Fidelma was quiet for a moment. Brother Eolann was providing a good source of information. ‘You have no reason to suspect any other motive behind the attack on Ruadán than this conflict of religious views?’
‘Goodness, no – why?’ Brother Eolann was clearly astonished at the question. ‘Brother Ruadán had no enemy in the world other than those miserable creatures misled by Bishop Britmund.’
‘I just wanted to make sure, that is all,’ Fidelma said quickly. ‘It is still hard to believe that a different view about whether something is created or begotten could lead men to murder one another.’
‘Such is the nature of mankind, lady,’ replied the librarian sadly. He rose suddenly and was looking along a line of books. He found the one he wanted and laid it on the desk before her. ‘Wasn’t it this that you wanted to see, lady? The text of the Matthew Gospel? Read it at your leisure. I have to make sure my copyists are at their work.’
She turned to the papyrus scroll that he had put before her and began to unroll it. The hand was clear and the Latin easy to follow. It took some time, however, before she encountered the passage she was looking for. She had been so shocked at the words which Lady Gunora had quoted the previous night that she was determined to check if they had really existed. She was aghast to find that Gunora had quoted them almost word perfectly.
Nolite arbitrari quia venerim mittere pacem in terram non veni pacem mittere sed gladium …
She had always been taught that the message of the Christ was peace, not war. Now she found the Christ Himself admitting that He had come to the world not to speak for peace but war. To bring a sword. What shocked her was the statement that His followers must not love their fathers and mothers, nor daughters or sons, more than Him – for if they did so, they would not be worthy of Him. It was contrary to the laws and philosophies of her people, where love and respect for one’s parents and one’s children were considered of premier importance. That one had to reject this was tantamount to destroying society, especially the kin-based society of her people. That was why fingal – kin-slaying – was considered the worst crime that a person could commit. It struck at the very heart of society. The law of which she was an advocate applied heavy sanctions against the perpetrators of kin-slaying.
She sat back thinking about it for a while and then she remembered the disappearance of Lady Gunora and the young prince. She had almost forgotten about them, apart from the angry quotation that the woman had used.
She heard Brother Eolann re-enter the library room.
‘Did you find what you wanted?’ he asked.
‘I did,’ she said, allowing the papyrus scroll to re-roll itself. She pushed it aside and, changing the subject, quickly added: ‘You have an excellent library here, Brother Eolann.’
Brother Eolann seemed happy as he glanced with pride along the shelves. ‘As I have said, I am proud of the books that we have here. We have been lucky in our collections.’ He indicated a shelf. ‘One previous scriptor was a local man who specialised in collecting ancient works from writers of this area – Paetus the Stoic philosopher of Patavium, poets and essayists like Varus, Catullus, Catius, Pomponius … in ancient times, the people of this area were highly literate. And they were not even Romans.’
‘You mean that they were Longobards?’ queried Fidelma, not particularly interested.
‘The Longobards only settled in this territory a century ago. The original inhabitants were Gauls. Then the Roman legions conquered this area and that was a full century before the birth of the Christ. But of the Gauls, you will sometimes see an echo of their language here.’
‘So they wrote in their own tongue?’
‘They seemed to have a religious prohibition about writing their secrets in their own language. They wrote mostly in Latin and we have learned much from them, but you will see a few original inscriptions and the names of places which show the ghost of their mother tongue.’
Fidelma realised that it was time to leave, since she had other questions to pursue. Her mind turned to the disappearance of Lady Gunora and the young prince. Also, she had meant to visit Brother Ruadán to see if she could obtain more clarity from the frail old man. So she rose and thanked the librarian for his interesting conversation and left him. She remembered the way back through the tower to the small courtyard and along the dark corridor to the main hall. Once or twice, members of the brethren gave her sharp glances, reminding her that this was not a mixed-house and that women were not supposed to wander unaccompanied within its confines. She ignored them and the whispered remarks that followed her.
She found her way back to the guest-house and reached the door of her chamber. She was about to enter when she heard a movement along the corridor. Turning, she saw Brother Wulfila emerging from what had been the quarters of Lady Gunora and her princely charge. Fidelma called to him, deciding innocence might extract more information.
‘I have not seen Lady Gunora this morning. I trust she is well?’
There was no mistaking the anxious expression that crossed the steward’s features. ‘Well enough, Sister,’ he said shortly.
‘Ah, is she in her chamber? I will speak with her.’
Brother Wulfila moved slightly as if he would block the door. Then he seemed to make a decision. ‘She is not here,’ he admitted.
Fidelma waited in silence. It seemed that the steward was trying to think of something to say. ‘I believe that she and the young prince have left the abbey.’
Fidelma’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Left the abbey? I thought there was some danger for them outside these walls?’
‘I am sure that the Father Abbot knows what he is doing,’ the man muttered.
‘Ah! Then they left with the approval of Abbot Servillius?’
‘I am not at liberty to say.’ Brother Wulfila was agitated. He turned and scurried off along the corridor.
Fidelma stared after him a moment or two. If anyone knew why and how Lady Gunora and the boy had left the abbey, it was surely the steward, who had been in the corridor during the night.
Fidelma entered her own chamber and took a moment to tidy herself and wash her hands. A bell began to ring, but she knew it was not to summon the brethren for a meal. She left her room to find one of the Brothers hurrying by. When she asked him what the bell signified, he answered it was for the midday prayers. She let him hurry on. The abbey was quiet now and she realised it was the ideal time to see if Brother Ruadán was able to talk further with her. She made her way down towards his chamber and had just rounded the corner into the passage when she came face to face with the apothecary.
‘Ah, Sister Fidelma.’ The portly man greeted her with disapproval, almost barring her way.
‘Brother Hnikar. I was just on my way to see Brother Ruadán. I trust he is well enough to see me today?’ She hoped that he would not suspect that she had visited her old mentor earlier that morning.
A shadow crossed the features of the apothecary. He paused a moment and then cleared his throat, his lower lip jutting out like a child about to burst into tears.
‘That will not be possible.’
‘Not possible?’ Fidelma tried to control her irritation. ‘Why not?’
Of all the answers she was expecting, she did not expect his next sentence.
‘I am afraid Brother Ruadán is dead. He died in his sleep during the night.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fidelma paused but a second before she dodged nimbly round the portly apothecary and thrust open the door of Brother Ruadán’s chamber. She could hear Brother Hnikar’s outraged protests behind her. She hesitated briefly on the threshold. Brother Ruadán lay on his bed. Then she strode to the bedside and stood looking down at the body.
The elderly Brother looked peaceful now. It was clear that his body had already been washed and prepared ready for the services that would precede the burial. Then her eye fell on his hands, carefully folded on his breast. Some of the fingernails were torn – split, as if ill-kept – with drie
d blood visible beneath them. They were not the nails of the hand she had held that morning. One of the things that people of her country prided themselves on were their hands and fingernails. Among the aristocracy and the professional classes, the fingernails had to be kept carefully cut and rounded as a sign of breeding. To be insulting, one of the worst terms one could use against another person was to call them crécht-ingnech or ‘ragged nails’. Between the time that she had seen the old man earlier that morning to the time of his death, Brother Ruadán must have fought with his hands against something, against someone, breaking his nails and causing blood from his assailant to be caught under them.
Her expression was stony as she gazed down at her old tutor. Ill as Brother Ruadán had been, someone had determined to end his life. He had been murdered.
She re-examined his face, the slightly blue texture of the skin and the lips stretched over the yellowing teeth and the eyes that had not been completely closed after death. She noticed little spots of dried blood around the nostrils. In a flash she realised that the killer had probably held a pillow over the old man’s face, holding him down while he made a desperate attempt to push them off, scratching and clawing at the powerful arms of his assailant. That was how he had damaged his hands.
Fidelma glanced up at the apothecary who had followed her into the chamber, still protesting at her behaviour.
‘When did this happen?’ she interrupted him.
‘I told you, it was reported to me that he had died in the night. Really, Sister, you presume too much to enter without approval—’
‘He has already been washed and prepared for burial. Why was I not informed when this happened?’
Brother Hnikar blinked at the sharp tone of her voice.
‘I have known poor Ruadán since I was a little girl,’ she went on. ‘I have a right to know.’
‘You have no right to be here without permission of the abbot.’
‘Then I shall address my questions to the abbot,’ replied Fidelma coldly.
An uneasy look entered Brother Hnikar’s eyes. ‘What questions?’ he asked.
Fidelma did not respond but gave one last took at the corpse, turned and left the room.
Fidelma entered the abbot’s study before he had finished his invitation to enter. He was speaking with Magister Ado and Brother Faro.
‘Have you been informed of Brother Ruadán’s death?’ she demanded without preamble.
Abbot Servillius seemed surprised at her belligerent tone.
‘We have, my child, and allow me to express my condolences to you on the passing of your old friend and tutor. This abbey has lost a good man in his passing.’
‘His body has already been washed and prepared for burial. Why was I not told of his death earlier?’
The abbot’s frown deepened. ‘Earlier than what, my daughter?’ he asked softly. ‘As soon as Brother Hnikar told me the news, I sent Brother Faro to look for you.’
‘I thought you were in the herbarium,’ confirmed Brother Faro. ‘But you were not there and Brother Lonán did not know where you had gone.’
Fidelma swallowed sharply. It was true that she had spent a long time in the library and no one had known that she was there apart from Brother Eolann. It seemed, perhaps, that it might be her own fault that she had not been informed earlier.
‘When did it happen?’ she went on. ‘When was his death known?’
‘Brother Hnikar was informed that something was amiss and went to attend him.’
‘Who informed him?’
‘Probably the steward, as it is his task to make a daily check on all matters. The apothecary came to find me immediately but, of course, we were locked in debate with Britmund. He felt he should not interrupt. So he waited until he heard that we had finished, by which time you were reported to have gone to the herb garden. So we sent Brother Faro to find you. I appreciate that this is upsetting for you. Such a long journey to see your old mentor and now to find him dead.’ He paused, cleared his throat, and then dismissed Brother Faro.
When he had departed, Abbot Servillius indicated that Fidelma should be seated while Magister Ado said: ‘We must also remember that Sister Fidelma is a lawyer in her own land. As such, perhaps she is used to deaths being reported immediately to her. So we can forgive her agitation at being the last to find out.’
The abbot took a jug from his table, pouring its contents into three beakers.
‘As the Blessed Timothy advised, Noli adhuc aquam bibere, sed vino modico utere propter stomachum tuum.’
Fidelma had heard the saying mentioned before: drink no longer water but use a little wine for your stomach’s sake. She realised that wine would be welcome, for it was hard to take the shock of Brother Ruadán’s murder. And now she did not know whom to trust with her thoughts.
‘Brother Ruadán was fond of our local red wine,’ the abbot said as he handed her the beaker. ‘His body will be taken for burial at midnight in our necropolis. It lies on the hillside behind the abbey buildings. I believe the ceremony is not dissimilar to the one you practise in Hibernia.’
Fidelma sighed deeply as she sipped the wine and tried to gather her thoughts in some order. ‘If there is something, some relic of his, that I could take back to his abbey on Inis Celtra … ? That was where he came from and studied, and where I first knew him.’
‘Of course,’ agreed the abbot at once. ‘I also believe it is your custom to have someone who knew the deceased to speak some words about him at the graveside?’
‘That is so.’
‘I shall say a few words of his labours here in the abbey, but we know nothing of his life before he left his own land. I believe God has guided your footsteps here so that you may speak the praises of this worthy servant of His. Will you speak those words?’
Fidelma had no hesitation in agreeing.
‘Death always comes as a shock,’ went on the abbot, ‘even when one is entirely prepared. If Brother Ruadán had a fault it was in his zeal to bring the truth of the Faith to those who had been led astray into heresy. They had no respect for his frail body but they feared the strength of his voice and the truth of his words.’
‘Are you satisfied that your abbey contains no followers of Arius?’ she asked, her mind still thinking over who might have murdered her mentor as he lay helpless in his bed.
The question seemed to startle both the abbot and the Magister Ado.
‘We are a refuge from such heresies,’ said the abbot. ‘What makes you ask such a thing? We are an island of the true Faith. Why would heretics need to send one of their number among us?’
‘Oh, just something he said.’ She made the prevarication without a blush. ‘We lawyers are inquisitive people and so the slightest remark that we do not understand tends to irritate and worry us.’
Magister Ado examined her suspiciously. ‘Something Brother Ruadán said? But I thought you had not spoken to him apart from when you first arrived, when his mind was wandering.’
Fidelma realised that she ought to be more careful when trying to gather information. But she was sure now that Brother Ruadán had not been calling out in fever when he warned her that there was evil in this abbey. He had been murdered. She was sure of it. Now she had to find out who had smothered him on his sickbed – and why.
She rose and placed the empty beaker of wine on the table. ‘It was just that I was thinking about those who had beaten him because he was preaching against the Creed of Arius. You’ll forgive me. I shall return to the guest-house and lie down.’
She was almost at the door when Abbot Servillius said, ‘I understand from my steward, Brother Wulfila, that you were concerned that Lady Gunora and Prince Romuald had left the abbey. Lady Gunora was apprehensive for the boy’s safety and came to me last night. She announced her intention of leaving the abbey before first light and making her way to the fortress of Lord Radoald where she believed that she would have more protection.’
‘That does not seem a wise plan, judging from what I h
ave been told,’ Fidelma replied. ‘If the country here is in such a state of alarm, she would have been better within the walls of this abbey.’
The abbot grimaced without humour. ‘I think Lady Gunora and yourself have much in common,’ he observed. ‘You share a determination that will accept no counter-argument. When I put it to her that her proposal lacked wisdom, even as you put it, she told me that I was an aged fool and she would leave the abbey whether she was wise to do so or not.’
Fidelma flushed. ‘I can only point out where logic does not prevail,’ she told him.
‘In Lady Gunora’s case, that is accepted,’ replied the abbot. ‘Rest well, Fidelma. Brother Ruadán’s body will be removed to the chapel soon where the community can take their turn in praying over it until midnight, which is our traditional hour of interment.’
‘I shall attend,’ Fidelma said, with a glance of acknowledgement to both men before leaving.
A long, lonely afternoon stretched out before her. Curiously, she did not feel enthusiastic about sitting in the chapel and watching over the corpse of her old teacher. Outside, it was hot, the sky blue and the sun still strong. It was a time to be out in the fresh air, outside with the living. Death should only come at night, Fidelma thought. Night and death went hand in hand. It did not suit blue skies and warm sunshine. She would go and wake the dead at nightfall but not during such a day given over to life.
Brother Ruadán was dead – but why? Everyone was saying he had been set upon and beaten because of his vehement denunciation of the Arian Creed and his support of the Nicene Creed. And yet he had been killed by someone who had access to the abbey. So was there a different motive? Had he been murdered because someone was afraid of what he would say? What had he said? Something to do with coins, gold coins … She tried hard to remember exactly.
With these thoughts running in her mind, Fidelma walked slowly through the abbey and her footsteps initially took her back into the herbarium. Her head bowed, she traversed the paths among the beds of plants. Now and then she passed by figures, who stood aside and muttered acknowledgement with, ‘Laus Deo,’ ‘Deus misereatur,’ and so on. It seemed inevitable that her footsteps would eventually lead her back to one person with whom she felt at ease, and so she climbed the tower to the scriptorium of Brother Eolann. He rose, somewhat confused, from his desk as she entered.
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