The Leper's Bell

by Peter Tremayne

  The burning brand torches, in their braziers hanging either side of the great doors of the tower, cast a light on the porch where they had left the two fallen warriors of Uaman. Another warrior, perhaps two - even three - were moving there, and he saw the crooked figure of Uaman himself, a thin, dark shadow, with his bell, standing framed in the doorway, screaming abuse.

  ‘They are coming after us,’ muttered Basil Nestorios, also glancing round.

  Eadulf saw that Uaman was now leading the three warriors after them along the sandbank. All four carried torches to light their way and they thus had an advantage over their quarry. In spite of his dragging foot, Uaman was moving at an astonishing pace. It was clear that he had not taken the potion prepared by Basil Nestorios. Indeed, he appeared to be moving more quickly than his warriors. Eadulf increased his pace.

  ‘At this rate, we might make the shore but we will have to stand and fight,’ grunted Gormán, glancing behind.

  ‘Then we will stand and fight,’ replied Eadulf.

  He realised that the incoming tide was now lapping at his feet. The water was coming in rapidly, but not rapidly enough, he thought bitterly.

  A moment or so later, they were scrambling up on the firm bank before the dark trees. There they turned, preparing for the worst.

  It was a curious, eerie sight that met their eyes. In the background the tall round Tower of Uaman rose on the island, dark and sullen, although its doors now stood open, still lit by the burning torches on either side. A shaft of silvery moonlight had somehow escaped between the low-lying clouds and danced with a thousand pinpricks of light on the sea. By this, they could see how quickly the tide was coming in. There was now little to be seen of the sand link to the island.

  Uaman was not far from the shoreline now. Surprisingly, he was about ten metres ahead of his three warrior companions. His torch was raised in one dead white claw-like hand. It seemed his rage had taken the better of him, for he had no other weapon.

  ‘Look!’ Gormán suddenly whispered.

  Eadulf followed the warrior’s seaward-pointing finger. Something dark was moving on the silvery waters of the sea, moving towards the strip of water that separated the island from the shore.

  At first Eadulf did not understand what it was.

  ‘Tonn taide!’ whispered Gormán.

  A tidal wave, higher than the average man, came pouring through the narrows. Within a second the three warriors behind Uaman, taking the full force of the water, were swept into the darkness, vanishing as their torches were extinguished. Uaman was closer to the shore and escaped the full force of the wave but he, too, was swept off his feet, though he managed by some miracle to cling tightly to his torch, keeping it above the waves. They saw, by its light, the waters recede for a moment or two; long enough for Uaman to clamber to his feet and start towards the shore. But the leper had been swept away from the main path, and as he moved forward, he began to sink rapidly into the sand.

  ‘The quicksand!’ muttered Gormán.

  Already the clawing sand had reached Uaman’s waist and he was flailing about in panic. Eadulf began to move towards him but Gormán held him back.

  ‘You cannot help,’ the tall warrior muttered.

  Eadulf was beside himself with anxiety.

  ‘Don’t you see, don’t you see…? He is the only one who knows what he has done with Alchú. The only one who can lead me to my baby.’

  He started forward again, but the relentless sea was coming in once more and the sand was already up to Uaman’s chest.

  ‘Uaman!’ Eadulf yelled, moving as close as he dared. ‘Where is my baby? Where is Alchú?’

  Uaman’s cowl had fallen from his white, bald skull of a head. In the flickering torchlight, they could see where the disease had eaten into his flesh.

  ‘My curse on you and the Eóghanacht! May you all never see the cuckoo or the corncrake. May you die screaming. May the cats eat your flesh. May you fester in your grave…’

  The tidal wave returned a second time. The torch was extinguished. Uaman’s voice was silenced. Only whispering black waters could be seen at the spot where they covered his quicksand grave.

  ‘Es korakes!’ grunted Basil Nestorios with satisfaction in his voice. ‘To the ravens with him.’

  Eadulf suddenly sat down in the darkness and cradled his head in his hands.

  The nightmare was vivid.

  The slow procession of religious emerged from the brass-studded oak doors of the chapel and into the cold, grey light of the central courtyard of the abbey. It was a large courtyard, flagged in dark limestone, yet on all four sides there towered the cheerless stone walls of the abbey buildings, giving the illusion that the central space was smaller than it actually was.

  The line of cowled monks, preceded by a single religieux bearing an ornate metal cross, moved slowly, almost sedately. Heads bowed, hands hidden in the folds of their robes, they were chanting a psalm in Latin. Behind them, at a short distance, came a similar number of cowled nuns, also with heads bowed, joining in the chant on a higher note and harmonising with the air to make a descant. The effect was eerie, echoing in the confined space.

  They moved to take positions on either side of the courtyard, standing facing a wooden platform on which stood a strange construction of three upright poles supporting a triangle of beams. A single rope hung from one of the beams, knotted into a noose. Just below the noose, a three-legged stool had been placed. Next to this grim apparatus, feet splayed apart, stood a tall man. He was stripped to the waist, his heavy, muscular arms folded across a broad, hairy chest. He watched the religious procession without emotion; unmoved and unashamed of the task that he was to perform on that macabre platform.

  Fidelma was on her knees before the platform, held down by two viciously grinning women. One she knew by instinct was Abbess Ita of Kildare, who had caused her to leave that religious house, while the other was Abbess Fainder, the evil head of the abbey of Fearna. They held her in a strong grip, and even though she tried to struggle Fidelma found herself unable to move. She was forced to look up at the grim apparatus and executioner.

  Then two strong religieux came forward, dragging a young man between them. He, too, was forced to his knees before the platform.

  ‘Eadulf!’ she cried as she recognised him. But his escort also held him tight so that he could not look at her.

  Then a third man came forward holding a baby in his arms. It was handed up to the waiting executioner, who began to move forward towards the noose.

  ‘Help us, Eadulf! For God’s sake, help us!’

  In her dream, Fidelma knew that she was screaming, but suddenly she came awake, moaning and struggling against the bonds that still tied her hands and feet. She was bathed in sweat.

  There was a grey light seeping in at the window. She lay still for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts and rationalise the dream. She wished she could wipe her face of the perspiration that stood there.

  The faint whinny of a horse came to her ears. She presumed it came from the stables but she heard movement below and voices were whispering. She rolled over to try to listen. Why would the Uí Fidgente be whispering? Suddenly, her heart began to beat faster. Could Colgú have worked out that she was being held somewhere and tracked her down to the hunting lodge at the Well of Oaks? Was there someone out there intent on her rescue? She uttered a quick prayer that it might be true.

  Then there was a noise outside and the door opened. The harsh voice of Cuán came to her ears.

  ‘It must have been some wild animal making the horses restless. I can see no one.’

  She felt a sudden black despair. For a moment she had been full of hope. There was some laughter downstairs.

  ‘Then we’d best be off. No one is looking for us now. Let’s take the woman and get back to our own country.’

  ‘I’ll saddle the horses,’ replied another voice. ‘Crond can bring the woman.’

  Something else caught Fidelma’s ear now; there was a soft sound
of scrabbling on the roof above her. Below she heard the door of the lodge open and then an agonised yell as something fell.

  Cuirgí’s voice yelled: ‘Crond, get the woman. Quickly!’

  Footsteps began to ascend the stairs rapidly just as a dark figure swung in through the shattered glass of the window and dropped on to the floor.

  Crond burst in through the door, his sword ready. The figure rose, a sword appearing in his hand as if by magic. Fidelma gasped as she recognised him.

  ‘Conrí!’ she gasped, but the name went unheard as the blades of the two men clashed in a noisy exchange. The room was too confined for a sword fight but the blows were deadly as the two men sought to kill or injure each other. Crond made a series of rapid thrusts at his opponent’s torso. Had any blow landed, it must have been mortal. But Conrí was obviously not war chief of the Uí Fidgente for nothing. He parried each thrust and then pressed his own attack while Crond paused to rethink his strategy.

  A swift thrust drew blood from Crond’s upper arm and seemed to anger him. In his fury he dropped his defence, for he raised his weapon for a blow leaving his right side unguarded. He looked almost comical in his surprise as Conrí’s sword sank deep between his ribs. He dropped his weapon, staggered back and then slowly collapsed on to the floor.

  There was a brief silence. Then, down below, Fidelma became aware of shouting. A strange voice called up: ‘The lodge is ours, Conrí!’ Then Conrí had sheathed his sword and was cutting her bonds with a knife.

  ‘Fidelma! Are you injured? Are you all right?’

  Fidelma could, at first, only nod as she massaged her wrists. The bonds had cut deep into the flesh, leaving harsh marks around them and her ankles.

  ‘How came you here, Conrí?’ she managed to ask at last.

  The war chieftain gave her a grin. ‘Have you forgotten that we planned to meet here, lady?’

  She smiled at his bantering tone. ‘But not in these circumstances,’ she returned in kind.

  ‘True indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Our story is simple. We did as I told you we would and went through the valley of Bilboa and waited for the chieftains at Crois na Rae. When they didn’t turn up, I decided to post half my men to cover the mountain passes, in case they went that way, and then to come back to make our rendezvous with you here. Because we waited a while, we could not reach here last evening, but came on through the night to arrive at dawn.’

  ‘How were you warned of the presence of the chieftains?’

  Conrí shrugged. ‘I was more concerned with encountering your brother’s warriors, seeing that Colgú’s whole kingdom could be raised against us. So we approached the hunting lodge cautiously, leaving our mounts behind in a copse at some little distance. I was about to reconnoitre the stables when I spotted Cuán. I knew something was wrong.’

  ‘So how did you know where to find me?’

  ‘I told my men to cover the main door and then I climbed up to the roof. I saw you through the window. One of the chieftains went out through the main door and I think one of my men shot him. So I had to come through the window. I barely had time to regain my balance before Crond came bursting in.’

  ‘You knew him?’ queried Fidelma.

  ‘He was an Uí Fidgente chieftain. Am I not warlord of the Uí Fidgente? I know them all.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Fidelma asked, coming slowly to her feet and looking down at Crond.

  ‘He is dead,’ confirmed Conrí, ‘but for the harm he has done, I shall not weep at his graveside.’

  One of Conrí’s men came up the stairs to see if all was well, and informed them that Cuán had taken an arrow in the shoulder but would recover while Cuirgí had been captured without a struggle.

  ‘And your baby, lady, where is he?’ asked Conrí.

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘That I do not know, my friend. They denied any knowledge of abduction or involvement in abduction. If this was not a plot by some Uí Fidgente to have these chieftains released, then I am at a loss to understand it.’

  ‘It is as I said, lady,’ Conrí replied. ‘Unless there is some rebellious group that we do not know of, the Uí Fidgente disclaim all knowledge of this matter. We have made our peace with your brother and we will remain at peace with him.’

  Fidelma stamped her feet a little to restore her circulation. She looked up at Conrí.

  ‘Are you prepared to come with me back to Cashel and make that statement? To return these chieftains to my brother’s authority as a sign of good faith?’

  ‘Will we be under your protection? The Eóghanacht will not take kindly to Uí Fidgente in Cashel.’

  Fidelma nodded. ‘You will be under my protection,’ she said gravely.

  ‘Then we shall come and gladly.’

  ‘Then let us break our fast and prepare for the journey back,’ she replied. Her brother would be thinking the worst about her disappearance. Fidelma’s relief at her rescue and the recapture of the Uí Fidgente chiefs was tempered by her frustration that the only apparent reason for Alchú’s disappearance and the killing of Sárait had ended in a blank wall through which she was unable to see further. The relief at her rescue was nullified by her feeling of fear for her baby and for Eadulf. She closed her eyes for a moment to hide her inward pain. Eadulf! Where was Eadulf now?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eadulf awoke from a fitful doze. It was still night. He became aware that Gormán was putting wood on the campfire that they had made earlier. He raised his hand to massage his forehead and looked round. He dimly recalled how in the darkness they had organised a makeshift camp in the forest clearing near the water’s edge. His own horse as well as Gormán’s mount had been tethered nearby. He turned. On the other side of the campfire, lying on his back with his eyes still closed in slumber, was Basil Nestorios.

  Eadulf realised that he had sunk into such despair that he had not been able to concentrate on anything. Much of the organising of the fire had been done without his assistance.

  Gormán, spotting that he was awake, turned and handed him a drinking horn.

  ‘Corma,’ the warrior explained. ‘How do you feel, Brother Eadulf?’

  Eadulf grimaced before he took a swallow of the fiery liquid and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he shook his head.

  ‘I have lost the only chance I had of finding my baby,’ he said simply. ‘How should I feel?’

  The tall warrior was reassuring.

  ‘You are a clever man, Brother Eadulf. You have traced the baby thus far, and you will trace it further.’

  ‘How did you get here, anyway?’ Eadulf demanded. ‘Were you following me?’

  Gormán shrugged. ‘I was a full day behind you. As soon as I learnt from the lady Fidelma that you had ridden west to the abbey of Coimán, I knew that your path would take you through the land of the Uí Fidgente and, that being so, you might need a strong sword-arm. So I saddled my horse and tracked you. When I came through the mountain pass near the Hill of the Stone Forts, I encountered a herbalist named Corb and his wife. They confessed that they had taken the child—’

  ‘You did not harm them?’ Eadulf asked quickly. ‘I believe that the part they played was an unwitting one.’

  ‘They were returning to Cashel at your behest. I did not harm them. I followed you first to the abbey of Coimán and thence to the Tower of Uaman. I arrived there at dusk and made my way across the sand link to the gates. I was about to demand entrance when the gates opened and, lo and behold, you and your taciturn friend there came running out. The rest you know.’

  Eadulf leant forward and laid a hand on the warrior’s arm.

  Thank the fates for that,’ he said reverently. ‘Had you not been there, we would not have made it this far. Uaman had marked me down for an early grave while our Persian friend was only allowed to live so long as he treated Uaman for his ailment. However,’ he examined Gormán with a side glance, ‘I find it hard to believe that you thought me so important that you chased me across Muman simply in order to protect me.
’

  Gormán hesitated, then spread his hands expressively.

  ‘You are a perceptive man, Brother Eadulf. It is no wonder that you and the lady Fidelma have garnered the reputation that you have. When I heard that you had gone to the abbey of Coimán, I knew that it must be for a specific purpose. You had gained some knowledge that sent you hurrying there. I wanted to be on hand in case you needed help in achieving that purpose.’

  ‘Are you so devoted to the service of Cashel?’ Eadulf could not help sounding a little cynical.

  The big warrior smiled softly.

  ‘I am devoted to the service of Cashel, that is true, Brother. But you may recall the personal reason that brought me hither.’

  ‘Ah.’ Eadulf’s eyes lightened as he remembered Gormán’s confession of his feelings for Sárait.

  ‘I will make no attempt to disguise it.’ Gormán saw that Eadulf had remembered. ‘I want to be present when the person who murdered Sárait is caught. I have a score to settle with them. Did Uaman kill her?’

  ‘No. But he bought my baby from the herbalist and his wife who had picked up the child thinking it was abandoned. Therein is a mystery. Someone, soon after the child went missing, had worked out that the herbalist and his wife had taken it without knowing its identity. That person sent a message to Uaman to tell him. That much I learnt in the Tower of Uaman.’

  Surprisingly, Gormán did not look astonished at this information.

  ‘I do not think one will have to look far for the culprit. There have been rumours about Fiachrae of Cnoc Loinge for some time. He believes that he should be of the rightful line of the Eóghanacht kings. He also dwells too close to the border of the Uí Fidgente country.’

  ‘Fiachrae?’

  Eadulf suddenly sat bolt upright and let out a curse in Saxon. While Gormán did not understand the meaning of the words he recognised the tone and looked at Eadulf in mild surprise.

  The clues were facing me the whole time,’ groaned Eadulf. ‘Capa told us during the council meeting that riders had ridden as far west as Cnoc Loinge with the news the morning after Sárait was found. Then, when we were at Cnoc Loinge, Fiachrae pretended he knew nothing of our missing baby until I told him. Yet his manner did not suggest undue surprise. Also, he told me that no itinerants had passed through the place. I had not even raised the matter. He knew. He knew, and is the man who betrayed Alchú to Uaman! And didn’t the steward of the abbey of Coimán tell me that a messenger from Cnoc Loinge had brought the news about the missing baby? It must have been Fiachrae … but no. That can’t be. How would he know that Corb and Corbnait had picked up Alchú? Not even they knew the identity of the child.’