The Monk Who Vanished

expression matching the sneer in his voice.

The old monk readjusted his crumpled clothing with grave dignity.

‘Have the two bodies been brought safely to you?’ asked Fidelma.

‘I have removed their clothing and laid them on the table but, as you instructed, I have not touched either of them.’

‘When we are finished, if we have not identified them, you may wash the bodies and wrap them in shrouds but where you will measure their graves I know not.’

‘There is always a space somewhere in the earth even for sinners,’ replied Conchobar, gravely. ‘However, the days of their lamentation will not be long.’

Among the people of Eireann, the funeral obsequies often included twelve days and nights of mourning and weeping over the body which were called laithi na caoinnti — the days of lamentation — before which the bodies were laid in their graves.

Inside the apothecary there stood a large broad plank table which was more than adequate to take the two bodies of the slain men. Indeed, this was not the first time that the table was used by Conchobar for laying out bodies as he was often called upon to perform the duties of mortician. The corpses lay side by side, naked except, for modesty’s sake, where the old monk had lain a strip of linen to mask their genitalia.

Fidelma went to stand at the foot of the table, her hands folded before her; her eyes were narrowed slightly and they missed nothing.

The first thing that she noticed, almost in grotesque amusement, was that one man was tall, thin and balding although his fair hair was worn long at the back as if to compensate for this fact, while the second man was short, of ample girth with a mass of curly, unruly greying hair. Side by side, their physical differences were almost comical. Only the fact that they were cadavers, the wounds of Gionga’s sword marking how they met their deaths, turned the comical into the grotesque.

‘Which of these two was the archer?’ Fidelma asked softly.

‘The bald one,’ answered Gionga at once. ‘The other was the accomplice.’

‘Where are the weapons that they carried?’

It was Conchobar who retrieved the bow and quiver, which contained a few arrows, and a sword from a corner of the room.

‘The warriors who carried the corpses here brought these things with the bodies,’ the old monk explained.

Fidelma gestured for the old man to lay the weapons aside. ‘I will examine them in a moment …’

‘One moment!’ Gionga ignored her. ‘Bring the quiver of arrows here.’

Brother Conchobar glanced at Fidelma but she made no protest. She knew what Gionga had spotted on the roof of the warehouse and she realised that it was wise not to delay the point he was inevitablygoing to make. The apothecary held out the quiver to Gionga. The tall warrior selected an arrow at random and drew it out, holding it out before their gaze.

‘What would you say is the provenance of this arrow, tanist of Cashel?’ Gionga asked with a feigned expression of innocence.

Donndubháin took the arrow and began to examine it carefully.

‘You know well enough, Gionga,’ interrupted Fidelma, for she was also versed in such matters.

‘I do?’

Donndubháin looked unhappy.

‘The flights bear the markings of our cousin’s people, the Eóghanacht of Cnoc Aine.’

‘Exactly,’ sighed Gionga softly. ‘All the arrows in the assassin’s quiver bear the markings of the fletchers of Cnoc Aine.’

‘Has that some meaning? After all-’ Fidelma turned innocent eyes on the warrior — ‘arrows are easily acquired.’ She drew out a small knife from her marsupium. ‘This knife was made in Rome. I bought it when I was on a pilgrimage there. It does not make me a Roman.’

Gionga flushed in annoyance and rammed the arrow back in the quiver.

‘Do not try to be clever, sister of Colgú. The provenance of the arrows is clear. And will be borne in mind when I report to my Prince.’

Donndubháin flushed at the direct insult to his cousin. ‘There is only one dálaigh among us, Gionga, and she will make the report,’ he snapped.

Gionga merely showed his teeth in a sneer.

Fidelma ignored him and took the quiver and examined it. Apart from the markings on the flights of the arrows there was no other means of identifying it from a hundred and one other such quivers. She gestured for Conchobar to show her the bow. It was of good, sturdy workmanship and with no other distinguishing marks. Then she turned to the sword. It was of poor quality, rusting around its joints and not even sharpened. The handle was strangely ornamented with the carved teeth of animals. Fidelma had seen the style of sword before — it was called a claideb dét and, so far as she knew, only one area in Eireann produced such decoration on their swords. She tried to recall where it was but could not.

‘There, Gionga,’ she said, at last, ‘we have examined these weapons. Are you satisfied that we have done so?’

‘In that we can now identify the origin of the arrows — yes!’ replied the warrior.

The door opened abruptly and Brother Eadulf entered the apothecary. He halted apologetically on the threshold.

‘I heard that you were about to examine the bodies,’ he said, a trifle breathlessly. He had obviously been hurrying.

Fidelma turned to him anxiously. ‘How is my brother … and Prince Donennach?’ she demanded.

‘Comfortable. There is no danger but they will be sore and irritable for a few days. Do not worry, their wounds are tended and they are being nursed in good hands.’

Fidelma relaxed and smiled. ‘Then you are just in time, Eadulf. I may need your eyes.’

Gionga glowered in annoyance. ‘This foreigner has no business here,’ he protested.

‘This foreigner,’ Fidelma replied in measured tones, ‘is the guest of my brother and has been trained in the physician’s art at Tuaim Brecain. He has probably kept your Prince out of harm’s way by his medical skills. Also, we may need his expert eye in the observation of these bodies.’

Gionga clenched his jaw in an expression of disapproval but made no further protest.

‘Come forward, Eadulf, and tell me what you see,’ Fidelma invited.

Eadulf moved to the table. ‘Two men, one short, one tall. The tall one …’ Eadulf bent carefully over the body, examining it minutely. ‘The tall one died from a single wound. By the look of it, it was a sword thrust into the heart.’

Gionga chuckled sarcastically. ‘I could have told you that for mine was the hand that did it.’

Eadulf ignored him. ‘The second man, the short one, died from three blows. He had his back turned to his assailant when they were delivered. There is a cut in the neck that is a dire wound. A stab under the shoulder- blade which I do not think was mortal but the back of his skull has been smashed in, perhaps with the hilt of a sword. I would say that this man was running away when he was cut down by someone who was in a position above him. Perhaps someone on horseback.’

Fidelma allowed her penetrating gaze to linger on the Ui Fidgente warrior. The silence was an accusation. Gionga thrust out his chin defensively.

‘It matters not how your enemy is slain, so long as he is rendered a threat no longer.’

‘I thought that you said this man threatened you with his sword?’ Fidelma asked quietly.

‘At first,’ snapped Gionga. ‘Then when I cut down his companion he turned and ran.’

‘And you could not capture him?’ Fidelma’s voice was sharp. ‘You had to kill him, in spite of the fact that he could have given us invaluable information about this deed?’

Gionga shuffled his feet. ‘Such considerations do not enter one’s mind in the act of combat. The man was a menace and I eliminated that threat.’

‘A threat!’ repeated Fidelma softly. ‘He looks like an elderly man and his age and corpulence would have combined to make it easy for a young warrior, such as yourself, to disarm him. Anyway, I would remember this, Gionga of the Uí Fidgente: when a dálaigh asks you a question, it is the