‘I thought that it might be so,’ grinned the lanky professor. ‘Walk with me,’ he invited, ‘and we will talk.’
He led the way through an arch and into the walled abbey garden which was called the lúbgort, from the words lúb, a herb, and gort, a fenced-in cultivate plot. Even this late in autumn, various odours pleasantly assailed Fidelma’s senses. She always felt at peace in gardens, especially herb gardens, for the scents put her into a tranquilmood. There was no sign of anyone within the enclosure and Brother Ségán led her to a stone seat in a tiny arboretum. On the other side of the arboretum was a well head. A small round stone wall protected it while a wooden beam on pillars supported a rope on which a bucket could be attached.
‘They call this Fachtna’s holy well,’ explained Ségán, observing as Fidelma examined the well. ‘It was the original well of the community when Fachtna chose this site but, alas, the community has far outgrown its supply. There are now other wells in the abbey but, for us, this well remains the sacred well of Fachtna.’
He motioned her to be seated.
‘Now,’ he said briskly, ‘ask away with your questions.’
‘Did you know Dacán before he came to Ros Ailithir?’ she began.
Ségán shook his head with a smile.
‘I had heard of his great reputation, of course. He was a learned man, an ollamh who was a staruidhe. But if you are asking whether I had ever met the man then I must reply that I had not.’
‘So he was a professor of history?’ Fidelma had no knowledge that Dacan was anything more than a master of divinity.
‘Oh yes. History was his speciality,’ confirmed Ségán.
‘Did you know why Dacan came to Ros Ailithir?’
The chief professor grimaced.
‘We do have a reputation, sister,’ he replied with some amusement. ‘Among our numerous students are many from the Saxon kingdoms and even from among the Franks not to mention Britons and those from the five kingdoms of Éireann. ’
‘I do not think Dacan came here simply because of the reputation of Ros Ailithir,’ observed Fidelma candidly. ‘I think he came here for a specific need.’
Ségán reflected for a moment or two.
‘Yes, perhaps you are right,’ he admitted. ‘Forgive my vanity, for I would like to think that our reputation for learning was the only reason. The simple answer is that he undoubtedly came here to plunder our library for knowledge. For what particular purpose that was, I do not know. You will have to consult our librarian, Sister Grella.’
‘Did you like Dacán?’
Ségán did not reply immediately, apparently gathering his thoughts. Then he held his head to one side and chuckled softly.
‘I do not think “like” is an appropriate word, sister. I did not dislike him and, in academic terms, we seemed to get along well together.’
Fidelma pursed her lips a little.
‘That in itself seems unusual,’ she commented.
‘Why so?’
‘Because, by those I have already questioned, I have been told that Dacan was universally disliked here. Perhaps that was a motive for murder? I gather that he was austere, cold, unfriendly and an ascetic.’
Ségán now laughed openly, a rich rather comfortable laugh.
‘These are hardly attributes for which to condemn a man to hell fire. If we went around killing everyone we disliked then by the time each of us were through there would be no one left to people the earth. Certainly Dacán was not a man possessed of humour, nor was he given to playing the clown. But he was a serious scholar and, as such, I respected him. Yes “like” is not an exact word but “respect” is, perhaps, a better term to describe my attitude to him.’
‘I am told that he taught here as well as studied.’
‘That is so.’
‘Presumably he taught history?’
‘What else? His interest was in the early stories concerning the coming to Éireann of our forefather Míl Easpain and theChildren of the Gael and how Mil’s brother Amergin promised the goddess Éire that the land would henceforth be known by her name.’
Fidelma was patient.
‘That path seems innocuous enough,’ she commented.
Ségán chuckled again.
‘Surely, sister, you were not seriously considering that Dacán was murdered because someone did not like his personality or his interpretation of history?’
‘It has been known,’ replied Fidelma solemnly. ‘Scholars can be like savage animals when they disagree with one another.’
Ségán bowed his head in agreement.
‘Yes, we are guilty as charged, sister. Some historians are as trapped in history as history is trapped in them. Dacán was, certainly, a man of his people …’
‘What do you mean by that?’ queried Fidelma quickly.
‘He was a man who was intensely proud of Laigin, that’s what I mean. I remember that he and our chief physician, Brother Midach, once …’
He suddenly compressed his lips and looked uneasy.
‘Tell me,’ prompted Fidelma. ‘Anything, no matter how unimportant, is of value to my investigation.’
‘I do not want to spread alarm, especially where there is no cause to spread it.’
‘Truth is always a good cause, chief professor,’ insisted Fidelma. ‘Tell me about Brother Midach and Dacán.’
‘They once had a row in which they nearly came to blows, that is all.’
Fidelma’s eyes widened.
Here, at last, was something positive.
‘What was this fierce argument about?’
‘A simple matter of history. That’s all. Dacán was boasting about Laigin, as usual. Midach apparently call the men of Laigin no more than foreigners. He claimed that they weresimply Gauls who arrived in the province which was then called Galian. The Laigin came as mercenaries to help the banished Labraid Loinseach seize the throne of his uncle Cobhthach. Midach argued that the Gauls carried broad-pointed spears of blue-green iron called laigin and when they had set Labraid on the throne of Galian the kingdom became known by this name; Laigin — after their spears which had won the victory for him.’
‘I have heard something of that story before,’ Fidelma confessed. ‘An innocuous argument, as you say. But I was given to believe that Midach himself was from Laigin?’
‘Midach? From Laigin? Whoever told you that? No, Midach is contemptuous of Laigin. But he did come from somewhere along its border. Perhaps that accounts for his prejudice. Yes, that’s it. He was from Osraige.’
‘Osraige?’ Fidelma groaned inwardly. Osraige and Laigin! No matter which way one turned there always seemed some connection with Osraige and Laigin. They appeared to permeate this entire mystery.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ countered the chief professor. ‘Midach will tell you soon enough.’
‘So Midach insulted Laigin to Dacán’s face,’ went on Fidelma, without replying to the question. ‘What did Dacán say to that?’
‘He called Midach an ignorant fool and knave. He said the kingdom was older than Muman and that it had taken its name from a Nemedian, the descendant of Magog and Japhet, who had come to this land from Scythia with thirty-two ships. He argued that Liath, son of Laigin, was the hero who founded the kingdom.’
‘How did such an academic discussion get out of hand?’ Fidelma was curious.
‘Both argued their case in voluble tones and neither gave way even when the argument transferred into personal abuse. It was only when I and Brother Rumann intervened that eachwas persuaded to return to his own chambers and take oath not to bring the discussion up again.’
Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully.
‘Did you have any clashes with Dacán yourself?’
Ségán shook his head.
‘As I said, I respected the man. I left him to run his classes and I think most of his students appreciated his knowledge though, it is true, there were some reports of disharmony and antagonism among a few of them. Abbot Brocc apparently took the d
isharmony seriously. I think he even asked Brother Conghus to watch that Dacán did not cause serious dissension. But to be truthful, I spent little time with him.’
Fidelma reluctantly came to her feet.
‘You have been most helpful, chief professor,’ she said.
Brother Ségán smiled broadly.
‘It is little enough. If you have further need of me, anyone will direct you to my college chambers.’
Fidelma returned towards the hostel and while crossing the flagged courtyard she came abruptly upon Cass. The warrior’s face was tired.
‘I have made inquiries and looked everywhere for the two boys, also for Sister Eisten,’ he greeted Fidelma in disgust. ‘Unless they are all purposely hiding from us, I would say that they have all left the abbey confines.’
Chapter Nine
Sister Grella came as a surprise to Fidelma. She was an attractive woman in her late thirties. Though short in height and inclined to fleshiness, nevertheless she was vivacious in character, with well-kept brown hair and humorous dark eyes. To Fidelma, only a pouting, voluptuous mouth marred her features. She was, at first impression, out of place among the sombreness of the abbey, let alone in a library. Yet this was the chief librarian of the abbey. And, in spite of her initial sensual appearance, Sister Grella carried herself in a straight-backed and stately manner, like a queen in the midst of her court. She sat, in an ornately carved oak chair, at the far end of the great library chamber, which was almost as big and as vaulted as the abbey church. It was an impressive building, even by the standards of the great libraries Fidelma had visited elsewhere in the five kingdoms of Éireann.
The books were not kept on shelves but each work was kept in a taig liubhair or book satchel, a leather case which hung on one of a row of pegs along the walls, clearly labelled as to its contents. Fidelma, looking at the impressive collection, was reminded of the story of the death of the saintly Longargán, a most eminent scholar and contemporary of Colmcille. On the night that the Blessed Longargán had died, all the book satchels of Ireland were supposed to have fallen from their pegs as a mark of respect and in symbolism of the loss to learning through his passing.
Most of the books contained in the book satchels were works of reference, frequently consulted by the scholars. But here and there were special works of great value, kept in beautifully ornamented leather covers and embossed with enamels and layers of gold and silver and even studded with precious stones. It was said that Assicos, Patrick’s coppersmith, made quadrangular book covers in copper to hold the books of the saintly man. Some of these works were also kept in special cases of wood as well as metal.
Containers of carved wood were used to keep bundles of hazel and aspen wands, on which were cut letters in ancient Ogham, the rods of the poets, but these works were vanishing as the thin rods of wood rotted. Their information was often transferred to the new alphabet and sheets of vellum before they were destroyed.
There were several people in the musty and gloom-shrouded library. In spite of the daylight filtering through the high windows into the Tech Screptra, giant candles, in large wrought-iron stands, were lit. These cast a flickering illumination across the room. The choking atmosphere of the smoke from these candles, thought Fidelma, was hardly conducive to good scholarship. Here and there scribes sat at special tables crouching over sheets of vellum, quills of swan or goose in one hand and a maulstick to support the wrist in the other as they transcribed in elaborate or ornamental fashion some ancient work for posterity. Others sat reading quietly or with occasional sighs and the rustle of the turning page.
Fidelma made her way along the aisles of book satchels and by the various tables of the diligent scholars. No one raised their head as she passed by.
The reflected glint in the dark eyes of Sister Grella showed that the librarian had watched her approach closely. Fidelma came to the head of the hall, where the librarian’s chair was placed behind a desk on a dais so that she might overlook the length and breadth of the Tech Screptra.
‘Sister Grella? I am …’ began Fidelma as she halted before the librarian.
Sister Grella raised a small but shapely hand to silence her. Then she placed a finger across her lips, rose from her seat and gestured towards a side door.
Fidelma interpreted this as an invitation to follow.
On the other side of the door, Fidelma found herself in a small chamber which was filled with shelves of books but with a table and several chairs. There were sheets of vellum on the table and a conical capped ink holder, an adirícín, with a selection of quills and a pen knife for cutting them into nibs. It was obviously a private workroom.
Sister Grella waited until Fidelma had entered and then closed the door behind her and, with another imperial gesture of her hand, pointed to a chair, indicating that Fidelma should be seated. As Fidelma did so, the librarian lowered herself in the same regal posture into a chair facing her.
‘I know who you are and why you have come,’ the librarian said in a soft soprano voice.
Fidelma smiled quizzically at the personable woman.
‘In that case, my task will be made that much simpler,’ she replied.
The librarian arched an eyebrow but she said nothing.
‘Have you been librarian at Ros Ailithir a long time?’
Sister Grella was obviously not expecting this question to start with and she frowned.
‘I have been leabhar coimedach here for eight years,’ she replied after a moment’s hesitation.
‘And before that?’ Fidelma pressed.
‘I was not at this foundation.’
Fidelma had asked merely in order to obtain some background of the librarian but she detected a faint note of suspicion in the other’s voice and wondered why.
‘Then you must have come here highly recommended toobtain such an important post as librarian without having been trained in this monastery, sister,’ she commented.
Sister Grella made a dismissive gesture, a cutting motion of her left hand.
‘I qualified to the level of sai.’
Fidelma knew that to achieve the degree of a sai one had to study at an ecclesiastical school for six years and have a knowledge of scriptures as well as a general knowledge.
‘Where did you study?’ Her interest was a natural curiosity.
Again, Sister Grella hesitated a little. Then she seemed to make up her mind.
‘At the foundation of the Blessed Colmcille known as Cealla.’
Fidelma stared at her dumbfounded for a moment.
‘Cealla in Osraige?’
‘I know of no other,’ said Grella reprovingly.
‘Are you of Osraige then?’ That borderland between Muman and Laigin seemed to confront her whatever path she took on this investigation. Fidelma was incredulous of the number of times that the kingdom of Osraige seemed to have connections with Ros Ailithir.
‘I was,’ admitted Sister Grella. ‘I have yet to see what this has to do with your task. Abbot Brocc informs me that you are a dálaigh come to investigate the death of Dacán of Fearna. But my birthplace and qualifications have surely little to do with that matter?’
Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at the other.
The woman had become tense. The veins showed blue against the white skin of the forehead. The mouth was trembling slightly and her facial muscles seemed strained. One shapely hand was toying nervously with the silver crucifix which hung around her neck.
‘I am told that the Venerable Dacán spent a considerable portion of his time in the library.’ Fidelma did not bother toreply to Sister Grella’s protest but went straight to her questions about Dacán.
‘He was a scholar. The purpose of his visit to Ros Ailithir was to study. Where else should he spend his time?’
‘How long was he here?’
‘Surely the abbot would have told you that?’
‘Two months,’ Fidelma supplied, realising that the vivacious-looking librarian was not going to be helpful and that her ques
tions would have to be phrased carefully to extract any information at all from her guarded responses. ‘And in that two months,’ Fidelma went on, ‘he spent most of his time in this library studying. What did he study?’
‘He was a scholar of history.’
‘He was well respected for his knowledge, I know,’ replied Fidelma patiently. ‘But what books did he study here?’
‘The books that are studied are a matter for the librarian and the scholar,’ countered Sister Grella woodenly.
Fidelma realised it was time to establish her authority.
‘Sister Grella,’ she said quietly, so softly that the librarian had to bend forward in her chair to catch the words. ‘I am a dálaigh engaged in the investigation of a murder. I am qualified to the level of anruth. This places certain rights and obligations on any whom I feel that I need to question. I am sure that as a sai you are perfectly aware of those obligations. You will now answer the questions that I put to you without further prevarication.’
Sister Grella suddenly sat stiff and upright as Fidelma’s voice rose sharply. Her eyes had widened a little, staring in ill-concealed anger at the younger woman. That she was unused to being so roundly rebuked showed by the tinge of red on her cheeks. She swallowed noisily.
‘What books did Dacán study here?’ repeated Fidelma.
‘He … he was interested in the volumes we have which applied to the history of … of Osraige.’
Osraige yet again! Fidelma gazed at the now impassive face of the librarian.
‘Osraige? Why would an abbey in the land of the Corco Loígde have books on a kingdom that lies many miles from here?’
For the first time Sister Grella’s lips twisted into a smile of superiority. It made her look coarse.
‘Obviously, Fidelma of Kildare, in spite of your qualification in law, you have little knowledge of the history of this land.’
Fidelma shrug indifferently.
‘Everyone is a beginner at another’s trade. I am content with law and leave the profession of history to historians. Enlighten me if there is something I need to know of this matter.’
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