Peter Tremayne - The Devil's seal

The man lay face down, and they noticed that part of his garments had been ripped away, revealing a number of criss-cross scars on his back. But they were old and healed wounds, as if he had been scourged some years ago. Gormán turned the body over. The victim was an elderly man, with sallow skin. There was something foreign in his appearance that Gormán could not quite place. His tonsure was certainly cut in the manner of Rome rather than that of the Five Kingdoms. The other body was that of a younger man, who also wore the tonsure of Rome.

‘Strangers, I would guess,’ Gormán said. ‘They were probably travelling upriver when they were attacked. Robbery appears to be the motive. I can’t see any signs of personal valuables or even a cargo on the boat. And before you ask, Dego, the boat’s bow is facing upriver. It is logical that they were moving in that direction.’

Enda grinned. ‘You have indeed been taking lessons from the lady Fidelma.’

Dego, having tied the horses to a nearby bush, had come forward and started turning over the remains of the burned pieces of vellum or papyrus with his foot. ‘Well, there are not enough of these pieces surviving to make sense of any of them. I wonder why they burned them? Vellum and papyrus are so hard to come by that a scribe would offer much merely to re-use them; to clean and write over the old text. I’ve seen it done. And. .’

He suddenly bent down and picked up something. He came to his feet squinting at a small round object between his thumb and finger.

‘What is it?’ Gormán asked.

‘I thought it was a silver coin,’ replied the other in disgust. ‘But it is just a round piece of lead. There are some letters on it as if it was a coin, but no one would use lead as currency.’ He squinted at it more closely. ‘V. . I. . T. . A. .’ he read aloud. ‘I can’t make out any more.’

‘ Vita is Latin for life,’ declared Gormán knowledgeably.

‘Well, it’s not worth anything.’ Dego tossed it in the air and caught it deftly. ‘I can use it as a weight for my line when I go fishing.’

‘But who do you think was responsible for this?’ Enda demanded.

‘I heard that there was a band of Déisi youths who are in rebellion against Prince Cummasach,’ Gormán replied. ‘It might be their work.’

The Déisi comprised a small principality south of the river whose princes owed allegiance to the King of Muman.

‘Could rebellious youths have committed such butchery?’ Enda asked dubiously.

‘I have heard that there was bloodshed over a cattle raid these youths carried out near Garbhán’s fort. They have been proclaimed élúdaig , absconders before the law, outlaws, losing their rights in society. This is why they have probably taken to murder and brigandage,’ replied Gormán.

Enda glanced round and noticed some lengths of rope still coiled on the boat.

‘The best thing to do is get these corpses onto the boat and cover them as decently as we can. That way, we can protect their bodies from the ravens. Then, if I am not mistaken, we are only a short ride from the chapel of Brother Siolán. We can use the rope to tow the boat along the river with our horses from the bank. I am sure that the good Brother Siolán will offer these men a Christian burial.’

Gormán agreed and waded to the boat to pull it closer to the bank. Enda and Dega lifted the first corpse, the elderly religieux, and placed it in the vessel while Gormán was securing one end of the rope to the bow.

‘It’s a light craft, therefore I think we can get away with one horse pulling it,’ he said with satisfaction, stepping back onto the river bank.

It was while his companions were lifting the next corpse, that of one of the boatmen, that a movement caught the corner of Gormán’s eye. At first he thought it was one of the intimidating ravens and turned to meet the threat. Then his eyes widened. It was coming from the body of the younger religieux.

In a moment, he had fallen to one knee beside the man and was feeling for a pulse point in the neck.

‘By the powers!’ he exclaimed in a shocked voice. ‘This one is still alive.’

Enda brought the goatskin water bag immediately from his horse and poured some of the liquid across the lips and face of the man. He was a handsome fellow with dark hair. There was bruising on the side of his head, but Gormán’s trained eye observed that there were no other deep cuts or abrasions.

The trickle of the water brought momentary consciousness, and suddenly the young man was striking out and moaning as if in the belief that he was still under attack. But he had no strength and Gormán was easily able to contain his threshing arms.

‘It’s all right, all right.’ His voice was calm and reassuring. ‘You are among friends.’

The young man coughed, muttered something in a harsh-sounding language that Gormán felt was familiar but did not understand, then he relapsed into unconsciousness.

‘Will he survive?’ demanded Enda, peering over Gormán’s shoulder.

‘We must get him to Brother Siolán,’ replied Gormán. ‘He has the knowledge of healing.’

Enda was frowning at the face of the young religieux.

‘He is a stranger to me and yet. . yet I swear those features are familiar. What language was it he spoke?’

Gormán shrugged, disclaiming knowledge. Then: ‘Help me place him in the boat. It will be an easier way of transporting him than trying to put him on a horse.’

The young man did not recover consciousness while he was settled in the boat away from the three corpses that had been his companions.

Enda volunteered to stay on the boat with one of the oars to help guide it while Gormán, having had one last look at the debris on the bank, to make sure that they had left nothing of importance behind, took the other end of the rope and secured it to his saddle. Enda, using the oar, and with the help of Dego on the bank, pushed the craft away from the muddy bank. Gormán then began to walk his horse along the water’s edge. It was difficult at first, and now and then Enda had to use the oar to keep the boat from embedding itself into the mud. It was not long, however, before Gormán and Enda achieved a means of hauling the boat along at a reasonable pace. Behind Gormán rode Dego, leading Enda’s horse and ready to help should difficulties arise. All were uncomfortably aware that behind them, the dark ravens seemed to be following as if reluctant to part with their intended meal — the corpses in the boat.

Cill Siolán, the little chapel of Brother Siolán, was situated on a straight stretch of the river and marked by a wooden quay from which a path led to the nearby chapel and the cabin where Brother Siolán lived. As well as the path from the river, there was a track which led to the large settlement called the Field of Honey, which lay further to the west. Set apart from the river and track, Siolán’s hut was nestled in the surrounding forests that spread over the hills towards the distant prominence of the Sliabh na mBan.

The three warriors guided the boat, with its grisly cargo, to the quay. As Gormán secured the craft, Enda looked up at the sky.

‘We have no hope of reaching the Field of Honey before nightfall now.’

‘At least we don’t have to camp in the open,’ Dego said. ‘I’ve heard Brother Siolán is quite hospitable.’

A voice hailed them and a stocky figure in religious robes came trotting down the path to the quayside. He was a fleshy-faced man with bright blue eyes and a mass of sandy hair. By his side moved a large wolfhound, with wary eyes.

‘Gormán! It is good to see you again. What brings. .?’ The greeting stopped short as his eyes fell on the contents of the boat. ‘In God’s name, what has happened?’