Both Fidelma and Eadulf recognised the smith as one of those who had been seated at the abbot’s table the previous
night. A smith of the rank that had been ascribed to Brother Giolla-na-Naomh would of course, take precedent among the hierarchy of the abbey after the abbot, his steward and librarian.
The big man smiled through his shaggy black beard and examined them keenly with his blue eyes. He thrust out a massive hand to each of them in turn.
‘While I am pleased to welcome you here,’ he said, ‘it is sad that it is the death of Brother Donnchad that brings you.’
‘We share your sadness, Brother Giolla-na-Naomh,’ replied Fidelma solemnly, ‘and appreciate your welcome.’
The smith turned to his apprentice. ‘Bring me the metal lock that is on the shelf behind you.’ When the young man had passed it over, the smith added more instructions. ‘Stoke up the furnace with the
cual craing
and keep it hot.’ Eadulf knew that
cual craing
was literally ‘coal of wood’, the term applied to charcoal.
The smith turned back to them and pointed to a stone bench that stood under the canopy of a yew tree a little way from the forge.
‘The furnace is too hot to remain in comfort near it on a day like this,’ he said. ‘We may sit in the cool shade of that tree. The bench is comfortable. Brother Lugna advised me last evening that you would be wishing to question me.’
‘About the lock,’ confirmed Fidelma. She sat down on the stone bench while Brother Giolla-na-Naomh lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of her. Eadulf simply stood to one side against the tree.
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh glanced round as they made themselves comfortable and said, ‘I expected the steward to come with you.’
‘For what purpose?’ asked Fidelma, intrigued.
‘No purpose.’ The man grinned. ‘Our steward simply likes to know everything that is happening. He is young to have
reached the office of
rechtaire
. He has been here barely three years and already thinks he is in charge of all of us.’
‘Tell us about the lock,’ she invited the smith, mentally noting that he was obviously no big admirer of the steward.
The smith shrugged his massive shoulders and handed her the metal lock. She saw at once that Brother Giolla-na-Naomh was no novice at his art. It was a fine piece of work.
‘Not much to tell, really,’ the smith said. ‘It was Brother Lugna who came to me with the request. Brother Donnchad desired a lock and key to be fitted to the door of his
cotultech
… beg pardon,
cubiculum
. Brother Lugna insists on using these new Latin names.’
‘Did you find that a strange request?’ asked Eadulf.
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh smiled briefly. ‘I have had stranger requests. But, I suppose it was unusual in our community where trust is our faith and a way of life.’
‘There is usually no need to lock anything away? There are no other locks in this community?’
‘Of course not. We are a poor community. Does not
The Didache
say, “Share everything with your brother. Do not say it is private property. If you share what is everlasting, you should be that much more willing to share things which do not last.” Is that not right, Sister?’
Fidelma regarded him in surprise. ‘You have read
The Didache
? It is a rare book, which I have seen only once.’ There was envy in her voice.
‘Our
tech-screptra
has a copy of the Greek text. It is regarded as one of the central texts of the Faith.’
Eadulf was looking bewildered.
‘It is an ancient Greek text,’ explained Fidelma quickly. ‘It is called
The Didache
, or
The Teaching
, but its full title is
The Teachings of the Twelve Apostles
, and it is said to have been written shortly after their deaths.’
‘Anyway,’ the smith went on, ‘the quotation sums up how our community should live. As the Blessed Tertullian taught, we, who share one mind and soul, have no misgivings about community in property.’
‘Very well, let us return to the subject of the lock and key,’ Fidelma said. ‘You were asked to make them for Brother Donnchad.’
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh nodded.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘As you see, Sister, the lock was to be
glais iarnaidhi
– an iron lock. I understood from Brother Lugna that it had to be unlike any other lock. I think I achieved that.’
‘It is true that I have not seen one like it,’ she agreed. ‘And the key?’
‘I was told that one key only was to be made.’
‘And was it?’
‘Of course.’
‘You fitted the lock yourself?’
‘I did, and I gave the only key to Brother Donnchad.’
‘I was told that the key was found with Brother Donnchad’s body. I hope that it is not lost?’
‘I still have it.’ Bother Giolla-na-Naomh reached into the leather pouch on his belt. He took out a metal key and handed it to her. She glanced at it. It was made of iron and was nearly seven centimetres in length. It, too, showed good-quality workmanship, with several teeth of varying lengths and spaced irregularly. The other end of the key, the part held between thumb and forefinger, was impressively worked with spiral designs. There was a slippery quality about it.
‘And you confirm that this was the key that you made for the lock and found by the body?’
‘I do confirm it.’
‘No one could open the lock without this key, is that right?’ she asked.
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh shrugged. ‘No one can guarantee that, for what a man can make, another man can unmake. Isn’t that the old saying?’
‘But it would take time to unpick the lock and such a method would leave behind markings to show that it had been tampered with.’
‘Abbot Iarnla asked me to examine the lock after I had broken in. I had done no damage to the lock, only splintered the wood of the doorjamb where I kicked it open. There were no signs that it had been tampered with.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ Fidelma sighed, examining the key on the palm of her hand. ‘What accounts for the quality of the surface? Do you have to oil it to make it work?’
The smith frowned and looked at the key carefully.
‘The key should need no oil,’ he replied. ‘The lock, when I tried it, was working perfectly. But this is not oil. More like wax … maybe Brother Donnchad spilt some candle wax on it. It can easily happen. A candle by the side of the bed, a key resting nearby …’
Fidelma placed the key in her
marsupium
.
‘Keep the lock for me and I will keep the key,’ she said.
‘I will do so,’ Brother Giolla-na-Naomh replied. ‘But I would be glad if you did not tell Brother Lugna unless you have no other choice.’
Both Fidelma and Eadulf looked at him in surprise.
‘Brother Lugna asked me this morning, before the morning meal, if I would give him the key. I told him that I had mislaid it.’
‘He probably meant to hand it to me when we were examining Brother Donnchad’s cell.’
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh looked uncomfortable. ‘Perhaps.’ Then he added, ‘I tell you this strictly between ourselves, Fidelma of Cashel. I am a loyal servant to Abbot Iarnla. Loyal to the
abbey and to this kingdom. I will say no more except that our steward told me that I should be frugal with the information I gave you. I have refused to obey his instruction and have provided you with what information is in my knowledge. I say to you, be careful. I suspect our steward has given the same instruction to everyone in this abbey whom you may wish to question.’
Fidelma and Eadulf exchanged a glance.
‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Fidelma. ‘I shall do my best to keep what has passed between us strictly to myself unless the time comes when I must use it in my task to uncover who killed Brother Donnchad.’
‘That is fair enough,’ said the smith. ‘All I wish is for the abbey to prosper and peace to follow my craft.’
‘Are we keeping you from the work of rebuilding the community? ’ Fidelma smiled, glancing round at the building works.
The burly man shook his head. ‘Glassán, the master builder, has his own team of workmen,’ he said with some resentment in his voice. ‘They even have their own forge and smithy outside the abbey for their work. My skills remain for the brethren and not for the new building work.’
‘The abbey will be truly magnificent once the new buildings are erected,’ Eadulf observed. ‘When will that be?’
‘Glassán and his men have been working here for two years or so. We estimate that another three years will see all the main buildings in place.’
‘The fees for such professional work must be high,’ Fidelma remarked innocently.
‘I suppose so. Such matters only concern the abbot and Brother Lugna.’ Brother Giolla-na-Naomh rose to his feet. ‘If you will forgive me, I must tend my forge.’
Eadulf sat down beside Fidelma and they watched him walk back to his forge.
‘Well, well,’ said Eadulf. ‘The steward of this abbey does
not want to cooperate with us at all, it seems. Strange that he doesn’t want people to speak to us.’
‘It is curious,’ Fidelma agreed.
‘Perhaps he murdered Brother Donnchad?’
‘If he did, then he is very stupid to go around trying to stop people speaking to us. It would arouse their suspicions if not ours, and eventually it would get back to us. As it is, I thought the physician’s performance was bizarre and now the smith has explained it. The man was probably trying to obey the steward’s orders. We will have to watch Brother Lugna very carefully.’
A bell started to ring in the distance.
‘What is that?’ demanded Eadulf, raising his head.
‘Judging from the position of the sun,’ Fidelma said, looking up, ‘I would say that it is the bell to summon the community for the
eter-shod
– the midday meal. It has been an interesting and exhausting morning and I, for one, would welcome some refreshment.’
A
bbot Iarnla walked across to their table as they were rising to leave when the midday meal had finished. The community took three meals a day. The custom was to rise at dawn, wash one’s face and hands, and break one’s fast with a light meal. The
eter-shod
, or ‘middle meal’, was taken when the sun was at its zenith. Thankfully, it appeared that Glassán and his assistant Saor ate their midday meal on site and so they were spared another monologue on his craft. Gormán was happily occupying his time fishing along the banks of The Great River. Only Fidelma and Eadulf had been seated at their table.
‘I hope you have had a productive morning,’ Abbot Iarnla greeted them anxiously. ‘Have you reached any conclusions?’
‘We are far from any conclusions yet,’ replied Fidelma. ‘There are many questions that still need to be asked before we can proceed to judgement.’
Abbot Iarnla looked about almost furtively and then, as if assuring himself that no one was observing him, dropped his voice and said, ‘I trust you will forgive me for seating you here, Fidelma. As sister to our King, I considered it more appropriate for you and Eadulf to sit alongside me. However, Brother Lugna informs me that Church customs in Rome …’ He hesitated, not sure how to proceed.
‘We are content here, Abbot Iarnla,’ Fidelma replied softly. ‘Brother Lugna has made no secret of his resent ment of our presence here. We would not wish to impose on him more than we have to.’
‘I apologise for him. He is inflexible when it comes to the rules that he has drawn up for the community.’
‘Rules that he has drawn up?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘I thought the drawing up of rules for the community was the prerogative of the abbot?’
‘He believes that the brethren were too lax and free of discipline and order,’ the abbot confessed. ‘Times change, I suppose. I have tried to run things in the spirit of our blessed founder, Mo-Chuada, but, as you know, the Faith is changing. New ideas are coming in from Rome. So I have been persuaded to let Brother Lugna pursue his course of action to strengthen the community.’
Fidelma was about to say that perhaps he was abrogating too much authority to his young steward but the abbot suddenly turned and motioned to a man who was helping an elderly member of the community along the aisle between the tables towards the door. The younger man hesitated and then guided his companion towards them.
The elderly man could barely walk without the help of the young man’s arm and a stout stick he carried in his other hand. His skin was stretched tight on his face, which was white as parchment. His grey eyes were wide, staring and watery. The lips were thin and almost bloodless. He had no hair at all save the white stubble over his chin and upper lip where he had been badly shaved. Flecks of spittle adhered to the corners of his mouth. He could have been any age from four score to a century.
His companion was at no more than three decades in age, with features Fidelma would have described as ugly. His skin
was sallow and although he was clean-shaven, the cheeks and chin had a bluish hue, suggesting a thick beard would result if no
altan
, or razor, were applied. His blue-black hair was closely cropped, which was unusual, as both men and women usually wore their hair long, as a mark of beauty. He wore the tonsure of the Irish. The eyes were dark and it was almost impossible to discern the pupils. He had a bulbous nose and thick lips, with a protruding lower lip. The half-open mouth displayed badly kept teeth. Fidelma’s eyes dropped to the man’s hands and, as she suspected, the man had unkempt nails which were a sign of ill-breeding. It was the custom among the wealthier classes of her people to keep fingernails cut and carefully rounded. He was not a tall man nor well-built. He looked like someone whose meals were sparse and infrequently come by. His whole appearance gave the impression of melancholy subservience.
The abbot introduced him. ‘This is Brother Gáeth. He was Brother Donnchad’s
anam chara
. I know you wanted to talk to him.’
At that moment the elderly man peered at Fidelma, his eyes narrowing, and he moved closer to her. There seemed a look of hope on his thin features. Then he sighed, shook his head and said in a disappointed tone, ‘You are not an angel.’
The abbot appeared embarrassed but Fidelma merely smiled at the old man.
‘I am not. I am Fidelma of Cashel.’
The old man was still shaking his head.
‘No angel,’ he muttered.
‘This is the Venerable Bróen, Fidelma.’ The abbot offered the introduction in an apologetic tone. ‘He was with Mo-Chuada when the abbey was founded. Alas, he is a little … a little …’
‘I have seen an angel,’ the old man interjected, speaking in a confidential voice.
Fidelma humoured him. ‘That does not fall to the lot of everyone,’ she replied solemnly. ‘You must be blessed.’
The Venerable Bróen sighed deeply. ‘I saw an angel. The blessed one of God flew in the sky. I saw it.’
‘Forgive me, Fidelma,’ Abbot Iarnla said hurriedly. ‘I wanted to introduce you to Brother Gáeth. Brother Gáeth, remain here with the
dálaigh
and I will take the Venerable Bróen back to his
cubiculum
.’ So saying, he took the old man’s arm and began to lead him away.
They heard the Venerable Bróen’s petulant tone. ‘I did see the angel. I did. It came to take the soul of poor Brother Donnchad. I saw it flying in the wind.’
Brother Gáeth remained standing before them with downcast eyes. To Fidelma, he did not look the sort of person to become the soul friend of an intellectual and scholar such as Brother Donnchad had been. Then she remembered the words from Juvenal’s
Satires
and felt guilty:
fronti nulla fides
, no reliance can be placed on appearance.
Fidelma waved to the table they had just risen from.
‘Be seated, Brother,’ she instructed, reseating herself. Eadulf followed her example, while Brother Gáeth moved slowly to the far side of the table and lowered himself on to the bench, his eyes still downcast.
‘I am afraid I know nothing of Brother Donnchad’s death,’ he volunteered. The words came out in something of a rush. ‘He had not spoken to me in days and told me to leave him alone.’
‘So when was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘About two or three days before his death.’
‘How long had you known him?’
‘Twenty-five years.’ The answer was without hesitation.
‘That is a long time,’ commented Eadulf. He had estimated Brother Gáeth’s age at no more than thirty-five.
‘I was his soul friend … at one time.’
‘Tell us about him,’ encouraged Fidelma. ‘Firstly, though, tell us something of yourself and how you met him.’
‘I was a field worker of the class of
daer-fudir
.’
Eadulf looked surprised for he knew that a
daer-fudir
was someone who had lost all their rights because of some great crime and had to work almost in a state of bondage to redeem themselves. They were considered untrustworthy and were not entitled to bear arms and had no rights within the clan. The third generation of
daer-fudir
was automatically reinstated, given their rights back, and could be eligible for election to any office within society. But usually a
daer-fudir
was a stranger, perhaps a fugitive from another territory who had sought asylum; often they were criminals or captives taken in battle.
‘It was my father who caused our family’s downfall,’ muttered Brother Gáeth as if in answer to Fidelma and Eadulf’s unasked question.
‘Tell us more of this,’ invited Fidelma.
‘It was simple enough. My father killed a chieftain of the Uí Liatháin. He fled with my mother and me and sought sanctuary with a lord of the Déisi called Eochaid of An Dún.’
‘You mean the father of Brother Donnchad?’ Eadulf asked in surprise.
Brother Gáeth nodded. ‘I was very young. Eochaid could have handed us back to the Uí Liatháin for punishment but he decided that he would grant my family asylum on the land but as
daer-fudir
to work and toil for him. My father died after several years of labour, my mother soon after. Eochaid died and Lady Eithne took control. She was a hard mistress.’
‘But you are now a member of the brethren here,’ observed Fidelma. ‘How did this happen?’
‘How did I become a member of this community rather than still toiling in the fields for Lady Eithne of An Dún?’
‘Exactly so,’ replied Fidelma.
‘Through the intercession of Donnchad,’ Brother Gáeth said.
‘In what way did he intercede?’
‘Although I was servant to Lord Eochaid and Lady Eithne, I was treated well by their sons, Cathal and Donnchad. We almost grew up together. It was through them I learnt something of reading and writing. It was Donnchad who spent most time with me, teaching me how to construe words and form letters. And he would speak about the Faith and tell me wondrous things. One day he told me that he and his brother Cathal would be joining the community here at Lios Mór. I felt devastated. Abandoned. I said that I wished I had the freedom to go with him if only to be his servant.
‘At that he laughed and said none of the brethren of the community had servants. Then he paused with a strange look in his eye and left me. A few days later, he found me in the fields and said he had a spoken with his mother. She had agreed to release me to the community. So it was,’ he ended with a shrug.
There was a short silence between them.
‘So you came with Cathal and Donnchad and joined the community.’
‘And have been here ever since.’
‘And what tasks do you perform in the community?’
Brother Gáeth chuckled sourly. ‘I exchanged life as a field worker for Lady Eithne to become a field worker for the abbot of Lios Mór. I am still of the rank of
daer-fudir
.’
Fidelma was surprised. Such ranks did not exist among the brethren of an abbey.
‘You sound bitter, Brother Gáeth,’ she said.
‘Before my father’s crime, he was a chieftain of the Uí Liatháin, he was Selbach, lord of Dún Guairne. He led some of his people, with a band of missionaries, across the great sea
to a land of the Britons called Kernow. A ruler called Teudrig massacred most of them there. My father and some others escaped and returned home. He found his cousin had usurped his place as chieftain in his absence and he challenged him to single combat. In the combat that followed my father killed his cousin. His enemies persuaded the people that it was
fingal
, or kin-slaying. The Brehon, also an enemy to my father, declared the crime so horrendous that my father should be placed in a boat without sail or oars, and with food and water for one day only. He should be taken out to sea and cast adrift. That night he managed to escape and took my mother and me to seek refuge with the Déisi.’
Fidelma gazed at him. ‘What you tell me does not seem to be justice. Surely it could be shown that the Brehon was biased and the punishment a harsh one? Why was this matter not appealed to the Chief Brehon of the kingdom? Why was it not brought to the attention of the King in Cashel? There is provision in law for these things.’
Brother Gáeth shrugged. ‘I only know what I know. I was but a boy at the time and this was over a score of years ago.’
‘And is the current chieftain of the Uí Liatháin related to you?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Uallachán is the nephew of the cousin my father slew,’ said Brother Gáeth.
‘What happened after you joined the community?’ prompted Fidelma.
‘Donnchad continued to treat me well. He became a great scholar and his time was spent mainly in the
tech-screptra
while I worked from sun-up until sun-down in the fields outside the abbey.’
‘But you became his
anam chara
, his soul friend.’
‘As I said, he was kind to me. He continued to talk to me as he had when we were boys. He told me much about the wondrous
things he was learning from the great books in the library. He insisted that I be officially regarded as his soul friend.’
‘Did the abbot approve of this?’
‘Not entirely. He felt that Donnchad should have a soul friend who was his intellectual equal.’
Fidelma’s eyes widened at the phrase. It sounded alien to the man.
‘You overheard him say that?’ she asked quickly.
‘Yes. That is what the abbot said to Donnchad. But Donnchad told him that he felt comfortable telling me his problems. So, every week, before the start of the Sabbath, we would meet and he would tell me of the events of the week and I would listen. I often wished I had learning to read the works of the great saints as he did and the very words that our Lord spoke when he walked the earth.’
Eadulf could not help but glance at Fidelma. Surely a soul friend was more than someone to talk at but a friend who could understand and exchange ideas and spiritually guide their friend, saving them from making mistakes.