‘I am instructed that Abbot Síoda will see you, Fidelma of Cashel, but your companions will remain here.’
‘You cannot leave them outside in this intemperate weather,’ Fidelma protested, for it had started to rain again; a light sprinkling but with the ominous thundery threat of increasing in strength.
The gatekeeper put his head on one side as if considering the matter. Then he shrugged. ‘They may enter the courtyard and shelter in the stable. The abbot will see only you, Fidelma of Cashel.’
Fidelma gave her companions an apologetic shrug and they entered through the forbidding gates into what had all the hallmarks of a military courtyard. Apart from the gatekeeper, the only other person in sight was a burly smith, stoking a charcoal fire on one side of this square. Next to him were the open doors of a stable in which they saw several horses. The surprise, apart from the fact that it was not usual to find religious communities with accommodation for horses, was the quality of the beasts themselves. Fidelma’s practised eye saw that these were well-bred animals of the type that warriors might use. Then she recalled how Torcán had mentioned the fact that Abbot Síoda, as chieftain of his clan as well, employed mercenaries.
They dismounted in the courtyard while the aistreóir closed and barred the gates behind them. Fidelma handed the reins of her horse to Eadulf and whispered in his own language: ‘Find out what you can from the smith about this place. Observe and learn as much as possible.’ She did not speak his tongue very well but hoped the word geahsian conveyed the idea of finding out, discovering and learning. Eadulf smiled and nodded as he caught the idea.
The gatekeeper rejoined them and pointed to the stable entrance.
‘You will take shelter there,’ he ordered Eadulf and Aidan in peremptory fashion before turning to Fidelma and gesturing for her to follow him through a smaller gate. This led from the entrance courtyard to another enclosed courtyard and then through an arch, along a short passage into yet another tiny courtyard. At the end of this was a stone building with a flight of steps leading up to a wooden door. Fidelma tried to work out the length of time between the gatekeeper’s disappearances from the wall to come here to check whether the abbot would see her. He must surely have run in both directions to do so.
The gatekeeper now paused before the door at the top of the stairway and knocked loudly. A voice called and he opened the door to announce in a reverential tone: ‘The dálaigh from Cashel.’ He stood aside and motioned her forward.
She walked into a room which was large, with a high ceiling. She immediately felt that she was entering a library. Had the weather been more clement, the many windows would have allowed a bright southern light to illuminate it. They would encompass the traverse of the sun from east to west. With the stormclouds and rain, the light had to be helped by a series of tall tallow candles placed at strategic points in the room. For a moment Fidelma caught her breath – for the room was permeated with a fragrance as if emanating from incense burners. It was the scent of lavender. Then she realised that her first impression was correct and that the room did indeed appear to serve as a techscreptra or scriptorium, for there were racks with book satchels, tiag luibhair, along one side. It was obvious that the community had many books hung in their leather pouches. There was a desk and chair on which writing materials were placed, such as pens, the horn called adicín that was used to contain ink, and pieces of vellum and parchment as well as the wax tablets for making notes called taibhli filidh or ‘tablets of the poets’. The wax could be softened and smoothed after use so the tablets could be used time and again.
There was an impatient dry cough and Fidelma reluctantly drew her attention away from the section of the room that was the library and found a man seated at a desk on the far side of the room. From what she had been told, she had expected Abbot Síoda to be some thin-faced fanatic, much like the gatekeeper. Instead, a young man sat behind the desk, examining her with an amused expression; he had blue eyes, auburn hair and fair skin with ruddy features – yet with no tonsure to mark his calling. Over his black-dyed robes hung a silver chain with a pendant worked in the form of the Tau-Rho symbol, which she was coming to recognise easily.
He made no effort to rise nor did he gesture for her to be seated.
‘I am told that you are a dálaigh and need to speak to me on a matter of law,’ he said in a modulated tone.
She moved forward – and as she did so, she saw his eyes drop to a leather-bound book on the desk before him. His quick move, covering it with some loose papyrus on which he had been making notes, was done so skilfully that it would have taken a less observant person than Fidelma not to notice the embellishments on the polished covering. Her time in Rome had alerted her to the seal of Vitalian, the Bishop of Rome, and her knowledge of Latin was such that the words, though quickly concealed, were easily recognised. Non videbunt: habere occultum. None shall see: keep secret.
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’ Fidelma introduced herself in a confident tone, recovering from the moment as if nothing had happened. ‘My brother is Colgú, King of Muman, whom I advise regarding legal matters. I am told you are called Síoda and are the Abbot of this community?’
The corner of the young man’s mouth twitched, whether in humour or irritation it was hard to discern, but she did not allow him time to respond.
‘I apologise for the delay in greeting you,’ she began. ‘I was momentarily impressed by your library.’ She indicated the books behind her. ‘As I find you seated here, do I presume that you also undertake the task of being the keeper of the books?’
‘I am Abbot Síoda,’ the young man confirmed. ‘We do have an eminent keeper of our books in Brother Gébennach, who has recently joined us. A knowledgeable man and much travelled, collecting materials for this library. We have been fortunate that he has decided to join us here. However, you say that you are adviser to the King of Muman on legal matters. But I thought that the Chief Brehon of the kingdom was one called Fíthel?’
‘I did not claim to be Chief Brehon. How could I, when I am but a dálaigh? As I say, I advise my brother, the King.’
‘I live a secluded life here, Fidelma of Cashel, so you will forgive me when I point out that I do not have sufficient knowledge in law to engage in any meaningful discussion.’
‘If that is so, then let our conversation be brief,’ she replied solemnly. Then, glancing nearby, she took a chair and seated herself. ‘It seems strange that one as youthful as yourself is both Abbot and chieftain of your clan.’
The young man shrugged. ‘Strange, but not unknown. The Sítae are only a small clan. We do not number enough to be noticed by anyone, nor do we bother anyone. I was raised in this community by my father, who was Abbot before me. The abbey is devoted primarily to inward contemplation and research into the origins of our Faith. Hence this library. I have only been outside this kingdom once, and that was recently with Brother Tadhg, on a pilgrimage to Rome.’
‘Brother Tadhg?’
‘My gatekeeper who is, perhaps, overly zealous in his protection of my desire for isolation.’
‘We share the experience of visiting that city of Rome for I was there several years ago.’
‘My visit was more recent, as I say. Frankly, I was disappointed in what I found there. But that is not what you have come to ask questions about.’
Fidelma raised a shoulder imperceptibly and let it fall. ‘Just forgive my curiosity. Is this place a conhospitae, a mixed house? Was your mother a member of this community?’
‘There are several woman devotees here, and their children, like me, are all raised in the service of our Faith. My mother was one such who came to our community from an adjacent clan. She died six years ago during the devastation of the Yellow Plague. We lost many of our community at that time. Anyway, I am told that you have demanded to speak to me on the authority of your office in law. Why?’
‘Brother Tadhg was inclined to ignore this authority,’ Fidelma told the Abbot. ‘I therefore had to enforce my offic
e to demand entrance.’
For the first time, the young abbot almost gave way to a broad grin. ‘Brother Tadhg is a proud man and conscious of his position as gatekeeper and therefore steward of the abbey. He takes his role of protecting my isolation most seriously.’
‘However, he has much to learn of the rights and duties of members of this kingdom and association with the governance of it,’ Fidelma countered. ‘But I understand that he has seen the error of his ways and informed you that I need to discuss certain matters with you.’
Abbot Síoda appeared uncomfortable for a moment. ‘Our scribes do teach that the law is to be respected. Ius est ars boni et aequi.’
Fidelma smiled. ‘Those devoted to justice would subscribe to that – that law is the art of the good and just.’
‘On that premise, why is it that you wished to see me? I am still at a loss and you have yet to explain.’
‘Let me clarify a few things first, so that I know exactly to whom I am speaking. I am told that your community follow a particular branch of the New Faith?’
The young abbot sat back and gazed at her thoughtfully.
‘I thought this was about law?’ he said.
‘So it is. I just want to know how you stand in relationship to it and to the Chief Bishop of the kingdom.’
Abbot Síoda laughed. ‘We have no relationship with the Chief Bishop of this kingdom nor do we wish to have one. He would destroy us as his predecessors tried to do. To him we are simply heretics. To us, it is he who is the heretic.’
‘Would it not be a means of resolving your differences to meet with the Chief Bishop’s representatives and discuss such matters? You would thus preserve the peace of the kingdom.’
‘Is that the purpose of your coming?’ There was a sudden suspicion in the young man’s tone now.
‘It was not,’ declared Fidelma. ‘However, there is a council of religious scholars meeting at Cashel. They intend to come to Ráth Cuáin to discuss and resolve the differences that you have about the essential tenets of the Faith. The scholars are being led by Brother Mac Raith, the rechtaire of Imleach.’
‘We are not that isolated that we do not know of these scholars,’ the abbot replied. ‘Brother Sionnach from Corcach Mór, Brother Duibhinn of Ard Mór and Brother Giolla Rua of Ros Ailithir. Their arguments are already well known. I can only wait until these scholars approach me and endeavour to put their arguments. They will find it hard to ignore the evidence that will greet them.’
‘I would be more inclined to pre-empt matters and seek a resolution with the Abbot of Imleach,’ advised Fidelma.
‘How can I resolve such matters when I know the Abbey of Imleach has already wandered from the path of the True Faith,’ Abbot Síoda said sourly.
‘I would not know who is right or wrong,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘All I know is that talking surely leads to a means of resolution. Brother Mac Raith tells me that you are what he calls Psilosanthropos. Explain how that branch of the New Faith would make you so unreceptive to discussion about the matter?’
‘Are we unreceptive?’ snapped the young man. ‘We have stood forward in debate several times and been howled down an equal number of times by those who have made themselves rich by claiming to be followers of their own particular interpretation of the Faith. They do not want to hear our arguments. They do not want to hear our evidence. They shut themselves away from the truth. Truly it is said that the wise have open ears and a closed mouth but the foolish have closed ears and an open mouth.’
‘It is a good observation – if one is completely certain that one is not doing the same as they are being accused of,’ Fidelma said. ‘Remember the ancient saying among the Latins – asinus asellum culpat?’
Abbot Síoda’s mouth twisted with anger. ‘If we are to talk about an ass finding fault with a donkey, Fidelma of Cashel, let me observe that debating with most of the abbots of Imleach on this matter is, as Horace, said, narrare fabellam surdo asello – like telling a story to a deaf donkey. I doubt whether the new Abbot and Chief Bishop is any different.’
Fidelma responded only by saying, ‘The trouble, Abbot Síoda, is that the donkey gets impatient when it hears nothing.’
‘I thought you said that this matter has nothing to do with that which brought you here?’ The abbot gave her an unfriendly look. ‘I have much other business to attend to, so I desire you to come to the point of your visit.’
‘I was merely clarifying your philosophy.’
‘Then I can only say that we follow the oldest branch of the new revelation from the East which was held by many for three hundred years before the Roman Emperor Constantine called the great council at Nicaea, which asserted rules for the New Faith. Many of the original concepts of the Faith were cast aside. But we, here, maintain that we are of the true Faith, believing in a man who was a just and good prophet of the God. Now do you see why we have no common ground with the Chief Bishop of Muman? He means to destroy our community. Perhaps now, lady, you will finally tell me the purpose of your coming here?’
Fidelma paused for a moment, holding the other’s eyes in her gaze. Then she said softly: ‘The purpose of my coming, Abbot Síoda, is to discuss murder.’
TEN
‘Murder?’ Abbot Síoda’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then his face relaxed and he smiled grimly. ‘Ah, you mean the death of the shepherd, Spelán. Oh yes – the news of the body being found on the Samhain fire in Cashel was brought to us by a merchant yesterday. What has it to do with this abbey?’
‘Did your informant also tell you that, freshly engraved on the buttocks of the corpse was the symbol of your faith, the Tau-Rho? It was done while he was still alive and must have caused him considerable pain. That was why I was so interested in hearing your version of the Faith that you practise.’
The young abbot’s jaw dropped. He struggled to say something and then he finally found and articulated the words.
‘Are you accusing some member of this community of his death?’
‘I do not know enough to accuse anyone as yet,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘However, I trust you now appreciate the reason why I have come to see you.’
Abbot Síoda sat silently for a while, head bowed slightly as if examining the desk before him.
‘You accept that you are lord of this tuath, the Sítae, those who dwell in these hills, and that the people of the tuath pay tribute to you as their chieftain, not just as their abbot. Is that correct?’
‘I don’t deny it. I am the fifth generation of the lords of Ráth Cuáin who became abbots. Cuán was lord when the Blessed Gobnait consecrated what had been his fortress as a religious house. But she moved on and there came into this land a wise and learned man from the East. His name was Apollinarius and he began to teach us the true path. That is the Faith we now hold. When he perished, it was Cuán son of Cuán who became abbot of the community and so, in accordance with our law, the most worthy son has replaced his father as chieftain and as abbot ever since.’
‘So it is to you as chieftain that I want to speak. Do you know of a woman of the tuath named Caoimhe?’
‘Spelán’s woman? She is dead,’ he said flatly, confirming what Fidelma already knew.
‘When did she die?’
‘I am told that she died before the summer months.’
‘Who reported her death to you?’
‘Spelán, the shepherd, reported it himself. To be completely accurate, he came and spoke to Sister Fioniúr and she reported it to me. I and Brother Tadhg had already left on the pilgrimage to Rome. So we did not hear of it until our return.’
‘Sister Fioniúr? Someone mentioned her to me. Who is she?’
‘Our herbalist; more an apothecary.’
‘Why would Spelán report to her particularly?’
‘She looks after the health of our community. I believe Caoimhe sold herbs to her so Spelán would have known her. Also, I had appointed her as my tánaiste, taking charge of the abbey in my absence.’
‘She is
a local woman?’
‘She had only joined us in the darkest part of the year in the month of Dubh Luacran. She came from the Abbey of Corcach Mór. An excellent apothecary and very attentive to detail. Moreover, a convert to our beliefs.’
‘Can I see this Sister Fioniúr?’
‘She is busy – and I am spending more time than I should on this matter,’ answered the abbot impatiently.
‘It is important. A dálaigh does not like to take evidence sgeal sheoil,’ Fidelma insisted, using the term for hearsay. ‘It would be easier for me to obtain the facts at first hand.’
With bad grace, Abbot Síoda reached forward and rang a hand bell. When the thin-faced gatekeeper, who had obviously been standing outside, opened the door, the abbot said: ‘Ask Sister Fioniúr to attend me … at once.’
There was a chill silence between them as they waited. However, it was not long before there was a tap on the door and a woman entered. Sister Fioniúr came as a surprise to Fidelma. The heart-shaped face was attractive rather than beautiful due to a certain hard set of the mouth and thin lips. The dark eyes appeared to contain a hidden fire that sparked as she examined Fidelma, as if she was contemplating some hidden thoughts.
The abbot made a perfunctory introduction, explaining what he had told Fidelma, to which the young woman simply nodded in agreement.
‘You are aware that Spelán, sometime shepherd here, has been murdered?’ Fidelma began.
Once more the young woman nodded without saying anything.
‘So he came to tell you of his wife’s death at the start of summer?’
‘He reported that Caoimhe had died from a fever.’ Sister Fioniúr frowned as if puzzled by the question. ‘She was not his wife, only a partner. He came here to ask permission to sell her flock of sheep, hoping to claim ownership by marriage. But he was not of this tuath. As I say, Caoimhe and Spelán were not officially married – just partners under the year and one day rule. Neither had she kin to counter-claim against him. Her family were carried off by the Yellow Plague that devastated so many in this land. I reported Spélan’s request to the leabhar coimedach, the keeper of books, who knew some law; he wisely took the decision to declare that the sheep were now the property of the abbey. This was confirmed by Abbot Síoda when he returned from Rome.’
Night of the Lightbringer Page 15
