The Monk Who Vanished

‘I think that we have the confirmation we need to apportion blame,’ he announced with satisfaction. ‘Come.’

They followed the man to the yew-tree. He stood aside and pointed to part of the unburnt wood, to something engraved on the fallen trunk. It was a symbol, a crude carving of a boar.

‘The emblem of the Prince of the Uí Fidgente.’ Finguine did not have to explain.

Fidelma regarded it for a moment.

‘It is interesting that, during what was a stealthy night attack, someone went to great pains to let us know who the attackers were,’ she mused.

At that moment a clear note on a trumpet sounded.

It was Finguine’s men returning, those whom he had sent to chase the raiders.

They came riding into the township, their horses dusty and tired. Their leader saw Finguine and rode over, halting and sliding from his mount. Even as his feet touched the ground he was shaking his head in disgust.

‘Nothing,’ he growled angrily. ‘We lost them.’

Finguine frowned in displeasure. ‘Lost them? How?’

‘They crossed a river and we lost their tracks.’

‘Which way were they going when you lost contact with them?’ asked the Prince of Cnoc Aine.

‘North, veering towards the mountains, I would say. But we lost their tracks in the Dead River. They could have turned in any direction from there. I believe that they continued north.’

‘Didn’t you scour the north bank to find out where they left the river?’ demanded Finguine.

‘We rode a mile or so in both directions in order to pick up their tracks but we were unable to do so. There was a lot of stony ground there.’ The man sounded bitter at his Prince’s rebuke.

‘I did not mean to criticise your ability,’ Finguine assured him. ‘Go, get some food and rest.’

The warrior was turning back to his men when his eyes fell on the shattered ancient yew-tree.

‘This is a bad sign, Finguine. It is an evil augury,’ he stated quietly.

The Prince of Cnoc Aine’s mouth was a thin line. ‘The only thing that this means is that those who did it will be brought to justice,’ he snapped.

‘Just a moment,’ Fidelma called after the warrior as he began to lead his horse away. ‘What makes you think that they continued in a northerly direction from the Dead River?’

The man glanced back. He hesitated and then shrugged. ‘Why would you ride as if the Devil were on your tail, directly north, and then turn aside at the river in a different direction? They were obviously in a hurry to get back to the safety of their own territory.’

‘Perhaps they rode for the river knowing that it might be a good place to lose any pursuers?’ Eadulf posed the question for Fidelma.

The warrior regarded him with a sour look. ‘I won’t preach a sermon, Brother, if you do not lead warriors in battle. I still say they were heading north.’

‘Then perhaps you should have gone north as well?’ replied Fidelma blandly.

The warrior was about to respond when Finguine signalled him to leave.

‘He is a good man, cousin,’ Finguine said, defensively. ‘It is bad manners to question a warrior’s decision.’

‘I still think that he made the wrong decision. If he thought they were going north he should have followed his intuition.’ Fidelma glanced towards the fallen yew-tree. ‘Everywhere I turn in this matter I am left with supposition, with guesses. I want more than a carving on a tree. Anyone can carve such a well-known symbol.’

Finguine looked surprised. ‘You mean that you will ignore this evidence?’

‘No. I never ignore evidence. But such evidence as this needs to beconsidered more carefully than simply reacting to it. I want something more than a drawing which might have been left purposely to make us believe it was a boastful acclamation of the raiders.’

‘Perhaps we should examine the body of the warrior next?’ ventured Eadulf after a moment. ‘As you have said, it might give us some clues as to his identity.’

They left Finguine continuing to examine the damage in the township and went back to the abbey. Eadulf suddenly asked: ‘You don’t suppose all these things are coincidences, do you?’

‘Not connected?’ Fidelma considered the proposition seriously.

‘Coincidences do happen.’

‘The reason why we started out on this journey to Imleach was because of the attempted assassination in Cashel. That brought us to the abbey. When we arrived here, we found that Brother Mochta, Keeper of the Holy Relics of Ailbe, had vanished with those relics and that one of the relics had been carried by one of the assassins and that person is thought to be Mochta, except we have the contradictory evidence of the tonsure. The attack on the abbey and the township and the destruction of the sacred yew of the Eóghanacht might be coincidence but it seems unlikely.’

‘I do not see the connection,’ protested Eadulf, who did not notice the slight smile playing around the corners of Fidelma’s mouth.

‘Let us consider the connections then,’ Fidelma said. ‘The finding of the relic on the assassin. The fact that the assassin was a religieux and that his description fits that of Brother Mochta even down to the tattoo of a particular bird on his forearm. These are facts, not coincidences.’

‘How do you deal with the mystery of the tonsure?’ Eadulf asked irritatingly. They had halted in the cloistered courtyard of the abbey.

‘What of the fact that the other assassin, the one called the archer, Saigteóir, was known to have spent a few days here in Imleach? He bought his arrows from Nion the smith here. Why was Samradán’s driver killed when he was revealing that the archer also met Brother Mochta here and another man whom he addressed as ‘rígdomna’, the title of a prince. These are facts.’

‘True. But I will give you another fact which does not make sense,’ Eadulf offered. ‘There is the fact that the timescale does not really coincide. That makes no sense. How could this Brother Mochta be seen in Imleach at Vespers wearing a tonsure of St John and less than twelve hours later be in Cashel with the remnants of a Roman tonsure over which he had been growing hair for several weeks?’

Fidelma waved the objection aside. ‘What of the fact that the Cashel merchant, Samradan, whose warehouse was the point from which theassassination attempt was launched, is here in Imleach? It was his driver who told us about the archer for which he paid with his life. Is that a coincidence?’

‘Perhaps. I don’t know. We must have a further word with Samradan.’

Fidelma smiled. ‘On that point I agree with you.’

‘I still believe that we might be putting facts together which are unconnected,’ Eadulf persisted.

Fidelma restrained a chuckle. She enjoyed it when Eadulf summarised matters for it helped in her consideration of the facts. Often she used him as devil’s advocate to sort out her own ideas but she could not tell Eadulf that.

‘I think that we can be certain of one thing,’ Eadulf summed up. ‘That is I believe that Nion, the smith, is right. I know little of these people you call the Uí Fidgente but everyone seems agreed that their hand is behind this attack. They can’t all be wrong.’

‘Eadulf, if I did not have to present proof but only suspicion to a court, I do not doubt that we would have all the Uí Fidgente convicted within the hour. But that is not how our laws work. Proof is what is needed and proof we must obtain or declare the Uí Fidgente to be innocent.’

Brother Tomar was crossing through the courtyard at that moment.

‘Do you know where the merchant Samradan is?’ called Fidelma. Brother Tomar shook his head quickly. He was, so she had found out, the stableman at the abbey. He was a rough-mannered country youth who preferred the company of his animals than the company of people.

‘He has left the abbey.’

Brother Tomar was about to move on when Fidelma stayed him. ‘Left?’ she asked. ‘To go to the township?’

‘No. He left with his wagons.’

‘Did his drivers escape unhurt? I thought I saw Cred’s tavern burnt to the ground.’