She and Cass had retired to their respective rooms and now, instead of falling immediately to sleep, she sat, leaning back on her cot, with the lamp still burning wastefully while she considered the information she had gathered so far.
One thing she now realised was that her cousin, the Abbot Brocc, was being a little selective with the information he had given her. Why had he asked Brother Conghus to keep a watchful eye on Dacán only a week before Dacán was killed? Well, that was something which she would have to sort out with Brocc.
There was a soft tap on the door of her chamber.
Frowning, she swung off her cot and opened it.
Cass was standing outside.
‘I saw your light still on. I hope I am not disturbing you, sister?’
Fidelma shook her head, bade him enter and take the only chair that there was in the chamber while she returned to her seat on the bed. For propriety’s sake, she left the door open. In some communities, the new moral codes were changing the older foundations. Many leaders of the Faith, like Ultan of Armagh, were arguing against the continued existence of mixed communities and even putting forward the unpopular concept of celibacy among leading religions.
She was aware that an encyclical attributed to Patrick was being circulated giving thirty-five rules for the followers of the Faith. The ninth rule ordered that an unmarried monk or anchoress, each from a different place, should not stay in the same hostel or house, nor travel together in one chariot from house to house nor converse freely together. And according to the seventeenth rule, a woman who took a vow of chastity and then married was to be excommunicated unless she deserted her husband and did a penance. Fidelma had been enraged by the circulation of the document in the name of Patrick and his fellow bishops, Auxilius and Iserninus, because it was so contrary to the laws of the five kingdoms. Indeed, what had made her actually suspicious of the authenticity of the document was that the first rule decreed that any member of the religious who appealed to the secular laws merited excommunication. After all, two hundred years ago Patrick himself was one of the nine-man commission which had been established by the High King, Laoghaire, to put all the civil and criminal laws of the five kingdoms in the new writing.
To Fidelma, the circulation of the ‘rules of the first council of Patrick’, as they were being called, was another piece of propaganda from the camp of the pro-Roman faction which wished the Faith in the five kingdoms of Éireann to be governed entirely from Rome.
She caught herself as she became aware that Cass had been saying something.
‘I am sorry,’ she said awkwardly, ‘my mind was drifting miles away. What were you saying?’
The young warrior stretched his legs in the cramped chair.
‘I was saying that I had an idea about the lamp.’
‘Oh?’
‘It is obvious that someone refilled it when Dacán’s body was discovered.’
Fidelma examined his guileless eyes solemnly.
‘It is certainly obvious that the lamp could not have beenburning all through the night, if Dacán was killed at midnight or soon after … that is,’ she gave a mischievous grin, ‘unless we are witnesses to a miracle; the miracle of the self-refilling lamp.’
Cass frowned, not sure how to take her levity.
‘Then it is as I say,’ he insisted.
‘Perhaps. Yet we are told that Brother Conghus discovered the body and found the lamp burning. He did not refill it. It was still burning when Brother Tóla went to examine the body and he swears that he did not refill it. He further told us, when I raised that very point, that he had extinguished the light when he and his assistant, Brother Martan, carried the body to his mortuary for examination. Who then refilled it?’
Cass thought for a moment.
‘Then it must have been refilled just before the body was discovered or after the body was carried away,’ he said triumphantly. ‘After all, you judged for yourself that the lamp could only have burning no more than an hour by the amount of oil still left in it. So someone must have refilled it.’
Fidelma regarded Cass with a sudden amusement.
‘You know, Cass, you are beginning to display the mind of a dálaigh.’
Cass returned her look with a frown, unsure whether Fidelma was mocking him or not.
‘Well …’ he began, starting to rise with a petulant expression.
She held up a hand and motioned for him to remain.
‘I am not being flippant, Cass. Seriously, you have a made point which I have neglected to see. The lamp was certainly refilled just before Conghus discovered the body.’
Cass sat back with a smile of satisfaction.
‘There! I hope I have contributed to solving a minor mystery.’
‘Minor?’ There was a sharp note of admonishment in Fidelma’s voice.
‘What matter whether a lamp is filled or unfilled?’ Cass asked, spreading his hands in emphasis. ‘The main problem is to find who killed Dacán.’
Fidelma shook her head sadly.
‘There is no item too unimportant to be discarded when searching for a truth. What did I say about gathering the pieces of a puzzle? Gather each fragment, even if they do not seem to be connected. Gather and store them. This applies especially to those pieces which seem odd, which seem inexplicable.’
‘But what would a lamp matter in this affair?’ demanded Cass.
‘We will only know that when we find out. We cannot find out unless we start to ask questions.’
‘Your art seems a complicated one, sister.’
Fidelma shook her head.
‘Not really. I would think that your art is even more complicated than mine in terms of making judgments.’
‘My art?’ Cass drew himself up. ‘I am a simple warrior in the service of my king. I adhere to the code of honour that each warrior has. What judgments do I have to make?’
‘The judgment of when to kill, when to maim and when not. Above all, your task is to kill while our Faith forbids us to do so. Have you ever solved that conundrum?’
Cass flushed in annoyance.
‘I am a warrior. I kill only the wicked — the enemies of my people.’
Fidelma smiled thinly.
‘It sounds as if you believe them to be one and the same. Yet the Faith says, do not kill. Surely if we kill, if only to stop the wicked and evil, then the very act makes us as guilty as those we kill?’
Cass sniffed disdainfully.
‘You would rather that they killed you instead?’ he asked cynically.
‘If we believe in the teachings of our Faith, then we must believe this was the example Christ left us. As Matthew records the Saviour’s words, “those who live by the sword shall die by the sword”.’
‘Well, you cannot believe in that example,’ scoffed Cass.
Fidelma was interested by his reaction, for she had long struggled with some of the theology of the Faith and had still not found a firm enough ground to argue many of its basic tenants. She often expressed her doubts in argument by taking the part of a devil’s advocate and through that means she clarified her own attitudes.
‘Why so?’ she demanded.
‘Because you are a dálaigh. You believe in the law. You specialise in seeking out killers and bringing them to justice. You believe in punishing those who kill, even to the point of raising the sword against them. You do not stand aside and say this is God’s will. I have heard a man of the Faith denouncing the Brehons also in the words of Matthew. “Judge not or you will be judge”, he said. You advocates of the law ignore Matthew’s words on that so do I ignore Matthew’s words against the profession of the sword.’
Fidelma sighed contritely.
‘You are right. It is hard to “turn the other cheek” in all things. We are only human.’
Somehow she had never felt comfortable with Luke’s record of Jesus’ teaching that if someone steals a person’s cloak, then that person should give the thief his shirt also. Surely if one courted such oppression, s
uch as turning the other cheek, it meant one was equally as guilty for it gave actual invitation to further theft and injury at the hands of the wrongdoer. Yet according to Matthew, Jesus said: “Think not that I am come to send peace on earth; I came not to send peace, but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law, and a man’sfoes, they shall be of his own household”. It was confusing. And long had Fidelma troubled over it.
‘Perhaps the Faith expects too much from us?’ Cass interrupted her thoughts.
‘Perhaps. But the expectation of humankind should always exceed their grasp otherwise there would be no progress in life.’
Fidelma’s features suddenly dissolved into an urchin grin.
‘You must forgive me, Cass, for at times I do but try to test my attitudes against the Faith.’
The young warrior was indifferent.
‘I have no such need,’ he replied.
‘Then your faith is great.’ Fidelma was unable to keep a note of sarcasm from her voice.
‘Why should I doubt what the prelates preach?’ inquired Cass. ‘I am a simple person. They have considered these matters for centuries and if they say this is so, then so it must be.’
Fidelma shook her head, sorrowfully. It was at times like these that she missed the stormy arguments that she had experienced with Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham.
‘Christ is God’s son,’ she said firmly. ‘Therefore He would approve of the homage of reason, for if there is no doubt there can be no faith.’
‘You are a philosopher, Fidelma of Kildare. But I did not expect a religieuse to question her Faith.’
‘I have lived too long not to be a sceptic, Cass of Cashel. One should go through life being sceptical of all things and particularly of oneself. But now, we have exhausted the subject and should retire. We have much to do in the morning.’
She rose and Cass reluctantly followed her example.
After he had left her chamber, she lay back on her cot and this time she doused the lamp.
She tried hard to conjure what facts she had learnt about theVenerable Dacán’s death to her mind. However, she found other thoughts now dominating her senses. They concerned Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. As she thought of him, she had a curious feeling of loneliness again, as if of home-sickness.
She missed their debates. She missed the way she could tease Eadulf over their conflicting opinions and philosophies; the way he would always rise good-naturedly to the bait. Their arguments would rage but there was no enmity between them. They would learn together as they examined their interpretations and debated their ideas.
She missed Eadulf. She could not deny that.
Cass was a simple man. He was agreeable enough; congenial company; a man who held a good moral code. But, for her, he was without the sharp humour which she needed; without a broad perspective of knowledge with which her own knowledge could contest. Now that she considered it, Cass reminded her a little of someone responsible for an unpleasant episode in her early life. When she was seventeen she had fallen in love with a young warrior named Cian. He had been in the élite bodyguard of the High King, who was Cellach at that time. She had been young and carefree but in love. Cian had not cared for her intellectual pursuits and had eventually left her for another. His rejection of her had left her disillusioned. She felt bitter, although the years had tempered her attitude. But she had never forgotten her experience, nor really recovered from it. Perhaps she had never allowed herself to do so.
Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham had been the only man of her own age in whose company she had felt really at ease and able to express herself.
Perhaps she had started the argument on Faith as a means of testing Cass.
Then, why should she want to test Cass? For what purpose? Because she wanted Eadulf’s company and was looking for a surrogate?
She gave a hiss of breath in the darkness, scandalised by the idea. A ridiculous idea.
After all, she had spent several days in Cass’s company on the journey here and there had been no problem.
Perhaps the key to the situation lay in the fact that she was, indeed, trying to recreate Eadulf and that recreation had been prompted by the fact that she was investigating a murder with Cass as her companion whereas, before, it was Eadulf who had been her comrade, the sounding board against which she could bounce her ideas.
But why should she want to recreate Eadulf?
She exhaled again sharply as if to expel the very thoughts from her mind. Then she turned over and buried her face angrily into the pillow.
Chapter Seven
The weather had changed again with the bewildering rapidity that was common to the islands and peninsulas of the south-west of Muman. While the sky remained a clear, almost translucent blue, the sun shone with a warmth which made the day more akin to the dying summer than to late autumn. The high winds had been dispelled although a sea breeze remained, blustery but not strong. Therefore, the sea was not totally calm, more choppy and brooding, causing the ships, anchored in the inlet before Ros Ailithir, to jerk now and then at their moorings. Above, in the gull-dominated sky, large, dark-coloured cormorants also wheeled and dived, fighting for a place to fish among the plaintive, protesting shrieks of their companions. Here and there, sooty, white-rumped storm petrels, driven seaward by the previous stormy weather were now returning to the coastline.
Fidelma had perched herself on the top of the thick stone wall of the monastery, where a walkway ran around it as if it were a battlement. She gazed thoughtfully down into the inlet. There were a few local fishing boats, a couple of coastal vessels or barca and an ocean-going vessel which traded with Britain or Gaul. She had been told that it was a Frankish merchantman. But it was the warship of the Laigin king, lying menacingly near the entrance to the harbour, with its sleek, malevolent lines, which took her interest.
Fidelma had sat for a long while, arms folded, examining the vessel with curiosity. She wondered what Fianamail, theyoung king of Laigin, hoped to gain by such an intimidating display. She could understand that demanding the territory of Osraige as an honour price was merely a political move to regain the lost territory, but he was certainly being blatant about it. No one would surely believe that the death of the Venerable Dacán, even though he was a cousin to the Laigin king, merited the return of a land which had held allegiance to Cashel for over five hundred years. Why would Fianamail threaten war over such a matter?
She gazed down on the fluttering silk standard of the Laigin kings, proudly streaking in the sea breeze which caught at the mast head. There were several warriors on deck practising their weaponry arts, which she felt was rather ostentatious and more for the benefit of observers on the shore than for the Laigin warriors to keep in practise.
Fidelma wished that she had paid more attention to that section of the Book of Acaill, the great law code, which dwelt specifically with the muir-bretha or sea laws. The law should surely say whether such intimidation was allowed. She had a vague feeling that the writhe, placed at the gates of the abbey, meant something in this connection but she was not sure what. She wondered whether the Tech Screptra, the library of the abbey, might have copies of the law books which she could consult on the subject.
The single bell announcing the tierce rang out from the bell house.
Fidelma pulled herself away from the mesmerising scene, rose and proceeded to walk back, along the wooden walkway along the monastery wall, towards the steps which led to the interior grounds of Ros Ailithir. A familiar figure was standing looking out to sea a little farther along the wall. It was the plump Sister Eisten. She did not notice Fidelma, so intent was her gaze on the inlet.
Fidelma arrived at her side unnoticed.
‘A beautiful morning, sister,’ she greeted.
Sister Eisten started and turned, her mouth rounded in surprise. She blinked and carefully inclined her head.
‘Sister Fidelma. Yes. It
is beautiful.’ There was no warmth in her reply.
‘How are you today?’
‘I am well.’
The terse, monosyllabic tones seemed forced.
‘That is good. You have come through a bad experience. And is the little boy well now?’
Sister Eisten looked confused.
‘Little boy?’
‘Yes. Has he recovered from his nightmare?’ When she saw that Sister Eisten still did not appear to understand, she added: ‘The boy whose name is Cosrach. You were nursing him yesterday afternoon.’
Sister Eisten blinked rapidly.
‘Oh … yes.’ She did not sound sure.
‘Sister Fidelma!’
Fidelma turned as she heard her name called. It was young Sister Necht, hurrying up the steps to the walkway. She seemed anxious and Fidelma had a curious feeling that her anxiety was at finding Sister Eisten with Fidelma.
‘Brother Rumann is ready to see you now, sister,’ Sister Necht announced. ‘He’s waiting impatiently at the hostel.’
Fidelma paused and glanced at Eisten. ‘Are you sure all is well with you?’
‘All is well, thank you,’ she replied without conviction.
‘Well, if you have need of a soul-friend, you have but to call upon me.’
In the Irish Church, unlike the Roman custom where all were ordered to make a confession of their sins to a priest, each person had an anamchara, or a soul-friend. The position of the soul-friend was one of trust. He or she was not a confessor but more of a confidant, a spiritual guide who acted according to the practices of the faith of the five kingdoms. Fidelma’ssoul-friend, since she had reached the age of choice, had been Liadin of the Ui Dróna, her girlfriend since childhood. But it did not necessarily follow that the soul-friend had to be of the same sex. Colmcille and others who were leaders of the Faith had chosen soul-friends of the opposite sex.
Eisten was shaking her head swiftly.
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