‘I have no idea. In the entire history of our community no one has ever attacked this sacred spot.’ He suddenly paused and a troubled look crossed his features.
‘What?’ demanded Fidelma.
Brother Madagan avoided her gaze. ‘The legend. Perhaps it is true?’
For a moment Fidelma did not understand him and then she remembered.
‘The disappearance of the Ailbe’s Relics! Superstition. That is all.’
‘Yet the coincidence is great. The Holy Relics have disappeared. It is said if they leave this spot, then Muman will fall. They have done so and now the abbey is about to be destroyed!’
Fired by her own apprehension Fidelma became angry.
‘Foolish man! The abbey is not destroyed yet and will not be if we put our minds to defending it.’
Eadulf came hurrying back. He glanced at the prone body of the abbot in horror. ‘Is he …?’
‘No,’ Brother Madagan replied. ‘Ségdae has been struck by a missile. Can you find someone to fetch our apothecary, Brother Bardan?’
Eadulf turned back down the stairway. Almost at once he was back. ‘A young Brother has gone for the apothecary.’
Fidelma glanced grimly at him. ‘And how is Samradan?’
‘The merchant is being comforted by Sister Scothnat.’ Eadulf suddenly glanced across the wall towards the square in front of the abbey. ‘Look!’
They followed his outstretched hand with their eyes.
A band of half a dozen men had dismounted from their horses near the great yew-tree which grew before the abbey walls. They all bore axes and began to systematically hack at the ancient tree. They worked in coordination as if the matter had been carefully planned and was no mere whim of vandalism.
Eadulf frowned, perplexed.
‘What is going on?’ he demanded in bewilderment. ‘In the middle of a raid, they are stopping to cut down a tree?’
‘God protect us!’ cried Brother Madagan. His voice was almost a despairing wail. ‘Can’t you see? They are cutting down the sacred yew-tree.’
‘Better that than they cut down people,’ observed Eadulf in black humour, still not understanding the significance of the raiders’ actions.
‘Remember what I told you,’ Fidelma spoke sharply. Even she had a sudden pale cast to her features. ‘This is the sacred tree symbol of our people said to have been planted by the hand of Eber Fionn himself, the son of Milesius, progenitor of the Eóghanacht of Cashel. It is an ancient belief among our people, Eadulf, that the tree is the symbol of our well-being. If the tree flourishes, we flourish. If it is destroyed …’
She did not finish.
Eadulf received the statement in silence. Once again he was confounded by the curious mysticism of this land that he had grown to love. On the one hand the country was more Christian than any of the Saxon kingdoms he knew of. On the other it was far more pagan than most Christian lands he knew. And Fidelma, the most rational and analytical of people was actually troubled by the fact that someone was cutting down the great yew- tree. Eadulf began to realise the true significance of that symbolism. He had always thought that in pagan times the trees had been worshipped. He now realised that this was but a special veneration for trees as symbolic of the oldest living things in the world. Living! What was happening through the destruction of this symbol, which was called ‘The Tree of Life’, was much more than an insult to the Eóghanacht dynasty of Cashel. It was a means of dispiriting them and their people.
There were many things he felt he ought to say but then considered it wiser to say nothing.
They could just hear, in spite of the tolling of the great bell, the axes of the attackers biting into the ancient wood with a rhythmic sound that seemed at odds with the din of destruction and death.
Brother Bardan, the apothecary, came up onto the roof followed byyoung Brother Daig, his assistant. Bardán immediately knelt by the abbot and examined his wound.
‘He has been struck a nasty blow but it is not life threatening,’ the apothecary commented after a cursory examination. ‘Brother Daig will help me carry him to his chamber.’ He glanced up at Brother Madagan. ‘What are our chances, Brother?’
‘Not good. They are not attacking the abbey as yet but they are cutting down the great yew.’
Brother Bardán gave a sharp intake of his breath and genuflected as he looked over the wall to confirm the truth of what Brother Madagan had said. For a moment he stood mesmerised by the sight beyond. The sound of axes being swung was clear now. The apothecary shook his head in dismay.
‘So that is why they are not attacking the abbey directly,’ he observed softly. ‘They do not have to.’
‘Oh, for a few good archers,’ Fidelma cried in frustration.
Brother Daig looked momentarily shocked. ‘Lady, we are of the Faith,’ he protested.
‘That does not mean that we should let ourselves be destroyed.’
‘But Christ taught …’
Fidelma made a typical gesture of impatience, a cutting motion of her hand. ‘Do not preach to me of poverty of spirit as a virtue, Brother. When men are poor in spirit then the proud and haughty oppress them. Let us be true in spirit and determined to resist oppression. Only then do we not court further oppression. I say again, a good archer might save this day.’
‘There are no such weapons in the abbey,’ Brother Bardan commented, ‘let alone men to use them.’ He turned back to the unconscious abbot. ‘Come on, Daig, we must see to the abbot’s welfare.’
They lifted the elderly abbot between them and carried him down the stairs.
For some time Fidelma, Eadulf and Brother Madagan stood in frustration watching the attackers hacking at the old tree. It was impossible for Eadulf to entirely empathise with the angry impotency shared by Fidelma and Madagan as they stood watching its destruction. He could intellectualise about its meaning but to actually feel the alarm and trepidation that the act was causing, was still beyond him.
His eyes suddenly caught sight of a movement and Eadulf pointed across the square.
‘Look! Someone is running towards the gates of the abbey. A woman!’
A shadow had detached itself from the burning buildings and wasrunning and stumbling forward in an obvious attempt to gain the protection of the abbey gates.
‘The gates are closed,’ Brother Madagan cried. ‘We must go down and open them for the poor creature.’
With one more quick glance at the scene below and realising that she could do no more from that vantage point, Fidelma turned and followed Brother Madagan and Eadulf to the courtyard.
At the gate they found Brother Daig who had apparently just returned after helping the abbot back to his chamber.
‘Get the gate open,’ shouted Brother Madagan as they hurried up. ‘There is a woman trying to enter!’
The young man hesitated with an alarmed expression. ‘But that might let the attackers in,’ he protested.
Eadulf simply pushed the young man aside and began to tug on the wooden bolts.
Brother Madagan joined him.
Together, they drew back the great wooden bars which secured the gates, much to the consternation of several of the other brethren who gathered behind Brother Daig. They appeared uncertain what to do. Eadulf and Madagan pulled the main gates inwards.
The running woman was a dozen paces away from the gates. Eadulf had a feeling that she seemed familiar. He moved forward to shout words of encouragement to her but, to his dismay, he saw that a mounted raider had began to pursue the woman and was about to overtake her.
Brother Madagan ran forward through the gates and was holding his crucifix before him as if it would turn back the approaching warrior just by the sight of it.
‘Templi
He had managed to insert himself between the woman and the approaching rider whose sword was upraised, the blade flashing against the light of the fires across the square.
The warrior’s sword arm swung back and Brother Madagan half spun, a splash of red across his forehead.
