Suffer Little Children

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘You knew there was a bag of evidence left by me in the abbot’s cabinet?’ she pressed desperately.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Grella responded. ‘How could I when I had not realised that you had removed anything from my chamber? I told you that I have not been back to the abbey during this last week.’

  ‘You chose an odd time to leave the abbey. It is suspicious. Wouldn’t you say so?’

  ‘It was Salbach’s suggestion that I came with him that night. For too long I have been hiding my affection for Salbach. It was time that we came into the open about our love.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me when I repeat that your timing was a matter of great coincidence.’

  ‘I did not murder Dacán,’ replied Grella firmly.

  Fidelma suppressed a gentle sigh.

  ‘Tell me then, why did you hide Dacán’s papers?’

  ‘That’s not hard to tell. I did not want anyone else to know what Dacán had been engaged in. It were better that Laigin did not find the son of Illan. If they did not, then they would not be able to use Illan’s heir to overthrow Salbach’s cousin.’

  ‘And Salbach would be grateful to you for this information?’

  ‘I love Salbach.’

  ‘And so all this you did out of your … love … for Salbach?’

  Sister Grella’s eyes were pools of indignant fire.

  ‘Well now,’ Fidelma said, rising, ‘Laigin is doing that very thing, demanding Osraige as the honour price for the slaughter of Dacan. It seems that the very war you claim that you sought to prevent will take place.’

  Grella rose with her.

  ‘Let me appeal to you as a woman, Fidelma. I was married to Dacán when I was fifteen. It was an arranged marriage in this new custom of the Faith where I had little say. I stayed three years with that old man. He was not capable of fathering children and it was on those grounds that I asked for a divorce. Rather than be shamed by a hearing before the Brehon, in which such a matter would be discussed, Dacán gave me that divorce without contention. He taught me many things, for which I am grateful. He taught me enough to allow me to go to an ecclesiastic college, the college of Cealla, to study and attain my degree. The strange thing is that, in a way, I cared for that old man, unfriendly though he was, as if he had been my father. I did not kill him, Fidelma of Kildare. I am guilty of several things, but I did not kill him.’

  ‘Sister Grella, some sense within me makes me want to believe you. However, the evidence is against you. The evidence of Dacán’s hidden papers. The bonds with which he was tied. Your sudden disappearance from the abbey after you had not told me the truth about your former marriage to Dacán and other matters.’ Fidelma compressed her lower lip in thought. ‘You knew that Dacán was searching for the heir of Illan. The evening before he died, he wrote to his brother that he had discovered where Illan’s heir was hiding. The evidence suggests that you killed him to prevent him finding the heir of Illan in order to please your lover, Salbach.’

  ‘No! This is not true. You cannot claim that I am guilty of that deed!’

  ‘No? Perhaps not. It seems that it will be for the High King’s assembly to decide.’

  ‘Yet you know, in the heart, Fidelma, that it is not true,’ pressed Grella angrily.

  ‘I am appointed by the king of Cashel. I can only follow my duty. I have a war to prevent. Cass!’

  The young warrior came into the cabin. He looked from Grella’s white, pinched face, to Fidelma’s stern expression.

  ‘Cass, Sister Grella will be returning with us to Ros Ailithir as our prisoner.’

  ‘Then she has confessed?’ The relief on Cass’s face was obvious.

  Grella hissed angrily.

  ‘Confess to something I did not do? Take me as a prisoner to the abbey. Salbach will free me – one way or the other!’

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ smiled Cass without humour.

  They returned together to Ros Ailithir. Fidelma led the way while Cass rode close beside Sister Grella. Fidelma was quiet during the short ride, deep in thought. There was something nagging at her. If Sister Grella was being truthful then she was no nearer to Dacán’s killer than before. She had not even proved the link between Salbach and Intat. Even if Grella had killed Dacan, betrayed her soul-friend Eisten, could she have also killed her? And where were the sons of Illan? Why had Dacan been so sure that there was an heir at the age of choice? Where were these boys called ‘Primus’ and ‘Victor’ … ? ‘Victor’ and ‘Primus’ … ‘Primus’ …

  Chapter Sixteen

  Victor!

  That was the name which kept troubling Fidelma; it had been tumbling around in her mind since Sceilig Mhichil. The images of the two black-haired boys from Rae na Scríne were also in her mind’s eye. But the sons of Illan had been described as copper-haired. Yet the name, the name Victor … Hic est meum. Victor. Didn’t the name mean ‘triumphant’ and ‘victorious’ and wasn’t the equivalent in Irish – Cosrach?

  She suddenly gasped at the ease of the solution to the conundrum. The sons of Illan had been called Primus and Victor. Primus meant ‘first’ and wasn’t Cétach just a pet form of cét which also meant ‘first’? Cétach bore the name of a son of the legendary prince who founded the kingdom of Osraige. Primus – Cétach. Victor – Cosrach! Although the two boys had vanished, surely the other children from Rae na Scríne might be able to identify or describe the religieux who had brought them to Sister Eisten for safekeeping.

  She halted her horse abruptly causing, a startled Cass to draw rein lest his steed collide with her. Sister Grella’s mount, almost impacting with his, shied and nearly stumbled.

  Fidelma cursed softly under her breath, blaming herself for a fool that she had not seen that simple solution before.

  ‘What is it?’ Cass demanded, a hand snaking to his sword hilt, looking around as if expecting an attack from an unseen enemy.

  ‘An idea!’ she replied happily. She knew now whom Dacán had been searching for and why Cétach had been so afraid of Salbach. It must have been Cétach and Cosrach whom Intat had been sent to kill when he set fire to Rae na Scríne.

  ‘Only an idea? I thought there was danger,’ Cass complained in annoyance.

  ‘There is nothing more dangerous than an idea, Cass,’ laughed Fidelma, intoxicated with the simple logic of her conclusion. ‘A single idea, if it is right, saves us years of laborious experience, the harsh learning of trial and error.’

  Cass glanced around nervously.

  ‘Ideas may not threaten our lives with swords and arrows.’

  Fidelma chuckled dryly, still happy with her thoughts.

  ‘They may be more harmful than that. Come on.’

  Without further explanation, she urged her horse to break into a canter along the trail leading down into Ros Ailithir.

  Brother Conghus met them at the gate and, as they arrived, the abbot himself came hurrying up.

  ‘Sister Grella!’ he gasped, looking from Grella to Fidelma in astonishment. ‘You have captured the culprit, cousin?’

  Fidelma, to Cass’s surprise, made no effort to dismount. She leant forward across the pommel of her saddle and spoke quietly to her cousin.

  ‘Grella is to be held securely on my authority. She has much to answer for before the assembly of the High King when it meets here. What she wants to tell you as an explanation for her disappearance is entirely up to her.’

  Abbot Brocc looked anxiously.

  ‘Does this mean that you have reached a conclusion?’ He glanced across his shoulder at the abbey with an almost conspiratorial air. ‘The High King and his retinue have already arrived. Barrán, the Chief Brehon, has been asking about you and …’

  Fidelma held up a hand to silence the worried abbot.

  ‘I can say no more at this time. We will return as soon as possible.’

  ‘Return? Where are you going?’ Brocc’s voice was almost a wail as Fidelma urged her horse away from the abbey gates.

  ‘Guard Sister Grella well, if for no
thing less than her own safety,’ Fidelma called across her shoulder.

  Cass, his face showing that he was equally as perplexed as the abbot, urged his horse after her.

  ‘If you cannot tell the abbot, sister,’ he complained, after he had caught up with her, ‘perhaps you can tell me? Where are we going now?’

  ‘I need to find the orphanage where the children from Rae na Scrine were taken,’ she replied. ‘I know it lies along this coast to the east.’

  ‘You mean the place run by Brother Molua?’

  ‘Do you know it?’ She was surprised.

  ‘I know of it,’ Cass asserted. ‘I spoke to Brother Martan about it. It should not be too difficult to find. It lies about ten miles to the east of here along the coast near a tidal estuary. But why do you want to go to this orphanage? What knowledge can we pick up there?’

  ‘Oh, Cass!’ muttered Fidelma, ‘if I knew that, I would not need to go!’

  Cass shrugged helplessly but followed as Fidelma urged her horse along the highway.

  It proved, as Cass said, not more than ten miles across a broad headland. There were several stone and timber buildings which rose above the mud banks of a large tidal estuary into which a river pushed sedately from the mountains to the north. They had to cross the river at a narrow ford which led to the cluster of buildings which, Fidelma noticed as she grew nearer, were surrounded by a wooden fencing. A broad-shouldered man met them at the gates. He wore the clothes of a forest worker but Fidelma noticed the crucifix which hung around his muscular neck.

  ‘Bene vobis, my friends,’ he called out as they halted their horses before him. He had a loud baritone voice, full of joviality, and a smiling face to match it.

  ‘And health to you,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Are you Brother Molua?’

  ‘My given name is Lugaid being named after Lugaid Loígde, the progenitor of the Corco Lofgde. But as it is such a distinguished name, sister, why, I merely answer to its more gentle diminutive. Molua suits me better. How may I serve you?’

  Fidelma slid from her horse and introduced herself and Cass.

  ‘It is not often that we have such distinguished visitors,’ the big man said. ‘An advocate of the court and a warrior of the king of Cashel’s elite. Come, let me first stable your horses and then, perhaps, you will allow my house to offer you hospitality after your journey?’

  Fidelma did not protest as the man insisted on leading off their horses to a stable. She gazed about the small complex of buildings with interest. There were several children playing around what was a chapel, in fact no bigger than an oratory. An elderly religieuse was sitting under a tree further on with half a dozen children round her. She was playing a small wooden reed pipe, a cuisech, and she played it well, so Fidelma thought. The sister seemed to be teaching the children short airs, happy and joyful.

  Brother Molua returned smiling.

  ‘This is a peaceful spot, brother,’ Fidelma observed approvingly.

  ‘I am content with it, sister,’ agreed Molua. ‘Come this way. Aíbnat!’

  A round-faced, homely woman came to the door of one of the buildings. She seemed to share Molua’s bluff, smiling features.

  ‘Aíbnat, we have guests. This is my radiant wife, Aíbnat.’

  Fidelma saw that Molua was possessed of a sense of humour for the meaning of the woman’s name was ‘radiant girl’.

  ‘I heard that you were both at Ros Ailithir,’ the woman greeted them. ‘Were you not there to investigate old Dacán’s death?’

  Fidelma nodded affirmatively.

  ‘Enough time to talk when our guests have eaten, Aíbnat,’ chided Molua as he ushered them all into the building. They found themselves in a warm chamber in which an oven threw out heat. On it were great pots simmering with aromatic ingredients. Molua motioned them to be seated at a table and produced a pitcher and several pottery goblets.

  ‘Let me offer you some of my special cuirm to keep out the chill. I distil it myself,’ he added with pride.

  Cass readily agreed while Fidelma gazed approvingly around at the kitchen.

  ‘How many do you have to feed here?’ she asked, interested in the large number of cooking pots.

  It was Aíbnat who replied.

  ‘At the moment we have twenty children under the age of fourteen here, sister. And there are four of us to look after them. My husband, myself and two other sisters of the Faith.’

  Molua poured the drinks and they sipped the rough but pleasant-tasting spirit with relish.

  ‘How long has this orphanage been here?’ asked Cass.

  ‘Since the first devastations of the Yellow Plague two years ago. Some communities were so badly hit that entire families were wiped out and there was no one to care for the children who remained,’ explained Aíbnat. ‘That was when my husband sought permission of the Abbot Brocc at Ros Ailithir to turn his small farmstead here into a place of refuge for the orphans.’

  ‘You seem to be succeeding very well,’ Fidelma approved.

  ‘Will you eat, after your journey?’ invited Molua.

  ‘We are hungry,’ acknowledged Cass, for they had not eaten since that morning.

  ‘But it lacks several hours before your evening meal,’ Fidelma pointed out, with a sharp, reproving look at the young warrior.

  ‘That’s of little consequence,’ smiled Aíbnat. ‘A plate of cold badger meat or … I know … I have a meat pudding, the meat of the sheep, cooked with rowan berries and wild garlic. That complemented by kale and onions and barley bread. Then a dish of sloes and honey to finish with. What would you say to that?’

  Molua was smiling happily.

  ‘My wife has a reputation as the best cook of the Corco Loígde. ’

  ‘A well-deserved one if the choice of food is anything to go by,’ applauded Cass.

  Aíbnat was blushing with pleasure.

  ‘We have hives here, so the honey is our own.’

  ‘I had noticed that you have an abundance of beeswax candles,’ Fidelma observed. In many poorer homes the usual form of candlewax was often meat grease or melted tallow into which a peeled rush had been dipped.

  ‘Now while Aíbnat prepares the food,’ Molua said, sitting down and refilling their goblets from the pitcher of mead, ‘you may tell me why my poor house has been so honoured by your presence.’

  ‘A week ago Aíbnat brought some children here.’

  ‘Yes. Two little girls, no more than nine, and a boy about eight years old,’ agreed Molua.

  Aíbnat turned from her culinary preparations, frowning.

  ‘Yes. They were the children rescued from Rae na Scríne. Didn’t you have something to do with that?’

  Cass smiled grimly.

  ‘Indeed. We were the ones who rescued them.’

  Molua was shaking his head.

  ‘We heard of that terrible crime. It is beyond understanding that people can be so cruel to their neighbours in time of distress. Such injustice has been condemned by everyone.’

  Fidelma could not help airing her cynicism.

  ‘It was Plato who wrote that mankind always censures injustice but only because they fear to become victims of it and not because they shrink from committing it.’

  Molua’s face was sad.

  ‘I cannot believe that, sister. I do not believe that man sets out purposely to commit injustice. He always does it because he is blinded by some distorted image of a perceived morality, or of a just cause.’

  ‘What morality or just cause, however distorted, could have been raised at Rae na Scríne?’ demanded Cass.

  Molua shrugged.

  ‘I am but a simple farmer. When I cultivate a field, turning it with my plough, I destroy life. I destroy the natural grasses and growths in that field. I destroy the natural habitats of field voles, of badgers and other creatures. To them, that is injustice. To me, it is a just cause – the cause of feeding starving people.’

  ‘Animals!’ Cass muttered. ‘Who is concerned about justice for animals?’


  Molua looked pained.

  ‘Are they not also God’s creatures?’

  ‘I see the point that you are making, Molua,’ Fidelma intervened. ‘In intellectual discourse, we would doubtless agree. There was a reason why the deed was done at Rae na Scríne but whether the reason was thought justifiable the action is not and cannot be.’

  Molua inclined his head.

  ‘I accept that.’

  ‘Very well. There were two boys named Cétach and Cosrach, also from Rae na Scríne, who were supposed to be brought to this orphanage. But they disappeared. One was about ten and the other was older – perhaps fifteen. They had black hair.’

  Aíbnat and Molua exchanged a look and both shook their heads.

  ‘No children answering those descriptions have turned up here.’

  ‘No. I did not think they would. But perhaps I might be allowed to question the other children?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘They might know some details about these boys.’

  Aíbnat frowned slightly.

  ‘I would not like the children to be upset. Remembering that terrible event may unsettle them.’

  Fidelma tried to be reassuring.

  ‘I would not ask these questions if it were not important. I cannot guarantee that they will not get upset. Nevertheless, I must insist in this matter.’

  Molua nodded slowly.

  ‘She has the right,’ he explained to his wife. ‘She is a dálaigh of the courts.’

  Aíbnat looked unpersuaded.

  ‘Then let me be with them when you ask these questions, sister.’

  ‘Of course,’ Fidelma agreed readily. ‘Let us go now and speak with them, just the two of us. Then they will not be intimidated.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Aíbnat, glancing at Molua. ‘You can finish preparing the food for our guests while we do so,’ she instructed.

  Aíbnat led the way to the small chapel and called to the children playing there. At her call, two little girls and a sulky-looking boy detached themselves reluctantly from the throng of playing, shouting children. Fidelma could barely recognise them as the terrified children she had found among the ashes and ruins of Rae na Scríne. They came clustering round the skirts of Aíbnat and she led them towards a more isolated part of the compound where a felled tree provided a great seat by a small, gushing stream which ran through the settlement to join the bigger river beyond.