‘And what do you know of the book
Contra Celsum
?’
‘I have not read it.’
‘A pity,’ sighed Eadulf. ‘And you never had a copy of Celsus’s original work? If you had the refutation, it surely would be logical to have a copy of what it refuted.’
‘Brother Donnchad made the very same point,’ replied Brother Donnán. ‘As I have said, our library is filled only with books by the faithful. Indeed, Brother Lugna now insists on obedience to this rule. I was told to discard the works of any that are critical of the Faith.’
‘Sometimes one learns and receives strength by studying
the arguments of those of contrary opinion,’ Fidelma said. ‘Do we know what matters Celsus raised that needed to be refuted?’
‘The important thing is that we know he was wrong,’ said Brother Donnán with a pious air.
‘But how do we know that?’ asked Fidelma.
Brother Donnán looked shocked. ‘Because Origenes tells us it is so.’
Fidelma sighed softly but did not bother to pursue the argument.
‘Did Brother Donnchad mention why he was researching this work?’
‘He was never much of a conversationalist, unlike his brother Cathal. Cathal was always the talkative one but Donnchad was very introspective, and preferred his own company or that of the simpleton.’
‘Simpleton?’ Eadulf’s tone was sharp.
‘Brother Gáeth,’ the
scriptor
said, unabashed. ‘He is a field worker who can barely write his own name. You will meet him no doubt and will be able to judge for yourself.’
Fidelma shot a warning glance at Eadulf who was obviously about to admit to their discussion with Brother Gáeth.
‘But he was Brother Donnchad’s
anam chara
,’ she pointed out.
‘That was before he went on his pilgrimage,’ replied the
scriptor
. ‘Anyway, Brother Donnchad had no need of such a soul friend.’
‘Do you know if the brethren ever discussed why Brother Donnchad became reclusive?’ she asked, ignoring the remark.
Brother Donnán hesitated before lifting one shoulder and letting it fall to signal his lack of knowledge. ‘I do not listen to gossip.’
‘Yet sometimes gossip leads to truth,’ Fidelma encouraged.
‘I would not know,’ the
scriptor
replied. Then, realising they were waiting for him to make some further reply to the question,
he added, ‘Some said that he was not right in the mind because of the hardships encountered on his journey. Others opined that he felt abandoned by his elder brother Cathal because he remained behind, having been offered the
pallium
of some foreign city.’
‘But what did you think?’
Brother Donnán was reflective. ‘To be truthful, I thought he had become a little crazy.’
‘In what way?’
‘He became furtive, secretive, felt people were hatching plots against him or about to rob him of things. I heard that he demanded a lock to the door of his
cubiculum
– a lock and key!’ The
scriptor
raised his arms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Now I realise that perhaps he wasn’t so crazy after all because of the manner of his death. But I thought at the time that his fears were part of his dementia.’
‘As you say, now that he has been murdered, perhaps he wasn’t so crazy,’ Eadulf commented.
The
scriptor
remained silent.
‘We are told that he brought back manuscripts from his travels and other artefacts,’ said Fidelma. ‘Precious manuscripts.’
Brother Donnán smiled and turned to her eagerly. ‘I was looking forward to seeing them. I heard there were some valuable manuscripts which our library could take a pride in owning.’
‘But you have not seen them?’
‘Brother Donnchad, as I have said, was scared of someone stealing them and so kept them in his
cubiculum
.’
‘So he did not deposit any of his manuscripts with the library?’
Brother Donnán shook his head. ‘Not since his return from the pilgrimage.’
‘And the artefacts,’ Eadulf said. ‘Who were they given to?’
‘He brought back a sliver of the True Cross, of course. That is now in the recess of the altar in our chapel.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I think he brought some gifts for his mother Lady Eithne. One was a lovely ornate cross from the east. The jewels are magnificent. When he presented them at the fortress …’ The
scriptor
suddenly hesitated.
‘You were there?’ prompted Fidelma.
‘I have visited several times to take manuscripts to Lady Eithne,’ admitted the librarian.
‘Brother Donnchad used to visit his mother, then?’
‘Her fortress is not far from here. You passed it on the road that crosses The Great River before you turn along it westward to the abbey.’
‘I know it,’ said Fidelma quickly. ‘So you saw him recently at his mother’s fortress?’
Brother Donnán shook his head. ‘He went to pay his respects to his mother the day after he arrived back. That was early summer. I think he spent several days with her before returning to the abbey. It was a coincidence that I was there at the time.’
‘He was not there more recently?’
‘Not that I know of. I often take books to the fortress.’
‘Did you know that his mother was sent for when it became clear that all was not well with him?’
‘It is now well known among the brethren,’ Brother Donnán said. ‘The master builder, Glassán, told me. He spoke to Lady Eithne when she was leaving the abbey just a few days before he was found murdered. Glassán is a talkative fellow.’
‘Well,’ Fidelma said, after a moment’s further thought, ‘that seems to be all …’ Then she hesitated. ‘One thing does strike me. Do you know of any library that holds the original work of Celsus? Have you ever heard of any library holding such a work?’
Brother Donnán thought deeply before replying: ‘Never.’
‘So Brother Donnchad visited the
scriptorium
to read some works but you knew nothing of what he was working on apart from the fact that he spent long hours over the text of Origenes. Is that correct?’
‘It is.’
‘But you knew he was behaving oddly in the days before his death.’
‘I have already said it was well known among the brethren. He was always very quiet—’
‘Except that last day he was in here, a day or so before his death.’
They looked round. Brother Máel Eoin had risen from the table, where he had been reading, to put away his text and had overheard Brother Donnán’s last remark. Fidelma turned to him with interest.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was in here that day. You must remember, Brother Donnán,’ the hospitaller said. ‘I like to come, when time permits, and read some of the hagiographies of the saints that we have here.’
‘Go on,’ said Fidelma. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, Brother Donnchad came in. It struck me that he was behaving very out of character. I don’t mean his reclusive change since he returned to the abbey. Not at all. He came roaring into the library.’
‘Roaring?’ For a moment Eadulf had to think about the word that the hospitaller had used. The word was
bláedach
and not one that Eadulf had heard used of a person before.
‘He was in an angry temper, shouting, his face red. He had mislaid something and was convinced that it had been stolen from him. Don’t you remember, Brother Donnán?’
‘Stolen?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘What was it? A manuscript?’
‘Not as such,’ replied the librarian, entering the conversation for the first time since Brother Máel Eoin’s interruption. ‘It was his
pólaire.
I had forgotten the incident.’
Eadulf looked blank. ‘A
pólaire
?’
‘In Latin it is called a
ceraculum
, from the word for wax,’ explained the
scriptor
pedantically.
Brother Máel Eoin nodded. ‘Just so. It is a wooden writing tablet whose surface is hollowed out and filled with wax so that one can write on it, making temporary notes. You can re-warm the wax, smooth it out, and re-use it.’
‘And he had lost his?’ Fidelma asked.
‘Indeed. He claimed that it had been stolen from him. I denied all knowledge of seeing it, which was only the truth. He had not left it in the library.’
‘And you told him that?’ asked Fidelma.
‘I did. I had seen him looking at it several times during his former visits here. He was making notes from the Origenes book. But I swear he had taken it with him. I am sure of it.’
‘He went away, but still in a great temper,’ confirmed Brother Donnán. ‘That was the last time ever I saw him.’
‘Let me be clear about this,’ Fidelma said. ‘This incident happened when exactly?’
‘On the day of his death. I am sure of it,’ the hospitaller confirmed.
Fidelma glanced at the
scriptor
.
‘I suppose it was that day,’ he affirmed after a moment.
‘Had he not been away from the abbey the entire day before?’
‘You are correct, Sister,’ Brother Máel Eoin said. ‘He had, indeed. He might well have left it wherever it was that he went.’
‘You have no idea where he went?’
The hospitaller shook his head.
‘Perhaps he went to visit his mother again,’ offered the librarian.
‘Very well, Brother Donnán,’ Fidelma nodded. ‘Thank you for your information. And thanks also to you, Brother Máel Eoin. You have both been most helpful.’
O
utside the door of the
scriptorium
, Eadulf shook his head.
‘Brother Donnán has presented us with more questions than he has answered. We can’t even identify the manuscripts that Brother Donnchad was afraid might be stolen.’
‘The assumption that the murderer sought to steal them remains the only motive for the crime,’ replied Fidelma. ‘One thing I do find worrying is that Brother Lugna seems to be more in charge of this community than the abbot.’
‘But he is the steward and surely the steward does have charge of the running of the community?’
‘What I mean is that he seems to have some extreme ideas that are contrary to those of the abbot and are disapproved of by some of those we have spoken to. Yet he seems to be able to dominate them. How did he get to be chosen as steward?’
‘I find it worrying that he has ordered the destruction of pagan books.’ Eadulf’s eyes widened as he thought about it. ‘Brother Lugna is a natural suspect.’
‘It is too early to suspect any particular person yet. He is making himself obvious by his behaviour and that makes me think the opposite. The guilty try to hide their guilt and make themselves inconspicuous. We must not speculate without
information,’ she said, voicing her favourite maxim. ‘The sad thing is that there are many clerics who think it helpful to the Faith to destroy pagan works. They think that the exhortation to go out and turn people from darkness and idols to the light of the living God means they should destroy everything their ancestors thought and wrote, and they do so without a second thought.’
‘Whatever was in those books that Brother Donnchad was protecting must be something very powerful if they were the cause of his murder,’ Eadulf reflected.
At that moment the sound of a shout and a loud bang from the direction of the new building caused them to glance in that direction. Loud and angry voices rose. Someone had apparently dropped something heavy and was being rebuked by another of the builders. Eadulf caught sight of a small figure dodging among the debris. As he turned back to Fidelma, he saw Brother Lugna appear round the corner of the
scriptorium
.
‘
Lupus in sermone
,’ muttered Fidelma, ‘the wolf in the story’, whose colloquial meaning was ‘talk of the devil’.
The
rechtaire
of the abbey greeted them without expression.
‘How goes your investigation? Is there progress?’
‘We move slowly,’ replied Fidelma.
‘But we move surely,’ added Eadulf, whose dislike of the man had hardened.
Brother Lugna looked at him, as if trying to decide what the tone in his voice implied.
‘I am pleased to hear it,’ he replied flatly.
‘Did Brother Donnchad report to you that he had lost his
ceraculum
?’ Fidelma asked.
A frown passed quickly over Brother Lugna’s features before they re-formed without expression.
‘As a matter of fact I do recall encountering him one day on his way back from the
scriptorium
. He mentioned that some
thief had taken it. I pointed out that it was a serious accusation, especially if he was accusing someone among the brethren. He called me a fool and walked away. That was shortly before his mother came to the abbey to speak to him about his behaviour. After that visit he refused to open his door to anyone. What makes you ask?’
‘He apparently flew into a rage when it went missing. We wondered why that was. Surely he could obtain another such notebook easily within the community?’
‘Brother Donnchad’s behaviour was always curious insofar as I was concerned. I presumed that he had important notes still on the writing tablet and that was what annoyed him. That would be a logical conclusion.’
‘Of course.’ Fidelma smiled, as if the problem had been solved. Then she glanced around. ‘I see the building work is going well,’ she remarked, changing the subject. ‘The new chapel looks truly magnificent.’
‘It is indeed.’ Eadulf could almost swear that the steward’s chest expanded with pride. ‘Soon our name will resound throughout Christendom for the purity of the abbey and its teachings.’
‘The purity of its teachings?’ queried Fidelma softly, as if the words had a special meaning.
Brother Lugna gazed sharply at her before replying: ‘There is a difficult task before us, to cleanse the lax and impure ways that have been allowed to develop among the community. That is my task, as I see it. Absolution is given too freely to those who do not adhere to strict obedience to the disciplines of the Faith. Those who turn away from the truth and then think they can return and be immediately forgiven for …’ He halted, as if he realised he had said too much. With a curt nod of his head, he left them, striding quickly away. Fidelma looked long and thoughtfully after him.
‘There is something about that man,’ muttered Eadulf.
‘He is not the most likeable of people,’ she agreed. ‘Come, let us follow up the matter the abbot told us about. The matter of Brother Gáeth placing something in the “mound of the dead”. We’ll start with the chapel.’
The
daimhliag
– the usual term now applied to churches built of stone – was quite imposing, built of substantial stone blocks, carefully cut and smoothed. Like many churches, it was built on an east west axis, the entrance being at the west end and the altar at the east. Already, the brethren had begun to plant trees around the new building, mainly yew for ornament, so that a symbolic sanctuary encircled it, called the
fidnemed
, or grove of the sanctuary. It was considered sacrilege to cut down or despoil these sacred groves. It was a custom that had been adopted since the days before the Faith had arrived in the Five Kingdoms. They wondered whether Brother Lugna approved of this ancient custom.
The stone church was not as big as many abbey chapels that Fidelma had seen. It was twenty-five metres long and six metres wide. From base to apex the long sloping roof was about nine metres. Beside the main door at the western end was a bell and a rope, used to summon the congregation to services. The oak door was well built; as was usual, the jambs of the door and the windows were angled so that the bottom of the opening was wider than the top. Round them were set large stones, with a horizontal lintel. The windows were long and narrow with a triangular top. The steep, sloping roof was covered with flat, thin stones.
Inside, the walls were hung with woollen tapestries depicting scenes from the life of the Blessed Carthach, or Mo-Chuada, the founder of the abbey. At the eastern end, the altar was of carved oak, behind which, as was the custom, the priest would face the congregation to conduct the services, although some of those
now following the Roman liturgy performed the service facing the altar, with their back to the congregation. The congregation stood; there were no benches, unlike some continental churches that Fidelma had seen.
Fidelma and Eadulf stood gazing around.
‘This seems a curious place to hide something,’ Eadulf remarked.
‘Let’s find the tombs of the abbots,’ replied Fidelma.
In fact, the tombs lay beneath their feet. The memorial stone to the Blessed Carthach lay immediately in front of the altar. The stone was part of the flagged flooring, with a Chi-Ro symbol engraved on it and the single name Mo-Chuada. The foot of the slab was at the eastern end and the head at the western end, in accordance with the custom that one should be buried with one’s feet towards the east. The memorial to the second Abbot of Lios Mór, Mo-Chuada’s maternal uncle, Cuanan, was placed in similar fashion but on the southern side of the chapel. They searched around the tombs for a while and Eadulf even examined under the altar but there was no sign of any place where anything could be hidden.
‘I suppose we will have to ask Brother Gáeth what it was Donnchad gave him and where he put it,’ sighed Eadulf.
‘Do you really think he will respond to such a question?’ snapped Fidelma irritably. ‘He did not volunteer the information for a reason and will never do so if we confront him with the fact that he was not open with us. Use your sense, Eadulf.’
Eadulf coloured hotly at her rebuke.
‘One of the things I find difficult about you, Fidelma, is that there are two people in you.’ His words flooded out in reaction.
She turned to stare at him in surprise. She had never seen him lose control of his tongue before.
‘There is the person I fell in love with,’ the words continued to rush out, ‘the companion who is humorous and sensitive. Then there is the person who is arrogant, with an acid-sharp tongue; a confrontational and aggressive person whose attitude I do not like; the person who is ready to chastise, to criticise without listening to the reason for my comments or actions. It is as if I do not count when you are undertaking these investigations. My opinions may be just as valid as yours, sometimes more so. I do not criticise you because I take the trouble to understand what you are thinking, even if I disagree with your thoughts. I prefer to ask the question why, although you always take that as censure of your ability.’
Fidelma stood still, as if she had been slapped in the face. There was shock in her expression. Then her jaw tightened. Her eyes flashed dangerously.
‘So, perhaps we are getting to the truth of your views about me.’ Her voice was cold and hard.
Eadulf, red in the face, was now in control of himself.
‘Do not react until you have considered what I am saying. I am not so uncaring that I cannot see both sides of you. But I have to tell you that I am weary of being a …’ He tried to think of an Irish term. ‘I am weary of being an
idbartach.
’ He chose the word for ‘sacrifice’ and hoped that it would convey the idea of someone who was used as a victim.
Fidelma’s face had become a mask. He waited for the explosion he presumed would come. Then, amazingly, her frozen features seemed to dissolve into a troubled expression. She said in a quiet voice, ‘What is it that you want in life, Eadulf?’
He did not reply immediately, too surprised by the softness of her tone.
‘What do I want for the future? I don’t want to live without you or our son, Alchú. But I want to be regarded as someone whose feelings should be considered as equal.’
‘Do you think that forcing me to give up the law, as you tried to do, and move to some enclosed community would be a recipe for happiness?’
‘Perhaps I was wrong to think it. But I don’t want to be a mere appendage of Fidelma of Cashel,’ he replied firmly. ‘I want to be my own person. I want to be regarded for my own worth and not for your sake.’
‘You don’t think that you are already?’ she asked with a frown.
‘I certainly do not,’ he returned immediately. ‘Although I have spent many years here, I am not of your country, Fidelma. I rely on your charity for my subsistence.’
She shook her head with a sad smile. ‘We knew that life together would not be easy. That was why I insisted on pursuing our custom of living with each other for a year and a day before we took our final vows of marriage.’
‘I know, I know. Perhaps it was my fault. There was little Alchú to consider,’ he muttered angrily.
‘Eadulf, all I can say is that I am sorry you feel that you are not regarded for your own worth. I know I am cursed with a temper. I cannot stop the criticism that springs from my tongue when I am distracted. But let me tell you this. As far as I am concerned, without you, your advice, your ability to analyse, I would not have succeeded in many of the investigations we have undertaken. Remember the time when you were able to understand the Law of the Fénechus to the level where you were able to successfully defend me when I was unjustly charged with murder. Who of importance in this kingdom has not shown you respect? My brother, the King, respects you, as does the nobility of Muman. Abbot Ségdae of Imleach respects you, and so do most of the religious of Muman. Indeed, even the High King himself knows and respects your abilities.’
Eadulf was silent for a moment.
‘I suppose,’ he said uncertainly, ‘I sometimes feel that I am not respected by the one person I really want respect from.’
Fidelma looked long and hard at him and there was suddenly a brightness in her eyes.
‘For that I am truly sorry. I know I must try to curb my temper, yet I cannot change my life or my ambition. I have explained many times that my cousin, Abbot Laisran, acted for my benefit when he told me to join the community at Cill Dara. It seemed a good idea at the time but I soon discovered it was not. For some time, because I was young and inexperienced, I did not know what path I should take. But finally, I know what I should do. My whole being is involved with law and the administration of justice. Not pursuing this will mean the death of my soul. No sacrifice that involves me giving this up is possible.’
‘Do you regret your time with me, as you regret your time in the community at Cill Dara?’ asked Eadulf.
Fidelma shook her head vehemently. ‘It tortures me, Eadulf, to think that we have come so far along our path in life together and may not continue on. I do not want to lose you. You will forever be my soul mate, my
anam chara
, and if you go, my soul will die. But if I am constrained from doing what I need to do in life to be fully alive, my heart will die. So what is my choice?’