The Devil's Seal (3 page)

Brother Siolán did not waste time with further questions.

‘Bring him up to the cabin so that I may examine him.’ He turned and gave staccato orders to his hound; the beast loped off back to the cabin porch and lay down, ever-watchful.

Gormán turned to Enda. ‘We two shall carry him. Dego, you see to the horses. We’ll help you later with the burial of the corpses,’ he added to Brother Siolán.

Gormán and Enda lifted the unconscious young religieux from the boat and, between them, carried his inert body up the pathway to Brother Siolán’s cabin. He let them in and pointed to the bed, asking, ‘How long ago did this happen?’

‘We are not sure, Brother,’ Gormán said breathlessly. ‘But it can’t have been that long ago. Will the man live?’

Brother Siolán was bending over the young religieux, examining him.

‘The only wound seems to be the abrasion on the side of his head. Has he regained consciousness at all?’

‘Only momentarily,’ Gormán replied.

‘A good sign anyway. It seems that the blow rendered him unconscious, which probably saved his life as the attackers may have thought they had killed him. Let us hope that the blow has caused no internal injuries. However, he will doubtless suffer headaches when he recovers consciousness.’

He turned to a cupboard. ‘I have a paste of crushed flowers of a plant that grows nearby. That will cleanse and soothe the wound. Then when he comes round, I will try him with an infusion from the bark of the white willow. That should take away the headache. Then you can tell me in detail what has happened.’

‘We ought to bury the poor man’s companions before we sit down to recount our story,’ suggested Gormán. ‘The ravens have been following the boat since we discovered it and the corpses.’

Brother Siolán was apologetic. ‘Of course. But do you have any idea of who these people are?’

‘Only that they are two religious and two boatmen. We think the religious are strangers to this country. Maybe they came all the way upriver from Láirge’s harbour.’

The harbour lay close to the mouth of the River Siúr and was a place where many ocean-going vessels made landfall.

‘I see this one has the tonsure of Rome,’ noted Brother Siolán. ‘Well, time enough for speculation. I’ll tend to him. Go, take the corpses to the back of the chapel here, secure the boat and you’ll find an enclosure and fodder for your horses behind this hut.’

‘What about your hound?’ asked Enda, with a nervous glance at the dog, which seemed to be suspiciously watching their every move.

‘Figleóir? What? Oh, I see.’ Brother Siolán grinned. ‘Don’t worry about him. He won’t bother you now that he sees we are friends.’

‘Figleóir, that’s a good name for a watch-dog,’ Enda observed dryly. The name meant ‘a watcher’.

It was well after dark when all the tasks had been accomplished. The corpses had been buried and the graves marked. The boat had been searched again for any clues of its origin, and now the three warriors had crowded into the cabin of Brother Siolán to relax in front of a warm log fire. The rescued religieux still lay on Brother Siolán’s bed but was now breathing more easily.

‘He’s fallen into a natural sleep,’ Brother Siolán explained, as he served a meal to the hungry warriors. He had already provided a jug of home-brewed ale, which they sipped appreciatively.

‘Is that a good sign?’ asked Enda. ‘Sleeping so long?’

‘It is. So now, what brings members of the Nasc Niadh, the élite bodyguard of our King, along the banks of the Siúr? What is the news from Cashel?’

Gormán stretched himself before the comforting fire. ‘We can tell you little enough of recent news from Cashel as we have been away over a week, on an errand to investigate some dispute at the Ford of Fire.’

Áth Thine, Ford of Fire, was a crossing point between the Kingdoms of Muman and neighbouring Laighin – which often proved a cause for skirmishes and conflict.

‘Then we came south-west by means of the Mountain of Women and hence to the river. Our plan was to ride to the Field of Honey before turning north back to Cashel.’

‘I heard a rumour that Caol is no longer the Commander of the King’s Bodyguard,’ remarked Brother Siolán.

Gormán hesitated a moment before replying: ‘That is so.’

Enda was grinning and there was pride in his voice when he said, ‘Gormán is being too modest. He neglects to tell you that he is the newly appointed commander.’

Brother Siolán’s eyes widened. ‘Then congratulations are in order.’

Gormán seemed embarrassed. ‘Colgú has placed a great trust in me,’ he admitted. ‘I shall do my best to fulfil his expectations.’

‘Yet Caol was surely too young to retire from the command?’ mused the religieux.

‘Caol decided that he wanted to become a farmer,’ put in Enda, ignoring the disapproving glance from Gormán. ‘He has gone to farm somewhere west of the River Mháigh, on the borders of the Luachra territory.’

Brother Siolán looked surprised and was about to make a comment when Gormán said hurriedly, ‘You may have heard that King Colgú has recovered from his wound and is well.’

Only a few months had passed since there had been an attempt to assassinate the King.

‘I heard Caol slew the assassin. I suppose he had earned the right to be able to retire to follow a more peaceful calling,’ reflected Brother Siolán. ‘And how is the King’s sister, the lady Fidelma? Is she well?’

‘When we left Cashel, she was very well.’

There was a sudden groan from the figure on the bed and Brother Siolán moved swiftly across to him. It was clear the young religieux was regaining consciousness and becoming aware of his surrounding. Brother Siolán gave him a few sips of liquid from a beaker which Gormán presumed was some herbal concoction to help him.

The young man sat up, massaging his head. He seemed to be asking a question ìn a language that none of them understood.

When Brother Siolán asked how he was, the man hesitantly replied in the same language but with a curious accent. ‘What happened?’ he asked groggily.

‘You were attacked by brigands and left for dead. Unfortunately, your companions were all killed in the attack. Luckily, these warriors found you and brought you here.’

The young man groaned again, partly in his discomfiture and partly from the confirmation of the news he must have expected.

‘Do you remember what happened?’ asked Gormán, rising from his seat to come closer. ‘Do you recall your name?’

The young man licked his lips for a moment. ‘I am called Brother Egric. We were being transported upriver when our vessel was approached by a larger vessel manned by half-a-dozen men. They greeted us in friendship and we thought they were just passing by, but all of a sudden they attacked us. I saw one of our boatmen fall with an arrow in his back. Our craft was driven into the bank. I was travelling with the Venerable Victricius. He tried to remonstrate with the attackers, who were all young men, but they laughed and then one of them hit him about the head with a war axe. I turned to flee, and something hit me on the side of the head. I had a passing thought that I was dead. I am not sure what happened next. I seemed to be in some dream until I woke just a moment ago.’

Brother Siolán nodded sympathetically. ‘You are safe now, my friend. I am Brother Siolán. My little chapel is not far upriver from where you were attacked and where these good warriors found and brought you here. Alas, as I said, your companion and the boatmen are all dead. We have buried them behind the chapel.’

A look of pain crossed the young man’s features.

‘The Venerable Victricius is dead?’ he repeated as if he could not believe it.

‘He is dead, indeed,’ confirmed Gormán.

Brother Egric sighed. ‘And our belongings? Has everything been stolen?’

‘Only a few items remain. That which was not destroyed was carried away by them. It looks as though you were attacked by robbers.’

‘Did you retrieve anything?’ There was a curious eagerness in his tone.

‘We did, mainly items of clothing. They are piled in that corner.’ Gormán nodded in that direction. ‘But first some questions. You have told us your name and that of your dead companion. Where have you come from? Where were you going?’

The young man rubbed his forehead. ‘We – that is, the Venerable Victricius and I – came to this country five days ago. We landed at a place called Láirge’s harbour and arranged for two boatmen to take us upriver. Is this river still called the Siúr? It is? Then we were to land at a place called Cluain Meala where we were told we would find a guide.’

‘A guide? To go where?’

‘To a place called Cashel.’

‘Cashel . . .’ Gormán was surprised. He had expected any foreign religious to be travelling to Imleach, the oldest and largest abbey in all Muman.

‘We were to meet a Brother Docgan in Cluain Meala.’

‘Brother Docgan?’ Gormán glanced at Brother Siolán who looked bemused. ‘The name is unfamiliar to us. It sounds Saxon. Indeed, your own name and accent make you a Saxon.’

The young man shook his head and winced from the pain. ‘I am an Angle; but perhaps you would not know the difference,’ he said weakly.

Gormán chuckled. ‘That is where you are wrong. I have a good friend who makes a point of correcting people when he is called a Saxon.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Our King’s sister, the lady Fidelma, is married to an Angle.’

‘Then I must surely meet with him,’ the young man replied gravely. ‘From which kingdom of the Angles does he come?’

‘From the Kingdom of the East Angles, he says,’ replied Gormán.

The young man turned to regard him with an expression of astonishment.

‘But so do I!’ he announced. ‘I am from the Land of the South Folk in the Kingdom of the East Angles.’

‘Tell me,’ Gormán asked excitedly, ‘have you heard of Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham?’

‘Eadulf?’ The name was issued as a strangled gasp by the religieux. There was a silence during which he seemed to be gathering his thoughts before he answered slowly. ‘My name is Egric of Seaxmund’s Ham: I am brother to Eadulf, who was our hereditary
gerefa
, as was our father before him.’

‘B
rother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the Land of the South Folk of the Kingdom of the East Angles, is summoned to the presence of Colgú, King of Muman.’

For a moment, Eadulf stared in amusement at the solemn face of the steward of the palace of Cashel, comptroller of the King’s household. Then he assumed an equally solemn expression, for he knew that the rotund Beccan, who had served only months in his office of
rechtaire
, or steward, was a stickler for protocol. Eadulf had been told by Gormán that the steward’s punctiliousness was affected because he was a comparative stranger to the palace. He came from the southern part of the kingdom, south of the Siúr, and had come to oversee the kitchens. A few months later the previous steward had retired to his family and farm, and Beccan was suddenly elevated to this new position.

‘Eadulf, husband to Fidelma of Cashel, sister of King Colgú, will obey this summons,’ Eadulf answered with equal gravity. Then he could not help relaxing his features in a smile. ‘So what does Colgú want of me? Why summon me, and not Fidelma?’

Beccan’s fleshy features assumed a disapproving look.

‘It is not my place to guess the desires of the King, only to relay his orders.’

Eadulf sighed at the steward’s uncompromising tone. ‘I’ll come immediately.’

Fidelma and Alchú, their four-year-old son, were out riding with Aidan, one of the King’s bodyguards, as escort. Therefore there was no one to whom to explain his absence. Eadulf set off after the steward who led him from the chambers they occupied, across the courtyard to the main building of the palace complex which contained the private chambers of the King.

‘I wonder if this summons has anything to do with the arrival of Abbot Ségdae and his companions last night?’ he mused aloud as they proceeded.

Ségdae, Abbot of Imleach and Chief Bishop of Muman, had arrived at dusk the previous evening with his steward, Brother Madagan, and a foreign religieux. They had immediately retired to the guest quarters. As a regular visitor to Cashel, both as spiritual adviser and member of the King’s council, Ségdae’s arrival did not usually arouse any comment. But it was unusual that the abbot had not joined them for the evening meal.

‘There is always some matter of church policy to be discussed,’ Beccan replied shortly.

‘Is the King’s
tánaiste
with him?’ Eadulf asked.

‘Finguine, the heir apparent, left early this morning to visit the Prince of the Eóghanacht Glendamnach.’

‘I expect he is late with the tribute again.’ Eadulf spoke lightly.

A stony expression confronted him. ‘I would not know,’ said Beccan, ‘and even if I did, it is not my place to discuss the policies of the King.’

Eadulf suppressed a sigh. There was no humour in the man. He fell silent while the steward moved into the passage to where a member of the King’s bodyguard stood outside the red yew-tree doors which led to the private chambers. Beccan raised his staff of office and rapped it three times against the wooden panels before throwing it open. He stood framed in the door.