It was clear that the steward was more upset at the demand for wages than by the death of the master builder.
‘Can you continue the work here without a master builder?’ Eadulf asked.
‘There is always someone who can take over,’ replied the steward immediately. ‘I am sure that Saor is qualified but he seems to agree with the workers. It is not that there is no one suitable; the problem is the stupid superstition of these country people. If this abbey were operating under the Penitentials, I would have every man of them flogged until they undertook the work with enthusiasm.’
He spoke with such vehemence that Eadulf could not disguise the distaste he felt. Like the Roman law they originated from, the rules of the Penitentials were based on physical punishment, bodily mortification and ritual maiming which even included the removal of limbs of those found guilty of breaking the rules. The discipline was completely at odds with the spirit and nature of the native Law of the Fénechus. Eadulf knew that Fidelma regarded them in abhorrence in those few abbeys where zealots of the Faith had managed to introduce them. Usually, they went with those communities of single sex where the rule of celibacy had been enforced. Eadulf shivered slightly. He had come to appreciate the Fénechus laws as being more humane and progressive, based on compensation for the victim and rehabilitation for the perpetrator. Physical punishment was simply bloodthirsty vengeance.
Brother Lugna regarded Eadulf’s look of disgust with an arrogant expression of pity.
‘One day all members of the Faith will fear God and the Penitentials,’ the steward added. ‘There is too much laxity in this land …’ He paused. ‘Fear is a great persuader, Brother Eadulf. How else can I get them back to work when it is fear that now causes them to run away? Confronted by superstitious fear, one must offer a greater fear.’
Fidelma shook her head. ‘I will reason with Saor and his men. Not to keep them at work but because they must remain here until my investigations are complete.’
‘I doubt whether Saor will listen to you. Anyway, I must go to inform the abbot. He seems to be in a state of panic about everything, as usual.’
‘Glassán was legally required to present you with a list of his workers. Did he do so?’
‘Of course. And if these men march off now, I shall consider the contract with the abbey broken and I shall not pay them.’
‘Really?’ she said quickly. ‘Wasn’t the contract with Glassán to employ the men he thought fit?’
‘I paid them individually on behalf of the abbey. I did not trust Glassán to resist helping himself to a little extra.’
Fidelma regarded the steward thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Well, Brother Lugna, I think I know an argument that will persuade these men to stay.’
Gormán joined Fidelma and Eadulf as she led the way determinedly through the gates of the abbey and towards the scattered collection of wicker and wattle cabins, called bothan, that the workmen lived in. As they approached there were signs of men moving about, collecting their belongings. A couple noticed their approach, stood still and fell silent.
‘Where is Saor?’ Fidelma asked the nearest man.
She received a shrug in response but after a moment or two the carpenter appeared from one of the huts. He did not meet her eyes but came forward, head down. ‘The men have made up their minds, Sister. We have had enough of this accursed site.’ Then he glanced at Eadulf. ‘I am surprised that you are still here after your life was nearly taken. This is not normal. There are forces at work here that we cannot oppose. Dark forces. Lives have been taken. We cannot stand against evil.’
There was a muttering of assent among the men who had gathered round them to hear what Fidelma had to say.
‘On the contrary,’ Fidelma raised her voice above the hubbub, ‘the forces at work here are man-made and if you run away then whoever did this killing might be among you and you are providing them with an opportunity to escape justice.’
Saor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you accuse one of us? Why would we kill our own master builder? This does not make sense.’
‘All things make sense once the causes are known,’ replied Fidelma. ‘I am requesting that every one of you remain here until the truth is known.’
Saor shook his head. ‘The men and I have had enough, Sister. Brother Lugna must pay what he owes and allow us to depart.’
‘If you all walk away now then it will be you who are breaking the contract and you will have to go to arbitration over your payment. The abbey does not have to pay you if you break your contract. For once, I have to agree with the steward.’
This caused an angry muttering among some of the workmen. Gormán slid his hand to his sword hilt and eased his balance slightly. It was not a threatening movement but enough to remind them of his presence. Saor, however, was not persuaded by Fidelma’s argument.
‘Our contracts were with the master builder who is dead,’ he said. ‘So perhaps they are already terminated. The steward insisted on paying us individually, for he likes exercising power. But Glassán employed us. The abbey can’t refuse what is due to us.’
‘You speak like a lawyer, Saor,’ interposed Eadulf.
The carpenter thrust out his jaw aggressively. ‘I am no lawyer. But I say this job is over.’
This brought a protest from one of the men near him.
‘Perhaps the sister is right. We have wives and children to feed and if we walk away now we shall not be paid. Arbitration will take a long time.’
Saor swung round to him. ‘There have been too many accidents on this site. It is not a safe place, and now that Glassán is dead, there is no one to speak for us.’
‘You are the assistant, you are now responsible,’ replied one of the men.
‘And I tell you, I am leaving,’ replied Saor grimly. ‘I have no wish to be associated with—’
‘I suggest that you all stay here so that this matter may be sorted out,’ Fidelma interrupted. ‘The events that led to Glassán’s death will soon be made clear. When it is, his contract with this abbey will be renegotiated so that you may come or go as you will and with the payment you are owed. There seems to be some disagreement among you as to whether you will remain …’
Saor replied: ‘There is no disagreement, Sister. We will go with or without the money for we have no wish to remain.’
Some of the men looked doubtful but none spoke.
‘Very well.’ Fidelma was clearly exasperated. ‘You seem to be rejecting my suggestion. Now I make it an order.’
Saor looked at her. ‘An order?’ His surprised dissolved into humour and he gave a short bark of laughter. ‘What right do you have to give us orders?’
Fidelma regarded him with a long, cool look.
‘Some of you know that I came to this abbey to investigate the death of Brother Donnchad,’ she said firmly. ‘You know that I am a dálaigh, a member of the Brehon courts, qualified to the level of anruth. Even the High King must respect my decisions.’
A nervous silence fell.
She glanced towards Gormán. ‘The emblem this warrior wears proclaims him to be of the Nasc Niadh, bodyguards to the King of Muman. Know you further,’ went on Fidelma, speaking in a deliberate tone, ‘that I am Fidelma of Cashel, sister of your King, Colgú mac Failbe Flann. Someone has been killed here and I declare that you are all legal witnesses. You will remain here until this matter has been resolved or face the fine for contempt of the authority of the Law of the Fénechus.’
Saor regarded her, surprise and bewilderment crossing his features.
‘You can’t do that,’ he said but there was uncertainty in his voice.
‘But I can. Under the terms of the texts of the Berrad Airechta, I formally name you all as fiadu, witnesses. You are all called as witnesses and your drach, the legal term of your security to appear when called, will be your honour price. If any of you fail to appear when I call you, you will forfeit your honour price.’
Saor was shaking his head. ‘You can’t do that,’ he repeat
ed but he had no conviction in his voice.
‘Try me,’ Fidelma smiled grimly. ‘Glassán handed a list of your names to the steward of the abbey, as the law requires, so do not think you are not known. If you do not report on the day I fix for the hearing of this matter, you will be hunted down by the King’s warriors and forcibly brought before a Brehon who will strip you of your honour price.’
The men stood in silence and then one of them spoke up.
‘We will stay, then.’
‘That is good,’ returned Fidelma with ill-concealed irony. ‘Do not think that I wish you to remain against your will as a mere whim. The law can be hard but it is the law.’ She paused, to let her words settle, then went on, ‘I understand the physician is preparing the body of your master builder for burial at midnight. I presume some of you will be going to the aire.’
There was a shuffling among the men and no one replied.
Fidelma hesitated and said, ‘That is your choice. Some might say that workers who do not respect their master builder in death could not have had any respect for him in life.’
She turned with Eadulf and they began to make their way back to the abbey. Gormán waited a moment or two, hand still on his sword hilt, before he followed.
‘A miserable lot,’ he said pleasantly as he caught up with them. ‘They don’t seem too keen on their employer.’
‘Perhaps they have their reasons,’ replied Fidelma drily. ‘Someone certainly had reason enough to kill him.’
‘I just can’t see the connection between Glassán and Donnchad because the two murders must be linked,’ Eadulf commented.
‘Maybe we are looking for a connection in the wrong place,’ she replied. ‘And speaking of looking, let us return to our search in Glassán’s cubiculum. There is no need for you to come, Gormán, but stay close, we may have need of you.’
They did not meet anyone on their way to the tech-oíged. Not even the hosteller, Brother Máel Eoin. They knew Glassán had occupied a cubiculum at the far end of the oblong building which they also shared. The hostel was quite deserted as they entered.
Glassán’s room was almost featureless; the furnishings were sparse. If Glassán had occupied the place for nearly three years then he had not believed in many personal touches.
A crucifix alone decorated one wall of greying wattle and daub plaster. A bed, a table, a chair, and a trunk comprised the furnishing. The blanket on the bed was folded untidily. A few changes of clothes were hung in a corner, and two pairs of sturdy leather shoes of the type a builder would wear were on the floor in a corner. A couple of amphorae stood by the wall and the smell of stale wine came from them but they were both empty. A lantern, some candles and stubs, and a tinderbox were on top of the trunk. On the table were rolls of papyrus filled with lists, columns of figures and plans.
‘The designs for the new buildings,’ Eadulf announced after glancing at them.
‘Check them through, Eadulf, just in case there is anything there of interest,’ Fidelma replied, turning her attention to the trunk and beginning to remove the candles and items on top of it. Then she tried to open it. It was locked.
‘Did you see if Glassán had a key on his body?’ she asked.
Eadulf looked up from the papers and shook his head. ‘He had nothing in which to carry a key or anything like that.’
Fidelma glanced round the room. She went to the head of the small bed and lifted the pillow. Then she bent and pulled back the straw mattress. Two keys lay there and a purse. ‘Predictable,’ she muttered. She returned to the trunk. It was clear that one of the keys was intended for it.
At first she thought there were just a few clothes in it and more building plans. Then she saw several leather bags at the bottom of the trunk. They were filled with gold and silver coins. Eadulf came to stand at her shoulder and gazed down with a soft whistle.
‘Is it his own money, do you think, or money to pay his workers?’ he asked.
‘Brother Lugna paid the workers, not Glassán. This is his own money and he acquired a tidy sum.’
She counted three leather bags and, while each could be balanced in the palm of a hand, they were heavy. Then she took out a small scroll, tied with a coloured ribbon. She untied it and smoothed it out. Eadulf could see it was written in the language of the Five Kingdoms and headed Cendaite Glassán.
‘Glassán’s will?’ he hazarded. The words were mostly unfamiliar, but he knew that there were three ancient words for a will.
Fidelma nodded and began to read.
‘In the presence of the Brehon Lurg of the Uí Briuin Sinna, I, Glassán, originally of the Uí Dego of Ferna, declare myself a sinner before Christ. Being a sinner and exile, I am an outcast without kith or ken, with neither wife nor children to sustain me. Should I die with only a few items to redeem me, I declare that my farm in the country of the Uí Briuin Sinna will return to the chief of that people who gave me succour in exile. I rely on him to dispose of the claims of my clients and tenants as he sees fit. I have one boy in fosterage and if I die before he reaches the age of maturity and becomes qualified, the full fees of this fosterage shall be returned to his father, as is the law. Further, I deem that he be given, out of the funds I have acquired, his father’s honour price so that he may be placed in another fosterer’s care to achieve the qualifications necessary to become a master builder. I will die truly repenting all the ills that I have done in my life, the sins that I have committed by thoughtlessness and neglect. Ego contra erravi, ignosco mihi, quaeso!’
Peering over her shoulder, Eadulf grunted with derision.
‘I suspect that bit of bad Latin expressing his guilt and asking for forgiveness was put in by the Brehon who drew up the will. I don’t think Glassán knew much Latin.’
‘Even so, Glassán was admitting his responsibility for his past and at least he was thoughtful enough to make provision for young Gúasach. He was not entirely a bad man.’
‘I suppose not,’ Eadulf admitted reluctantly. ‘What happens now? I mean to the young boy.’
‘The will and the boy, with these bags of money and Glassán’s belongings, will be returned to Brehon Lurg in Connachta.’
‘What are you doing here?’ The voice of Brother Lugna cut suddenly into the chamber. They had not noticed him standing in the doorway.
Fidelma was unperturbed as she glanced up to look at him.
‘Glassán died in suspicious circumstances,’ she replied, rising to her feet. ‘It is my right to investigate anything that might cast a light on the circumstances of his death.’
‘You came here to investigate Brother Donnchad’s death, not that of Glassán,’ the steward protested.
‘As a dálaigh it is in my power to investigate anything I consider relevant. You should know that. The master builder’s will is here, with money and possessions that belonged to him. I shall have them sealed in this trunk and removed to my room so that, when the time comes, it will be sent back to Connachta with the boy Gúasach. The will mentions that the boy is a beneficiary.’
Brother Lugna swallowed hard. He was clearly not happy that they had beaten him to an examination of the chamber.
‘I suppose you are within your rights,’ he admitted reluctantly.
‘You may well suppose it,’ Fidelma answered acidly. She stood looking at him.
‘I came to ensure that his belongings were safe,’ muttered the steward, dropping his eyes.
‘They are safe enough.’
‘The body has been transferred to the chapel and will be watched there until midnight when the clog-estechtae, the death bell, will sound and the members of the community will accompany the corpse to the funeral place,’ the steward went on gruffly. ‘He was not a member of our community, nor does he have blood family among us. So only two members of the brethren will bear witness at the aire in the chapel. Our evening meal must serve as the fled cro-lige, the feast of the deathbed.’
Fidelma inclined her head. ‘We will be attending, Brother Lugna,’
she said gravely.
He hesitated, made as if to say something, and then dropped his gaze, turned and left.
‘He looks disappointed,’ murmured Eadulf. ‘Do you think …’ He gestured with his head towards the bags of coin.
‘Help me pack these things up,’ Fidelma instructed, not answering his unfinished question. ‘We’ll move them into your room.’
Eadulf frowned. ‘But you said you were putting them in your room.’
Fidelma gave one of her rare, mischievous grins. ‘I did, didn’t I? Well, just in case …’
Eadulf sighed and moved forward to help her with the trunk.
Two members of the community sat silently in the chapel by the corpse for the traditional watching of the body, the aire. The only movement was the flickering of the candles at the head and feet of the body as it lay on the wooden board that was the fuat, the bier, on which the corpse would soon be carried to the graveyard. The silence was unusual. There was none of the laithina canti, the lamentations, the clapping of hands or cries of despair that would normally mark the aire. Many members of the new Faith objected to these customs, which had survived from ancient times. Abbot Iarnla and Brother Lugna spent only a short time in the chapel to show their respect. Brother Donnán accompanied young Gúasach, who as foster-son was naturally expected to attend. But there was no sign of Saor or any of the builders when Fidelma and Eadulf entered to pay their respects in accordance with protocol. Gormán hovered at a discreet distance, keeping in the background.
That night, at the evening meal, the abbot made mention of the master builder in the opening prayers. As Brother Lugna had designated the evening meal the ‘feast of the deathbed’, he gave a short tribute to Glassán’s work at the abbey. No one else came forward to praise the master builder or lament his passing. Once again, Fidelma and Eadulf, noticed that Saor and his fellow workmen did not attend. She had been expecting that Lady Eithne might have come to pay her respects as she was the moving force behind the rebuilding of the abbey.
Just before midnight, the clog estechtae, the death bell, was sounded, its solemn tones echoing through the abbey. The brethren gathered in the quadrangle as the corpse was carried out of the chapel on the fuat, wrapped in the white racholl, or winding sheet. Several members of the community carried lanterns, lighting the scene with an eerie, flickering half-light which caused grotesque shadows to jump this way and that.
Chalice of Blood Page 27
