urgent task is complete.’

‘Hold your tongue, foreigner,’ snapped the warrior haughtily, ‘when I am speaking to my Prince.’

Colgú, who had halted a short distance away, turned back, leaning on Donndubháin, his face distorting in annoyance now as well as pain.

‘Do not presume to give orders on the slopes of Cashel, where I rule!’ he grunted through clenched teeth.

The Uí Fidgente warrior did not even blink. He deliberately kept his gaze on the pale, pain-racked face of Donennach of the Uí Fidgente, laying on the litter before him.

‘My lord, the matter is urgent.’

Donennach raised himself on one elbow, in a pain equally shared with his host.

‘What is it that you wish me so urgently to see, Gionga?’

The warrior named Gionga waved to one of his men, who had cut loose the two bodies. He dragged one over to the side of the litter.

‘These are the dogs who shot at you, my lord. Observe this one.’

He held the man’s head up by the hair.

Donennach leaned forward from the litter. There was a tightness at the corners of his mouth. ‘I do not recognise him,’ he grunted.

‘Nor should you, lord,’ replied Gionga. ‘But perhaps you will recognise the device that he wears about his neck.’

Donennach looked hard and then he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

‘Colgú, what does this mean?’ he demanded, glancing to where Donndubhain had helped the King of Muman move forward to view the body.

Painfully Colgú peered at the dead man. Fidelma and Eadulf stood with him. No one recognised the dead man but it was obvious what the cause of the concern was.

The man was wearing the collar and emblem of the Order of the Golden Chain, the élite bodyguard of the Kings of Cashel.

Donennach’s harsh tones suddenly rang out in agitation. ‘This is a strange hospitality which you observe, Colgú of Cashel. Your elite warriors have shot me. They have tried to kill me!’