The Monk Who Vanished

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.

‘You mean that he wore a tonsure on the crown of his head cut in the same fashion as my companion?’

‘Have I not said as much?’ protested the innkeeper. ‘Why I noticed it so particularly, and found it curious, was because it was no longer clean-shaven but as if he had started to grow his hair to cover the tonsure.’

‘What else can you describe about this short man?’

That he was short and of ample girth; that his hair was grey andcurly otherwise. He was of middle age and although he did not wear the clothes of the religious, he certainly had the manner of one.’

Eadulf glanced to Fidelma. ‘That sounds like our assassin.’ He turned back to the innkeeper. ‘And what of his companion?’

Aona thought a moment. ‘I think the other man was fair-haired. The hair was long at the back. I cannot be sure. He wore a cap and was dressed in a leather jerkin. He carried a quiver and bow and by that token I thought he was a professional bowman.’

Fidelma sighed in satisfaction. ‘Near enough, I think. And you say that these two were in this very inn a week ago?’

‘So far as I can remember. The only other thing that makes me clearly remember the pair was the discrepancies in their build. Just as you have pointed out.’

‘You do not recall from whence they came nor where they went.’

‘Not I,’ replied the innkeeper.

Eadulf’s face fell. ‘That means we know no more than we did before.’

Fidelma pursed her lips in disappointment.

The door suddenly opened and the boy whom Fidelma had spoken to about his fishing entered.

Aona gestured to the child. ‘My grandson, Adag, might be able to help you further. He served them while I tended their horses.’

Before she could raise a question, Aona had turned to his grandson. ‘Adag, do you remember the sport you made of the two fellows who were in the inn two weeks ago?’

The boy placed his fishing line and basket on the table and glanced nervously at Fidelma and Eadulf. He said nothing.

‘Come on, Adag, you are not in trouble. You must remember that you had such fun because one was tall and lean and the other short and fat and together they made a funny pair?’

The boy inclined his head almost reluctantly.

‘Can you tell us anything about them, Adag?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘Apart from their appearance that is.’

‘Only that one was fat and the other a bowman.’

‘Well, that we know. But what else?’

Adag shrugged indifferently. ‘Nothing else. I served them while my grandfather attended to their horses.’

‘So they came on horseback?’ Eadulf pointed triumphantly. He turned to Fidelma. ‘Unusual, for the monk to travel on a horse.’

The child stared at him curiously. ‘Why so, when you and the Sister here travel on horseback?’

‘That is because …’ Eadulf was about to respond when Adag’s grandfather interrupted.

‘You have to learn, boy, that some religious do not have to abide by the general rule against riding on horses if they are of a certain rank. I will tell you more, later. Now reply to the lady’s questions.’

Adag shrugged. ‘I remember that the fat one handed the bowman a leather purse while they drank together. That is all.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Nothing, save the fat one was a stranger.’

‘A foreigner?’

‘No. A man of Eireann but not from the south, I think. I could tell by his accent. The bowman was from the south lands. I know that. But not the monk.’

‘You did not hear what they spoke about?’

The boy shook his head.

‘Did anyone see from which direction they came?’

‘No. But the fat one did arrive first,’ offered Aona.

‘Ah? They did not arrive together?’

‘No.’ This time it was Aona who spoke. ‘I remember now. The fat one arrived first and his horse needed attention. There was only myself and grandson here. So I went out to see to the horse while Adag served the monk with a meal. It was then that the bowman arrived. I did not see from what direction for I was in the stable.’

‘And could you tell nothing from their horses?’ Fidelma pressed. Aona was shaking his head and then his eyes lit up. ‘The bowman’s mount was scarred. It was a war horse. Chestnut coloured. Past its prime. I saw several healed wounds on it. The saddle spoke of a warrior’s steed. He had a spare quiver attached to the saddle. Apart from that, he carried all his weapons with him. I recall that the fat one’s horse was in good fettle and his harness and saddle were of good quality. They were of the quality one expects a merchant to use. But that is all I remember.’

Fidelma stood up. From her marsupium she took a coin and gave it to Aona.

‘I think your clothes are dry now, Eadulf,’ she said firmly.

Aona was thanking Fidelma even as Eadulf took his dried clothes from the pole and folded them into his saddle bag.

‘Shall I look out for these two strangers, then, lady?’ Aona asked. ‘Are these the people I must tell Capa about?’

Fidelma smiled wryly. ‘If you see these two strangers, Aona, I would seek out a priest rather than Capa. They were killed this morning after they tried to assassinate my brother and Prince Donennach.’

She raised a hand in farewell and turned for the door, followed by Eadulf.

Once mounted, she saw Aona and his grandson, Adag, standing at the door, watching them.

‘Be vigilant!’ she called, turning her horse from the inn yard and along the road to Imleach.

They rode on in silence for a while. The path took them along the north bank of the Ara with the sky darkening perceptibly. To the south of them, the long wooded ridge of Slievenamuck stood framed against the light southern sky while, before them, the tip of the lowering sun was hovering above the western horizon. The road was easy and fairly straight, running across high ground away from the lowlands around Ara’s Well. To the north of them, some miles away, there rose yet another range of hills. When Eadulf inquired what they were called, Fidelma told him that they were the Slieve Felim mountains, a rough and inhospitable country beyond which lay the lands of the Uí Fidgente.

For the most part they rode in silence because Eadulf could see Fidelma’s brow creased in thought and in such circumstances, he knew it was ill-advised to interrupt her. She was doubtless turning the information they had been given over in her mind.

They had travelled about eight miles when Fidelma suddenly raised her head and became aware of her surroundings.

‘Ah, not far now. We are almost there,’ she announced with satisfaction.

Almost at once they emerged from the wooded track to an open hilly area. Eadulf needed no prompting to identify the great stone-walled building as being the abbey of St Ailbe. It dominated the little township which stretched before it, although there was a distance between the abbey walls and the edge of the main buildings of the town. Eadulf was aware that both abbey and town were surrounded by stretches of grazing land, edged with forests of yew-trees; yet they were trees of the Irish variety with their curved needles that marked them from the yew-trees with which he was familiar in his own land. The trees were tall and round-headed, some of them, curiously, seeming to grow out of many trunks, twisted and ancient.

‘This is Imleach Iubhair …’ Fidelma sighed. ‘The Borderland of Yew-Trees’. This is the land that my cousin, Finguine of Cnoc Aine rules over.’

The township was quiet. It was much smaller than Cashel and to call it a township seemed to be a compliment. But Fidelma knew that the abbey and its church had helped to develop a thriving market there. The area seemed deserted and she presumed everyone would be at their evening meal. Vespers had come and