Master of Souls

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘So we have now begun to learn,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘Do you have any thoughts as to why he should have been murdered?’

  The librarian looked shocked.

  ‘Are you implying that … that he was killed by someone who did not like what he wrote? That is ridiculous. In this land scholars are treated with respect even when they are in dispute with others. Each has the right to speak their mind freely, to write their thoughts and discuss ideas without rancour, as have others to disagree whether in private or in public. Learning is not a matter to kill over.’

  ‘There is nothing that instils deep rage so much as a scholar’s views,’ pointed out Fidelma. It was something her mentor, Brehon Morann, used to say.

  ‘I refuse to believe that,’ replied Brother Eolas.

  ‘Never mind. Let us get down to the task in hand. I would like to read this work on government by the Venerable Cinaed. Where is it?’

  Brother Eolas consulted his wax tablet and turned to the shelf.

  ‘It should be along here …’

  He paused and frowned. Then he checked again.

  ‘It seems to be missing. And another of his works is not here.’

  ‘Missing?’ Fidelma used the word so sharply that several of the scholars in the library looked up to see what was amiss.

  Brother Eolas frowned in admonition at her and raised a finger to his lips. Then he turned and waved to a youth who was carrying a pile of vellum to a scribe on the far side of the library. He caught the boy’s attention. The boy deposited his burden with the scribe before turning to join them. He was young and eager, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old.

  ‘Brother Faolchair, two of our books are missing.’ He pointed to the spaces. ‘They should be on the shelf there but they are not. Who has taken them?’

  The boy looked at the titles that his superior indicated.

  ‘The one on trading precious stones is the one I have for copying. The other has been taken from the library, Brother Eolas.’

  The librarian’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Taken from …’ he began. ‘How can this be? Only the abbot and … Who has taken it?’

  ‘The Venerable Mac Faosma sent Brother Benen for it yesterday morning. He has the authority to do so, Brother Eolas.’

  The librarian paused and then shrugged.

  ‘Very well. Be about your duties.’ The boy hesitated, looking anxious. The librarian relented. ‘You are right, Brother Faolchair. He does have the authority to take the book out of the tech-screptra.’ He waved the youth back to his work before turning to Fidelma to explain. ‘In normal circumstances, no one is allowed to borrow books from the library. They are only allowed to sit here and read them. There were three exceptions … well, three until the death of the Venerable Cinaed …’

  ‘So the abbot and the Venerable Mac Faosma can remove books from the library?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘So if we want to see this book we should go to the chamber of the Venerable Mac Faosma?’

  The librarian looked a little awkward. ‘He is reclusive and does not receive visitors.’

  Eadulf chuckled. ‘From what I hear, the man is not reclusive enough to refuse to take part in scholastic debates in front of hundreds of students.’

  ‘Taking part in a debate on a platform is not the same thing as receiving people in intimate surroundings,’ pointed out the librarian.

  ‘It is a fine point that you are making. Is the behaviour of this man so strange?’ Eadulf smiled.

  The librarian shrugged. ‘Let me say that all great men are entitled to peculiarities.’

  ‘And the Venerable Mac Faosma is, in your estimation, a great man?’ Eadulf asked pointedly.

  Fidelma gave a warning glance at him before smiling at the librarian.

  ‘We are grateful for your help and may seek it again. You have a great library here, Brother Eolas, and I hope that we may have time to spend a while viewing your magnificent treasures.’

  Brother Eolas gave a half-bow, trying to appear dignified, but it was clear that her words gave him pleasure.

  Outside, she turned to Eadulf.

  ‘No need to annoy the librarian, Eadulf. But I have been thinking that we should call on the Venerable Mac Faosma. We will wait until this afternoon.’

  ‘What of the business of the Abbess Faife?’ inquired Eadulf. ‘After all, that is what has brought us here.’

  ‘I am not neglecting that,’ she assured him. ‘But the trail that led to her death is a fortnight old while the death of the Venerable Cinaed is still fairly fresh. I thought we could spend another day here and then set out to see what leads we could pick up in the land of the Corco Duibhne.’

  ‘But surely there are no obvious connections between the two deaths?’

  Fidelma grimaced. ‘There is the connection that Abbess Faife and the Venerable Cináed were both well-respected and important members of the same religious house. And it seems they shared a similar political outlook about the future of the Uí Fidgente. Coincidences happen, but not often.’

  Eadulf shrugged as if dismissing the point.

  ‘That does not mean a connection between their deaths. The abbess was travelling outside the abbey while Cinaed was an elderly scholar still within its walls. One was slain by a sword stroke and the other was hit over the head. Now what connection can there be?’

  ‘As you say, there are no obvious connections.’ Fidelma put a slight emphasis on the word ‘obvious’.

  ‘You sound as though you think there is a connection?’ Eadulf pressed.

  ‘I have told you before, you cannot make suppositions without facts. For the moment, I want to see what it was that Cinaed wrote to upset people in this abbey and which may … I say, may … have led to his death.’

  Eadulf slowly shook his head.

  ‘Every time I come to this western part of your brother’s kingdom, it is always the Uí Fidgente behind all the mischief.’

  ‘But with Conrí as their warlord, they have become calmer. The defeat of Eoganán at Cnoc Aine has caused them to settle down. It is only the people who have been marked by the conflict who yearn for the past.’

  ‘Remind me again, what is the basis of the quarrel between the Uí Fidgente and your family, the Eoghanacht?’

  Fidelma took him by the arm, for they had been standing outside the door of the tech-screptra, and led him towards the hospitium. She explained as they walked.

  ‘It goes back some generations. The Uí Fidgente claimed admittance to the councils of Cashel and claimed the kingship. Needles to say, they were rejected, and since then until the time of Eoganán they have intrigued and plotted and several times risen up against the Eoghanacht of Cashel.’

  ‘I understand that,’ agreed Eadulf. ‘But from what I know of your laws of inheritance, I cannot understand how they can claim the kingship, which descends only through the Eoghanacht. I understand this business about the council, or what you call the derbhfine, having to elect the best man out of the extended family to the kingship. I know that there is no such thing as automatic inheritance by the eldest son as is our system in the Saxon lands. But I still cannot see the basis of their claim.’

  ‘Simple enough,’ replied Fidelma. ‘All the branches of the Eoghanacht trace their descent back to Eoghan Mór, the greatest king of Cashel, son of Ailill Olum, son of Mug Nuadat. That is why we are called Eoghanacht. However, the Uí Fidgente, when they sought entry to the council, made the claim that they had a better right to the throne at Cashel than the descendants of Eoghan Mór. The Uí Fidgente claimed that they were descended from the elder brother of Eoghan Mór, who was called Cormac Cas. Some had taken to calling themselves the Dál gCais, the descendants of Cas. This argument and the spurious genealogies that they have persuaded their bards to construct were discussed many years ago by the council at Cashel and dismissed for what they were — fakes. It was agreed by the most learned in the kingdom, with the High King and the Chief Brehon of the five kingdoms acting as
unbiased arbiters, that the Uí Fidgente were descendants of the Dairine, a southern tribe not related to the Eoghanacht at all.’

  ‘I see. But if all this was agreed generations ago, why is there such conflict between your peoples?’

  ‘Because the Uí Fidgente have never accepted the judgement that was given against them. Not even those who have made peace with Cashel have accepted that ruling. They mean to topple the Eoghanacht from power. Until now the Uí Fidgente have not submitted to paying tax without threat of force. They have not allowed any representative of the Eoghanacht into their lands. That is why I have tried to convince you that it was so important to come here when Conrí actually came to Cashel to ask for our help. This could break through the antagonisms, as we have wanted. It could be the first real step to uniting the kingdom under Cashel.’

  Eadulf sighed softly.

  ‘I think I begin to understand. It is hard for me, however, to appreciate all the nuances of the intrigues that go on here.’

  Fidelma looked sympathetically at him.

  ‘Well,’ she said, as a bell began to toll, ‘that is something that it is not hard to understand. The bell for the etar-suth - the midday meal. Come, we can leave this talk of intrigue until later.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The sturdy young brother stood with his arms folded outside the chamber of the Venerable Mac Faosma, his back against the door, barring their progress.

  ‘He has given instructions that he will not see you, Sister,’ the young man said stubbornly. He had identified himself as Brother Benen, the student and servant of the ageing scholar.

  Fidelma began to tap her foot impatiently.

  ‘I am not here to argue, Brother Benen. Tell the Venerable Mac Faosma that he has no choice under law for I am not here as a religieuse but as a dálaigh investigating the crime of murder. I should not have to remind him that he is compelled to obey the law.’

  The young man spread his arms helplessly.

  ‘I have already taken your message to my master, Sister Fidelma. He is adamant. He will see no woman of the Eoghanacht, especially one who seeks to assert authority in the lands of the Uí Fidgente. Nor one who is accompanied by a foreigner from beyond the seas.’

  Fidelma glanced at Eadulf whose face was beginning to redden in ill-concealed anger.

  ‘Eadulf,’ she said quietly to him, ‘will you go to Conrí and tell him that the Venerable Mac Faosma is refusing to see me and suggest that he report this blatant disregard for law to the abbot?’

  Eadulf hesitated, looking from Fidelma to the implacable young religieux, and then inclined his head and hurried away.

  When he was gone, Fidelma suddenly sat down cross-legged in front of Brother Benen. The young man frowned down at her.

  ‘What are you doing, Sister?’ he asked in an embarrassed tone. ‘You cannot sit in this corridor outside the door of these chambers.’

  ‘You will perceive, Brother Benen,’ she replied evenly, ‘that is precisely what I am doing. I have informed you that I am a dálaigh whose power is bestowed by the laws of the five kingdoms. The Venerable Mac Faosma is compelled by law to see me and answer my questions truthfully.’

  ‘He will not,’ replied the other. ‘There is no physical force that can compel him to do so.’

  Fidelma smiled thinly.

  ‘Physical force defeats the purpose. I shall not speak of that. However, I am asserting the only force that he has left to me. I am declaring that I shall sit here in troscud until the Venerable Mac Faosma decides to redeem his honour and speak to me as a dálaigh as he is legally and now morally obliged to do.’

  The young monk frowned.

  ‘I do not understand, Sister.’

  ‘Then take my words to the Venerable Mac Faosma and ask your master to instruct you in law. He has time to make his response before the abbot and my witnesses arrive and my apad, my declaration, becomes known to everyone.’

  Brother Benen hesitated and then turned into the chamber and closed the door behind him.

  As it shut, Fidelma wondered, with a sinking feeling, if she was being too dramatic. But she was so frustrated by the arrogance of the Venerable Mac Faosma that she felt she had no other choice than to resort to the ancient ritual. The troscud was a means of fasting to assert one’s rights when faced with no other means of obtaining redress. It was made clear in the law tract De Chetharslicht Athgabála that, having given notice, she could sit outside the door of the recalcitrant philosopher. If he did not come to arbitration, if he allowed the protester to die on hunger strike, then the moral judgement went against him. Shame and contempt would be his lot until he made recompense. If he failed in this he was not only damned by society but damned in the next world. He would be held to be without honour and without morality.

  It was an ancient Irish law that stretched back into antiquity and not even the coming of the New Faith had eliminated it. Even Patrick himself had used the ritual fast, or hunger strike, to assert his rights and the Blessed Cairmmin of Inis Celtra had declared a troscud when King Guaire Aidne of Connacht infringed his rights. Within the memory of some, the population of the kingdom of Laghin had declared a troscud against Colmcille when he rode roughshod over their rights. Even kings were known to resort to the troscud when their rights were challenged.

  She had barely settled herself into her position when the door opened and the young Brother Benen re-emerged. He was red-faced and embarrassed, his eyes not focusing on her.

  ‘He will see you, Sister. He will see you under protest. But he will not see the Saxon brother. On that he is adamant.’

  Fidelma slowly rose to her feet.

  ‘In that case, you may tell Brother Eadulf to wait here for me.’ She knew when to compromise. It was information that she was after and not dominance over the reluctant old man.

  The Venerable Mac Faosma was, indeed, elderly but certainly not frail. He was a robust man with a shock of snow-white hair and a fleshy, red face. Had he been given to smiling, he could have been described as cherubic, but his features were sternly drawn with deep frown lines. The lips, though also fleshy, were petulant, with the lower lip stuck out aggressively. The eyes were a strange pale colour that seemed to change like the sea, one moment green, the next blue, the next no colour at all. His large frame reclined in a carved oak chair to one side of a smouldering turf fire set in a large hearth.

  He watched Fidelma from under shaggy white eyebrows as she crossed the room towards him. He made no attempt to rise in deference to her status.

  Fidelma did not register her feelings but went to a chair on the opposite side of the hearth and sat down.

  A low, long whistling sound escaped from the old man.

  ‘You forget yourself, Sister.’

  The voice was deep, used to commanding or questioning students; a voice that boomed throughout the room, resonating in the corners.

  Fidelma was not cowed.

  ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel, sister to Colgú, dálaigh qualified to the level of anruth. What have I forgotten?’

  She kept her voice mild but the challenge was unmistakable.

  She had reminded the Venerable Mac Faosma that she was not merely a religieuse, but sister to his king, and holder of a position that allowed her to sit even in the presence of provincial kings without asking permission first. In this way, she also reminded the Venerable Mac Faosma that it was his place to rise when she entered a room.

  The Venerable Mac Faosma cleared his throat to disguise either his annoyance or his embarrassment.

  ‘I have nothing to discuss with you, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he finally said.

  ‘But I have something to discuss with you, Venerable Mac Faosma,’ she responded evenly.

  ‘Nothing is so powerful in drawing the spirit of a man downwards as the caresses of a woman,’ snapped the old man.

  For a moment Fidelma was nonplussed and then her lips began forming angry words but the Venerable Mac Faosma raised his hand, palm outward as if to placate her.

>   ‘I quote the wise words of the Blessed Augustine of Hippo who argues that to administer the Faith we cannot and should not have intimacy with women.’

  ‘I am aware of those who preach this idea,’ replied Fidelma, controlling her irritation. ‘Nevertheless, it is a fact that the majority of priests here and even in Gaul and Frankia are married. Was it not Pelagius, the second of his name to be called the Holy Father, who decided less than a century ago that there was no harm in the religious being married so long as they did not hand over church property to their wives or children? In the inheritance of property lies the real reason for this idea that men and women who take to the religious life should not naturally join with one another and have children.’

  Venerable Mac Faosma returned her bold gaze from beneath a lowering brow.

  ‘Nevertheless, there is a growing number of us who believe that light and spirit are good, and darkness and material things are evil, and that a person cannot be married and be perfect. Was it not the Holy Father Gregory the Great who pronounced that all sexual desire is sinful in itself?’

  Fidelma snorted in disgust.

  ‘You mean that such a natural desire is therefore evil? Is it then suggested that the God we worship created such an evil?’

  Mac Faosma made to speak but Fidelma interrupted him with a gesture of her hand.

  ‘While such theological discourse is entertaining, Venerable Mac Faosma, this has little to do with the reason I am here.’

  ‘I wish to make it clear that I am of the body that believes that we of the religious should live in celibacy,’ replied the old man stubbornly. ‘I adhere to the ruling of the Council of Laodicea that women should not be ordained and that women presiding at the Eucharistic meals is something that should not be tolerated.’

  ‘You have made your views known,’ replied Fidelma patiently. ‘But now let us speak of the matter which has brought me here.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘I believe that you are interested in the work of the Venerable Cinaed who was murdered in this abbey a few days ago?’

  ‘Interested?’ The word was a sneer. ‘The man was a charlatan and, moreover, a traitor!’