‘We continue to behave as any normal traveller would, in their own land,’ she said quietly. ‘We will wait and see. After all, it is not we who have broken the laws of hospitality but the arrogant young steward, Anfudán. We will see if he really denied us on the instructions of his abbot and, if so, how this is justified by the abbot himself. We must have a care. This place does not inspire feelings of tranquillity.’
There seemed an inordinate passing of time before one of the brethren came back from the hall, without Brother Anfudán. Fidelma thought it was the same man who had given some instruction to the young steward at the gate.
‘Will you and your companions follow me, lady?’ He spoke in a gruff but respectful tone. ‘My men – my brethren – will attend to your horses.’ He turned to those nearby and, raising his voice, issued orders. Members of the brethren came forward and took their horses and led them away towards buildings that looked like stables.
Their guide then motioned them to follow him towards the main building. They went up some stone steps and found themselves in a massive hall that would have done justice to that of a petty-king. In the centre of this was a large hearth with a smouldering turf fire. In those areas of the Five Kingdoms where wood was scarce, particularly in the vast boggy plains like the surrounding one, people cut the turf or peat moss, where plants and matted roots combined to present a fuel called móin suitable for slow-burning fires. The intensity of the warmth was marked as they entered. Before this fire were several chairs and a table.
A man sat in one of the chairs. At his side and slightly behind his left shoulder stood the young steward, his head still covered by his cowl.
Their guide approached and bowed before the figure in the chair before turning and moving to one side.
It was clear that the man was tall, in spite of being seated. His head was uncovered, showing his bald pate, and his robes were tight upon him as if his entire frame was muscular. His facial features were full and tanned. Fidelma noticed a livid scar on one cheek. It was clearly an old wound. The man stared at them with pale, almost colourless eyes, which seemed to glint, like glass, against the light given by a nearby lamp. They were close-set, with bushy eyebrows, emphasising the long, thin nose that gave a curiously aggressive cast to his appearance. The thin red lips were tightly compressed. Overall, he had the unkempt appearance of a man more used to the countryside than existing within the shady confines of an abbey.
He made no effort to rise to greet them. When he spoke, it was in a sharp staccato tone.
‘I am told that you are Fidelma of Cashel, sister to Colgú. What do you want here?’
Eadulf heard Fidelma’s slow intake of breath. It was not a good sign.
‘Yes, I am Fidelma of Cashel. It grieves me to find you unwell, Abbot Cronán.’
Eadulf frowned, wondering what she meant. The abbot obviously shared the same thought; his gathered brows showed that he was puzzled.
‘I? Unwell?’
Fidelma smiled thinly. ‘Had you been well, I presume that you would have risen to greet me, as is protocol and custom. For even if I were not the sister of the King of Muman, of which this territory is part, I am also a dálaigh of the rank of anruth, and thus able to seat myself in the presence of the Kings of the Provinces without seeking permission.’
The abbot stared at her, a range of emotions struggling on his features. Then, reluctantly, the man pushed himself up out of his chair and inclined his head towards her.
‘Your forgiveness, lady.’ He almost muttered the words. ‘There is much on my mind at present. Please seat yourself and I will order refreshment for you and your companions.’
Fidelma turned to Eadulf and introduced him before seating herself and indicating that Eadulf should take the seat next to her. Gormán and Enda took their places, standing warily just behind them.
The abbot then lowered himself back into his chair and ordered their guide to arrange for refreshments to be brought. Brother Anfudán remained close at hand, his expression sullen, judging from the shape of his lips underneath his cowl.
‘And now, Fidelma of Cashel, how can we be of service to you?’ The abbot tried to sound polite but his tone was strained.
‘Has your steward not informed you of what service we require?’ Her voice was mild.
The young man shifted his weight awkwardly at the abbot’s side.
‘As you have seen for yourself, our abbey is but newly constructed and lacks facilities,’ the abbot replied, spreading his hands and trying to sound apologetic. ‘Perhaps my steward did not explain—’
‘No explanation was necessary,’ Fidelma replied easily. ‘The law and custom is firm on this point. Were this but a lowly shepherd’s hut, the law would still be the law. This abbey, I believe, was first constructed by Chaemóc seventy years ago. I see that much building has been done since then, but that does not mean all etiquette is lost nor the law ignored.’
‘The rebuilding is not yet complete,’ the abbot said with a frown. ‘We do not have facilities for a person of rank such as you, lady. My steward was merely thinking of your comf—’
Fidelma cut him short. ‘Anyone thinking of the comfort of myself and that of my companions would not have arbitrarily consigned our fate to find hospitality in the surrounding bogs at night-time.’
The abbot appeared to struggle with himself; and then he forced a weak smile.
‘Of course, you and your companions are welcome to our hospitality for this night. I regret that there has been any misunderstanding and apologise that my steward was not able to make himself better understood. He is new to the task.’
‘So I observe,’ Fidelma replied grimly. ‘And, as I observe, new to the religious.’
The abbot looked uneasy. ‘I do not understand, lady.’
‘Your steward is so new that he has not taken cognisance of the rules of a religious community,’ she replied. ‘That is why he covers his head at a time when the custom of all religious orders dictates that the cabhail should not be worn. Can it be that he is so new to the religious that he has not even acquired a tonsure?’
Brother Anfudán expelled his breath with an angry hiss and took a step forward. His head jerked back so that it succeeded in dislodging his hood. Her guess was correct. He had a shock of thick black hair and no sign of a tonsure. But it was the gesture of his right hand that caused a look of satisfaction to pass across Fidelma’s features. The hand went to his left side as if seeking a sword.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As the young steward took an angry step forward, the abbot raised a hand to stay him. Fidelma had not flinched but remained seated. At the same time, she too had raised her hand – aware that Gormán and Enda were grasping the hilts of their swords. She stared challengingly at the young man’s menacing features. Halted by the abbot’s movement, Brother Anfudán stepped back, but the fury had not receded from his expression.
‘It seems that Anfudán lives up to his name,’ Fidelma observed softly, addressing her words to the abbot. The latter actually forced a tight smile. The name meant a turbulent or a tempestuous person.
‘You will forgive my young friend, lady. He has not been with us long. In fact, he is the son of my brother and I have agreed to take him under my care so that he may follow the path of Christ. He has not yet taken the vows of obedience. He is, as you say, a little restive and we hope he will be influenced along the path of serenity. There is no need for apprehension.’
‘Of what should we be apprehensive, in a house of God?’ asked Fidelma gravely.
‘We are merely curious, Abbot Cronán, that is all,’ interposed Eadulf. ‘It is unusual to find the steward of an abbey who has not taken a vow of obedience and service which is marked by the wearing of a tonsure.’
The abbot did not appear concerned. ‘I have appointed him steward so that he may learn responsibility and humility.’ He turned to his flush-faced nephew with a disapproving frown. ‘Now, apologise to the Lady Fidelma for any discourtesy to her rank and
then you may leave us and ensure that chambers are set up for her and her companions.’
‘But—’ the young steward began.
‘At once!’ snapped the abbot.
Brother Anfudán glowered for a moment and then inclined his head slowly to the abbot before turning to Fidelma.
‘I seek pardon, lady, for the discourteous way that I have greeted you. I was trying to do my duty to the abbot and this community.’ Before Fidelma could acknowledge his words, the young man strode off.
‘Does he know enough to provide us with water to wash in as well as beds for the night?’ queried Fidelma.
Abbot Cronán looked far from happy.
‘I think you may now accept my word that he will carry out all the rules of hospitality, lady. But, tell me, I had heard that Fidelma, daughter of Failbe Flann, had entered the religious. I also heard that you had married a Saxon.’ He glanced towards Eadulf.
‘An Angle,’ muttered Eadulf.
‘Is there a difference?’ asked the abbot in a cynical tone.
‘To an Angle there is,’ Eadulf replied quickly.
‘You present yourself as Fidelma of Cashel. Does this mean that you are no longer in the religious?’
‘It does,’ she replied. ‘I was trained, as you may know, as an advocate of our law system. I found that many matters I was concerned with in law conflicted with the tenets of religious life. I therefore terminated my role as a religious so that I could concentrate on the law.’
‘So what brings you here to Osraige with your companions? It must be something of great import. This is an isolated place, as you have observed,’ said the abbot. ‘Bog lands stretch around us, so it is not a place that one moves readily through without purpose. Certainly, it is many years since we saw so distinguished a person as an Eóghanacht of Cashel. In fact, so few visitors do we have here that when the sister of the King of Muman and her companions arrive, I must speculate whether it is by chance or whether some specific purpose brings you to our abbey doors.’
‘When this abbey was first built, I was told it was a collection of wooden huts,’ replied Fidelma without answering his question. ‘These new buildings are most impressive, if not a little awesome.’
‘Awesome?’
‘In that the walls look more military than religious. Why is that?’
‘There is no secret behind the intention. You know that we are in a territory that has long been fought over between Muman and Laigin. During the time when the Blessed Chaemóc guided the affairs of this abbey, it was plundered on several occasions by the Uí Néill from the north and the Uí Máil from the east. And when armies did not do so, then there were bandits from local clans who threatened the peace – clans like the Uí Duach to the north of us. When I accepted the task of being abbot here, I decided to facilitate the building of an abbey in which the brethren could be protected; an abbey which would be respected and which would become a great centre that people would approach with a feeling of amazement and respect.’
‘Of course, the Prince of the Osraige, Tuaim Snámha, must be very proud of these new buildings,’ Fidelma said in an innocent tone. ‘I presume everything was done with his permission and patronage?’
The abbot cleared his throat and then said: ‘Tuaim Snámha was indeed a good patron.’
‘So the abbey was built in this manner to defend the community?’
‘It was. The protective shadow of the Eóghanacht does not always extend throughout all the territory they claim jurisdiction over. We needs must look to ourselves for protection. Sadly, this is why you see a fortress to protect the House of God. But you have not yet answered my own question.’
‘Which was?’ asked Fidelma politely.
‘What brings you and your companions to this isolated place?’
‘Would you say that its isolation means that few people travel along your new roads, passing the abbey?’
The abbot frowned suspiciously. It was clear that he thought Fidelma was being evasive. Nevertheless he responded: ‘Few people, indeed.’
‘So that you would know if anyone passed this way yesterday?’
The abbot shifted in his seat but did not drop his eyes.
‘I have heard no reports of horsemen passing this way,’ he told her.
‘I did not say that they were horsemen.’
‘Then how else would they be travelling – by wagon? The tracks through the bogs here are difficult, almost impossible, to traverse.’
‘Yet from what we have seen of the new roads around here, they should have no problem with wagons. But you are right: these people were travelling on foot.’
‘No travellers on foot have passed by this abbey yesterday or for many days. What business would you have with these elusive travellers?’ replied the abbot.
‘Oh, it is in my role as a dálaigh that I need to speak with them, that is all.’ Fidelma dismissed the subject as if it was of little importance. ‘It is curious they did not pass this way, as we are sure that they were following the new roads that you have constructed through the bog land here.’
‘The tracks have been reinforced to help those pilgrims who want to come to worship at the shrine of the Blessed Chaemóc.’
‘He is but fourteen years dead and I had not heard of pilgrims coming to his shrine,’ Fidelma observed.
The abbot frowned. ‘His fame has spread and many come to hear of his miracles. Was it not his bell that awoke the Children of Lir from their curse and changed them from swans to mortal beings again? Did Chaemóc, of blessed name, not baptise them in the New Faith and bury them? Being mortals, they withered and died from the ages they had missed during the eons that they had been forced to exist as immortal swans.’
‘I am surprised that you give credence to these legends of the old gods of our people, for Lir was one of the ancient gods whose second wife had the evil power to turn her stepchildren into swans.’
‘I can only repeat that through the intercession of the Blessed Chaemóc this curse was lifted from them and they died baptised in the New Faith. That is the story that has come down to us.’
‘Yet the abbey is no longer dedicated to his memory,’ murmured Eadulf.
Abbot Cronán flushed slightly. ‘It is my wish that my daughter’s memory be respected here as well as Chaemóc,’ he said shortly.
‘I understand her name was Muirne and that she died in some accident?’ pressed Eadulf.
‘An accident?’ The abbot’s voice was sharp. ‘Yes, she drowned.’ He suddenly rose and glanced at the religieux who had brought them into the chamber. ‘Your chambers should be ready now. I will hand you over to the care of Sil … of Brother Sillán. The bell will summon you for the evening meal and I will ensure that someone is sent to collect you.’
Fidelma thanked the abbot, although the words were simply a ritual for there had been no sincerity in his offer of hospitality. In fact, had not night been upon them and had there been any alternative, she would have suggested that they leave immediately.
As Brother Sillán ushered them to the door, Brother Anfudán approached and the two men exchanged a quick word. Brother Sillán turned. ‘Your chambers are ready and water is being heated in the bathing room. Your horses are being attended to and your bags brought over from the stables.’
Their bags were piled outside the door, presumably brought by Brother Anfudán, who had now vanished. As Eadulf took those belonging to Fidelma and himself he saw a deepening frown on Fidelma’s forehead. Her head was to one side as if she had been listening to something. Their companions each picked up their own bags. Brother Sillán conducted them through several long, dark stone corridors, lit by oil lamps of the type called lepaire placed at intervals on little shelves. The lamps, crude, unglazed earthenware pots with a snout to support the wick, produced a shadowy light and gave off smoke and stifling odours in equal quantity. Eadulf’s expression was one of disapproval.
‘Some of your brethren need lessons in choosing the rush wicks that are not damp when th
ey are dipped in the oil, and ensuring the oil is clean,’ he said. ‘That would lessen the fumes and smoke.’
‘We are a poor community and as yet have no time for such niceties,’ Brother Sillán replied over his shoulder.
Eadulf was about to retort that a community that could afford such ostentatious new buildings could afford to light them better, but he felt Fidelma’s hand squeeze his arm and he fell silent.
Brother Sillán halted before a door and threw it open.
‘This chamber is for the warriors,’ he announced, indicating the dark interior with a motion of his head.
‘There appear to be no windows,’ muttered Gormán, peering inside.
‘The chamber is placed facing towards the interior of the abbey. There are candles and oil lamps to provide enough light,’ responded their guide.
‘And where is our chamber?’ enquired Fidelma.
‘On the floor above this one, if you will follow me.’ He took them to a small wooden stair a little way along the corridor. ‘You will find a door further along from your chamber where a dabach has been prepared for you and your husband.’
A dabach was a large wooden tub or vat and it was the duty of those providing hospitality to have either such a tub or even a stone long-foilcthe or bathing vessel ready at this time, for the custom was for a full body-wash before the evening meal.
As Brother Sillán continued to lead the way, Fidelma turned to Gormán, who was about to enter the dark chamber, and motioned him and Enda to follow her.
They climbed the stair behind Brother Sillán and came up into another corridor, but this time one side of it was unenclosed and overlooked a small courtyard. It appeared to be the centre of the main abbey buildings and was open to the sky. In fact, the corridor ran around this courtyard on all four sides. A roof covered the corridor, supported by pillars. All around this flagged walkway were doors which led into various chambers. Dusk had descended but lamps had been lit and Fidelma noticed that one of the doors bore the encouraging inscription Fothrucad – bathing – engraved on it.
Brother Sillán had bent to open a door before he turned and saw Gormán and Enda behind Fidelma and Eadulf. He opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut as Fidelma moved into the chamber and gave it a quick examination.
23- The Seventh Trumpet Page 19
