‘You are right, Brother Lugna. I am at fault for allowing too much tolerance of Brother Donnchad’s behaviour. My excuse for my delay is my respect for his achievements. Now I must confront him and demand his acceptance of the Rule of our community.’
Abbot Iarnla rose abruptly from his seat and Brother Lugna, surprised by his action, followed his example. Without a further word, the abbot turned and led the way from the room. Outside, they passed the wood-bearing Brother Gáeth, now red-faced, as he struggled with an armload of dry wood for the abbot’s smouldering fire. He pressed himself against the wall to allow their passage, his head bowed. They passed by without acknowledging him.
Across the main stone-flagged quadrangle, in whose middle a fountain had been constructed around a natural spring, stood a new three-storey building made of stone. It was set in one corner of the quadrangle and two of its grey walls stood on the
edge of the abbey complex. From the walls of the building the land sloped steeply down to the dark waters called An Abhainn Mór, The Great River, which marked the northern borders of Lios Mór. It was an unusual building, for most of the others in the complex, except the chapel, were made of wood. But it was clear that there was much new building work taking place across the abbey where the elderly wooden structures were replaced with ones of stone.
Abbot Iarnla moved swiftly for an elderly and rather portly cleric. Without pausing in his pace, he entered the stone building and climbed the flight of stairs to the upper floors with Brother Lugna hurrying after him. The door at the far end of the corridor on the top floor was the entrance to Brother Donnchad’s
cubiculum
, literally a ‘sleeping room’ in Latin. Abbot Iarnla halted before it but did not knock, as was the custom. He seized the handle and turned it. The door failed to open; it was locked.
Irritated, the abbot took a step back and raised his fist, giving three sharp blows on the dark woodwork.
‘Open, Brother Donnchad. It is I, Abbot Iarnla.’
He waited a few moments but there was no response.
Behind him, Brother Lugna coughed nervously. ‘As I told you, this aberrant behaviour is now usual. He does not respond to any of our entreaties to open.’
Abbot Iarnla raised his fist again and gave several sharp blows to the door. Then he paused and announced in a stentorian tone, ‘This is the abbot, Brother Donnchad. You are commanded to open this door.’
There was still no response. The abbot’s features grew grim and bright spots of red on his cheeks showed his mortification.
‘Brother Donnchad, if you do not open this door, I shall summon the means to break it open.’
As the silence continued, the abbot turned to Brother Lugna.
‘Summon Brother Giolla-na-Naomh.’
Brother Lugna hurried off. When he eventually returned with the Abbey’s blacksmith, Abbot Iarnla was waiting impatiently.
‘Break it open,’ he ordered.
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh was a tall, muscular man, as befitted his calling. His strength and willingness to do hard physical work had earned him his name ‘Servant of the Saints’ soon after he had arrived at the abbey and his original name had long been forgotten. The blacksmith examined the door critically for a moment. Then, waving the others to stand aside, he turned his back to the door, balanced on his left foot and with his right foot gave the lock a powerful back kick. There was a splintering of wood around the metal lock and the door crashed inwards. The lock hung for a moment from the jamb before it slowly fell with a clatter to the floor.
‘You may go,’ Abbot Iarnla told the blacksmith, before proceeding across the threshold. ‘Brother Donnchad, I warned you—’
The abbot’s voice stopped abruptly.
Brother Lugna peered into the room over his shoulder.
They could see inside clearly, for a window lit the
cubiculum
. Below it was the wooden cot and on it was stretched the occupant of the room, lying as if asleep, quiet and still.
Brother Lugna squeezed past the frozen figure of the abbot and moved to the bed. He bent down and touched the features of the man who lay there, withdrawing his hand quickly as if he had been scalded. He looked at the abbot.
‘Brother Donnchad is dead,’ he said flatly.
‘
Attende Domine, et miserere
…’ The abbot began to softly intone the injunction for God’s mercy.
To the abbot’s surprise, Brother Lugna turned the body over on to its side so that the back was towards him. He stared at it for a moment and finally let it fall back into its original position.
The abbot paused in his prayer. ‘What are you looking for, Brother Lugna? Do you think he took his own life?’
The steward stood upright and turned to the abbot. His face was paler than usual and he wore a troubled expression.
‘Took his own life? Not unless he was able to stab himself twice in the back before he climbed on to the bed and lay down,’ he rejoined drily.
The abbot’s ruddy face blanched and he performed the sign of the Cross.
‘
Lux perpetua lucent eis. Qui erant in poenis tenebrarum
…’ he began to mutter. ‘Let perpetual light shine unto them which were in the pain of darkness.’
‘
A
re you telling me that you are rejecting the Faith, Fidelma?’ Ségdae, Abbot of Imleach, demanded in a scandalised voice.
Fidelma stood before the abbot in the private chamber that was always set aside for his visits to the palace of Cashel. By virtue of his ecclesiastical role as Chief Bishop of Muman, Ségdae was always treated with the greatest respect when he came to see his King.
‘I am not rejecting the Faith, only the life of a religieuse,’ Fidelma replied patiently.
Abbot Ségdae examined her with suspicion. ‘This is not good. I know that you have had concerns over the years …’
Fidelma raised a hand and Abbot Ségdae paused to allow her to speak.
‘When I attended the school of the Brehon Morann and qualified in the study of law, which was my passion, my brother was not then King of Muman, and I needed the means of supporting myself before I could make a reputation as an advocate, a
dálaigh
of the courts. My cousin, Abbot Laisran of Darú, suggested I join the house of Brigid at Cill Dara, because they needed someone with legal ability. It is some years ago since I shook the dust of that place from my sandals for reasons that I think you know well.’
Abbot Ségdae shrugged. ‘One bad apple does not mean that the entire crop is ruined,’ he commented.
A smile crossed Fidelma’s features but there was little humour in it.
‘It seems that there are many bad apples in this world. During the seven or so years that I have practised the legal arts, I have come across more than I care to enumerate – even in the palace of the Holy Father in Rome. Anyway, since leaving Cill Dara, I have based myself at my brother’s court here in Cashel and sought to serve him and this kingdom, and even the High King, to the best of my ability when my opinion has been sought. The Church has little need of me to serve the Faith, but the law does have need of me.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’ Abbot Ségdae demanded.
‘That I will no longer be a member of the religieuse in name. Many years have passed since I was truly a Sister of a community. Even before I went to Cill Dara, I was never committed to the rules and regulations of the religieuse. It was only a means of security in an uncertain world. Now, my brother often needs me at his side to advise and sit with him in matters of law and this kingdom.’
The abbot frowned briefly. ‘I hear what you say, Fidelma. I hear it and am concerned by it. Is this matter something to do with Brother Eadulf ?’
A flush came to Fidelma’s face.
‘Eadulf? Why do you say that?’ she demanded defensively.
The abbot sat back and examined her closely. ‘It has been observed, Fidelma, that since your return from the Council of Autun, and the problems you encountered after you left the port of Naoned, you and Brother Eadulf have led separate lives. Why is that?’
‘It is … it is a private matter,’ Fidelma said hesitantly.
The abbot shook his head sadly. ‘Anything that affects the
well-being of the King’s sister, that causes her to withdraw from the religieuse, must surely be of concern to me as the King’s chief spiritual adviser.’
‘My decision has nothing to do with Eadulf,’ she insisted in annoyance. ‘I needed time at Cashel while Eadulf wanted to spend some time in contemplation with the community of the abbey of the Blessed Rúan north of here. That is all.’
‘All?’
‘What else can there be?’ she demanded petulantly.
Abbot Ségdae’s voice was sorrowful. ‘That, my child, is what I am attempting to find out. You and Eadulf had hardly returned here, to Cashel, when he left to go to the abbey of Rúan, while you remained here with your son, Alchú.’
‘Is there anything wrong with a desire to spend some time with my son?’ Fidelma’s voice was fierce.
The abbot ignored her aggressive tone and continued in an even voice. ‘Then you come to me and tell me that, after these many years, you wish to leave the religieuse. You must forgive me for thinking that these matters may be connected.’
There was an uneasy silence between them.
‘We have known one another a long time, Fidelma,’ the abbot began again. ‘I know that you are possessed of a sharp mind and it is your questioning ability that stands you in good stead as an advocate in your profession. I know, too, that it often leads you to question some of the tenets of the Faith. The Faith is not something that you can question and always achieve a rational answer – that’s what makes it a faith and not an art or science. It is not something that can be proven by evidence as in your law textbooks or even by rational thought.’
He saw Fidelma’s lips compress in a stubborn line.
‘I have told you, I accept the Faith,’ she said softly. ‘I am not questioning the Faith.’
‘Have you spoken of this matter with your brother, the King?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have. My brother Colgú has come to rely on my advice more often than before. It is known that the Chief Brehon of Muman, Baithen, is ill with a wasting sickness and has expressed his wish to withdraw into private life.’
Abbot Ségdae’s eyes widened a little. ‘And you would aspire to be Chief Brehon of your brother’s kingdom?’
Fidelma’s chin rose a little. ‘Not only aspire,’ she replied sharply. ‘I feel that the Council of Brehons would support me in that office.’
‘Baithen was of the rank of
ollamh
, the highest degree possible in law. Yet you—’
‘I am of the rank of an
anruth
, the second highest degree to an
ollamh
,’ snapped Fidelma. ‘That has never excluded me from being consulted in legal matters even by the High King, let alone provincial kings.’
‘I meant no disrespect, my child,’ replied Ségdae. ‘It is just that there are many others qualified as
ollamh
among the Council of Brehons of Muman. What will be their thoughts at being surpassed in office if your brother nominates you? Would they not say, ah, she is the King’s sister, and that is why we have been overlooked? Would that not sow seeds of dissension within the kingdom?’
Fidelma regarded him stubbornly. ‘If my brother is happy with the nomination, I cannot see why his people should dissent.’
The abbot once more gave a sad shake of his head. ‘There are times, my child, when you surprise me.’
‘I have come to you to announce my intention of withdrawing from the religieuse and to pursue my future as a lawyer unencumbered by other interests. As Chief Bishop of the kingdom, do I have your blessing or not?’
‘It is not so simple,’ the abbot replied firmly. ‘I must consult about this; I must talk to your brother, the King. To be truthful,
I am not certain that I have been placed in possession of all the facts.’
Fidelma flushed, her body stiffened. ‘I do not tell untruths.’
The abbot held up a hand as if to pacify her. ‘I did not say that you have told me anything which is not true, merely that you may have withheld some information which, perhaps, might have made me understand your reasoning better. Perhaps you are withholding that knowledge even from yourself.’
Fidelma sniffed in disapproval. ‘I have told you that which is pertinent to my request, and if that is not sufficient, then I can do nothing further. By your leave, Ségdae, I will withdraw, but let me say this: I have told you my intention and, with your blessing or no, I will fulfil my design.’
Without another word, she turned and left.
Abbot Ségdae sat motionless for a few moments, staring at the door she had slammed behind her. Then he stirred and, not for the first time, sighed deeply.
‘You heard that?’ he asked softly.
The curtain hanging over the door-like aperture into the guestroom’s sleeping quarters stirred and was pulled aside.
The abbot’s steward entered. Brother Madagan was a tall man with thin, serious features and dark, brooding, deep-set eyes.
‘I did.’
‘And what is your comment?’
‘I have a great aversion to placing a wild bird in a cage.’
The abbot frowned and then, as he understood what his steward meant, he smiled at him.
‘We have known for many years that Fidelma was her own person. She will not be constrained by anyone. Once she makes up her mind as to the correctness of the course she undertakes, then there is little to be done.’
‘Just so.’
‘But what if she is choosing the wrong path?’ queried the abbot. ‘Do we not have a duty to dissuade her?’
‘Better that she chooses it than she has a path chosen for her, which she then resents and comes to resent those who chose it. If it is the wrong path, she will find out soon enough and return. If it is the right path … well, why should we not encourage her?’
‘You are ever a good counsellor, Brother Madagan. I wonder if she has heard that most of the Council of Brehons favour Brehon Aillín of the Eóghanacht Glendamnach as the new Chief Brehon?’
‘I do not think that will disturb her ambition.’
Abbot Ségdae sat in thought for a moment or two before making a small grimace. ‘I still feel that something is not quite right here. I believe there is more to her decision to leave the religious than a simple ambition to pursue her profession in law.’
‘You refer to this separation between her and Brother Eadulf ?’
The abbot shifted his weight in the chair. ‘Sometimes I think that those esoteric theologists who try to persuade us that celibacy is the best form of life for those who would pursue the religious cause are right. Sometimes relationships within the communities can lead to problems.’
‘Fidelma and Eadulf have shown not only their love and devotion to one another over the years but they work so well together on mysteries that would have baffled many. I need hardly remind you how they helped me when Brother Mochta and the holy relics of the Blessed Ailbe disappeared and—’
‘If there is anyone more indebted to Fidelma, and to Eadulf, than myself, I have yet to meet with them,’ Abbot Ségdae interrupted heavily. ‘I am well aware of the debt I owe her. It is that indebtedness that makes me worried. If there is some problem
between them, of which this declaration is a manifestation, then I must do what I can to see if a resolution can be found.’
‘How will you do this?’
‘I shall consult the King again. We have heard worrying news from Abbot Iarnla of Lios Mór that might become a solution to this problem.’ He paused, and then smiled as if in relief at his decision. ‘Indeed, that is what I shall do.’
Colgú, King of Muman, the most southwesterly and largest of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann, ran a hand through his crop of red hair and gazed at his sister with a troubled expression.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Abbot Ségdae is well within his rights to ask you to explain why you wish to leave the religieuse.’
‘And I have answered him,’ snapped Fidelma, pausing as she paced up and down in front of her brother, who was seated in his private chamber. ‘He should accept my statement and not start prying into my private affairs.’
‘You gave him your reason but even you must admit that there has been much public speculation since you and Eadulf returned from the kingdom of the Bretons.’ He saw Fidelma’s lips thin and the fire come into her eyes, and rather than wait for the storm to erupt, he continued, ‘You know it is true. It is no wonder Abbot Ségdae questions why you have made this request now.’
For a moment or two Fidelma seemed to be about to give vent to her anger but then abruptly she heaved a sigh and sank into a chair opposite her brother.
‘It has nothing to do with it,’ she said quietly. ‘At least, nothing directly to do with it.’
Colgú was very fond of his fiery sister and he had been increasingly concerned during the past two weeks about her apparent separation from Eadulf. He had also grown fond of the Angle
from Seaxmund’s Ham. It saddened him to see an apparent rift in the relationship between his sister and Eadulf.
‘Can’t you tell me what the problem is?’ he asked softly.
Fidelma made a motion of her shoulder, a half shrug, but said nothing.
‘Since our parents died when you were little, you would always confide your problems to me,’ pressed Colgú.
‘As far as I am concerned … ’ began Fidelma sharply. Then she halted, compressed her lips for a moment before continuing in a more reasonable tone. ‘If you must know, Eadulf wishes to pursue his life as a religieux. He has accepted many of the teachings of Rome and his idea, when we returned here, was to enter a community and settle. He no longer wanted to be involved in my pursuit of law. He wanted us to settle and raise little Alchú in the service of the Christ.’
Colgú nodded thoughtfully. ‘He is set on that course?’
‘You know he has a good mind and yet he does not realise that he is not suited for a life of contemplation and piety. But he is stubborn. He will become bored with such a life, I know it.’