Suffer Little Children

by Peter Tremayne

Colgu’s face was serious.

  ‘Very well. On the way you will have to tell me what is happening. Who is … was this man Intat?’

  One of Colgú’s men had gone forward to drag Intat’s body out of the river and was now bending over it.

  ‘The man still lives, my lord,’ the warrior called. ‘But I doubt for long.’

  Fidelma turned and scrambled down on the mud bank to where the warrior was holding the head and shoulders of Intat above the water. She crouched down beside him and took his head in both her hands.

  ‘Intat!’ she called loudly. ‘Intat!’

  The man’s eyes flickered open but there was no focusing in his dark eyes.

  ‘You are dying, Intat. Do you wish to due in sin?’

  He did not answer.

  ‘Who told you to slaughter the children?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Was it Salbach? Did he tell you?’

  She saw his lips beginning to move and she bent forward to hear the wheezy sound of his breath.

  ‘I … I’ll meet – meet you in … hell!’

  The body suddenly gave a spasmodic jerk and was still. Colgú’s man shrugged and glanced at Fidelma.

  ‘Dead,’ he said laconically.

  Fidelma rose and her brother reached forward a hand to haul her back up the river bank.

  ‘What made you ask about Salbach?’ he said with sharp curiosity. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘Intat was one of Salbach’s chieftains.’

  ‘Was Salbach responsible for this?’

  Fidelma pointed to where Intat’s companion was being held.

  ‘Have your men question him. I am sure that he may incriminate Salbach in this affair. But let us hasten back now to find Cass.’

  Colgú signalled one of his men for a dry cloak and placed it around Fidelma’s shoulders. She was shivering with the cold and damp and not a little with the shock of what had happened to her. Colgú helped her back on her horse, giving orders to his men. Then, when they were all mounted, Colgú and his bodyguard turned to cross the ford of the river, with their prisoner. They joined the track into the forest north of Cuan Dóir. On the way, Fidelma explained as much as she could to her brother. Particularly, she spoke of the slaughter of the innocents by Intat at, so she now fully believed, Salbach’s instigation.

  ‘How does this fit in with Dacán’s murder?’ demanded Fidelma’s brother.

  ‘I have not worked out every detail but, believe me, there is a connection. And I will argue that connection at the High King’s assembly.’

  ‘You know that the assembly will be any day now? In fact, as soon as we arrive at Ros Ailithir. I am told that the High King is already there and Fianamail of Laigin’s ships have been sighted off the coast.’

  ‘Brocc has already warned me,’ Fidelma acknowledged.

  Colgú looked far from happy.

  ‘If you are claiming that Salbach is involved and responsible for Dacán’s killing then we might as well acknowledge that Laigin has a just claim to demand an honour price from this kingdom. Salbach is a chieftain of Muman, answerable to Cashel.’

  ‘I am claiming nothing, as yet, brother,’ Fidelma replied sharply. ‘And it is the truth I seek, whatever that truth is.’

  They halted before the now quiet cabin in the forest. The unconscious form of Intat’s other henchman still lay sprawled among the fragments of the heavy barrel where Fidelma had thrown him. He was only just beginning to groan and stir into consciousness.

  Her heart lurched when she saw Cass’s horse still tethered and standing patiently outside the cabin.

  Two of Colgú’s bodyguard immediately dismounted and, with drawn swords, pushed into the interior of the cabin.

  One of them returned to the doorway after a moment with a steely expression on his face.

  Fidelma knew just what the interpretation of that expression was.

  She slipped from her saddle and hurried inside.

  Cass lay on his back. There was one arrow embedded in his heart and another in his neck. His attackers had not even allowed him the honour of a warrior’s defence. All he had was his sword but they had shot him down from the doorway. Now he lay with his eyes opened, staring unseeingly upwards.

  Fidelma bent down, her face cold and set, and closed the sightless eyes of his once-handsome face.

  ‘He was a good man,’ Colgú said softly as he came up behind her and gazed down.

  Fidelma’s shoulders heaved imperceptibly.

  ‘Good men are so often destroyed by evil,’ she muttered. ‘I wish he had been alive to see this matter resolved.’

  She stood up, both fists clenched tight in her anguish. She turned a sorrowful face to her brother, unable to prevent the tears. An inner voice told her that she had committed her third mistake. Her own vanity had led Cass to his death. She had made three mistakes and now she was allowed no more.

  ‘He died defending me, Colgú,’ she said quietly.

  Her brother inclined his head.

  ‘I think he would have wanted it that way, little sister. So long as his efforts were not wasted, his soul will be satisfied. His death will not cancel your investigation?’ he added anxiously, as the thought occurred to him.

  Fidelma’s lips compressed for a moment.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly, after a moment. ‘Death cancels many things but never the triumph of truth. His soul will soon rest easy for I believe that I am near to reaching that truth which has evaded me for so long.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fidelma perched on the top of the bastion, by the walkway which ran around the exterior wall of the abbey, and gazed thoughtfully down into the inlet before Ros Ailithir. The quiet bay had suddenly become a forest of masts and spars rising from countless ships. Warships and coastal barca had congregated in the sheltered harbour, like a shoal of fish in a spawning ground, bearing dignitaries from the High King’s own royal domains of Meath as well as from Laigin itself. The annalists, who would record the proceedings, had also arrived with the Chief Brehon. There was the ornate vessel which had brought Ultan, Archbishop of Armagh, Chief Apostle of the Faith in the five kingdoms, and his advisors.

  Only the representatives of Muman had arrived overland by horse. And it had been a lucky thing for Fidelma that they had. In her life Fidelma had seen and been associated with many violent deaths. Indeed, death seemed a constant companion to her in her profession. Then death was not too far removed from anyone living close to nature and attuned to the realities of life. It was as natural to die as to be born and yet many still feared death. Even that fear was natural, conceded Fidelma, for children often fear to go into the dark and death was an unknown darkness. In spite of her reflections, it did not alleviate her intense sadness at the death of Cass. He had had much to live for, much to learn. She felt a terrible guilt that it had been her stubborn will that had caused his death. Had she listened to his warning not to go rushing into Salbach’s lair, he might still have been alive.

  She regretted having been so harsh with him in argument and deplored her sin of vanity in that she had prided herself on intellectual superiority. Yet, even now, that small voice in the deep recesses of her mind asked her whether she was sad for Cass or sad for her own mortality. She felt uncomfortable at that insistent little voice. She remembered a line from her Greek lessons, a line from Bacchylides: ‘The hardest of deaths to a mortal, is the death they see ahead of them.’

  She tried not to dwell on the sadness she felt but attempted to bring her thoughts to the immediate matter in hand, seeking comfort with an axiom of her mentor, the old Brehon Morann of Tara: ‘He who is remembered is not dead for to be truly dead you must be forgotten entirely’.

  The sun was lowering now across the distant western mountains and tomorrow, at tierce, the bell would summon those concerned to the abbey church where the High King’s court would be assembled to hear the claims of Laigin concerning the death of Dacan.

  ‘Sister Fidelma?’ She raised her head and found
young Sister Necht standing a little way off, regarding her with a solemn face. ‘I do not want to disturb you.’

  Fidelma indicated the wall beside her.

  ‘Seat yourself. You are not disturbing me. What is it that I can do for you?’

  ‘Firstly, I wanted to tell you that I was sorry to hear of the death of your companion, Cass,’ the novice said as she seated herself awkwardly, her voice made deeper by emotion. ‘He was a good man. I would have liked to have been a warrior like him.’

  Fidelma found herself unable to prevent a gentle smile of amusement on her lips at the concept.

  ‘Surely a vain ambition for a young novice?’

  The girl blushed furiously.

  ‘I meant …’

  ‘No matter,’ Fidelma pacified. ‘Forgive me an indelicate humour. It is but a self-defence for my own sadness. You said there was something else?’

  The young girl hesitated then nodded.

  ‘I came to bring you some news. Your brother’s warriors have captured Salbach and brought him to Ros Ailithir.’

  ‘That is good news, indeed,’ confirmed Fidelma with satisfaction.

  ‘Apparently he was found with his cousin in a secret rendezvous.’

  ‘His cousin? Do you mean with Scandlán, the king of Osraige?’

  Sister Necht nodded emphatically.

  ‘Have they brought Scandlán here as well?’

  ‘He came of his own accord, crying out that it was an outrage that his brother should be so treated.’

  ‘Has Salbach admitted that Intat acted under his command?’

  ‘That I do not know, sister. Abbot Brocc told me to find you and give you this news. I think that Salbach is refusing to answer any questions. But Brocc asks whether you wish to attempt to question Salbach before the hearing tomorrow.’

  Fidelma rose immediately.

  ‘That I do. Where are Brocc and my brother Colgú now?’

  ‘They are in the abbot’s chambers,’ replied Sister Necht.

  ‘Then I shall find my way there.’

  ‘I am looking forward to the assembly tomorrow,’ smiled Necht. ‘Good night, sister.’

  She turned and hurried away. For a moment or so, Fidelma stood watching her ungainly carriage as Necht made her way into the darkness of the abbey corridors. Some thoughts stirred in her mind, a confusion of ideas which she could not work out. Fidelma shrugged and turned in the direction of Brocc’s chambers.

  Fidelma knocked and, in reply to Brocc’s summons, entered. Her brother was seated where Brocc usually sat. Colgú smiled as his sister came in. Brocc was sharing a jug of wine with him.

  ‘Did Sister Necht find you, cousin?’ asked the abbot unnecessarily.

  Fidelma inclined her head in an affirmative.

  ‘She told me that you have Salbach in a cell,’ she replied. ‘That is good.’

  ‘But we also have to put up with his cousin from Osraige crying to the heavens that no such innocence was ever so scandalously defamed.’ Colgú grimaced wryly. ‘Yet there is now no doubt of Salbach’s role in the hideous crimes at Rae na Scríne and the house of Molua. The two companions of Intat were quickly persuaded to place responsibility for their deeds on to others.’

  Fidelma raised her eyebrows in anticipation. Her brother nodded his head in confirmation to her unasked question.

  ‘They admitted that they were paid to do what they did by Intat and they further swear that they were witnesses to Intat receiving his instructions from Salbach.’

  ‘This is so,’ Brocc added with satisfaction. ‘But they disclaim any culpability or knowledge about the murders of Dacan and Eisten. My scriptor has already written out their statements for you to read and we will hold them in the abbey ready to testify before the assembly tomorrow.’

  Fidelma smiled in relief and took the wax tablets which Brocc handed her, glancing though them quickly.

  ‘We have taken a good stride along the path to a resolution. I wonder if Salbach will admit the truth if I present him with this evidence?’

  ‘It is worth a try,’ Colgú agreed.

  ‘Then I shall go and question him at once.’

  Colgú rose and moved to the door.

  ‘Then I’d better come with you.’ He grinned at his younger sister. ‘You need someone to keep an eye on you.’

  Salbach stood defiantly in his cell as Sister Fidelma entered. He did not even bother to acknowledge Colgú, who entered with her and stood just inside the door.

  ‘Ah, I thought you would come, Fidelma of Kildare.’

  His voice was cold and taunting.

  ‘I am glad that I have fulfilled your expectation, Salbach,’ she replied with equal solemnity. ‘The High King’s assembly meets tomorrow.’

  Fidelma took the solitary wooden chair in the cell for herself. Salbach frowned, hesitating at her assured manner, but continued to stand, feet apart, arms folded before him. He said nothing as Fidelma allowed her appraising gaze to wander over him. She felt repulsed by this man who could order the death of children without a qualm.

  ‘Grella must be much besotted by you, Salbach, not to see beyond the mask which you wear for her,’ she finally said.

  Salbach’s expression changed momentarily to one of confusion only to be replaced as quickly by anger and dislike as he returned her scrutiny.

  ‘Are you sure that I wear a mask for her? Are you sure that she is merely intoxicated with the idea of love or can you allow, in your heart, that she can be in love with me and I with her?’

  Fidelma grimaced in distaste.

  ‘Love? The emotion is hard to see in your heart. No, I see before me the suffering of little children. There is no room for an emotion such as love in the heart of the person who could order such suffering.’

  Nevertheless, Fidelma could see some perversity in the situation. Perhaps Salbach did, after all, feel an infatuation akin to love for the attractive librarian of Ros Ailithir.

  ‘Would you hold me responsible for the deeds of Intat?’ Salbach demanded sourly.

  ‘Yes. You might as well know that if you hire men then their loyalty is not to a chieftain but to his money. Intat’s own men bear witness to your leadership.’

  Salbach was stony-faced.

  ‘And if I say they lie?’

  ‘Then you must prove it before the assembly. That may be difficult. As for myself, I know that these men do not lie just as you know they tell the truth.’

  Salbach grinned bitterly.

  ‘Then we will leave it to the decision of the High King’s assembly. It will be my word as chieftain of the Corco Loígde. My word and my honour. And now I must keep silent. We will talk no more.’

  Fidelma stood up and glanced quickly at her brother. She could see that there was disappointment in his eyes.

  ‘I expected no less, Salbach. We will meet in the court when it assembles tomorrow. But before we do, think well on the matter, for you stand condemned by the men you hired. Let me leave you to meditate the words of Socrates: “false words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil”. How infected is your soul, Salbach?’

  Outside, Colgú gave vent to his disappointment.

  ‘He does not admit anything. If he does not, what then? Even if you prove his culpability, Laigin may still hold Cashel as responsible?’

  ‘I hope I shall have the final piece of the puzzle fitted into place by the time of the assembly,’ replied Fidelma. ‘In the meantime, I must get some rest. It will be a long day tomorrow and I have much to consider.’

  It was well after the completa when Fidelma started awake, still fully dressed and lying on her cot in her darkened chamber where she had fallen asleep. She came awake with one thought clear in her mind; it concerned the uncompleted task that had been nagging at her mind for some days now. She rose and quietly left the hostel.

  Fidelma entered the abbey church, which was in total darkness. All the lights had been doused after the last service of the day. She chose not to light a lamp but move
d cautiously through the shadows, using the soft light of the moon, casting its pallid light through the tall windows, to illuminate her way. She moved warily towards the High Altar. Making her way around it, she stared down at the shadowy slab of the tomb of the Blessed Fachtna.

  She was sure that this was the key to the last piece of the mystery which had been nagging at her mind.

  She had been staring at it for several minutes before she realised that something was not quite right. The slab was slightly crooked, at an angle to the back of the altar. She remembered clearly that the slab had originally been at a perfect parallel to the back of the altar.

  She dropped to her knees and pushed a little.

  To her surprise, the slab moved easily as if on a slide. She stopped when it started to squeak in the darkness and cautiously looked around. She could see nothing in the long shadowy interior of the church.

  She moved to the altar and took one of the tall, tallow candles, uttering a swift prayer for forgiveness for her presumption in removing it from God’s holy table. Then she moved back to the slab, lit the candle, and placed it on the floor. On her knees again, she began to push at the slab. It moved again and then halted as if meeting an obstruction.

  She paused frustrated for a moment but then realised that there must be some hidden mechanism.

  She moved to the other side of the slab and began to push it back as though to close it.

  That was when the mechanism was revealed to her, for she saw, out of the corner of her eye, the small statue of the cherub, which stood at the head of the slab, moving on its plinth.

  With a suppressed exclamation, Fidelma moved quickly across to the figurine, seizing it and starting to twist it in the reverse direction.

  It was a lever, a clever means of locomotion, for the more she twisted it the more she felt it pulling some mechanism which in turn propelled the slab sideways away from the entrance to the tomb below. A pair of steps stood revealed by the flickering light of her candle.

  Taking up the light, she began carefully to descend the steps into the tomb.

  They led into a crypt, dank and musty-smelling.

  In all it was no more than twenty feet below the floor of the church. It was a single plain chamber, so far as the light from the candle showed her. It was about thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide. It was built almost as a small scale replica of the large church above, with a raised stone platform at one end which parodied the High Altar. Except, as Fidelma noticed, it was not an altar at all but a stone sarcophagus with a stone slab for a lid. On it were engraved words in Ogham and in the Latin script both in Irish and Latin. It told the reader that Fachtna, son of Mongaig, rested there.