The Monk Who Vanished

by Peter Tremayne

  They had been proceeding along the main street to the far end of the township. There was a complex of small buildings standing apart from the others. Fidelma paused.

  ‘This looks like Cred’s tavern.’ She gazed back down the street. ‘Well, it is sufficiently out of the way here for the archer to have stayed without the smith necessarily knowing if he came from here or not.’

  ‘You mean that you suspected the bó-aire of lying?’

  ‘Not really,’ Fidelma replied. ‘But it is wise to be as precise as possible and double-check all the facts. Let us go in and speak with this Cred who seems so disapproved of in this community.’

  Fidelma started forward but Eadulf held her back a moment, pointing up at the tavern sign. It was a muscular smith, swinging his hammer on an anvil.

  ‘Isn’t that a coincidence?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘Creidne Cred was the divine artificer of the ancient gods of Ireland who worked in bronze, brass and gold. He was the one who made hilts for swords, rivets for spears and bosses and rims for shields during the war between the pagan gods and their enemies.’

  ‘Then one more thing, before we pass in. I heard both the abbot and the bó-aire say that this place was not licensed. What does that mean?’

  ‘It would appear to be a tavern which also brews its own ales but it is not a lawful one, what we call dligtech.’

  ‘Then surely the bó-aire, as the local law officer, can close it down?’

  Fidelma shook her head with a smile. ‘It does not mean that this tavern is contrary to law but merely that the law takes no cognisance of it. What this means is, if a question of dispute arises, the person going into an unlawful tavern must be made aware of it for he has no legal grounds for taking action.’

  ‘I am not sure that I understand,’ replied Eadulf.

  ‘A lawful tavern keeper must pass three strict tests regarding the quality of the drink he serves. If he serves bad ale he can be challenged under law. In an unlawful house, if a person complains about the quality of the ale, then he cannot demand recompense under the law. Now, enough, let’s find this Cred.’

  She passed into the tavern. The room seemed deserted except for two men in a corner drinking ale. They were roughly dressed, bearded men, who had the appearance of labourers. They glanced at Fidelma and Eadulf indifferently and carried on with their drinking and their soft-toned conversation.

  There was a movement behind a curtained doorway which caused them to turn and the curtain swung back to reveal a woman of ample proportions. She had obviously seen better days. She came forward eagerly but her face fell when she saw the nature of their apparel.

  ‘The abbey has better accommodation for the religious,’ she began uncompromisingly. ‘You will find this place a little too crude for the likes of the well bred and pious people.’

  One of the two men chuckled wheezily in appreciation at what he considered was the woman’s wit.

  ‘We do not seek accommodation,’ Eadulf replied immediately and with a stern voice. ‘We seek some information.’

  The woman sniffed and folded her flabby arms across her generous bosom. ‘Why seek information here?’

  ‘Because we believe that you can supply it,’ replied Eadulf uncompromisingly.

  ‘Information comes expensive, especially to a foreign cleric,’ the woman replied, hearing Eadulf’s accent. Her eyes examined him speculatively as if wondering how much he carried with him.

  ‘Then you will provide the information to me,’ Fidelma said quietly.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed as they swung round on her.

  Fidelma and Eadulf were aware that the two men had stopped their muttered conversation over their drinks and had turned to examine them without disguising the curiosity on their faces.

  ‘Perhaps I do not want to provide any information, even if I have it.’ The woman was implacable.

  ‘Perhaps,’ smiled Fidelma gently. ‘But withholding evidence from a dálaigh can be a serious matter.’

  The woman’s eyes narrowed further. The corners of her mouth turned down. There was a tension in the room and the two men returned to their drinks but from their attitudes they remained acutely aware of the conversation of their hostess.

  ‘Where is the dálaigh who demands evidence of me?’ sneered the buxom woman.

  ‘I am here,’ Fidelma announced softly. ‘And I presume that you are Cred, the owner of this unlicensed inn?’

  The woman let her arms drop to her side. Various expressions chased one another across her face as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether Fidelma was in earnest or not.

  The woman flushed in annoyance. ‘I am the tavern keeper, Cred. I keep a good, respectable inn, licensed or not.’

  ‘That is a matter between you and your bó-aire. I need information. About a week ago there was a man passing through this township. He had the appearance of a professional archer and could not be mistaken for anything else. He rode a chestnut mare with a loose shoe and so had business at the smith’s forge.’

  Fidelma was aware that the two men had not resumed their conversation and were listening intently to what she was saying. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a third man enter the room from the back of the inn. She did not turn to examine him closely because she was too intent on gazing directly into the face of the hostess of the inn so that she could gauge her reactions. Yet she was aware that the third man had halted and was staring across the room towards them.

  The woman, Cred, still stared defiantly back at Fidelma. ‘How do I know that you are a dálaigh?’ she countered. ‘I do not have to answer questions from any slip of a girl — religieuse or not.’

  Fidelma reached under her habit and took out a cross on a golden chain. Its symbolism was well known throughout Muman. The Order of the Golden Chain was a venerable Muman nobiliary fraternity that had sprung from membership of the ancient elite warrior guards of the Kings of Cashel. The honour was in the personal presentation of the Eóghanacht kings. Fidelma’s brother had bestowed the honour on her because of her services to the kingdom. Cred’s eyes bulged a little as she recognised it.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, but in gentler, more complaisant tones.

  ‘I am …’ she began.

  ‘Fidelma of Cashel!’ The words came from the third man in a hushed breath.

  The fat woman’s jaw sagged.

  Fidelma allowed herself to glance at the man. He was dressed as the other two men, in rough working clothes. His weatherbeaten features spoke of an outdoor life. He jerked his head in a curious obeisance towards her.

  ‘I am from Cashel, too, lady. I work for …’

  Fidelma’s thoughts had moved rapidly. ‘For Samradan the merchant? You three men are his drivers?’

  The man was nodding eagerly. ‘That is so, lady.’ He turned to the hostess and added quickly: ‘Fidelma of Cashel is not only a dálaigh but sister of the King.’

  Cred reluctantly bowed her head. ‘Forgive me, lady. I thought …’

  ‘You thought that you would help me by answering my questions,’ Fidelma cut in sharply, with a dismissive nod towards the man who had identified her. He moved to join his companions in their hurried, whispered conversation, casting surreptitious glances in her direction.

  ‘I … yes … Yes. The Saigteóir, we called him. He stayed two or three nights a week ago. A tall man with fair hair. He spoke with a terse accent and invited no questions. He carried a long bow and no other weapon.’

  The woman’s words came out in a rush.

  ‘I see. Did you gather anything else about him?’

  Cred shook her head almost violently. ‘As I say, he was a man not given to talk,’ she said. ‘His words were chosen with care and no more than would convey his wants which were as few as his words.’

  ‘He had business at the smith’s?’

  ‘Even as you said. His horse had a loose shoe and I think he bought arrows from the smith as well, for when he arrived he had few arrows
in his quiver but when he left here his quiver was full.’

  ‘You have a keen eye, Cred,’ Fidelma commented.

  ‘One has to have a keen eye in this business, lady. Guests can come and go leaving the innkeeper without payment. One has to be careful.’

  ‘He paid his dues?’

  ‘Oh yes. He seemed to have enough money. In fact, he had plenty of gold and silver coins with him.’

  ‘Did he visit anywhere else? The abbey for example?’ queried Eadulf.

  The woman grunted wheezily. It was meant as a chuckle. ‘He was not the type to haunt abbeys or churches. No. He had the look of death on him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘The look of death? Was he ill?’

  Cred looked at him as if he were a simpleton. ‘Some go to battle because there is no other choice,’ she deigned to explain. ‘Others go and find they have an affinity for death and destruction and so roam the country selling their warrior skills to whoever will pay them to pursue the one thing they have grown to like - the inflicting of death and destruction on others. They become death itself. The Saigteóir had the pale hue of death on him. He was without emotion, without a soul.’

  To their surprise the fat innkeeper genuflected.

  ‘I feel that in such men, their souls are already dead and they follow the blood and carnage merely waiting for their time to come.’

  ‘So he did not spend any time at the abbey?’ insisted Eadulf. ‘If not there, where else? If he were here two or three days, where else? This town is not so large that he would not be noticed.’

  ‘He did not spend much time in the town,’ the woman replied.

  ‘You sound certain,’ Fidelma observed.

  ‘Certain for the very reason that you have already stated. He ate here in the evening and slept here at night. But he left just after dawn and did not come back until the late afternoon. One of my neighbours saw him riding in the hills just to the south after his horse had been re-shod.’

  ‘What’s there? A farm? A tavern?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Nothing. Perhaps he was merely hunting.’

  ‘And in the days he was here he never spoke his name or mentioned anything about himself?’

  ‘And none dared asked him,’ confirmed the woman.

  Fidelma suppressed a sigh of frustration that she had learnt so little. ‘I am obliged to you, Cred.’

  ‘Has he broken the law? What has he done?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Innkeepers like a fine tale to tell of those who have slept under their roofs.’

  Fidelma regarded her for a moment and then said quietly: ‘He has achieved what you thought he was waiting to achieve.’

  The innkeeper looked puzzled.

  It was Eadulf who explained in a quiet tone. ‘He has achieved the death which you said that he was waiting for.’

  Fidelma turned to the three drivers who were now trying to avoid her gaze. ‘A pleasant journey to you on the road to the land of the Arada Cliach.’

  The man who had identified her frowned. ‘What makes you think we are going there, lady?’

  ‘Samradan told me.’

  The three exchanged glances and then their spokesman forced a nervous smile. ‘Just so, lady. A pleasant journey to you.’

  They left the inn of the ‘artificer of the gods’ and walked slowly back down the street in the direction of the abbey.

  ‘Well,’ observed Eadulf, ‘we have not learnt anything of significance about this archer. In fact, we do not appear to have learnt anything of significance at all.’

  He was surprised when Fidelma reached out a hand to his elbow and propelled him to a corner of a building away from the main road.

  ‘On the contrary, I think we have learnt a great deal,’ she replied after she had glanced up the street behind them. ‘We will wait here a moment.’

  Eadulf was astonished at her behaviour.

  Fidelma took pity on him. ‘We have learnt that he was a professional archer but not of the warrior caste. So he was no noble. We have learnt he had had his horse shod in Clan Brasil. We have learnt where he obtained his arrows. We have learnt that he had a chestnut mare. We have learnt that he seemed to have plenty of money. We have learnt that he spent a few days riding in the hills south of here.’

  Eadulf mentally ticked off the points. ‘But that is little enough. We more or less knew this much when we left Cashel?’

  Fidelma raised her eyes to the heavens and gestured as if in despair. ‘Think, Eadulf! There are three important things that we have learnt about this archer. Two of those things raise important questions which we must resolve.’

  ‘You mean, where did he go to in the southern hills?’

  ‘That stands investigation, yes. But what else have we learnt?’

  Eadulf hit his forehead with his clenched fist. ‘Of course! Where is his chestnut mare? He was without a horse when he was killed.’

  Fidelma smiled and suppressed an exasperated sigh. ‘You are the most inconsistent person I know. Sometimes you point to the most obvious point that we have all overlooked. Other times you overlook the obvious which everyone else has accepted. You really are frustrating, Eadulf. Yes, I mean the matter of the archer’s mare. Where is it? It seems that there was another accomplice waiting with the horses of both assassins. This accomplice rode off with the horses to hide them once he knew that the archer and his friend had been killed by Gionga.’

  ‘Which means there is still a third assassin in Cashel?’

  ‘Perhaps more. How many are in this plot? And what of the other point we have learnt?’ pressed Fidelma.

  Eadulf thought hard but could not identify any other point. Fidelma was patient.

  ‘The archer and his friend had hardly any money on them when they were killed. Cred, the innkeeper, tells us that the archer was not lacking in money. Where did he keep it?’ she suggested at last.

  Eadulf pursed his lips, annoyed with himself for missing the obvious. ‘There is another question,’ he said. ‘Why are we waiting here?’

  Fidelma smiled mysteriously and put her head around the corner of the building again to glance up the street. ‘The answer is on its way.’

  At that moment, one of the drivers from Cred’s tavern, the one from Cashel who had recognised her, came hurrying along the street, gazing about him as if looking for something.

  ‘A person can signal with his eyes as well as his hands and mouth,’ Fidelma muttered to Eadulf.

  The driver came abreast of them and Fidelma coughed. He gave a startled glance in their direction. Then, without acknowledging them, he dropped to one knee and began to fiddle with his boot.

  ‘Pretend that you are not talking with me,’ he whispered sibilantly, his eyes on his boot. ‘There are eyes and ears everywhere.’

  ‘What do you want with us,’ asked Fidelma, turning her head as if she were still talking to Eadulf.

  ‘I cannot discuss that here. Do you know the Well at Gurteen, the little tilled field?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is less than a mile north-east from this point. You proceed along a pathway towards the yew woods and come to a field bordered by a drystone wall. The well is just beyond the wall. You cannot miss it.’

  ‘We can find it.’

  ‘Be there at dusk and we shall speak. Tell no one about this meeting. It is dangerous for all of us.’

  Then the driver rose and ambled off as if he had simply been adjusting his boot.

  Eadulf exchanged a glance with Fidelma.

  ‘A trap?’ suggested Eadulf.

  ‘But why would the driver want to lure us into a trap?’

  ‘He and his friends might think we know more than we actually do,’ Eadulf suggested.

  Fidelma considered this for a moment, head to one side, pondering. ‘No, I don’t think so. His fear of being seen talking with us was genuine enough.’

  ‘Well, I think it is dangerous to go … and at dusk no less. It is a trap for the fox.’

  Fidelma grinned. ‘The fo
x never found a better messenger than myself,’ she replied.

  Eadulf groaned in impatience at another of Fidelma’s axioms.

  ‘Don’t you have another proverb in this land - do not show your teeth until you can bite?’ he demanded sarcastically.

  Fidelma chuckled. ‘Well said, Eadulf. You are learning. But tonight at dusk we shall be at the Well at Gurteen.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Dusk was approaching when Fidelma and Eadulf left the abbey. Making sure that they were not observed, they began to follow the directions that Samradan’s driver had given them to the Well of Gurteen. As the day had been warm and the approaching night was clearly going to be cold, there was a faint ground mist already beginning to rise from the fields around them. There was no movement for there was no wind, not even an evening breeze to rustle the trees or bushes.

  They had decided to walk from the abbey rather than ride for Fidelma believed it would draw less attention to their excursion. Eadulf had brought a stout staff with him, a discarded pilgrim’s staff which he had found in the abbey. It was wise to have some means of protection when being late abroad. At night wolf packs roamed the countryside and it was not unknown for them to attack lonely wayfarers. In some areas they were so numerous, dwelling in the woods and fastness that, if pressed by hunger, they could present a formidable danger to whole communities let alone those who dwelt on the isolated farmsteads.

  Even as they walked along the track, a lonely howl rent the air not too far away. Eadulf clenched his staff more tightly and glanced quickly in the direction of the wailing, siren-like sound.

  ‘Now I understand why the Irish word for a collection of wolves is glademain,’ he observed, his eyes anxious. The word was derived from glaid meaning ‘cry’; hence, a cry of wolves.

  ‘They have a strange, bewitching call,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘Sometimes people have been so beguiled by it as to forget the dangers. They are the only really dangerous animal in the country. Many of the nobles have annual hunts to keep down their numbers.’

  A dog began to bark in answer to the howling of the wolf.

  ‘Now that’s another danger,’ Fidelma observed. ‘It is custom and law that watch-dogs on farms are tied up early in the morning but set free at cow-stalling to protect the farmsteads. Sometimes they can be just as vicious in their attack as that “son of the country” you hear calling.’