Peter Tremayne - The Monk Who Vanished

‘What now?’ asked Eadulf as he followed Fidelma towards the gates of the abbey once more.

‘We will go in search of Brother Bardan.’

As they crossed the square towards the township, Fidelma noticed several of Finguine’s warriors resting from their exertions, sprawled around a fire near the old yew-tree. They passed by the smouldering ruins that had been Nion’s forge and looked up and down the main street.

There was more activity in the township than there had been earlier that morning. They could hear some noise not far off and turned a corner of a building to find out where it was coming from. It appeared that some of Finguine’s men were helping the surviving menfolk in digging a large grave in a field behind some of the buildings which, it seemed, had already been used as a burial ground before. A line of bodies, each in its linen grave clothes, lay to one side, ready for the excavation to be completed. A small group of womenfolk stood round the bodies uttering the usual cries of lamentation and clapping their hands in the traditional manner to express their sorrow.

Elsewhere, other men, women and children were toiling among the wreckage of the buildings that had been destroyed. Apart from the frenzied activity, there had been little change in the scene since they had been there a short time before.

‘I don’t see Brother Bardán anywhere,’ Eadulf observed.

‘He is probably somewhere about,’ Fidelma assured him as they passed back to the wreckage of Nion’s forge and looked down the street towards the blackened shell of Cred’s inn. ‘We’ll try along the street here; there seems to be a crowd of people up at the far end.’

They had not gone far when it became obvious that the people Fidelma referred to were converging on a figure who had just ridden into the end of the street. It was then they realised that the noise of the people were actually screams and shouts of anger and abuse. Even as they looked on in surprise, the foremost members of the crowd were reaching forth their hands and clawing at the man, dragging him from the ass which he was riding. He gave a shrill cry, waving his hands desperately in the air, before he disappeared under the surrounding people.

Fidelma started to run forward in alarm. As she did so, Finguine and a couple of his men appeared from a building in the street. Fidelma saw behind them the figure of Brother Bardan but more urgent things now demanded her attention.

‘What is it?’ cried Finguine as she rushed by with Eadulf in her train.

‘Bring your men, quickly!’ she flung over her shoulder.

They reached the edge of the crowd who were screaming abuse at the figure in their midst. The man had managed to regain his feet but was being pulled and punched and ill-treated. There was blood on his face.

‘Stop it! Stop it, I say!’ cried Fidelma, as she attempted to push her way through.

Finguine and his men caught up with her and followed her example, without asking questions, pushing people out of the way to get to the victim, shouting at them to stand back. Recognising the figure of the Prince of Cnoc Aine and two of his warriors, the crowd hesitated and then fell back a step or two.

Fidelma managed to reached the thin figure of the man who had been accosted.

He was slightly built, with greying hair. His clothes, which were now ripped and stained with blood and dirt, were of good quality. His cloak was trimmed with fox fur. A gold chain of office hung around his neck. He had a curious bird-like, jerking motion of his head. The neck was scrawny and the adam’s apple was prominent, bobbing in his agitation. Fidelma couldn’t make up her mind whether he reminded her of a bird or a ferret. Both creatures seemed to bear similarities to the man. The thought crossed Fidelma’s mind in a fraction of a second before she remembered the viciousness with which the people had attacked him.

Observing that the man was not too badly hurt, she glared at the people and held up her hand for silence. They continued to circle them, still yelling abuse. The hate and anger showed in their faces; yes, and fear as well.

‘What is the meaning of this?’

It was actually Finguine whose powerful voice finally quelled their outcry.

‘An Uí Fidgente!’ cried one man. ‘Look at him! Come to gloat over the death and destruction that his fellows have visited upon us.’

Fidelma glanced at the small, pale-faced man, whose blood-splattered face held an expression torn between fear and anger.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Are you of the Uí Fidgente?’

The little man drew himself up. His head barely reached her shoulder.

‘I am …’ he began.

The people interrupted with a collective howl of rage as they interpreted this as confirmation.

‘Wait!’ snapped Finguine. ‘Let the man speak. Besides, as you can see, he is no warrior. Warriors attacked you last night, not strangers riding on asses. Now speak, man, and explain who you are and what you are doing here.’

Still looking agitated, the little man decided to address himself to Fidelma.

‘It is true that I am of the Uí Fidgente but I am no warrior. What does this man say, that you were attacked by Uí Fidgente warriors? I’ll not believe it.’

‘As the Prince of Cnoc Áine says,’ pointed out Fidelma softly, ‘we were attacked last night.’

The man made to reply but his words were lost in new cries for vengeance.

Nion, the smith, had pushed his way forward, leaning heavily on a stick.

‘See? He admits that he is an Uí Fidgente. Let us kill him.’

The little man looked nervous and thrust out his chin, his anger overcoming his fear. ‘What hospitality is this, that you set on innocent wayfarers? Is there no respect for law in this place?’

‘Law!’ sneered Nion. He waved his hands to the smouldering buildings. ‘Did the Uí Fidgente who did this thing care anything about law? Come and count the bodies at our graveyard and then tell us how you of the Uí Fidgente admire law.’

The little man looked bewildered. ‘I know nothing of this. Furthermore, I would demand proof of your accusations.’

‘Proof, is it?’ cried another man in the crowd, supporting Nion. ‘We’ll show you the proof of a rope and a tree.’

Finguine’s sword was abruptly in his hand. ‘No one harms this man. The rule of law still runs in the territory of the Prince of Cnoc Aine.’

Fidelma shot a grateful glance at her cousin.

‘Be about your tasks,’ she instructed. ‘This man is in the custody of the Prince of Cnoc Aine and if he bears any responsibility for what has happened to you, then he will be heard before the courts.’

There was an angry muttering but with Finguine and his men standing there, each with drawn sword, the crowd reluctantly began to dispel.

The little man was wiping the blood from a scratch on his cheek. He was beginning to recover his courage and his pale face was suffused with a flush of anger.

‘Animals! I have never been greeted like this before. Compensation is due me, if you are Prince of Cnoc Aine.’

This last sentence was addressed to Finguine who had turned to him and was sheathing his sword.

‘I am Finguine,’ he affirmed shortly. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Solam of the Uí Fidgente.’

Fidelma’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Are you Solam the dálaigh?’

The little man smiled thinly. ‘That is precisely who I am, Sister …?’

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

Solam managed to contain his surprise very well.

‘Ah!’ It was an exclamation which appeared to mean many things. ‘I should have known that you would be here, Fidelma.’

‘And what are you doing here?’ demanded Finguine.

The little man pursed his lips and gestured towards Fidelma. ‘She will know.’