The Monk Who Vanished

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘I was interested, that’s all. Some idea that I had.’

  ‘Well, I can’t recall any animosity between Finguine and myself when I was made Cathal’s heir-elect although …’ he paused, as if he had suddenly remembered something.

  Fidelma raised her head and looked searchingly at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I do recall that there was some quarrel between Finguine and Donndubhain when he was elected my tanist. Finguine was favoured to be tanist but he seems to have accepted the decision. He was undoubtedly vexed at that time. Though I cannot understand it. Finguine is nearly my age and I plan to live a long life, so that the chances of him ever becoming king, even if he were my heir-elect are slim indeed.’ Colgú grinned at his sister: ‘I plan to be King of Muman a long time in spite of conspiracies and assassinations.’

  ‘Then,’ Fidelma observed quietly, ‘I have much work to do, brother, to ensure that this hearing does not go against us.’

  She rejoined Eadulf after the midday meal and they took a stroll around the walls of the palace. The wind was blowing strongly from the south and it was chill. They had put on their woollen cloaks and wrapped themselves against the icy fingers of the southerly winds as they paced the battlements.

  ‘Apparently there is quite a lot of excitement in Cashel,’ Eadulf remarked as they gazed down on the town below. ‘People have been flocking in to attend the hearing from many places. I understand that there is a lot of ill-feeling towards the Uí Fidgente since news of the attack at Imleach and the fate of the yew-tree has been spread about the country.’

  Fidelma looked troubled. ‘Have you ever played tomus?’ she asked.

  Eadulf shook his head. ‘I have never heard of it,’ he assured her.

  ‘It’s a word that means “seeking out”, “weighing matters”. It’s the name we give to a game here in which we have numerous little wooden pieces which can fit together to form a picture.’

  ‘Tomus? No, I’ve never come across it.’

  ‘No matter. It’s just that I feel that I have all the pieces spread out on a table before me. Some of them have already fitted themselves into a pattern. Some are more intriguing and seemed to fit here or to fit there. But what it needs is one more single piece which would suddenly make all the pieces fit and thus the picture will be clearly revealed.’

  ‘Then you feel that you are close to the answer to this mystery?’

  Fidelma sighed deeply. ‘So close … and yet …’

  ‘Fidelma!’

  They turned at the call and were confronted by Finguine, who came up behind them. He was also dressed for the winds that blew across the Rock of Cashel; his thick, dyed woollen cloak was fastened around his neck by his round silver, solar-symbol brooch with its garnet stones.

  ‘I am glad that you made it back safely. Had I known you were leaving Imleach when you did I would have offered you an escort.’

  Fidelma regarded her handsome cousin speculatively, trying to read what lay behind his smiling features.

  ‘I probably would not have made good company with Solam,’ she pointed out.

  He laughed disarmingly. ‘Solam? Had I not escorted that little ferret of a man, then I doubt he would have reached here at all. Have you heard of the anger building up against the Uí Fidgente? The news of the attack at Imleach has been spreading rapidly. The destruction of the sacred yew-tree is something that the people are not going to forgive.’

  ‘So everyone has made up their mind that it was the Uí Fidgente?’ queried Fidelma. ‘I know that Nion, the bó-aire of Imleach, firmly believed it.’

  Finguine frowned. ‘Nion? Yes, he is sure that there is some conspiracy … here in Cashel.’

  ‘Is that why he accompanied you here?’ she asked mildly.

  ‘So you have seen Nion in the palace? Yes, that’s why he accompanied me here, so that he might testify. When he does, those who stand ready to betray Cashel to the Uí Fidgente will fall.’

  Fidelma blinked at the curious inflection in his voice. It was as if Finguine were trying to tell her something by innuendo.

  ‘Do you share Nion’s belief?’

  ‘There is no doubt in anyone’s mind. As the dálaigh of Cashel you will be expected to destroy the Uí Fidgente Prince at the hearing. The eyes of all the nobles of Muman will be upon you. A great restitution will be demanded and that compensation will place the Uí Fidgente for ever in our debt so that they will never rise up again.’

  ‘That sounds dangerously close to seeking punishment rather than retribution,’ observed Fidelma.

  Finguine’s voice was harsh. ‘Of course. Let us plant the seeds of destruction among the Uí Fidgente now. For too long they have been an irritant to the Eóghanacht of Muman. If our children are to live in peace, we must ensure that they are so suppressed by our anger that they will never dare raise their eyes again and cast envious looks against Cashel!’

  ‘It is in the epistle to the Galatians where it is written “whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap”,’ Fidelma remarked.

  ‘Nonsense!’ snapped Finguine. ‘Are you saying that you plead for the Uí Fidgente? Remember your duty is to Cashel. Your duty is to your brother!’

  Fidelma flushed. ‘You do not have to remind me of my duty, Prince of Cnoc Aine,’ she replied; her voice was cold.

  ‘Then remember the writing of Euripides, for I know that you are always fond of quoting the ancients. The gods give each his due at the time allotted. Due will be given to the Uí Fidgente and the allotted time draws near.’

  The Prince of Cnoc Aine wheeled about and stalked away, his temper clearly getting the better of him.

  Eadulf shook his head wonderingly. ‘That is a young man with fire in his head,’ he observed.

  ‘He will plant thorns and expect to gather roses unless he is dissuaded,’ agreed Fidelma seriously.

  The winds had eased a little and they came to a sheltered battlement. Leaning on it, they stared down at the town below them. Although it was growing late, the town seemed to be alive; horses, riders, wagons, and people were thronging the streets.

  ‘Like an audience waiting for the drama to commence,’ Eadulf observed. ‘It’s becoming like a market day.’

  Fidelma did not reply. She knew that Finguine, her cousin, spoke for many people who were now gathering below. Yet if he were so animated in his anger against the Uí Fidgente, what was he doing with Solam? She could not quite accept the idea that he merely escorted Solam to Cashel out of duty. Why were he and Solam riding in the woods searching for Brother Mochta and the Holy Relics? What did they know about them? No, there was something not right there.

  She found her eyes suddenly dwelling on the roof of a warehouse on the far side of the market square. She blinked. The warehouse of Samradán.

  ‘Samradán’s warehouse,’ mused Fidelma. ‘I think part of our answer will be found there.’

  ‘I am not sure that I understand,’ Eadulf replied, following her gaze towards the building.

  ‘No matter. Tonight, after dark, we are going to pay a visit to Samradán’s warehouse. It is from there that this mystery started. I suddenly feel that it is from there that this mystery will be resolved.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Obediently, Eadulf followed Fidelma into the night, leaving the dark walls of the palace by a small side door away from the main gates to avoid the speculative gaze of the sentinels. Darkness had spread like a shroud over the town of Cashel. Clouds, scudding at hilltop level, obscured the moon.

  However, now and then the round white orb of the bright new moon broke through sudden gaps in the clouds, bathing the scene momentarily with its ethereal light, almost as limpid as day. Apart from the twinkling lights from the buildings, they could smell the pungent smoke rising from numerous chimneys, marking the start of the contest to keep the autumnal chill at bay. There seemed little movement in the town. Most of the visitors crowding the streets a few hours before had taken themselves into the inns and taverns but the din of their entertainment
was muted. A dog barked here and there and once or twice there came the scream of enraged cats disputing a territory.

  Fidelma and Eadulf reached the market square without anyone observing them in the evening gloom.

  ‘That’s Samradán’s warehouse.’ Fidelma pointed unnecessarily, for the events of the attempted assassination were still clear in Eadulf’s s memory. The warehouse stood on the far side of the square in complete darkness. It appeared deserted.

  They crossed the square quickly and Fidelma made immediately for the side door of the building which she had noticed before. It was shut and fastened.

  ‘Is it barred from the inside?’ asked Eadulf as Fidelma tried vainly to open it.

  ‘No. I think it is merely locked.’

  She used the word glas. Irish locksmiths were proficient in the manufacturing of locks, keys and even door chains to secure buildings and rooms. Some of them were very intricate. However, when he was a student at Tuaim Brecain, Eadulf had been taught the art of how to unpick a lock by the insertion of a strand of metal into the poll-eochrach or keyhole. He reached into his purse and drew out the small length of wire which he had come to carry and grinned in the darkness.

  ‘Stand aside, then. You need an expert,’ he announced, as he bent to the lock.

  It took him longer than he expected and he sensed Fidelma’s growing impatience. He was just beginning to wish that he had not been so confident when he heard the telltale click that told him that he had been successful.

  He reached for the handle and the door swung inwards. Then he clambered to his feet.

  Without a word, Fidelma went inside. He followed and closed the door carefully behind them.

  The warehouse was in darkness and they could see nothing.

  ‘I have flint and tinder and a stub of candle in my purse,’ Eadulf whispered.

  ‘We dare not use a light in case we are observed from outside,’ returned Fidelma in the stillness. ‘Wait a moment or two until our eyes adjust to this darkness.’

  At the same time the moon broke through the clouds again and the gap seemed large enough to allow the light to bathe through the upper open windows of the warehouse, illuminating it. It was a shell of a building. There was no upper floor. Just the flat roof on which the would-be assassins had found shelter. At the back of the warehouse were bales packed high and stalls in which Samradán obviously stabled his dray horses. Taking up most of the space in the warehouse were the two heavy drays, or wagons, which Fidelma and Eadulf had last seen in the yard of Aona’s inn.

  The coverings on the wagons had been stripped back and she could see that only the tools were still piled in them.

  ‘Samradán appears to have taken the bag of silver and the one of ore,’ Fidelma muttered, looking around.

  ‘That’s to be expected. He has probably taken it to whoever reduces the ore into the silver.’

  Fidelma groaned aloud.

  ‘Are you ill?’ asked Eadulf in alarm.

  ‘Ill with stupidity,’ sighed Fidelma. ‘I had forgotten the process. The ore has to be burnt down in a smith’s forge and the silver extracted.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Last night, when I was looking through the wagon and found the sack of ore, some of it was already reduced to silver! It had already been extracted from the ore. Samradán had the services of a good smith before he set out from Imleach to Cashel.’

  ‘When he left Imleach, he must have driven with the mined ore to a smith’s,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘When he told us that he was proceeding north it was to mislead us.’

  ‘So it seems. But why didn’t the smith reduce all the ore to silver?’

  The moon suddenly went behind a cloud, plunging the warehouse into darkness again.

  Fidelma remained still. Eadulf had prompted a point. She smiled in the darkness. She realised that she already knew the answer. The moonlight bathed the interior once again, seeping through the high windows.

  ‘Have you seen enough?’ Eadulf asked.

  ‘Wait a moment longer,’ instructed Fidelma.

  Fidelma moved around the warehouse, examining the odd box here and there before turning eventually to the stable area. By some bales she paused and abruptly dropped to one knee, reaching forward and tugging at something with her hand.

  ‘Eadulf, come here and help me. I think this is a trapdoor to a cellar. Help me draw the bolt.’

  Eadulf went to join her. Sure enough he could see the wood trap secured by two iron bolts. He moved them carefully back and swung the door open. Below was nothing but blackness. Not even the pale moonlight could penetrate into the gloom below.

  He was about to say something but Fidelma held out a hand to stay him.

  Something was moving in the darkness below.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ Fidelma called softly.

  In the silence they could hear a rustling sound but no one replied.

  ‘We may chance a candle but keep it covered until we see what is below in this cellar,’ Fidelma instructed.

  Eadulf rummaged in his leather purse and found the stub of candle and worked as rapidly as he could with his flint and tinder. It took several moments before he was able to make a spark ignite the tinder before lighting the candle.

  He moved forward, holding the candle carefully, and leant over the edge of the trapdoor.

  There were steps leading down to a small stone-walled room which was no higher than a tall man. It was about eight feet by eight feet in its dimensions. There was a straw palliasse in one corner. There was little else except … staring up at them with wide eyes above a gag, bound hand and foot, were the unmistakable features of Brother Bardán.

  With an exclamation of surprise, Eadulf slipped down the steps followed by Fidelma.

  While he held the candle, Fidelma reached for a knife in her marsupium and cut at the monk’s wrist bonds and then removed his gag. While he breathed deeply, she severed the bonds around his ankles.

  ‘Well now, Brother Bardan, what are you doing here?’ she greeted almost jovially.

  Brother Bardán was still trying to adjust to being unrestricted in his breathing. He coughed and gasped. Finally he found his voice.

  ‘Samradán! That evil …’

  He paused and frowned at Fidelma and Eadulf.

  ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘We have seen Brother Mochta and he has told us about your involvement in his … er, disappearance. I presume that you were on your way through the secret tunnels to see Brother Mochta when you met up with Samradán?’

  Brother Bardan nodded swiftly. ‘I was going to fetch Brother Mochta to bring him to the Prince of Cnoc Aine. He had promised to give us protection.’

  ‘So, you had informed my cousin, Finguine, where Brother Mochta and the Holy Relics were?’

  ‘Not exactly. I saw Finguine at the midnight Angelus and told him that I knew where Brother Mochta was hiding with the Holy Relics and the reason why — because he feared for their safety and his own life.’

  ‘Did you mention that he was hiding in a cave?’

  ‘Not the specific cave. I promised Finguine that I would fetch Brother Mochta and bring him to Finguine at a certain place on the following morning.’

  ‘I saw you speaking with Finguine in the abbey chapel that night,’ Eadulf recalled.

  ‘What exactly was arranged between you?.’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘I agreed that Finguine would protect the Relics and escort Mochta to Cashel.’

  That explained why she had seen Finguine and his men in the woods but why had he been in the company of Solam?

  ‘Did Finguine say anything to you about letting Solam in on this secret?’ she asked.

  ‘Solam? The dálaigh of the Uí Fidgente? I did my best to mislead him.’

  ‘You told him about the crucifix.’

  ‘It was nothing he did not know or could not learn.’

  ‘And you falsely identified the severed forearm as being that of Brother Mochta to mislead us?’

  ‘
I knew you and Solam were searching for Mochta. We needed time to work out what we should do, Mochta and I. Who could we trust? When I explained matters to Finguine, he understood.’

  ‘And you trusted Finguine rather than I?’

  Brother Bardan was self-conscious.

  ‘Do not tax yourself, Bardan. Mochta has told me why you were not forthcoming with me. Silly but I suppose it is understandable. It appears that you trust me now?’

  ‘Samradán and his men said enough to make me believe that we had made a mistake in not trusting you.’

  ‘Samradán! Yes; tell us how you came to be imprisoned here?’ Eadulf demanded.

  ‘To fulfil my promise to Finguine, I rose early and was hastening through the tunnel to Brother Mochta, in order to bring him to the rendezvous with Finguine, when I reached a chamber where there are two passages …’

  ‘We know it,’ interrupted Fidelma. ‘Go on.’

  For a moment, Brother Bardan looked startled. ‘You know it … ?’ He caught himself. His questions could be answered later. ‘Well, when I reached there, I heard a noise in the other tunnel. I remember starting to go towards it. I feared for Mochta’s safety and thought he had been discovered … then nothing. I think I was hit on the head and knocked unconscious because my head is still very sore.’

  ‘You mentioned Samradan?’ pressed Fidelma.

  ‘Yes. I came to, bound and gagged, even as you found me, but I was lying under a tarpaulin in the back of a wagon. It was moving, bumping and rocking along a roadway. I remember hearing Samradán’s voice. I know it well enough from the times he had stayed at the abbey.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Eadulf.

  ‘I slipped back into unconsciousness for a while. Then I came to again and, after some time, the wagoners stopped and I would say it was after noonday. They had stopped for food. That was when I heard them heartily cursing you and the Saxon brother for interfering and altering their plans. Then I heard a strange thing.’

  ‘Strange, in what way?’ encouraged Fidelma when he paused.

  ‘There came the sound of horses, obviously coming up to where Samradan and his men were halted. I heard Samradan being greeted by name by someone who was obviously the leader of the horsemen. I did not recognise the voice. I can tell you that it was not a man of Muman who spoke. It was tinged with northern accents.