A MASS FOR THE DEAD

by Susan McDuffie

  * * * * *

  I beached the boat near the Priory and shuddered. It was the thought of my father’s corpse, lying in state in the Chapel, I supposed. Although, truth to tell, I had never liked the Priory, the noise of the constant construction and the feeling I always had of my father looking over my shoulder, judging me, and finding me wanting. I was glad to have left it seven years ago, when it had become apparent I would never make a monk. But the brothers had taught me reading and writing, and I was grateful enough to them for that. The letters I wrote now for Uncle Gillespic earned me a few coins.

  And where should I be starting here, then? Columbanus, Sheena’s brother, might be the most obvious person to speak with first. At this time of day I guessed he would be tending to his duties in the bake-house, so I headed there. But before I reached it Brother Gillecristus, the sub-prior, saw me, as he left the chapel and headed towards the cloisters.

  “Och, Muirteach, it is yourself. And have you come to pay your respects to your poor father?”

  Gillecristus’s eyes and his long nose were red. He was closer to my father’s age than mine, and had been at the Priory as long as I could remember. He was a MacNeill, from Barra. My father’s close friend, he stood fair to become the next Prior.

  “I did so yesterday,” I said, somewhat curtly. “But His Lordship himself is wanting to know who has done this thing, and has appointed me to find out—“

  “And surely that is most proper,” Gillecristus interjected piously, “you being his son and all that.”

  I tried to ignore him, and continued on, “I will be needing a chamber, someplace quiet, where I can be speaking with the brothers privately.”

  “But you are surely not thinking that someone from our community—“

  His smugness irritated me. “And whyever not, Brother?” I asked. “I know well enough how holy you all are here. But His Lordship has requested it, for he must have something to tell the King and the Holy Father, and so…”

  Brother Gillecristus paled, then his nose reddened. His Lordship, John of the Isles, had founded the Priory some twenty years ago here on Oronsay, where before there had only been a small community of culdees. In addition His Lordship funded all the new construction here, which was extensive. It would not do to be angering him, at all.

  Gillecristus snapped his mouth tight shut a moment before he answered.

  “Very well,” he finally agreed, without any more argument. “I shall see what we can be finding you. Perhaps the chapter house, or that old hut to the east…”

  I let him deal with it, and it was soon enough that I was ensconced in the chapter house, with pen, parchment, and even a candle, although the room was bright enough from the sunbeams, which found their way in through the slit windows. A young novice was assigned to be my messenger and I asked him to fetch me Columbanus. He arrived soon enough, dusting flour off of his habit as he entered the doorway, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside.

  Columbanus looked little enough like his sister, his eyes a paler and more watery blue than hers, and his hair, where his tonsure had grown out a little, a sandy color. His face was softer and rounder than his brothers’ or his sister’s, and I guessed that he sampled a bit too much of his own baking.

  He had been sent to the Priory as a young boy, and had been there when I had arrived as a child. His age was a few years older than mine. It had never occurred to me to wonder about where he had come from, or what his family had been; Columbanus had simply been part of the priory life, a fixture of it.

  An image came to me suddenly, of the young Columbanus crying, sniffling in the dormitory when he thought no one could see him. His tears had bothered me, and I had never liked him much, for all that I had often felt like crying myself there. He had seemed to be a great favorite of my father’s, when he was younger, and perhaps that was why I had not liked him. For truth to tell, with both of us being young and miserable, you would think that we would have enjoyed each other’s company.

  But that had all been long ago, and now Columbanus was still a monk, while I was here to question him.

  He said little but stood by the doorway, still brushing the flour off his clothing in a nervous way, although I could not see that much of it remained. I felt awkward but, as he did not speak, eventually I did.

  “I have been to see your sister.”

  He started at that, and glanced at me with his watery blue eyes.

  “Sheena?”

  “Aye, unless you’ve another I am not knowing of.”

  “No. She is the only one.”

  “And with a nasty bruise on her cheek as well. Would you be knowing anything about that?”

  “She had it when I went to see her, the morning after—the morning after the Prior was found.”

  I heard the hesitation in his voice and wondered what it meant. Why did he hesitate to speak of it? Because the Prior was my father? Simply because the dead man had been the leader of this priory? Or some other reason?

  “So you are not knowing how she was hurt?”

  “Ask her yourself.”

  “I did. But she was not telling me.”

  “Mayhap she walked into a post. Sheena was always clumsy, even as a young lass.”

  I let that pass, although I was not thinking that she had gotten that bruise by anything other than a fist.

  “And so, whatever, that was not my reason for coming here, to ask about your sister and her bruises,” I lied. “I must be finding out where everyone was the night Prior Crispinus was murdered. Sheena was saying you were bringing her the news of it aye early that next day. Where were you that night?”

  “Where I always am, Muirteach, at Compline and Matins and Lauds. And asleep in the dormitory in between hours. You can ask the others.”

  “And you are knowing nothing of why anyone would want the Prior dead?”

  A shadow passed over Columbanus’s face, tightening the softness of his features and twisting them for a moment. “No more than you do yourself,” he replied.

  “You were not hearing anyone leave the dormitory that night?”

  “No.”

  “And how was it you were getting permission to see Sheena the next morning?”

  “I did not ask. I just left.”

  I nodded to that. A much simpler way, all told, with the Priory in chaos with the murder. No doubt his dough had risen well enough without him there to watch it, for the time it took him to go see his sister and return.

  “Did you see the body before you left?”

  “Aye.”

  “And who would be hating him enough to do that?”

  “I am not knowing, Muirteach,” he said, and I could hear the anger rising in his voice. “Are you? For sure it is you never liked him much, yourself, nor did he treat you so kindly.”

  My own anger rose to meet his, but I bit my tongue, trying to keep it in check. The quill of my pen splintered against the parchment and it took me some time to sharpen another, while Columbanus remained standing.

  “I had not seen my father much lately, Columbanus,” I said finally, when I could speak. “Although true enough it is that we did not get on well together. I have been gone from here for some long time, and things may have changed somewhat, in seven years. So it was just wondering, I was, if you knew of any with reason to want him dead.”

  “Rather ask who did not have reason,” muttered Columbanus, under his breath, but I heard him.

  “What are you meaning by that?”

  “I meant nothing by it,” he denied, “just that he was strict here at the monastery.”

  Despite further questioning Columbanus refused to say more on it and eventually, stymied, I sent him back to his bake-house.

  I had no notion whom to speak with next, but then I thought of Brother Donal. I had been close to him in my years here; he was blessed with a heart warm enough for even an angry lad, and a tongue that was difficult to stop, once he started talking. I asked my novice to fetch him for me, from his
work in the library.

  Donal looked the much same, the hair of his tonsure sticking up in that same disorderly fashion I remembered. His dark, lean face lit with pleasure when he saw me. “Och Muirteach,” he exclaimed, “it is yourself then. I was hearing that His Lordship wanted you to find out who has done this thing.”

  I wondered again at the speed with which news travels on these islands.

  He paused and looked at me closely a moment before his next words. “It’s right sorry I am about your father, Muirteach, for all I am knowing he was none so close to you.“

  “Aye, we were not close, Donal. But I thank you.”

  “And a sore loss it will be to our community, as well. He gave good enough guidance throughout these years. Although, like all of us, he must have had his sins. Blessed be his soul,” he added, crossing himself.

  Donal’s way of seeing the good in everyone did not blind him to their faults, and to my thinking he would have made a good prior himself. A better one, perhaps, than my father, but Donal preferred his work among the parchment and the books and had no higher ambitions. Donal had taught me my letters, my reading and my writing, and we had grown close in the years I had lived at the Priory.

  I let Donal talk, and it was soon enough that I had found out the latest news of the Priory. It always surprises me what a bunch of gossiping fools an isolated community of canons can be. The sacristan, Brother Aidan, had been chastised at a recent chapter meeting for neglecting his duties, as he had fallen asleep and neglected to set out the vestments for Matins. Brother Moloug, who ran the brew-house, had had a disagreement with Brother Padraic, who kept the bees, and one of the masons had gotten into a shouting match with Gillecristus, who had accused them of shoddy and careless work on the new addition to the west range. But at first thought of it, all seemed much as usual, nothing so extreme as would occasion the murder of the Prior.

  “Although there was one thing,” Donal added. “Gillecristus and your father argued the day before your father died, something over the construction on the new range. I am thinking it was that Gillecristus wanted the head mason removed, saying the man’s work was slip-shod, and your father did not, seeing as the man was his kin. It is that Calum Glas, from over near Loch Fada, that was who the man was. And then shortly after that one of the scaffolds collapsed and young Tormod was injured. A sad thing, and now they are saying that he will not be holding a hammer or a chisel again soon, as he was badly bruised and some bones in his hand are broken.

  “Yes,” Donal continued, stroking his chin reflectively, “it was after Gillecristus and your father quarreled, for you must know that Tormod is some kind of nephew to Gillecristus, and he took it hard. It was Gillecristus who got Tormod his place here, with the masons. And his younger brother as well. I am thinking Gillecristus will be blaming the fall on Calum, and blamed it some on your father as well, for not removing him from the work.”

  “And where is Tormod now?”

  “He is with his people, over near Kilchattan.”

  “And Calum?”

  “He works here still. After your father’s death, I am thinking Gillecristus will not be so hasty as to remove Calum, seeing as he was kin to your father. Gillecristus feels badly enough about things as it is. He will be missing your father. They were soul friends a long while.”

  I had heard a little of the matter, in the tavern, just that a young man from Kilchattan had been injured in a fall, but Donal’s view of the matter was enlightening. And it seemed I must speak with both Tormod and with Calum before many more days passed by.

  “And what of Columbanus?” I asked, after a time. “Were you knowing he is brother to Sheena?”

  “Aye, he has always been close to her,” answered Donal. “Indeed, he might be having reason to dislike the Prior, for your father did not always treat his sister well. But I do not think murder is in Columbanus’s nature.”

  “Yet Columbanus seemed very angry just now.”

  “He has not had a happy life here,” said Donal. “You would not be knowing it Muirteach, for it was before you came to us, but Columbanus came here as a child, much as you did. At first he did not take to the life here, but I fear he did not have the sense to recognize it and leave us, as you yourself did.”

  “Columbanus I remember right well. His crying, mostly,” I replied. “And it was older he was then; he must have been all of eleven or twelve.”

  “Still,” Donal continued, “he grew accustomed to the life here and has proved a good enough brother, for all that. He bakes a good loaf, for all that he eats too many of them. That is no secret! There are many ways to serve Our Lord, and sure none of us could serve him without bread to eat. And Columbanus bakes well.” Donal’s smile lightened his lean face.

  “But then who has done this?” I asked in frustration, after a moment. “And why was my father killed just touching the Cross, as though seeking sanctuary himself?”

  “I am not knowing, Muirteach. But I will listen here for you, at the Priory. Perhaps something will come to light.” He turned to go, then stopped, turning again to face me. “Now that I am thinking of it, Muirteach, it seems that I heard someone leave the dormitory that night, well before Matins. I woke when I heard the creak of the stairs. I assumed whoever it was had been going to the necessarium, and indeed, so they might have been.”

  “You did not hear them return?” I asked.

  “Forgive an old man, Muirteach,” he said. “I fell back to sleep.”

  “Who sleeps near you in the dormitory?” I asked.

  “Well, there is Brother Aidan and then Columbanus, up, away from the stairs. And Padraic, and then Brother Moloug, across the hall.”

  “I have already spoken with Columbanus, not that he may not have lied to me. So perhaps I should be speaking with Brother Aidan or Padraic the now.”

  “It is close to time for the meal. Eat with us, and leave it until after.”

  Chapter 5

  So it was that I sat in the refectory, with the brothers, and listened to the lector read from the Psalms while I ate the soup, fish, and bread, fresh baked by Columbanus, that made up the canons’ midday meal. Although the food was good, the experience put me in mind of my early years there, and I grew restless, glad when the lector finished his reading and the canons stood to leave.

  After that, while the majority of the canons studied, I returned to my desk in the chapter house and questioned both Aidan and Padraic. Both flatly denied having left the dormitory that evening, except for the holy offices, and so my thoughts turned again to Columbanus.

  Could he not have left the dormitory, knowing my father would most likely be going to see Sheena, and waited for him on the Strand as he returned? It was clear he had not liked Crispinus, both for his sister’s sake, which might well be motive enough for murder, and perhaps for his strict rule here at the Priory. His muttered comment and subsequent refusal to clarify it had made me even more suspicious of the man.

  Yet Sheena, and more importantly Donal, had both said he could not have committed murder. Sheena would lie to protect her brother. Donal’s judgment I trusted, but perhaps he was wrong in this matter.

  Perhaps Sheena had killed my father? She was a strong enough woman, but she seemed to gain little by his death, except for an end to beatings, for she now had no protector, and would find life harder than before, with three bairns and no man. I supposed Angus and Alasdair might help her some with that, and I pushed the thought of my hungry half brothers and half sister out of my mind. It would be interesting to hear what Mariota had discovered on her visit to Sheena’s.

  Or Angus and Alasdair could have done it, and lied about the deer.

  However there was still the other matter, of Tormod’s fall, and the quarrel between Gillecristus and my father. I reflected that a visit with Calum would be in order, and so I gathered my parchment and pen into my satchel, left the chapter house and wandered over towards the area of new construction. The workmen were cleaning up the worksite, their day’s
labors almost ended, stacking stones in piles and putting away their tools, and it was easy enough to find Calum Glas. He was a strongly built man, with a hooked nose, dark complected like so many of the MacPhees. The covering of stone dust he wore made it obvious how he had earned his by-name; the man did, indeed, have a gray look to him.

  I recollected he was kin to me, as his father had been second cousin to my own father and to Gillespic. But I did not know the man well. As a mason he traveled, working on abbeys in Kintyre, Iona, and all throughout the Isles, and seldom was he on Colonsay for long periods of time.

  He did not recognize me and I had to introduce myself.

  “Och, Muirteach. When last I saw you, you were just a young lad, and in the robes of a novice. You’ve grown. And what are you doing the now?”

  “Little enough,” I answered. “Some scriving for Gillespic. Drinking. And now a bit of work for His Lordship himself,” I added, for it was soon enough that Calum would hear of it and there was no point in lying. “He is wanting to know who murdered my father and has set me to be finding out.”

  Calum said nothing and his expression looked less welcoming to me. I pressed on. “They were saying that Gillecristus and Crispinus had argued. Something to do with the construction. Were you hearing any of it?”

  “Perhaps I was,” he finally admitted. “That Gillecristus is as bitter as the withy stick. He was not wanting me to be working here because I am related to that fool MacIain that slew his own uncle some years back. But he would not be admitting that that was the reason and had to be accusing me of shoddiness in my work. And for that I am thinking that they had words about it, after Gillecristus came here and was accusing me, right in front of all the workmen, bitter old man that he is.”