Peter Tremayne - The Monk Who Vanished

Brother Bardan gestured in annoyance to the far side of the chamber.

‘The body lies on the table in that corner. I will not prepare it for burial. It deserves no decent Christian service.’

‘You are within your rights,’ Fidelma agreed, unruffled, for the apothecary was aggressive as if he expected her to argue. ‘Where is the body of Cred? Is it also here?’

‘Her body was already prepared and taken by her relatives to the cemetery of the township. I am told there are many people slain in the attack who must be buried this day.’

Fidelma turned to where the body of the dead warrior lay and motioned Eadulf to join her.

The arms and legs of the man had not even been unbound. His helmet still covered his head and the visor was still drawn over the upper features.

With a click of her tongue to indicate her displeasure, Fidelma reached forward and removed the helmet. The man was in his early thirties. His features were coarse and, in life, were doubtless made hard by the life he led. There was the pale mark of an old sword wound on his forehead. He had a bulbous nose and the grossness of his features inclined her to think that he had been given to an abundance of drink and food.

‘Untie his hands and feet, Eadulf.’

Eadulf did as she instructed while she stood staring down, hoping there was something that might identify the man. Now that she could view him in a more relaxed state, her first impression was confirmed that he had the appearance of a professional warrior. Yet his chainmail shirt was old and there were areas of rust eating into the links in patches.

She helped Eadulf remove the belt from which his weapons had hung. Then they removed his mail shirt and leather jerkin. Underneath it, he wore a black dyed linen shirt and kilt. There was nothing to identify who he was nor where he had come from.

She observed that whoever had killed him had slipped a dagger through a joint of the mail shirt and under the ribcage. It would have been a swift and instantaneous death. Eadulf, on her instructions, set to work to remove the shirt and undergarments.

There were no identifying marks on the body, just a number of old scars from wounds which confirmed that the man had spent his life as a professional warrior.

‘And not a good warrior at that,’ responded Fidelma when Eadulf commented on the fact.

‘How do you know?’

‘He has been wounded too many times. If you want the better warrior, look for the man who inflicted those wounds not the one who received them.’

Eadulf accepted this wisdom in silence.

‘Surely it is strange that he does not carry a purse?’ Fidelma pointed out after a while.

Eadulf drew his brows together as he tried to understand the point she was making.

‘Ah.’ His face lightened. ‘You mean that if he were a professional warrior, a mercenary, he would want payment for his services?’

‘Precisely. So where would he put his purse?’

‘He would leave it at home.’

‘And if he were far from home, what then?’

Eadulf shrugged, unable to answer.

‘He might leave it somewhere meaning to return and pick it up after the raid. That is a dangerous practice. No; most professionals tend to carry their wealth with them.’ Her face suddenly brightened. ‘Maybe he had saddle bags. I had almost forgotten that we have his horse here as well.’

She looked across to where Brother Bardán was finishing his task. ‘What do you mean to do with the body of this man?’

‘Let it rot, for all I care,’ returned the apothecary in an uncompromising tone.

‘It will rot, surely,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘But a decision has to be made whether you want to let it rot here or elsewhere.’

Brother Bardán sighed. ‘It will not be buried within the abbey grounds among our brethren, next to …’ He half gestured towards the body of Brother Daig. ‘I will send for Nion, the bó-aire, and ask him to remove the body to the town burial ground.’

‘Very well.’ Fidelma turned back to Eadulf and said quietly, ‘We will go to the stables and examine the warrior’s horse and harness.’

Eadulf picked up the man’s sword as they were about to leave.

‘Have you examined the sword?’ he asked.

She shook her head and reached for it. It was about thirty-five inches in length, the blade nearest the point splayed out in almost a leaf shape before narrowing down to the hilt. The hilt was riveted on. There were six rivets.

‘This is no poor man’s sword,’ Eadulf said, with a frown. ‘I am sure that I have seen a similar style of sword just recently.’

‘You have,’ she replied with irony. ‘It is the same style as the one carried by our assassin. Remember? This is a claideb dét. ’

‘A sword of teeth?’ translated Eadulf literally. ‘I thought it was made of metal like any other.’

Fidelma smiled patiently and pointed to the handle. ‘The hilt is ornamented with the carved teeth of animals. As I recall, there is only one territory in Éireann’s five kingdoms where the smiths indulge in such embellishment. If only I could recall where. It is such a distinctive ornamentation.’

‘You mean that it might indicate where this man came from?’

‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘It will only tell us where the sword was manufactured. But, speaking of coincidences as we were, surely it is not coincidence that both the assassin and this raider carried such a distinctive weapon?’

Eadulf considered the point and nodded assent. ‘What did you say it was called — claideb dét? ’ he asked, examining the weapon with a new regard.

‘ Macheram belluinis ornatam dolatis dentibus ,’ she explained in Latin. ‘A sword ornamented with the carved teeth of animals. Hang onto it, Eadulf. It may well be important.’

She made a final examination of the body and the clothing.

‘No,’ she finally said, ‘there is little here by way of identification. All we know is that this man is no amateur but whether he was a professional in the service of some prince or whether he was just an outlaw raiding the country in search of booty, it is impossible to say. Most of what he is wearing can come from any corner of the five kingdoms with …’

‘With the exception of his sword,’ Eadulf interrupted.

‘With the exception of his sword,’ echoed Fidelma. ‘But that is of no use to me unless I can remember what people it was who specialised in decorating their sword hilts in such a fashion.’

She turned to the door of the mortuary, glancing at Brother Bardán. ‘I have finished with the body of the raider.’

The apothecary nodded curtly. ‘Do not worry. It will be disposed of.’

Outside Eadulf grimaced disapprovingly. ‘I see that Brother Bardan does not take the Faith’s teaching of forgiving one’s enemies too seriously. “Be you kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake has forgiven you.” Perhaps he should be reminded of the text?’

‘ Ephesians, chapter four,’ Fidelma identified the quotation. ‘I rather think that Brother Bardan is one of those who prefer to hand his enemies over to God’s forgiveness and show none himself. But then he is a man with all the frailty of men. Daig meant a lot to him.’

Eadulf suddenly realised what she meant and said no more.

As they passed back through the cloisters they found Abbot Segdae sitting in the shade, his head sunk on his shoulders. He was still wearing his bandage and was sniffing at a small bunch of herbs.

He glanced up as they approached and smiled weakly. Then he gestured with the bunch of herbs.

‘Brother Bardan says the aroma of these will help with my headache.’

‘Is your wound healing, Segdae?’ asked Fidelma solicitously. She was fond of the old abbot who had been such a close friend to her family over the decades.