Conrí stuck out his lower lip in a thoughtful expression before answering.
‘The lady Fidelma has never spoken to you of this matter?’
Eadulf smiled softly.
‘She has given me the Eoghanacht side of the story. That is natural. I would hear the Uí Fidgente viewpoint.’
Conrí gave a quick laugh.
‘A great diplomat was lost in you, Brother Eadulf. Well, we have been taught over many generations that the Eoghanacht have denied the rights of the Uí Fidgente.’
‘How so?’
‘As you know, Brother, in this land our peoples are bound by genealogists who set forth each family’s line, generation by generation. Our ancestors are important to us, my friend. Those who have gone before often continue to govern us who live now.’
‘That is often the natural order of things,’ confirmed Eadulf. ‘I was an hereditary
gerefa —
a magistrate — in my own land. I held that position because of my ancestors and not from my choice.’
‘The Eoghanacht dynasties of Muman take their name from Eoghan Mór,’ went on Conrí. ‘Eoghan’s grandson was a great king of Cashel called Ailill Fland Bec. He had three sons. The eldest of these was Maine Munchaín whose son was Fiachu Fidgennid from whom we take our name the Uí Fidgente, the descendants of Fidgennid.’
Eadulf was frowning.
‘Is that relevant? I have been here long enough to understand that your laws of succession are not governed by eldest male inheritance. At least three generations of the extended family have to meet together to elect the man best fitted for the task of kingship. That is usually done in the lifetime of the ruling prince, and the man chosen as his successor is called the
tánaiste,
or tanist. Is that not so?’
‘You understand the system perfectly, Brother Eadulf. But the point I am making is that we are true descendants of Eoghan, just as much as the Eoghanacht of Cashel, the Eoghanacht of Aine, the Eoghanacht of Glendamnach and of Chliach and of Raithlind and of Locha Léin. We should be part of the great assembly of Muman. Yet we are excluded. We are told that we are not Eoghanacht and that our genealogists have forged our genealogies.’
‘You obviously believe that your genealogists are right?’
Conrí thrust out his chin aggressively.
‘I am an Uí Fidgente,’ he replied simply.
‘But the Eoghanacht believe that your genealogists are wrong.’
‘That is the frustration,’ admitted Conrí. ‘That is what led to the conflict even during the time of Erc, who was our chieftain five generations ago. That is why Eoganan, who believed the genealogists and called himself king, led our people to overthrow the Eoghanacht. He was wrong to
squander the lives of his people in such a hopeless manner and his defeat and death at Cnoc Aine and our resulting shame have shown that he was wrong.’
He paused for a moment and when Eadulf did not comment he went on.
‘Now that Eoganan is dead and Donennach is our ruler — indeed, many still call him king — we have accepted the rule of Cashel but that does not mean we have accepted the cause of our grievance was mistaken. We still believe that we are the descendants of Eoghan Mór, as our genealogists show. Donennach is fourteen generations in descent from Eoghan Mór in spite of what is claimed at Cashel. We hope one day to persuade Cashel — I would argue that this should be done by peaceful means — to accept us as a voice in the great assembly.’
Eadulf was quite impressed by both the length of the speech and its intensity from the usually quietly spoken and taciturn warlord of the Uí Fidgente.
‘Surely you can appeal to the law courts of the five kingdoms and bring your case before them.’
Conrí grimaced ruefully.
‘After our defeat at Cnoc Aine, the High King and his Chief Brehon would hear none of our arguments. We had to pay compensation and tribute. It will be many years, or a new High King at Tara, before we can make such an appeal. That is why, Brother Eadulf, you will find among the Uí Fidgente many who will not yet accept the uneasy peace that has fallen between us and Cashel. The Uí Fidgente will continue to be suspicious of everything Cashel does.’
‘Then why are we here? Here in the lands of the Uí Fidgente? Why did you invite Fidelma to come here?’
‘Has she told you why she accepted my request?’
Eadulf reluctantly confirmed that she had. Conrí smiled knowingly.
‘Then that is why I invited her. Anything that can contribute to mending the schism between us.’
Eadulf rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘But what if the reverse happens?’ he asked.
It was Conn’s turned to look puzzled.
‘I do not think that I am following you.’
‘Simple enough. What if Fidelma finds out that there is some internal politics at play here?’
‘Be more explicit.’
‘Take the death of the Venerable Cinaed. From what Fidelma tells me, Cinaed was of the opinion that the Uí Fidgente genealogies were forged and that the people should accept the rule of Cashel without complaint. What if that belief led to his death?’
Conrí was quiet for a moment or two as he thought over the question.
‘Truth and its discovery are the principal intent, Brother Eadulf,’ he said drily. Then, abruptly, he moved off, saying quickly over his shoulder: ‘Now, let us see if the lady Fidelma has finished her questioning of Sister Sinnchéne.’
Fidelma had made her way to the
tech-nigid,
where she found Sister Sinnchéne sweeping the main room with a broom of twigs.
Sister Sinnchéne looked up and a suspicious look entered her eyes.
‘I would like a word with you, Sister,’ Fidelma said brightly.
Sister Sinnchéne’s suspicious look deepened.
‘About what?’ she responded curtly, almost rudely.
‘About the Venerable Cinaed.’
The young woman carefully put aside her broom and stood tensely before Fidelma.
‘I suppose you have been talking to Sister Buan?’ she asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘What makes you say that?’
Sister Sinnchéne shrugged. It was a defiant gesture.
‘I know that you are a
dálaigh.
The gossip among the community is that you are now investigating the death of the Venerable Cináed as well as that of Abbess Faife and the disappearance of the members of our community.’
‘Let us not stand in the cold,’ Fidelma said, motioning towards the cauldron simmering on the fire. Sister Sinnchéne followed her towards it, collecting a couple of stools from nearby. They seated themselves by its warmth opposite one another.
‘When did you last see the Venerable Cinaed?’ Fidelma opened the questioning.
‘You mean before his death?’
Fidelma was patient. ‘You saw his body afterwards?’
‘Of course. After the physician conducted her examination and the body was placed in the
fuat,
the funeral bier. It was when we all paid our last respects to him.’
‘I see. So when, exactly, before he died, did you last see him?’
Sister Sinnchéne paused, head to one side, considering the question.
‘It was on the evening before his death. He came here to the
tech-nigid.
It was after the evening meal. I was working late.’
Fidelma tried not to show surprise.
‘Here to the washhouse? Did he say why he came?’
The girl thrust out her chin.
‘He often came here.’
‘As Sister Buan does his washing, I presume that it was not to bring his laundry?’
The girl laughed sardonically.
‘That is so. He came here to see me.’
‘I see. Was there a specific purpose to these meetings?’
‘You are naive, Sister,’ replied Sister Sinnchéne as if amused by the question.
‘If the Venerable Cinaed was twenty years younger, then I might well be accused of naïveté with good reason. But, bearing in mind his age, and the fact that he was married to Sister Buan, and as she attests that he was impotent in his advancing years, I have to put the question to you — was there a specific purpose to these meetings?’
The girl’s expression was not nice.
‘I suggest that you question Sister Buan a little more closely about her relationship with Cinaed.’
‘Are you suggesting that Sister Buan has lied to me?’
The girl shrugged indifferently.
‘That is no answer,’ Fidelma said sharply.
‘The Venerable Cinaed and I were lovers.’
‘Lovers?’ Fidelma looked keenly at the girl. ‘And is this a claim that you can substantiate?’
Sister Sinnchéne’s eyes burnt with anger for a moment.
‘You do not believe such a relationship could exist?’
‘I am not saying that. I do say that given the sixty years that separate your age from Cináed’s, it needs support. What I question is this — you are young, Sinnchéne. An attractive young girl in the full bloom of youth. What would attract you to such a frail, ageing person as the Venerable Cinaed, who I gather was not in the best of health?’
The young woman sniffed disdainfully and was silent.
‘Love?’ pressed Fidelma and when the girl refused to respond she
continued: ‘So what is this chemistry called love? Can it overreach the natural barriers that separate youth from age?’
‘Why not?’ snapped the girl. ‘Why is it so hard to believe?’
It was Fidelma’s turn to reflect for a moment or two.
‘Very well. What you are saying is that the Venerable Cinaed and you were having an illicit affair.’
‘Illicit?’
Fidelma had used the old law term
aindligthech.
‘Improper. Not sanctioned by law, rule or custom.’
A colour came to the girl’s cheeks.
‘It was not an improper relationship!’
‘You knew that Sister Buan was his legal wife and that he was living with her?’
‘Of course. And we both told her of the situation.’
‘Both?’ queried Fidelma in surprise.
‘We had nothing to hide. If it was unlawful, then it could have been corrected if Buan had accepted me as a
dormun,
which is provided for in law. Cináed told me.’
‘It is a law still practised,’ Fidelma admitted, ‘although it is frowned upon by the New Faith and the term
ben adaltrach
has been introduced to replace the earlier title for such a concubine. It is a law that will doubtless be abolished at the next council called by the High King.’
Every three years there was an assembly at which the High King and the provincial kings gathered with the leading churchmen and Brehons from all five kingdoms of Eireann to discuss and revise the laws.
‘But it is still the law now,’ the girl said stubbornly.
‘And this is what Cinaed wanted as well as you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And he said as much to Sister Buan?’
‘He did.’
Fidelma exhaled softly.
‘And what if Sister Buan denied that he said this?’
‘Then she would be lying.’
‘Could you prove that this happened? Were there any witnesses?’
Sister Sinnchéne hesitated a moment and then shook her head.
‘Nevertheless, it does not alter the fact that it is the truth,’ she said defiantly.
Fidelma noticed that the girl’s robe had loosened around her neck and caught a glimpse of a necklet of semi-precious stones.
‘That is hardly the jewellery one expects a member of this community to wear,’ she observed drily.
Sister Sinnchéne’s hand went to her neck and then she shrugged. She lowered it to reveal a glittering necklet of silver set with amethysts and topaz.
‘Cináed gave it me,’ she said quietly. ‘He told me to keep it safe, to let no one here see it.’
‘Why?’
‘It will not hurt to tell now, I suppose. He said that it was evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’
‘He did not explain. Perhaps evidence of his love for me.’
‘Well, let us accept what you say,’ Fidelma finally said. ‘The evening before his death, the Venerable Cinaed came to this washing room and you were here?’
‘That is correct,’ confirmed the girl.
‘And accepting that you were lovers, what other than the obvious transpired? Did you talk?’
The girl looked irritated.
‘We were not animals,’ she replied angrily. ‘Of course we talked.’
‘What was the subject of conversation? Did you speak of philosophy, theology, history … what?’