‘Thank God! You are the answer to our prayers, Fidelma! God be thanked that you have come!’
Chapter Eight
Brother Eadulf stretched himself luxuriously in his chair before the glowing fire in the private chamber of the Abbot of Imleach. He still felt sore and uncomfortable. Eadulf did not like arduous journeys and even though the trip from Cashel to Imleach had been comparatively short it had certainly not been easy. He sipped with relish at the goblet of mulled red wine which the Abbot Segdae had provided. Eadulf sniffed the aromatic odours of the wine in appreciation. Whoever bought the wine for the abbey had good taste.
Facing him, on the opposite side of the large stone fireplace, sat Fidelma. Unlike Eadulf, she had not touched her wine but was sitting slightly forward in her chair, hands in her lap, the wine on a table by her side. She was gazing towards the dancing sparks on the burning logs as if deep in meditation. The elderly abbot had seated himself between them, directly in front of the fire.
‘I prayed for a miracle, Fidelma, and then I was told you were at the abbey gates.’
Fidelma raised herself from her thoughts.
‘I sympathise with your predicament, Segdae,’ she said at last. It was the first comment she had made since Abbot Segdae had explained to her and Eadulf about the disappearance of the Relics of St Ailbe with their keeper, Brother Mochta. Although she had never seen the Relics herself it was impossible to be unaware of their significance. ‘But my first priority must be to resolve the matter of culpability for the assassination attempt at Cashel. There are only nine days in which to do so.’
Abbot Ségdae’s features were elongated in an expression of consternation. Fidelma had explained how matters stood at Cashel already. There was no formality between the abbot and the sister of the King. Ségdae had served her father in the office of a priest and had known Fidelma since she was a baby.
‘So you have told me. But, Fidelma, you know, as well as I do, that the loss of the Holy Relics of St Ailbe will strike fear into all our people. Their disappearance portends the destruction of the kingdom of Muman. We have enemies enough to take advantage of this disaster.’
‘Those enemies have already attempted to slay my brother and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente. As soon as I have dealt with that, I promise, Segdae, that I shall give my mind to solving this matter. I am aware, perhaps more than most people, just how significant the Holy Relics of Ailbe are.’
It was then that Eadulf leant forward, putting down his goblet.
‘You do not suppose that the two events are somehow connected?’ he asked reflectively.
Fidelma glanced at him in momentary surprise.
Now and again Eadulf had the ability of stating the obvious when others had overlooked it.
‘A connection between the loss of the Holy Relics and the assassination attempt on my brother …?’ The corners of her mouth turned down in a grimace. She considered the matter. It was true, as the abbot had said, that the people of Muman believed that the Holy Relics of Ailbe acted as a shield for the well-being of the kingdom. Their loss would cause alarm and despondency. Could the attempted assassination be a mere coincidence? ‘There might be a connection,’ she conceded. ‘How better to overturn a kingdom than first to dispirit its people and assassinate its King?’
‘And remember that one of the assassins was a former religieux,’ Eadulf reminded her. ‘He might have knowledge of the meaning of the relics.’
Abbot Ségdae started for it was the first he knew of this fact.
‘Are you saying that a member of the Faith took up a weapon against his king? How can such a thing be? That a man of the cloth would take up the weapon of a murderer … It is unthinkable!’ Words seemed to fail him.
Eadulf gestured dispassionately. ‘It is not the first time that such a thing has been known.’
‘Not in Muman,’ Segdae responded emphatically. ‘Who was this son of Satan?’
‘He was doubtless a stranger to the kingdom,’ Fidelma replied, sipping her wine for the first time. ‘Aona, the innkeeper at the Well of Ara, said he spoke with a northern accent.’
Eadulf supported her. ‘I think that we are safe in assuming that the man was from the north. Even that strange tattoo of a bird on his forearm has been identified as one that only appears off the north-east coast and is not known here in the south. So this religieux is not a man from this area.’
The Abbot Ségdaehad suddenly frozen in his chair. His face had paled considerably. There was a curiously pinched look on his features. He was regarding Fidelma with an expression approaching horror. Hemade several attempts to speak before his dry throat allowed him to articulate the words.
‘Did you say this assassin carried the tattoo of a bird on his forearm? That he spoke with a northern accent?’
Fidelma affirmed it, wondering what was wrong with the old abbot.
‘Would you describe the assassin?’ Ségdae asked, a strange tension in his voice.
‘Rotund features, short, with a mass of curly greying hair. A fleshy individual of perhaps two score and ten years of age. The tattoo was on his left arm. The bird was a species of hawk … it is known as a buzzard.’
Abbot Segdae suddenly collapsed forward, hands to his head, moaning.
Fidelma rose and took an uncertain step towards the crumpled old man.
‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘Are you ill?’
It was some moments before the abbot regained his composure. ‘The person whom you are describing is Brother Mochta, the Keeper of the Holy Relics. The one who has disappeared from our abbey.’
There was a silence for several long moments.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Eadulf, feeling foolish as he said it, for the description left one in no doubt. There could surely not be two people sharing such a likeness.
Ségdae expelled the air from his lungs in an almost violent hiss. ‘Mochta was originally from the Clan Brasil in Ulaidh,’ he began.
‘A northern kingdom,’ Fidelma interjected for Eadulf’s benefit.
‘He had that same distinctive tattoo on his left forearm.’
Fidelma was silent for a moment as she considered the matter.
‘Then our mystery merely deepens, Segdae,’ observed Fidelma at last. Ignoring their puzzled looks, she went on. ‘When did you last see this Brother Mochta?’
‘I saw him last evening at Vespers.’
Vespers was the sixth canonical hour of the breviary of the Church, sung by the religious when Vesper the evening star rose in the sky.
‘Did he often leave the abbey?’ Fidelma pressed.
Ségdae shook his head. ‘To my knowledge, he hardly ever left the abbey since he came here to be our scriptor ten years ago.’
Eadulf raised his eyebrows and glanced meaningfully at Fidelma. ‘Did you say that he was your scriptor?’ he asked quickly.
Ségdae made an affirmative gesture. ‘He came here to work on our Annals and then became Keeper of the Holy Relics.’
‘Surely, in view of the value and significance of these relics,’ Eadulfbegan, ‘it was strange to appoint a man from another kingdom as their keeper?’
‘Brother Mochta was a pious and conscientious man who fulfilled his religious duties well and without thought of any particularism. He was devoted to this abbey and to his adopted land.’
‘Until now,’ Eadulf observed quietly.
‘He has been with us ten years, six of which were as Keeper of the Relics. Are you claiming that he stole the Relics and went to Cashel last night to kill King Colgú? It is impossible to believe.’
‘Yet if he was as you describe, even to the tattoo of the buzzard on his left forearm, then his body lies dead in Cashel, cut down while trying to flee from the scene of the assassination,’ replied Eadulf.