‘You must have been worried that Brother Donnchad determined on Gáeth as a soul friend,’ Fidelma remarked.
‘It did seem strange that a man as intelligent and scholarly as Donnchad would insist on such a person as his spiritual
guide,’ admitted the abbot. ‘But then they had been boys together and playmates. But I saw no benefits in Gáeth being able to give spiritual guidance to Donnchad.’
‘It seems a curious relationship. Did Cathal ever enter it?’
‘Cathal was older than Donnchad and did not have much to do with Gáeth.’
‘What happened when Cathal and Donnchad left on their pilgrimage to the Holy Land?’
‘What happened?’ The abbot did not understand.
‘What was Brother Gáeth’s reaction at the loss of his friend Donnchad? How was Gáeth managed if he had tantrums that could only be calmed by Brother Donnchad?’
‘Ah, I see. Certainly we had some trouble with him. He continued moody and uncommunicative. Once or twice I even thought he might try to abscond from the community. But Gáeth has been constrained by the law and by tradition most of his life, and in the event he knew he could not break with it.’
‘You mean he just accepted the legal obligations of being a
daer-fudir
?’ Eadulf asked incredulously.
‘I think he knew his place in the scheme of things.’
Eadulf was about to say something else when he caught a warning glance from Fidelma.
‘I am interested, Abbot Iarnla, as to why you seemed concerned that we should talk to Brother Gáeth,’ she said.
Once more, Abbot Iarnla became embarrassed. ‘I wanted you to have a chance to meet and discuss matters with Brother Gáeth.’
‘And now that we have?’ demanded Fidelma sharply, when he hesitated again.
‘Now that you have, did he mention when he last saw Brother Donnchad?’
Fidelma saw that there was some meaning behind the question.
‘He said it was two or three days before Donnchad’s death,’ Eadulf answered.
‘Then he did not tell you the truth. It was the day before Brother Donnchad died,’ said the abbot. ‘I saw him hurrying away from Donnchad’s cell. Brother Lugna wanted to start allocating the accommodation to some of our senior clerics here and I felt that I should inspect them. I was in the next
cubiculum
but one to Brother Donnchad’s when I heard his door open. I heard Brother Donnchad’s voice say, “I rely on you, Gáeth.” Then I heard Gáeth exit into the passage.’
‘Did Brother Gáeth reply?’ asked Eadulf.
‘He did. He said, “It shall be put in the place of the dead. Have no fear. It will be just as you say.” Then I heard the door close and the key turn.’
‘It shall be put in the place of the dead?’ repeated Fidelma. ‘Did you confront Brother Gáeth?’
Abbot Iarnla shook his head. ‘I did not. As I said, Brother Donnchad shut the door and I heard Gáeth walking past the cell door where I was. When he had passed by I peered out and saw him heading towards the stairs. There is a window overlooking the quadrangle and so I went and leaned out to watch him come out of the building below. He was putting something under his cloak, for he was wearing one.’
‘Something? What sort of something?’
Abbot Iarnla shrugged. ‘I suppose it could have been anything. I had the impression it was a scroll.’
‘What sort of a scroll?’
‘It might have been a parchment.’
‘I wish you had told me this before we spoke to him. I might have been able to draw him out on this matter,’ Fidelma said irritably.
‘I had hoped that he would volunteer the truth rather than have to be confronted by it. One thing is certain, if Brother
Donnchad entrusted Gáeth to undertake this task for him, then we must assume there must still have been some friendship between them,’ the abbot concluded.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Fidelma. ‘This place of the dead that Gáeth mentioned, was it a
relec
, a graveyard, or was it an
otharlige
, a specific sepulchre? His exact words might give a clue as to where he was going to bury this object with which Donnchad had entrusted him.’
Abbot Iarnla brightened. ‘You are right, Fidelma. I had not thought of that. Gáeth chose an unusual word. He said
dindgna
.’
‘That is a mound, a small elevation,’ Fidelma translated. ‘The mound of the dead? Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Not at all. Our cemetery to the east, where Donnchad himself is now buried, is a low-lying flatland surrounded by trees. But our chapel was originally built on a mound because our founder wanted it to overlook the community. The only people buried there are our founder, Mo-Chuada, and his successor, Abbot Cuanan. No one else.’
‘I will not pursue this matter with Brother Gáeth for the moment, for I need to gather a few more facts,’ Fidelma said. ‘It shall remain a secret between us.’
‘You are a discerning person, Fidelma of Cashel. I know that. Otherwise I would not have invited you here to investigate this case.’ The abbot fidgeted, as if trying to formulate words to express what was on his mind, ‘You said that you detected some resentment in Gáeth. Now that you know he has lied to you about the last time he saw Brother Donnchad, what do you think?’
‘I think you should tell me what is on your mind,’ prompted Fidelma.
‘While Brother Donnchad was in this community, he seemed to exercise a control over Gáeth that calmed him and made him at peace with his lot in the scheme of things.
‘And when Brother Donnchad was due to set out on his
pilgrimage, Gáeth at first wanted to accompany him and his brother Cathal. That concerned me and it was explained that such a thing was not possible.’
‘What reason did you give?’
Abbot Iarnla shrugged. ‘Simple enough. Cathal was against it and so was Lady Eithne.’
‘Since when does Lady Eithne pronounce rules for this community to obey?’ queried Eadulf.
Abbot Iarnla looked uncomfortable. ‘I have already explained to you that this land is under her jurisdiction according to the law of the Fénechus.’
‘We appreciate that. And this accounts for her control?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Under the law and with the judgement of the Brehons,’ confirmed the abbot patiently. ‘On the matter of the pilgrimage, Cathal probably made his views known to his mother and she made her views known to me. Gáeth was to remain here in the abbey while Cathal and Donnchad proceeded on their pilgrimage. Gáeth was not happy to see his lifetime’s friend and companion leave, especially in view of the fact that Donnchad was the only person among the brethren who seemed to have time to sit down and talk to him.’
‘But then Donnchad returned.’
‘Donnchad returned,’ sighed the abbot. ‘But not the same Donnchad who left, as has been explained to you. Can you imagine what his rejection of his former soul friend meant to Gáeth?’
There was a silence.
‘I once knew a man,’ said Eadulf suddenly in a reflective tone. ‘He had a dog whom he petted and fussed over. The dog went everywhere with him, even slept on his bed. Then the man met a woman. They married. The dog was no longer important and was chased out of the bedroom and when it whined and
howled, it was chased from the house. When it continued to whine and howl, the man chased it from the village, throwing stones at it. As he did so, the dog, angered by the rejection and hurt by the flying stones, leapt for the man and bit him in the throat. The man died.’ Eadulf regarded the abbot expectantly. Finally Abbot Iarnla stirred.
‘You must draw your own conclusions,’ he said. ‘I am just recounting the facts. I will see you in the
refectorium
this evening.’
They watched him walk away and then Fidelma turned to Eadulf. ‘I cannot see Gáeth having the ability to carry out this killing. The lock, the manuscripts … no. It is too complicated.’
Eadulf pulled a face. ‘But the motive is there. Gáeth could have killed Donnchad in resentment and retaliation for his rejection. It’s a logical suggestion.’
Fidelma shook her head but did not answer.
T
he
tech-screptra
, or
scriptorium
, was a large wooden structure located next to a muddy area from which a new stone building was rising. Several men were at work on the site, some carrying stones, others sawing and nailing wood. There was no sign of Glassán, the master builder, but they presumed that he would be somewhere in the construction. The wooden
scriptorium
was the most imposing of the old buildings in the abbey complex. It was imposing not because of its size but in its design. It was an oblong two storeys high, with a frame of large oak timbers and covered with red yew planking decorated with intricate carvings of symbols and icons.
As they entered through large double oak doors, the first impression was of one great room that rose up to a high vaulted ceiling. The second floor, accessible by steep stairs at both ends of the room, was a gallery that ran round the building halfway up. The walls of the library were entirely covered by
pels
, or racks, from which hung
tiaga lebar
, leather book satchels. Each satchel contained one or more manuscripts, whose titles were labelled on the outside. The satchels were also used to carry books, especially by missionaries on their travels. They were regarded with great veneration. It was famously told that when Longarad of Sliabh Mairge, a friend of Colmcille and the most
eminent scholar of his age, died, the book satchels of Ireland fell down from their racks.
At the far end of the
scriptorium
, underneath two large windows that were designed to let in as much light as possible, were six desks. Each had an elaborately edged flat top placed on a carved wooden plinth shaped like a tripod. Six young members of the brethren were bent over books placed on these. One hand used a maulstick to support their wrists while they wrote industriously with the other.
A fleshy-faced man who had been overseeing one of the busy scribes looked up and saw them. He came waddling towards them, for he was overweight and moved awkwardly. His heavy flushed jowls seemed to move of their own accord but there was a friendly smile on his features.
‘Sister Fidelma! You are most welcome. Welcome. As soon as I heard you were in the abbey, I knew that you would come to visit me before long.’
Fidelma held out both hands to take the fat man’s great paw between them.
‘Brother Donnán, it is good to see you again.’
The man beamed happily at her remembrance of him. ‘It is some years since you were here last and then sitting in judgement in the court …’ he began.
‘And you were my clerk and helped to keep the court in order,’ responded Fidelma. She turned to Eadulf. ‘Brother Donnán is the
leabhar coimedach
here,’ she said, using the Irish term. ‘This is Eadulf.’
‘Greetings, Brother Eadulf.’ Brother Donnán smiled. ‘I am called the
scriptor
these days. Brother Lugna, our steward, prefers us to use the Roman titles rather than our own Irish ones.’ He suddenly chuckled. ‘Yet he finds it difficult to get people to call him
Œconomus
instead of
rechtaire
.’
‘Brother Lugna is the only senior member of the community I have seen here with a Roman tonsure,’ Fidelma remarked.
‘That is true,’ agreed Brother Donnán. ‘And true again that our
rechtaire
is keen to adopt the ideas agreed at the councils at Streonshalh and at Autun. He wants the abbey to bring in Roman usage and the Rule of Benedict. He has already brought in several new rules.’
‘And what does the community say?’
‘We elect to follow our own liturgy. But Brother Lugna, as steward, makes small changes here and there, such as our titles of office. These changes can be tolerated. But he has begun to discourage the old concepts of the
conhospitae
. He is one of the aesthetes that favours celibacy.’
‘I had noticed that there were few women in your community now,’ murmured Fidelma.
‘Indeed, and they will not be here long for already arrangements have been made for them to move. This idea of celibacy among us seems to be spreading quickly now.’
‘Brother Lugna appears very involved in the proposals to rebuild the abbey.’
‘Indeed, he is. When he arrived here he was always boasting of the great stone buildings he had seen in Rome. He felt that this abbey should be built in their image.’
‘But I thought it was Lady Eithne’s idea as a tribute to her sons. Are you saying that it was Brother Lugna who persuaded Lady Eithne to rebuild the abbey?’
‘Brother Lugna is a strong personality and no doubt when Abbot Iarnla is taken to the heavenly pasture, Brother Lugna will be his succesor,’ replied Brother Donnán glumly. ‘At that time, I have no doubt that as abbot he will introduce the Penitentials and Benedictine Rule. Let us pray that Abbot Iarnla may have a long life before him.’
‘I suspect that you do not approve of Brother Lugna?’ Eadulf remarked with humour. ‘Do I detect that your steward is not entirely popular?’
The fat librarian grinned. ‘You have a keen eye, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied.
‘Brother Lugna can only enforce his changes if he is elected abbot and the community approve the changes,’ pointed out Fidelma more seriously. This was the custom of all the abbeys and of the native churches. Abbots were chosen and elected in the same way that chieftains and kings were chosen. In the abbeys the community were considered the family of the abbot and therefore it was the
derbhfine
, the electoral college, who chose and endorsed his successor.
‘True enough, Sister,’ agreed the
scriptor
. ‘But, as I say, let us hope that the day when Abbot Iarnla stands down as abbot is a long way ahead of us. But enough gossip. I am sure you have come to speak to me about the death of poor Brother Donnchad. How may I serve you?’
‘I am sure that you must have known him well,’ said Fidelma. ‘His reputation as a scholar was well known.’
‘I thought I knew him well enough. I joined the community shortly after he and his brother Cathal did. Both of them spent most of their time in our
scriptorium
, as did I.’ He gestured with his podgy hand around the hall. ‘They were both scholars of considerable merit. And a great asset to the reputation of this library.’
‘You certainly have a magnificent library, Brother Donnán,’ agreed Eadulf.
The fat librarian seemed to appreciate the praise. ‘We have a great many books here,’ he said with satisfaction. Then his expression changed into one of seriousness. ‘But it is not for books that you have come here.’
‘Would you know Brother Donnchad’s handwriting?’ Fidelma asked.
The
scriptor
nodded. ‘I believe I would. He wrote with a distinctive style.’
Fidelma produced the scrap of parchment they had found below Donnchad’s window.
‘Si vis transfer calicem istrum a me … Deicide! Deicide! Deicide!’
muttered Brother Donnán as he studied the text.
‘Is that his hand?’ pressed Fidelma.
‘It is not much of a sample by which to judge,’ he said. Then he glanced at it again and shook his head. ‘I would say that Brother Donnchad did not write this.’
‘What subjects was he interested in?’
‘Arguments on philosophical matters mostly. But that was before he left on his pilgrimage.’
‘Did he continue to research here after he returned from his pilgrimage?’
The
scriptor
shook his head immediately. ‘He did request parchment, ink and quills and I provided him with what he wanted. Such writing materials are getting expensive these days,’ he added.
‘And where are his writings now?’
‘I had assumed they would be in his room but I have heard a rumour that there was nothing there.’
‘Did he leave anything in the library, anything at all?’
‘He lodged several of his early works here as well as copies he made of other scholars’ work. He was a good copyist and his own commentaries were excellent. But that was, of course, before he went on his pilgrimage and I suspect you are more interested in the period following his return.’
‘Your suspicion is correct, Brother Donnán.’
‘Well, he came here several times. I think he was checking references in other works. But I never heard of anything he was writing.’
‘Some libraries keep a record of what books their scholars examine,’ Eadulf said. ‘Do you?’
Brother Donnán glanced towards a desk in the corner. ‘I pride myself on the way I run this library. I do keep a list of the items that members of the brethren ask for in the library.’ He smiled briefly.
‘So what manner of manuscripts was Brother Donnchad interested in?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Works on the philosophy of the Faith mainly, particularly the works of the founding fathers.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
Brother Donnán hesitated, thinking, before he said, ‘He asked to see the works of Origenes.’
‘Origenes?’ Eadulf frowned.
‘A Greek from Alexandria who was one of the great early theologians of the Faith,’ explained Brother Donnán. ‘He lived many centuries ago. He was nicknamed Adamantios – the unbreakable one.’
‘And do you have copies of his works here?’ Fidelma asked.
The
scriptor
smiled. ‘Not everything of his, I grant you, lady. But we have some of his important works such as
On First Principles
, some of his many commentaries on the books of the Bible, essays on prayer and on martyrdom …’
‘Do you remember what work Brother Donnchad was particularly interested in?’
Brother Donnán shrugged. ‘Not offhand.’
Eadulf glanced across to the desk in the corner. ‘Then perhaps your lists will provide an answer,’ he suggested, moving towards it.
Brother Donnán hurried forward to the large side table on which a ledger rested. Near the table was a member of the brethren deep in study of one of the manuscript books. He looked up as they approached and smiled briefly. It was the
bruigad
,
the keeper of the guesthouse, Brother Máel Eoin. They exchanged a smile of recognition before he returned to the work he was reading. Brother Donnán started to turn the pages of the ledger. Fidelma and Eadulf peered over his shoulders. The pages consisted of lists given under various names. The
scriptor
halted at a page headed with Donnchad’s name and began running his finger quickly down the list.
‘Origenes,’ Fidelma said sharply. ‘You ran past the name, Brother Donnán. See there? It says Origenes, eight books entitled
Contra Celsum
, and you have marked it as a specific request. Isn’t that date only a few days before Brother Donnchad was killed?’
The
scriptor
flushed, apparently embarrassed at nearly missing the entry. ‘Indeed, I believe it was a week before he died.’
‘
Contra Celsum
? What is that?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Arguments against Celsus; he was a pagan writer.’
‘I have to admit, Brother Donnán, that I have never heard of Celsus.’
‘Better that no one hears of him,’ replied the
scriptor
in disapproval. ‘He was a great opponent of the True Faith. However, Origenes pointed out the error of his ways so that people could see his arguments were false.’
‘And do you have this work here?’ asked Fidelma.
Brother Donnán shook his head indignantly. ‘How can you ask if we have the work of Celsus, a pagan, in a Christian library, Sister? For shame.’
‘I meant the work of Origenes, the work that Brother Donnchad requested.’ Fidelma chose not to point out that most libraries were filled with the works of Greeks and Latins who had lived long before the coming of the Faith.
‘We do – or rather we did. The abbey at Ard Mór requested that we lend them the copy. We frequently exchange books with them. As soon as Brother Donnchad had finished with it, we
sent it to the abbey of Ard Mór with someone who was making the journey there.’
‘I wonder why Brother Donnchad would be interested in reading the arguments of Origenes against Celsus?’ She posed the question rhetorically, not expecting an answer.
‘Little is known about Celsus except that he was probably a Greek who lived during the reign of the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius.’ The
scriptor
seem to pride himself on his knowledge of his books and he liked to share it. ‘That is, he lived about two centuries after the birth of the Christ. His main work was called
Alethos Logos
, which is Greek for
The True Word,
and he showed himself to be an implacable opponent of the Christians. He tried to ridicule Christians for what he claimed was their advocacy of blind faith instead of reason.’
Fidelma stirred uncomfortably. In the many years that she had served both the law of the Fénechus as well as the Faith, she had always been uncomfortable when her questions could not be answered. On every difficult question she was told one simply had to have faith; one had to believe and not question the belief. She wondered what Origenes had argued if Celsus had brought up similar questions.