Suffer Little Children

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Then you must have disliked him intensely.’

  Sister Necht hung her head.

  ‘It is against the Faith but, the truth is, I did not like him. I did not like him at all.’

  ‘Yet you were not removed from your duties?’

  Necht shook her head.

  ‘Brother Rumann said that I must accept it as the will of God and through this adversity I would gain in strength to do the Lord’s work.’

  ‘You say that as if you do not believe it,’ remarked Fidelma gently.

  ‘I did not gain any strength. It only intensified my dislike. It was a hateful time. The Venerable Dacan would criticise my tidying of his chamber. In the end, I did not bother tidying at all. Then he would send me on errands at all times of the day and night as his fancy took him. I was a slave.’

  ‘So when he died, you shed no tears?’

  ‘Not I!’ declared the sister vehemently. Then, realising what she had said, she flushed. ‘I meant …’

  ‘I think I know what you meant,’ Fidelma responded. ‘Tell me, on the night Dacan was killed, were you on duty in the hostel?’

  ‘I was on duty every night. Brother Rumann will have told you. It was my special duty.’

  ‘Did you see Dacan that night.’

  ‘Of course. He and the merchant Assíd were the only guests here.’

  ‘I have been told that they knew each other?’ Fidelma made the observation into a question.

  Sister Necht nodded.

  ‘I do not think that they were friends though. I heard Assíd quarrelling with Dacan after the evening meal.’

  ‘Quarrelling?’

  ‘Yes. Dacán had retired to his chamber. He usually took some books to study before the completa, the final service of the day. I was passing by his chamber door when I heard voices in argument.’

  ‘Are you sure it was Assíd?’

  ‘Who else could it have been?’ countered the girl. ‘There was no one else staying here.’

  ‘So they were quarrelling? About what?’

  ‘I do not know. Their voices were not raised but intense. Angry sounding.’

  ‘And what was Dacán studying that night?’ Fidelma frowned. ‘I have been told that nothing has been taken from his chamber. Yet there were no books there nor any writing by Dacán in the room.’

  Sister Necht shrugged and made no reply.

  ‘When did you last see Dacán?’

  ‘I had just returned from the service for the completa when Dacan summoned me and told me to fetch him a pitcher of cold water.’

  ‘Did you visit his chamber after that?’

  ‘No. I avoided him as much as I could. Forgive me this sin, sister, but I hated him and cannot say otherwise.’

  Sister Fidelma sat back and examined the young novice carefully for a moment.

  ‘You have other duties, Sister Necht, I shall not detain you from them. I will call you when I have further need of you.’

  The young novice rose looking chagrined.

  ‘You will not tell Brother Rumann of my sin of hatred?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘No. You feared Dacan. Hate is merely the consequence of that fear; we have to fear something to hate it. It is the cloak of protection used by those who are intimidated. But, sister, remember this, that feelings of hate often lead to the suppression of justice. Try to forgive Dacán in death for his autocracy and understand your own fears. You may go now.’

  ‘Are you sure there is nothing else I can do?’ Necht asked, as she hesitated in the doorway. She looked eager again as if the confession of her hatred of Dacan had cheered her spirits.

  Fidelma shook her head.

  ‘I will call you when there is,’ she assured her.

  As she went out, Cass rose and came to sit in the chair vacated by Necht. He regarded Fidelma with sympathy.

  ‘It is not going well, is it? I see only confusion.’

  Fidelma pulled a face at the young warrior.

  ‘Come let us walk by the seashore for a moment, Cass. I need the breeze to clear my head.’

  They walked through the complex of the abbey buildings and found a gate in the wall which led onto a narrow path winding down to the sandy strand. The day was still fine, still a little blustery, with the ships rocking at anchor. Fidelma drew in a deep breath of salt sea air and exhaled it loudly with a resounding gasp of satisfaction.

  Cass watched her in quiet amusement.

  ‘That is better,’ she said, and glanced quickly at him. ‘It clears the head. I have to admit that this is the hardest inquiry that I have undertaken. In other investigations that I have worked on, all the witnesses remained in the one place. All the suspects were gathered. And I was at the scene of the crime within hours, if not minutes, of the deed being done so that the evidence could not evaporate into thin air.’

  Cass measured his pace to match her shorter stride as they walked slowly along the sea’s edge.

  ‘I begin to see some of the difficulties of a dálaigh now, sister. In truth, I had little idea before. I thought that all they had to know about was the law.’

  Fidelma did not bother to answer.

  They passed fishermen on the shore, unloading their morning’s catch from the small canoe-like vessels, locally called naomhóg, boats of wickerwork frames, covered in codal, a hide tanned in oak bark, and stitched together with thongs of leather. They were easy and light to carry and three men could manage the largest of them. They rode high in the water, dancing swiftly over the fiercest of waves.

  Fidelma paused watching as two of these craft came ashore towing the carcass of a great beast of the sea behind them.

  She had seen a basking shark brought ashore only once before and presumed that the beast was such an creature.

  Cass had never seen anything like it and he moved eagerly forward to examine it.

  ‘I had heard a story that the Blessed Brendan, during his great voyage, once landed on the back of such a monster thinking it was an island. Yet this beast, big as it is, does not look like an island,’ he called across his shoulder to her.

  Fidelma responded to his excitement.

  ‘The fish Brendan is reported to have landed on was said to be far bigger. When Brendan and his companions sat down and made a fire to cook their meal, the fish, feeling the heat, sank into the sea and they barely escaped with their lives into their boat.’

  An aged fisherman, overhearing her, nodded sagely.

  ‘And that’s a true story, sister. But did you ever hear of the great fish, Rosault, which lived in the time of Colmcille?’

  Fidelma shook her head, smiling, for she knew old fishermen carried good tales which could often be retold around a fire at night.

  ‘I used to fish up Connacht way when I was a lad,’ the old man went on, hardly needing an invitation. ‘The Connacht men told me that there was a holy mountain inland which they called Croagh Patrick, after the blessed saint. At the foot of the mountain was a plain which was called Muir-iasc, which means “sea-fish”. Do you know how it received its name?’

  ‘Tell us,’ invited Cass, knowing there was no other answer to give.

  ‘It was named because it was formed by the great body of Rosault when it was cast ashore there during a great storm. The dead beast, as it lay decomposing on the plain, caused a great pestilence through the malodorous vapours which rose from its body and descended on the country. It killed men and animals indiscriminately. There be many things in the sea, sister. Many threatening things.’

  Fidelma cast a sudden glance towards the Laigin warship.

  ‘Not all of them are creatures of the deep,’ she observed softly.

  The old fisherman caught the direction of her gaze and chuckled.

  ‘I think that you would be right there, sister. And I am thinking that the fishermen of the Corco Loígde might one day have to go casting their spears at stranger creatures than a poor basking shark.’

  He turned and sank his skinning knife into the great carcass with relish.
<
br />   Fidelma began to walk along the shore again.

  Cass hurried after her. For a few moments they walked on in silence and then Cass observed: ‘There are signs of war in the air already, sister. It does not bode well.’

  ‘I am not oblivious to it,’ she replied shortly. ‘Yet I cannot work miracles even though my brother expects it of me.’

  ‘Perhaps we have to accept that this war is our destiny. That there will, indeed, be war.’

  ‘Destiny!’ Fidelma was angry. ‘I do not believe in the preordination of things, even if some of the Faith do. Destiny is but the tyrant’s excuse for his crimes and the fool’s excuse for not standing up to the tyrant.’

  ‘How can you change what is inevitable?’ demanded Cass.

  ‘By first saying that it is not so and then by proceeding to make it otherwise!’ she answered with spirit.

  If there was anything she did not need at this moment in time it was someone telling her that things were inevitable. Sophocles had once written that that which the gods have brought about must be born with fortitude. Yet to make the excuse that one’s self-induced limitations were simply destiny was a philosophy that was alien to Fidelma. The creed of destiny was simply an excuse to save oneself from choice.

  Cass raised a hand, opened it and gestured as if in resignation.

  ‘It is a laudable philosophy which you have, Fidelma. But sometimes …’

  ‘Enough!’

  There was a catch to her voice that made the young warrior stop. He realised how suddenly vulnerable was this young woman dálaigh of the court. Colgú of Cashel had put great responsibility on his sister’s shoulders – perhaps too much? As Cass saw things, the death of Dacán was a riddle that would never be solved. Better to simply prepare for war with the Laigin than squander time in sorting out the tangled and insoluble web of this mystery.

  Fidelma suddenly sat down on a rock and gazed at the sea as Cass stood restlessly by. In turning matters over in her mind she was trying to remember what her old master, the Brehon Morann of Tara, had once said to her.

  ‘Better to ask twice than lose your way once, child,’ he had intoned when she had failed some exercise of the mind by failing to grasp an answer he had given.

  What question was she not asking; what answer had she failed to realise the significance of?

  Cass was startled when, after a moment or two, Fidelma sprang up and uttered a snort of disgust.

  ‘I must be dull-witted!’ she announced.

  ‘Why so?’ he demanded as she started to stride swiftly back towards the abbey.

  ‘Here I have been bemoaning to myself the impossibility of the task before I have even begun it.’

  ‘I thought that you had already made a very good start on the matter.’

  ‘I have but merely skimmed the surface,’ she replied. ‘I have asked a question or two but have not yet started to seek the truth. Come, there is much to be done!’

  She walked swiftly back to the abbey, through the gate and across the flagged courtyards. Here and there little groups of scholars and some of the teaching religious turned from their huddled bands to surreptitiously examine her as she passed for the news had spread rapidly through the abbey of her purpose there. She ignored them, moving swiftly to the main gateway and there saw the object of her search – the enthusiastic young Sister Necht.

  She was about to hail her when Necht looked up and saw Fidelma. She came running towards her, with an undignified gait.

  ‘Sister Fidelma!’ she gasped. ‘I was about to set out to find you. Brother Tóla asked me to give you this package. It is from Brother Martan.’

  She handed Fidelma a rectangular piece of sackcloth. Fidelma took it and unfolded it. Inside were several pieces of long strips of linen, as if torn from a larger piece of material. There were spots of deep brown which Fidelma presumed to be the stains of blood. The colour of the linen itself had been enhanced by dyes in parti-coloured fashion consisting of blues and reds. The pieces were frayed and looked fragile. Fidelma took one of the strips and held it, one end in each hand, giving it a sharp tug. It tore easily.

  ‘Not very efficient as a constraint,’ observed Cass.

  Fidelma glanced appraisingly at him.

  ‘No,’ she replied thoughtfully as she rewrapped the cloth and placed the material in her large satchel purse. ‘Now, Sister Necht, I need you to conduct us to Sister Grella’s library.’

  To her surprise the young girl shook her head.

  ‘That I cannot do, sister.’

  ‘Why, what ails you?’ Fidelma demanded testily.

  ‘Nothing. But the abbot has also sent me to seek you out and bring you to him. He says he must see you without delay.’

  ‘Very well,’ Fidelma said reluctantly. ‘If Abbot Brocc wants to see me then I shall not disappoint him. But why the urgency?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago, Salbach, chieftain of the Corco Loígde, arrived in response to a message which Brocc sent him. The chieftain appears very angry.’

  Chapter Eight

  Fidelma and Cass began to follow as Sister Necht led the way towards the chambers of the abbot. After a moment, the young novice noticed Cass following. She halted and looked embarrassed.

  ‘What is it now?’ demanded Fidelma.

  ‘I was told to bring only yourself, sister,’ she explained, with an awkward glance at Cass.

  ‘Very well,’ Fidelma sighed. ‘You can wait for me at the hostel, Cass.’

  The tall warrior made a small grimace of disappointment but took himself off while she continued to follow Necht. The broad-shouldered sister seemed agitated and hurried while Fidelma maintained a more leisurely pace. The young novice had to keep stopping in order to wait for her. Fidelma refused to be hurried and rejected the idea of arriving before the abbot and the chieftain of the Corco Loígde in a flustered and breathless fashion.

  ‘It’s all right, Necht,’ Fidelma finally said, irritated by the girl’s insistence on trying to get her to hurry. ‘I know the way to the abbot’s chambers from here, so you may leave me in safety.’

  The girl paused and seemed about to protest but Fidelma drew her brows together in annoyance. The expression was enough to dissuade the novice from any arguments that might have been forming on her tongue. She bobbed her head obediently and left Fidelma.

  Fidelma continued across the flagged yard into the granite building which housed the abbot’s chambers. She had moved into a small, dark hallway and was crossing to the steps which led up to the second floor on which the abbot’s main chamber was situated when a shadow stirred in the darkness at the foot of the steps.

  ‘Sister!’

  Fidelma halted and peered curiously into the shadows. The figure was familiar.

  ‘Is that Cétach?’

  The figure of the boy moved forward into the gloomy light. Fidelma noted the tension in his body, the way his shoulders were positioned, the poise of the head.

  ‘I must speak with you,’ whispered the young black-haired lad, as if he were scared of being overheard.

  Fidelma raised an eyebrow in the gloom.

  ‘It is inconvenient now. I am on my way to see the abbot. Let us meet later …’

  ‘No, wait!’ The voice almost rose to a wail of despair. Fidelma found Cétach’s hand clutching imploringly at her arm.

  ‘What is it? What are you frightened of?’

  ‘Salbach, the chieftain of the Corco Loígde, is with the abbot.’

  ‘This I know,’ Fidelma said. ‘But what is frightening you, Cétach?’

  ‘When you speak with him do not mention me or my brother.’

  Fidelma tried to examine the boy’s features, annoyed that the shadows obscured his expression.

  ‘Are you scared of Salbach?’

  ‘It is too long a story – I cannot tell you now, sister. Please, do not mention us. Do not even say that you know us.’

  ‘Why? What do you fear from Salbach?’

  The boy’s grip tightened on her arm.


  ‘For pity’s sake, sister!’ His voice was filled with such fear that Fidelma patted his shoulder in reassurance.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You have my promise. But when I am finished, we must talk and you must tell me what this means.’

  ‘You promise that you will not mention us?’

  ‘I promise,’ she replied gravely.

  The boy abruptly turned and scurried away into the shadows leaving a bemused Fidelma staring in the gloom.

  She waited a moment or two before heaving a sigh and then she began to mount the steps.

  Abbot Brocc was waiting impatiently for her. He had apparently been pacing before his table and stopped as she entered his chamber. Her eyes immediately fell on a figure sprawled indolently in a chair before the great fire in the abbot’s chamber. The man was leaning back in the carved wooden chair, usually reserved for the abbot, one leg dangling over an arm, a large goblet of wine in one hand. He was a handsome man with hair the colour of jet, contrasting with a white skin and ice-blue eyes. He was in his early thirties. There was something saturnine about his slim features. His clothes told of wealth for they were fine woven silks and linens and he wore a small fortune in jewellery. The sword and dagger he wore were worth the full honour price of a ceile, a free clansman of the kingdom. All this Fidelma took in at a glance but one thing, of all the visual information, registered with her; the cold blue eyes of the chieftain had a close, foxy look. Here was a shrewd and cunning man.

  ‘Ah, Fidelma!’

  The abbot was clearly relieved as she entered.

  ‘I was told that you had sent for me, Brocc,’ she said, closing the door behind her.

  ‘I have, indeed. This is Salbach, chieftain of the Corco Loígde. ’

  Fidelma turned towards the chieftain. Her mouth tightened as the man made no effort to rise but continued to sprawl in his chair, sipping his wine with deliberate slowness.

  ‘Sister Fidelma from Kildare is my cousin, Salbach,’ the abbot said nervously, seeing the clouds gathering around Fidelma’s brows.

  Salbach regarded her coldly over the rim of his goblet.

  ‘I am told that you are a dálaigh,’ he said. There was a tone in his voice as if he found the subject amusing.