Suffer Little Children sf-3

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘There is no accounting for it,’ Fidelma agreed solemnly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Eisten insisted on remaining in the village but we heard that things were getting worse. Midach went to visit her there several times this last week. Finally you brought us the terrible news of Intat’s destruction of the village and its surviving inhabitants.’

  ‘You knew Intat, of course?’

  ‘Not personally. But I knew that Intat was one of Salbach’s right-hand men. You saw how angry Salbach was when he came to the abbey after I had reported what you had told me. At first he seemed to refuse to believe the story. He only accepted it when you told him who you were and he was therefore unable to challenge your authority.’

  Fidelma leaned forward a little, anger showing on her features.

  ‘It is a poor chieftain who accepts truth only when told him by an authority greater than his. Did it occur to you that Intat might, for some reason, have been acting with Salbach’s approval?’

  Brocc was horrified.

  ‘Of course not. Salbach is of an ancient line of chieftains of the Corco Lofgde. He traces his line back to …’

  Fidelma was openly sarcastic.

  ‘I know; he traces his line to Míl Easpain, the founder of the race of the children of the Gael. Yet he would not be the first distinguished chieftain to go contrary to the laws of God and man. Might I remind you that perhaps the very reason we have this situation is because we are prisoners of history? It was a king of Laigin, who was also a descendant of a line of ancient and distinguished kings, who took it upon himself to murder Edirsceál, the High King? That was when this drama began.’

  ‘That is ancient history, almost legend.’

  ‘As this will be a thousand years from now.’

  Brocc sat back in his chair slowly shaking his head.

  ‘I will not believe this of Salbach. Besides, what gain is there in this matter for him?’

  Fidelma smiled thinly.

  ‘Gain? Indeed, that is a good motive for all our actions. What do we gain from some action or another? Well, if I knew the answer to that, I would know the answer to many a question. I suppose you have known Salbach for a long time?’

  ‘For eighteen years, from the day I came to this abbey. I have known him more closely for the last ten years, since I was elected abbot by the brethren here.’

  ‘And what do you know of him?’

  ‘Know? I know that he is regarded as a good chieftain. He has the pride of his ancestry and perhaps he is a little too autocratic at times. All in all, however, I think it may be said that his rule is fair and just.’

  ‘I was told that he had ambition.’

  ‘Ambition? Don’t we all have ambition?’

  ‘Perhaps. And perhaps Salbach’s ambitious eyes have looked beyond Corco Loígde?’

  ‘As is his right, cousin. If he is descended of the line of Ir, related to Míl Easpain who conquered this land at the dawn of time and peopled it with the children of the Gael …’

  Fidelma grimaced as if in pain.

  ‘Spare me from the boredom of genealogy. Ambition is fineso long as the sparrow does not crave to become the falcon,’ she commented dryly. ‘Anyway, what else can you tell me of Salbach? Did he know Sister Eisten?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘It would surprise you to know that Eisten was at Salbach’s fortress with Sister Grella just over a week ago?’

  Brocc’s expression showed that it did surprise him.

  ‘So you do think there is some connection, then, between poor Sister Eisten’s death and that of the Venerable Dacán?’ he demanded.

  ‘A connection — yes. How strong, I do not know. But that I am determined to discover.’

  Abbot Brocc’s face had been growing longer as he surveyed the perplexities of the situation.

  ‘It does not seem that you are closer to solving the mystery of Dacán’s death, though. And time is not on our side, cousin.’

  ‘I am well aware of this, Brocc,’ replied Fidelma softly.

  ‘Well, remember that I am held ultimately responsible, under the law, for the death of Dacán. I cannot afford to pay the compensation or fines.’

  ‘Be at peace, Brocc,’ Fidelma reassured him. ‘Laigin is not interested in you nor the seven cumals of the éric fine. They are interested in the honour price and their eyes are set on the land of Osraige. They will be content with nothing else.’

  ‘Yet their warship sits there still.’ Brocc flung out at hand to the bay beyond the window.

  ‘You can’t begrudge Laigin its right under law,’ Fidelma replied. ‘The ship will do nothing. It is there only to remind you of your responsibility as abbot in charge of the community where Dacán met his death.’

  There was a tap on the door and, in answer to Brocc’s call, Cass entered.

  Fidelma knew from his glum face that he had no news.

  ‘Nothing,’ he confirmed. ‘No sign at all of Sister Grella. The captain was angry but he did not prevent my searching, eveninto the stinking hold of the vessel. I pledge my honour that she is not on board.’

  Fidelma felt a heavy burden sinking on her shoulders.

  She rose and went to the window again.

  The sails of the Frankish merchantman were being unfurled. She could hear the sounds of the cracking and filling of the canvas sail before the morning offshore breeze; she could hear the cry of the orders rising to mingle with the scream of the gulls as they circled and wheeled around the sedately moving vessel.

  ‘Another blank wall,’ she said almost under her breath. ‘Yet somewhere there is a door. Somewhere,’ she added vehemently.

  ‘What path will you follow now, cousin?’ asked the abbot anxiously.

  Fidelma was turning away from the window when she caught sight of a barc under full sail, sliding swiftly into the inlet, negotiating a course around the heavy merchantman like a dolphin around a ship. An idea formed quickly in her mind and she wondered why she had not thought of it before. She reached her decision almost immediately.

  ‘I shall be leaving the abbey for a while, Brocc,’she said. ‘The path that I must follow is not here.’

  ‘Where will you go now?’ Brocc looked astounded.

  ‘I need the services of a good swift barc,’ Fidelma responded, ignoring the abbot’s question. ‘Where can I charter one?’

  ‘A sailor named Ross owns the swiftest barc on the coast,’ Brocc said, without need for deliberation. ‘But he knows it and his knowledge is reflected in his price. I see his ship is anchored below. Any fisherman will tell you where he may be found.’

  ‘Excellent. While I am away there are some items which I want you to safeguard for me. They constitute evidence in my investigation and I cannot afford to take them on my journey.’

  Brocc pointed to a large oak cabinet on the far side of his chamber.

  ‘It has two locks,’ he assured her, ‘and is quite secure. I usually place the valuables of this abbey in it.’

  Fidelma took her marsupium, which she had become in the habit of carrying, from her shoulder and placed it on the table. Wordlessly, the abbot took from under his table a set of keys on a ring, which she presumed had been hanging on some secret hook, and went to the cabinet and opened the door. He gestured for Fidelma to bring the marsupium to him and placed it inside. She watched as he secured the door and returned the keys to their resting place.

  ‘Should Sister Grella reappear, I want her to be placed under guard, on my authority, until I return. Is that understood?’ she asked Brocc.

  The abbot indicated that it was.

  Satisfied, Fidelma turned to Cass.

  ‘Come, then, let us seek out this Ross and negotiate a price with him for our journey.’

  Brocc was standing uncertainly.

  ‘But where are you going? How long shall you be away? If I must imprison Sister Grella, I must have some idea.’

  Fidelma paused at the door and once again felt sorry for her cousin’s woebegone expression. Ag
ain she had the feeling of a little boy lost.

  ‘Better that no one knows of where we have gone until we return. In the meantime, if you are able to detain Sister Grella, simply tell her that she is being held as a material witness to the death of her former husband, the Venerable Dacán. With God’s help we shall return before a week is passed.’

  Brocc’s jaw dropped in anxiety.

  ‘A full week?’ His voice was full of distress but Fidelma had already left his chamber with Cass trailing behind her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘That is Na Sceilig. See! There before us on the horizon.’

  The speaker was Ross, standing on the stern deck of his ship. He was pointing out across the blue stretch of ocean. His deep green eyes, which reflected the changing moods of the sea, were narrowed. He was a short, stocky man, with greying, close-cropped hair; a grizzled veteran of forty years of sea-faring. His skin was tanned by the sea winds almost to the colour of nut. He was a man with a dour humour and always ready with a loud bellow when he was displeased.

  His swift sailing barc was two days out from Ros Ailithir where Fidelma had negotiated a rather exorbitant price with the sailor to take them to the monastery of Fínán at Sceilig Mhichil and back again. The vessel had followed the coastal lanes, catching a faint wind blowing from the north-east which brought them around the southern extremes of Muman and then Ross had manoeuvred his vessel into the fast-flowing tide which sent them racing to the north.

  Fidelma shaded her eyes with her hands and gasped at the spectacular rocks that thrust out of the sea before her. There were two islands — stark, fissured pyramids with castellated outcrops rising sheer and terrifying out of the dark, brooding seas — which were situated some eight miles from the mainland. Their sheer terrible magnificence caused Fidelma to catch her breath.

  The name Sceilig implied rocks but she had not been prepared for such looming slatey masses.

  ‘On which island is the monastery?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘That bigger island,’ indicated Ross, pointing to the pyramid-shaped spectacle rising over seven hundred feet out of the water.

  ‘But I cannot see any place to land, let alone a place to construct habitations,’ Fidelma protested, peering in amazement at the vertical sides of the island.

  Ross knowingly tapped the side of his nose with a gnarled forefinger.

  ‘Oh, there is a place to land, right enough and, if you have a head for heights, you may climb up to the monastery, for it rests high up there.’ He pointed to the high peaks of the island. ‘The monks call the place Christ’s Saddle for it is so high. It is situated between those two points there.’

  Fidelma became aware of a cacophony of noise from the wheeling seabirds. Great gannets, with six foot wingspans, wheeled, soared and circled. Now and then they would plummet vertically, a full sixty feet into the sea in search of fish.

  The second island, particularly, seemed to be crowned by a ring of wheeling and crying birds. Fidelma thought at first that, by some miracle, it was snow capped until Ross pointed out that it was the excretions of birds built up over the long centuries.

  ‘They nest on the Little Sceilig,’ explained Ross. ‘Not just gannets, but gulls, cormorants, guillemots, kittiwakes, razorbills, shearwaters and fulmars and even other birds whose names I have forgotten.’

  Cass, who had been standing silently by, suddenly remarked: ‘Here is an awesome place to chasten the soul.’

  Fidelma smiled at him, amazed that his usually stolid mind could be so moved.

  ‘Here is a place to elevate the soul,’ she corrected, ‘for it shows just how insignificant we are in the great scheme of creation.’

  ‘I still cannot see why you would wish to come to this isolated place,’ Cass muttered, gazing at the breathtaking cliffs of the island.

  Fidelma decided that it was time to relent a little and reveal what was in her mind.

  ‘Remember the vellum we found in Grella’s chamber? The letter Dacán wrote to his brother, Abbot Noé? He wrote it on the evening before he was killed and said that he had traced his quarry — remembered he used that word “quarry”? — to the monastery of Sceilig Mhichil. He was searching for the heir of the native line of kings of Osraige. I am following the belief that he was killed because of that knowledge and that the next step along the path to resolving the mysteries rests on that impregnable island which you see before you.’

  Cass turned his gaze from the island to Fidelma and then back at the towering grey mass. He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  ‘You expect to find whoever it was that Dacan was looking for on the island?’

  ‘Dacán certainly did.’

  That Ross and his crew, like most seamen of the coastal waters, were highly skilled was demonstrated in the next few minutes as they negotiated to a landing place which had been invisible until they came within a few yards of it. The waves threatened to hurl the vessel against the crashing rocks as the water foamed around them, causing sea spray to drench everyone. It took a while to anchor close enough for anyone to land.

  ‘It is not good that we hold ourselves against the rocks of this landing place,’ cried Ross, having to shout to make himself heard above the crashing of the waves and cry of the seabirds. ‘When you have landed we will pull back from the island and stand off until such time as you signal us to pick you up.’

  Fidelma raised her hand in acknowledgment and prepared herself to leap from the side of the boat onto the narrow granite ledge which constituted a natural quay.

  Cass jumped first so as to secure a position and ensure he could catch Fidelma in order that she might land in safety.

  As they turned along the narrow strip of rock they saw a brown-robed anchorite hurriedly approaching down a perilously steep path. They saw his brows drawn together in a frown as he examined them in obvious annoyance.

  ‘Bene vobis,’ Fidelma greeted.

  The monk halted abruptly and the look of irritation intensified on his features.

  ‘We spotted a ship coming into land. This place is forbidden to women, sister.’

  Fidelma raised her eyebrows dangerously.

  ‘Who is the Father Superior here?’

  The monk hesitated at her icy tones.

  ‘Father Mel. But, as I have said, sister, our brothers dwell here in isolation from the company of women in accordance with the views of the Blessed Fínán.’

  Fidelma knew that there were some monasteries where women were strictly excluded; for some, like Fínán of Clonard or Enda of Aran, believed that the scriptures taught that women were the creation of the Evil One and should never be looked upon. Such heretical teaching was an anathema to Fidelma, who was not at all approving of the support such an idea received from Rome, which was little less than an attempt to impose celibacy and the isolation of one sex from the other on the argument propounded by Augustine of Hippo that man was created in the image of God but women were not.

  ‘I am Fidelma, sister to Colgú, king of Muman. I am a dálaigh of the court, acting on the commission of the king, my brother.’

  Never would Fidelma have used this form of introductionhad she felt there was any other way of overcoming this officious reception.

  ‘I am here to conduct an inquiry into an unlawful death. Now conduct me to Father Mel at once.’

  The monk looked horrified and blinked nervously.

  ‘I dare not, sister.’

  Cass ostentatiously loosened his sword in its scabbard, gazing upwards along the path by which the monk had descended.

  ‘I think you should dare,’ he said coldly, as if speaking aloud his thoughts.

  The monk cast an anxious look at him and then back at Fidelma before compressing lips to conceal his angry frustration. They could see him fighting with his thoughts. After a moment or two he gestured in resignation.

  ‘If you can follow me, then you may reach Father Mel. If not …’ There was a trace of a sneer in his voice and he did not finished the sentence.

&nb
sp; He turned and started off up the path which was a comfortable climb initially but then it suddenly narrowed. Indeed, the path almost ended and they were ascending along almost sheer falls from one rocky ledge to another although here and there steps had been cut by the monks into the precipitous sides of the rock. It was a tough ascent. The wind blew and buffeted at them, threatening at times to tear them from the climb and send them tumbling down the slopes into the turbulent frothy seas below. Several times Fidelma, her hair streaming, the head-dress dislodged, found herself going down on all fours and clinging on grimly to the rocks of the path in order to steady herself.

  The anchorite, used to the ascent, merely quickened his pace and Fidelma, in anger, took chances in her attempt to keep up with the man. Cass, coming behind her, had to reach out a hand to steady her on several occasions. Then, at last, they came to a strange plateau, a small green place setbetween peaks with two stone crosses. From this point a series of steps led through fangs of rocks to another plateau where a stone wall, running along one side, was the only barrier between the plateau and the sheer cliff falling down to the sea.

  Fidelma halted at the spectacular view to the white-capped Little Sceilig and the misty outline of the mainland beyond.

  On the plateau was the monastery built by Fínán just over one hundred years before. There were six clocháns, or beehive-shaped huts of rock, with a rectangular-shaped oratory. Beyond them were other buildings and another oratory. Fidelma was surprised to see a small cemetery behind with slabs and crosses. She wondered how this inhospitable crag of an island could hold enough earth to bury anything. It was a wild, even cruel place on which to attempt an existence.

  There were several brothers tending a small garden set behind an artificial shelter of stone-slabbed walls. She noticed, also to her surprise, that there were two wells.

  ‘This is truly an amazing place,’ she whispered to Cass. ‘No wonder the brothers are so obdurate about their privacy.’