The Monk Who Vanished

‘I am glad that you made it back safely. Had I known you were leaving Imleach when you did I would have offered you an escort.’

Fidelma regarded her handsome cousin speculatively, trying to read what lay behind his smiling features.

‘I probably would not have made good company with Solam,’ she pointed out.

He laughed disarmingly. ‘Solam? Had I not escorted that little ferret of a man, then I doubt he would have reached here at all. Have you heard of the anger building up against the Uí Fidgente? The news of the attack at Imleach has been spreading rapidly. The destruction of the sacred yew-tree is something that the people are not going to forgive.’

‘So everyone has made up their mind that it was the Uí Fidgente?’ queried Fidelma. ‘I know that Nion, the bó-aire of Imleach, firmly believed it.’

Finguine frowned. ‘Nion? Yes, he is sure that there is some conspiracy … here in Cashel.’

‘Is that why he accompanied you here?’ she asked mildly.

‘So you have seen Nion in the palace? Yes, that’s why he accompanied me here, so that he might testify. When he does, those who stand ready to betray Cashel to the Uí Fidgente will fall.’

Fidelma blinked at the curious inflection in his voice. It was as if Finguine were trying to tell her something by innuendo.

‘Do you share Nion’s belief?’

‘There is no doubt in anyone’s mind. As the dálaigh of Cashel you will be expected to destroy the Uí Fidgente Prince at the hearing. The eyes of all the nobles of Muman will be upon you. A great restitution will be demanded and that compensation will place the Uí Fidgente for ever in our debt so that they will never rise up again.’

‘That sounds dangerously close to seeking punishment rather than retribution,’ observed Fidelma.

Finguine’s voice was harsh. ‘Of course. Let us plant the seeds of destruction among the Uí Fidgente now. For too long they have been an irritant to the Eóghanacht of Muman. If our children are to live in peace, we must ensure that they are so suppressed by our anger that they will never dare raise their eyes again and cast envious looks against Cashel!’

‘It is in the epistle to the Galatians where it is written “whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap”,’ Fidelma remarked.

‘Nonsense!’ snapped Finguine. ‘Are you saying that you plead for the Uí Fidgente? Remember your duty is to Cashel. Your duty is to your brother!’

Fidelma flushed. ‘You do not have to remind me of my duty, Prince of Cnoc Aine,’ she replied; her voice was cold.

‘Then remember the writing of Euripides, for I know that you are always fond of quoting the ancients. The gods give each his due at the time allotted. Due will be given to the Uí Fidgente and the allotted time draws near.’

The Prince of Cnoc Aine wheeled about and stalked away, his temper clearly getting the better of him.

Eadulf shook his head wonderingly. ‘That is a young man with fire in his head,’ he observed.

‘He will plant thorns and expect to gather roses unless he is dissuaded,’ agreed Fidelma seriously.

The winds had eased a little and they came to a sheltered battlement. Leaning on it, they stared down at the town below them. Although it was growing late, the town seemed to be alive; horses, riders, wagons, and people were thronging the streets.

‘Like an audience waiting for the drama to commence,’ Eadulf observed. ‘It’s becoming like a market day.’

Fidelma did not reply. She knew that Finguine, her cousin, spoke for many people who were now gathering below. Yet if he were so animated in his anger against the Uí Fidgente, what was he doing with Solam? She could not quite accept the idea that he merely escorted Solam to Cashel out of duty. Why were he and Solam riding in the woods searching for Brother Mochta and the Holy Relics? What did they know about them? No, there was something not right there.

She found her eyes suddenly dwelling on the roof of a warehouse on the far side of the market square. She blinked. The warehouse of Samradán.

‘Samradán’s warehouse,’ mused Fidelma. ‘I think part of our answer will be found there.’

‘I am not sure that I understand,’ Eadulf replied, following her gaze towards the building.

‘No matter. Tonight, after dark, we are going to pay a visit to Samradán’s warehouse. It is from there that this mystery started. I suddenly feel that it is from there that this mystery will be resolved.’

Chapter Twenty-One

Obediently, Eadulf followed Fidelma into the night, leaving the dark walls of the palace by a small side door away from the main gates to avoid the speculative gaze of the sentinels. Darkness had spread like a shroud over the town of Cashel. Clouds, scudding at hilltop level, obscured the moon.

However, now and then the round white orb of the bright new moon broke through sudden gaps in the clouds, bathing the scene momentarily with its ethereal light, almost as limpid as day. Apart from the twinkling lights from the buildings, they could smell the pungent smoke rising from numerous chimneys, marking the start of the contest to keep the autumnal chill at bay. There seemed little movement in the town. Most of the visitors crowding the streets a few hours before had taken themselves into the inns and taverns but the din of their entertainment was muted. A dog barked here and there and once or twice there came the scream of enraged cats disputing a territory.

Fidelma and Eadulf reached the market square without anyone observing them in the evening gloom.

‘That’s Samradán’s warehouse.’ Fidelma pointed unnecessarily, for the events of the attempted assassination were still clear in Eadulf’s s memory. The warehouse stood on the far side of the square in complete darkness. It appeared deserted.

They crossed the square quickly and Fidelma made immediately for the side door of the building which she had noticed before. It was shut and fastened.

‘Is it barred from the inside?’ asked Eadulf as Fidelma tried vainly to open it.

‘No. I think it is merely locked.’

She used the word glas. Irish locksmiths were proficient in the manufacturing of locks, keys and even door chains to secure buildings and rooms. Some of them were very intricate. However, when he was a student at Tuaim Brecain, Eadulf had been taught the art of how to unpick a lock by the insertion of a strand of metal into the poll-eochrach or keyhole. He reached into his purse and drew out thesmall length of wire which he had come to carry and grinned in the darkness.

‘Stand aside, then. You need an expert,’ he announced, as he bent to the lock.

It took him longer than he expected and he sensed Fidelma’s growing impatience. He was just beginning to wish that he had not been so confident when he heard the telltale click that told him that he had been successful.

He reached for the handle and the door swung inwards. Then he clambered to his feet.

Without a word, Fidelma went inside. He followed and closed the door carefully behind them.

The warehouse was in darkness and they could see nothing.

‘I have flint and tinder and a stub of candle in my purse,’ Eadulf whispered.

‘We dare not use a light in case we are observed from outside,’ returned Fidelma in the stillness. ‘Wait a moment or two until our eyes adjust to this darkness.’

At the same time the moon broke through the clouds again and the gap seemed large enough to allow the light to bathe through the upper open windows of the warehouse, illuminating it. It was a shell of a building. There was no upper floor. Just the flat roof on which the would-be assassins had found shelter. At the back of the warehouse were bales packed high and stalls in which Samradán obviously stabled his dray horses. Taking up most of the space in the warehouse were the two heavy drays, or wagons, which Fidelma and Eadulf had last seen in the yard of Aona’s inn.