‘What now?’ demanded Eadulf.
‘Don’t you see it?’ she whispered in excitement.
Eadulf squinted forward and then he realised what it was.
‘A light ahead,’ she confirmed. ‘Natural light. But there is something else as well.’
They moved forward a little, turning round a bend in the passage. The light became clearer; a grim, grey light filtering along the tunnel. And in the silence they could hear the sound of a crackling fire.
Fidelma put her head close to Eadulf ear in the gloom. He felt her lips brush against his cheek.
‘Not a sound,’ she whispered. ‘Someone is in the cave ahead of us.’
She began to move forward, almost imperceptibly. After a while, as the light grew stronger and brighter, she halted and disengaged her hand from his. There was no longer any need for they could see each other plainly. In front of them stretched a fair-sized cave with an entrance which seemed blocked by a wooden barrier, over the top of which was an expanse of azure sky. Rays of sunlight filled the cave.
The cave was large and dry except for a small trickling stream that ran to one side of it. A fire was crackling in the centre. There were various items strewn around the cave. Near the fire, stretched on a palliasse, lay the figure of an elderly, rotund man. He was clad in the habit of a religieux. His left arm was bandaged and so was his left foot. A staff, laying near to his hand, obviously served him as a crutch. There was no one else in the cave.
Eadulf and Fidelma stared at the figure in growing amazement.
It was Eadulf who moved into the cave first, causing the figure to start, half raise himself on an elbow, and reach for his staff as if he would defend himself. He paused as his eyes took in Eadulf’s religious clothing.
‘Who are you?’ he cried, his voice cracking with fear.
Eadulf halted with an expression of utter amazement on his features.
Fidelma pushed by Eadulf and fought to find her voice. ‘Have no fear, Brother Mochta. I am Fidelma of Cashel.’
The rotund religieux visibly relaxed and, with a sigh, fell back on his palliasse.
Eadulf continued to stare at the recumbent form in fearful astonishment. ‘But you are dead!’ he blurted.
The round-faced man raised himself again on one elbow. Although there was pain on his face, he was clearly amused.
‘I would disagree with you, Brother Saxon,’ he replied. His tone was droll. ‘But if you can prove it, I will accept your judgement. God’s truth, I feel near enough to death not to argue.’
Eadulf moved forward and stared down, examining the man’s features carefully.
It was true. There could be no doubt about it. The man lying before him, perched on one elbow, grinning up at him, was the same moon-faced man whom he had last seen dead in the mortuary of Cashel. It was the same man, even to the tattoo of the bird which Eadulf now identified on the injured man’s left forearm.
Chapter Eighteen
Fidelma seated herself by the man on the palliasse. She did not seem unduly surprised at the appearance of the moon-faced religieux who had, apparently, last been seen by them dead in the apothecary of Brother Conchobar of Cashel.
‘How bad are your wounds, Brother Mochta?’ she inquired with some solicitude.
‘Painful still but I am told they will heal,’ replied the man.
‘Told by Brother Bardán, of course?’
The man grimaced in an affirmative gesture.
Eadulf could not take his eyes from the man whose features did not deviate in one jot from the dead assassin, except … Eadulf could not quite place it. There was something else, of course. This man still wore the Irish tonsure of St John, his forehead shaved back to a line from ear to ear. But there was another indefinable difference.
‘I presume that Brother Bardan has been treating your injuries while you have been hiding here? You trusted no one?’
‘It is hard to trust anyone, especially if you have been betrayed by someone whom you have known all your life; flesh and blood that you have grown up with. Once betrayed by your own kin, how can you trust anyone else?’
Fidelma motioned to Eadulf to sit down. Reluctantly, Eadulf did so, still unable to take his eyes from the portly monk.
‘You are referring to your twin brother, of course?’ Fidelma asked.
‘Of course.’
Eadulf surprise became apparent on his features. ‘His twin brother?’ He echoed stupidly.
Brother Mochta nodded sadly. ‘My twin brother! You do not have to mince words with me, Sister. Brother Bardan told me how he was killed in Cashel. Yes, he was my twin brother, Baoill.’
‘I had begun to suspect as much,’ Fidelma said with little satisfaction in her voice. ‘One person cannot be in two places nor wear two distinctive tonsures. The answer to that conundrum could only be that there must be two people. How can two people look so exactly alike?It can only be that they are related, siblings, no less. And, even further, it can only be that they are twins.’
Brother Mochta nodded morosely. ‘Identical twins,’ he agreed. ‘How did you find me here? I suppose Bardan told you where I was? We talked about it yesterday, after the attack. He was beginning to be confident that we could trust you. But then he saw you being friendly with the Uí Fidgente lawyer, Solam. Solam has been keen to discover my whereabouts.’
‘Is that when Bardán identified some remains as being you?’ asked Fidelma.
‘I did not like that idea but Bardan felt it was the only way to stop Solam continuing to search for me. To buy us some time to discuss what best we should do.’
‘Perhaps you had better tell us in your own words what happened to bring you to this state,’ she invited.
Brother Mochta looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Can I trust you?’
‘I cannot answer that,’ replied Fidelma. ‘All I can tell you is that I am Colgú’s sister and my loyalty is to Muman. I am a dálaigh and took an oath to uphold the law above all things. If that is not sufficient for you to trust me, then I can add nothing further.’
Brother Mochta compressed his lips for a moment in silence as if struggling to make up his mind.
‘How much of the story do you know?’ he finally asked. Fidelma shrugged. ‘Little enough. I know that you faked your disappearance, taking most of the Holy Relics with you. I presumed that your brother managed to steal one of the items, Ailbe’s crucifix, in which struggle you probably received your injury. Not trusting anyone, you hid here and Brother Bardan kept you supplied with food and medicine. Where is he now, by the way?’
Brother Mochta was puzzled.
‘Brother Bardan? I have not seen him since last night? Didn’t he send you here?’
Fidelma leant forward, eyes narrowed. There was an edge to her voice.
‘Are you saying that he has not been here at all this morning?’
The injured monk shook his head. ‘I am expecting him sometime for we decided last night that our best course of action was to seek protection, especially after the attack.’
‘What manner of protection?’
‘Bardán decided to go to the Prince of Cnoc Aine and tell him the story. We knew that Finguine was a friend to the abbey and a loyal cousin to the King. We agreed to lay the matter before himand Finguine could then make the decision as to whether to tell you. When you came, just now, I thought that Finguine or Bardán had sent you …’ He broke off, looking disturbed. ‘How did you find me?’ he insisted.
‘With luck,’ muttered Eadulf, still perplexed by the whole matter.
‘Why didn’t you confide in me and tell me that you were safe as soon as I came to the abbey?’ demanded Fidelma, annoyed that so much time had been lost by the subterfuge.
Brother Mochta gave a tight smile. There was some pain in it and he eased his left leg carefully to take some pressure from his wound.