Night of the Lightbringer

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Wasn’t that more or less what he was, according to Della – or what he became? Spelán doesn’t sound like someone who had any admirable qualities of any sort.’

  ‘Brancheó indicated that she knew him – but in what way? If she came here on a regular basis, she certainly didn’t help him to put the place to rights.’

  ‘True. I suppose we can be certain that this was Spelán’s cabin?’

  ‘There is no reason to doubt it,’ Fidelma confirmed. ‘I’ll even go so far as to say that he was killed here before the body was taken to the bonfire in Cashel.’

  At this Eadulf pulled a wry expression. ‘That is going too far, surely?’

  For an answer, Fidelma pointed to the wooden bed. ‘I’ll take you even further. He was tied to that bed – and it was there that his hair was cut into a tonsure and his head was shaven, in order to give him the appearance of a religieux.’

  ‘What?’ Eadulf gulped – and then he noticed the strands of hair that lay on the bed and beside it.

  ‘You will also see the dark stains of blood. They are not old. If you bend closely to the wood you will smell an odour.’

  Eadulf sniffed. ‘The aroma of lavender – but it is very faint.’

  ‘I believe that he was killed yesterday and taken overnight to Cashel to be discovered this morning.’

  Eadulf glanced at her. ‘So it was deliberate. You are definitely sure now that it was not just to hide the body?’

  ‘If his killers – for I believe more than one person was involved – wanted him hidden then they had plenty of time and many places to do it round here, rather than transport him all the way to the town square. You yourself have said that the aperture into which he was placed was carefully made – but not so carefully closed. This was deliberate. I am positive they wanted the body to be discovered.’

  ‘But …’

  She held up a hand. ‘Please don’t say “why?”. That is for us to discover.’

  ‘How can you be sure that he was tied to the bed?’

  ‘That’s easy enough. Remember the rope-burn marks on the wrists and ankles? See where ropes have rubbed against the sides of the wooden boards, and the discoloration there speaks of bloodstains.’

  ‘So how would you reconstruct what was done?’

  ‘How was his death carried out?’ Fidelma glanced around before turning back to him. ‘I think the first blow was to the back of his head, to knock him out. Because of the condition of the wrists and ankles and the shaving of the head, I think he was struck unconscious first. He was then brought in here and tied to the bed. It was then that he regained consciousness and struggled. You saw the burn marks on his wrist and ankles where he fought against the bonds. The killer then gave him a rough tonsure. After that, the second and fatal blow was struck on the head. He was untied and dressed in the religious robes before the brutal ritual was completed: he was stabbed through the heart and his throat was cut.’

  ‘So that is why there was so little effusion of blood.’ Eadulf was thoughtful. ‘He was already dead when the throat was cut.’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘But surely the dog might have done something to protect its master? Did they kill it and leave it out there?’

  ‘Most likely the dog was shut out when the attack happened, and when the killers opened the door to leave, the dog tried to enter and was slain. That would explain why the dog is partly lying inside the door and its skull is smashed.

  ‘If the second blow on the back of Spelán’s head was what killed him, and everything else was done to him afterwards, that raises a point. The door was shut and the dog was outside. It could mean that the killers were known to Spelán, who invited them in and shut the dog out himself. Then, as he turned his back, he was struck down from behind.’

  ‘A good point. Spelán certainly had to have his back to whoever struck that first blow. His killers were most certainly known to him, and trusted. The shepherd can have had no suspicion of what they intended to do.’

  Eadulf was silent for a moment or so. Then he said, rather bleakly, ‘It also brings up another conclusion.’

  Fidelma smiled thinly. ‘Which is?’

  ‘That we would have to rule Curnan out of this affair.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because Curnan would not have volunteered information about the expertise in which the aperture in the bonfire was created and thus drawn attention to himself as an expert woodsman. Why would he take the body all the way into Cashel? Also, would all this ritual of the threefold death have entered a woodsman’s mind?’

  ‘Not entirely conclusive, Eadulf. He may have done it and wanted the body to be found. I think it is too early to rule the woodsman out until we have more information.’

  Eadulf gestured round the empty cabin. ‘That seems to be our difficulty. I see no way of gathering any information here. True, we have found where Spelán was killed and in what manner. We have also learned that he probably ingratiated himself with this local woman, Caoimhe, and hence became a shepherd. I suppose we need to find out more about her. It is not beyond belief that there was some family grudge against him. We know that he drank heavily during the summer and no one really liked him. But why kill the fellow? Why was it done in some old pagan ritual of execution and why was he dressed as a religieux? As you say, by placing the body in Cashel, the killers must have known he would eventually be identified.’

  ‘There are many questions, Eadulf,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘And those are the questions to which we must begin to seek answers.’

  ‘But where do we start?’

  ‘We have started already. As you said, we have found the cabin where he was murdered, and now we must find someone who knew his wife and her background. We know her name was Caoimhe and that she was of this local clan, the Sítae. We can question Curnan again – but I would like to hear more from other members of this clan.’

  ‘So we continue by seeking the nearest habitation to this place and attempting to find someone who knew Spelán’s wife, her family or other information,’ summed up Eadulf.

  ‘Exactly.’ Fidelma blew out the candle and went to the door, stepping over the carcass of the dog.

  ‘Shouldn’t we do something about …?’ Eadulf indicated the animal with a thrust of his jaw.

  ‘Best let nature take care of the disposal in its own way,’ Fidelma called over her shoulder, hastening along the path.

  Aidan was standing holding the reins of their horses. ‘You have been some time. What news?’

  ‘That was where Spelán was killed,’ Eadulf told him. ‘There was little else there but a shepherd’s crook and a dead sheepdog.’

  Aidan looked disappointed. ‘Then we have had a journey for nothing.’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘For nothing? We are still investigating, Aidan. We are now going to seek information about Spelán’s wife.’

  ‘And where do we start with that?’ asked Aidan, echoing what Eadulf had previously asked in the cabin.

  ‘Find the nearest habitation.’

  ‘What about asking at the abbey?’ Aidan motioned up the hill with his free hand.

  ‘I’d prefer talking to someone unconnected with the abbey first,’ Fidelma replied. ‘There is a track along the side of the copse leading down towards the forest. It looks as though it has been used, albeit infrequently. We’ll follow it, as tracks always lead to dwelling places.’

  Eadulf was examining the sky and Fidelma saw his expression.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled. ‘There is still enough daylight left to us before we have to turn for home.’

  ‘But we are spending a lot of time on this search when we thought it would be quick and easy. What if we can’t get back before nightfall?’ he protested.

  ‘Then we will have to make do the best we can. The fact that tomorrow is the night of Samhain should not curtail our search. We have this shepherd killed in a manner that is associated with the old pagan beliefs and we have a woman naming herself “raven-caller�
��, pronouncing an ancient curse on Cashel and seeking revenge for his death. Already people are frightened. You could see it in their eyes as we rode through Cashel this morning.’

  ‘Are you saying that all this was merely meant to scare the people?’ Eadulf asked.

  ‘I am saying that it would be good if we had some explanation before tomorrow’s bonfire and feasting.’

  They mounted their horses and, with Fidelma on Aonbharr confidently leading, they left the little wooded area and trotted down the hill. The track eventually came to the edge of a great stretch of forest which Fidelma knew was bordered by the mighty River Siúr. North of the swathe of woodland was the main track that she had always used to cross at the Ford of the Ass and thence travel on to Ara’s Well, and beyond to the great Abbey of Imleach where the Blessed Ailbe had first brought the word of the New Faith to the kingdom of Muman. The forest she had often skirted around and did not know well, but she felt sure that there should be at least some isolated habitations among the trees.

  In fact, the first indication that people lived hereabouts was from the distant sound of wood being chopped.

  Aidan halted, head to one side, listening.

  ‘The sound is coming from over that way, lady,’ he called, pointing.

  ‘Very well, let’s see who is making it,’ she said.

  Aidan took the lead, and they soon found themselves following a small path, just wide enough for one horse at a time. They proceeded in line. The sound of the axe cutting into wood became louder and louder until they emerged into a large clearing among the tall oaks of the forest.

  A wooden cabin dominated one side of the clearing; before it was an open fire, over which a cauldron hung. A plump, fair-haired woman was stirring something in it and steam was gently rising, sending an aroma of stewing rabbit and vegetables across the clearing to arouse their hunger. There were some outhouses and pens for animals, from which came the satisfied grunting of pigs, a protesting bleat of a goat and clucking of hens. On the other side of the clearing, a tall, muscular man, stripped to the waist, was working with a will, his torso sweating as he swung his axe against wood that he seemed intent on splitting into logs for the fire. A tall wolfhound was rising to its feet with a soft growl as it detected the newcomers. The woman looked up and saw them.

  ‘Torcán!’ she called in warning.

  The man halted in his action and stood feet apart, the axe balanced in both hands diagonally across his chest. His dark hair was streaked with grey and his skin, under the gleam of sweat, was weatherbeaten. In many ways he was the image of Curnan, albeit with more resolutely set and handsome features. He barked a quick order to the hound and the beast re-seated itself but remained vigilant, watching the newcomers intently as if waiting for the next order.

  ‘Welcome, strangers – if you come in peace,’ the man called with a not unpleasant, melodious tone.

  Fidelma eased her horse forward a few paces. ‘Why would we not come in peace?’ she replied with a frown.

  ‘I see a man who is a professional warrior with you.’

  ‘Would you fear a warrior?’

  ‘It depends on his intention. We often see the warriors hired by our chieftain who come to demand the tributes due to him. I say, a curse on all warriors!’

  ‘Warriors hired by your chieftain?’ Fidelma caught the inflection on the word. ‘Are you of the clan Sítae and doesn’t your chieftain have a right to call on the clan to serve him as warriors when the need arises?’

  ‘Yes, I am of the Sítae. Why do you ask?’ The man was suspicious, regarding them with narrowed eyes and the axe still held ready across his chest.

  ‘I presume that I am in the territory of that clan,’ Fidelma responded. She noticed that the woman was standing upright at the cooking cauldron, her body tense. ‘Know that I am Fidelma of Cashel. I am a dálaigh and you need fear no injustice from me. My companion bears the symbol of the Nasc Niadh, the Golden Collar, and is bodyguard to my brother, Colgú, the King. My other companion is my husband, Eadulf.’

  At this the tall man put down his axe while the plump woman now came bustling forward.

  ‘Lady, forgive us. The name of Fidelma is well known for truth and justice, as is her husband, Eadulf the Saxon.’

  Eadulf gave a soft groan. ‘The Angle,’ he corrected quietly, almost to himself.

  ‘Welcome, lady, welcome.’ The tall man’s features were creased in a friendly smile. ‘Get you down and let us offer you such poor hospitality as we can.’

  Fidelma swung down from her horse with an answering smile.

  ‘And you are?’ she asked.

  ‘I am Torcán, a woodsman in this forest. And this is my wife Éimhín. Éimhín, fetch us beakers of cider, so that these good folk may quench the thirst that is surely upon them from their journey.’

  The woodsman waved them across to logs that provided seats by the cabin, near the fire. When they had sat and taken their first sips of cider, according to the ritual of hospitality, only then did Fidelma broach the subject of their search.

  ‘You made an interesting choice of words just now,’ she began. ‘You said that your chieftain hired warriors.’

  ‘That is so. They are mercenaries.’ The word he used was deorad, which meant outsiders from other clans or territories.

  ‘Your chieftain must surely have his own clansmen to serve him. Why does he have to bring in outsiders?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘He must seek consent from the clan council for doing so?’

  Torcán’s bitter smile answered her question. She decided to leave the subject for a while. For a few moments she chatted lightly about the quality of the cider before she turned to her main purpose and spoke more seriously.

  ‘I suppose you know most of the people who dwell hereabouts, Torcán?’

  The tall man gestured to his cabin. ‘I was born in this cabin, as was my father before me and my father’s father. There is little I do not know of the folk who live around here. My wife was also born and bred on the banks of the great river not far from here. We are both of the clan Sítae.’

  Fidelma was examining his features as he spoke and the thought came to her. ‘Are you related to Curnan, who is also a woodsman?’

  Torcán pulled a wry face. ‘What has he been up to? He is my younger brother.’

  ‘I thought there was a resemblance. I hope he has not been up to anything. Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘Not since he was given the task of building the big bonfire in Cashel township. We are not close. He has his own cabin in the forest but nearer to Cashel. One of my sons is working with him, clearing and cutting back the road to the Ford of the Ass.’

  ‘Tell me, do you know the shepherd called Spelán?’

  At once a frown crossed the pleasant features of the woodsman and Fidelma saw that his wife, Éimhín, also looked unhappy.

  ‘Would to God I could deny knowledge of him, lady,’ the woodsman said grimly. ‘I swear that he was a scion of the Fómorii, so bent and evil is his outlook on life.’

  Fidelma glanced at Eadulf, but she knew that he would understand the reference to the undersea dwellers who were regarded in the ancient legends of her people as misshapen creatures who epitomised evil.

  ‘You obviously do not like the man,’ she observed.

  ‘I avoid him and I have told my wife and my sons to do the same. What is it that a daughter of Cashel seeks with that spawn of …’ The woodsman halted, seeing his wife’s look of disapproval.

  ‘Spelán is dead,’ explained Fidelma bluntly.

  Torcán did not appear surprised. ‘I suppose it was the drink that carried him off? And not before time either.’

  ‘No. He was murdered. The body was found in Cashel … it was hidden within the very bonfire that your brother Curnan had built.’

  There was no disguising the shock of both Torcán and his wife.

  ‘You are not telling us that Curnan killed him?’ Torcán finally asked hoarsely.

  ‘Is there any reason why he wou
ld do so?’

  ‘Everyone has quarrelled with Spelán at one time or another. He was that sort of person. Vain, drunk and argumentative. There were even rumours that he was a thief.’

  Éimhin was troubled. ‘You will find out sooner or later, lady, that Curnan once felt he had prospects with the woman who became Spelán’s wife.’

  ‘But Curnan would not strike him unless it was in self-defence – and Spelán was ever a coward who would never dare to physically provoke another man. His level of violence was in abusing his poor wife.’

  ‘His wife, Caoimhe?’ Fidelma asked at once. ‘We are told she died. Do you know how?’

  ‘Caoimhe died of a fever during the month of the brindled cow,’ Éimhín said sadly.

  ‘Nearly eight months ago?’ asked Eadulf, translating the term laethanta na riabhaiche.

  ‘Perhaps we should start with what you can tell us about Spelán,’ Fidelma invited.

  ‘Little enough is known.’ Torcán gave what appeared to be the standard answer to the question. ‘He was not of our clan, you see. He arrived here two years ago, perhaps a little less. There were whispers that he had fled his own clan territory because he’d done some wrong.’

  ‘Spelán was supposed to be a shepherd from the northern mountains,’ Éimhin added. ‘Or so he claimed when he came here.’

  ‘You doubted it?’ Eadulf asked, picking up the inflection in her voice.

  ‘When we first encountered him,’ Torcán answered for them both, ‘I noted that his hands were not those of a shepherd but of someone who had worked in quarries with stone or metal. You can tell a lot by a person’s hands.’

  ‘The flock of sheep that he herded therefore belonged to Caoimhe, his wife?’

  ‘I know nothing of legal things, lady. The rumour is that when Caoimhe died he sold the entire flock to the abbey at Ráth Cuáin. At least, those travelling across the hillside during the summer saw no sign of the sheep grazing on their usual pasture. He must have received some payment for the flock, for my brother told me that he had spent a great deal in the tavern in Cashel over the past few weeks.’