Bloodmoon

by Peter Tremayne

Overview

A secret mission. A murdered abbot. A false accusation: the compelling new Sister Fidelma mystery.

Ireland, AD 671. Sister Fidelma has a mission, and she is sworn by oath to reveal her purpose to no other. The secret investigation leads her and her companions to the abbey of Finnbarr to question the abbot. But before they have a chance to speak to him, the abbot is found murdered - and the young girl suspected of the crime has fled the scene.

As vicious rumours spread, accusing Fidelma's family, the Eóghanacht Kings of Cashel, of conspiring to assassinate the High King and abduct his wife, Sister Fidelma's life is placed in mortal danger.

Unable to tell the truth of her quest to anyone, including her husband Eadulf, Fidelma's time is running out - and now she has no choice but to face the challenge, and her enemies, alone

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780727888181
Publisher:	Severn House
Publication date:	10/01/2018
Series:	A Sister Fidelma Mystery , #29
Pages:	352
Product dimensions:	5.40(w) x 8.60(h) x 1.30(d)

About the Author

Peter Tremayne is the pseudonym of a well-known authority on the ancient Celts who has utilised his knowledge of the Brehon law system and 7th-century Irish society to create a new concept in detective fiction. He is the author of 28 previous Sister Fidelma mysteries.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

'Why have we stopped?'

The imperious tone of the woman leaning out of her ornate carriage made the young warrior, who had signalled the halt, turn his horse and ride the short distance back to the vehicle to answer her.

They had emerged from a thick forest onto a narrow track at the head of a wild and windswept valley. The weather was bleak and cold, a typical midwinter day. The craggy hills on either side of the valley before them were bare of growth, and granite rocks protruded, dominating the landscape. There were only a few trees here and there, and the landscape was brown with dead bracken and patches of thorn bush. There was little of the winter green that one might expect to see in this southern area, as in the forest they had just travelled through.

The warrior, Loingsech, looked tired and cold, in spite of his heavy woollen cloak trimmed with badger fur. But he halted his horse by the carriage and saluted the woman respectfully.

The carriage in which she sat was a four-wheeled one, called a cethairríad, drawn by four strong horses. It was clearly no ordinary vehicle, for it was of red yew panelling on a heavy oak frame, carved by expert craftsmen and with gold ornamentation. Moreover, it was an enclosed vehicle, except for the box on which sat the ara, or driver, and a cairpthech, or chariot-warrior, whose job was to act as guard. The ownership of such a valuable vehicle could be deduced, by those with knowledge, for there was an aurscarted, a carving, on the red yew of the door of the carriage. It was an upraised hand, the symbol of the Uí Néill, the High Kings of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann. The single riderless horse tethered at the rear of the carriage was a curiosity.

The woman who leant out of the vehicle was tall, in her late twenties, with hints of fiery red in her otherwise blond hair. She was attractive, but worry lines could be discerned around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. There was an expression of anxiety about her features though her demeanour showed that she was used to giving commands and, moreover, to having them obeyed. She fixed the young warrior with icy blue eyes.

'Loingsech, why have we stopped?' she demanded again.

The young man inclined his head in respect. 'Lady, we have arrived at the valley of Cluain. But I do not like the gloomy look of it. It seems too deserted. It has a menacing appearance.'

For a moment the woman looked surprised. Then the taut line of her mouth broke into a cynical smile.

'Are you so fearful, Loingsech?' she taunted. 'Are you not a warrior of the Fianna Éireann?'

The young man flushed. 'I merely observe how bare and deserted this valley appears compared with the thick, lush forests that surround this isolated spot. It is as if God has cursed it so that it is devoid of growth.'

'I swear you are fearful, Loingsech,' mocked the woman.

'I am fearful of no living person,' the warrior protested.

'No person living ... or dead?' she taunted further. 'Have no fear, warrior, the abbey of Cluain should lie only a little way further along this valley track.'

She turned to her companion, sitting in the shadows of the vehicle. 'It is fortuitous that we have stopped here, for it is now time we parted company.'

The figured stirred. It was a young girl, hardly older than her early twenties.

'I am ready, lady.'

The woman nodded slowly. 'You know what you have to do?'

'I should be in Finnbarr's Abbey by tomorrow morning. I am then to rejoin you in Cluain by the end of the week at the latest.'

'Excellent. Go with God.'

The girl bowed her head and climbed down from the carriage unaided. She walked nimbly to the rear of it and untethered the horse. Mounting with the fluid motion of a practised horsewoman, she rode away at a swift trot towards the forest to the north-west, making no farewell gesture. The woman watched her departure, then, satisfied, sank back among cushions that furnished the interior of the coach and called to the driver to move on.

The buildings that they came across a short time later seemed as bleak and deserted as the valley itself. Crumbling blocks of dark, weather-worn limestone were piled in such a way as to create an uneven wall enclosing a half-ruined chapel and, just visible beyond it, several round bothán, cabins for habitation. There appeared to be no sign of life, even when the young warrior rode up to the great oak gates and brought out his stoc, or trumpet, to blow the customary blast announcing the arrival of an important visitor.

The echoes of the note died away but there was no answer. There was no sound except the angry cacophony of disturbed birds, their calls blending together in a nerve-shattering chorus.

The young warrior moved forward, frowning, and pushed on the gates. They swung open easily at his touch.

He nudged his horse forward a few paces and then halted, suddenly rigid. There was a discernible pause as he stiffened in the saddle, a short bolt of wood protruding from his left shoulder. The horse, surprised and nervous, had jerked its head, twisting the reins from the hand of the injured warrior. With a shrill frightened sound, the horse reared and then turned, uncontrolled, and bounded away with the severely wounded young man clinging to the saddle, blood gushing from his shoulder.

Before the cairpthech, the chariot-warrior, could rise to draw his weapon, two more bolts from a hidden crossbow had embedded themselves into his flesh. He looked surprised as he fell, and it did not take an expert eye to see that he was dead before he hit the ground. The horses pulling the carriage reared up in fright as his body bounced over their backs. The driver's cry of alarm was half-choked in his throat as he, too, fell back in his seat. The horses stamped and snorted nervously.

The woman, leaning from the window, stared in bewilderment at the bodies of her fallen entourage; she realised they were beyond helping her now. She reluctantly turned her gaze from them as she became aware of men moving forward to surround the carriage.

A mocking baritone voice called: 'Come and join us, lady.'

Her jaw set determinedly, the woman climbed down from the coach. Her quick eye took in the three men who confronted her. Two of them were aiming curious-looking weapons at her. She remembered that she had seen such weapons before, at Tara, carried by warriors from the Pictii of Alba, known to her people as the Cruithne, accompanying their envoys to her husband's court. They were crossbows, vicious weapons that could be used at fairly close quarters to release their bolts with deadly effect. The third man's features were totally concealed by a mask. His clothes appeared to be of good quality and an ornately worked sword hung in an elaborate scabbard at his side. They belonged to no common warrior or thief.

'Where is Antrí?' she demanded, but her air of authority was somewhat forced. 'This is not how it was arranged!'

'Walk with me, lady,' the masked man replied, indicating the open gates of the abbey. His tone was civil and yet, curiously, held a threatening note.

'Know you that I am Grella, wife to Cenn Fáelad mac Blaithmaic, High King, descendant of the Síl nÁedo Sláine, heir of Niall –'

The man gave a cynical laugh and made a gesture of cutting her short with his hand.

'I know you well enough, lady,' he said. 'What other reason would I have for inviting you to be my guest?'

'Who are you?' she demanded, puzzled. 'I seem to know you, but you are not Antrí.'

She glanced at his two armed companions. They were poorly dressed but their clothes seemed to belie their status; they both had well-trimmed hair and beards and carried weapons of quality.

'Thank the powers I am not Antrí,' the man said.

'Your voice is familiar. Where is Antrí? Are you not those sent to meet me?'

'Alas, it is not for me to introduce myself at the moment,' her captor said in an amused tone. 'Suffice to say, I know who you are and you will shortly know who I am. Let me say for the moment that I disapprove of the so-called Abbot Antrí making a separate transaction that betrayed his original agreement.'

He led her through the gates and towards one of the crumbling buildings. He paused before it and pushed open the door. Inside, a man in the brown homespun robes of a religieux was tied to one of the wooden poles that supported the roof. A gag was in his mouth. His wide, frightened eyes stared at them above the gag.

'Antrí!' Grella exclaimed as she recognised the man.

Her captor reached forward to pull the door shut again.

'Your cousin Antrí, who claims to be abbot, has not been very cooperative. No matter. It is you we wanted.'

'Who are you?' she demanded again, this time more hesitantly. 'The men of Éireann use only longbows. Those are Pictish weapons.' She indicated the crossbows. 'You are not Cruithne?'

'Your knowledge is great, lady. But the Saxons also use these weapons. I am surprised you did not mistake us for Saxons.' He seemed to smile as he spoke, as if there were some hidden meaning to his comment.

'What do you want of me?' Grella replied in frustration. 'Why have you imprisoned Abbot Antrí?'

'We can dispense with Abbot Antrí.' Her captor made a dismissive gesture. 'It is your company that we want ... for a while, at least. As I have requested – walk with me.'

He led her back towards the gates.

She now saw that behind the gates was a line of a dozen bodies, all clad in religious robes. She could see they were all dead. She swallowed nervously.

'What has happened here?' she asked quietly.

Her guide waved a hand in the direction of the bodies. 'Well, I know that Christians are keen to join their God in the Paradise of which they talk so much. You could say that we have just helped to hasten their wish. I'm sure they would all accept that sacrificing their lives in this world will have eased their entry into the next.'

'Who were they? Abbot Antrí's community?' she demanded, her voice rising in fear now. 'Who are you?'

'They are indeed your cousin Antrí's so-called disciples, or should I be more accurate and say that they are his paid followers? Members of the religious they were certainly not, no more than Antrí was an abbot.'

'You have much blood on your hands, whoever you are.' Once more she tried to assert her authority but no longer with much conviction. 'You will pay dearly for it.'

'Oh, come, come, lady. Let us not argue. I am confident that we can come to an alternative accommodation between us. The price you will pay is surely more than I would be faced with.'

'Are you going to kill Antrí?' Her voice dropped to a whisper as she began to comprehend the enormity of her situation.

'Alas, if he were truly an abbot, he might have set a better example to his flock. I am afraid that he and his sheep' – he waved at the bodies again – 'were not good conspirators. He should have been the first to lead them on the path to the next world. In fact, he should have made his own way there but, as it turned out, he tried to make a bargain with me about your fate. You see, lady, I know everything.'

'What do you want of me?' she asked, subdued now she realised just how ruthless this man, whoever he was, could be.

'I've told you. I want only your company, until the time comes when you will make a good confession and make a new arrangement with me about your future.'

He turned and began to issue orders to his men. Others had now joined them. One man had led the carriage through the gates into the abbey compound and was unharnessing the horses. Two others were dealing with the bodies of the driver and the second guard.

'Have your men caught the escaped warrior yet?' the masked leader called to one of the men, who was overseeing the operation.

'The horse bolted and managed to reach the far woods. He was still clinging to it. We have given chase.'

The leader swore viciously. 'I need him found; he must be killed, or your men will be sorry. Make sure none of the bodies is identifiable.'

'But what of the coach?' protested the man. 'It is a good one and it would be sad to see it burnt.'

'But sadder for everyone concerned if it is recognised before we have resolved matters. Burn it.'

The woman attempted to bring her chin up pugnaciously. 'Am I to be killed as well? After all, as wife to the High King, I am more recognisable than the coach.' The fear in her voice eliminated any authority she may have previously held.

Her captor gave a little chuckle. 'Well pointed out, lady. But don't be alarmed. For the moment we are just going for a little ride. Anyway, I don't think you were expecting to be the wife of the High King for much longer. Cousin Antrí was most specific about your plans.'

There was a sudden cry of alarm from one of the men. He was rushing from the hut where she had seen Antrí imprisoned. 'By the Ever Living Ones, my lord, Antrí seems to have loosened his bonds and escaped. Shall we go after him?'

The masked leader swore. 'Am I surrounded by incompetents? Yes, get after him quickly. That parasite knows too much. He is expendable, so make sure he does not leave the valley alive!'

The High King's wife was pale and shivering, but she tried to call forth some dignity even so. 'You will find that this gross insult to the family of the High King will not go unpunished.'

The man turned to her, his voice still filled with amusement. 'Perhaps it is to prevent such an insult that we act in this matter, lady.' Then, while she was still trying to decipher his meaning, he turned and raised his voice: 'Set the fires and let us be away from this place.'

CHAPTER 2

Three riders paused on the crest of the hill and stared down into the broad river valley before them, screwing up their eyes against the cold air. In spite of a blustery wind, the sky was mainly blue with only patches of brilliant white cloud, woolly domes drifting swiftly in irregular succession across the sky. The leading rider, a woman on a grey-white pony, pulled her thick woollen cape more tightly around her and, as she did so, her long, red-gold hair was caught momentarily by the wind. She was forced to raise a hand to disentangle it and tuck it back under her hood. The second rider, a tall youthful man, leant back on his horse and gazed at the sky.

'The clouds are thickening, lady,' he observed. 'I fear bad weather is approaching.'

The woman turned with a pleasant smile to the speaker, who was clad in the accoutrements of a warrior and wore the traditional golden torc, the neckband of the Nasc Niadh, the Golden Collar, denoting a member of the elite bodyguard to the King of Cashel. Cashel was the principal fortress of the kingdom of Muman, the largest and most south-westerly of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann.

'We will reach the abbey before the rain showers come,' she assured him with confidence. 'It is not far from here.'

The third rider, astride a docile-looking roan cob, was a man in brown religious woollen robes, bearing the tonsure of the Blessed Peter on his unprotected pate, which showed he followed the rule of Rome rather than that of the churches of the Five Kingdoms. He shivered slightly as the winds caught him.

'How do you know it will rain?' he demanded, slightly petulantly. 'At this time of year it is more likely to snow.'

'Observe the clouds, Eadulf,' the woman replied. 'See the formations? If they continue to change shape, like those approaching from the north, we will see some rain before long. But it is not yet cold enough for snow. It is not until later this month, after the new moon, that the temperature will drop suddenly, heralding the really high winds and the risk of snow falling.'

Eadulf sighed with an almost exaggerated expulsion of his breath. It was clear he was not in a good mood.

The young warrior, Enda, who had been tasked to accompany the couple on their journey, noticed the tension in him and intervened quickly.

'Is this abbey that we seek close by, lady?'

Fidelma of Cashel, sister to Colgú, King of Muman, indicated the wide, lush valley before them.

'The abbey is not so much a building but a large community, sheltering behind a wooden stockade on the top of a small limestone cliff overlooking that river which you see before you.'

'And that river is called ...?'

'The Sabrann.'

'A strange name,' reflected the warrior. 'But I have never been in this part of the kingdom before.'

'It is an ancient name,' Fidelma explained, 'although the Greek traveller Ptolemy recorded it by the name Dabrona. Traders have long used this river and the inlets it flows into as a great harbour.'

'Well, it looks a peaceful and pleasant countryside,' observed Enda.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Bloodmoon"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Peter Tremayne.
Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Editorial Reviews

08/20/2018
The prologue of Tremayne’s tired 29th mystery set in seventh-century Ireland (after Night of the Lightbringer) depicts the abduction of Grella, the wife of the High King of the Five Kingdoms, shortly after she dispatches her female aide, Cairenn, to Finnbarr’s Abbey. The main narrative finds Sister Fidelma, who has left her religious order and now serves her brother, the King of Cashel, as a legal advocate, and her companion, Brother Eadulf, en route to that same abbey. Fidelma refuses to say more about why they are traveling there beyond explaining that she needs to discuss a matter of law with Abbot Nessán. When Fidelma and Eadulf arrive, Nessán’s steward tells them that they were not expected—and before Fidelma can have her conversation with the abbot, Nessán is found dead, strangled by a piece of rope, and the woman who was assisting the elderly cleric has disappeared. Tremayne does a good job immersing readers in an unfamiliar world, but the whodunit plot and the political intrigue fall short of his usual high standard. Agent: Euan Thorneycroft, A.M. Heath (U.K.). (Oct.)

Publishers Weekly