‘So,’ Fidelma said, after a while, ‘what have the travellers been saying about the death of Brother Donnchad? You mentioned that you have heard news of his murder from them.’
Brother Corbach’s features assumed a worried expression. ‘Most were shocked by the news. Brother Donnchad was a venerated scholar who had recently travelled to the Holy Land in the east.’
‘And did anyone have an opinion about his death?’ asked Eadulf.
‘They say that Brother Donnchad was found stabbed to death in his cell, but the door was locked from the inside. They speak of some supernatural vengeance.’
Fidelma could not refrain from a cynical sniff.
‘What sort of supernatural vengeance?’ Eadulf queried quickly.
Brother Corbach shrugged. ‘I merely relate what the travellers say. They ask how the blessed man could be slain in this fashion. How could he be killed while the perpetrator could pass through stone walls as though they did not exist?’
‘Usually one finds that the perpetrator in fact passed through the door or the window,’ Fidelma replied firmly. ‘I have never come across a murder committed by a wraith or any other spirit.’
The hostel keeper frowned glumly. ‘Of course, lady. I merely echo what travellers say.’
The conversation turned to other local gossip, mainly on the current condition of the roadway over the mountain, for each section of road, by law, had to be maintained in good order by the local chief or noble responsible for the land through which it passed.
A short time later, the three were testing the conditions themselves. The roadway was now no more than a well-kept track, over the broad shoulder of Cnoc Mhaol Domhnaigh. The track led through a small gap in the mountains, with the summit of the mountain to the west of them and another peak to the east, called Cnoc na gCnámh, which Eadulf interpreted as the Mountain of Bones. On the southern slopes, the track dropped, winding through a wooded valley that was called the Caoimh, which meant ‘gentle’ and ‘calm’, after the name of the clan who dwelt there. They descended sharply, keeping a gushing stream to their right and crossing it before it was joined by a larger river descending from the left. Fidelma explained to an inquisitive Eadulf that it was called the river of the rough glens. From here they could now see southwards to the broad stretch of An Abhainn Mór, The Great River, and beyond it to where a complex of buildings, surrounded by wooden walls, rose on its southern bank.
‘Lios Mór,’ Fidelma remarked in satisfaction. ‘We shall be within the abbey long before nightfall.’
Gormán was frowning. ‘It is some time since I was last at Lios Mór, lady,’ he said slowly, ‘but there appear to be a lot of changes.’
Fidelma looked again towards the complex. Then she nodded. ‘There seems to be a great deal of new buildings.’
‘There are men still at work there,’ pointed out Eadulf as he
gazed at the distant abbey. ‘New buildings suggest that the abbey is prospering.’
‘Not just new buildings either,’ Gormán observed. ‘They seem to be replacing the wooden buildings with ones of stone. Someone must have endowed the abbey with wealth.’
F
idelma and Eadulf were relaxing in chairs before the glowing fire in the chamber of Abbot Iarnla. One of the brethren who attended the abbot had presented them with the traditional cup of mead to refresh themselves after their journey, before withdrawing. Now they were alone with the Abbot and his dour-faced steward. The abbot reclined in his comfortable chair to one side of the hearth while his
rechtaire
, Brother Lugna, sat upright in his chair on the other. He was clearly not at ease. But it had been the steward who had greeted them, albeit somewhat stiffly, at the gates of the abbey before he brought them to the abbot’s chamber. They had left Gormán in the hands of the
echaire
, who looked after the stables, so that he could help attend to the horses and ensure their comfort.
‘It is some time since I have visited Lios Mór,’ Fidelma was saying. ‘It seems that the abbey is prospering.’
‘How so?’ inquired the abbot.
‘I see that much building work is going on here.’
‘We have to move with the times,’ Brother Lugna intervened defensively. ‘The old wooden buildings were fine for our founders over three decades ago but our community has grown quickly and now we must put up buildings that will last and proclaim the importance and purity of the community.’
‘As you say, it is some time since you were here,’ the abbot added, ‘and it is sad that your coming now is caused by the death of a distinguished member of our brotherhood.’
‘Other than yourself and your steward, who knew that we were coming to Lios Mór?’ Eadulf asked.
The elderly abbot frowned for a moment, considering the question. ‘I did not think it a secret,’ he replied. ‘I suppose the word has spread through the community, and I certainly informed the Lady Eithne, the mother of poor Brother Donnchad.’
‘Is there something the matter?’ asked Brother Lugna. ‘Should your coming have been kept quiet?’
‘We were attacked on the road here,’ explained Eadulf. ‘It was almost as if the attackers were lying in wait for us.’
Abbot Iarnla registered his surprise. ‘Are you saying that this attack had some connection with your coming to investigate Brother Donnchad’s death?’
‘Perhaps there was no connection at all,’ Fidelma replied quickly. ‘They could simply have been robbers waiting to attack any passer-by. But it does seem curious that they attacked with the obvious intention of killing us rather than merely threatening and robbing us. They had the advantage of the ambush.’
‘What happened to them?’ Brother Lugna asked.
‘Gormán, our bodyguard, killed one and the other ran off.’
There was a silence. Abbot Iarnla looked shocked. His steward frowned as he considered the matter.
‘Therein is the answer to your question,’ Brother Lugna’s tone was dismissive. ‘They saw you had a warrior with you, a member of the King’s bodyguard, and rather than pit their strength against his, they decided to attack first. They were just cowardly robbers, no doubt. I will be frank with you, Sister Fidelma. I was not in favour of the abbot’s decision to bring you here.’
Fidelma regarded him with surprise at his abrupt change of subject. She smiled thinly. ‘May I ask why not?’
‘I believe—’
‘My
rechtaire
believed that the matter should be resolved within the abbey community,’ Abbot Iarnla intervened hastily, with an uncomfortable glance at Brother Lugna. ‘He believes that, as abbot, I have the power of judgement and punishment in such matters. But this abbey does not subscribe to the Penitentials.’
The steward gave a disdainful sniff and Eadulf noted the tension between him and the abbot. ‘So I take it you believe in the Penitentials, Brother Lugna,’ he observed. ‘I see that you wear the tonsure of Saint Peter and so favour the Rule of Rome.’
‘As do you, Brother Eadulf. I studied five years in Rome.’
‘Where do you originate from, Brother Lugna?’ asked Fidelma. ‘I do not hear the local accents of this kingdom in your voice.’
‘I am from Connachta, of the Uí Briuin Sinna of the Plain of the Sea.’ The announcement was a simple statement of fact, without pride.
‘Then you are a long way from home, Brother Lugna.’
‘The Faith is universal and whether one is in Rome or Lios Mór, or even in Connachta, one is among brethren if they follow the true teachings.’
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Eadulf was aware of a growing dislike for the arrogant young Brother Lugna.
Abbot Iarnla gave a hesitant smile. ‘Well, we are glad no harm befell you and your companions on your journey here, Fidelma. The news of the attack on you, for whatever cause, is alarming. We will offer a special prayer of thanks in the chapel tonight for your safe arrival. I believe your coming here to preside over this important matter is necessary. I would trust no one else with it.’ He glanced at his steward with a curious expression they could not interpret. ‘That is why I have overruled the advice of my steward. Your judgement,
at the time when Maolochtair tried to harm both Donnchad and Cathal, saved them from a greater harm as well as saving Maolochtair from his own fantasy. That is why I requested that you come to help us.’
It sounded almost as if he were trying to explain his reasons to his steward.
‘I understand that Brother Cathal remains in Tarentum and may never return to Lios Mór,’ Fidelma observed.
‘Cathal has accepted the
pallium
offered by the people of Tarnetum. They call him Cataldus now,’ Brother Lugna replied. The sour tone in his voice made it clear that he did not approve.
‘I remember when Cathal was acting abbot. It was when I was sitting in judgement at the court here,’ Fidelma continued.
‘Ah yes. I was away at a Council at the abbey of Imleach at the time and appointed Cathal to take charge in my absence,’ replied the elderly abbot. ‘Brother Lugna, of course, was not with us then. He did not join us until three years ago.’
‘Three years? A short time to have risen to be
rechtaire
of the abbey,’ commented Eadulf softly.
‘Blessed are those who can recognise talent in others,’ Brother Lugna replied almost pugnaciously.
After a quick frown of disapproval at Eadulf, Fidelma turned her gaze to the abbot. ‘But you have been abbot here a long time, Iarnla,’ she said. ‘You must have known Cathal and Donnchad since they were young lads.’
‘I came here when our blessed founder, Carthach, whom we lovingly refer to by the pet name of Mo-Chuada, was still alive. He died in the very same year as your own father, King Failbe Flann. Sadly, you did not know either of them, Fidelma.’
A momentary melancholy crossed Fidelma’s features. ‘I was a babe in arms when my father died,’ she replied quietly. She had often expressed regret that she had never known her father
and barely remembered her mother who had also died when she was young.
‘Your father and the Blessed Carthach were good friends. When the Uí Néill drove Carthach and his community out of Raithean, they fled south here to the Kingdom of Muman. Your father offered Carthach lands near Cashel to set up a new community but that holy man had a vision to come to this place, for he had passed through this country some years before. Did you know that Carthach actually healed your father of an ailment in his eye?’
Fidelma looked surprised. ‘I have not heard that story.’
‘Your father was distressed, for the King of Laighin was hard pressed by a revolt led by a distant relative, Crimthann mac Aedo Díbchíne, who had gathered support to challenge him for the kingship. King Failbe had concluded a treaty of friendship with King Fáelán, son of Colmán of Laighin. He promised that he would lead his warriors to assist him in times of crisis. Your father’s ailment caused him to be blind in one eye. To his anguish this meant he could not lead his warriors into battle. The Blessed Carthach treated him and cured the disease in his eye. Your father and his warriors joined Fáelán’s army, together with those of Conall, lord of Clann Cholmai, whose sister was married to Fáelán. They defeated Crimthann and his rebels at the Ford of the Smith, Áth Goain, on the River Lifé.’
Fidelma smiled sadly. ‘I knew of the victory of Áth Goain. It is a story told by the bards of my family. But I did not know of Carthach’s intercession with my father.’
‘It happened four years before your birth, the death of your father and the death of the Blessed Carthach all occurred in that one fateful year. It was just before those events that I heard that Mo-Chuada, the Blessed Carthach, had been offered this land by Maolochtair of the Déisi, and I came and joined him. Carthach was a great man, a great educator.’
‘But you say he died in the same year as my father. Is that when you became abbot?’
Abbot Iarnla chuckled with a shake of his head. ‘Bless you, child, I was still a young man. I could not have risen to such a height as abbot. Mo-Chuada’s maternal uncle, Cuanan, became abbot here. He died twenty years ago. That was when I took over.’
‘So there is little about the community here that you do not know,’ Fidelma said seriously.
‘I admit to the sin of pride in that,’ confirmed the abbot.
‘Then perhaps you can answer a question that has puzzled me. Is it usual in this community for a member to have a key to their
cubiculum
and to lock it?’
The abbot shook his head immediately. ‘It is not usual but there are exceptions.’
‘So Brother Donnchad was an exception? Why was that?’
There was some hesitation before Abbot Iarnla replied. He requested a key because he had returned from his pilgrimage to the Holy Land with some relics that he wished to keep safe.’
Fidelma’s brow furrowed as she considered his reply. ‘You mean that he was worried there might be thieves among your brethren?’
‘That is an insult to our community,’ intervened Brother Lugna, whose cheeks had coloured.
‘It is not I who am insulting them,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘What other interpretation can be placed on why Brother Donnchad wanted a key to lock his cell?’
Brother Lugna’s mouth closed firmly. Abbot Iarnla was also silent for a moment while he seemed to consider the answer.
Fidelma looked from one to the other. Then she insisted softly, ‘How can I investigate this matter if I am not in possession of all the facts?’
Abbot Iarnla lowered his head. ‘Perhaps my steward should explain matters,’ he said in resignation. ‘He dealt with them.’
Brother Lugna hesitated. Fidelma faced him, waiting. Then he sighed. ‘It is true that, when Brother Donnchad came back, he returned with some things which he said he had picked up on his pilgrimage. He wanted them kept safe while he considered them.’
‘Considered them?’ queried Eadulf.
‘They were supposed to be mostly manuscripts rather than objects,’ explained the steward. ‘Like his brother, Cathal, Brother Donnchad was a scholar of many languages, of Greek and Hebrew as well as Latin, and also Aramaic. I never saw the documents, for he kept them hidden.’
‘The abbey here has a renowned
scriptorium
, a great library containing many such manuscripts,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Why did he not simply place the documents there? Surely the library is secure enough? What made these manuscripts so precious they had to be locked elsewhere?’
Brother Lugna raised his shoulders and let them drop in a resigned gesture. ‘As I say, I never saw them nor were they found in his cell after his death.’
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed for a moment and she looked at the abbot. ‘Did you see them, Abbot Iarnla?’
The abbot had not.
‘Anyway,’ the steward continued, ‘Brother Donnchad seemed so concerned, so anxious, that we decided to humour him and have a lock made for his door.’
‘Not simply a bolt on the inside?’
‘He was specific about a lock and key.’
‘Who made the lock and key?’
‘Our own smith, Brother Giolla-na-Naomh. He holds the rank of
flaith-goba
,’ he added with a note of pride.
Fidelma knew that smiths had three distinctions of rank
according to their qualifications, and the
flaith-goba
, or chief smith, had knowledge of all metalworking. The other two ranks were limited in both the metals they worked and the artefacts they could produce.
‘How many keys to this lock did he make?’
‘He was instructed to make only one and I presume that he made only one,’ replied the steward.
‘Presumption is not fact,’ observed Fidelma.
It was Abbot Iarnla who said: ‘When we could not gain entrance to Brother Donnchad’s cell, I summoned Brother Giolla-na-Naomh to help us. He had to break down the door. Had he made an extra key, he would have fetched it to save breaking the door.’
It was a good point but Fidelma was not entirely satisfied.
‘You say that you decided to humour Brother Donnchad in his demand for a key. “Humour” seems a curious word to use.’