Peter Tremayne - The Monk Who Vanished

His shield was still on his horse which had clattered to a halt on the paved courtyard a short distance away, blowing and snorting from its strenuous run.

The warrior crouched, the sword, which he now held in both hands, swinging round to ascertain what dangers lurked around him. He momentarily relaxed when he saw only half a dozen clearly frightened religious huddling behind the gates and a solitary female religieuse who stood facing him.

The man straightened up and bellowed with laughter before raising his sword in a threatening gesture at the religious. They cowered back, causing him even more merriment. Then he realised that the female religieuse stood unmoved, regarding him, hands folded demurely in front of her. He relaxed in her tall, well-proportioned figure and pleasantly attractive features.

‘Who are you, warrior?’ Fidelma demanded.

The man blinked at the quiet authority in her voice. Then he smirked.

‘A man, a man compared with these eunuchs which you have surrounded yourself with, woman. Come with me and let me show you what a man can do.’

Fidelma’s eyes had flickered anxiously to Eadulf, who was still lying winded. Beyond the gate, Brother Madagan was probably dead. The woman also lay crumpled and inert. She let her eyes return to the warrior with open scorn.

‘You have already shown me what you can do,’ replied Fidelma in a quiet tone, without a hint of fear. ‘You have the murders of a Brother of the Faith and a defenceless woman on your hands. That makes you no man at all but something I scrape off the heel of my shoe with a stick after I have walked through a bog land.’

Her tone was so even that the warrior still stood smirking some moments after she had spoken. It took him a while to realise just what she had said.

He drew his thin mouth into an expression of rage.

‘You can come with me or die now!’

He made a threatening gesture with his sword.

One of the Brothers, it was the youthful Brother Daig, his face red with mortification at his earlier moment of cowardice, came forward as if to protect her. He did not even have time to speak but his movement caused the warrior to turn, sinking the metal point of his sword into Daig’s chest. The young man gave a grunt of pain and dropped to his knees, the blood gushing over his habit. He stared down at the wound as if he could not believe his eyes.

‘You are brave against unarmed boys and women,’ snapped Fidelma, who took a step forward but was halted as the point of the sword swung towards her. ‘Have you a name? Or are you ashamed of it?’

The warrior gasped at her audacity.

‘My name is not for the likes of you, wench. Do not think that because you are a woman you can insult me with impunity!’

Fidelma glanced down to where young Daig was trying to staunch the blood from his wound, his hand pressed over it.

‘You have already proved your branch of courage. As I am also unarmed, doubtless you will feel brave enough to show how despicable you really are.’

Brother Daig look up painfully. There were tears in his eyes. He glanced towards the group of frightened brethren and tried several times to speak before succeeding. ‘The gate, Brothers … the gate must be shut before others of this man’s tribe enter the abbey.’

Indeed, it was something that Fidelma had just realised. The longer the gate stood open, eventually other attackers would. notice it and enter the abbey. Then there would be nothing to prevent them from the wholesale slaughter of the community.

‘Do not try it, wench,’ grunted the warrior as he saw her anxious glance towards the gate. ‘You will be dead before you reach it. My comrades will be here in a few moments.’

Brother Daig gave a groan of pain as he tried to move forward. ‘Heis only one man, Brothers. He cannot kill you all. Shut the gate and disarm him!’

The warrior gave a hiss of anger and the steel of his sword struck the young Brother full in the neck.

Brother Daig fell backwards. There was no need to check whether he was dead or not. That much was obvious.

It was now that Eadulf finally began to recover his wind. He took several deep breaths and began to scramble to his feet, only to find himself pinned by the point of the raider’s sword.

‘The gate!’ cried Fidelma determinedly to the cowering religious. ‘Your Brother’s dying command must be accomplished!’

‘Move and this one dies,’ snapped the warrior, pricking Eadulf s shoulder with his sword.

‘Do it!’ cried Eadulf loudly, anger overcoming his personal fear.

The warrior’s gaze was distracted momentarily as he glanced to the religious to see if they were obeying Eadulf. It was a moment that Eadulf had hoped would come. He suddenly rolled away from the reach of the warrior’s sword point, diving towards the gate.

The warrior turned back to him, sword raised, but it was too late.

With a scream of rage he hurled himself forward as Eadulf began to push against the gate. Suddenly Fidelma was in his way. He turned his sword to strike her. Then he was flying through the air, he knew not how.

Only Eadulf, out of the corner of his eye, saw Fidelma spring forward. His heart lurched as he saw her but somewhere, dim in his memory, he recognised the stance she had taken with her body. He had seen her perform the feat a few times now. The first time had been in Rome. She was poised as if to take the blow from the descending sword on her unprotected head. Then it seemed as if she merely reached forward, caught the arm of the man and heaved her assailant into the air, over her hip, and sent him cannoning into the stone wall of the abbey wall. There was a strange thudding sound and, without even a grunt, the warrior fell to the ground, unconscious.

Fidelma had once told Eadulf that in ancient Ireland there had been a class of learned men who taught the time-honoured philosophies of her people. They journeyed far and wide and did not believe in carrying arms to defend themselves because they did not believe in killing people. But they had to protect themselves from attacks by thieves and bandits on the highways. Thus they were forced to develop a technique called troid-sciathaigid — battle through defence. Defence without the use of weapons. It was a method taught to many religious missionaries before they left Eireann and went into strange lands to preach the word of the new Faith.

‘Come on! Help Brother Eadulf!’ cried Fidelma. ‘Get those gates closed.’

She rushed forward herself to help but suddenly seemed to change her mind and ran on through the gates. Brother Madagan’s body lay only ten feet beyond.

‘Help me Eadulf, quickly!’ she called.

Realising what she intended, he went after her. They grabbed Brother Madagan unceremoniously between them, lifting him by the shoulders of his clothes and dragged him back within the gates just as the Brothers had recovered sufficiently to help swing the gates closed. They paused inside as the bolts were pushed home.

Fidelma was soon active again.

‘Bind that warrior!’ she cried to the Brothers who now stood about in shameful consternation that they had not acted before. ‘Disarm and bind him so he does no further harm.’

She glanced down at Brother Madagan. Eadulf was by his side, examining him.

‘He’s still alive,’ he announced with satisfaction. ‘The wound is not bad at all. So far as I can see, he only received the flat of the sword on his skull. The blood on his forehead is from a slight nick from the sword’s edge. He should recover consciousness soon.’

Fidelma glanced anxiously at Eadulf for there was blood on his habit where the warrior had pricked him with his sword point. ‘And yourself?’ she asked quickly.

Eadulf grinned and automatically raised a hand to his shoulder. ‘I have survived worse things. It was no more than a needle prick. The weight of the man was far worse when he fell on me. I might be stiff for a while.’