He blinked his eyes in the morning light. It was so bright. He groaned, for he realised he was frozen. It was a moment before he understood what was causing the brightness. He lay in a great expanse of snow. Even the trees bent their branches under its weight. He felt weak and chill and groaned again. He was trying to move when there came the sound of a woman’s nervous cry.
‘I think he is alive, Reverend Mother.’
Esumaro blinked again and tried to focus his eyes. It was painful.
He realised that a young woman was bending over him. Under a heavy fur cloak, she wore the brown woollen robes of a religieuse with a metal cross hung from a leather thong round her neck.
A few yards away six other women, similarly clad, were standing watching with nervous expressions. They were mostly young.
The one who stood by him turned and called again more cheerfully: ‘He is alive.’
Esumaro tried to ease himself up on one elbow. One of the watchers, a tall, handsome woman of middle age, came to her young companion’s side and stood looking down. She wore a more ornate cross. She smiled and bent down.
‘We thought you were dead,’ she said simply. ‘Are you ill? What has
Esumaro strained as he tried to follow. Her speech was quick and accented.
‘I… I am cold,’ he managed to say.
The woman frowned.
‘Your speech is strange. You are not from this land?’
‘I am… am of Gaul, lady,’ he stammered.
‘You are far from Gaul. You seem to be wearing the clothing of a seaman.’
‘I am…’ Esumaro clenched his jaw suddenly. He realised that everyone in this land was a potential enemy until they proved otherwise.
‘What are you doing here?’ continued the woman. ‘You could freeze to death in this winter snow.’
‘I was walking when I was overcome with fatigue.’
‘Walking?’ The woman looked at his feet with an inquisitive smile.
Esumaro glanced down and saw that he was wearing only one of his seaman’s boots. He had no memory of losing the other. He was unsure whether it was lost during his escape from the wreck or later.
He asked quickly: ‘What are you doing here, lady? Who are you?’
‘I am the Abbess Faife from the abbey of Ard Fhearta. We are all from Ard Fhearta. We are journeying on the annual pilgrimage to the oratory of the founder of our abbey on Breanainn’s mount.’
Esumaro regarded her with some suspicion.
‘But Ard Fhearta is to the north across these mountains. I have seen Breanainn’s mount from the sea and that also lies on the north side of this peninsula. This is the southern shore.’
Abbess Faife frowned but replied easily: ‘You seem well acquainted with this area for a Gaulish sailor, for that is what I presume you are. But you seem distrustful, my friend. We have spent two nights at the abbey of Colman, where we had business to conduct. Having passed two days there, we are now on our journey westward to Breanainn’s mount. Why are you so suspicious?’
Esumaro felt slightly reassured.
‘I am sorry, lady,’ he said, deflecting her question. ‘I am cold and hungry and very fatigued. I beg your pardon for my churlish questions. Is there some dry shelter nearby where I can rest?’
‘There is a shelter a short distance behind us. We can spare some food
The Abbess Faife bent forward to help him as Esumaro rose painfully to his feet. He staggered for a moment and then managed to regain his balance. The young woman who stood by him came forward to help.
‘And in what direction is the abbey of Colman?’ he grunted.
‘Not far along there to the east, but you have to walk round the bay.’ She indicated the direction by inclining her head. ‘You cannot walk far in your condition.’
‘Thank you. I will rest awhile and then make my way to the abbey.’
‘First you must get warm, put on some dry clothes and have some food. Come, let us get you to the shelter and you may change out of those sodden garments.’
Esumaro looked alarmed and the religieuse smiled.
‘Have no fear. We are taking a bundle of clothing and shoes to Brother Maidiu who keeps the oratory on Breanainn’s mount. He is about your size, and if you have no objection to wearing the robes of a religieux for a while, his robes will fit you exactly.’
Abbess Faife turned and together with her younger companion helped Esumaro stumble a short distance across the snow. It was not far before he saw they were leading him to a small, conical, beehive-shaped hut of stone. He remembered that it was what people in these parts called a coirceogach, a very ancient stone dwelling. It stood back among the trees, hardly noticeable from the main track on which they had found him. Only the disturbed snow showed that people had used it recently. As they climbed towards it, he saw a wisp of smoke rising from it. Abbess Faife had been right.
There was soon a fire blazing. By its warmth he stripped off his sodden remnants of clothing and was given dry woollen robes from some of the bundles carried by the young Sisters of the Faith. The abbess had been correct when she had judged that the robes would fit him. They were warm enough and he did not complain. By the time he had changed, the young woman who had helped him was pressing on him a drink of some distilled spirit, and there was bread, cheese and cold meat laid out for him. Esumaro received them with expressions of gratitude but his eyelids were dropping and he could not hold back the wave of sleep engulfing him.
It was one of those short sleeps that, as captain, he had grown used to taking on board ship. It was deep but lasted only an hour before he raised his head, blinking and feeling refreshed. To his surprise, the group of religieuse were still seated by the fire.
The young woman who had discovered him was by his side and smiled softly.
‘We thought it better to remain until you awoke,’ she explained. ‘There are wolves in the woods along here.’
The abbess moved over to them as he rubbed his eyes and sat up.
‘I am rested,’ he assured her before she had a chance to ask the question already forming on her lips.
‘Are you sure that you will be all right now?’ she asked. ‘Rest a while further if you must, but do not fall asleep unless you can be sure of waking immediately. Wolves abide in these forests, as Sister Easdan has explained. But your journey to the abbey will be easy now. As for us, we must press on to the west, otherwise we will not reach our destination before sundown.’
‘I am very well now,’ Esumaro asserted solemnly. ‘I am invigorated already and can never repay you for your kindness. Perhaps I will be able to pick up a Gaulish ship at the abbey of Colman?’
Abbess Faife shrugged.
‘We saw no large ships when we were there and the steward of the abbey told us it has been several weeks since any arrived. It seemed to worry him. The abbey relies on the sea trade,’ she added, not realising that Esumaro knew that fact well.
He was about to ask another question when the sound of galloping horses came to his ears. He joined the abbess to peer from the doorway of the stone hut and saw several horsemen riding swiftly along the track just below them. One of the men gave a sudden cry, pointing up towards them. The company changed direction and within a moment a dozen or so rough-looking warriors had surrounded them, their horses stamping and giving out great smoky wreaths of hot breath. The warriors carried their swords in their hands. Esumaro saw that in their midst was a shorter figure swathed from head to foot in grey robes so that no part of the body was visible. The cowl was drawn well down over the head. The figure was slight and the shoulders were rounded.
The Abbess Faife went forward and stood facing them with a frown.
‘What do you seek here?’ she demanded authoritatively.
The leading horseman, a coarse-looking man with a rough black beard, and a scar across his forehead, chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound.
‘Why, we seek you and your religious brood, woman. Our master has need of you. So you are to come with us
.’
Esumaro felt himself go cold. He recognised the voice as that of the leader of the wreckers from whom he had escaped. What was his name? Olcan!
‘We serve only one master, that is the Christ, Jesus,’ the abbess was replying. ‘We are on our way to-’
‘I know where you thought you were going, woman,’ snapped the man. ‘But I know where it is that you are now destined for. You will soon serve another master.’ He spoke as if in a dark humour. ‘Come, we have no time to waste.’
The abbess stood resolutely.
‘I am the Abbess Faife of Ard Fhearta. Put up your swords and depart in peace. For we intend to go on to Breanainn’s mount and-’
Esumaro noticed that the black-bearded leader had glanced in the direction of the small grey-robed figure. There was an almost imperceptible movement of the cowled head.
But it happened without warning. It happened quickly.
The bearded leader simply leant forward from his saddle and thrust his sword swiftly into Abbess Faife’s heart.
She was dead before she began sinking to the ground with an expression akin to surprise. As she fell back, the leader of the warriors turned to the abbess’s shocked companions.
‘I presume that no one else wants to argue with me? Gather your bundles and walk ahead of us or you will remain here with your abbess
… and join her in the Otherworld.’
Any cries of distress were silenced by momentary disbelief at what had happened.
Then the young religieuse who had first discovered Esumaro threw herself on her knees by the body of the slain abbess.
‘You have killed her!’ she sobbed, seeking in vain for a pulse. ‘Why did you kill her? What kind of brute are you? Who are you?’
The man raised his sword again in a threatening manner.
‘You ask too many questions, woman. Do you wish to remain here with her?’
Esumaro moved quickly forward, holding up a hand as if to ward off
‘Now is not the time to protest!’ he whispered quickly. ‘Not if you want to live.’
She paused for a fraction, glancing at the threatening warrior, turned her eyes to Esumaro and then nodded quickly, regaining her composure with just a tightening of the mouth to show the effort it took. As she rose, she reached out one hand as if to touch the breast of the abbess. Only Esumaro saw her fingers clutch at the thong that held the abbess’s cross and wrench at it quickly. It came apart in her hold. She turned as if she was allowing Esumaro to help her away from the body and pressed the cross into his hands.
‘You had better become one of us, until we find out what this means,’ she muttered under her breath. Esumaro was surprised at the girl’s quick thinking.
He took the cross. As his fingers closed over it, the voice of the warrior’s leader snapped at him.
‘You! That man there!’
Esumaro turned to him with narrowed eyes.
‘Who are you?’ The leader was looking suspiciously at him. ‘You are not of the community of Ard Fhearta. I had not heard that a Brother of the Faith was accompanying this band.’
Esumaro thought rapidly, glancing towards the still silent figure hidden in the grey robes.
‘Why… I am… Brother Maros, accompanying these Sisters in the Faith to Breanainn’s mount for the vigil.’
‘Yet you do not wear the symbol of the Faith on your robes?’
Esumaro hesitated a moment. Then he held up the crucifix the quick-thinking young religieuse had passed to him.
‘I was adjusting it when you and your men rode down on us. Do I have your permission to finish replacing it round my neck?’
‘You are not from these parts?’ The warrior’s voice was suspicious when he heard Esumaro’s accent.
‘We of the Faith have to travel far and wide in search of souls to save,’ intoned Esumaro with what he hoped was the correct tone of reverence.
The young woman, defiance on her features, came to his help.
‘Brother Maros joined us at the abbey of Colman. He is a noted scholar from Gaul.’
The warrior frowned suspiciously. Again he seemed to glance for instruction to the grey-robed figure.
‘From Gaul? How did you get to the abbey of Colman? There have been no ships reaching there in many months.’
‘I came to the port of Ard Mor in the south and have spent some months travelling through your country. How else would I speak your language so well?’
The warrior thought for a moment, glanced again at the small silent figure and shrugged. He seemed to see logic in the reply but was not completely satisfied.
‘Yet you do not wear a tonsure. All religious wear tonsures.’
It was the young woman who answered for him.
‘Brother Maros is a follower of the Blessed Budoc of Laurea, a learned scholar in his own land. His followers do not wear a tonsure.’
The warrior’s eyes narrowed at her intervention.
‘Can’t he answer for himself?’ he snapped.
Esumaro edged forward protectively in front of the young woman.
‘I can. It is as my Sister in the Faith, Sister Easdan, says. I follow the Blessed Budoc.’ He was glad he remembered the name that Abbess Faife had identified the girl with.
The black-bearded leader grunted, seemed about to say something, and then glanced once more at the robed figure. It was as if some communication passed between them again for he turned away and gestured for the company to move.
‘Forward now and in silence,’ he called. ‘Remember, it is up to you if you wish to live or die. My men will be watchful.’
Esumaro turned his head to the young Sister Easdan with a look that he hoped conveyed his gratitude. He would have to ask her who this Budoc was. But what situation had he landed himself in? God in heaven! What evil had he been plunged into?
CHAPTER TWO
I t was still dark when Abbot Erc left his warm chamber in the great abbey of Ard Fhearta, throwing his woollen cloak around his bent shoulders, to make his way through the vallium monasterii. It was still dark although he could see that the clouds were low in the sky and the rain was fine like an icy spray against his face. The winter sun would not rise for several hours yet but the community of the abbey would soon be waking to the tolling of the bell that announced the start of a new day. For the ageing abbot this was a special day, for it was the feast of the Blessed Ite, ‘the bright sun of the women of Muman’, who had fostered and taught Breanainn, the founder of Ard Fhearta. Today, special prayers would be offered in the tiny oratory where, it was said, Breanainn had first read the principal triad of Ite’s teachings to those men and women whom he had called together at this place. He had exhorted them, as Ite had, to have a pure heart, live a simple life, and be generous with their love. Since then the community had lived as a conhospitae, a mixed community, men and women working together in the service of the New Faith.
Abbot Erc paused for a moment outside the small, stone-built aireagal — the house of prayer, as it was called, although many of the brethren preferred to use the Latin term oraculum. Then he pushed open the wooden door and stood for a moment in the utter darkness of the interior. He was surprised that there was no light inside and his immediate reaction was irritation. It was the task of the rechtaire, the steward of the community, to ensure that a lamp was always lit in the aireagal. He had also expected the Venerable Cinaed to be waiting for him so that together they could bless the oratory and light the altar candles ready for the morning prayers.
He turned and looked back through the gloom and misty rain towards the darkened buildings of the abbey behind him.
There was no sign indicating that the Venerable Cinaed was on his way. That was unlike the abbey’s oldest scholar. Cinaed was reputed to be so old that many of the younger religious felt he must surely have known Breanainn himself. The truth was that Cinaed had, indeed, known some older members of the abbey who had, in turn, known the blessed founder. He had been at Ard Fhearta longer than anyone else and w
hen Erc had been elected by the community to be abbot here, he had been worried by the thought that it was a position which Cinaed should rightfully hold. But Cinaed was content to confine himself to his cell with his manuscripts and writing materials and indulge in his scholastic pursuits. He occasionally taught the young ones in the arts of calligraphy and composition. More important, while the Venerable Cinaed was a religieux he was not ordained into the priesthood and showed no inclination to be so. However, it was a tradition that as the oldest member of the community he should assist in the ceremony of blessing the oratory on Ite’s feast day.
Abbot Erc paused for a moment or two longer and then turned to the shelf by the door on which he knew a tallow candle stood. A tinderbox reposed close by. He reached out, feeling rather than seeing in the gloom, and with a practice born of long years he was able, after a few minutes, to ignite the shavings to produce a flame for the candle.
Feeling a little calmer, he moved forward into the aireagal and came to a halt before the altar.
Awkwardly, he lowered himself to his knees, placed the spluttering candle before him, and stretched out his arms to make a symbolic crucifix form with his body in order to intone the cros-figill, the Cross prayer before the altar.
He was about to start the ritual when he noticed something on the flagstones just before him. He frowned and reached forward. It was a bronze crotal, a closed bell: a pear-shaped metal form in which was a loose metal ball, which created the musical tone. As he picked it up, he realised that its surface was wet… sticky wet. He drew his hand away and looked at it in the light of the candle. The sticky substance was blood.
Abbot Erc reached for the candle and clambered to his feet, peering round in the gloom. The aireagal was clearly empty, unless… He looked at the altar and noticed the dark stains before it.
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