Eadulf had noticed that Brother Lugna used the Latin term
refectorium
instead of
praintech
, the usual word for an eating house. Eadulf had noticed that in many abbeys Latin terms were replacing native words for functions and places – the use of the Latin
cubiculum
for chamber instead of the usual
cotultech
; of
scriptor
for librarian and
scriptorium
for library in place of
leabhar coimedach
, keeper of books, and
tech-screptra
, library. It seemed that the abbey of Lios Mór, too, was changing. Perhaps Brother Lugna’s Roman tonsure was more significant than he had previously thought.
It was a short time later when Brother Máel Eoin came to show him and Fidelma the way to the
refectorium
. At the doors of the
refectorium
they found Gormán about to enter.
‘Are you being looked after well?’ Fidelma greeted the young warrior.
‘I have a good bed, lady,’ he replied with a brief smile. ‘I am quartered above the stables with the
echaire
, the stableman. I have been looking around at the new buildings. It seems the abbey is growing rapidly since last I came here. A chapel in stone and two other buildings already completed. The abbey appears to have come into great wealth.’
He was interrupted by a gesture from Brother Eoin as he opened the doors and showed them into the great hall where the community was eating. He steered them through the rows of long tables to a table set to one side of the
refectorium
. Many of the brethren raised their heads to observe their passage with undisguised curiosity. A low murmur arose from them. Fidelma noticed that there were few women in the hall, although there were some. Lios Mór had, she recalled, initially been a
conhospitae
, a mixed house, where men and women cohabited, raising their children to the service of the new religion. She remembered the story of how Carthach had come to Lios Mór with Flandait, the daughter of Cuanan, and several other women to help form the community. They found a holy woman named Caimel already living by the river. Caimel had become the head of the community of women at Lios Mór. She wondered whether Abbot Iarnla was gradually leading the religious community towards celibacy, for there was little evidence of women being co-equal as they had been when she last visited.
The fact that there were few women in the hall had also occurred to Eadulf. He had also noticed that the women who were present had been placed at the lower end of the
refectorium
. The abbot’s table was at the far end on a raised platform and here Abbot Iarnla, his steward and several others were seated at their meal. Eadulf presumed that the abbot’s table was filled with the hierarchy of the abbey and they were all male. Then he realised that Brother Eoin was leading them to a table to one side of the hall. Eadulf knew from experience that Fidelma, as sister to the King was usually seated as a distinguished guest. He saw that Fidelma gave no sign that she was insulted by what seemed a breach of natural courtesy. One or two of the brethren bowed their heads towards them in obvious recognition as they passed between the tables.
At the table to which they were guided they found two other guests, who introduced themselves. Glassán was a man of middle age, with even features, bright blue eyes and wiry brown hair, and a firm chin with a cleft jaw. He looked used to being outside in the elements and his clothing did not hide his well-muscled body. He seemed to assume a natural command over his companion who was introduced as Saor. He was thin and sinewy, a swarthy fellow with close-set eyes.
‘Are you guests in the abbey?’ Fidelma asked as they seated themselves. She was interested by their appearance, for neither seemed like men who would choose life in an abbey.
‘That we are,’ replied Glassán with a broad smile that was almost patronising. ‘Fairly permanent and important ones.’
‘Permanent
and
important?’ Gormán’s query seemed to be without irony, but his eyes were glinting. ‘What manner of men are you who honour us with your company?’
‘I am an
ailtíre
,’ the brawny Glassán declared without any modesty. ‘Saor, here, is my carpenter and assistant.’
‘Ah, you are a … a master builder?’ Eadulf tried to translate the technical office.
‘I am in charge of the rebuilding of the abbey,’ confirmed Glassán. Clearly he was not a man who believed in humility.
‘We saw that there had been changes,’ Gormán replied. ‘A lot of new stone buildings have appeared where I remember buildings of wood.’
‘Quite right, my young friend,’ agreed Glassán. ‘For three years now the abbey has employed me to oversee the new building work.’
‘That must be an enormous task,’ Eadulf commented. He was genuinely interested.
‘I have several men working under me, including some of the finest
caisleóir
, stonemasons, of the south.’
‘The abbey must be rich to engage in such rebuilding,’ observed Gormán.
The master builder grimaced. ‘That you would have to ask Brother Lugna. For my part, each fee for services is specified by the Law of the Fénechus, as is compensation for craftsmen injured in the pursuit of their work.’
Eadulf looked surprised and Fidelma explained. ‘A master builder is considered on the same level as the intended successor to a
bo-aire
, which would mean his honour price is worth twenty
seds
– the value of twenty milch cows.’
Glassán was looking at Fidelma with interest.
‘You know something of the law, Sister?’ Then he smiled. ‘Ah, of course. You are the
dálaigh
that the brethren here have been talking about. Someone who is going to make a report about the cleric who died.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Know him? We are too busy to socialise with the brethren here, even if they were sociable.’ He grinned at his quip. No one laughed.
‘Twenty
seds
is a large sum, indeed,’ observed Eadulf, filling the awkward silence.
‘Small compensation for the many years of study and apprenticeship, as in all arts and crafts,’ pointed out Glassán in an almost defensive manner. ‘There is a lot of responsibility in superintending the construction of these buildings, and one has to be a master in many different things, stonemasonry, carpentry …’ He suddenly shot a condescending look at his quiet companion. ‘Thankfully, Saor here takes many onerous tasks from my shoulders. He is my chief assistant.’
‘But if you are building in stone, surely you need stonemasons rather than carpenters,’ queried Gormán.
Saor’s chin came up defensively and he spoke for the first time. ‘Even with stone work, wooden frames must be made and carpentry must be employed,’ he announced with a tone of annoyance.
‘Of course.’ Glassán smiled, regaining the conversation. It was clear that he was enthusiastic about his craft and not loath to expand on the problems and skill that faced him and the rest of his team of workmen. As master builder, Glassán was provided with accommodation in the guesthouse, while his assistant and his workmen lived outside the abbey, along the river bank, in a collection of huts they had erected for the purpose. For the rest of the meal he continued to talk of the problems of replacing some of the wooden structures of the abbey with buildings of stone. He had a habit of talking in a low droning tone, almost without stopping, so that there was little dialogue.
Gormán’s expression quickly took on a slightly glazed look, as if he had shut off his mind from Glassán’s interminable details and technical explanations. Throughout, the thin-faced Saor, sat in almost moody silence, apart from one or two muttered comments. At the end of the meal, Fidelma and Eadulf rose hurriedly, thankful to be able to escape.
Outside her chamber, in the
tech-oíged
, or guesthouse, Fidelma turned apologetically to Eadulf.
‘I did not mean to embarrass you earlier about our accommodation, ’ she said softly. ‘But there are many things we must discuss in case we fall back into old habits which are no good for either of us.’
‘I understand,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘I realise that it is your brother who is trying to mend fences; it was not your doing to bring me back to Cashel.’
‘It is not that I regret his interference, Eadulf,’ Fidelma said quickly. ‘I welcome it as a means whereby we might try to rebuild our relationship on a better footing. I am firm in my resolve to pursue the course I have set myself. I would be a hypocrite to do otherwise. How that will square with whatever else must be taken into consideration … well, we must talk more clearly when there are no other problems to distract our thoughts.’
‘Agreed,’ Eadulf replied with a smile. ‘Let us give our minds completely to the current problem.’
She answered his smile. Then said, ‘Gormán made a good point this evening.’
‘You mean his ability to switch off his mind while our builder friend was chattering on,’ Eadulf observed wryly. ‘I swear the man did not even pause to eat his food, yet his plate was clean at the end of the meal. How did he talk and eat at the same time?’
‘That is not what I meant.’ She laughed. ‘I meant the point he made about the abbey being rich to embark on all this new building work.’
‘That observation was made before. Many communities are building and expanding. Why not Lios Mór?’
‘As you know, Lios Mór was only established a little over
thirty years ago, Eadulf. It was levelled and fenced in with the members of the community building it with their own hands. They sought no help from outside. The material was the timber from the surrounding woods. The community have barely had time to establish themselves, let alone start to rebuild from stone.’
‘I have seen many communities in the Five Kingdoms putting up buildings of stone,’ Eadulf pointed out.
‘Usually in the west where stone is more easily accessible than wood,’ replied Fidelma. ‘But here, wood is plenty and varied. I know that the community is expanding, but to bring in a professional builder and his men is surprising. Glassán was right when he said that the law lays down strict rules, regulations and fees for professional builders and craftsmen. If the community here can afford to pay those rates, it means they have the finances to do so. How have they achieved such wealth in so short a time?’
‘Perhaps Glassán and his men are donating their work to the Faith,’ suggested Eadulf.
‘You heard him speak of his fees. I don’t think he will forgo them for the sake of the Faith.’
‘Well, perhaps that is something we should ask Abbot Iarnla about.’
Fidelma nodded absently. ‘Anyway, we have more to concern us than how the abbey has raised the means to pay craftsmen to construct stone buildings.’ She opened the door of her chamber, then turned back to him with a smile. ‘Sleep well, Eadulf. We have much to do in the morning.’
For a moment Eadulf stood gazing moodily at the closed door. Then with a deep sigh he turned and walked slowly to his own allotted chamber.
If Fidelma was so convinced of her future, Eadulf knew that difficult times lay ahead for him. There would be no easy
reconciliation, no easy getting back together, as it seemed Fidelma’s brother had hoped.
Eadulf lay down on the straw palliasse of the wooden framed cot and drew a blanket over himself, but it was a long time before sleep came to him.
T
he next morning the sky was cloudless and the sun bright.
‘It is going to be a hot day,’ announced Brother Lugna, moodily, after he had greeted Fidelma and Eadulf. They had just emerged from the
refectorium
, where they had taken a light breakfast.
‘In that case, we should avail ourselves of the early morning freshness to begin at once,’ Fidelma replied.
They had emerged to a cacophony of sound at odds with the usual meditative quiet of an abbey. They could hear the ringing of hammers on stone, the grating of wood being sawn and the harsh shouts of men issuing instructions.
‘That’s the building work,’ explained Brother Lugna. ‘The disturbance of our peace is but a small penance for the reconstruction of the abbey into a monument that will last forever.’
He led them across the stone-flagged quadrangle, past the
tipra
, the small fresh-water fountain splashing in a basin carved from limestone. Facing them on the eastern side of the quadrangle was the large three-storey stone building which contained Brother Donnchad’s cell. Brother Lugna told them that the
cubicula
, or individual cells, of all the senior members of the community would eventually be housed in the building.
‘So it is a very new building,’ Fidelma commented, observing the still immaculately polished stonework.
‘Less than a year old,’ Brother Lugna agreed. ‘It was the second of the new buildings to be finished. The first, of course, was our chapel. I regret that the
tech-oíged
, the guesthouse, will be the last building to be replaced in stone as it is the least important of the complex. But I hope the current building is comfortable enough for you.’
Fidelma wondered whether there was some humour behind his words. But she did not think that Brother Lugna was given to humour.
‘Comfortable enough,’ replied Fidelma. ‘So comfortable that I wonder why the abbey should spend so much on replacing buildings that are well built and still fairly new anyway?’
‘It is the ambition of the abbey that Lios Mór should become one of the greatest centres of the Faith and of learning not only in the Five Kingdoms but beyond the seas as well. The abbey of Darú claims that this year they have attracted pious students from eighteen different nations. To achieve our ambition it was decided that our buildings should reflect our abilities. Great structures of stone will last longer than poor buildings of wood.’
It was the first time they had seen the usually dour steward almost in a state of excitement.
‘But surely wood or stone is merely an outward covering,’ Fidelma suggested. ‘The fame of an abbey lies in the deeds of its community and its scholars.’
Brother Lugna flushed a little and did not respond. Instead he pointed to the upper floor of the building. ‘Brother Donnchad’s
cubiculum
is on the top floor.’ The steward guided them up a stone stairway to the upper floor before leading them along a corridor and halting before a door. They could see immediately that the lock on the door had been smashed open. There was no sign of the lock but splintered wood marked the
place where it had been fitted. The steward reached out and pushed the door open.
‘Where is the lock and key?’ Fidelma asked.
‘They were handed back to the smith who has been told to keep them for your examination.’
‘So this door has not been secured since you found the body?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Even if it could be, there was no need to secure it,’ replied Brother Lugna primly. ‘Brother Donnchad no longer had need of the lock.’
‘And Brother Donnchad had no possessions to keep safe?’
‘There was little of value here but the abbot ordered that nothing be removed until you came. I can assure you that nothing has. As the abbot and I have told you, there were no precious manuscripts here.’
‘What happened after you found the body?’
‘The abbot and I remained here to examine the room even after the body was taken by the physician for examination and preparation for burial.’
‘The physician did not examine the body here?’
‘He saw Brother Donnchad was dead, so there was little need to do anything further here.’
‘Would you ask the physician to join us here?’
Brother Lugna hesitated.
‘Is there a problem?’ Fidelma asked.
‘There is little he can tell you that I cannot,’ replied the steward.
‘But you are not the physician who examined the body,’ Fidelma said.
Reluctantly, the steward turned and hurried off on his errand.
Fidelma entered the
cubiculum
and halted just inside the door. She looked round at the small room. It was lit by one narrow window to which Fidelma immediately went. It was high up in
the wall, the sill on a level with her head. She turned round, seized a chair and drew it to the window. She looked out at the walls below the window. They were smooth and obviously could not be scaled without a ladder. The ground beneath appeared muddy, evidence that this had, until recently, been a building site, although here and there a few bushes had sprung up since the building had been constructed. Then she turned her head and glanced upwards. There was an overhang to the roof that made it practically impossible for anyone to descend in order to gain entrance through the window, even if they had been small enough.
‘Well, unless the murderer was a midget, an acrobat, or had wings, I cannot see anyone gaining entrance this way,’ Fidelma announced, climbing off the chair and returning it to its place. ‘Even if they could scale the wall, and perhaps that is possible with all this building work going on with ladders lying unattended. But an intruder would have to squeeze through the window and would have given his victim plenty of warning. We are told there were no signs of a struggle.’
‘And we are told that he was stabbed in the back,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘That means he had his back to the intruder and was not expecting the attack.’
The next thing that struck Fidelma was how bare the room was. For a scholar of Brother Donnchad’s reputation, and one who had travelled on such an important pilgrimage to the Holy Land, it was decidedly empty.
Eadulf agreed. ‘And if we accept the word of the abbot and his steward, nothing has been taken from here except the body.’
The wooden bed, with its straw palliasse and blanket, still lay in turmoil. The mattress and woollen blanket were stained with blood. They had certainly not been touched. Some shelves contained a few odds and ends of writing materials, goose quills and a small knife to cut them. There was a broken stylus and
an
adarcín
, part of a cow’s horn used to contain
dhubh
, a black ink made from carbon. But there was no sign of any material to write on, vellums or parchments, nor a writing stand or maulstick to guide the hand of the scribe. Indeed, there was no sign of any books, scrolls or manuscripts at all.
‘Curious,’ murmured Fidelma.
‘Not even a
marsupium
or
tiag luibhar
, no bags to carry even a small book,’ added Eadulf, reading her thoughts.
Fidelma pointed beneath the bed. Just at the foot, barely visible, was the end of wooden box.
‘Bring that out, Eadulf. Perhaps we’ll find something inside.’
Eadulf went on his knees on the floor and dragged the box out. It was not secured and so he lifted the lid. It contained nothing more interesting than a pair of sandals, a robe, and underclothes.
‘Well, I am quite sure that there is nothing here. Even aside from the question of any precious manuscripts, a scholar of his reputation would have had some documents in his room. But there are no papers here at all.’
‘Then we must work on the assumption that the murderer stole them,’ Fidelma suggested. She was moving around the small
cubiculum
, examining the walls.
‘What are you looking for?’ Eadulf asked.
‘Another way in. We are told that Brother Donnchad was murdered here. Stabbed in the back. We are told that the door was locked from the inside because there was only one key and that key was found by the body on the bed. It looks as though no access could be made from the door or the window there.’
‘This accounts for a mood of unease and stories of supernatural entities,’ replied Eadulf. ‘I was told this morning in the
refectorium
that one of the brethren claims he actually saw an angel flying by the building.’
‘I think that, too, can be discounted,’ replied Fidelma coldly.
‘So how did the human agent enter here, kill the victim and leave with a bundle of manuscripts without a trace of entry or exit?’
‘There might be another key, of course,’ he offered.
‘The smith who made the lock and key would be able to answer that and we will ask him. In the meantime, let us see if we can eliminate any other means of entry.’
‘You believe there might be another way of entering here?’ He was sceptical. ‘If there were another means, Glassán the builder would surely have known about it and informed the abbot. After all, he must have built this place.’
‘Better we should check ourselves,’ she replied.
Eadulf looked on with some cynicism. ‘If someone popped out of a secret door or tunnel, the sound of it opening would have alerted Brother Donnchad. This place is small and he would have put up a struggle with the assailant. Indeed,’ he continued warming to his reasoning, ‘he would have been equally warned if someone had come to the door and opened it with another key.’
‘You are right, Eadulf.’ Fidelma paused, standing thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Even if he was fast asleep in bed and slept through the sound of the assailant’s entrance, how would his killer have been able to stab him in the back without a struggle?’
There was a movement in the corridor and a moment later Brother Lugna entered with a tall, dark man whose sour expression seemed to fit his saturnine features.
‘This is Brother Seachlann, our physician,’ the steward announced, standing aside.
‘As I am unable to examine the corpse for myself, you must explain to me the nature of the man’s death,’ Fidelma said.
‘Little to explain. He was stabbed twice and died.’
Fidelma smiled thinly at the man’s offhand manner which bordered on insolence.
‘I think a little more information is in order,’ she said gently. Eadulf recognised her dangerous tone. ‘Where was he stabbed?’
Brother Seachlann frowned in annoyance. ‘In the back. Haven’t you been told?’ His voice was full of arrogance. ‘I cannot understand why you must waste my time with such questions. I am a qualified
liaig
, a physician, and am to be treated with respect and not summoned to answer questions that have no need of an answer.’
Eadulf waited for the explosion. It did not come.
‘Brother Seachlann,’ Fidelma spoke very softly, ‘so far no one has treated you with disrespect. I am a
dálaigh
, an advocate of the courts, qualified to the level of
anruth
. I accept that you are a qualified physician. As such, you ought to know enough of the law to realise that you must respond to my questions. Failing to provide satisfactory answers to me can result in censureship and a fine. I have the power to take away your
echlaisc
. So I hope you will save me the trouble of having to drag from you every little piece of information that I want. Do I make myself understood?’
What Fidelma meant by taking away his
echlaisc
was that she could have him disbarred from medicine. A doctor usually went to visit his patients on horseback and thus an
echlais
, a horsewhip, had become the symbol of a physician.
Brother Seachlann flushed, swallowed and glanced at Brother Lugna, who stared expressionless before him.
‘Brother Donnchad was stabbed twice in the back. He died from those wounds.’ The information was given almost between clenched teeth.
Fidelma ignored his apparent petulance.
‘Eadulf, come here and stand in front of Brother Seachlann with your back to him. Good. Now, Brother Seachlann, can you show me where these two wounds were?’
The physician leaned forward and tapped Eadulf under the
ribcage on the left-hand side of the back and then again on the left-hand side of the neck, just at its base.
‘Can you say anything more about the wounds?’ pressed Fidelma.
‘The lower one was struck in an upward manner and the one at the neck was struck downwards.’
‘And was there much bleeding?’
‘There was blood over the bed and floor.’
‘Do you have any further comment about the wounds?’
‘Only that they caused his death.’ Brother Seachlann barely concealed his contempt.
‘Eadulf, what do you say?’ Fidelma asked.
‘The vital organs are fairly well protected by the bones in the back, according to Galen’s works on anatomy,’ he began. ‘There are many bones covering the back. It occurs to me that the upward thrust and the downward thrust are indicative of someone who has a rudimentary if not expert knowledge of such matters. They knew they had to find soft tissue between the bones to strike at a vital organ that would result in death, and instantaneous death at that. A warrior would know that or a good physician.’