Master of Souls (29 page)

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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #blt, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Master of Souls
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‘It’s a
naomhóg,’
muttered Fidelma, supplying him with the name of the vessel. ‘See, the man has just lost an oar. He is in trouble.’
Already Conrí and his two warrior companions were racing their horses on the ground high above the shore, for in this part of the bay the rocks met the waters.
‘He’ll smash the vessel on the rocks,’ Eadulf called unnecessarily, as he and Fidelma followed the others.
‘The man is hurt, I think,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Look, he’s slipped to the bottom of the boat. It’s out of control.’
The long canoe had swung broadside on to the rocks and was suddenly lifted up by one of the racing breakers and thrown on to them. As the sea receded, Conrí’s men, jumping from their horses, raced forward, scrambling and slipping over the wet outcrop. One of them, they thought it was the man called Socht, reached the broken vessel while his companion steadied the smashed remains. Apparently the unconscious man was a lightweight for the warrior threw him across his shoulder and, with a shout to his companion, turned and started for the firm earth just as another breaker smashed against the rocks. The force of the water caused Socht to slip and almost lose his balance but his companion was there and steadied him with his unconscious burden. Then they scrambled ashore and were above the watermark where Conrí was waiting to help lay the man on the ground.
A moment later Fidelma and Eadulf joined them.
At once they could see that the unconscious man was elderly and deathly pale, with white straggling hair cut into the tonsure of St John. His robes were dirty and torn and there were bloodstains on them. His hands were raw, the flesh torn.
Conrí was shaking his head sadly.
‘If he came from the islands, it’s a wonder that he made it this far.’ Eadulf, who knew something of the healing arts, bent down by the man and examined him. As he moved him a little, the man gave forth a groan and his eyes fluttered. Eadulf had seen something in the man’s side.
‘He has been badly wounded by an arrow, I think,’ he muttered. ‘The life is ebbing out of him.’
Conrí’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you think that he was the religieux who was taken prisoner with Faife’s companions?’
‘This man is no foreigner and he is elderly, unlike Ganicca’s description,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘But it looks as if he did come from one of the islands.’
‘It’s a long way for an old man to come alone,’ Eadulf remarked.
‘We must speak to him,’ said Fidelma.
Conrí passed her the container of corma he carried. Fidelma took it and eased the old man’s head up, allowing a few drops to trickle into his mouth.
There was a paroxysm of coughing and the old man’s eyes opened blearily. They grew wide and fearful as he focused on them.
‘You have no need to kill me. I am dying already,’ he gasped.
Fidelma bent over him and tried to give him a reassuring look. Eadulf had continued his brief examination. The old man was beyond hope. It had not been a sword or spear thrust. Eadulf found the head of an arrow still embedded in the man’s side. It had gone deep and the victim had apparently tried to break off the shaft. The wound was already festering. Fidelma caught Eadulf’s eye and silently asked a question. Eadulf shook his head quickly.
‘Have no fear, my friend. We are not your enemies,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Who did this to you?’
The old man blinked; already his eyes were glazing.
‘They have destroyed us all …’ He paused, his chest heaving for breath. ‘They came … those they did not kill … they rounded up …’
‘Who are you, who are they?’ pressed Fidelma as gently as she could.
‘I am … Martan … a brother of Seanach’s Island.’ He gave a sudden gasp of pain.
‘Seanach’s Island. So we were right,’ Conrí muttered.
At the sound, the old man’s eyes opened wide.
‘Do not go there!’ His voice was suddenly strong. ‘Do not go there, if you value your life.’
‘What has happened to the brethren there?’ Fidelma asked. ‘What of the women from Ard Fhearta?’
‘Dead, dying … I escaped … but … I am dying.’
Fidelma knew the man had not long to live. Part of her wanted to let him die in peace but she had questions that had to be answered.
‘Who was it who attacked the brethren?’ she demanded again.
The old man was racked by a fit of coughing.
‘Who?’ she pressed.
‘Warriors … their leader, they called him the Master. The Master of Souls! I knew him … knew him of old … He …’
There was a sudden deep exhalation of breath and the old man fell back.
Eadulf looked up at Conrí and shook his head.
‘It looks as though you were right. There is a link between all these events. But I cannot accept that Uaman is still alive and directing them.’
‘Let us bury this poor soul,’ Fidelma instructed quietly, ‘and then we can decide on what we must do. It is clear that Slébéne has not sent a ship to investigate the islands.’ She glanced at the smashed
naomhóg,
the hide canoe, and then shook her head. ‘A pity! That’s beyond repair.’
Eadulf stared at her aghast as he guessed what was passing through her mind.
‘You don’t mean … you weren’t even thinking about going out to the island?’
Fidelma gestured indifferently.
‘There is no other way of ascertaining the situation,’ she said simply.
‘But, as I say, let us bury this poor soul first.’
The two warriors dug a shallow grave for the old man as best they could with their bladed swords. It was shallow but functional and Fidelma said a prayer over it and marked it with a makeshift cross of sticks.
‘I swear this poor soul, Brother Martan, will have a proper memorial. We will return and place a slab of stone over the grave and get a good artist to inscribe a cross upon it.’ Then she turned to Conrí. ‘You said that you had passed this way before? Do you know of any settlements along the way, places where we might get a boat?’
Eadulf groaned slightly.
‘I think that it is folly,’ he protested. ‘To go out to the islands—’
‘We would need to find a man who knows this coast,’ Conrí pointed out, ignoring his protest. ‘A man who could run us to the island under cover of darkness. These can be dangerous waters, lady. I know of no such place.’
‘We must know what is happening out there,’ Fidelma insisted.
It was Socht who cleared his throat and ventured to make a suggestion. ‘If it please you, lady, you will remember that we did pass a smith’s forge by the lakeside. Perhaps the smith might know of some local fishermen who would take us out?’
‘I remember the spot. Then that is what we will do.’ Fidelma’s tone admitted no questioning and they took to their horses once more. The flat land presented them with an easy ride and soon they came to a little wooded area where a cluster of buildings stood. It was easy to recognise the forge in which a couple of men, stripped to the waist, in spite of the
chilly day, were working on dousing a fire from which steam was rising into the air.
One of them heard their approach and shouted something to his companion. It sounded like a warning. Then the man grabbed a large hammer in one muscular hand while his companion reached for a sword lying on a nearby bench.
Fidelma drew rein immediately, holding up her hand to halt her companions.
‘What hospitality is this?’ she called, frowning at the aggressive stance of the two smiths.
The one with the hammer, still holding it menacingly ready, examined her carefully. Then his gaze encompassed her companions. He was of middle age, bearded and powerfully built. His comrade was of slighter stature, with the bleak-looking expression of someone who cannot envisage that any human has the right to be happy.
‘No hospitality at all,’ snapped the man with the hammer. ‘What do you want here, strangers?’
‘What most travellers want – hospitality and information.’
‘Most travellers seem to want more than that, especially when they travel with warriors,’ was the roughly spoken response.
‘It is all we want,’ replied Fidelma firmly.
‘Then why have you three warriors behind you with sharpened weapons? Last time we gave hospitality to religious with warriors guarding them, they stole our food and threatened out lives.’
Fidelma leant forward a little at the news.
‘When was this?’ she demanded.
‘A few weeks ago.’
‘And in what manner did this party come?’
‘Half a dozen religieuse and a foreign monk, guarded by a dozen warriors. The person who seemed in charge was a strange figure clad in robes from poll to feet so that none could look on him.’
Fidelma expected as much.
‘We seek these people, for the warriors have taken the religious captive,’ she explained.
‘The strange monk, the one whose face we could not see, was no captive,’ replied the smith.
‘Even so, the others were. They had been abducted and their abbess had been murdered.’
‘And you seek them? Why?’
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel. I am a
dálaigh.
Let us dismount, my friend, and I will speak further. You may well be able to help us in our quest.’
The smith with the hammer looked at his companion. They still hesitated.
‘I am intent on bringing these killers and abductors to justice,’ Fidelma added with emphasis. ‘These are my companions, Brother Eadulf, Conrí, warlord of the Uí Fidgente, whose relative was the abbess who was slain, and his warriors. Now tell us to whom we speak?’
The smith hesitated a moment and then he lowered the hammer with a shrug but did not release his hold.
‘My name is Gáeth and this is my assistant, Gaimredán.’
Fidelma looked at the bleak features of his companion and suddenly smiled broadly.
‘You are well named, my friend.’
Gáeth could not help but chuckle at her jest on the meaning of his assistant’s name.
‘Indeed he is, lady, for never was there a person of more wintry countenance and lack of humour.’
‘May we dismount now?’ asked Fidelma.
The smith gestured his assent and turned to lay aside his hammer.
‘I accept that you mean us no harm, but after the visit of the others …’
Fidelma and her companions dismounted and Socht collected their horses and tethered them.
She glanced around the collection of smithy buildings that stood alongside a gushing stream that emptied into the waters of the lake.
‘You are isolated here, Gáeth.’
‘Yet not too isolated to have unwelcome visitors,’ replied the other philosophically. He indicated one of the buildings that appeared to be the dwelling house. ‘Come inside. We have been left with enough corma to make you welcome on this cold winter’s day.’
The smith’s house was an old-style one-roomed circular house, whose floor was merely the earth made hard over centuries of use. The central hearth gave out a comfortable heat and rush matting on the floor provided their seats.
‘We live a frugal life here, lady,’ Gáeth announced. It became obvious that his comrade Gaimredán never spoke unless he had something important to contribute. ‘I suspect it is unlike the rich palace in which you
must dwell at Cashel.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll wager it is even more opulent than Slébéne’s hall. Ah well, my companion and I like to dwell in isolation. We are self-sufficient here, for the earth provides us with vegetables, the mountains behind us with game, the air with birds and the sea with fish. What more could we want?’
Eadulf had been examining the room and had noticed the lack of any Christian icons. But he saw some items that he had seen now and again in his travels and knew the meaning of them.
‘Do I understand that you are not of the Faith?’ he asked brusquely.
Gáeth seemed amused.
‘It all depends what you mean by Faith, Saxon brother. You imply there is one Faith. Well, we are not Christians, if that is what you mean. That is why we dwell apart in order that those who would proselytise us do not bother us. Argument is a tedious thing. We each come to the Dagda, the Good God, along our own path.’
‘It seems that you are also well named, Gáeth,’ Fidelma said, for the name meant clever and wise. ‘But we did not come to discuss the Faith. I presume that you both dwell here as hermits?’
‘It is true that we prefer to dwell in isolation from others. But many know our work and come to us.’
Gaimredán was handing round pottery cups filled with corma. The raw spirit made Eadulf gasp.
‘So you know many people in these parts?’
Gáeth inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘Well, the strangers who came here were indeed strangers. They were not of these parts. We heard from our neighbours that after they ransacked our storehouse for food they went on to the coast. There is a sandy shore not far from here to the north-west and we heard from a shepherd that these strangers were met there by a warship and taken out to sea. Who knows where they went?’

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