Peter Tremayne - Master of Souls

And now Conri was returning. But in the meantime a second tragic mystery had occurred: the murder of the Venerable Cinaed.

Abbot Erc shivered slightly as he remembered finding the Venerable Cinaed’s body in the oratory. God! What evil cursed the great abbey that such things could happen? The abbot stared moodily into the fire and wondered what manner of person it was whom Conri was bringing to his abbey to resolve these mysteries and in whom he had so much faith.

Conri, King of Wolves, warlord of the Ui Fidgente, paused on the brow of the hill and patted the neck of his bay stallion. He was tall and well-muscled, with a shock of black hair, grey eyes and the livid white of a scar across his left cheek. In spite of that, he was a handsome young man whose humour was especially marked when he smiled. It was the smile that changed the haughtiness of his expression into a look of boyish mischievous fun. He turned to his companions and pointed north-westward across the plain.

‘There is the great abbey of Ard Fhearta, lady.’

His companions were a red-haired religieuse and a stocky man wearing the tonsure of St Peter. Behind them rode two young but dour-looking warriors. The woman and her companion edged their horses close to Conri and followed the line of his outstretched arm.

‘Well, Conri, our journey has not been long from Cashel,’ observed the woman.

‘It is as I promised,’ agreed the young warrior. ‘I am only sorry that I felt no other choice was left to me but to ask you to come here to help us.’

The religieuse’s companion grimaced sceptically. ‘Since you put your case so well, Conri, how could we refuse you?’

Conri glanced suspiciously at him.

‘I have no eloquence, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied shortly. ‘I think the lady Fidelma was persuaded by the strangeness of the facts.’

Brother Eadulf was about to make some rejoinder when Sister Fidelma held up a hand and put her head slightly to one side.

‘Listen! What is that noise?’

There came to their ears a faint rhythmic sound like the distant pounding of a drum. It seemed to have a slow but regular beat.

‘Have you never been in this corner of Muman, lady?’ asked Conri. He always addressed Fidelma by her rank as sister to Colgu, king of Muman, rather than her religious title.

‘I have not crossed beyond the Sliabh Luachra, the mountain barrier that divides us from the heartland of the Ui Fidgente,’ she replied. Then she grinned mischievously, adding, ‘For obvious reasons, as you will appreciate, Conri.’

It was not so long ago that the Ui Fidgente chieftains had led their people into a futile war to overthrow her brother, newly placed upon the throne at Cashel. The Ui Fidgente had been defeated at Cnoc Aine scarcely two years ago. Out of their defeat, young Conri had been elected as the new warlord, and he had proved his diplomatic skills by forging an alliance with Cashel on behalf of the new chief Donennach.

‘I thought these lands belonged to the Ciarraige Luachra, not the Ui Fidgente?’ Brother Eadulf was snappish. He had disapproved of this journey from the start. However, he had decided to do some research in the library of Cashel before they had set off.

Conri did not lose his good humour.

‘Two generations ago, our chieftain Oengus mac Nechtain brought the Ciarraige Luachra into our territory. But you are right, Brother Eadulf, the main Ui Fidgente territory is more to the north-east.’

‘So what is the sound we hear?’ Fidelma demanded, reverting to the unanswered question that she had posed.

‘That is the sound of the sea. We are scarcely six kilometres from it.’

‘I have been closer to seashores before and not heard such a noise.’

‘Before the abbey, beyond those hills, is a wide sandy shore which runs south to north some eleven or twelve kilometres. We call it Banna Strand, the sandy seashore of the peaks. The sea is so very high and tempestuous here, even on the calmest days, and its rollers are so thunderous, that you might feel as if the earth is trembling as you get nearer. The winds that whip off the sea are fierce at times and produce a good robust air by which the people here prosper in health, or so I have been told by the apothecaries.’

Brother Eadulf viewed the scene before him with critical eyes.

‘It does not seem that the trees prosper,’ he observed. ‘Those that are

Not for the first time, during the two days of their journey from Cashel, Fidelma shot Eadulf a glance of disapproval at his carping tone. Then she turned back to the vista that stretched before them.

The abbey, its buildings enclosed by a circular defensive wall like most of the monastic settlements in these parts, was built on the crown of a hill. Round the bottom of the hill a river meandered its way to the sea. Eadulf could see a number of fortified homesteads and farms dotted here and there across the valley and reminded himself that until recently the Ui Fidgente had been a very martial people. There seemed to be no clusters of buildings immediately outside the walls of the abbey, which unlike some of the great monasteries was clearly not used as a centre of habitation.

Conri was at pains to point out the number of holy wells in the vicinity, the standing stones and thriving farmsteads. ‘Ard Fhearta is over a hundred years old,’ he told them, and there was pride in his voice. ‘It was built by the great Breanainn-’

‘Of the Ciarraige Luachra,’ Brother Eadulf could not help but interpose. ‘I have read the story.’

‘The name Ard Fhearta means “height of the graveyard”, doesn’t it?’ Fidelma mused, ignoring him. ‘So the abbey is built on the site of an old pagan burial ground?’

‘As are many abbey foundations and churches of our new Faith,’ agreed Conri. ‘I am told by Abbot Erc that the purpose of doing so is to sanctify the old sites so that all our ancestors may join us in the Christian Otherworld.’

Brother Eadulf frowned. His people, the South Folk, who traced their descent to Casere, son of the great god Woden, had believed that the only way to achieve immortality was to die sword in hand, the name of Woden on their lips. Then and only then would they be allowed into the afterlife, to sit with the gods in the great hall of the heroes. Now and then the indoctrination of his early years rose and fought with his conversion to the New Faith. Eadulf still sought guarantees, and that was why he had rejected the teachings of the Irish who had converted and educated him for the more fundamental absolutes of Rome.

The small band continued on their way towards the grey stone and wooden buildings of the abbey. They rode along a wide avenue between

As they made their way up the incline towards the walls of Ard Fhearta, the wooden gates opened and a young man emerged. He stood awaiting their approach with ill-concealed excitement on his features.

‘God be with you this day, Brother Cu Mara,’ said Conri, reining his horse to a standstill in front of the open gates.

‘God and Mary protect you, Conri son of Conmael.’ The young man gave the ritual response. Then he turned to greet the others and his eyes suddenly narrowed as they beheld Fidelma.

‘Brother Cu Mara is the rechtaire of the abbey,’ Conri said.

‘Welcome to Ard Fhearta, lady.’ The coldness of his tone did not match the words.

Fidelma raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem to know who I am?’

The young man inclined his head slightly. ‘Who does not know of Fidelma, sister to Colgu, King of Muman? Your reputation as a dalaigh has spread in all five kingdoms of Eireann.’

Fidelma glanced accusingly at Conri. ‘I thought you said that you had not warned anyone here that I would be coming?’

Before Conri could speak, Brother Cu Mara intervened.