They walked back into the courtyard of the abbey, after Finguine had issued orders to his men to fan out through the township and see what they could do to help the injured and to quench the fires.
‘He is trussed up over here,’ Eadulf said, leading the way to where they had left the surly warrior.
The man was lying where they had left him, his back against the abbey wall, hands tied behind him, his legs outstretched beforehim, still tied at the ankles. His head was slumped forward a little on his chest.
‘Come on, man,’ cried Eadulf, moving forward. ‘Rouse yourself. It is time to answer a few questions.’
He bent and touched the warrior lightly on the shoulder.
Without a sound the warrior rolled over on his side.
Finguine dropped to his knee and placed his hand on the pulse in the man’s neck.
‘By the crown of Corc of Cashel! Someone has revenged themselves on this man. He’s dead.’
With an exclamation of surprise, Fidelma moved forward to her cousin’s side.
There was blood on the man’s chest. Someone had stabbed him through the heart.
Chapter Thirteen
Night had made the raid seem more destructive than it had been in reality. There were a score of dead from the town and a further dozen or so were wounded or injured. Only half a dozen buildings had been burnt down. A few more buildings were damaged, though not beyond repair. Even so, the effect on such a small community as Imleach was devastating. Among the main buildings destroyed was the smith’s forge, a warehouse and the inn that had belonged to Cred.
Abbot Ségdae and Brother Madagan, wearing their bandaged foreheads like insignia of distinction, had turned lauds into a short service of thanksgiving for the safe delivery of the abbey. Even the burly Samradan was there, looking somewhat shame-faced and irritable. Fidelma and Eadulf set off with her cousin, the Prince of Cnoc Aine, to walk to the town in order to assess the damage for themselves.
Little was said about the great yew-tree whose wood still smouldered in front of the abbey. Its destruction was beyond mourning.
The first person they saw as they walked across the square was Nion the smith, the bó-aire. Nion was leaning heavily on a stick and his leg had been bandaged. He wore a long woollen cloak wrapped around him against the morning chill. It was fastened at the shoulder by a silver brooch in the design of a solar symbol with three red garnets, similar to the one Finguine wore. He was staring morosely at the remains of his forge while his assistant, Suibne, was picking through the rubble. As they approached, they could smell the acrid stench of burnt wood mingling with other odours which they could not begin to identify, all rising together to make the atmosphere corrosive and caustic in their lungs.
Nion did not glance up as they approached.
‘It is good to see you alive, Nion,’ Finguine greeted him. He seemed to know the smith of old.
Nion looked up, recognising the Prince of Cnoc Aine, and bent his head slightly forward in acknowledgement.
‘My lord, thank God that you came in time. We might all have been slain and the whole town destroyed.’
‘Alas, I did not arrive in time enough to spare your loss, Nion,’replied the Prince of Cnoc Aine, looking grimly over the ruins of the forge.
‘I will survive, I suppose. There are others of our township who will not. We shall see what we can recover from the ashes.’
Finguine shook his head sadly. ‘It will take a while to restore your forge,’ he observed. ‘A pity. It was only the other day that I thought to prevail on your craftsmanship and commission you to make me another of these silver brooches.’ He fingered the brooch on his cloak absently. Then he noticed Nion’s injury. ‘Were you badly wounded?’
‘Bad enough,’ Nion replied. ‘And I shall not be earning a living as a smith for a while yet.’
‘Were you here when the raid began?’ Fidelma intervened for the first time.
‘I was.’
‘Can you describe exactly what happened?’
‘Little to tell, lady,’ he said ruefully. ‘I was awakened by the clamour of the attack. I was asleep at the back of my forge. I ran out and saw upwards of a score of men riding through the streets. Cred’s tavern was already in flames. People were running hither and thither. I could not recognise who the attackers were; just that they were intent on burning the town. So I grabbed a sword from those I had been sharpening. I had my duty as bó-aire. I ran out, determined to save my forge and the town but — the cowards! — I was struck from behind. As I fell, another attacker speared me in the leg. Then the flames were eating at the forge. My assistant, Suibne, dragged me away and we took shelter.’ He glanced, embarrassed, at Finguine. ‘Although I am bó-aire, and it is my task to protect my people, I am not expected to commit suicide. There were no warriors here and none who could help me drive off the attack.’
‘You did not recognise the attackers? You do not know who they were or where they were from?’ pressed Finguine.
‘They rode from the north and returned to the north.’ The smith spat on the floor. ‘There is little need to ask who they were.’
‘But you do not know who they were for certain?’ insisted Fidelma.
‘Who else could they be but Dal gCais? Who else but the murdering Uí Fidgente would make such an attack on Imleach and destroy the great yew?’
‘But you do not know for sure?’ she stressed once again.
The smith’s eyes narrowed in unconcealed anger. ‘Next time I meet an Uí Fidgente I will not need proof before I slaughter him. If I am wrong, I am prepared to go to hell just for the pleasure of taking one Uí Fidgente with me! Look what they havedone to my township.’ He flung out his arm expressively to the smouldering ruins.
Finguine turned with a serious look to his cousin. ‘It is true that most of the people feel like this, cousin. Indeed, who else can it be but the Uí Fidgente?’
Fidelma drew him and Eadulf out of earshot of Nion, away from the forge.
‘This is precisely what I need to find out,’ she said. ‘If it is the Uí Fidgente, so be it. But we must be sure. Donennach of the Uí Fidgente stays currently in Cashel to conduct a treaty with my brother. He and my brother were wounded in an attempted assassination. In a few days there will be a hearing in which we must prove Uí Fidgente duplicity or be held up before all the five kingdoms of Eireann as the aggressors. I do not want theories, I need proof of their involvement.’
Finguine was sympathetic. ‘It was a pity someone took vengeance on your captive. We might have been able to learn something from him.’
‘I wonder if vengeance was the motive to stab him in the heart and dispatch him so quickly and silently?’ Fidelma said the words absently as if pondering the matter.
Finguine and Eadulf regarded her with surprise.
‘I am not sure what you are implying?’ the Prince of Cnoc Aine said hesitantly.
‘My implication is simple enough,’ she responded.
‘Do you think that he was murdered to prevent him revealing the identity of the attackers?’ Eadulf had more quickly understood the implication of what she had said.
Fidelma’s expression told him that he was correct.
Eadulf’s mind worked quickly. ‘But that would mean … surely, that would mean that a member of the abbey was working hand in glove with the raiders?’
Fidelma shook her head at his tone of incredulity.
‘Or someone in the abbey,’ she corrected. ‘Is that so difficult to believe? Every strand of this mystery leads to this abbey.’
Eadulf raised a hand and tugged at his ear thoughtfully.
‘I am casting my mind back. We left the warrior trussed up and went into the tower. Was he still alive when we came down, having heard the approach of Finguine? I cannot vouch for it.’