Fidelma heard a note of bitterness in Abbess Líoch’s voice and looked nervously at Eadulf.
‘I met Eadulf at that council,’ she reminded her quietly.
‘As we recall, the council ended on amicable terms, and those who wished to maintain the liturgies and rites of the Five Kingdoms did so,’ Eadulf stated. ‘Even Abbess Hilda in the abbey called Witebia did so. So did Cuthbert, Chad and many others. Those who felt they could not live alongside the Roman rites, such as Bishop Colmán, decided to return to this land with those who wanted to do so. There was no discrimination against those who wished to retain their own interpretation of the Faith.’
‘Not while Oswy was alive,’ Abbess Líoch replied curtly. ‘Since I returned from that land, I have heard that the main advocate of the Roman Church at that council has now contrived to make himself Chief Bishop of Northumbria, deposing Chad, who remained sympathetic to our rituals and Faith. I have heard that he and Theodore of Canterbury plan to eliminate all who remain true to the teachings of Colmcille in the kingdoms of the Saxons.’
Colgú intervened with a diplomatic cough. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘we are here, sharing a meal together. We are not re-enacting some religious council. It is not time for a new subject?’
There was an embarrassed pause, and then Fidelma began to tell the story of how the ancestors of the Eóghanacht had been led to set up their capital and main fortress on the Rock of Cashel. This was for the benefit of Egric. The change of conversation was unnatural but she persevered. There was a general feeling of relief when the chapel bell rang and they moved from the feasting hall to join the small funeral procession gathering in the courtyard.
The body had been washed and wrapped in the traditional
racholl
or winding sheet. Four members of the religious carried it on a
fuat
or bier of broom. There were a dozen or so attendants, each carrying flaming brand torches, ready to accompany the body to its last resting place. The apothecary, old Brother Conchobhar, who had laid out the body, was chief among them. Brother Eadulf, having volunteered to conduct the obsequies, took his place at the head of the procession.
Another figure joined them in the darkness, well wrapped and hooded from the chill night air. Abbot Ségdae peered forward in surprise.
‘Brother Madagan? Should you be abroad with your chill?’
‘The wild garlic is soothing,’ the steward replied, suppressing a cough. ‘And I should not be neglecting my duties.’
‘All is arranged and is well,’ the abbot assured him.
Colgú glanced round with a shiver, pulling his cloak more tightly round his shoulders. He bent forward to Fidelma and said softly, ‘When this Bishop Arwald arrives, at least he cannot accuse us of treating his emissary with disrespect.’
‘Is that likely?’ she asked.
‘Better that we find the person who slew him,’ her brother replied. ‘To find the culprit would show a greater respect.’ He raised his voice: ‘Let us proceed.’
Before the cortège could move forward, however, a commanding voice rang out, halting them by its very power.
‘Be warned, people of Cashel! The Son of Chaos will reclaim this place!’
A figure stood on the steps of the chapel in the darkness. They could see that his arms were flung out as if to encompass them; his cloak had fallen behind him, making his silhouette grotesque. Those in the procession turned uncertainly towards the speaker.
‘The
Antikos
approaches from the east,’ the voice went on, firm, almost melodious. ‘Your adversary will arrive as the Morning Star, the Light Bringer. And death and destruction will follow.’
Abbot Ségdae crossed himself, staring in horror at the figure. ‘
Quod avertat Deus!
’ he muttered.
‘It is only Deogaire,’ Fidelma sighed as Eadulf moved to her side as if to protect her.
Colgú made an angry, inarticulate sound and turned to seek out the commander of his guard. ‘Gormán, take Deogaire to a place where he cannot insult the dead.’
Gormán was about to obey the order when old Brother Conchobhar hurried forward. ‘Forgive him, lord,’ he wailed. ‘Let me take him back to my house and swear surety for his good behaviour. He did not mean to insult the dead.’
Deogaire moved slightly so that a brand torch illuminated his features. He gazed on them all with an expression that was hard to define, something akin to exhilaration and anxiety. ‘I do not insult the dead but merely warn the living. Soon the Tempter, the Father of Lies, will approach this place and then – be warned! I feel it in the cold breath of the air from the east. It is written in the dark skies and the paleness of the moon. Take heed, Ségdae of Imleach, over those you claim to protect. That is all I have to say.’
With that, Deogaire disappeared into the darkness. Gormán and Brother Conchobhar made to hurry after him, but Colgú held up a hand to restrain them.
‘Let him go. Words do not harm us. We shall continue with the funeral.’
Abbot Ségdae said grimly to his steward, Brother Madagan, ‘Be warned about prophesying and digging up tombs. Such things could mark you as beyond redemption, like that poor fool.’
Fidelma proceeded with the cortège through the gates and down the hill towards the cemetery, where a grave had already been dug. Since no one knew Brother Cerdic, there was no
amrath
, or elegy, to be recited. Instead, Eadulf stepped forward to give the
nuall-guba
, the recitation of the Lamentation of Sorrow. The abbot pronounced the blessing, and the mourners returned to the palace in silence, leaving the grave-diggers to fill in the earth.
Later that night, Fidelma spoke into the darkness. ‘A curious day, Eadulf. You never mentioned that you had a brother before.’
Her words clearly implied the question: ‘why?’ Eadulf turned slightly. He had been unable to sleep, thinking about the events. The arrival of his brother had been almost as unnerving as the mystery surrounding the murder of Brother Cerdic. Then had come Deogaire and the curious spectacle of his warning.
‘I thought I had explained,’ he replied quietly. ‘As I said, I had presumed Egric was dead. The last time I was in Seaxmund’s Ham, I was told that he had gone off to be a warrior and, frankly, the rumour was that he had perished. I felt that there was little gain in conjuring ghosts.’
‘I can understand that,’ she replied. ‘You did tell me that your father was a magistrate among your people.’
‘A
gerefa
,’ affirmed Eadulf. ‘Indeed, he was. So was my grandfather. Our family tradition has it that he was so learned in law that he went to Canterbury as King Athelberht’s adviser when he drew up the first great law texts written in our language.’
‘Was there just yourself and your brother in the family? You make no mention of your mother. I thought you had no relatives.’
‘My mother died of poison when I was fifteen years old and my father was taken by the Yellow Plague when I was eighteen.’
Fidelma’s voice was shocked in the gloom. ‘You told me about your father, but not your mother. How was she poisoned?’
Eadulf found it difficult to tell the story. ‘One day she went to a neighbour’s house and they had just baked fresh bread. They all sat and ate it. When she returned home, my mother fell ill; soon she had convulsions and her skin began to turn gangrenous. The neighbours also fell ill with the same condition. Thankfully, our apothecary was a knowledgeable man and forbade the eating of the bread. But it was too late. Our neighbours died within a few days . . . as did my mother.’
Fidelma clicked her tongue and reached out a hand in the darkness to find his in sympathy.
‘What was it?’ she pressed gently.
‘The apothecary searched the neighbour’s barn for the rye that had been threshed to make the bread. There was a fungus growing on it, which sometimes happens during cold or damp conditions. If unnoticed and it is ground to make the flour, and then baked in the bread, it produces a poison – and if the bread is consumed . . .’ Eadulf’s voice trailed off.
‘I am sorry,’ Fidelma whispered.
‘I told you, I see little to gain in conjuring ghosts.’
‘It must have affected you and, of course, your brother. How old was he at the time?’
‘He was five years old.’
‘And so, you were only eighteen when your father perished? It is sad to be without parents, Eadulf. I know. I vaguely recall my father but did not know my mother – she died giving me birth.’
Eadulf sighed heavily. ‘As I have said, there is little gain in conjuring ghosts. He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, by that time, Fursa had arrived in our kingdom and was preaching the word of the New Faith. Although I had inherited my father’s role as
gerefa
, I was more attracted to the world Fursa opened for me. As you know, on his advice I went to study not only the Faith but, having long been interested in the apothecary’s art, I chose to continue those studies at Tuaim Brecain. The rest you know.’
‘Was that because of what happened to your mother?’ Fidelma asked. But her question was met with silence and she felt the answer was obvious. ‘What made you think your brother Egric had been killed? Just gossip?’ she continued after a few moments.
‘Oh, he was keen to be a warrior when he was younger. I knew we both attended the discourses given by Fursa but I had thought that the New Faith made little impression on him. When I left to follow the path Fursa had suggested for my studies, young Egric was talking about joining the army of our King Athelwold. Years later, when I went back to my home, I was told that he had gone away and no one knew what had happened to him. I presumed he had joined Athelwold and must have perished in some battle.’
‘And now he is alive and following in your footsteps. You must be pleased to see him, Eadulf.’
Eadulf sighed in the darkness. ‘It is hard to express what I feel. Having lived without a brother all these years, it is difficult to suddenly meet that lost brother again and in such circumstances. Also . . .’
Fidelma waited and finally felt she had to prompt him.
‘I find some of the things Egric says curious, like his experiences among the Cruthin, even his reactions to the customs on entering the
fialtech
.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s as if he has no religious background at all. Ah well – we have been apart too long. I am no longer used to having a brother.’
‘I assume there are no more of your brothers or sisters that will suddenly appear on our doorstep?’ Fidelma asked.
‘If they do, they will be as unknown to me as they are to you,’ Eadulf replied stiffly.
‘Well, it is interesting that little Alchú has a new uncle.’
Eadulf smiled slightly in the darkness. ‘I suppose he’ll have to learn a new word, then. And so will I.’
‘I don’t understand,’ yawned Fidelma.
‘Well,
amnair
is your word for a maternal uncle. Alchú addresses your brother as King Am-Nar, not being able to pronounce it properly yet. So what will he call Egric?’
‘Bratháir-athar.’
Eadulf pulled a face. ‘How will he ever get his tongue around that?’
Fidelma chuckled. ‘He’ll probably wind up calling him “Braw-her”.’
They were silent again and then Eadulf said sleepily, ‘It is certainly strange that the Fates have guided Egric to Cashel of all places. But I wonder what the purpose of this deputation is? It seems obvious that this Venerable Victricius was supposed to join them. What has that to do with Brother Cerdic’s death?’
‘That is the perplexing thing,’ sighed Fidelma.
‘What is, exactly?’
‘That someone was able to kill this Brother Cerdic in the chapel of this palace and that we have not been able to discover them. There is a murderer on the loose here tonight.’
Eadulf was silent for a while, thinking about this. Then he said: ‘I find your friend, Abbess Líoch, to be an odd sort of woman.’
‘I certainly find her changed from the person I knew,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘I need to speak with her further, yet I am not sure how to approach her. If I accuse her of the crime, she will simply deny it. She did not become an abbess without having a firm resolve and strength of character to support it. I need to find a way to challenge her.’
‘What do we know? Brother Cerdic called on her before he went to see Abbot Ségdae,’ Eadulf mused. ‘Why did he do that? Because he must have known her beforehand. Why did he tell her that it was in her interest to come to Cashel if she did not even know him, and if he did not tell her what this deputation was about?’
‘All good points, Eadulf. And if we knew the answers to those questions, there would be no mystery.’
‘And what do you make of poor old Brother Conchobhar’s soothsaying relative? I am inclined to think that he is not quite right in the head. That performance this evening – all that prophesying that there is some evil about to descend on Cashel!’
Fidelma was silent and for a moment or two Eadulf wondered whether she had fallen asleep. Then she said, ‘I would not be inclined to completely dismiss Deogaire as mad. Eccentric, indeed, but there is a something about him . . .’
Eadulf chuckled. ‘I know he is supposed to have some reputation for prophecy, but . . . well, what about all those fanciful titles he gave to this person who is supposed to arrive here out of the east and whom we must be warned about.’
‘Fanciful titles?’ Fidelma echoed, surprised. ‘All I noticed was that, for one who dwells in the mountain fastnesses of Sliabh Luachra, who claims to worship the old gods and goddesses and shuns more general contact, Deogaire has quite a knowledge of Christian Scripture.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Son of Chaos, the Adversary, the Tempter, the Father of Lies, coming as the Morning Star which is the Light Bringer . . .’
‘It sounds like nonsense to me.’
‘
Antikos
means the adversary, and even our Christian Fathers, Origen and Jerome, knew that the Morning Star was the Light Bringer – Lucifer.’
Eadulf gasped in the gloom. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Deogaire was using names that the Scriptures employ to identify what the Greek texts call
ho diabolos
and
ho satanos
– the Devil or Satan.’