‘Who taught you your carpentry, then?’
‘Gealbháin mostly.’
‘Where was Gealbháin from? Connachta?’
‘He was a local man … I think from a clan called the Uí Liatháin.’
‘I see. Are the other workmen from around these parts or do most of them come from Connachta like you and Glassán?’
‘Oh, no. Most of them are recruited from these parts. Although Saor is of the Uí Bairrche.’
‘The Uí Bairrche? They are a clan from southern Laighin, aren’t they?’
‘So Saor has told me, Sister. I only know of my own lands and this place. I’ve never been out of sight of the abbey since we came here.’
‘And do you stay in the abbey? I have only seen Glassán and Saor eating in the abbey refectorium.’
‘We live in the wickerwork bothans we constructed outside the abbey walls by the river. That’s where we all stay except Glassán. He has a special room in the guesthouse. The bothans are also where our stores are kept. That way, we do not interfere with the running of the abbey. Glassán explained that to us.’
A bell started to toll.
‘That is the bell for the evening meal, Sister. I must go to join the others.’
Fidelma thanked the child before making her own way to eat. She was slightly annoyed for, not having noticed the passing of time; she realised that she would have to miss the ritual of her evening bath before the meal. She paused at the fountain to wash her hands and face. Then she saw Eadulf walking slowly to the refectorium guided by Gormán.
‘Eadulf!’ Her voice was a rebuke as she greeted him. ‘Is this wise?’
He grimaced before saying, ‘I am hungry. A bowl of vegetable soup does not put strength back into one. I am all right. A slight headache still and soreness on the forehead but I have to admit that Brother Seachlann’s noxious potion is doing the trick. But the aftertaste is awful.’
‘Well, if you are sure.’
‘I just hope that Glassán will not wax lyrical this evening.’ He smiled.
‘I saw Glassán and his band of workmen leaving the abbey a few hours ago,’ Gormán offered. ‘I haven’t seen him return since.’
‘The young boy told me that they have gone to fetch stone from the quarry,’ Fidelma said, ‘so we might avoid a discourse on building.’
There was no sign of Glassán or Saor during the meal. Several people, including the abbot, crossed to their table to inquire after Eadulf’s health. Even Brother Lugna asked, in a sharply disapproving tone, as he passed their table, whether Eadulf thought himself fit enough to eat in the refectorium. Brother Gáeth and Brother Donnán raised their hands in greeting and the Venerable Bróen, leaning heavily on a stick, came across and said in a wheezy voice, ‘I knew you would be all right, Brother. The angel did not appear last night to take your soul.’
Eadulf gazed uncomfortably at him and, with a forced smile, said, ‘I thank you for your concern, Brother.’
The Venerable Bróen leant closer, peering at Eadulf with pale rheumy eyes, and whispered, confidentially, ‘The angel appeared in order to take the soul of poor Brother Donnchad. I saw the angel, floating in the sky. But the angel did not come last night, so I knew that you would be well.’
Brother Gáeth came across to take the old man’s arm.
‘Time to eat, Venerable Bróen,’ he coaxed.
The old man peered round in bewilderment for a moment. ‘Is it time to eat? Very well. We must all go to the refectorium to eat, must we not. Come on, then. Time to eat.’
Brother Gáeth gave them an apologetic smile and led the old man away.
There seemed an uneasy quiet in the dining hall that evening. Now and then they were conscious of surreptitious glances from the brethren. The atmosphere infected them and they exchanged little by way of conversation themselves. Afterwards, the three of them walked several times round the quadrangle of the abbey as a means of digesting their food. Fidelma ran over her conversations with the physician, who once again had not come to the evening meal in the refectorium, and with the boy. There was little to be commented on and Fidelma reminded them that she wanted to visit the fortress of Lady Eithne in order to ask her a few more questions. Eadulf assured her that he was fit enough to accompany her if she wanted to make the journey in the morning. Gormán was also enthusiastic. He was finding the stay in the abbey uninteresting and dull. It was agreed that they would make the journey in the morning.
A gentle tapping on her door woke Fidelma. It was still dark and she had the feeling that she had not long been asleep.
She frowned and swung out of the bed. She drew on her robe, thankful of the full moon which lit her chamber and saved the trouble of trying to light the candle.
‘All right, Eadulf …’ She began pulling open the door, for she expected no one else to arouse her at such a time.
Abbot Iarnla stood outside, one hand holding a lantern while the other seemed to be vainly attempting to shield its light.
Fidelma stared at him in astonishment.
‘My apologies, Sister Fidelma.’ The abbot was whispering. ‘I need to talk to you urgently and without prying ears. That is why I have waited until the community are asleep.’
Fidelma held open the door without speaking and the abbot passed in. She peered out into the darkness of the passage but could see nothing, so she shut the door. She went to the solitary chair in the room over which she had hung her clothes picked them up and laid them on the end of the bed. She motioned for the elderly abbot to sit. He did so, placing his lantern carefully on the table. Fidelma then sat on the edge of the bed and waited expectantly.
‘I want you to know that I am not a fool, Fidelma,’ he began.
‘I did not think you were, Abbot Iarnla,’ she replied. ‘As you told me the other day, you have been a member of this community for thirty years and more, and abbot for a large part of that time.’
The abbot nodded absently. ‘I know what you and Eadulf must be thinking. Poor Iarnla. He must be in his dotage. He has given up control of the abbey to this young upstart of the Uí Briuin Sinna. Do not deny it. I know many in this abbey, many among the brethren, are thinking the same thoughts.’
Fidelma smiled at him. ‘You are certainly not in your dotage, Abbot Iarnla. But there is a mystery here that needs to be resolved. Why would you give so much power to this young man. He only joined the abbey a few years ago and is so intolerant and fanatical in his beliefs – beliefs that seem out of step with the reputation of Lios Mór.’
The abbot shrugged expressively. ‘I am not so blind as to be unaware how opinionated and dogmatic Brother Lugna is, nor how he is regarded by the brethren.’
‘Then tell me,’ invited Fidelma. ‘Why give him such power?’
‘I did not. He has taken it and I do not know how to extricate myself from the position I am placed in.’
‘You will have to explain that.’
‘When Brother Lugna joined us, as you know, he had spent some years in Rome. He came ashore at Ard Mór, presumably to journey back north to his homeland in Connachta. The road ran by the fortress of Lady Eithne who offered him hospitality on his journey. Her two sons were then on their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. She invited Brother Lugna to stay awhile, eager to hear what such journeys were like. I think she wanted to be given hope for the safe return of her sons.’
‘Understandably,’ conceded Fidelma.
‘Indeed. She seemed enthralled by Brother Lugna, his stories and his ideas. She even suggested that he join our community. He was, at first, a bright and likeable young man. My old steward had been weakened by a bout of the yellow plague. He had survived its worst ravages but he became ill again and died. That was when Brother Lugna, who was initially held in some respect by the brethren as one who had been all those years in Rome, was nominated to fill the office as steward.’
The abbot paused and licked his lips, which had gone dry. Fidelma rose and poured water from a jug by her bedside. The abbot swallowed it in two gulps.
> ‘It was only later that we found that Brother Lugna was in fact sympathetic to some of the extreme sects in Rome. He began to change our native ways and methods of doing things. He even destroyed some of the books in our abbey that he did not agree with.’
‘He is not a tolerant person,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Why didn’t you stand up to him? You could overrule him.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Cannot?’
The old abbot nodded mournfully. ‘He has the full support of Lady Eithne. Everything that Brother Lugna does is deemed to be right by her. In her sons’ absence on pilgrimage, he somehow fulfilled their role for her, and ever since he can do no wrong in her eyes.’
‘How can you stand this? You are the abbot. You have authority.’
‘Do I? You know the law, Fidelma. You know that the chief and the council of the clan on whose land an abbey is built have ultimate say over the fate of the religious community that serves their territory.’
Fidelma knew that in many parts of the country, the lands of the religious communities were still tribal. In several places the abbot was also the chief of the clan or elected in the same manner. The position of abbot and bishop often went through the same family succession. But here, Lady Eithne retained ultimate authority over the community as their chief. It was a curious but not an unusual position.
‘Let me get this right, Abbot Iarnla. Lady Eithne supports Brother Lugna and if you object she threatens the ultimate sanction over the community. Is that it?’
‘The law is the law.’
‘But she can’t strip you of your position as abbot, surely?’
‘No, but she can force the community from these lands or establish a new community under the leadership of Brother Lugna.’
‘Does Abbot Ségdae of Imleach know of this situation?’ Ségdae was also Chief Bishop of Muman. ‘And what of my brother, the King?’
Abbot Iarnla shrugged. ‘The law favours Lady Eithne. I disagree with the way my steward runs the affairs of the community but that is not an argument that carries weight in either the law or in the rules of the religious. They would merely say that in my old age I am fearful of fresh blood and ideas.’
‘And fearful of appealing to my brother and his Chief Bishop?’ Then she paused. ‘Do you suspect these matters have anything to do with Brother Donnchad’s death?’
The abbot’s eyes widened. ‘Heaven forfend! Do you think that when Brother Donnchad returned to the abbey, Brother Lugna thought his position here weakened? That Lady Eithne would reject him in favour of her own son, Brother Donnchad? That Lugna murdered him in order to retain her support?’
‘More terrible things than that have happened,’ Fidelma replied quietly. ‘However, it seems unlikely, for if that is what happened, I would have thought Brother Lugna would have been more subtle about the way he has been conducting himself. Nonetheless, I shall not discount it.’
‘This used to be a place of happiness, even in the latter days of Maolochtair, when the old chieftain had become senile and saw threats lurking in every corner. Today, I walk through the abbey and see these new stone edifices rising but feel it has become a dark, evil and threatening place.’
Fidelma leaned forward and placed a sympathetic hand on the old man’s arm. ‘We will overcome this evil, Abbot Iarnla. Dabit Deus his quoque finem – God will grant an end even to these troubles. I am sure of that. Brother Lugna has tested his strength against mine and found that I am not wanting. I do not think he will be foolish enough to try to block my path in the future. But I will continue to keep a careful watch on him. However, I need to find out more from Lady Eithne. I mean to question her further about Brother Donnchad so tomorrow Eadulf and I, with Gormán, will ride to her fortress and speak to her.’
The abbot rose to his feet and took his lantern.
‘This conversation must remain a secret,’ he said sadly.
‘Don’t worry. Brother Lugna will not hear of it, and nor will Lady Eithne. But I must confide in Eadulf. And at the end of this investigation I shall be duty bound to bring the matter to the attention of my brother and to Abbot Ségdae.’
Abbot Iarnla seemed suddenly very old. ‘I thank you for that, Fidelma. I hate to think such thoughts but it is almost providential that Brother Donnchad’s death provided the means to bring you to Lios Mór so that you can help restore the abbey and its community to happiness once again.’
‘That, indeed, is not a good thought and best forgotten,’ Fidelma replied. ‘By the way, can you confirm my assumption that it was Brother Lugna who brought Glassán to the abbey? Did you know of the builder’s work before he came here?’
‘As far as I was aware, Lady Eithne recommended him. But then, as I have said, she supports Brother Lugna’s choices in all things,’ replied Abbot Iarnla with a frown. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘Nothing that is relevant as yet,’ Fidelma returned. She rose and went to the door, opened it quietly and peered outside. The passage was still dark and silent. There was no one about. She stood aside and without another word the abbot went out, shielding his lantern before him. For a moment Fidelma was left in darkness and then the moon raced out from behind a cloud, leaving her with light to shut the door and return to her bed.
Automatically, she picked up the bundle of clothes and returned them to the back of the chair and then sat down on the bed. She sat there for a long time, turning over in her mind what the abbot had said. Sleep took her unaware and the next thing she knew, the light that shone through the window was the rising sun and not the pale light of the moon.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
An Dún, the fortress of Lady Eithne, lay no more than two kilometres due east of Lios Mór, overlooking the main road from Cashel where it forded An Abhainn Mór, The Great River. It had been built in ancient times to guard the roadway. Fidelma had passed it many times but had never visited it. All she had ever known of Lady Eithne was that she was very pious, a staunch upholder of the Faith, as befitted the mother of two sons who had become scholars of reputation at Lios Mór. The fortress lay a little way south of the river crossing, on a dominant hill. The track from Lios Mór ran through cultivated lands that belonged to the abbey, just north of a series of hills, to join Rian Bó Pádraig. The hills were no more than rounded hummocks, on which some ancient mounds, like carbuncles, rose. The fortress dominated. Its walls were imposing, a mixture of wood and stone.
Gormán, riding behind them, drew Fidelma’s attention to the dark silhouettes of several figures on top of the fortress walls.
‘There are many warriors there,’ he observed. ‘I thought this lady was more given to religion than to war.’
‘There does seem more than the usual number of bodyguards a chieftain is entitled to,’ agreed Fidelma, looking towards the figures.
They had just turned up an incline where the track formed an avenue between yew trees, leading towards the great wooden gates of the fortress, when a harsh voice called on them to halt. A moment later a heavily armed warrior stepped from behind the cover of some trees. His sword was drawn and he examined them in a professional manner. His eyes came to rest on Gormán.
‘Disarm yourself and dismount, warrior,’ he snapped in an accent that they did not recognise.
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel, come to speak with Lady Eithne,’ Fidelma said sharply, edging her horse forward.
The man looked at her closely, and saw the torc emblem she was wearing round her neck.
‘You and your religious companion may go on up, lady,’ he said with more respect, ‘but I am under orders not to allow any strange warriors beyond this point.’
‘This man is no strange warrior. He wears the insignia of the Nasc Niadh, the King’s bodyguard, and has the King’s authority. Where I go, he goes,’ Fidelma replied firmly.
‘I have my orders, lady,’ he said awkwardly.
‘From your accent, I take it you are a stranger to this land.’
‘I am a Briton in the employ of Lady Eithne,’ the man
said defensively.
‘A mercenary?’ sneered Gormán.
‘My sword is bought by Lady Eithne,’ admitted the man. ‘She has the right to be apprehensive for her security. Her son has been murdered. To the south are the Uí Liathán and to the west are the Fir Maige Féne. She trusts neither clan. Even to the east, among her own people, the Déisi, there are some chiefs who cast envious eyes on this territory.’
‘Are you telling me that Lady Eithne has been threatened from these sources and needs mercenaries from a strange land to defend her?’ Fidelma frowned.
‘It is not for me to say. I obey her orders.’
‘Well, here is an order. I am sister to the King of Muman, a dálaigh of the courts. I order you to let me pass to the fortress with my companions. Is this order understood?’
The man looked as if he would argue for a moment. Gormán’s hand was already on his sword hilt, his body tensed. Then the opposing warrior shrugged as if the matter were no longer of concern to him. He stood back and they proceeded at a walking pace until they came to the closed gates of the fortress.
They were uncomfortably aware of archers on the ramparts above them, with bows unslung, ready to be drawn. The dark oak gates of the fortress were forbidding. Gormán looked up at the figures on the wall and shouted, ‘This is Fidelma of Cashel who comes to speak with Lady Eithne.’
There was movement and the sound of a whispered exchange above them. Then a voice replied, ‘Wait.’
It seemed an eternity before they heard the noise of large wooden bolts being slid back. Then one of the gates creaked and moved. It swung open with a rasp of its hinges and another warrior appeared and gestured for them to enter. As they halted in the inner courtyard, they saw several warriors on either side with bows in their hands. The gate swung shut behind them with a crash. Then a warrior, who seemed in command, approached.
‘The Lady Eithne will see you and Brother Eadulf,’ he told Fidelma. ‘But my lady says nothing of the warrior. He must await you here.’
Fidelma slid from her horse and glanced apologetically at Gormán.
Chalice of Blood Page 19
