Peter Tremayne - The Leper's bell

‘Look!’ Gormán suddenly whispered.

Eadulf followed the warrior’s seaward-pointing finger. Something dark was moving on the silvery waters of the sea, moving towards the strip of water that separated the island from the shore.

At first Eadulf did not understand what it was.

‘ Tonn taide! ’ whispered Gormán.

A tidal wave, higher than the average man, came pouring through the narrows. Within a second the three warriors behind Uaman, taking the full force of the water, were swept into the darkness, vanishing as their torches were extinguished. Uaman was closer to the shore and escaped the full force of the wave but he, too, was swept off his feet, though he managed by some miracle to cling tightly to his torch, keeping it above the waves. They saw, by its light, the waters recede for a moment or two; long enough for Uaman to clamber to his feet and start towards the shore. But the leper had been swept away from the main path, and as he moved forward, he began to sink rapidly into the sand.

‘The quicksand!’ muttered Gormán.

Already the clawing sand had reached Uaman’s waist and he was flailing about in panic. Eadulf began to move towards him but Gormán held him back.

‘You cannot help,’ the tall warrior muttered.

Eadulf was beside himself with anxiety.

‘Don’t you see, don’t you see…? He is the only one who knows what he has done with Alchú. The only one who can lead me to my baby.’

He started forward again, but the relentless sea was coming in once more and the sand was already up to Uaman’s chest.

‘Uaman!’ Eadulf yelled, moving as close as he dared. ‘Where is my baby? Where is Alchú?’

Uaman’s cowl had fallen from his white, bald skull of a head. In the flickering torchlight, they could see where the disease had eaten into his flesh.

‘My curse on you and the Eóghanacht! May you all never see the cuckoo or the corncrake. May you die screaming. May the cats eat your flesh. May you fester in your grave…’

The tidal wave returned a second time. The torch was extinguished. Uaman’s voice was silenced. Only whispering black waters could be seen at the spot where they covered his quicksand grave.

‘ Es korakes! ’ grunted Basil Nestorios with satisfaction in his voice. ‘To the ravens with him.’

Eadulf suddenly sat down in the darkness and cradled his head in his hands.

The nightmare was vivid.

The slow procession of religious emerged from the brass-studded oak doors of the chapel and into the cold, grey light of the central courtyard of the abbey. It was a large courtyard, flagged in dark limestone, yet on all four sides there towered the cheerless stone walls of the abbey buildings, giving the illusion that the central space was smaller than it actually was.

The line of cowled monks, preceded by a single religieux bearing an ornate metal cross, moved slowly, almost sedately. Heads bowed, hands hidden in the folds of their robes, they were chanting a psalm in Latin. Behind them, at a short distance, came a similar number of cowled nuns, also with heads bowed, joining in the chant on a higher note and harmonising with the air to make a descant. The effect was eerie, echoing in the confined space.

They moved to take positions on either side of the courtyard, standing facing a wooden platform on which stood a strange construction of three upright poles supporting a triangle of beams. A single rope hung from one of the beams, knotted into a noose. Just below the noose, a three-legged stool had been placed. Next to this grim apparatus, feet splayed apart, stood a tall man. He was stripped to the waist, his heavy, muscular arms folded across a broad, hairy chest. He watched the religious procession without emotion; unmoved and unashamed of the task that he was to perform on that macabre platform.

Fidelma was on her knees before the platform, held down by two viciously grinning women. One she knew by instinct was Abbess Ita of Kildare, who had caused her to leave that religious house, while the other was Abbess Fainder, the evil head of the abbey of Fearna. They held her in a strong grip, and even though she tried to struggle Fidelma found herself unable to move. She was forced to look up at the grim apparatus and executioner.

Then two strong religieux came forward, dragging a young man between them. He, too, was forced to his knees before the platform.

‘Eadulf!’ she cried as she recognised him. But his escort also held him tight so that he could not look at her.

Then a third man came forward holding a baby in his arms. It was handed up to the waiting executioner, who began to move forward towards the noose.

‘Help us, Eadulf! For God’s sake, help us!’

In her dream, Fidelma knew that she was screaming, but suddenly she came awake, moaning and struggling against the bonds that still tied her hands and feet. She was bathed in sweat.

There was a grey light seeping in at the window. She lay still for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts and rationalise the dream. She wished she could wipe her face of the perspiration that stood there.

The faint whinny of a horse came to her ears. She presumed it came from the stables but she heard movement below and voices were whispering. She rolled over to try to listen. Why would the Uí Fidgente be whispering? Suddenly, her heart began to beat faster. Could Colgú have worked out that she was being held somewhere and tracked her down to the hunting lodge at the Well of Oaks? Was there someone out there intent on her rescue? She uttered a quick prayer that it might be true.

Then there was a noise outside and the door opened. The harsh voice of Cuán came to her ears.

‘It must have been some wild animal making the horses restless. I can see no one.’

She felt a sudden black despair. For a moment she had been full of hope. There was some laughter downstairs.

‘Then we’d best be off. No one is looking for us now. Let’s take the woman and get back to our own country.’

‘I’ll saddle the horses,’ replied another voice. ‘Crond can bring the woman.’

Something else caught Fidelma’s ear now; there was a soft sound of scrabbling on the roof above her. Below she heard the door of the lodge open and then an agonised yell as something fell.

Cuirgí’s voice yelled: ‘Crond, get the woman. Quickly!’

Footsteps began to ascend the stairs rapidly just as a dark figure swung in through the shattered glass of the window and dropped on to the floor.

Crond burst in through the door, his sword ready. The figure rose, a sword appearing in his hand as if by magic. Fidelma gasped as she recognised him.

‘Conrí!’ she gasped, but the name went unheard as the blades of the two men clashed in a noisy exchange. The room was too confined for a sword fight but the blows were deadly as the two men sought to kill or injure each other. Crond made a series of rapid thrusts at his opponent’s torso. Had any blow landed, it must have been mortal. But Conrí was obviously not war chief of the Uí Fidgente for nothing. He parried each thrust and then pressed his own attack while Crond paused to rethink his strategy.

A swift thrust drew blood from Crond’s upper arm and seemed to anger him. In his fury he dropped his defence, for he raised his weapon for a blow leaving his right side unguarded. He looked almost comical in his surprise as Conrí’s sword sank deep between his ribs. He dropped his weapon, staggered back and then slowly collapsed on to the floor.

There was a brief silence. Then, down below, Fidelma became aware of shouting. A strange voice called up: ‘The lodge is ours, Conrí!’ Then Conrí had sheathed his sword and was cutting her bonds with a knife.

‘Fidelma! Are you injured? Are you all right?’