gone.
The market place appeared to be the square directly in front of thegates of the abbey. The far side of the square was formed by the collection of houses which made up the town. Only one or two other buildings gave a cursory marking to the closer sides of the square so even to call it a square was not to be entirely accurate. It was slightly too large. In the centre stood a massive yew tree which surely stood over seventy feet high, a venerable twisted sculpture of dark brown wood and green curved needles. It dominated even the great grey walls of the abbey.
‘Now that is a tree worthy of respect,’ Eadulf breathed as he halted his horse before it and gazed up.
Fidelma turned in her saddle and smiled at her companion. ‘What makes you say that, Eadulf? Do you know about this tree?’
‘Know about it? No. I merely remark on its size and age.’
‘That is the sacred totem of the Eóghanacht. Remember, I told you about it in Cashel?’
‘A totem! That is a silly pagan idea.’
‘What else is a crucifix but a totem? Each clan, each family, have what we call a sacred Tree of Life. This is our sacred. When a new king of the Eóghanacht is installed, he has to come here and take his oath under the great yew.’
‘The tree must certainly be centuries old.’
‘Over a thousand years,’ Fidelma remarked complacently. ‘It is said that it was planted by the hand of Eber Fionn, son of Milesius, from whom the Eóghanacht descend.’
Aware of the darkness closing in, and hearing the distant howl of wolves and the bark and the whine of watch-dogs about to be released for the night, they continued towards the gates of the abbey.
Fidelma halted her mare and reached forward in order to tug at the bell chain which hung beside the gates. There was a dull clanging sound of a bell from the interior.
A wooden panel slid noisily back behind a metal grille in one of the gates. A voice called: ‘Who rings the bell of this abbey at this hour?’
‘Fidelma of Cashel wishes entrance.’
Almost at once there seemed a flurry of activity behind the door. The panel slid back with a thud. Bolts were noisily withdrawn, their metal squeaking on metal. Then the tall wooden gates of the abbey were slowly pulled back.
Before Fidelma or Eadulf could move forward, a tall, white-haired figure came running forward from the gates.
Eadulf had seen Abbot Segdae a few times before. The prelate he had seen at Cashel was a tall, dignified man; a man of quiet authority. But the man who came running forward to greet them was wild-hairedand appeared distracted. His usually serene, hawk-like features were haggard. He halted by Fidelma’s saddle, gazing up almost in the position of a worshipper at a shrine seeking solace.
‘Thank God! You are the answer to our prayers, Fidelma! God be thanked that you have come!’
Chapter Eight
Brother Eadulf stretched himself luxuriously in his chair before the glowing fire in the private chamber of the Abbot of Imleach. He still felt sore and uncomfortable. Eadulf did not like arduous journeys and even though the trip from Cashel to Imleach had been comparatively short it had certainly not been easy. He sipped with relish at the goblet of mulled red wine which the Abbot Segdae had provided. Eadulf sniffed the aromatic odours of the wine in appreciation. Whoever bought the wine for the abbey had good taste.
Facing him, on the opposite side of the large stone fireplace, sat Fidelma. Unlike Eadulf, she had not touched her wine but was sitting slightly forward in her chair, hands in her lap, the wine on a table by her side. She was gazing towards the dancing sparks on the burning logs as if deep in meditation. The elderly abbot had seated himself between them, directly in front of the fire.
‘I prayed for a miracle, Fidelma, and then I was told you were at the abbey gates.’
Fidelma raised herself from her thoughts.
‘I sympathise with your predicament, Segdae,’ she said at last. It was the first comment she had made since Abbot Segdae had explained to her and Eadulf about the disappearance of the Relics of St Ailbe with their keeper, Brother Mochta. Although she had never seen the Relics herself it was impossible to be unaware of their significance. ‘But my first priority must be to resolve the matter of culpability for the assassination attempt at Cashel. There are only nine days in which to do so.’
Abbot Ségdae’s features were elongated in an expression of consternation. Fidelma had explained how matters stood at Cashel already. There was no formality between the abbot and the sister of the King. Ségdae had served her father in the office of a priest and had known Fidelma since she was a baby.
‘So you have told me. But, Fidelma, you know, as well as I do, that the loss of the Holy Relics of St Ailbe will strike fear into all our people. Their disappearance portends the destruction of the kingdom of Muman. We have enemies enough to take advantage of this disaster.’
‘Those enemies have already attempted to slay my brother and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente. As soon as I have dealt with that, I promise, Segdae, that I shall give my mind to solving this matter. I am aware, perhaps more than most people, just how significant the Holy Relics of Ailbe are.’
It was then that Eadulf leant forward, putting down his goblet.
‘You do not suppose that the two events are somehow connected?’ he asked reflectively.
Fidelma glanced at him in momentary surprise.
Now and again Eadulf had the ability of stating the obvious when others had overlooked it.
‘A connection between the loss of the Holy Relics and the assassination attempt on my brother …?’ The corners of her mouth turned down in a grimace. She considered the matter. It was true, as the abbot had said, that the people of Muman believed that the Holy Relics of Ailbe acted as a shield for the well-being of the kingdom. Their loss would cause alarm and despondency. Could the attempted assassination be a mere coincidence? ‘There might be a connection,’ she conceded. ‘How better to overturn a kingdom than first to dispirit its people and assassinate its King?’
‘And remember that one of the assassins was a former religieux,’ Eadulf reminded her. ‘He might have knowledge of the meaning of the relics.’
Abbot Ségdae started for it was the first he knew of this fact.
‘Are you saying that a member of the Faith took up a weapon against his king? How can such a thing be? That a man of the cloth would take up the weapon of a murderer … It is unthinkable!’ Words seemed to fail him.
Eadulf gestured dispassionately. ‘It is not the first time that such a thing has been known.’
‘Not in Muman,’ Segdae responded emphatically. ‘Who was this son of Satan?’
‘He was doubtless a stranger to the kingdom,’ Fidelma replied, sipping her wine for the first time. ‘Aona, the innkeeper at the Well of Ara, said he spoke with a northern accent.’
Eadulf supported her. ‘I think that we are safe in assuming that the man was from the north. Even that strange tattoo of a bird on his forearm has been identified as one that only appears off the north-east coast and is not known here in the south. So this religieux is not a man from this area.’
The Abbot Ségdaehad suddenly frozen in his chair. His face had paled considerably. There was a curiously pinched look on his features. He was regarding Fidelma with an expression approaching horror. Hemade several attempts to speak before his dry throat allowed him to articulate the words.
‘Did you say this assassin carried the tattoo of a bird on his forearm? That he spoke with a northern accent?’
Fidelma affirmed it, wondering what was wrong with the old abbot.
‘Would you describe the assassin?’ Ségdae asked, a strange tension in his voice.
‘Rotund features, short, with a mass of curly greying hair. A fleshy individual of perhaps two score and ten years of age. The tattoo was on his left arm. The bird was a species of hawk … it is known as a buzzard.’
Abbot Segdae suddenly collapsed forward, hands to his head, moaning.
