Peter Tremayne - Master of Souls

‘Yet you do not wear a tonsure. All religious wear tonsures.’

It was the young woman who answered for him.

‘Brother Maros is a follower of the Blessed Budoc of Laurea, a learned scholar in his own land. His followers do not wear a tonsure.’

The warrior’s eyes narrowed at her intervention.

‘Can’t he answer for himself?’ he snapped.

Esumaro edged forward protectively in front of the young woman.

‘I can. It is as my Sister in the Faith, Sister Easdan, says. I follow the Blessed Budoc.’ He was glad he remembered the name that Abbess Faife had identified the girl with.

The black-bearded leader grunted, seemed about to say something, and then glanced once more at the robed figure. It was as if some communication passed between them again for he turned away and gestured for the company to move.

‘Forward now and in silence,’ he called. ‘Remember, it is up to you if you wish to live or die. My men will be watchful.’

Esumaro turned his head to the young Sister Easdan with a look that he hoped conveyed his gratitude. He would have to ask her who this Budoc was. But what situation had he landed himself in? God in heaven! What evil had he been plunged into?

I t was still dark when Abbot Erc left his warm chamber in the great abbey of Ard Fhearta, throwing his woollen cloak around his bent shoulders, to make his way through the vallium monasterii. It was still dark although he could see that the clouds were low in the sky and the rain was fine like an icy spray against his face. The winter sun would not rise for several hours yet but the community of the abbey would soon be waking to the tolling of the bell that announced the start of a new day. For the ageing abbot this was a special day, for it was the feast of the Blessed Ite, ‘the bright sun of the women of Muman’, who had fostered and taught Breanainn, the founder of Ard Fhearta. Today, special prayers would be offered in the tiny oratory where, it was said, Breanainn had first read the principal triad of Ite’s teachings to those men and women whom he had called together at this place. He had exhorted them, as Ite had, to have a pure heart, live a simple life, and be generous with their love. Since then the community had lived as a conhospitae, a mixed community, men and women working together in the service of the New Faith.

Abbot Erc paused for a moment outside the small, stone-built aireagal — the house of prayer, as it was called, although many of the brethren preferred to use the Latin term oraculum. Then he pushed open the wooden door and stood for a moment in the utter darkness of the interior. He was surprised that there was no light inside and his immediate reaction was irritation. It was the task of the rechtaire, the steward of the community, to ensure that a lamp was always lit in the aireagal. He had also expected the Venerable Cinaed to be waiting for him so that together they could bless the oratory and light the altar candles ready for the morning prayers.

He turned and looked back through the gloom and misty rain towards the darkened buildings of the abbey behind him.

There was no sign indicating that the Venerable Cinaed was on his way. That was unlike the abbey’s oldest scholar. Cinaed was reputed to be so old that many of the younger religious felt he must surely have known Breanainn himself. The truth was that Cinaed had, indeed, known some older members of the abbey who had, in turn, known the blessed founder. He had been at Ard Fhearta longer than anyone else and when Erc had been elected by the community to be abbot here, he had been worried by the thought that it was a position which Cinaed should rightfully hold. But Cinaed was content to confine himself to his cell with his manuscripts and writing materials and indulge in his scholastic pursuits. He occasionally taught the young ones in the arts of calligraphy and composition. More important, while the Venerable Cinaed was a religieux he was not ordained into the priesthood and showed no inclination to be so. However, it was a tradition that as the oldest member of the community he should assist in the ceremony of blessing the oratory on Ite’s feast day.

Abbot Erc paused for a moment or two longer and then turned to the shelf by the door on which he knew a tallow candle stood. A tinderbox reposed close by. He reached out, feeling rather than seeing in the gloom, and with a practice born of long years he was able, after a few minutes, to ignite the shavings to produce a flame for the candle.

Feeling a little calmer, he moved forward into the aireagal and came to a halt before the altar.

Awkwardly, he lowered himself to his knees, placed the spluttering candle before him, and stretched out his arms to make a symbolic crucifix form with his body in order to intone the cros-figill, the Cross prayer before the altar.

He was about to start the ritual when he noticed something on the flagstones just before him. He frowned and reached forward. It was a bronze crotal, a closed bell: a pear-shaped metal form in which was a loose metal ball, which created the musical tone. As he picked it up, he realised that its surface was wet… sticky wet. He drew his hand away and looked at it in the light of the candle. The sticky substance was blood.

Abbot Erc reached for the candle and clambered to his feet, peering round in the gloom. The aireagal was clearly empty, unless… He looked at the altar and noticed the dark stains before it.

‘Is there anyone there?’ Abbot Erc’s nervous question came out as a croak. He cleared his throat. ‘In the name of God, is there anyone there?’ he called in a stronger tone.

There was no reply.

He moved forward. The altar was a solid block of limestone, carved with the names of the Sanctissimus Ordo, the first holy saints of Eireann. He edged round it, holding the candle high.

The body was stretched on its back with its hands above the head as if someone had dragged it behind the altar by the outstretched arms. There was blood all over the skull, matting the white hair, and it was obvious that someone had used some heavy cudgel to batter the head.

The abbot let out a low moan.

‘Oh, my God! Not again! Not again!’

Abbot Erc had recognised the corpse immediately. It was the Venerable Cinaed.

The rechtaire was so excited that he quite forgot to knock on the door of Abbot Erc’s chamber. He burst in, causing the grey-haired abbot to glance up from his chair as he sat before the blazing fire. He frowned with annoyance towards the youthful, fresh-faced steward.

‘They have arrived,’ cried Brother Cu Mara. Before the abbot could reprimand him, he went on, ‘They have been seen approaching the abbey. The lord Conri rides at their head. I will go and greet them at the gates.’

Before Abbot Erc could say a word in reply, the young steward, seeming to forget all sense of place and protocol in his excitement, turned and hurried off, leaving the chamber door open and a draught whistling through.

The abbot put down the goblet of wine he had been sipping and rose to his feet. He shuffled to the door, paused a moment and then, with a sigh, shrugged and closed it.

Although he kept a passive expression on his features, he had to admit that he shared something of the steward’s excitement. It had been ten days since he had asked Conri, warlord of the Ui Fidgente, for help. Last month, six young female members of the community had left the abbey with Abbess Faife. They had only been gone a few days when Mugron, a merchant who was well known at Ard Fhearta, had arrived at the abbey with horrifying news. He had found the body of Abbess Faife near the roadside south of the Sliabh Mis mountains. There had been no sign of her six companions. By coincidence, Abbess Faife’s nephew, Conri, the warlord of the Ui Fidgente, was visiting the abbey at the time. Having recovered the body of the abbess and attended the rituals of burial, Conri dalaigh, who could solve such a mystery as that now facing them. He had left the abbey with two warriors, promising to find the dalaigh and return to the abbey as soon as possible.