The Monk Who Vanished sf-7

by Peter Tremayne

  Once inside the light fell across the disordered chamber.

  ‘It is exactly as Brother Madagan and I found it this morning. By the way-’ Ségdaeturned apologetically to Eadulf — ‘I was going to suggest that you share his chamber tonight for we seem to be overcrowded in our guests’ hostel. It is only for this night, mind you. We have a band of pilgrims passing through on their way to the coast to take ship for the holy shrine of St James of the Field of the Stars.’

  ‘I have no objection to sharing a chamber with Brother Madagan,’ Eadulf replied.

  ‘Good. Tomorrow night our guests’ hostel will be relatively empty again.’

  ‘And am I to share a room this night?’ asked Fidelma absently as she examined the chamber.

  ‘No; I have set aside a special room for you, Fidelma,’ Ségdae assured her.

  Fidelma glanced around the chaos in the lamplight. She disliked to admit it, but Eadulf had been absolutely right. There was little to be seen by artificial light in the room. Important items could be lost among the shadows. She sighed and turned.

  ‘Perhaps it is best to examine this room in the light of the morning.’ She did not look at Eadulf as she admitted it.

  ‘Very well,’ agreed the abbot. ‘I shall secure it again so that nothing is disturbed.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, as Ségdaewas bending to lock the room again after they had emerged back into the corridor, ‘you mentioned that there were pilgrims filling your guests’ quarters. Do you have any other travellers staying here?’

  ‘The pilgrims, yes.’

  ‘No other travellers?’

  ‘No. Oh … unless you count Samradan, the merchant. You must know him. He is from Cashel.’

  ‘I do not know him, although I am told that he is known to my cousin, Donndubhain. What can you tell me of him?’

  ‘Little enough,’ shrugged the abbot. ‘He trades frequently with the abbey, that is all. I think he has been doing so for the last two years or so. I know he is from Cashel. He comes here often with his wagons of goods and stays as our guest while we negotiate barter.’

  Fidelma nodded thoughtfully. ‘Wagons, you say? Who drives them?’

  ‘He has three companions but they prefer to stay in the inn in the township outside the abbey.’ He sniffed in disapproval. ‘Not the best of places for it has no good reputation. It is not a lawful inn for it has no licence from the local bó-aire, the magistrate. I have had to intervene once or twice with the innkeeper, a lewd woman named Cred, concerning her morals …’

  Fidelma interrupted. She was not interested in the morals of the woman, Cred. ‘How long has Samradan been with you on this trip?’

  Ségdae stroked the side of his nose as if it helped the process of his memory. ‘You seem very interested in this Sarnradán? Is he suspected of anything?’

  Fidelma made a negative gesture with her hand. ‘No. I was just interested. I thought I knew most people who dwelt in Cashel, or of them, but Samradán I do not know. How long did you say he has been staying in the abbey?’

  ‘A few days. No, more like a week to be precise. You will meet him at the morning meal, no doubt. Perhaps he will inform you of those things you need to know. And now, should I show you to your quarters for the night?’

  Eadulf smiled, happy at the thought. ‘A good suggestion, lord abbot. I am exhausted. It has been a long day filled with incident.’

  ‘Once you have refreshed yourselves,’ went on the abbot, ‘you will doubtless want to join the brethren for the midnight services.’

  He did not notice the woebegone expression on the face of the Saxon as he conducted them along a corridor and across a cloistered courtyard.

  ‘This is our domus hospitale,’ he said, indicating a door. ‘Our guests’ hostel,’ he added as he knocked once.

  A figure appeared in the doorway. A short shadowy figure whose silhouette clearly identified the sex of the person.

  ‘This is our domina, Sister Scothnat.’

  Eadulf had not realised until that moment that the Abbey of Imleach was a conhospitae, a mixed house in which religious of both sexes lived and worked together. Such ‘double-houses’ were rare among his own people but he knew that both the Britons and the Irish religious foundations were based on such cohabitation.

  ‘This is Sister Fidelma, Scothnat.’

  Sister Scothnat bobbed nervously for she knew that Fidelma was the sister of the King.

  ‘I have your room prepared, lady,’ she announced breathlessly. ‘As soon as the abbot informed me that you had arrived, I prepared it.’

  Fidelma held out a hand and touched Sister Scothnat lightly on the arm. Usually, among her fellow religious, she made no distinction of her relationship with the King of Muman. Only when she needed that extra authority did she make the point.

  ‘My name is Fidelma. We are, after all, Sisters of the Faith, Scothnat.’ She turned to Ségdae and Eadulf. ‘Until the midnight service, then. Dominus vobiscum.’

  ‘Dominus tecum,’ responded Ségdae solemnly.

  The abbot conducted Eadulf across the cloistered courtyard once again into a corridor on the far side where they found a tall religieux who greeted them.

  ‘Madagan,’ saluted the abbot. ‘Excellent. We were coming in search of you. This is Brother Eadulf. Because of the pilgrims in the domus hospitale this night, I have suggested that he share your chamber as you have a spare bed there.’

  Brother Madagan cast a searching glance over Eadulf, as if assessinghim. His eyes were cold and when he smiled there was no warmth in the expression.

  ‘You are most welcome, Brother.’

  ‘Good.’ The word on Ségdae’s lips seemed to be at odds with his unhappy tone. ‘Then, Brother Eadulf, I shall see you at the midnight service.’ With a distracted expression, the abbot disappeared.

  ‘I am the steward of the abbey,’ Madagan announced confidingly, as he drew Eadulf towards a door in the corridor. ‘My chamber is larger than most so I think you will find it comfortable.’

  He threw open the door of a chamber which contained two small cots, one table and chair. A candle stood on the table. The whole was exceptionally neat with nothing else on the table by the candle except a small leather-covered book. Another table stood behind the door on which was a bowl, a jug of water, and some drying cloths.

  Brother Madagan pointed to one of the two cots in the small cell. ‘That will be your bed, Brother … sorry, I cannot pronounce your Saxon name. It is hard to my poor ears.’

  ‘Ah’dolf,’ pronounced Eadulf patiently.

  ‘Does it have any meaning?’

  ‘It means “noble wolf’,’ explained Eadulf with some degree of pride.

  Brother Madagan rubbed his chin pensively. ‘I wonder how that should be translated into our language? Perhaps, Conrí — king of wolves?’

  Eadulf sniffed deprecatingly. ‘A person’s name does not need to be translated. It is what it is.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ admitted the steward of the abbey. ‘May I say that you speak our language well?’

  Eadulf sat himself on the bed and gently tested it. ‘I have studied at Durrow and Tuaim Brecain.’

  Madagan looked surprised. ‘Yet you still wear the tonsure of a stranger?’

  ‘I wear the tonsure of St Peter,’ corrected Eadulf firmly, ‘cut in memory of the crown of thorns of Our Saviour.’

  ‘But it is not the tonsure that we of the five kingdoms wear nor that which the Britons nor the men of Alba nor Armorica wear.’

  ‘It is the tonsure of all those who follow the Rule of Rome.’

  Brother Madagan pursed his lips sourly. ‘You are proud of your tonsure, noble wolf of the Saxons,’ he observed.

  ‘I would not wear it otherwise.’

  ‘Of course not. It is merely that it is outlandish to the eyes of the brothers here.’

  Eadulf was about to make an end to the conversation when hesuddenly paused as a thought struck him. ‘Yet you must have seen it often enough before,’ he commented s
lowly.

  Brother Madagan was pouring some water into a bowl to wash his hands. He glanced round at Eadulf and shook his head. ‘The tonsure of St Peter? I can’t say I have. I have not wandered far from Imleach for I was born near here on the slopes of Cnoc Loinge, just to the south. They call it the hill of the ship because that is the shape of it.’

  ‘If you have not seen this tonsure before, how would you describe Brother Mochta’s tonsure?’ demanded Eadulf.

  Brother Madagan shrugged in bewilderment. ‘How would I describe it?’ he repeated slowly. ‘I have no understanding of your meaning.’

  Eadulf almost stamped his foot in irritation. ‘If my tonsure seems so strange to you, surely the fact that Brother Mochta wore the same tonsure, until he started growing his hair recently, should have been a matter of some comment?’

  Brother Madagan was totally confused. ‘But Brother Mochta did not wear a tonsure like the one you wear, Brother Noble Wolf.’

  Eadulf controlled his exasperation, and explained, ‘But Brother Mochta wore the tonsure of St Peter until a few weeks ago.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Noble Wolf. Brother Mochta wore the tonsure of St John which we all wear here, the head shaven back to a line from ear to ear, so that the crown of thorns may be seen when we gaze upon the face of the brother.’

  Eadulf sat down abruptly on his cot. It was his turn to be totally bewildered.

  ‘Let me get this clear in my mind, Brother Madagan. Are you telling me that Brother Mochta did not wear a tonsure similar to that which I am wearing?’

  ‘Assuredly not.’ Brother Madagan was emphatic.

  ‘Nor was he growing his hair to cover it?’

  ‘Even more assuredly. At least this was so when I saw him at Vespers last evening. He wore the tonsure of St John.’

  Eadulf sat staring at him for a moment or two as he realised what the man was saying.

  Whoever the slain monk was at Cashel, and in spite of the description, even down to the tattoo mark, it could not be Brother Mochta of Imleach. It could not. But how was such a thing possible?

  Chapter Nine

  Fidelma regarded Eadulf across the refectory table, at which they were breaking their fast the next morning, with a slight smile.

  ‘You seem alarmed by this mystery of Brother Mochta,’ she observed, as she tore a piece of bread from the loaf before her.

  Eadulf s eyes rounded in perplexity. ‘Are you not alarmed? This borders on the miraculous. How can it be the same man?’

  ‘Alarmed? Not I. Didn’t the Roman Tacitus say that the unknown always passes for the miraculous? Well, once the matter ceases to be unknown it ceases to be miraculous.’

  ‘Are you saying that there must be some logical explanation for this mystery?’

  Fidelma looked at him in a reproach. ‘Isn’t there always?’

  ‘Well, I do not see it,’ Eadulf replied, thrusting out his chin. ‘It smacks of sorcery to me.’

  ‘Sorcery!’ Fidelma was scornful. ‘We have sorted out such mysteries before and found not one that was beyond our resources. Remember, Eadulf, vincit qui patitur.’

  Eadulf bowed his head to hide his exasperation. ‘One might prevail through patience but we have never had a mystery as confounding.’ He glanced up and saw Brother Madagan approaching. He lowered his voice. ‘Here is the Brother who raised the alarm when Mochta went missing. It is the steward of the abbey, Brother Madagan.’

  The tall monk approached them with a smile.

  ‘A fine morning,’ he said, seating himself and addressing himself to Fidelma. ‘I am the rechtaire of the abbey. Madagan is my name. I have heard much about you, Fidelma of Cashel.’

  Fidelma returned the man’s scrutiny and found herself disliking him though she could not put her finger on why. He was pleasant-featured enough, a little angular, a little gaunt, but there was nothing in his face that gave her outward revulsion. His manner too was friendly. She put it down to some chemical reaction which she could not explain.

  ‘Good morning, Brother Madagan.’ She inclined her head politely. ‘I am told that you were the one who discovered that the Holy Relics were missing?’

  ‘Indeed, I did.’

  ‘In what circumstances did you do so?’

  ‘It being the feastday of Ailbe, I rose early, for on that day …’

  ‘I know the order of the feast,’ Fidelma interrupted quickly.

  Brother Madagan blinked.

  It was then that Fidelma realised what it was that made her suspicious of the man. When he blinked his eyelids came down, heavy and deliberately, pausing for a fraction of a second before returning. It was as if he had hooded those eyes. The action bore a curious resemblance to the hooded blink of a hawk. She realised that they were cold in spite of the mask of friendship. There was a personality behind that face which was kept hidden to all but the keenest inspection.

  ‘Very well,’ he continued. ‘There was much to do here in preparation …’

  ‘Tell me how you discovered that the Holy Relics were missing.’

  This time Brother Madagan did not seem perturbed at her sharp interruption.

  ‘I went to the chapel where the Holy Relics were kept,’ he replied calmly.

  ‘Yet you were not the Keeper of the Holy Relics of Ailbe. Why did you go there?’ Her voice was even but the question probing.

  ‘Because that night it was my duty to act as warden — to keep the watch. The duties involve making the rounds of the abbey to ensure all is secure.’

  ‘I presume you found that all was secure?’

  ‘It was at first …’

  ‘Until you came to the chapel?’

  ‘Yes. It was then I noticed that the reliquary was missing from the recess where it is kept.’

  ‘At what time was this?’

  ‘An hour or so before dawn.’

  ‘When had the reliquary last been seen in its proper position?’

  ‘At Vespers. We all saw the reliquary. Brother Mochta was also there.’

  Eadulf coughed discreetly before interposing: ‘What exactly did this reliquary contain?’

  Brother Madagan made a small gesture with his hand as if to encompass the contents. ‘The Relics of our beloved Ailbe.’

  ‘No, I do not mean that. What did these relics consist of? We know one of them was his crucifix which he had brought from Rome.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Brother Madagan sat back thoughtfully. ‘As well as the crucifix there was his bishop’s ring, his knife, a book of Ailbe’sLaw written in his own hand and his sandals. Oh, and there was his chalice, of course.’

  ‘Was it usual for people to know what is in the reliquary?’ asked Eadulf suddenly. ‘In many churches where the relics of the saints are kept, the reliquary is sealed so that none may gaze on the artifacts.’

  Brother Madagan smiled quickly. ‘It was quite usual in this case, Noble Wolf of the Saxons,’ he replied jocularly. ‘The contents were shown each year during the feastday ceremony and were carried from the chapel to his holy well, where there is a blessing, and from there to the stone which marks his grave.’

  ‘In temporal wealth, they were not of great value, apart from the crucifix?’ pressed Eadulf.

  ‘The crucifix and ring were worth a great fortune,’ replied Madagan. ‘The ring was of gold set with a gemstone called smaragdus — a curious green stone mined in Egypt and said to have been worked into a finger ring by the Chaldeans. The ring was a gift of Zozimus to Ailbe. So, too, was the crucifix. That was worked in silver but also contained this gemstone smaragdus.’

  ‘Smaragdus?’ mused Fidelma. ‘A dark green stone?’

  ‘You have seen such stones?’ asked Madagan. ‘They also embellished Ailbe’s crucifix.’

  ‘Oh yes. They are called emeralds.’

  ‘So the temporal value was great?’ persisted Eadulf.

  ‘Great enough but such value was of no significance compared with the symbolic value those Relics have to our abbey and to the kingdom of Muman.’


  ‘I have already informed Brother Eadulf of that significance,’ Fidelma affirmed.

  Brother Madagan bowed his head. ‘Then you will understand, Noble Wolf, that the recovering of the reliquary and the Holy Relics are necessary for the well-being of this kingdom. Our people are much given to symbolic belief. They firmly accept that if the Relics are lost then harm will come to the kingdom which they will be unable to prevent.’

  ‘Was the chalice of great value?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘It was also worked in silver and set with semi-precious stones. Yes, it was of great temporal value also.’

  ‘Who knows about their disappearance within the abbey?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘Alas, we have not been able to keep it a secret from those who dwell in this abbey. After all, yesterday was the day when they should have been displayed to the brethren. While the abbot has attempted to prevent the news spreading outside the abbey walls, it will not belong before it does. The pilgrims leave here this morning en route to the coast. They will doubtless speak of it. Then there is the merchant from Cashel and his assistants. They will also talk. I believe that within the week it will be broadcast throughout the kingdom, perhaps even to the other kingdoms of Eireann. It will mark a time of danger for our people.’

  Fidelma knew well the implications. She knew that there were many envious people who would like to see the overthrow of the Eóghanacht of Cashel. Especially, she had to admit, Donennach of the Uí Fidgente. He would not be unhappy if the kingdom fell. If people were alarmed by the disappearance of the Relics and so dismayed that they surrendered to the fates and had no will to defend themselves, then Cashel might expect attacks from without and subversion from within. She suddenly felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. If she did not solve this mystery, and solve it soon, it could lead to disaster for Cashel.

  ‘So, having found that the reliquary was missing, what did you do then?’ she asked.

  ‘I went straightaway to rouse the abbot,’ Brother Madagan replied.

  ‘You went straightaway to rouse Abbot Ségdae? Why?’