Night of the Lightbringer

by Peter Tremayne

  She did not reply but held up a hand. ‘Help me out of here.’ As she scrambled out of the hole with his aid, she asked, ‘What sort of horsemen? Are they warriors? What?’

  ‘Not warriors,’ he replied. ‘At least, so Aidan says. He thinks they are led by that woodsman, Torcán.’

  Aidan was right. There were three riders, two young men and the tall woodsman who dismounted first and seemed astonished as he recognised them.

  ‘What has happened here, lady? We saw the smoke of the burning cabin and came straight away to see if there was anything we could save.’

  ‘Good day to you, Torcán. I don’t suppose you saw anyone on the path here or leaving the area before you spotted the fire?’ Fidelma asked.

  Torcán’s eyes widened. ‘Then it was not you who set fire to the cabin?’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘A dálaigh has better things to do than go around setting fires and destroying important evidence. We have only just arrived here. So when did you notice this fire?’

  ‘One of my sons,’ he indicated one of the young men with him, ‘saw the pall of smoke rising. Since you came yesterday, and we knew that Spelán was dead, we thought to come and save what we could.’

  ‘Well, there is nothing much to save now.’ Eadulf gestured disgustedly at the cabin, where the flames, having almost exhausted the fuel, were now dying down.

  Torcán was turning away when Brother Gébennach, who had remained to examine the empty grave further, appeared round the corner. It was clear that the keeper of books and the woodsman recognised one another.

  ‘For someone who has newly joined the abbey, you seem to be well known locally, my friend,’ Fidelma observed quietly.

  The young fellow shrugged. ‘When I first arrived in this territory, I came to the cabin of the woodsman there. He and his wife were kind enough to give me directions to the abbey.’

  ‘Did you inform the woodsman that Caoimhe had been buried behind this cabin?’

  Torcán let out a whistle. ‘Is that so? No one among our tuath knew that.’

  ‘The abbot, who is your chieftain, knew it,’ Brother Gébennach replied.

  ‘Well, where is Caoimhe’s grave?’ Torcán wanted to know. ‘We need to show our respect. We are all members of the same clan here.’

  ‘The grave is no longer there,’ Fidelma informed him quietly. ‘In fact, I think the body, or whatever was buried in the grave, was removed within the last few days.’

  Torcán looked shocked. ‘What witchcraft is this?’ he breathed.

  ‘I hardly think it witchcraft,’ Fidelma replied. She removed the piece of sackcloth from her marsupium. ‘You will see that the tears on this are recent. The sackcloth was recovered from the grave but the tears show the material has not been lying in the grave more than a few days.’

  ‘What else would this be but witchcraft?’ demanded Torcán. ‘Have you forgotten what this evening is? And did you not tell us that Spelán’s body was found hidden in the Samhain fire that would have been ignited tonight to guard Cashel against the vengeful spirits of the Otherworld?’

  It was pure coincidence but there was a sudden roar of flames from the cabin and the weakened timbers crashed into the centre of the building, spitting huge sparks of fire in all directions. For a moment, in the darkening cloudy sky, the burst of flames lit the horrified faces of the woodsman and his two sons. There were similar expressions on the faces of Eadulf and Aidan.

  Only Fidelma and Brother Gébennach remained apparently unperturbed.

  It was the young librarian who finally broke the spell. Glancing up at the sky, he said, ‘Friends, I must continue my journey to Ara’s Well across the great river. When I return, I shall inform the abbot about the happenings here. Farewell.’

  They watched him in silence as he climbed onto his ass and began to amble away across the hillside in the direction of the river.

  ‘If Caoimhe was buried here,’ Eadulf said, turning to Fidelma, ‘what gain would there be in removing her body?’

  Torcán was gazing at the smouldering embers. ‘I don’t think there’ll be another shepherd living here now, not once this story is spoken of. At least the roof falling in has made the flames die down. Even if we have no more rain today, the fire will soon be extinguished. Let us return home, boys.’ The last words were addressed to his two sons, who had remained silent from the moment they had arrived. As they all mounted up, Torcán paused to gaze down at Fidelma.

  ‘There is evil in this place, lady. I would advise you to hurry back to Cashel before darkness comes, for remember what tonight is.’

  Without waiting for a response, he turned his horse and trotted away back down the hillside towards the woods, followed by his sons.

  ‘I think he is right,’ Aidan muttered, anxiously gazing up at the sky. ‘It is pointless remaining here now. Let’s get back to Cashel before dusk descends.’

  Fidelma hesitated a few moments before saying to Eadulf, ‘Just now you asked me a question: what gain was there, in removing Caoimhe’s body from the grave.’

  Eadulf nodded. ‘Is there an answer?’

  Fidelma reached into her marsupium and drew out the two small pebbles. Eadulf took them and stared closely at them.

  ‘They are a bit like the little piece of metal Aidan found in the cabin,’ he said, rubbing one against the other and seeing the sparkle of metal.

  ‘Exactly so. In silver there is the profit.’

  It was still daylight when they passed Della’s homestead on the outskirts of the township but Fidelma decided not to stop for a chat as was her usual habit. Instead, they rode straight for the central square, heading along with a few other individuals towards the focal point of the great Samhain bonfire. Fidelma noticed that Aidan was keeping a careful eye on the people they passed.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘Many of these folk are from the outlying homesteads and communities, not from the township.’

  ‘Well, it’s early yet,’ offered Eadulf. ‘Most of the locals probably won’t emerge until after dark to see the bonfire.’

  ‘That’s not the way it is done,’ Aidan told him. ‘Most people gather while it is still light and start the feasting and games around the bonfire before it is ritually lit. There just seems a lack of enthusiasm about attending this year’s feasting.’

  They came into the square by the corner of Rumann’s tavern. The unlit bonfire still towered in the centre. The woodsman Curnan and his helpers had repaired the damage and done their work well. It was a truly spectacular construction and once ignited, it would be visible right across the great Plain of Femen to the southern mountains. But there were far fewer people than usual in the square and those that were there seemed far from in a festive mood. Small groups huddled here and there, and the few traders stood waiting, by their carts, bemused by the lack of custom. Where were the large crowds on whom their livelihoods depended?

  The three riders reined in their horses and examined the scene.

  ‘Lady!’ It was Rumann. He came hurrying out of his inn towards them. Fidelma dismounted and secured her horse to the wooden railing by the tavern. The others did the same.

  ‘Greetings, Rumann. I wanted a word with you about that woman called Brancheó.’

  ‘That is exactly who I wanted to speak with you about,’ he replied fiercely, not seeming to be intimidated by her angry tone. He made a motion with his hand as if to ward off her next question.

  ‘It was a bad day that ever I spoke about her,’ he admitted, turning to the square and the isolated groups of people gathered there. ‘Now look!’

  Eadulf smiled thinly. ‘The people hereabouts have doubtless heard the story of curses and murdered bodies, and are afraid to attend the celebration this evening.’

  ‘It is disastrous. I have never seen the Samhain festival so poorly attended.’

  But Fidelma was in no mood to be sympathetic.

  ‘Did you expect otherwise, after you ignored my request to stay silent and instead sp
read the stories of murder and her curse?’

  ‘I thought it would give the evening an added attraction,’ he blustered feebly. ‘People are often fascinated by the bizarre and weird.’

  ‘It did not work, did it?’ Eadulf pointed out.

  ‘That is true,’ Rumann accepted. ‘The majority of people here have come because they have not heard the story. Those who have, are too scared to venture forth.’

  ‘All because of this woman’s silly reminder that tonight is the one night when the Otherworld becomes visible to us and the forces of evil will threaten us.’ Fidelma snorted. ‘We have lived and celebrated that old belief for countless years. So why have we suddenly taken fright? It is ridiculous.’

  ‘It is the way she has been pronouncing the curse, lady.’ It was a new voice which made the explanation. They turned round and found Curnan the woodsman.

  ‘In what manner had she been saying this curse?’ Fidelma asked.

  Curnan shuffled his large feet in the dust. ‘There is a strange intensity about the woman,’ he mumbled, looking sheepish.

  ‘Who – Brancheó? Anyone can look intense, especially when dressed up in a raven-feather cloak, with accompanying all-black clothing so that they look the very image of how we imagine an evil entity to appear.’

  ‘But it is the expression, the conviction in her voice …’

  ‘Where is the woman now?’ Eadulf wanted to know. ‘I thought she had left yesterday. Has she returned to Cashel?’

  ‘She has been going about the town since midday, calling forth curses,’ confirmed Curnan.

  ‘Stoking up the fears of people in order to prevent them from enjoying the end-of-summer celebration,’ Rumann said resentfully.

  ‘Succeeding, so it appears,’ Eadulf said. ‘And with some help from the tavern-keeper.’

  ‘There is something else, lady,’ Rumann said, ignoring the barb.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The innkeeper cleared his throat nervously. ‘She has been telling people that the curse that is about to come on this township is the fault of your brother, the King – and all the Eóghanacht. She blames all even on your ancestors right back to Óengus, the first Christian King to rule from Cashel. She says the old gods are angry and will extort vengeance before this very night is out.’

  Fidelma was smiling. ‘So I have heard before. Are you telling me that the townsfolk actually believe this nonsense?’

  Rumann did not answer and so Fidelma gave an exasperated sigh, glancing from the tavern-keeper to the woodsman.

  ‘Where is this so-called “raven-caller” now?’

  ‘What she was saying was reported to the King, your brother, lady. He sent men of his bodyguard and they took her prisoner to the fortress,’ replied Curnan.

  ‘She is a prisoner in the fortress on my brother’s orders?’ Fidelma was startled.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed the woodsman. ‘Better there than flitting around like a shadow cursing the town and spreading panic.’

  ‘Shadow, Curnan? I think you almost believe that she truly is of the Otherworld. But no – she is flesh and blood just as I am. And I can assure you that her prognostications of Otherworldly doom will be a matter of laughter by tomorrow.’

  ‘But we have tonight to survive, lady,’ muttered the woodsman.

  Fidelma suddenly looked at him closely. ‘One question before I leave, Curnan. Yesterday you were keen to visit Spelán’s cabin. Have you been anywhere near it recently?’

  ‘Not I,’ he responded immediately, his expression guileless.

  Fidelma hesitated a moment before turning to Eadulf and Aidan and saying briskly, ‘Come, let us get to the fortress for we have much to do this evening. I wish we could have resolved things before my brother’s celebratory feast. Perhaps he acted wisely in having Brancheó imprisoned for this night.’

  As they entered the gates, dusk was beginning to settle. The stable boys came running forward to take their horses. Gormán was crossing the courtyard and she beckoned the warrior over.

  ‘Good to see your safe return, lady,’ he greeted her. ‘Your brother has been fretting that you might not get back here in time for the feasting. The guests have all arrived. The princes of Muscraige Mittine, the Uí Liathán, the Déisi Mumana, Muscraige Breogáin …’

  She held up her hand to stay his recitation of the local princes.

  ‘I hear that my brother has imprisoned the woman, Brancheó,’ she said, interrupting him.

  ‘Indeed, lady. I was ordered to take some of the guard and search the town for her as reports reached your brother that she was uttering a prophecy bringing down the wrath of the old gods on Cashel and the Eóghanacht. She is in the cells of the Hall of Heroes, waiting the King’s pleasure.’

  Fidelma exchanged a frowning glance with Eadulf before saying, ‘It may be that she is involved with the murder of Spelán. I shall want to question her.’

  ‘But the hour grows late for the King’s feast, lady,’ Gormán protested. ‘If you need to question her, ’twould be better you wait until later. I see that you and friend Eadulf are both in need of a bath and change … if I do not offend you by mentioning it. Aidan, too, appears in need of a good wash.’

  Fidelma realised that the dirt and smoke from the cabin fire as well as their journey must have left their mark on all of them. She relaxed and smiled.

  ‘You are right to remind us of protocol, Gormán. Off you go, Aidan, while Eadulf and I prepare for the feast. I hope my brother is in better spirits than when we left him?’ she added as an afterthought to Gormán.

  The guard commander was sombre. ‘I too had hoped that he would be in a better frame of mind after spending time in the company of the Princess of Éile. Unfortunately, however, his mood has worsened as the day continues. I fear your brother has taken the evil prophecies to heart – but I shall say no more, lady. You may observe so tonight.’

  Fidelma and Eadulf went first to reassure little Alchú of their safe return and to pay their son some attention before ordering Muirgen to prepare their evening baths. Then, having bathed and put on clean clothing as befitted the evening’s feasting, they made their way to Colgú’s great hall, where the King was due to receive his distinguished visitors and their partners. It was Dego who had been chosen to be in charge of the warriors on duty at the feast that evening. He was standing outside the main doors as they approached: his task was to ensure that no guest entered the feasting hall carrying a weapon. It was an old tradition and established by law. Before opening the doors to allow them to pass inside, he whispered to Fidelma: ‘Forgive me, lady, a quick word.’

  ‘What is it?’ Fidelma asked in surprise.

  Dego gave a conspiratorial glance around as if anxious not to be overheard.

  ‘The King is in an ill humour. I think he has imbibed a little too much corma.’

  ‘What?’ Fidelma remembered that Gormán had warned her about her brother’s low spirits.

  ‘After you left this morning, the King began to grow morbid. He kept asking when you were returning, and had there been any word to say that you had resolved the death of the shepherd. His mood grew worse when he heard about this strange woman, the raven-caller, who has been uttering curses and prophesying the end of Cashel during the festival tonight. I have never seen him so distraught, lady, or less able to hold his liquor.’

  ‘I thought the Princess of Éile was going to be his companion throughout the day. Were they not due to go riding?’

  ‘There was some problem,’ replied Dego. ‘I think they had a disagreement of some kind and the King shut himself in his chambers for most of the afternoon. The Princess Gélgeis went riding with her ladies and one of her guards this afternoon.’

  Fidelma compressed her lips for a moment. ‘Thank you for alerting us, Dego. Stay close, this night. You may be needed before it is over.’

  ‘I shall, lady,’ the warrior assured her quietly as he opened the doors into the feasting hall.

  The great hall was a long, narrow
room. The tables stretched on either side but with the seats placed so that each guest and his or her consorts sat only on one side of the table, with their backs to the walls as tradition ordained. On the walls behind them were hooks for shields or pennants, placed depending on the rank of the guests. Behind each chair of a noble was room for the shield-bearer to stand. Shield-bearers stood only as a symbolic act, for no one but the commander of the King’s bodyguard was allowed to bear arms in a feasting hall. At the far end of the room was a dais on which a table was placed broadside on. The King and his personal retinue sat at this table. As Fidelma passed down the hall to the places allotted to Eadulf and herself, she did not need to consult the shields and pennants to recognise the princes, lords of territories, and their wives.

  There were several important guests missing that night. Finguine, the young heir apparent to the kingdom, cousin to Colgú and Fidelma; the Chief Brehon Fíthel, and, of course, the Abbot of Imleach, as Chief Bishop of the kingdom, who usually attended special functions. At the foot of the long tables, closest to the doors, sat Brother Mac Raith, as steward of Imleach. With him were his three religious colleagues. They seemed ill at ease in the company. However, Brother Conchobhar sat with them and by his side, they also saw Febal. The young poet of the Uí Briúin of Connacht had not been assigned a shield-bearer or pennant. While all courtesy was extended in accordance with the law of hospitality, the fact remained that he was a suspect in Fidelma’s investigations. However, the young man seemed completely relaxed, even a trifle debonair, for he inclined his head pleasantly to Fidelma and Eadulf as they passed, pausing in his conversation with his neighbour, the old apothecary. Fidelma and Eadulf overheard some light-hearted banter on the subject of poetry in Latin. It seemed to amuse both men.

  In the absence of members of the King’s personal household, only Fidelma and Eadulf were conducted to the left of the central chair of the King on the dais. They acknowledged the greetings from the group of guests, of which there were only thirty or more in the hall. This was unusual for an official feast but the story of the curse had spread swiftly and many found excuses not to attend.