Peter Tremayne - The Devil's seal

That was it; it was his brother reminding him of the ghosts of the past, his family and boyhood home. But Eadulf had never rejected them; he had never denied them. He had simply grown up and moved on. That was exactly what he had told his brother. Vestigia nulla retrorsum — no footsteps backwards. He experienced a curious thrill of hatred because his brother had disturbed his life. Then he rebuked himself sharply for this train of thought. What of Fidelma? What of their son Alchú? What of the times he had shared with them in their world? Was he now beginning to believe he was in the wrong place? Of course not! This was the world that he had wanted to share; it was his world, not an alien one.

His mind drifted back to that first encounter with Fidelma in the Abbey of Hilda at Streonshalh. He had gone there with no other purpose but to represent the new teachings from Rome; to argue against the old rites of the western churches, so fiercely represented by the religious representatives of the Five Kingdoms. He had been walking along a corridor in the abbey when she had come swiftly round a corner and collided with him, her mind clearly elsewhere. He had reached out and caught her, to save her stumbling backwards and falling. Some empathy had sparked from her green eyes as he gazed at her tumbled red hair, her pale skin and delicate sprinkling of freckles. She had spoken stiffly in Latin: ‘Forgive me.’ He politely replied that it had been his fault. They had stood there for a moment — a moment when pure chemistry had passed between them. Then they had continued on their separate ways.

It was a few days later, after her friend Abbess Étain had been murdered and the outcome of the debate between the two factions had been jeopardised by the suspicions of both parties, when King Oswy and Abbess Hilda had suggested that Fidelma and Eadulf jointly investigate the mystery, so that neither faction could claim bias. They had been thrown together, strangers to each other apart from that one accidental meeting. Now, six or seven years later, they were still working together and had produced a young son. Of course Eadulf was no alien to this land, he was no alien. .

‘Brother Eadulf!’ a voice bellowed in his ear and a firm hand was clapped on his shoulder.

Eadulf blinked rapidly and found he was leaning dangerously off his horse; the only thing preventing him from falling was the steadying hand of the warrior, Luan. Eadulf righted himself in the saddle and raised a hand to rub his forehead.

‘You were drifting, Brother Eadulf,’ rebuked Luan. ‘I saw you nodding off.’

‘Were you falling asleep, athair ?’ Alchú, seated on his pony, was regarding him gravely.

Eadulf turned and smiled reassuringly at him. ‘I was just thinking, little hound. Just thinking.’

‘Are you well, friend Eadulf?’ asked Luan anxiously. ‘Perhaps we should return.’

‘I was awake most of the night,’ Eadulf confessed. Then, seeing the look of disappointment on his son’s face, he went on: ‘I’ll be fine. Ferloga’s inn is just a little way on. We’ll go on and rest there before turning back.’

He turned his concentration to his horse, annoyed with himself for letting his brother’s unexpected appearance have such an effect on him.

Earlier that morning, having seen Eadulf ride off with Alchú and Luan, Fidelma set out to find Gormán. She wanted to make sure that Deogaire had spent the night safely in restraint. Having been so assured, she asked Gormán to accompany her to the roof of the guest quarters, to re-examine it in daylight. Things missed in the darkness of night might reveal themselves more clearly in the daylight. She started with the place where the marble statue of Aoife had been and saw where the iron bar or lever had been placed to ease it forward, leaving score-marks on the parapet.

She turned and said, ‘Gormán, one of your men found an iron bar on the roof last night. It was used to topple the statue. I think he might have abandoned it by the door over there when we chased down the other exit.’

Gormán went across to the door and immediately returned with the piece of iron, which measured over a metre in length. Both ends had been hammered flat, thus producing an ideal tool for the purpose it had been put to the previous night.

‘This looks like a forsua-fert . It’s a smithy’s work to produce this,’ Gormán commented.

Fidelma held out her hands and took it. A ‘pole chisel’ was usually used in digging roots of a tree, or moving blocks of masonry or objects long sunken in the soil. The iron was certainly heavy and would have had to be raised to shoulder height or a little higher, to dig at the base of the statue. It would need a person of strength and determination to do so. ‘Could our smith identify it and perhaps lead us to its user?’ she wondered aloud.

‘It’s a common enough tool,’ Gormán replied. ‘Come to think of it, some of the workmen repairing the wall at the south-east corner were using similar tools to shift the rockfall. However, the smithy might be worth questioning.’

Deogaire was certainly capable of wielding the instrument. But who else had such strength? Then she suddenly asked herself why she had this curious reticence about condemning him. Everything seemed to fit. His antipathy; his threat — or warning, as he would have it; the coincidence that he had been ejected from his relative’s house, having provoked that action. . she was not overlooking the fact that Deogaire had provoked the argument in spite of Brother Conchobhar’s excuses.

‘Bring it with you,’ she smiled apologetically, handing the iron shaft back to him. ‘We need it as evidence.’ Then she turned and continued her examination of the wall, but nothing else seemed to present itself. She sighed and turned to the patient warrior. ‘Let’s go back down through the main building.’

They had come up through the guest quarters and now, as they turned to descend, she halted abruptly, nearly colliding with Gormán behind her. A figure was blocking the stairway. Brehon Aillín raised a pale, startled gaze to her.

She said nothing but merely stood regarding the old judge, whose chest was heaving.

‘I was just coming to get some fresh air,’ he gasped, as if he had run up the stairs.

‘I trust you are in good health, Brehon Aillín? You seem out of breath.’

Brehon Aillín drew himself up, his old arrogant self reappearing. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will tell you the truth. Whether your brother likes it or not, I am Chief Brehon. I came to see if there was anything I could find that might be overlooked by a young, inexperienced dálaigh .’

For a moment Fidelma held back her reaction to smile. She wondered if the old man knew that Colgú had told her of his attempt to take legal action against Eadulf, and even against Colgú, having learned that he had asked the Council of Brehons to meet and elect a new Chief Brehon. Brehon Aillín was certainly his own worst advocate. She did feel sympathy for his age and experience, but there came a time when people should retire with dignity.

‘You are welcome to examine the roof all you want,’ she replied. ‘We have already done so. I do not think there will be much that you will be able to find now.’

Brehon Aillín scowled, turned and continued to climb the stairs onto the roof. As he did so, Fidelma saw his eyes fall on the iron shaft that Gormán still held. She saw his eyes widen a fraction and his mouth open a little. It was only for a moment and then his features assumed their usual expression of disdain. Fidelma was sure the old man had recognised the iron tool. A series of thoughts registered. Could she have been entirely wrong? Did Aillín have strength enough that he could have levered the statue from its place to fall on her and Eadulf as they passed? Had he come to the roof because he remembered that he had dropped the iron bar as he fled and now sought to retrieve it? It seemed impossible. But what was the meaning of the expression when his eyes fell on the metal bar? Well, it was no use pursuing that line at the moment. It would have to wait until she could manipulate the right situation.