‘The steward was crossing the quadrangle.’
‘Brother Lugna?’
‘I do not like him,’ the boy confessed. ‘I don’t think he likes me.’
Fidelma nearly agreed aloud but she remained silent.
‘Did he say anything to you?’
‘He never speaks to me.’
‘So what happened next?’
‘I came up to the building that we were working on to make sure the tools were all ready for when the men came to work. It was there that I saw the body. You couldn’t miss it once you came into the building. I saw he was dead at once. The back of his head—’
‘We know,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Do not think about that. What did you do then?’
‘I knew where the physician worked, not far away. I ran there immediately. He asked me what was wrong and I told him.’
‘Brother Seachlann was already at work?’
‘He was in that little place where the men sometimes go to get salves when they are cut or bruised on the site.’
‘So you told him what was wrong. Then what?’
‘When we came out, one of the brethren was passing by and the physician called to him and told him to find the steward, that there had been an accident and that Glassán was badly injured. I had already told him he was dead,’ the boy added after a pause. ‘I am not that young that I do not know what death is.’
‘Brother Seachlann went with you to the body?’
The boy nodded.
‘Then what?’
‘He confirmed that Glassán was dead, by which time the steward came and also the abbot. Then Saor appeared and he suggested that I should be taken to Brother Donnán here while they made a further examination. It was while I was coming here that I saw you and Brother Eadulf coming through the gates.’ He paused and then added, ‘I’m glad you came, Sister. Now that Glassán is gone and I am far from home, I do not know what I should do.’
Fidelma reached forward and patted the boy on the arm to comfort him. ‘I have said that you do not need to worry. Back in your own lands, where Glassán lived before he came here to work on the abbey, did he have a house? Did he keep cattle?’
The boy nodded.
‘Did he have a wife and sons?’
‘He had a farm and employed a
saer-fudir
to watch over it as his tenant. But he had no wife or child.’
‘In that case, I will see that you return to your father and I will send instructions to the Brehon of your clan so that the cows that your father paid to Glassán for your fosterage are returned to him. Then, if you and your father wish it, you
might find another master builder to take you as a
felmacc
, or pupil.’
The boy seemed slightly relieved that he was not to be cast out into the country without anyone to care for him although he was clearly confused by the legal detail that Fidelma had given him.
Fidelma glanced at Brother Donnán. ‘Perhaps it can be arranged for Gúasach to remain in the abbey until this matter is cleared up. I will ensure that things are sorted out for him.’
‘I will arrange it with Brother Máel Eoin at the hostel.’ The
scriptor
turned to the boy with a smile. ‘There, did I not say you had no cause to worry? All is well.’
Fidelma and Eadulf bade farewell to the boy and left the library building.
‘Will the young lad truly be looked after?’ asked Eadulf once they were outside.
‘The resolution of this situation is provided in law,’ replied Fidelma. ‘The boy was given in fosterage to Glassán, being a master builder. He was to instruct him in the craft of building. We have a set of laws called the
Cáin Íarraith
, the law on fosterage and fees. Basically, Glassán was his
fithidir
, his instructor, and he was a
felmacc
, a pupil. If a foster-child has to return prematurely to his father for whatever reason, then the foster fee, the
íarraith
, must be repaid in full. Only if Gúasach had been guilty of serious misconduct could Glassán or his heir be exempt from returning the fee. So, under law, the boy must be escorted back to his father with the entire fee and neither he nor his father loses by what has happened.’
‘I see,’ Eadulf said. ‘So, what next?’
‘We will have a look in Glassán’s room in the guesthouse. Perhaps he has left an
audacht
, a will. Most people engaged in
dangerous work do so. But first I want another word with Brother Seachlann while I think about it.’
Eadulf knew the custom of Fidelma’s people to leave a will, a set of instructions covering the disposal of their property. It was apparently an ancient custom, which dated back long before the coming of Christianity, for it was believed that death was not an ending but the gateway into the Otherworld. So before one went on the
fecht-uath
, or grave journey, as it was called, those who could do so made a will.
They found Brother Seachlann alone in his
bróinbherg
and engaged in preparing the
racholl
, or winding sheet, to wrap the body of Glassán for burial.
The physician looked up with a frown.
‘Do you need to examine the body again?’ he asked irritably. ‘I have already washed it.’
‘It is not Glassán I needed to speak to you about,’ Fidelma replied. ‘I hear that you recently went on a trip to Ard Mór.’
Brother Seachlann looked surprised.
‘I did,’ he admitted.
‘May I ask why?’
‘It is no secret. I went to get some herbs for preparations. There is a market there where ships from over the seas land their cargoes and often you can find herbs of great benefit to—’
Fidelma raised her hand impatiently. ‘You also visited the abbey with a message from Fhear Maighe.’
‘What of that?’
‘How did you come by that message?’
‘How?’ He frowned as if trying to think. ‘From a young man from Fhear Maighe who knew I was journeying to Ard Mór.’
Fidelma suppressed a sigh. ‘Who was he and how did he know you were on your way to Ard Mór?’
‘I have no idea of his name. He was a young religieux who I met in the
scriptorium
. The
scriptor
told me that he often carried messages between the abbeys. He had come from Fhear Maighe and had an urgent message for the abbot of Ard Mór. He was worried for he had also to take an urgent message to the abbey at Fionán’s Height, which is north across the mountains. As I was riding to Ard Mór that same day to get the herbs, I offered to help and we parted happily.’
Fidelma was quiet for a moment. ‘What was the message?’
‘Simply that certain books were being sent by river from Fhear Maighe to Ard Mór. I forget when the barge was due to arrive, although I was told at the time, and the name of the barge. The abbot was to have payment ready when it arrived. What does all this mean?’
‘Perhaps nothing,’ Fidelma replied quietly. ‘Were you given the names of the books?’
‘I cannot remember now. I recall that I had the titles written down by the
scriptor
in case I forgot them. He did so on a piece of bark. I gave that to the abbot at Ard Mór.’
‘You definitely gave the list to the abbot at Ard Mór on your arrival?’
‘I have said so.’
‘Very well,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully. ‘I thank you for your help.’
‘And you do not want to examine this corpse further?’ Brother Seachlann asked, indicating the body of Glassán.
‘I do not. When will he be buried?’
‘It is the custom of this abbey to have a day of watching and then to bury the corpse at midnight. We did not find the corpse until the early hours of this morning but Brother Lugna has said that as he died in the night, the obsequies should be carried out tonight.’
Fidelma glanced at Eadulf. ‘I thought the
laithina canti
, the
time of watching and lamentation, should be a full day and night.’
Brother Seachlann sniffed slightly. ‘He was not part of this abbey community. I suppose Brother Lugna takes into account that there appear to be few people willing to take part in the
aire
, the wake. But he has instructed that he is to be buried in the plot to the east of the abbey where other members of the brethren are laid to rest.’
‘Brother Lugna seems to be in a hurry to bury Glassán,’ observed Eadulf once they were outside. ‘Surely some of Glassán’s workmen will want to keep watch over the body according to the custom?’
‘We will have a word with Saor about that. There are many things that Brother Lugna does that surprise me.’
‘Well, I think we also have reason to be suspicious of Brother Seachlann.’
‘He certainly took the news of the books coming by river to Ard Mór. We have established that. He might well have been part of the chain that caused the news to fall into the hands of those that attacked the river barge and stole them.’
‘Why is this Celsus book so important and how is it connected to the death of Brother Donnchad?’ Eadulf asked irritably. ‘And to everything else that has gone on here? I don’t understand it.’
‘Didn’t Julius Caesar comment,
In bello parvis momentis magni casus intercedunt
?’
‘In war great events are the result of small causes,’ he murmured in translation.
Fidelma nodded. ‘In other words, Eadulf, pay attention to the small details. By doing so, you will find that patience will reveal the matter.’
‘Well, I already feel exhausted,’ Eadulf remarked, as they walked across the stone flags of the quadrangle. ‘We have travelled a considerable distance these last few days.’
‘If we had not then we would not now be as close as we are to a solution,’ she pointed out. Before Eadulf could form his question, she began to walk to the guesthouse calling over her shoulder, ‘Now, let us search Glassán’s room.’
A
s they passed the fountain in the centre of the quadrangle, the sound of raised, angry voices caused them to look towards the gates of the abbey. They saw Brother Lugna facing a band of men, whom they immediately recognised as the builders. Among them was Saor. Brother Lugna was standing in a belligerent posture that seemed curiously grotesque for a man of the Faith. Even as they looked, the builders turned their backs on him and walked through the gates. As they did so, Gormán rode into the abbey courtyard and swung off his horse. Fidelma and Eadulf went to join him. The steward had not moved from his position, standing staring after the disappearing builders.
‘Is all well, Gormán?’ Fidelma greeted the warrior.
‘Everything is as you instructed, lady.’ Gormán smiled. ‘The conditions are agreed. Both chiefs await your message.’
Fidelma glanced across to Brother Lugna. Anger had made his countenance fierce. Suddenly aware of their presence, he tried to relax his features.
‘There seems to be some trouble with Glassán’s men,’ Fidelma observed.
‘True enough,’ replied the steward through between clenched teeth. ‘They are refusing to come back to work. They say there
have been too many accidents on the abbey buildings for them to continue. They demand their wages and say that they are leaving.’
It was clear that the steward was more upset at the demand for wages than by the death of the master builder.
‘Can you continue the work here without a master builder?’ Eadulf asked.
‘There is always someone who can take over,’ replied the steward immediately. ‘I am sure that Saor is qualified but he seems to agree with the workers. It is not that there is no one suitable; the problem is the stupid superstition of these country people. If this abbey were operating under the Penitentials, I would have every man of them flogged until they undertook the work with enthusiasm.’
He spoke with such vehemence that Eadulf could not disguise the distaste he felt. Like the Roman law they originated from, the rules of the Penitentials were based on physical punishment, bodily mortification and ritual maiming which even included the removal of limbs of those found guilty of breaking the rules. The discipline was completely at odds with the spirit and nature of the native Law of the Fénechus. Eadulf knew that Fidelma regarded them in abhorrence in those few abbeys where zealots of the Faith had managed to introduce them. Usually, they went with those communities of single sex where the rule of celibacy had been enforced. Eadulf shivered slightly. He had come to appreciate the Fénechus laws as being more humane and progressive, based on compensation for the victim and rehabilitation for the perpetrator. Physical punishment was simply bloodthirsty vengeance.
Brother Lugna regarded Eadulf’s look of disgust with an arrogant expression of pity.
‘One day all members of the Faith will fear God and the Penitentials,’ the steward added. ‘There is too much laxity in
this land …’ He paused. ‘Fear is a great persuader, Brother Eadulf. How else can I get them back to work when it is fear that now causes them to run away? Confronted by superstitious fear, one must offer a greater fear.’
Fidelma shook her head. ‘I will reason with Saor and his men. Not to keep them at work but because they must remain here until my investigations are complete.’
‘I doubt whether Saor will listen to you. Anyway, I must go to inform the abbot. He seems to be in a state of panic about everything, as usual.’
‘Glassán was legally required to present you with a list of his workers. Did he do so?’
‘Of course. And if these men march off now, I shall consider the contract with the abbey broken and I shall not pay them.’
‘Really?’ she said quickly. ‘Wasn’t the contract with Glassán to employ the men he thought fit?’
‘I paid them individually on behalf of the abbey. I did not trust Glassán to resist helping himself to a little extra.’
Fidelma regarded the steward thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Well, Brother Lugna, I think I know an argument that will persuade these men to stay.’
Gormán joined Fidelma and Eadulf as she led the way determinedly through the gates of the abbey and towards the scattered collection of wicker and wattle cabins, called
bothan
, that the workmen lived in. As they approached there were signs of men moving about, collecting their belongings. A couple noticed their approach, stood still and fell silent.
‘Where is Saor?’ Fidelma asked the nearest man.
She received a shrug in response but after a moment or two the carpenter appeared from one of the huts. He did not meet her eyes but came forward, head down. ‘The men have made up their minds, Sister. We have had enough of this accursed site.’ Then he glanced at Eadulf. ‘I am surprised that you are still here
after your life was nearly taken. This is not normal. There are forces at work here that we cannot oppose. Dark forces. Lives have been taken. We cannot stand against evil.’
There was a muttering of assent among the men who had gathered round them to hear what Fidelma had to say.
‘On the contrary,’ Fidelma raised her voice above the hubbub, ‘the forces at work here are man-made and if you run away then whoever did this killing might be among you and you are providing them with an opportunity to escape justice.’
Saor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you accuse one of us? Why would we kill our own master builder? This does not make sense.’
‘All things make sense once the causes are known,’ replied Fidelma. ‘I am requesting that every one of you remain here until the truth is known.’
Saor shook his head. ‘The men and I have had enough, Sister. Brother Lugna must pay what he owes and allow us to depart.’
‘If you all walk away now then it will be you who are breaking the contract and you will have to go to arbitration over your payment. The abbey does not have to pay you if you break your contract. For once, I have to agree with the steward.’
This caused an angry muttering among some of the workmen. Gormán slid his hand to his sword hilt and eased his balance slightly. It was not a threatening movement but enough to remind them of his presence. Saor, however, was not persuaded by Fidelma’s argument.
‘Our contracts were with the master builder who is dead,’ he said. ‘So perhaps they are already terminated. The steward insisted on paying us individually, for he likes exercising power. But Glassán employed us. The abbey can’t refuse what is due to us.’
‘You speak like a lawyer, Saor,’ interposed Eadulf.
The carpenter thrust out his jaw aggressively. ‘I am no lawyer. But I say this job is over.’
This brought a protest from one of the men near him.
‘Perhaps the sister is right. We have wives and children to feed and if we walk away now we shall not be paid. Arbitration will take a long time.’
Saor swung round to him. ‘There have been too many accidents on this site. It is not a safe place, and now that Glassán is dead, there is no one to speak for us.’
‘You are the assistant, you are now responsible,’ replied one of the men.
‘And I tell you, I am leaving,’ replied Saor grimly. ‘I have no wish to be associated with—’
‘I suggest that you all stay here so that this matter may be sorted out,’ Fidelma interrupted. ‘The events that led to Glassán’s death will soon be made clear. When it is, his contract with this abbey will be renegotiated so that you may come or go as you will and with the payment you are owed. There seems to be some disagreement among you as to whether you will remain …’
Saor replied: ‘There is no disagreement, Sister. We will go with or without the money for we have no wish to remain.’
Some of the men looked doubtful but none spoke.
‘Very well.’ Fidelma was clearly exasperated. ‘You seem to be rejecting my suggestion. Now I make it an order.’
Saor looked at her. ‘An order?’ His surprised dissolved into humour and he gave a short bark of laughter. ‘What right do you have to give us orders?’
Fidelma regarded him with a long, cool look.
‘Some of you know that I came to this abbey to investigate the death of Brother Donnchad,’ she said firmly. ‘You know that I am a
dálaigh
, a member of the Brehon courts, qualified to the level of
anruth
. Even the High King must respect my decisions.’
A nervous silence fell.
She glanced towards Gormán. ‘The emblem this warrior wears proclaims him to be of the Nasc Niadh, bodyguards to the King of Muman. Know you further,’ went on Fidelma, speaking in a deliberate tone, ‘that I am Fidelma of Cashel, sister of your King, Colgú mac Failbe Flann. Someone has been killed here and I declare that you are all legal witnesses. You will remain here until this matter has been resolved or face the fine for contempt of the authority of the Law of the Fénechus.’
Saor regarded her, surprise and bewilderment crossing his features.
‘You can’t do that,’ he said but there was uncertainty in his voice.
‘But I can. Under the terms of the texts of the
Berrad Airechta
, I formally name you all as
fiadu
, witnesses. You are all called as witnesses and your
drach
, the legal term of your security to appear when called, will be your honour price. If any of you fail to appear when I call you, you will forfeit your honour price.’
Saor was shaking his head. ‘You can’t do that,’ he repeated but he had no conviction in his voice.
‘Try me,’ Fidelma smiled grimly. ‘Glassán handed a list of your names to the steward of the abbey, as the law requires, so do not think you are not known. If you do not report on the day I fix for the hearing of this matter, you will be hunted down by the King’s warriors and forcibly brought before a Brehon who will strip you of your honour price.’
The men stood in silence and then one of them spoke up.
‘We will stay, then.’
‘That is good,’ returned Fidelma with ill-concealed irony. ‘Do not think that I wish you to remain against your will as a mere whim. The law can be hard but it is the law.’ She paused, to let her words settle, then went on, ‘I understand the physician is
preparing the body of your master builder for burial at midnight. I presume some of you will be going to the
aire
.’
There was a shuffling among the men and no one replied.
Fidelma hesitated and said, ‘That is your choice. Some might say that workers who do not respect their master builder in death could not have had any respect for him in life.’
She turned with Eadulf and they began to make their way back to the abbey. Gormán waited a moment or two, hand still on his sword hilt, before he followed.
‘A miserable lot,’ he said pleasantly as he caught up with them. ‘They don’t seem too keen on their employer.’
‘Perhaps they have their reasons,’ replied Fidelma drily. ‘Someone certainly had reason enough to kill him.’
‘I just can’t see the connection between Glassán and Donnchad because the two murders must be linked,’ Eadulf commented.
‘Maybe we are looking for a connection in the wrong place,’ she replied. ‘And speaking of looking, let us return to our search in Glassán’s
cubiculum
. There is no need for you to come, Gormán, but stay close, we may have need of you.’
They did not meet anyone on their way to the
tech-oíged
. Not even the hosteller, Brother Máel Eoin. They knew Glassán had occupied a
cubiculum
at the far end of the oblong building which they also shared. The hostel was quite deserted as they entered.
Glassán’s room was almost featureless; the furnishings were sparse. If Glassán had occupied the place for nearly three years then he had not believed in many personal touches.
A crucifix alone decorated one wall of greying wattle and daub plaster. A bed, a table, a chair, and a trunk comprised the furnishing. The blanket on the bed was folded untidily. A few changes of clothes were hung in a corner, and two pairs of sturdy leather shoes of the type a builder would wear were
on the floor in a corner. A couple of amphorae stood by the wall and the smell of stale wine came from them but they were both empty. A lantern, some candles and stubs, and a tinderbox were on top of the trunk. On the table were rolls of papyrus filled with lists, columns of figures and plans.
‘The designs for the new buildings,’ Eadulf announced after glancing at them.
‘Check them through, Eadulf, just in case there is anything there of interest,’ Fidelma replied, turning her attention to the trunk and beginning to remove the candles and items on top of it. Then she tried to open it. It was locked.
‘Did you see if Glassán had a key on his body?’ she asked.
Eadulf looked up from the papers and shook his head. ‘He had nothing in which to carry a key or anything like that.’
Fidelma glanced round the room. She went to the head of the small bed and lifted the pillow. Then she bent and pulled back the straw mattress. Two keys lay there and a purse. ‘Predictable,’ she muttered. She returned to the trunk. It was clear that one of the keys was intended for it.