Eadulf was not surprised. ‘Because of her ability to climb along narrow ledges? That occurred to me.’
‘Her hands were unmarked. Yet there was a bloodstained hand print on the sill of the window where the attacker had climbed out. Of course, that is not conclusive. However, Marga is missing. Significantly, according to Sétach, neither she nor Fergus Fanat made any arrangement to see her and Brother Drón this evening. Sister Marga did not tell us the truth.’
‘Sister Sétach could be lying,’ Eadulf pointed out.
‘She could,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Alas, we cannot ask Fergus Fanat and get to the truth that way. But we can ask Brother Drón.’
They came to Brother Drón’s chamber and knocked on the door. There was no answer, and, when a further knocking did not elicit a response, Fidelma impatiently opened it and entered. Caol came behind her holding the lantern high. The chamber was empty. The bed had not been slept in. There was no sign of Brother Drón.
‘It still lacks a few hours until dawn,’ Caol pointed out. ‘Drón must be still in the fortress, for the gates will still be closed, and in any case, no one would go out into an unfamiliar countryside in the dead of night.’
‘We must check,’ replied Fidelma, leading the way down to the main courtyard.
The guard at the gate looked sheepish.
‘Brother Drón, the hawk-faced man from Cill Ria? A boy came with a message for him and he took his horse and left about an hour ago. There was no instruction to detain him. He told me that he had to be at some place by first light. Some religious place, I think it was.’
‘You let a stranger out into the countryside in the middle of the night?’ thundered Caol.
‘But I had no orders not to. I did seek the advice of the noble Finguine when one of the religieuse earlier sought permission to leave to go to visit someone in the township. But that was before the gates were closed for the night.’
Fidelma stared at him. ‘A religieuse? Do you know her name?’
‘She gave it as Sister Marga, lady,’ replied the unhappy man.
Fidelma stifled a groan. ‘Was she on horseback?’
‘I don’t think so, lady.’
Fidelma was already hurrying across the cobbled patch to the stables.
The gilla scuir was seated on a hay bale with another of the guards and a fidchell board between them. They rose guiltily as Fidelma entered.
‘Is Abbot Ultán’s horse still here?’ she asked.
The stable lad nodded immediately and pointed.
‘Still here, lady,’ he confirmed.
‘Is there any other horse missing?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘Any other horse?’ The stable lad was bemused for a moment and then shook his head. ‘They are all accounted for with the exception of Brother Drón’s horse. He rode off on it some time ago. Is there something wrong?’
But Fidelma was frowning. ‘So Marga is on foot and Drón on horseback.’
‘Do you think it was Marga who attacked Fergus?’ asked Eadulf. ‘Do we go after them?’
Fidelma was about to reply when there was shouting from outside the gates. The guard said something in response, then swung the gate open a fraction to let a figure enter. To their surprise, Brother Berrihert pushed his way in, halted, saw them by the stables in the light of the lanterns and came hurrying across. He barely acknowledged Fidelma but let forth a flood of Saxon to Eadulf, speaking quickly and with emphasis. Fidelma had a working knowledge but could not follow all that was said by the intense, pale-faced religieux.
‘Eadulf, I need your help. My father is missing.’
‘Ordwulf?’
‘I fear my father plans to kill Brother Drón. When I found him gone tonight I came here to warn you. The guard has just told me that Brother Drón has already left the fortress. I should have told you before that Ordwulf has thought of nothing else but vengeance killing. But he is my father, you understand. I cannot tell you the full story but he blamed Abbot Ultán and still blames Brother Drón for the death of my mother. I need your help, and. .’
Fidelma interrupted. ‘You mention Drón and death. What do you mean? My Saxon is not good enough to understand everything you say. Speak in Latin if it is more comfortable than Irish.’
Berrihert frowned in annoyance. ‘We have no time. .’he began.
‘There is always time for a clear explanation,’ snapped Fidelma.
Brother Berrihert took a deep breath. ‘My father says that Ultán and Drón were responsible for my mother’s death, his wife’s death. It is. .’
Fidelma made a gesture with her hand. ‘I have heard the story from your brothers. I understand it. You say that your father is about to kill Drón? Where are they?’
Brother Berrihert lifted his arms helplessly. ‘I do not know, lady. I had a feeling that my father had something planned yesterday, but it seemed that Drón went off with the hunt. I heard my father cursing to himself about Drón going in the wrong direction and thwarting him.’
‘The wrong direction?’ Fidelma frowned.
‘I did not understand what he meant. But now I think that my father sent a message to Drón asking him to go to some spot where my father planned to kill him.’
Fidelma turned and beckoned the guard to join them. ‘You said that Brother Drón mentioned some place where he was going? A religious place? Can you remember anything else?’
‘I cannot remember, lady. It was some place of pilgrimage, I think.’
Fidelma closed her eyes and groaned. ‘Fool!’
The guard looked shocked. She opened her eyes.
‘Not you. Me!’ She turned to Eadulf. ‘It’s the Well of Patrick, just south of here. Marga told me that Sétach had told her that Drón had received a message before he set out on the hunt, telling him that Marga was meeting her lover at this place. He was about to ride there when Sétach told him Marga was following the hunt in the other direction. That message came from Ordwulf, I’ll wager it.’ She turned to Brother Berrihert. ‘Would your father know about the Well of Patrick?’
Brother Berrihert closed his eyes in agony. ‘On our journey here, my brothers and I went there because it was blessed by the great apostle of the Faith. We went to sip the sacred water from the well and seek a blessing on our new life here in your land. We took our father.’ He suddenly let out a low moan. ‘My father seemed impressed by the isolation of the glade and apparently noted its location in his mind. He knows it is not far away from here.’
‘The Well of Patrick,’ muttered Fidelma. ‘By the honey fields. An ideal spot for a murder. Once it was a sacred place for the Druids and then Patrick visited it when he baptised my ancestors here on the Rock of Cashel. Patrick went south to purify the well in the name of the New Faith.’ She glanced at the sky. ‘An hour or two before dawn. Get our horses ready, Caol. You will have to come with us.’
‘I must come too,’ declared Brother Berrihert.
Caol looked questioningly at Fidelma for guidance and she nodded. ‘He can mount up behind you.’
Caol went off shouting instructions to the gilla scuir to saddle their horses.
In a short time, the four of them, on three horses, were heading south-east from Cashel along the road towards the field of honey, a small settlement that lay on the banks of the river Siúr. Initially, in the darkness, Caol led the way with a sure determination. It was not long before the grey of the oncoming day lit their path. It was fully light long before they skirted the western bank of the smaller river Mael and then crossed a marshy stream passing below a hill on which stood an ancient pillar stone, rising higher than any man on the hilltop. Eadulf knew it was ancient and that local clerics had carved crosses on both its south and north faces to expunge any pagan spirits that remained there. But some of the ancient customs remained, for Fidelma had told him that it was the habit of the chief of the Déisi to bring his warriors to the spot before they embarked on any hosting against an enemy and to lead them sun-wise round the ancient stone.