Chalice of Blood

by Peter Tremayne

  Fidelma, Eadulf and Gormán joined them and glanced about, wondering if Saor and his builders were going to ignore the master builder’s funeral entirely. Belatedly they appeared at the gates of the abbey with Saor at their head. They seemed reluctant as they lined up behind the bier, carried by four of the brethren. Abbot Iarnla took his place at the head of the procession. In spite of the tensions they had observed among the brethren, they found most of the leading members of the community were there. Brother Lugna, Brother Seachlann, Brother Donnán. Brother Máel Eoin, Brother Echen and even the smith Brother Giolla-na-Naomh were in attendance.

  Abbot Iarnla held up his staff of office and turned towards them. He raised his voice to call the traditional instruction: ‘The fé has been measured, we will proceed.’

  The fé was a measuring rod for a grave. It was regarded almost with horror by ordinary folk and only the gravedigger was allowed to touch it, for it was thought to bring bad luck and death to others.

  The procession moved off with the brethren chanting.

  Hymnum dicat turba fratrum

  Hymnum cantus personet …

  Band of brethren, raise the hymn,

  Let your song the hymn resound …

  The procession guided by those holding high their lanterns, made its way through the abbey gates and turned towards the eastern side of the buildings where the graveyard of the abbey lay between rows of towering yew trees. The gravediggers stood awaiting them. As the voices of the brethren died away with the final verse, they gathered round the hole that had been dug in the ground and lined in the traditional fashion with branches of broom. The fuat was lowered and tipped, and the body slid into the grave. Then one of the gravediggers came forward and smashed the wooden bier and tossed the pieces into the grave. Once a fuat had carried a body to the grave, it could not be used again. Then the gravediggers threw in what was called the strophaiss, the birch branches that always covered the body before the grave was filled.

  There was an expectant silence as the gravediggers stood back. Abbot Iarnla looked round, trying to pick out Saor and his comrades in the semi-darkness.

  ‘Who among you will come forward to speak a few words in honour of Glassán the master builder?’ he asked. ‘Who will sing the écnaire, the song for intercession for the repose of Glassán’s soul?’

  There was a shuffling among them but no one spoke. No one came forward.

  It was Brother Lugna who said coldly, ‘All that should be said was said at the fled cro-lige. Let us proceed.’

  Abbot Iarnla waited a few moments more and then uttered an audible sigh. He raised his voice. ‘This is Glassán, sometime master builder of the abbey of Lios Mór. His work will be his memorial for as long as this abbey stands. May he be granted eternal peace.’ The abbot gave the sign of the Cross and turned to the gravediggers. At his gesture they began to fill in the grave. The brethren waited a moment or two before beginning to move away, back to the abbey, in ones and twos.

  Eadulf found his arm gripped by Fidelma.

  ‘Let’s pause awhile,’ she said softly. ‘Let’s stand in the shelter of those yews behind us.’ She turned to Gormán. ‘I need you to go back to the abbey, don’t do it discreetly. Go to the guesthouse as if you had accompanied us there.’

  Gormán was quick to realise what she wanted.

  Eadulf followed Fidelma into the darkness of the yew trees without anyone apparently noticing them.

  They silently watched the burly gravediggers fill in the grave. They worked rapidly and soon finished their task. Obviously the men had no wish to hang about the cemetery longer than was necessary. Then they were gone.

  ‘Well, that’s that.’ Eadulf turned to Fidelma. ‘There’s nothing else to see here and—’

  He winced as Fidelma struck him on the arm. He was about to protest when a dark shadow emerged in the gloom. The figure was not carrying a lantern, relying on the moonlight that lit the graveyard. It approached the freshly filled grave and stood before it.

  There came a chuckle from the figure. It was a chilling sound.

  ‘Well, Glassán, at last. If you can hear me in the Otherworld, go with the memory that we are finally avenged. Those to whom you did wrong may now finally rest …’

  They could not see the man’s face. Eadulf moved forward with the intention of seizing him and tripped over a root. He went sprawling. Stunned on the wet ground for a moment, he heard Fidelma call on the figure to halt. By the time he picked himself up, the figure had disappeared. Fidelma had given up the chase after a few steps and was returning to him.

  Eadulf rose mumbling an apology for his clumsiness. ‘Did you see who it was?’

  ‘I did not,’ she replied, her voice tight with annoyance. ‘I did not even recognise his voice.’ Then she added, ‘Are you hurt?’

  Eadulf shook his head and then realised it was a futile gesture in the dark. ‘I’m all right,’ he said. I’m sorry, a root—’

  ‘I know,’ she said shortly. ‘We will have to find some other means of identifying the killer. Come on, let’s get back to the abbey before the moon disappears behind the clouds. I don’t have a lantern.’

  ‘At least we know our killer is a man,’ Eadulf said and then realised it was a silly thing to say.

  ‘Then we have a wide choice of suspects,’ Fidelma said wryly. There was no bitterness in her voice.

  A tall shadow emerged from the walls of the abbey. Then a lantern glinted. For a moment they held their breath, only to realise that it was Gormán.

  ‘Are you all right, lady?’ he asked anxiously, holding the lantern high.

  ‘We are so,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Has anyone just come back into the abbey?’

  To her disappointment he replied in the negative.

  ‘No one has come this way and Brother Echen has just closed the gates for the night. So I thought I would come to meet you and guide you in by another way.’

  ‘So there are other ways the killer could gain entrance to the abbey?’ queried Eadulf.

  ‘I will show you.’ Gormán said, setting off along the eastern wall, which formed part of the new stone building where Brother Donnchad and the Venerable Bróen had their chambers. Fidelma recalled that there was a small gap in the wall.

  ‘Did you suspect the killer would come to the obsequies?’ Eadulf said as they squeezed through the gap.

  ‘I suspected the killer could not resist attending the funeral of Glassán,’ she admitted.

  ‘Then you must know who he is, or rather suspect who he is,’ protested Eadulf. ‘Wouldn’t it be best to share that knowledge with me?’

  ‘I still do not have the final link to put all this together,’ she admitted. ‘That is the frustrating thing. I can guess, but guessing is not proof.’

  ‘So where do we do we go from here?’

  ‘I need to have a further word with Lady Eithne. Have the horses ready tomorrow after we break our fast, Gormán. We will ride to her fortress in the morning.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The clouds were piled high and fluffy against the blue expanse of the sky. Fidelma noticed several swallows flying high above them, their long pointed wings, deeply forked tails and acrobatic flight unmistakable. The signs were that the weather was going to be dry and sunny. In fact, it would be another month before the swallows would begin to flock together and disappear en masse towards the south. With Gormán leading, they left the abbey on horseback and began their journey.

  The ride to Lady Eithne’s fortress was a pleasant one. This time, although a few sentinels were still in evidence along the short route, they were not challenged until they reached the gates of An Dún. Even then, they were kept only a few moments before the gates swung open to allow the three of them to enter. Once again, however, it was only Fidelma and Eadulf who were allowed into the great hall to see Lady Eithne.

  ‘Well, lady,’ greeted the tall woman, standing in front of her chair in the great hall, ‘I was told that you had abandoned the abbey.’

&nb
sp; ‘Indeed?’ Fidelma was puzzled. ‘Then you were told falsely.’

  ‘Did you not ride off with Cumscrad of the Fir Maige Féne to investigate some paltry complaint of his and abandon the investigation of my son’s death?’

  ‘No complaint is paltry, lady, when it involves death. Speaking of death, I was surprised that you did not attend the abbey last night.’

  A look of uncertainty appeared on Lady Eithne’s face. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘I speak of the obsequies of your master builder, Glassán.’

  Lady Eithne seemed irritated. ‘Glassán? The master builder of the abbey? Why would I attend the funeral of an artisan?’

  Fidelma was surprised. ‘I thought Glassán was the creator of the memorial to your son.’

  ‘Creator? He was merely a workman and, as such, of no interest to me. The true creator is Brother Lugna.’ Her blue eyes were cold.

  The woman’s indifference chilled Fidelma.

  ‘You feel it is not a matter of concern that the master builder has been killed while working on a project that you are financing?’

  ‘The work of rebuilding the abbey is entirely in the hands of Brother Lugna, as I have explained before,’ Lady Eithne replied distantly. ‘I am not expected to be in communication with the workmen he employed to do it.’

  ‘Did you know that there have been several accidents on the building site? Eadulf was knocked unconscious when a stone fell on the same site.’

  ‘I am told that accidents can happen,’ Lady Eithne replied unemotionally. ‘Is this why you came here, to find out why I was not at this workman’s funeral?’

  ‘We came to clear up a few matters which I believe are related. You told us that the rebuilding of the abbey was meant as a memorial to your son, Donnchad.’

  ‘I did. It is.’

  ‘But the rebuilding started three years ago,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘Did you not expect Donnchad to return from his pilgrimage when you commissioned Brother Lugna to start the rebuilding?’

  Lady Eithne uttered a sound like a hiss. ‘It is a lucky thing you are a guest in my house, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham.’ There was ice in her voice.

  ‘What Eadulf meant was that you could not have started out with the intention of rebuilding the abbey in honour of your son,’ intervened Fidelma quickly. ‘You will forgive him for his clumsy use of our language.’ She knew that Eadulf spoke the language almost perfectly. But Fidelma shared his curiosity about the timing of the idea of creating the abbey as a memorial to her son.

  Lady Eithne appeared slightly mollified. ‘The decision to rebuild the abbey was made before the return of my son,’ she said tightly. ‘That poor Donnchad died merely made me decide to dedicate the rebuilding to his honour.’

  ‘It is thought among the brethren that the idea for rebuilding came from Brother Lugna,’ Eadulf suggested, unabashed by her previous rebuke.

  ‘It may well have been,’ she admitted coldly. ‘Brother Lugna is such a clever and far-sighted young man. Needless to say, I am totally in agreement with his ideas.’

  ‘I am curious as to why you did not negotiate the idea with Abbot Iarnla?’ Fidelma made the sentence into a question.

  ‘Abbot Iarnla has been a long time at the abbey and he is conservative in his outlook. I have already tried to suggest this to you. He would be happy if all things remained exactly the way they are or, rather, were. He has shown himself jealous of Lugna and his ideas. Indeed, my ideas. I would like to see, before I die, a great complex of buildings rising at Lios Mór as a beacon to the Faith, not just here but throughout Christendom. I am sure that your brother, the King, would approve of such tribute in stone to the Faith in his kingdom. A tribute that will last for all time.’

  ‘Nihil aeternum est, nothing lasts forever,’ came unbidden to Eadulf’s lips before he could stop himself from uttering it.

  The Lady Eithne turned to him with a disapproving scowl. ‘You disappoint me, Brother Eadulf. I would not expect such a philosophy from a man of your cloth. The one thing that will endure is the Faith and this will be its greatest physical memorial. I am determined upon it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Fidelma said hurriedly, with a frown of warning at Eadulf. ‘The buildings of Lios Mór are beginning to look impressive.’

  ‘Brother Lugna has been a great asset to the abbey. In a few years from now, everyone will be speaking of the greatness of Lios Mór. I feel humbled that I have been able to play a part in its creation.’

  ‘You have been and are most generous to the abbey,’ agreed Fidelma.

  ‘Is it not an edict from the Council of Nicaea that places of worship to the Faith should be built wherever possible?’

  ‘I think that was meant as—’

  ‘Indeed, lady, Lios Mór owes you much,’ Fidelma cut across Eadulf. Lady Eithne did not appear to notice.

  ‘I simply follow the teachings of Brother Lugna,’ Lady Eithne said. ‘He says that the Blessed Timothy taught that the rich should give generously to the Faith and in that way they will build themselves a good foundation in heaven.’

  Once again, Fidelma shot Eadulf a warning glance before he could attempt to correct her interpretation of the writings of Timothy of Ephesus.

  ‘It seems that you are lucky to have Brother Lugna to guide you in these matters,’ she observed drily.

  ‘Indeed, I am. For he has brought a refreshing wind from Rome. Here, we have fallen into lax and immoral ways. Under his abbacy, new rules will clear away all that is corrupt at Lios Mór.’

  ‘Under his abbacy?’ queried Eadulf.

  ‘Abbot Iarnla, as I have said, is old and set in his ways. He must move with the times and give way to Brother Lugna soon.’

  ‘I am sure that you take pride in seeing the development of the abbey. Your generosity must be appreciated by the brethren,’ Fidelma went on before Eadulf could say more.

  ‘I contribute what little I can.’

  ‘I am told that you were always of a kind and generous nature.’

  Lady Eithne frowned uncertainly. ‘I have always tried to keep to the rules of the Faith and raise my two sons to praise the Lord and do His great works.’

  ‘I was thinking of Brother Gáeth.’

  ‘Brother Gáeth?’ She blinked in surprise. ‘What has he to do … ?’ Then she smiled sadly. ‘A poor creature. My husband had more to do with him than I did. He came as a refugee with his father and mother. Our Brehon advised us that we could give sanctuary but not freedom and so they became daer-fudir on our land.’

  ‘There was no question that the father, Selbach I think his name was, was unjustly sentenced of the crime of which he was accused?’

  ‘Not at all. The Uí Liatháin made representations to retrieve Selbach from our jurisdiction and presented testimony as to how Selbach killed the chief of the Uí Liatháin by stealth. We gave them assurances that Selbach and his family would remain as daer-fudir on our land and they went away, not happy but satisfied that Selbach would not trouble them any more.’

  ‘And Gáeth was raised on your estate?’

  ‘He was a field worker, that is all.’

  ‘He was a friend of Donnchad, I’m told.’

  She laughed derisively. ‘Friend is not the word I would use. As a child Gáeth used to run after both my sons although it was Donnchad who showed him more kindness and compassion than Cathal.’

  ‘I thought he became Donnchad’s soul friend?’

  ‘A matter which I thoroughly disapproved of. Even Abbot Iarna tried to persuade Donnchad to choose someone else.’

  ‘Yet you allowed Gáeth to go with your sons to join the brethren in the abbey.’

  ‘My weakness is that I indulged my sons, particularly my younger son, Donnchad. He pleaded with me and so I agreed. It was part of Donnchad’s kindness, to keep the poor simpleton happy.’

  ‘Surely he is no simpleton,’ reproved Eadulf, realising that she was not the first person to use the word in connection with Gáeth.

  ‘If not a simpleton
, than a cunning young creature,’ she sniffed in reply. ‘He was much like his father, Selbach, and doubtless will end up the same way.’

  ‘And was that why you instructed Abbot Iarnla to ensure, if he granted him the right to join the breathren, that he remained as a daer-fudir within the community?’

  Lady Eithne smiled. ‘The law is clear. Not until the third generation of the family of a daer-fudir can freedom be achieved. The Uí Liatháin made the judgement and we had to follow it. Abbot Iarnla agreed to the condition. When Donnchad returned from his pilgrimage, his sense of generous kindliness had altered and thankfully he realised that Gáeth could not be treated as anyone special.’

  ‘You do not like Gáeth?’ Fidelma put the question softly.

  ‘Not like him? Why should I feel anything at all about him? He was just a field worker. I cannot be expected to like or dislike those who are nothing to me.’

  ‘Yet Gáeth grew up with your sons and your son Donnchad believed him to be his friend,’ Eadulf pointed out.

  ‘I believe that in my stables there is an old workhorse who grew up with my sons,’ replied the lady in a cutting tone. ‘Am I suppose to like the horse too? It is just a horse.’

  Fidelma rose to her feet. ‘We have troubled you long enough, Lady Eithne,’ she said decisively, glancing at Eadulf who also rose. ‘We thank you for your time and your hospitality.’

  Lady Eithne raised a hand and beckoned to one of her attendants who had stood quietly in the background awaiting her orders. The man came forward.

  ‘My steward will see you out,’ she said. ‘I hope you find the culprit. When you return to Cashel, remember me to your brother, the King, and tell him something of the great work being done here at Lios Mór.’