Peter Tremayne - The Monk Who Vanished

Fidelma and Eadulf had already become aware of an unearthly red glow, a strange yellow-red flickering light bathing the frontof the abbey. Its curious colour of menace reflected off the low clouds which hung above them. It was obvious that many buildings in the township were already in flames. The screams and cries plus the protesting whinny of frightened horses filled the night air. There was a lot of movement beyond the abbey walls. Men on horseback, some brandishing flaming brands, others with swords, were riding to and fro across the square and moving through the streets among buildings. It was clear that it was the unprotected buildings of the town that were suffering the first onslaught. Now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the curious twilight, the gloom of the night, lit by the fires of burning buildings and movement of flaming torches, Fidelma could see something else. Here and there on the ground were dark mounds which were obviously bodies. Worse still, she saw people, singly or in small groups, running for their lives, being pursued by the mounted warriors. Now and then there came a scream as the flashing swords found a victim.

Fidelma turned grimly to Abbot Segdae.

‘Are there no means of protecting Imleach?’ she demanded.

The abbot seemed too shocked to answer at first. He suddenly looked a frail old man. Fidelma shook him roughly by the arm.

‘Ségdae, innocent people are being cut down. Are there no warriors near here whom we can call upon?’

Almost reluctantly the hawk-faced abbot turned. His expression was dazed as he tried to focus on Fidelma.

‘The nearest are the warriors commanded by your cousin, the Prince of Cnoc Aine.’

‘Is there any way we can contact him?’

Abbot Ségdae raised a hand as if to indicate the bell-tower on the far side of the abbey. The frantic tolling of the bell was continuing. ‘That is our only means.’

Samradan was looking on the scene as one hypnotised; his face was ghastly. Fidelma had rarely seen such naked fear on a man’s face before. Even in that situation, a thought came to her mind. What was it that Vergil has written? Fear betrays unworthy souls. Why had that come to her mind? There was, so she believed, nothing uglier than fear on the face of a man.

The burly merchant now turned to the abbot. ‘Do you think that they will breach the walls of the abbey?’ His voice held more than anxiety in it.

‘This is no fortress, Samradan,’ the abbot replied grimly. ‘Our gates were not built to keep out armies.’

‘I demand protection! I am only a merchant. I have done no harm …I am not a warrior to defend …’ His voice rose in sheer panic. It seemed to raise Abbot Ségdae from his lethargy.

‘Then get down to the vaults below the chapel with the women!’ he snapped. ‘Leave us to defend ourselves … and you!’

The merchant almost cowered away from him.

Fidelma gave an expression of disgust. She turned to Eadulf. ‘Take Samradan to the vaults and then ask Brother Madagan to come here,’ she said. Command suddenly came easily to her. She was of the Eóghanacht of Cashel and these were her people.

Eadulf pulled the trembling merchant roughly away from the scene of death and destruction on which they gazed.

Fidelma stood by Abbot Ségdae regarding the scene with growing anger.

She could make out the smith’s forge erupting in sheets of flame. Several of the buildings were already destroyed. She turned her gaze to the shadowy figures of the horsemen, hoping she could make some identification of them but there was little to see in the darkness beyond men in war helmets, some with flashing shirts of chainmail. But there were no identifying badges on them.

She heard a scuffling sound on the stairs and Brother Madagan came breathlessly onto the roof.

He glanced grimly towards the burning town.

‘They have gone for the easy option first,’ he observed once more. ‘Once they have finished sacking the undefended township then they will make an onslaught on the abbey.’

Abbot Ségdae suddenly gave a cry and fell backwards onto the floor. They turned to look at him in surprise. There was an ugly, bloody wound on his forehead. Fidelma glanced round, puzzled for the moment. She had heard the sound of something striking stone. She bent and picked up a small pebble.

‘A slingshot,’ she observed. ‘Best keep away from the walls.’

Brother Madagan was already kneeling by the abbot.

‘I’ll send for Brother Bardan, the apothecary. The missile has struck his forehead. He is unconscious.’

Fidelma moved carefully to the wall, keeping low down so that it afforded her shelter. The missile must have been delivered by a passing horseman and the shot had been a lucky one. It did not seem part of a concerted attack on the abbey as yet. The raiders were still riding backwards and forwards through the township.

‘When they do attack us, the walls will not keep out the warriors for long,’ muttered Brother Madagan, following her gaze and apparently reading her thoughts.

Fidelma gestured towards the abbey’s bell-tower; the bell was still pealing.

‘Will that bring any help?’

‘It may but there is little counting on it.’

‘Then it is true that there are no warriors nearer here than Cnoc Aine who would come to our protection?’,

‘No. We can only hope that Finguine at Cnoc Aine is alerted.’

‘Six miles away,’ reflected Fidelma, thinking of the distance between Imleach and her cousin’s fortress. ‘Will they hear the tolling of the bell?’

Brother Madagan grimaced. ‘While we may not count on it, there is a good possibility. It is a still night and the sound of our bell can carry.’

‘But we may not count on it,’ echoed Fidelma bitterly. She turned and gazed again on the scene of destruction. ‘Have we no way of knowing who these people are? Why would they attack the abbey?’

‘I have no idea. In the entire history of our community no one has ever attacked this sacred spot.’ He suddenly paused and a troubled look crossed his features.

‘What?’ demanded Fidelma.

Brother Madagan avoided her gaze. ‘The legend. Perhaps it is true?’

For a moment Fidelma did not understand him and then she remembered.

‘The disappearance of the Ailbe’s Relics! Superstition. That is all.’

‘Yet the coincidence is great. The Holy Relics have disappeared. It is said if they leave this spot, then Muman will fall. They have done so and now the abbey is about to be destroyed!’

Fired by her own apprehension Fidelma became angry.

‘Foolish man! The abbey is not destroyed yet and will not be if we put our minds to defending it.’

Eadulf came hurrying back. He glanced at the prone body of the abbot in horror. ‘Is he …?’

‘No,’ Brother Madagan replied. ‘Ségdae has been struck by a missile. Can you find someone to fetch our apothecary, Brother Bardan?’

Eadulf turned back down the stairway. Almost at once he was back. ‘A young Brother has gone for the apothecary.’

Fidelma glanced grimly at him. ‘And how is Samradan?’

‘The merchant is being comforted by Sister Scothnat.’ Eadulf suddenly glanced across the wall towards the square in front of the abbey. ‘Look!’

They followed his outstretched hand with their eyes.

A band of half a dozen men had dismounted from their horses near the great yew-tree which grew before the abbey walls. They all bore axes and began to systematically hack at the ancient tree. They worked in coordination as if the matter had been carefully planned and was no mere whim of vandalism.

Eadulf frowned, perplexed.

‘What is going on?’ he demanded in bewilderment. ‘In the middle of a raid, they are stopping to cut down a tree?’