Chalice of Blood

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Those are the essential details,’ agreed Abbot Iarnla.

  Fidelma continued, ‘We will go to examine the cell shortly but you have told me that there was only one key. How do you know it was turned from the inside?’

  It was Brother Lugna who answered without hesitation.

  ‘Because the only key was lying by Brother Donnchad’s body. Therefore it had to have been turned from the inside.’

  ‘Logical enough,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘But a lot seems to rely on your assertion that there was only one key.’

  ‘It is no assertion. As I said, our blacksmith was told to make the lock specially and only one key was provided to assure Brother Donnchad of his security.’

  ‘And these manuscripts that he guarded so diligently, only his mother seems to have glimpsed them.’

  ‘Lady Eithne says she saw them, so they must have been stolen by whoever killed him,’ asserted the steward firmly.

  The abbot said nothing and Fidelma turned to him.

  ‘You seem uncertain, Abbot Iarnla.’

  ‘I cannot comment. I never saw the documents.’

  ‘Do you doubt Lady Eithne’s word?’

  ‘I would only point out that Lady Eithne admits that she does not know Greek from Hebrew. How can we rely on her word that the manuscripts that she glimpsed were the precious documents that Brother Donnchad claimed they were?’

  ‘Did anyone else see these valuable manuscripts apart from Lady Eithne?’ Eadulf asked.

  ‘I imagine that our scriptor, Brother Donnán, would have seen them,’ Brother Lugna replied.

  ‘Did you question the scriptor about them?’ Fidelma asked. ‘After all, as the head of your scriptorium in this abbey, he should surely have known about such precious manuscripts being brought here.’

  ‘We have questioned no one,’ replied Brother Lugna, a little sourly, avoiding looking at the abbot. ‘It was felt that such matters should await your arrival.’

  ‘We will speak with your scriptor,’ Fidelma said gently. ‘And we will examine Brother Donnchad’s cell. I presume the obsequies have already been conducted?’

  ‘As you know, it is our tradition to bury the body within twenty-four hours,’ replied the abbot. ‘He was laid to rest in our burial ground just outside the abbey walls, after the day of watching in the usual custom.’

  ‘But your physician will be able to report on the manner of his death?’

  ‘He was stabbed in the back,’ stated Brother Lugna. ‘That’s how he died. Surely that is enough.’

  ‘Just so, but there are details that only an apothecary or physician would notice. I presume your physician examined him?’

  ‘Naturally.’ Again there was a defensive tone in the steward’s voice. ‘Brother Seachlann is our physician.’

  ‘Then we will need to see him.’ She rose, as did Eadulf, but the abbot remained seated as if lost in thought. Then he suddenly realised they were leaving and gestured to his steward.

  ‘Brother Lugna will see to all your needs. However, the hour grows late. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day to begin.’

  Fidelma realised that a distant bell was ringing to mark the end of the day’s work, calling those who tilled the fields to return to the abbey and cleanse themselves before the evening meal.

  ‘You are right, Father Abbot,’ she conceded. ‘It has been a long day.’ She glanced at Brother Lugna. ‘Has our companion, Gormán, been accommodated and our horses seen to?’

  ‘They have,’ the steward said. ‘And I have asked our bruigad, our hosteller, to make a chamber ready for you in our tech-óiged, our guesthouse—’

  ‘Separate chambers,’ interrupted Fidelma softly

  ‘But I thought …’ Abbot Iarnla frowned and then went on hurriedly to avoid embarrassment, ‘Of course. See to it, Brother Lugna. And perhaps you will join us in the refectorium for the evening meal when you have had your evening bathe.’

  ‘I have ordered your baths to be made ready,’ added the steward.

  Eadulf had felt a little embarrassed when Fidelma ordered separate chambers. But he realised that life could not continue as before and there was much to be sorted out between Fidelma and himself. He said nothing as the hosteller, who identified himself as Brother Máel Eoin, guided them to the wooden building that was the guesthouse. Their chambers were separate but close to one another. A tub of hot water was waiting for him when he entered. Eadulf had long grown used to the custom of Fidelma’s people of taking a daily bath, usually in the evening, in a large tub called a dabach. Guests in any hostel or inn had the baths prepared for them with scented warm water and oils. After guests had washed, combed their hair and put on fresh clothing, they could attend the principal meal of the day, called the prainn, which was taken in the evening.

  Eadulf had noticed that Brother Lugna used the Latin term refectorium instead of praintech, the usual word for an eating house. Eadulf had noticed that in many abbeys Latin terms were replacing native words for functions and places – the use of the Latin cubiculum for chamber instead of the usual cotultech; of scriptor for librarian and scriptorium for library in place of leabhar coimedach, keeper of books, and tech-screptra, library. It seemed that the abbey of Lios Mór, too, was changing. Perhaps Brother Lugna’s Roman tonsure was more significant than he had previously thought.

  It was a short time later when Brother Máel Eoin came to show him and Fidelma the way to the refectorium. At the doors of the refectorium they found Gormán about to enter.

  ‘Are you being looked after well?’ Fidelma greeted the young warrior.

  ‘I have a good bed, lady,’ he replied with a brief smile. ‘I am quartered above the stables with the echaire, the stableman. I have been looking around at the new buildings. It seems the abbey is growing rapidly since last I came here. A chapel in stone and two other buildings already completed. The abbey appears to have come into great wealth.’

  He was interrupted by a gesture from Brother Eoin as he opened the doors and showed them into the great hall where the community was eating. He steered them through the rows of long tables to a table set to one side of the refectorium. Many of the brethren raised their heads to observe their passage with undisguised curiosity. A low murmur arose from them. Fidelma noticed that there were few women in the hall, although there were some. Lios Mór had, she recalled, initially been a conhospitae, a mixed house, where men and women cohabited, raising their children to the service of the new religion. She remembered the story of how Carthach had come to Lios Mór with Flandait, the daughter of Cuanan, and several other women to help form the community. They found a holy woman named Caimel already living by the river. Caimel had become the head of the community of women at Lios Mór. She wondered whether Abbot Iarnla was gradually leading the religious community towards celibacy, for there was little evidence of women being co-equal as they had been when she last visited.

  The fact that there were few women in the hall had also occurred to Eadulf. He had also noticed that the women who were present had been placed at the lower end of the refectorium. The abbot’s table was at the far end on a raised platform and here Abbot Iarnla, his steward and several others were seated at their meal. Eadulf presumed that the abbot’s table was filled with the hierarchy of the abbey and they were all male. Then he realised that Brother Eoin was leading them to a table to one side of the hall. Eadulf knew from experience that Fidelma, as sister to the King was usually seated as a distinguished guest. He saw that Fidelma gave no sign that she was insulted by what seemed a breach of natural courtesy. One or two of the brethren bowed their heads towards them in obvious recognition as they passed between the tables.

  At the table to which they were guided they found two other guests, who introduced themselves. Glassán was a man of middle age, with even features, bright blue eyes and wiry brown hair, and a firm chin with a cleft jaw. He looked used to being outside in the elements and his clothing did not hide his well-muscled body. He seemed to assume a natural command over his compa
nion who was introduced as Saor. He was thin and sinewy, a swarthy fellow with close-set eyes.

  ‘Are you guests in the abbey?’ Fidelma asked as they seated themselves. She was interested by their appearance, for neither seemed like men who would choose life in an abbey.

  ‘That we are,’ replied Glassán with a broad smile that was almost patronising. ‘Fairly permanent and important ones.’

  ‘Permanent and important?’ Gormán’s query seemed to be without irony, but his eyes were glinting. ‘What manner of men are you who honour us with your company?’

  ‘I am an ailtíre,’ the brawny Glassán declared without any modesty. ‘Saor, here, is my carpenter and assistant.’

  ‘Ah, you are a … a master builder?’ Eadulf tried to translate the technical office.

  ‘I am in charge of the rebuilding of the abbey,’ confirmed Glassán. Clearly he was not a man who believed in humility.

  ‘We saw that there had been changes,’ Gormán replied. ‘A lot of new stone buildings have appeared where I remember buildings of wood.’

  ‘Quite right, my young friend,’ agreed Glassán. ‘For three years now the abbey has employed me to oversee the new building work.’

  ‘That must be an enormous task,’ Eadulf commented. He was genuinely interested.

  ‘I have several men working under me, including some of the finest caisleóir, stonemasons, of the south.’

  ‘The abbey must be rich to engage in such rebuilding,’ observed Gormán.

  The master builder grimaced. ‘That you would have to ask Brother Lugna. For my part, each fee for services is specified by the Law of the Fénechus, as is compensation for craftsmen injured in the pursuit of their work.’

  Eadulf looked surprised and Fidelma explained. ‘A master builder is considered on the same level as the intended successor to a bo-aire, which would mean his honour price is worth twenty seds – the value of twenty milch cows.’

  Glassán was looking at Fidelma with interest.

  ‘You know something of the law, Sister?’ Then he smiled. ‘Ah, of course. You are the dálaigh that the brethren here have been talking about. Someone who is going to make a report about the cleric who died.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Know him? We are too busy to socialise with the brethren here, even if they were sociable.’ He grinned at his quip. No one laughed.

  ‘Twenty seds is a large sum, indeed,’ observed Eadulf, filling the awkward silence.

  ‘Small compensation for the many years of study and apprenticeship, as in all arts and crafts,’ pointed out Glassán in an almost defensive manner. ‘There is a lot of responsibility in superintending the construction of these buildings, and one has to be a master in many different things, stonemasonry, carpentry …’ He suddenly shot a condescending look at his quiet companion. ‘Thankfully, Saor here takes many onerous tasks from my shoulders. He is my chief assistant.’

  ‘But if you are building in stone, surely you need stonemasons rather than carpenters,’ queried Gormán.

  Saor’s chin came up defensively and he spoke for the first time. ‘Even with stone work, wooden frames must be made and carpentry must be employed,’ he announced with a tone of annoyance.

  ‘Of course.’ Glassán smiled, regaining the conversation. It was clear that he was enthusiastic about his craft and not loath to expand on the problems and skill that faced him and the rest of his team of workmen. As master builder, Glassán was provided with accommodation in the guesthouse, while his assistant and his workmen lived outside the abbey, along the river bank, in a collection of huts they had erected for the purpose. For the rest of the meal he continued to talk of the problems of replacing some of the wooden structures of the abbey with buildings of stone. He had a habit of talking in a low droning tone, almost without stopping, so that there was little dialogue.

  Gormán’s expression quickly took on a slightly glazed look, as if he had shut off his mind from Glassán’s interminable details and technical explanations. Throughout, the thin-faced Saor, sat in almost moody silence, apart from one or two muttered comments. At the end of the meal, Fidelma and Eadulf rose hurriedly, thankful to be able to escape.

  Outside her chamber, in the tech-oíged, or guesthouse, Fidelma turned apologetically to Eadulf.

  ‘I did not mean to embarrass you earlier about our accommodation, ’ she said softly. ‘But there are many things we must discuss in case we fall back into old habits which are no good for either of us.’

  ‘I understand,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘I realise that it is your brother who is trying to mend fences; it was not your doing to bring me back to Cashel.’

  ‘It is not that I regret his interference, Eadulf,’ Fidelma said quickly. ‘I welcome it as a means whereby we might try to rebuild our relationship on a better footing. I am firm in my resolve to pursue the course I have set myself. I would be a hypocrite to do otherwise. How that will square with whatever else must be taken into consideration … well, we must talk more clearly when there are no other problems to distract our thoughts.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Eadulf replied with a smile. ‘Let us give our minds completely to the current problem.’

  She answered his smile. Then said, ‘Gormán made a good point this evening.’

  ‘You mean his ability to switch off his mind while our builder friend was chattering on,’ Eadulf observed wryly. ‘I swear the man did not even pause to eat his food, yet his plate was clean at the end of the meal. How did he talk and eat at the same time?’

  ‘That is not what I meant.’ She laughed. ‘I meant the point he made about the abbey being rich to embark on all this new building work.’

  ‘That observation was made before. Many communities are building and expanding. Why not Lios Mór?’

  ‘As you know, Lios Mór was only established a little over thirty years ago, Eadulf. It was levelled and fenced in with the members of the community building it with their own hands. They sought no help from outside. The material was the timber from the surrounding woods. The community have barely had time to establish themselves, let alone start to rebuild from stone.’

  ‘I have seen many communities in the Five Kingdoms putting up buildings of stone,’ Eadulf pointed out.

  ‘Usually in the west where stone is more easily accessible than wood,’ replied Fidelma. ‘But here, wood is plenty and varied. I know that the community is expanding, but to bring in a professional builder and his men is surprising. Glassán was right when he said that the law lays down strict rules, regulations and fees for professional builders and craftsmen. If the community here can afford to pay those rates, it means they have the finances to do so. How have they achieved such wealth in so short a time?’

  ‘Perhaps Glassán and his men are donating their work to the Faith,’ suggested Eadulf.

  ‘You heard him speak of his fees. I don’t think he will forgo them for the sake of the Faith.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that is something we should ask Abbot Iarnla about.’

  Fidelma nodded absently. ‘Anyway, we have more to concern us than how the abbey has raised the means to pay craftsmen to construct stone buildings.’ She opened the door of her chamber, then turned back to him with a smile. ‘Sleep well, Eadulf. We have much to do in the morning.’

  For a moment Eadulf stood gazing moodily at the closed door. Then with a deep sigh he turned and walked slowly to his own allotted chamber.

  If Fidelma was so convinced of her future, Eadulf knew that difficult times lay ahead for him. There would be no easy reconciliation, no easy getting back together, as it seemed Fidelma’s brother had hoped.

  Eadulf lay down on the straw palliasse of the wooden framed cot and drew a blanket over himself, but it was a long time before sleep came to him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next morning the sky was cloudless and the sun bright.

  ‘It is going to be a hot day,’ announced Brother Lugna, moodily, after he had greeted Fidelma and Eadulf. They had just emerged from the
refectorium, where they had taken a light breakfast.

  ‘In that case, we should avail ourselves of the early morning freshness to begin at once,’ Fidelma replied.

  They had emerged to a cacophony of sound at odds with the usual meditative quiet of an abbey. They could hear the ringing of hammers on stone, the grating of wood being sawn and the harsh shouts of men issuing instructions.

  ‘That’s the building work,’ explained Brother Lugna. ‘The disturbance of our peace is but a small penance for the reconstruction of the abbey into a monument that will last forever.’

  He led them across the stone-flagged quadrangle, past the tipra, the small fresh-water fountain splashing in a basin carved from limestone. Facing them on the eastern side of the quadrangle was the large three-storey stone building which contained Brother Donnchad’s cell. Brother Lugna told them that the cubicula, or individual cells, of all the senior members of the community would eventually be housed in the building.

  ‘So it is a very new building,’ Fidelma commented, observing the still immaculately polished stonework.

  ‘Less than a year old,’ Brother Lugna agreed. ‘It was the second of the new buildings to be finished. The first, of course, was our chapel. I regret that the tech-oíged, the guesthouse, will be the last building to be replaced in stone as it is the least important of the complex. But I hope the current building is comfortable enough for you.’

  Fidelma wondered whether there was some humour behind his words. But she did not think that Brother Lugna was given to humour.

  ‘Comfortable enough,’ replied Fidelma. ‘So comfortable that I wonder why the abbey should spend so much on replacing buildings that are well built and still fairly new anyway?’

  ‘It is the ambition of the abbey that Lios Mór should become one of the greatest centres of the Faith and of learning not only in the Five Kingdoms but beyond the seas as well. The abbey of Darú claims that this year they have attracted pious students from eighteen different nations. To achieve our ambition it was decided that our buildings should reflect our abilities. Great structures of stone will last longer than poor buildings of wood.’