She went before him and for a second he raised his face to the great hanging white orb of the moon, eyes closed exultantly, letting the death-white flesh of his face bathe in the chilly white light.
‘Come on, then,’ he heard her call impatiently. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘I am coming,’ he replied hastily. His heart was beating so loud that it seemed to drown out all other sounds. He felt the sweat trickling down his forehead and around his eye sockets. He raised a hand to wipe his face. Then he set off with slow sure steps after her shadowy form, as it seemed to momentarily vanish along the pathway into the moonlit woods.
‘My lord Becc, come quickly!’
Becc, chieftain of the Cinél na Áeda, glanced up in annoyance as Adag, his steward, burst into his bedchamber without even the courtesy of knocking. It was an unforgivable lapse of social etiquette and he opened his mouth to deliver a reprimand, but the servant was continuing.
‘Brother Solam from the abbey has just arrived at the gates. The abbey is under attack,’ gasped the rotund and balding man. ‘Abbot Brogán asks that you go to his assistance immediately.’
Becc had been up late, feasting and drinking with his guests. His head ached and his mouth was dry. He groaned a little and reached for a flagon that stood on a table near his bed. He raised it and took a mouthful or two directly from it. His face screwed into a look of distaste as the stale liquor washed down. His steward looked on with disapproval.
‘Wine is sweet in the drinking but bitter in the paying,’ observed Becc in self-defence, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Adag focused beyond the chieftain’s shoulder and piously intoned: ‘He who drinks only water will not be drunk.’
Becc gazed at him sourly, opened his mouth and then closed it again. Another aphorism came unbidden into his mind. Let you be drunk or sober, keep your thoughts to yourself.
He rose and began to move rapidly, dressing quickly and ignoring his disapproving steward until he had buckled on his sword.
A dishevelled Brother of the Faith was waiting in agitation in the anteroom beyond. He was young, with fair hair.
‘Brother Solam,’ Becc greeted him. ‘What is this news that you bring me?’
‘The abbey is under attack, my lord Becc. My abbot bids you-’
Becc made a cutting motion with his hand, silencing the man.
‘The abbey is under attack? Who is attacking it?’ he demanded sharply.
‘The villagers, my lord. Yet another body, the body of the young girl named Ballgel, was found in the woods this morning…’
The chieftain’s eyes widened with shock. ‘Ballgel? But she works in my kitchen. She was here last night until late because we had guests…’ He turned quickly to his steward, who had followed him. ‘Adag, at what time did Ballgel leave the rath last night?’
‘Just after midnight, lord. I was at the gate when she left. She went alone.’
Becc turned to Brother Solam. ‘It is certain that it was Ballgel who was killed?’
‘It is certain. The villagers are in an ugly mood. This is the third young girl of the village who has been killed in as many months. A crowd has marched on the abbey and called upon the abbot to hand over the three visiting religious. The abbot refuses and now they are in fury, rage and clamour. They say they will attack the brethren and set fire to the abbey unless the strangers are handed over.’
‘Why the strangers? Do the villagers have evidence that they killed Ballgel?’
Brother Solam shook his head quickly. ‘The villagers are full of fear and suspicion, lord. But that does not make them any the less dangerous.’
‘I have already alerted the guard, my lord Becc,’ Adag intervened. ‘The horses should be saddled by now.’
‘Then let us ride for the abbey!’ Becc ordered decisively, turning to lead the way to the courtyard. ‘Brother Solam can ride behind one of our warriors.’
The abbey of the Blessed Finnbarr was only a short ride away, a cluster of wooden buildings gathered by the banks of the River Tuath. The buildings were encompassed by a wooden stockade which served to keep out wolves and other nocturnal scavengers. Before the wooden gates, which were hardly strong enough to exclude one determined man, a group of forty or fifty men and women had gathered. Facing them stood a slightly built, elderly religieux with silver hair. His clothing proclaimed him as a senior member of the community. At either side of him stood two young, nervous-looking brethren.
The old man was holding up his hands as if calling for quiet. However, the shouting and outrage of the crowd drowned out his words.
‘Hand over the strangers! We will deal with them!’
At the forefront of the crowd was a thickset villager with a dark black beard and an angry expression. He carried a thick cudgel in one of his large hands. Those around him roared their approval of his belligerent leadership.
‘This is a house of God!’ The thin, reedy tone of the old man made itself heard in a momentary lull of the angry murmurs. ‘No one dare enter the house of the Lord with violent intent. Go back to your homes.’
At this the people howled their disapproval. Someone threw a small stone from the back of the crowd. It passed over the people’s heads and struck harmlessly at the walls. But the implication was dangerous.
‘In the name of God, Brocc, take these people away from this place before harm is done.’ The old man appealed directly to the burly leader. They were almost face to face, so that no one else could probably hear the words of appeal.
‘Harm has already been done, Abbot Brogán,’ replied the man as loudly as he could so that those around would know what was being said. ‘More harm shall be done if you refuse to give up the strangers to justice.’
‘Give them up to vengeance is what you mean. Our visitors walk in the shadow of God. They are protected not only under the ancient laws of hospitality but under the sacred rule of sanctuary.’
‘You would protect the murderers of our children?’
‘Where is your proof against them?’
‘The proof is the mutilated bodies of our daughters!’ cried Brocc, raising his voice so that all the people could hear him.
A loud acclamation greeted his words.
‘You have no proof,’ countered one of the younger Brothers of the Faith at the abbot’s side. Unlike the abbot’s, his voice was young and strong and carried. ‘You have come here only because these religious are strangers in our land and for no other reason. You fear them simply because they are strangers.’
Another missile was aimed from the back of the crowd. This time it caught the young Brother a glancing blow on the forehead, causing a red gash of blood, and the impact made him stagger back a step or two. The crowd growled menacingly, like an animal, in their approval of the bloodshed.
‘Unless you wish to suffer the same fate as the strangers, Abbot Brogán,’ threatened Brocc, ‘you will hand them over.’
‘You dare to threaten the abbot?’ cried the second Brother, his expression aghast. ‘You have already raised your hands against the brethren of this community, for which God’s punishment will surely pursue you. But you dare to threaten-’
‘Enough of words!’ Brocc yelled and raised his cudgel menacingly.
It was then that the chieftain Becc, with Adag his steward and four of his warriors, came riding up, pushing their horses through the crowd. The people fell back with sullen expressions at the sight of their chieftain and his armed horsemen.
Brother Solam, who had been riding behind one of the warriors, slipped off the horse and hurried to the abbot before turning to the crowd, standing in front of the abbot in an attitude of protection. The people had suddenly fallen into an uneasy quiet. However, Brocc did not wish to lose the momentum he had gained.
‘Well, lord Becc,’ he called in a sneering tone, ‘have you come to sanction the punishment of the murderers or do you support those that would protect them?’ He flung out a hand and pointed accusingly at the abbot. ‘The abbot refuses to hand the murderers over to justice.’