The Monk Who Vanished

Chapter Seven

Uttering up a prayer, Eadulf urged his sorrel into the waters and in his nervousness he made the horse respond too quickly. The hind legs slipped in the mud and Eadulf thought he was going to be thrown. He clung on for dear life and the colt, snorting and panting, managed to recover and find the rocky shallow. Eadulf let his reins go limp and simply sat with closed eyes, trying to imagine himself safely across.

Now and then the horse jolted him in the saddle as it struggled to find firm footing. Then the icy cold waters of the river were lapping at his feet and then his lower legs up to his knees. Suddenly, turbulent water swept over him at waist level, causing him to gasp with the shock of it. He clutched tightly at the saddle pommel. Then the horse rose above the water level again and he dared open his eyes to find himself only a few yards from the far bank. Fidelma was already there, sitting slightly forward in her saddle, awaiting him.

With a surge of energy, the animal scrambled up the bank and came to a halt beside her.

Eadulf was enough of a horseman to reach forward and pat the animal’s neck in gratitude.

‘Deo gratias,’ he intoned in relief.

‘We’d best put some distance between ourselves and this place,’ Fidelma advised. ‘The sooner we reach Imleach, the better.’

‘How about a moment to dry ourselves? I am soaked from the waist down,’ protested Eadulf.

‘Don’t bother, we might have to go swimming again. There is a smaller stream to cross, the Fidhaghta. And if the Uí Fidgente have left more warriors at the Well of Ara, which is the main ford across the river, we might be in trouble again.’

Eadulf groaned loudly.

‘How far is the Well of Ara?’

‘No more than seven miles. We will be there shortly.’

She turned and moved off into the surrounding woodland, heading directly westward. Without turning to see whether Eadulf was following she called over her shoulder: ‘The path broadens here and we can canter for a while.’

She pressed her heels into the side of her mount and the powerful white mare surged forward in response. So eager was its stride that Fidelma had to shorten her rein to ensure the horse stayed at a steady canter.

Eadulf followed close behind, bobbing up and down in his saddle, his sodden clothing making him feel more miserable and uncomfortable than he had felt in his life.

It seemed an eternity before they came to a small rise where the road dipped towards another substantial river which bent almost at a right angle at a point where there was a cluster of buildings along its banks. The river seemed to flow from west to east and then turn directly south.

‘That is the Well of Ara.’ Fidelma smiled in satisfaction. ‘That is the crossing point and Imleach lies some miles further on. We can follow the north bank of the river for a while. I can’t see any of Gionga’s warriors there, though.’

Eadulf sniffed in his discomfiture. ‘There are buildings there and smoke. Can’t we rest and dry out?’

Fidelma glanced up at the sky. ‘We will not have long. We must be at Imleach before dark. However, if there are no warriors of the Ui Fidgente warriors hanging around, there is a tavern at the crossing where you may change or dry your clothes.’

Without more ado she led the way down the hill towards the group of buildings that straddled both sides of the water. Here the water crossed shallows but nowhere as dangerous nor turbulent as the crossing of the Suir.

A couple of boys were sitting on the river bank, casting a line into the waters. Fidelma approached just as one was lifting a wild, brown trout which he brought triumphantly to the bank.

‘A good catch,’ called Fidelma appreciatively as she halted her horse.

The boy, no more than eleven, smiled indifferently. ‘I have made better, Sister,’ he replied solemnly, in deference to her habit.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ she replied. ‘Tell me, do you live here?’

‘Here, where else?’ replied the child in a worldly manner.

‘Are there strangers in your village?’

‘There were strangers last night. The Prince of the Uí Fidgente, so my father says. He and his men. But they left this morning when the great King from Cashel arrived to meet them.’

‘But there are no strangers left in the village now?’

‘No. They all went to Cashel.’

‘Good. We are obliged to you.’

Fidelma turned her mare and moved on towards the river, wavingEadulf forward. The waters barely came up to the fetlocks of the horses as they crossed the waters of the Ara and reached the far bank. It was not difficult to spot the tavern for it lay exactly by the ford with its swinging sign outside the door.

Thankfully, Eadulf slid from the saddle and hitched the reins to a convenient post. He removed his saddle bag in which he had a change of dry clothing, hoping to find time to change into something warmer.

As he was doing so, the door of the tavern opened and an elderly man came out.

‘Greetings, travellers, you are most …’ The man stopped short as his eyes fell on Fidelma. A smile of welcome broke over his features and he hurried forward to help her from her horse.

‘It is good to see you, lady. Why, it was only this morning that your brother was here to …’

‘To meet with Donennach of the Uí Fidgente,’ rejoined Fidelma, recognising the man with a friendly smile. ‘I know, good Aona. It is a long time since I have seen you.’

The man beamed in pleasure that she had remembered his name. ‘I have not seen you since you were celebrating the attainment of the age of choice. Why, that must have been twelve years or more ago.’

‘It was a long time ago, Aona.’

‘Long, indeed, and yet you recall my name.’

‘You were ever a loyal follower of my family. It would be a bad member of the Eóghanacht who did not remember the name of Aona, one-time captain of the guard of Cashel. I heard that you had decided to retire to run a wayside tavern. I had not realised it was this one.’

‘You …’ He suddenly glanced at Eadulf and took in his clothing and Roman tonsure in one swift glance. ‘You and your Saxon companion are most welcome to my hospitality.’

‘I need to change my clothes and dry myself,’ Eadulf muttered, almost in a voice of complaint.

‘Did you fall from your horse into the river, then?’ asked Aona.

‘No I did not,’ Eadulf snapped. He did not bother to explain further.

‘There is a fire inside,’ Aona advised. ‘Come in; come in both of you.’ He pushed open the door and stood aside to usher them in.

‘Alas, we cannot stay long. I need to get to Imleach before nightfall,’ Fidelma told him as she followed Eadulf inside.

Eadulf made a straight line to the roaring fire, where flames ate hungrily at a pile of glowing logs.

‘You will stay for a meal, surely?’

Eadulf was just about to say they would but Fidelma shook herhead firmly. ‘There is no time. We will stay here long enough to warm ourselves with a drink and for Brother Eadulf to change his sodden garments and then be off.’

Aona’s features mirrored his disappointment.

Fidelma reached out a hand and touched his arm. ‘Let us hope that our journey will return us here quickly and then we will do justice to your hospitality. But this is a matter of some urgency, of importance to the safety of the kingdom, and not a matter of mere whim.’

Aona had served most of his younger life in the bodyguard of the Kings of Cashel and he grew erect. ‘If the kingdom is in danger, lady, tell me how best I may serve it?’

Fidelma. turned to where Eadulf was uncomfortably standing, with steam rising from his wet garments, in front of the fire.

‘Have you a room where Brother Eadulf might change his clothes?’

Aona pointed to a side door across the main tavern room.

‘In there, Brother. Bring out your wet clothes and we will dry them before the fire.’

‘Time is important,’ Fidelma added, as if to excuse her peremptoriness. When Eadulf had disappeared, taking his saddle bag with him, and Aona had filled two mugs with corma, Fidelma sat in a chair and held the hem of her own garment to the fire.

‘How did the Uí Fidgente behave while they were waiting for my brother?’ she asked the innkeeper.

Aona frowned. ‘Behave?’

‘Yes. Were they friendly or truculent and ill-mannered? What?’

‘They behaved well enough, I suppose. Why do you ask?’

‘You heard no rumours among them of any discontent? Received no feelings that some conspiracy was afoot among them?’

The old innkeeper shook his head negatively, handing Fidelma one of the mugs of the potent ale.

She sipped at it absently, then asked, ‘And all the members of Donennach’s entourage went with him to Cashel? They met with no one else here?’

‘No one that I saw. What does this mean?’

‘There was an assassination attempt against my brother and Donennach as soon as they reached Cashel.’

The old man started. He looked alarmed. ‘Was the King … was he badly hurt?’

‘Flesh wounds,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘The wounds were bad enough but they will soon heal. However, some warriors of the Uí Fidgente have accused Cashel of deception and have claimed, in spite of his wound, that my brother is behind this attack.’

Eadulf entered in dry clothes, and bearing his sodden garment over his arm.

The innkeeper automatically took it from him and hung it on a pole in front of the fire. ‘It will be dry shortly,’ he told Eadulf before handing him the second mug of ale that he had poured. Then he turned back to Fidelma. ‘The Uí Fidgente must be mad to make such an accusation … unless it be part of their plan.’

Eadulf drained his ale in one swallow and then started to cough as the effects of the fiery liquid were felt.

Aona gave him a sad smile. ‘My corma is not to be taken like water, Saxon,’ he rebuked. ‘Perhaps you would like water to ease the effects?’

Eadulf nodded, gasping slightly.

Aona filled the mug with water from a jug and Eadulf drained it immediately, gasping for breath.

Fidelma ignored her companion and sat staring into the fire, as if deep in thought. Then she looked up at the old man.

‘Are you sure, Aona, that you observed nothing out of the ordinary, nothing strange?’

‘Nothing at all, lady. You have my word on it,’ the old warrior assured her. ‘Donennach and his entourage arrived here last evening. The Prince of the Uí Fidgente and his personal aides slept in the inn. His warriors encamped in the fields by the river bank. They were well behaved. Then this morning, your brother arrived and they all set off together towards Cashel. That is all I know.’

‘They were not followed by anyone? A tall man, an archer, nor a short, rotund man?’

Aona shook his head emphatically. ‘I saw no such people, lady.’

‘Very well, Aona. But keep a careful watch these next few days. I do not trust the Uí Fidgente.’

‘And if I see anything?’

‘Do you know Capa?’

Aona chuckled humorously. ‘I taught that youngster all he knew. He was but a slip of a youth when he came to join the bodyguard of the King of Cashel. He had no more idea of warfare than …’

Fidelma gently interrupted his memories. ‘Your pupil is captain of the King’s bodyguard as you once were, Aona. If you have news of any movement on the part of the Uí Fidgente, then send a message to Capa at Cashel. Do you understand?’

Aona nodded emphatically. ‘That I do, lady. What else can I do for you?’

Eadulf coughed politely. ‘Perhaps more of that brew you call corma. This time I shall treat it with respect.’

Aona turned away to pour more of the beverage from a wooden cask into Eadulf mug. When he turned back he was frowning as if something had occurred to him.

‘Is something wrong, Aona?’ Fidelma was quick to notice his expression.

The elderly innkeeper scratched the side of his nose. ‘I was trying to recall something. You asked about a tall man; an archer, and a shorter man, his companion?’

Fidelma leant forward eagerly. ‘You did see them? You could not very well miss them if they were together. Side by side, they looked so incongruous.’

‘I saw them,’ confirmed the innkeeper.

Fidelma’s expression was one of triumph. ‘You did? Yet when I asked you first, you said that you were sure they were not here.’

Aona shook his head. ‘That was because you asked me whether they were here with the UíFidgente within the last twenty-four hours. I saw such a pair a week ago.’

‘A week ago?’ intervened Eadulf in disappointment. ‘Then they may not be our pair of villains.’

‘Can you describe the men?’ pressed Fidelma.

Aona rubbed his jaw with his left hand as if the process would aid his thoughts. ‘I can tell you that the round, shorter man was like him.’ He jerked his thumb to Eadulf.

Eadulf s mouth opened and an expression of indignation crossed his features. ‘What are you implying?’ he demanded. ‘That I am short and fat? Why …’

Fidelma impatiently raised a hand to silence him.

‘You should explain, Aona,’ she said quietly. ‘As my companion is neither short nor fat, you have posed a question. How, then, is he like the man you claim to be built in such a fashion?’

Aona grimaced. ‘I did not mean that he looked like the Saxon, either in stature or features. No, I meant that the man was a religieux and that he wore his hair cut in that similar fashion which is unlike the tonsure of our Irish monks. I noticed it most particularly.’

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.

‘You mean that he wore a tonsure on the crown of his head cut in the same fashion as my companion?’

‘Have I not said as much?’ protested the innkeeper. ‘Why I noticed it so particularly, and found it curious, was because it was no longer clean-shaven but as if he had started to grow his hair to cover the tonsure.’

‘What else can you describe about this short man?’

That he was short and of ample girth; that his hair was grey andcurly otherwise. He was of middle age and although he did not wear the clothes of the religious, he certainly had the manner of one.’

Eadulf glanced to Fidelma. ‘That sounds like our assassin.’ He turned back to the innkeeper. ‘And what of his companion?’

Aona thought a moment. ‘I think the other man was fair-haired. The hair was long at the back. I cannot be sure. He wore a cap and was dressed in a leather jerkin. He carried a quiver and bow and by that token I thought he was a professional bowman.’

Fidelma sighed in satisfaction. ‘Near enough, I think. And you say that these two were in this very inn a week ago?’

‘So far as I can remember. The only other thing that makes me clearly remember the pair was the discrepancies in their build. Just as you have pointed out.’

‘You do not recall from whence they came nor where they went.’

‘Not I,’ replied the innkeeper.

Eadulf’s face fell. ‘That means we know no more than we did before.’

Fidelma pursed her lips in disappointment.

The door suddenly opened and the boy whom Fidelma had spoken to about his fishing entered.

Aona gestured to the child. ‘My grandson, Adag, might be able to help you further. He served them while I tended their horses.’

Before she could raise a question, Aona had turned to his grandson. ‘Adag, do you remember the sport you made of the two fellows who were in the inn two weeks ago?’

The boy placed his fishing line and basket on the table and glanced nervously at Fidelma and Eadulf. He said nothing.

‘Come on, Adag, you are not in trouble. You must remember that you had such fun because one was tall and lean and the other short and fat and together they made a funny pair?’

The boy inclined his head almost reluctantly.

‘Can you tell us anything about them, Adag?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘Apart from their appearance that is.’

‘Only that one was fat and the other a bowman.’

‘Well, that we know. But what else?’

Adag shrugged indifferently. ‘Nothing else. I served them while my grandfather attended to their horses.’

‘So they came on horseback?’ Eadulf pointed triumphantly. He turned to Fidelma. ‘Unusual, for the monk to travel on a horse.’

The child stared at him curiously. ‘Why so, when you and the Sister here travel on horseback?’

‘That is because …’ Eadulf was about to respond when Adag’s grandfather interrupted.

‘You have to learn, boy, that some religious do not have to abide by the general rule against riding on horses if they are of a certain rank. I will tell you more, later. Now reply to the lady’s questions.’

Adag shrugged. ‘I remember that the fat one handed the bowman a leather purse while they drank together. That is all.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Nothing, save the fat one was a stranger.’

‘A foreigner?’

‘No. A man of Eireann but not from the south, I think. I could tell by his accent. The bowman was from the south lands. I know that. But not the monk.’

‘You did not hear what they spoke about?’

The boy shook his head.

‘Did anyone see from which direction they came?’

‘No. But the fat one did arrive first,’ offered Aona.

‘Ah? They did not arrive together?’

‘No.’ This time it was Aona who spoke. ‘I remember now. The fat one arrived first and his horse needed attention. There was only myself and grandson here. So I went out to see to the horse while Adag served the monk with a meal. It was then that the bowman arrived. I did not see from what direction for I was in the stable.’

‘And could you tell nothing from their horses?’ Fidelma pressed. Aona was shaking his head and then his eyes lit up. ‘The bowman’s mount was scarred. It was a war horse. Chestnut coloured. Past its prime. I saw several healed wounds on it. The saddle spoke of a warrior’s steed. He had a spare quiver attached to the saddle. Apart from that, he carried all his weapons with him. I recall that the fat one’s horse was in good fettle and his harness and saddle were of good quality. They were of the quality one expects a merchant to use. But that is all I remember.’

Fidelma stood up. From her marsupium she took a coin and gave it to Aona.

‘I think your clothes are dry now, Eadulf,’ she said firmly.

Aona was thanking Fidelma even as Eadulf took his dried clothes from the pole and folded them into his saddle bag.

‘Shall I look out for these two strangers, then, lady?’ Aona asked. ‘Are these the people I must tell Capa about?’

Fidelma smiled wryly. ‘If you see these two strangers, Aona, I would seek out a priest rather than Capa. They were killed this morning after they tried to assassinate my brother and Prince Donennach.’

She raised a hand in farewell and turned for the door, followed by Eadulf.

Once mounted, she saw Aona and his grandson, Adag, standing at the door, watching them.

‘Be vigilant!’ she called, turning her horse from the inn yard and along the road to Imleach.

They rode on in silence for a while. The path took them along the north bank of the Ara with the sky darkening perceptibly. To the south of them, the long wooded ridge of Slievenamuck stood framed against the light southern sky while, before them, the tip of the lowering sun was hovering above the western horizon. The road was easy and fairly straight, running across high ground away from the lowlands around Ara’s Well. To the north of them, some miles away, there rose yet another range of hills. When Eadulf inquired what they were called, Fidelma told him that they were the Slieve Felim mountains, a rough and inhospitable country beyond which lay the lands of the Uí Fidgente.

For the most part they rode in silence because Eadulf could see Fidelma’s brow creased in thought and in such circumstances, he knew it was ill-advised to interrupt her. She was doubtless turning the information they had been given over in her mind.

They had travelled about eight miles when Fidelma suddenly raised her head and became aware of her surroundings.

‘Ah, not far now. We are almost there,’ she announced with satisfaction.

Almost at once they emerged from the wooded track to an open hilly area. Eadulf needed no prompting to identify the great stone-walled building as being the abbey of St Ailbe. It dominated the little township which stretched before it, although there was a distance between the abbey walls and the edge of the main buildings of the town. Eadulf was aware that both abbey and town were surrounded by stretches of grazing land, edged with forests of yew-trees; yet they were trees of the Irish variety with their curved needles that marked them from the yew-trees with which he was familiar in his own land. The trees were tall and round-headed, some of them, curiously, seeming to grow out of many trunks, twisted and ancient.

‘This is Imleach Iubhair …’ Fidelma sighed. ‘The Borderland of Yew-Trees’. This is the land that my cousin, Finguine of Cnoc Aine rules over.’

The township was quiet. It was much smaller than Cashel and to call it a township seemed to be a compliment. But Fidelma knew that the abbey and its church had helped to develop a thriving market there. The area seemed deserted and she presumed everyone would be at their evening meal. Vespers had come and gone.

The market place appeared to be the square directly in front of thegates of the abbey. The far side of the square was formed by the collection of houses which made up the town. Only one or two other buildings gave a cursory marking to the closer sides of the square so even to call it a square was not to be entirely accurate. It was slightly too large. In the centre stood a massive yew tree which surely stood over seventy feet high, a venerable twisted sculpture of dark brown wood and green curved needles. It dominated even the great grey walls of the abbey.

‘Now that is a tree worthy of respect,’ Eadulf breathed as he halted his horse before it and gazed up.

Fidelma turned in her saddle and smiled at her companion. ‘What makes you say that, Eadulf? Do you know about this tree?’

‘Know about it? No. I merely remark on its size and age.’

‘That is the sacred totem of the Eóghanacht. Remember, I told you about it in Cashel?’

‘A totem! That is a silly pagan idea.’

‘What else is a crucifix but a totem? Each clan, each family, have what we call a sacred Tree of Life. This is our sacred. When a new king of the Eóghanacht is installed, he has to come here and take his oath under the great yew.’

‘The tree must certainly be centuries old.’

‘Over a thousand years,’ Fidelma remarked complacently. ‘It is said that it was planted by the hand of Eber Fionn, son of Milesius, from whom the Eóghanacht descend.’

Aware of the darkness closing in, and hearing the distant howl of wolves and the bark and the whine of watch-dogs about to be released for the night, they continued towards the gates of the abbey.

Fidelma halted her mare and reached forward in order to tug at the bell chain which hung beside the gates. There was a dull clanging sound of a bell from the interior.

A wooden panel slid noisily back behind a metal grille in one of the gates. A voice called: ‘Who rings the bell of this abbey at this hour?’

‘Fidelma of Cashel wishes entrance.’

Almost at once there seemed a flurry of activity behind the door. The panel slid back with a thud. Bolts were noisily withdrawn, their metal squeaking on metal. Then the tall wooden gates of the abbey were slowly pulled back.

Before Fidelma or Eadulf could move forward, a tall, white-haired figure came running forward from the gates.

Eadulf had seen Abbot Segdae a few times before. The prelate he had seen at Cashel was a tall, dignified man; a man of quiet authority. But the man who came running forward to greet them was wild-hairedand appeared distracted. His usually serene, hawk-like features were haggard. He halted by Fidelma’s saddle, gazing up almost in the position of a worshipper at a shrine seeking solace.

‘Thank God! You are the answer to our prayers, Fidelma! God be thanked that you have come!’