Eadulf was nearer to it and bent down, carefully extracting it from the mud. He wiped some of the clinging earth from it. Then he held up a tiny piece of torn parchment in his hand. It was crumpled as if it had been discarded.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said, looking at it. ‘It must have been out here for some time and it is damp.’
‘Be careful with it,’ she said. ‘There is still some writing on it.’
He gently stretched it out so that the few words were readable although the ink had started to run.
‘Anything of interest?’ asked Fidelma.
Eadulf shook his head. ‘I think this is a line from one of the gospels – si vis transfer calicem istrum a me. It is followed by three words, the same word written three times over – Deicide! Deicide! Deicide! There is nothing else on it.’
‘The last word means “god-killer” in Latin.’ Fidelma peered at the text over his shoulder. ‘To Dei, the word for god, is added cide from the verb caedere to cut down.’
‘Why would anyone write that out several times? Was someone trying to remember how to spell it? Maybe it was Brother Donnchad and having captured the word he threw the parchment out of the window.’
‘A scholar of Brother Donnchad’s ability could surely spell a simple Latin word.’
‘God-killer is what some of the early Christian Fathers claimed the Jews were because they demanded the crucifixion of Christ,’ Eadulf said. ‘But where does that first line come from? Something about “remove this chalice from me”.’
‘Chalice or cup. It depends on your translation,’ replied Fidelma. ‘I think it is from the gospel of Luke.’
She frowned, took the parchment from him and examined it again before placing it in her ciorbholg, which she always carried attached to her criss, or belt. The ciorbholg, or comb-bag, was carried by all women and usually contained items such as a scathán, a mirror, deimess, scissors, sleic, soap, a phal containing a favourite fragrance – Fidelma preferred honeysuckle – a small linen cloth and other personal items.
Eadulf was impatient. ‘Let us find the smith and see what he can tell us about the lock and maybe a second key.’
Usually, they could locate a forge by the sound of the hammer smashing down on the inneoin, or anvil, but with the sound of the building work it was impossible. Before they came to the forge they passed another tall building being erected with stone blocks and suddenly Eadulf nudged Fidelma.
‘There is a means of entrance to Brother Donnchad’s cubiculum and someone small enough to pass through the window.’
A tall ladder was resting against the building to allow the masons to climb to the upper walls. Seated by it was a small boy who was busy sharpening a chisel with a honing stone.
Fidelma regarded the boy critically for a moment. ‘I’ll grant he’s probably small enough but he would need two conspirators to help lift the ladder in place.’ So saying, she strode across to the boy.
‘Hello,’ she greeted him. ‘I haven’t seen you before.’
The boy was no more than ten years old, with fair hair, a ruddy face and wiry limbs. He glanced up at her with a shy smile.
‘Nor I you, Sister,’ he replied pertly.
‘My name is Fidelma and he,’ indicating Eadulf, ‘is called Eadulf. What’s your name?’
‘Gúasach. Why does he have a funny name?’
Fidelma chuckled. ‘Because he comes from a place across the sea which is called the Kingdom of the East Angles. Are you working on this building?’
The boy smiled proudly. ‘I am. I am apprentice to the master builder.’
‘How long have you—’
Her question was interrupted by a loud shout from a rough-voiced man on the other side of the new wall.
‘Gúasach! The chisel immediately!’
The boy sprang up with the chisel, gave them a grin of apology and disappeared through a gap in the wall.
Fidelma turned to Eadulf. ‘I doubt we have found the killer in that lad.’
‘Conspiracy?’ mused Eadulf. ‘Several people carried the ladder to the wall, the boy went up, killed Brother Donnchad and took the papers and books they wanted …’ Eadulf halted with a wry chuckle. ‘You are right. It is not a likely story.’
The cérdcha, or forge, of Brother Giolla-na-Naomh was located near the main gate of the community but just beyond the stables. It was after several wrong turns that they finally found the way behind the stable block. A young man stripped to the waist was gripping a glowing piece of metal in a tenn-chair, a pair of tongs. He struck the metal with an ord, a heavy hammer, causing sparks to fly as each ringing blow descended. An older man, also bare to the waist, though with a buckskin apron covering his chest and front, was clearly overseeing the young man’s work. He caught sight of their approach and said something to his apprentice. The young man turned from the anvil and plunged the piece of metal he was working into a telchuma, or water trough, next to the anvil.
‘Greetings, Sister Fidelma,’ the older man boomed. His voice was as deep and resonant as one might expect from his tall and muscular appearance. ‘I saw you and Brother Eadulf in the refectorium last evening. I am Brother Giolla-na-Naomh.’
Both Fidelma and Eadulf recognised the smith as one of those who had been seated at the abbot’s table the previous night. A smith of the rank that had been ascribed to Brother Giolla-na-Naomh would of course, take precedent among the hierarchy of the abbey after the abbot, his steward and librarian.
The big man smiled through his shaggy black beard and examined them keenly with his blue eyes. He thrust out a massive hand to each of them in turn.
‘While I am pleased to welcome you here,’ he said, ‘it is sad that it is the death of Brother Donnchad that brings you.’
‘We share your sadness, Brother Giolla-na-Naomh,’ replied Fidelma solemnly, ‘and appreciate your welcome.’
The smith turned to his apprentice. ‘Bring me the metal lock that is on the shelf behind you.’ When the young man had passed it over, the smith added more instructions. ‘Stoke up the furnace with the cual craing and keep it hot.’ Eadulf knew that cual craing was literally ‘coal of wood’, the term applied to charcoal.
The smith turned back to them and pointed to a stone bench that stood under the canopy of a yew tree a little way from the forge.
‘The furnace is too hot to remain in comfort near it on a day like this,’ he said. ‘We may sit in the cool shade of that tree. The bench is comfortable. Brother Lugna advised me last evening that you would be wishing to question me.’
‘About the lock,’ confirmed Fidelma. She sat down on the stone bench while Brother Giolla-na-Naomh lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of her. Eadulf simply stood to one side against the tree.
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh glanced round as they made themselves comfortable and said, ‘I expected the steward to come with you.’
‘For what purpose?’ asked Fidelma, intrigued.
‘No purpose.’ The man grinned. ‘Our steward simply likes to know everything that is happening. He is young to have reached the office of rechtaire. He has been here barely three years and already thinks he is in charge of all of us.’
‘Tell us about the lock,’ she invited the smith, mentally noting that he was obviously no big admirer of the steward.
The smith shrugged his massive shoulders and handed her the metal lock. She saw at once that Brother Giolla-na-Naomh was no novice at his art. It was a fine piece of work.
‘Not much to tell, really,’ the smith said. ‘It was Brother Lugna who came to me with the request. Brother Donnchad desired a lock and key to be fitted to the door of his cotultech … beg pardon, cubiculum. Brother Lugna insists on using these new Latin names.’
‘Did you find that a strange request?’ asked Eadulf.
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh smiled briefly. ‘I have had stranger requests. But, I suppose it was unusual in our community where trust is our faith and a way of life.’
‘There is usually no need
to lock anything away? There are no other locks in this community?’
‘Of course not. We are a poor community. Does not The Didache say, “Share everything with your brother. Do not say it is private property. If you share what is everlasting, you should be that much more willing to share things which do not last.” Is that not right, Sister?’
Fidelma regarded him in surprise. ‘You have read The Didache? It is a rare book, which I have seen only once.’ There was envy in her voice.
‘Our tech-screptra has a copy of the Greek text. It is regarded as one of the central texts of the Faith.’
Eadulf was looking bewildered.
‘It is an ancient Greek text,’ explained Fidelma quickly. ‘It is called The Didache, or The Teaching, but its full title is The Teachings of the Twelve Apostles, and it is said to have been written shortly after their deaths.’
‘Anyway,’ the smith went on, ‘the quotation sums up how our community should live. As the Blessed Tertullian taught, we, who share one mind and soul, have no misgivings about community in property.’
‘Very well, let us return to the subject of the lock and key,’ Fidelma said. ‘You were asked to make them for Brother Donnchad.’
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh nodded.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘As you see, Sister, the lock was to be glais iarnaidhi – an iron lock. I understood from Brother Lugna that it had to be unlike any other lock. I think I achieved that.’
‘It is true that I have not seen one like it,’ she agreed. ‘And the key?’
‘I was told that one key only was to be made.’
‘And was it?’
‘Of course.’
‘You fitted the lock yourself?’
‘I did, and I gave the only key to Brother Donnchad.’
‘I was told that the key was found with Brother Donnchad’s body. I hope that it is not lost?’
‘I still have it.’ Bother Giolla-na-Naomh reached into the leather pouch on his belt. He took out a metal key and handed it to her. She glanced at it. It was made of iron and was nearly seven centimetres in length. It, too, showed good-quality workmanship, with several teeth of varying lengths and spaced irregularly. The other end of the key, the part held between thumb and forefinger, was impressively worked with spiral designs. There was a slippery quality about it.
‘And you confirm that this was the key that you made for the lock and found by the body?’
‘I do confirm it.’
‘No one could open the lock without this key, is that right?’ she asked.
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh shrugged. ‘No one can guarantee that, for what a man can make, another man can unmake. Isn’t that the old saying?’
‘But it would take time to unpick the lock and such a method would leave behind markings to show that it had been tampered with.’
‘Abbot Iarnla asked me to examine the lock after I had broken in. I had done no damage to the lock, only splintered the wood of the doorjamb where I kicked it open. There were no signs that it had been tampered with.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ Fidelma sighed, examining the key on the palm of her hand. ‘What accounts for the quality of the surface? Do you have to oil it to make it work?’
The smith frowned and looked at the key carefully.
‘The key should need no oil,’ he replied. ‘The lock, when I tried it, was working perfectly. But this is not oil. More like wax … maybe Brother Donnchad spilt some candle wax on it. It can easily happen. A candle by the side of the bed, a key resting nearby …’
Fidelma placed the key in her marsupium.
‘Keep the lock for me and I will keep the key,’ she said.
‘I will do so,’ Brother Giolla-na-Naomh replied. ‘But I would be glad if you did not tell Brother Lugna unless you have no other choice.’
Both Fidelma and Eadulf looked at him in surprise.
‘Brother Lugna asked me this morning, before the morning meal, if I would give him the key. I told him that I had mislaid it.’
‘He probably meant to hand it to me when we were examining Brother Donnchad’s cell.’
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh looked uncomfortable. ‘Perhaps.’ Then he added, ‘I tell you this strictly between ourselves, Fidelma of Cashel. I am a loyal servant to Abbot Iarnla. Loyal to the abbey and to this kingdom. I will say no more except that our steward told me that I should be frugal with the information I gave you. I have refused to obey his instruction and have provided you with what information is in my knowledge. I say to you, be careful. I suspect our steward has given the same instruction to everyone in this abbey whom you may wish to question.’
Fidelma and Eadulf exchanged a glance.
‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Fidelma. ‘I shall do my best to keep what has passed between us strictly to myself unless the time comes when I must use it in my task to uncover who killed Brother Donnchad.’
‘That is fair enough,’ said the smith. ‘All I wish is for the abbey to prosper and peace to follow my craft.’
‘Are we keeping you from the work of rebuilding the community? ’ Fidelma smiled, glancing round at the building works.
The burly man shook his head. ‘Glassán, the master builder, has his own team of workmen,’ he said with some resentment in his voice. ‘They even have their own forge and smithy outside the abbey for their work. My skills remain for the brethren and not for the new building work.’
‘The abbey will be truly magnificent once the new buildings are erected,’ Eadulf observed. ‘When will that be?’
‘Glassán and his men have been working here for two years or so. We estimate that another three years will see all the main buildings in place.’
‘The fees for such professional work must be high,’ Fidelma remarked innocently.
‘I suppose so. Such matters only concern the abbot and Brother Lugna.’ Brother Giolla-na-Naomh rose to his feet. ‘If you will forgive me, I must tend my forge.’
Eadulf sat down beside Fidelma and they watched him walk back to his forge.
‘Well, well,’ said Eadulf. ‘The steward of this abbey does not want to cooperate with us at all, it seems. Strange that he doesn’t want people to speak to us.’
‘It is curious,’ Fidelma agreed.
‘Perhaps he murdered Brother Donnchad?’
‘If he did, then he is very stupid to go around trying to stop people speaking to us. It would arouse their suspicions if not ours, and eventually it would get back to us. As it is, I thought the physician’s performance was bizarre and now the smith has explained it. The man was probably trying to obey the steward’s orders. We will have to watch Brother Lugna very carefully.’
A bell started to ring in the distance.
‘What is that?’ demanded Eadulf, raising his head.
‘Judging from the position of the sun,’ Fidelma said, looking up, ‘I would say that it is the bell to summon the community for the eter-shod – the midday meal. It has been an interesting and exhausting morning and I, for one, would welcome some refreshment.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Abbot Iarnla walked across to their table as they were rising to leave when the midday meal had finished. The community took three meals a day. The custom was to rise at dawn, wash one’s face and hands, and break one’s fast with a light meal. The eter-shod, or ‘middle meal’, was taken when the sun was at its zenith. Thankfully, it appeared that Glassán and his assistant Saor ate their midday meal on site and so they were spared another monologue on his craft. Gormán was happily occupying his time fishing along the banks of The Great River. Only Fidelma and Eadulf had been seated at their table.
‘I hope you have had a productive morning,’ Abbot Iarnla greeted them anxiously. ‘Have you reached any conclusions?’
‘We are far from any conclusions yet,’ replied Fidelma. ‘There are many questions that still need to be asked before we can proceed to judgement.’
Abbot Iarnla looked about almost furtively and then, as if ass
uring himself that no one was observing him, dropped his voice and said, ‘I trust you will forgive me for seating you here, Fidelma. As sister to our King, I considered it more appropriate for you and Eadulf to sit alongside me. However, Brother Lugna informs me that Church customs in Rome …’ He hesitated, not sure how to proceed.
‘We are content here, Abbot Iarnla,’ Fidelma replied softly. ‘Brother Lugna has made no secret of his resent ment of our presence here. We would not wish to impose on him more than we have to.’
‘I apologise for him. He is inflexible when it comes to the rules that he has drawn up for the community.’
‘Rules that he has drawn up?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘I thought the drawing up of rules for the community was the prerogative of the abbot?’
‘He believes that the brethren were too lax and free of discipline and order,’ the abbot confessed. ‘Times change, I suppose. I have tried to run things in the spirit of our blessed founder, Mo-Chuada, but, as you know, the Faith is changing. New ideas are coming in from Rome. So I have been persuaded to let Brother Lugna pursue his course of action to strengthen the community.’
Fidelma was about to say that perhaps he was abrogating too much authority to his young steward but the abbot suddenly turned and motioned to a man who was helping an elderly member of the community along the aisle between the tables towards the door. The younger man hesitated and then guided his companion towards them.
The elderly man could barely walk without the help of the young man’s arm and a stout stick he carried in his other hand. His skin was stretched tight on his face, which was white as parchment. His grey eyes were wide, staring and watery. The lips were thin and almost bloodless. He had no hair at all save the white stubble over his chin and upper lip where he had been badly shaved. Flecks of spittle adhered to the corners of his mouth. He could have been any age from four score to a century.
His companion was at no more than three decades in age, with features Fidelma would have described as ugly. His skin was sallow and although he was clean-shaven, the cheeks and chin had a bluish hue, suggesting a thick beard would result if no altan, or razor, were applied. His blue-black hair was closely cropped, which was unusual, as both men and women usually wore their hair long, as a mark of beauty. He wore the tonsure of the Irish. The eyes were dark and it was almost impossible to discern the pupils. He had a bulbous nose and thick lips, with a protruding lower lip. The half-open mouth displayed badly kept teeth. Fidelma’s eyes dropped to the man’s hands and, as she suspected, the man had unkempt nails which were a sign of ill-breeding. It was the custom among the wealthier classes of her people to keep fingernails cut and carefully rounded. He was not a tall man nor well-built. He looked like someone whose meals were sparse and infrequently come by. His whole appearance gave the impression of melancholy subservience.
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