The Monk Who Vanished

by Peter Tremayne

  Eadulf frowned and peered over her shoulder.

  ‘Silver? Is this a working silver mine?’

  ‘Someone has certainly been working here - and recently.’ She pointed to a broken tool on the floor. The wooden haft of a pick had recently been smashed. Judging from the newness of the splintered wood it was obvious that the handle had not lain on the floor for more than a few days.

  Eadulf, in the meantime, had picked up a lump of ore and rubbed it. In the lamplight he could see the veins of white, ductile metal.

  ‘Let us move on,’ Fidelma instructed. ‘Perhaps we will learn something up ahead.’

  Almost at once the chamber narrowed back into a passageway which only one person could proceed along at a time. It grew smaller until they were soon having to crouch as they moved along it. After a while they could hear water gushing.

  ‘There is a light up ahead,’ Fidelma called over her shoulder. ‘This time it is daylight. We are nearly at the entrance.’

  They had to go on hands and knees before, finally, they emerged into a sheltered area filled with the sound of rushing water. One side of the enclosure was fully open to the elements. It was not so much a cave but an open area covered by a large rock overhang. This consisted of a great protruding limestone rock. As they rose to their feet they saw a pool being fed by waters which emanated from the rocks, gushing quite strongly.

  ‘An underground well stream,’ Fidelma explained, having to raise her voice above the sound.

  They climbed out of the half cave and looked around the countryside. They seemed to have gone in a semi-circle, for the oratory and its well had been to the north of the abbey and now they had emerged on the south side of the ecclesiastical complex. In fact, they were not far from the abbey’s southern extremity. Fidelma estimated that they were no more than four hundred yards away. The abbey walls were secluded from view by a copse consisting of lines of tall spruce. Only the towers could be seen rising behind them.

  ‘Would Brother Bardan have come all this way when he could easily have left the abbey and walked across a field or two to come to this spot?’ asked Eadulf. ‘And for what? Do you think he has some connection with that silver working?’

  Fidelma did not answer. It was pointless speculating.

  It was Eadulf who caught sight of some object on the ground just beyond the mouth of the opening. He reached for it and held it up.

  It was a torn piece of brown woollen cloth. There were fresh bloodstains on it.

  ‘Do you think this belongs to Samradán’s driver? Could the wolves have brought it here?’

  He suppressed a shudder of revulsion as he conjured the vision of what must have been the fate of the driver’s body. Memory of the encounter with the wolves caused him to feel a chill in his spine. He glanced round quickly to see if he could spot the signs of a wolves’ lair in the cave entrance.

  Fidelma took the piece of woollen cloth from him and examined it. She gave a negative shake of her head. Her expression was grim.

  ‘Samradán’s driver was not wearing clothing like that. That is the cloth usually worn by religious.’

  She gazed round. The ground here was a gentle slope, inclining downward from the cave mouth. The grass was chewed short by grazing animals. Fidelma pointed to the ground.

  ‘The earth here is soft and muddy underneath. There seems to have been a number of horses here recently and there have been heavy wagons as well. Look at the indentations.’

  ‘How can you be sure that it was recently?’ asked Eadulf.

  Fidelma simply stamped her foot into the ground. It took him a moment to realise that it was not done out of temper.

  ‘The indentations would not have remained deep for longer than twenty-four hours and …’ She dropped abruptly to one knee. ‘Look at this patch of blood. Not yet dry. We may presume it to be the same as the blood on the cloth.’

  Eadulf verified her statement with a nod.

  ‘A few hours old, no longer. That rules out it being the blood of Samradán’s driver.’

  ‘Or any of the poor townsfolk who were killed in the raid,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘It looks like some horsemen, probably those driving wagons, picked up the man wearing religious clothing at this point. There are no footprints, so he obviously went off with them. I doubt if he went willingly.’

  ‘Are we talking about Brother Mochta?’

  ‘Or our apothecary friend who insisted that Brother Mochta was already dead.’

  Fidelma examined the ground for some time as if hoping to find the answers to the questions that came into her mind. All she knew for certain was that there were signs of more than one wagon and several horses. Then she realised that the prints of shod horses overlaid the tracks of the wagons. Well-shod horses usually meant warriors for few others would ride in groups and have horses so carefully tended.

  ‘After the wagons were here,’ she said slowly, ‘there must have been a group of horsemen who came to this place.’

  Eadulf rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘So our search has come to a dead end?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Fidelma carefully wrapped the bloodstained cloth and placed it in her marsupium. ‘I think we should go back into the cave and take the other tunnel to see where it leads before we quit.’

  Eadulf was not enthusiastic. ‘I was afraid that you were going to say that. But surely it is a waste of time? Whatever happened must have happened here.’

  Fidelma shot him one of her mischievous grins.

  ‘Going right is not always right. We will try the left-hand path before returning to the abbey,’ she announced firmly before plunging back into the tunnel.

  It did not seem long before they were back in the large damp cave again, with its noisome dripping of water into the central pool. They turned into the second tunnel. This was pretty much like the first one they had entered through the small oratory. Their progress along it was more rapid than the one which had led into the silver workings. Eadulf particularly noticed that the floor was beginning to slope upwards as if they were going up a steep incline. The climb was fairly exhausting and by mutual agreement they paused to rest, squatting on the stony floor which was now dry and covered with dust that seemed to be a combination of shale and ground stone.

  ‘How can we be going upwards for so long?’ mused Eadulf. ‘Surely, we could not have been so deep below the surface?’

  ‘I think this passage is leading into one of the hills surrounding the abbey. There is a tall hill called the Hill of the Cairn nearby. She suddenly snapped her fingers. ‘That’s it. I had forgotten. What was it Brother Tomar said when the abbey was under attack? He had heard of a secret passageway leading to the Hill of the Cairn.’ She frowned in the effort of remembering. ‘That’s it. He had heard the Abbot Ségdae speak of it. He thought it might be a way of allowing the women of the community to escape the attackers.’

  ‘This must be the same tunnel then?’

  ‘It seems so. Unless these hills are riddled with such passageways. That is possible, of course. I have heard of several cave complexes within this countryside, many with underground streams and lakes. That is why there is shale here. Shale is ground shell.’

  ‘Are you saying that we are going into the hill?’ Eadulf appeared worried. He never liked being underground for lengthy periods. ‘We have only a stub of candle to lead us wherever it emerges. If, hopefully, it does emerge into daylight.’

  Fidelma glanced down to the flickering light in her hand. It was true that there was only an inch left. In her enthusiasm to follow the tunnel she had forgotten about the light.

  ‘Then we had better continue on as fast as we can,’ she replied. ‘I’ve noticed that the strange phosphorescent matter no longer exists in this section of the tunnel.’

  The idea of being caught below the ground in total darkness now leant a new speed to their efforts as they continued to move upwards through the tunnel. Its uneven course confirmed Fidelma in her belief that once upon a time this had been an underground stre
am which must have started at the hill top and moved into the valley to feed the wells, most of which no longer existed or were fed by some other source.

  Abruptly the flickering candle blazed brightly for a moment and died. They were plunged into darkness.

  Eadulf shivered and stood still. He hoped that his eyes would grow accustomed to the lack of light. They did not. It remained totally dark.

  ‘Eadulf—’ it was Fidelma’s voice somewhere nearby — ‘stretch out your hand.’

  He did so. He felt something brush it. A moment later he felt Fidelma’s warm clasp.

  ‘Good. We mustn’t let go of each other. I am going to move on slowly ahead.’

  ‘How will you see where to go?’

  ‘I will feel with one hand. I can reach to the top of the roof and feel my way forward.’

  They moved on, inching their way through the blackness.

  ‘Well, one thing is for sure,’ Fidelma’s voice echoed cheerfully.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We will not be able to return this way … not unless we find a lantern at the other end.’

  It was a poor attempt to be cheerful and they soon fell back on silence. Once or twice, Fidelma grazed her arm and Eadulf cracked his toes on a rock. Yet slowly they moved forward, still up the incline, inch by inch. Then Fidelma halted.

  ‘What now?’ demanded Eadulf.

  ‘Don’t you see it?’ she whispered in excitement.

  Eadulf squinted forward and then he realised what it was.

  ‘A light ahead,’ she confirmed. ‘Natural light. But there is something else as well.’

  They moved forward a little, turning round a bend in the passage. The light became clearer; a grim, grey light filtering along the tunnel. And in the silence they could hear the sound of a crackling fire.

  Fidelma put her head close to Eadulf ear in the gloom. He felt her lips brush against his cheek.

  ‘Not a sound,’ she whispered. ‘Someone is in the cave ahead of us.’

  She began to move forward, almost imperceptibly. After a while, as the light grew stronger and brighter, she halted and disengaged her hand from his. There was no longer any need for they could see each other plainly. In front of them stretched a fair-sized cave with an entrance which seemed blocked by a wooden barrier, over the top of which was an expanse of azure sky. Rays of sunlight filled the cave.

  The cave was large and dry except for a small trickling stream that ran to one side of it. A fire was crackling in the centre. There were various items strewn around the cave. Near the fire, stretched on a palliasse, lay the figure of an elderly, rotund man. He was clad in the habit of a religieux. His left arm was bandaged and so was his left foot. A staff, laying near to his hand, obviously served him as a crutch. There was no one else in the cave.

  Eadulf and Fidelma stared at the figure in growing amazement.

  It was Eadulf who moved into the cave first, causing the figure to start, half raise himself on an elbow, and reach for his staff as if he would defend himself. He paused as his eyes took in Eadulf’s religious clothing.

  ‘Who are you?’ he cried, his voice cracking with fear.

  Eadulf halted with an expression of utter amazement on his features.

  Fidelma pushed by Eadulf and fought to find her voice. ‘Have no fear, Brother Mochta. I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

  The rotund religieux visibly relaxed and, with a sigh, fell back on his palliasse.

  Eadulf continued to stare at the recumbent form in fearful astonishment. ‘But you are dead!’ he blurted.

  The round-faced man raised himself again on one elbow. Although there was pain on his face, he was clearly amused.

  ‘I would disagree with you, Brother Saxon,’ he replied. His tone was droll. ‘But if you can prove it, I will accept your judgement. God’s truth, I feel near enough to death not to argue.’

  Eadulf moved forward and stared down, examining the man’s features carefully.

  It was true. There could be no doubt about it. The man lying before him, perched on one elbow, grinning up at him, was the same moon-faced man whom he had last seen dead in the mortuary of Cashel. It was the same man, even to the tattoo of the bird which Eadulf now identified on the injured man’s left forearm.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fidelma seated herself by the man on the palliasse. She did not seem unduly surprised at the appearance of the moon-faced religieux who had, apparently, last been seen by them dead in the apothecary of Brother Conchobar of Cashel.

  ‘How bad are your wounds, Brother Mochta?’ she inquired with some solicitude.

  ‘Painful still but I am told they will heal,’ replied the man.

  ‘Told by Brother Bardán, of course?’

  The man grimaced in an affirmative gesture.

  Eadulf could not take his eyes from the man whose features did not deviate in one jot from the dead assassin, except … Eadulf could not quite place it. There was something else, of course. This man still wore the Irish tonsure of St John, his forehead shaved back to a line from ear to ear. But there was another indefinable difference.

  ‘I presume that Brother Bardan has been treating your injuries while you have been hiding here? You trusted no one?’

  ‘It is hard to trust anyone, especially if you have been betrayed by someone whom you have known all your life; flesh and blood that you have grown up with. Once betrayed by your own kin, how can you trust anyone else?’

  Fidelma motioned to Eadulf to sit down. Reluctantly, Eadulf did so, still unable to take his eyes from the portly monk.

  ‘You are referring to your twin brother, of course?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  Eadulf surprise became apparent on his features. ‘His twin brother?’ He echoed stupidly.

  Brother Mochta nodded sadly. ‘My twin brother! You do not have to mince words with me, Sister. Brother Bardan told me how he was killed in Cashel. Yes, he was my twin brother, Baoill.’

  ‘I had begun to suspect as much,’ Fidelma said with little satisfaction in her voice. ‘One person cannot be in two places nor wear two distinctive tonsures. The answer to that conundrum could only be that there must be two people. How can two people look so exactly alike? It can only be that they are related, siblings, no less. And, even further, it can only be that they are twins.’

  Brother Mochta nodded morosely. ‘Identical twins,’ he agreed. ‘How did you find me here? I suppose Bardan told you where I was? We talked about it yesterday, after the attack. He was beginning to be confident that we could trust you. But then he saw you being friendly with the Uí Fidgente lawyer, Solam. Solam has been keen to discover my whereabouts.’

  ‘Is that when Bardán identified some remains as being you?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘I did not like that idea but Bardan felt it was the only way to stop Solam continuing to search for me. To buy us some time to discuss what best we should do.’

  ‘Perhaps you had better tell us in your own words what happened to bring you to this state,’ she invited.

  Brother Mochta looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘I cannot answer that,’ replied Fidelma. ‘All I can tell you is that I am Colgú’s sister and my loyalty is to Muman. I am a dálaigh and took an oath to uphold the law above all things. If that is not sufficient for you to trust me, then I can add nothing further.’

  Brother Mochta compressed his lips for a moment in silence as if struggling to make up his mind.

  ‘How much of the story do you know?’ he finally asked. Fidelma shrugged. ‘Little enough. I know that you faked your disappearance, taking most of the Holy Relics with you. I presumed that your brother managed to steal one of the items, Ailbe’s crucifix, in which struggle you probably received your injury. Not trusting anyone, you hid here and Brother Bardan kept you supplied with food and medicine. Where is he now, by the way?’

  Brother Mochta was puzzled.

  ‘Brother Bardan? I have not seen him since last ni
ght? Didn’t he send you here?’

  Fidelma leant forward, eyes narrowed. There was an edge to her voice.

  ‘Are you saying that he has not been here at all this morning?’

  The injured monk shook his head. ‘I am expecting him sometime for we decided last night that our best course of action was to seek protection, especially after the attack.’

  ‘What manner of protection?’

  ‘Bardán decided to go to the Prince of Cnoc Aine and tell him the story. We knew that Finguine was a friend to the abbey and a loyal cousin to the King. We agreed to lay the matter before him and Finguine could then make the decision as to whether to tell you. When you came, just now, I thought that Finguine or Bardán had sent you …’ He broke off, looking disturbed. ‘How did you find me?’ he insisted.

  ‘With luck,’ muttered Eadulf, still perplexed by the whole matter.

  ‘Why didn’t you confide in me and tell me that you were safe as soon as I came to the abbey?’ demanded Fidelma, annoyed that so much time had been lost by the subterfuge.

  Brother Mochta gave a tight smile. There was some pain in it and he eased his left leg carefully to take some pressure from his wound.

  ‘We do not know you to trust you, Sister. We did not know who were our friends and who were our enemies.’

  ‘I am the King of Cashel’s sister,’ Fidelma repeated.

  ‘But a sister who has been a long time away from the kingdom and

  …’ Brother Mochta glanced towards Eadulf. ‘There is also the matter of keeping company with a cleric of the Roman order.’

  Eadulf flushed angrily. ‘Is that a disqualification in this land?’

  ‘It is a fact that those who argue for the Rule of Rome are not always friends to those of us who follow the ways of our fathers.’

  ‘Do you or Bardán really suspect that I could betray my brother and this kingdom?’ interrupted Fidelma.

  ‘Blood is no cement for unity of purpose,’ replied Mochta calmly. ‘I have learnt that the hard way.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right. Why not trust Abbot Ségdae who would have been the natural support to turn to in time of crisis!’