Peter Tremayne - Our Lady of Darkness

Fidelma suppressed a groan. This was becoming worse than she had imagined.

‘That’s bad enough, but you have not told me how he was identified.I am puzzled to know how the captain of the watch was able to claim the Saxon was responsible when, as you tell me, he was not caught on the spot but was asleep in his bed in the guests’ hostel. What is the name of this captain, by the way? I shall want to see him.’

‘His name is Mel.’

Fidelma’s eyes widened at the information.

‘The same Mel who is commander of the guard at the palace of Fianamail? The brother of Lassar, the innkeeper at the Inn of the Yellow Mountain?’

Sister Étromma looked surprised. ‘You know of him then?’

‘I am staying at the Inn of the Yellow Mountain.’

‘His success in capturing the Saxon caused the King to appoint him one of his commanders. He used to be a captain of the watch on the quays.’

‘A good promotion then,’ Fidelma commented drily.

‘Fianamail can be generous to those who serve him well,’ agreed the stewardess. Did Fidelma detect a slight note of cynicism in her voice?

‘Let me ask the question again; what led the captain of the watch so unerringly to the bed of Brother Eadulf, who just happened to have the incriminating evidence still on him?’

Sister Étromma grimaced. ‘It was reported that a religieux had been seen running from the quay to the abbey just before the body was discovered.’

‘How many religieux does the abbey of Fearna hold? One hundred? Two hundred?’ Fidelma could not keep the note of scepticism from her voice.

‘Closer to two hundred, Sister,’ agreed Sister Étromma evenly.

‘Two hundred? Yet the trail led straight to the Saxon. It seems a fine piece of detection on the part of the captain of the watch.’

‘Not really. Were you not told?’

Fidelma steeled herself for another revelation. ‘There are many things that I have not been told. To what do you now refer exactly?’

‘Why, there was a witness to the actual attack.’

Fidelma was silent for a moment or two. ‘A witness?’ she asked slowly. ‘An eye-witness to the rape and murder?’

‘Indeed. There was another novitiate who was down on the quay with the one who was killed.’

‘Are you saying,’ Fidelma said, ‘that this novitiate … what is her name?’

‘The girl who was witness?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fial.’

‘And the name of the girl who was killed?’

‘Gormgilla.’

‘Are you saying, then, that Fial actually saw the rape and murder of her friend Gormgilla and identified Brother Eadulf as the man responsible?’

‘She did.’

‘And she clearly identified the attacker? There was no doubt as to who she identified?’

‘She was absolutely clear. It was the Saxon.’

Fidelma felt an overwhelming sense of despair. Until now she had been thinking that this matter must be some silly mistake. Even when she heard the extent of the charges against Eadulf, of rape and murder, especially of a young girl of twelve — a girl under the age of choice — she had not changed her mind for she had an implicit belief in Eadulf. It was just not in his character to do such a thing. It had to be a silly mistake in identification or wrong interpretation.

Now she was confronted with overwhelming evidence. Not just the physical evidence of bloodstains and torn clothing but, above everything, the evidence of an eye-witness. The case against Eadulf now appeared devastating. What would Barrán, the Chief Brehon, say when he came to Fearna at her demand only to find that she had no case to offer him? Could it be, in spite of her faith in him, that Eadulf was guilty after all? No! Surely she knew Eadulf too well?

Sister Étromma took her through an arched door into a large quadrangle. Following, Fidelma caught sight of a wooden platform. She did not need to ask what the gruesome apparatus was. The body of a young monk hung inert from the rope suspended from the gibbet. There was no one about.

For one awesome moment, during which her blood seemed to turn to ice, Fidelma thought that the body was that of Eadulf; that, in spite of the assurances she had been given, she was too late. She halted abruptly and stared, her senses numb.

Sister Étromma, seeing that she was not following, stopped and turned back. She wore an unhappy expression and did her best to avoid looking at the corpse.

‘Who is that?’ demanded Fidelma, having registered that the corpsewore the tonsure of St John and not the tonsure of St Peter as Eadulf did.

‘That was Brother Ibar,’ the stewardess replied quietly.

‘For what reason has he been executed?’

‘Murder and theft.’

Fidelma’s mouth compressed for a moment. ‘Is this punishment by the Penitentials going to be the fashion now in this abbey?’ she asked bitterly. ‘Do you know the details of his crime?’

‘I attended the trial, Sister. The entire community were ordered to do so by Abbess Fainder. It was the first trial that led to execution under the new Penitential laws and he was a member of our community.’

‘You spoke of murder and theft?’

‘Brother Ibar was found guilty of killing a boatman and robbing him down on the abbey quay.’

‘When was this?’

‘A few weeks ago.’

Fidelma was studying the gently swinging corpse.

‘There seems much death on the abbey quay,’ she reflected. An idea occurred to her. ‘You say that Ibar killed a boatman on the quay and robbed him a few weeks ago? Was it before or after the crime of which Brother Eadulf was accused?’

‘Oh, after. The very day after.’

‘Unusual, isn’t it? Two murders on the same small quay within two days and now two Brothers of the Faith condemned to die, one dead already.’

Sister Étromma frowned. ‘But there was no connection between the two events.’

Fidelma gestured distastefully towards the corpse.

‘How long does he have to hang there?’

‘Until sunset. Then he will be cut down and taken out to be buried in unconsecrated ground.’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘Not well. He was a newcomer to the community. I believe he came from Rathdangan, to the north of here. He was a blacksmith by trade. He worked in that capacity in the community.’

‘Why did he kill the boatman and rob him?’

‘It was judged that he was spurred on by greed. It was a purse of gold coin and a gold chain that he took, having stabbed the man.’

‘Why would a blacksmith who works in this abbey need money? Ablacksmith is respected enough that he can name his own price for his art. Why, his honour price is ten seds; the equivalent of an aire-echta, a Brehon of lower qualification.’

Sister Étromma shrugged expressively. ‘The air is chill here, Sister,’ she said. ‘Let us move on.’

Fidelma turned after her and they continued across the quadrangle, with the buildings towering on all sides, and through another small door. Sister Étromma went up the stone steps which rose two storeys to an upper floor. The building was dank and musty. Fidelma felt an overwhelming sense of despondency. The gloom and foreboding which hung depressingly about the place in no way gave her a sense that she was in the house of a community devoted to the Christian life. There was an atmosphere of impending menace which she found hard to explain.

Sister Étromma led her along the dingy corridor, after she had allowed Fidelma time to pause and let her eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. Along this corridor stood a small oak door with iron bolts.

A huge shadow suddenly appeared in the darkness from the end of the corridor.

‘Who is it?’ demanded a guttural voice. ‘Is it you, Étromma?’

‘It is,’ replied the stewardess. ‘This is Sister Fidelma, a dálaigh who has permission from the abbess to question the prisoner.’