The hall itself was filled not only with the aroma of freshly cooked meats, pies and vegetables, but with the overpowering smell of scented candles. There were other more unpleasant aromas, too, from the many bodies crammed into the small dining hall, for although the rules on washing were strict and the fothrucud, or full body wash, was performed daily before the evening meal, robes and underclothing were only washed on a weekly basis and thus odours still clung to their wearers and permeated the air in the heat and intimacy of communal dining.
Fidelma noticed that a chair at the head of the table at which they sat was empty. Brother Aithrigid offered an explanation to the unasked question. ‘Abbot Daircell is taking his meal in his chamber this evening for he has much work to do. He begs forgiveness for his absence.’
They were now joined at this table by Brother Lachtna, the physician, and various leading members of the community whose names meant nothing to Fidelma and Eadulf, with the exception of Brother Dorchú, the gatekeeper, and Brother Eochaí, the master of the stables. In fact, as they entered they had realised that everyone was seated in total silence.
The bell had stopped its solemn toll and there suddenly came the quick tinkle of a higher note, this time from a handbell. Brother Aithrigid glanced at a small curtained alcove set high in the wall at the far end of the hall. He nodded, as if in agreement to something. Then he rose from his seat and, at this motion, everyone rose almost soundlessly with bowed heads.
‘Benedic nos, Domine, et haec tua dona, quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi … ’
The Gratias was intoned in Latin by the brethren. The bell gave a single high chime. Then, as one, the brethren resumed their seats and attendants – young boys, presumably novices – started to bring round the hot dishes and already carved meats, demonstrating that this was not a community that adhered to vows of poverty. Bread, cheeses and fruits were already on the table. The idea of frugality with meals apparently had not been accepted as part of Abbot Daircell’s rules for life in his abbey. The dishes that were served that evening consisted of both goat and pork, with boiled duck eggs and various choices of greens, all washed down with íarlinn, ale, which Eadulf found was rather inferior to what he was used to. He doubted whether the abbot contented himself with this and suspected that he would be drinking wine. He had seen some of the glazed amphorae outside the storehouse by the kitchen, and knew that native ships, as well as vessels from Gaul and Britain, did a thriving business around this part of the coast.
Unlike in many abbeys, there seemed no proscription of silence during the meals. Everyone had burst into animated conversations immediately after the Gratias had been intoned.
Those seated near Fidelma and Eadulf glanced at them as if waiting for them to make some remark. So when neither Fidelma nor Eadulf volunteered to open a conversation, it was the physician, Brother Lachtna, who turned to Fidelma.
‘There is a rumour that the pedlar Cétach has been murdered,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you go to see him this morning?’
Fidelma knew the abbot had asked her not to mention the death of the pedlar. It was a promise that she had kept, as had Eadulf and Enda.
The physician pursed his lips on seeing her non-responsive expression. ‘No mystery in us knowing the news. You must know the ancient saying, lady. Rumours travel fast.’
‘How did this one travel here?’ she asked non-committally.
‘They say that a story that is heard by three people is no secret.’
‘Given that,’ Fidelma observed, ‘we have barely returned from the township of Láithreach and yet you say that this rumour is already acknowledged here. How is that?’
The physician smiled, although there was no humour in it. ‘The physician from Láithreach, Síabair, arrived just before you. He had to come here to deliver some herbs that I had requested. I did not see him but I understand he left the herbs with the gatekeeper and was eager to impart the gossip.’
Fidelma suppressed a sigh. She had forgotten that in a small community, even though the abbey was considered isolated, most things were interconnected. She was surprised that the abbot had not thought of it either.
‘The important matter is not the pedlar’s death but the Brehon’s death,’ Brother Dorchú observed sharply. He had been sitting silent for a time with head lowered as if concentrating on his meal. ‘Cétach’s death probably has nothing to do with it. We know that the Osraige people would like to blame Laigin for some conspiracy or other. I believe that is why we have certain guests from Cashel among us.’ He stared belligerently at Fidelma and Eadulf. ‘Osraige seeks Cashel’s help to claim a conspiracy against us!’
Brother Aithrigid was angry as he turned to the gatekeeper. ‘Be cautious with your words. You should remember that the abbot is a noble of Osraige.’
‘I know several who are of Osraige who have settled here,’ snapped the gatekeeper. ‘This abbey should have insisted on having our own Brehon, Brehon Rónchú, investigate the matter. In spite of the fact that you are of Osraige, you are a close friend of Rónchú. You should have sent for him, not allowed the abbot to send for someone outside the kingdom, especially one who has an obvious bias to Osraige and Muman.’
He had said the words in a heated tone. Before Fidelma could summon a response, the steward turned to the gatekeeper in stern rebuke.
‘I would have thought you should be very concerned about the murder of the pedlar. You knew Cétach well, back in the days when you guarded the lead mines near here on behalf of the lord of The Cuala. Cétach was employed hauling the ore from the mines to the township.’
‘I had little to do with him. He was just one of those who transported the ore to the town. And that mine I guarded was closed a year or so ago, before I joined as a member of the brethren here. Why should I be concerned about Cétach? He was no friend of mine. All I say is that this is a matter that concerns Osraige and that the abbot and you are from Osraige.’
Brother Aithrigid was increasingly annoyed.
‘So are many here. The master of the stables is from Osraige, as are others. It is a serious accusation that you are making, gatekeeper! Do you openly accuse your abbot of sending for Fidelma of Cashel so that she could come here and attempt to conceal something about the death of Brehon Brocc? What mystery or conspiracy do you suspect? That is insulting to the abbot as well as to the office of a dálaigh. If your accusations are not specific then I trust you will offer an apology.’
The muttered expressions of disapproval of the gatekeeper were not lost on him and it was obvious that his fellows felt he had gone too far. Brother Dorchú hesitated before turning to Fidelma.
‘I meant no personal offence to you or anyone here. I apologise if I phrased things badly. It is simply that I feel that if a crime is committed locally, then it is surely the local Brehon, in whose jurisdiction it occurs, that should be consulted. Am I wrong in this conclusion?’
Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at the man for a moment or two, realising it was no use developing an argument against his insults. He had merely side-stepped it, turning it into an academic question rather than the accusation of bias that he had first meant. She wondered whether she should accept the diversion or go back to the original accusation.
‘You are both right and wrong, Brother Dorchú,’ she finally told him, not without some coldness in her tone, for insults cannot lightly be dismissed. ‘In some crimes, the local judge should take control. But if an advocate or judge of senior rank or professional service is invited to do so, then they can take charge, no matter in which of the Five Kingdoms the infraction of the law is committed.’ She paused for effect, a habit she had developed in making pleas in the courts. ‘I am qualified to the level of Anruth. That degree allows me to be invited to make enquiries in most territories. I would like to think that I am sent here to help because my bias, as you call it, Brother Dorchú, is towards the path of justice. I was not invited to look into this matter by your abbot for any other reason.’
‘I am sure that Bro
ther Dorchú, who has now apologised, didn’t really mean anything that would imply bias on your part, lady,’ Brother Aithrigid said, apparently hoping to end the awkwardness. ‘He has admitted that his words were ill chosen.’
Brother Dorchú did not look happy. He confirmed the matter with a grimace that had more of defiance in it than apology. ‘As I have implied, it is merely my ignorance of the law that prompted the question. I do not have the legal mind that you have, Brother Aithrigid.’
At that moment one of the brethren came hurrying up and spoke directly to Brother Dorchú. He arose with an apology and some relief on his face.
‘It seems there is a problem. A wandering wild boar is creating damage at the fencing. I am called to attend,’ he said. ‘Will you excuse me if I leave you to attend my duties?’
When he had gone, Eadulf observed with some irony in his voice: ‘It seems you have a conscientious gatekeeper. From what I have heard, he is a man of these mountains and seems fond of telling people about the beliefs in demons that dwell in them.’
Brother Lachtna gave a derisive snort. ‘I presume, at least,’ he replied with dry humour, ‘that folks here are not going to say that Cétach’s death was also due to the Aos Sí?’
Brother Aithrigid cast him a withering look as he rose from the table. ‘We know all about your cynicism, Brother Lachtna. The old beliefs run deep among the people here, as well you know. Remember that Dorchú was raised on Tóin le Gaoith, the mountain at the back of the wind. Many believe what Iuchra tells them.’
The physician sniffed disparagingly. ‘Iuchra? The old woman gives a good entertainment with her stories of the Aos Sí and her warnings of retribution on whoever crosses their paths.’
‘I would like to debate it, but my duties also call me,’ the steward said, leaving them to finish their meal.
‘You have not been alone among the high peaks,’ Brother Gobbán, the abbey’s smith, said. He had hardly spoken before. ‘I have, and was born and brought up on the slopes of these dark mountains. I also grew up on the slopes of Tóin le Gaoith. I know the spirits of evil guard them.’
‘The mountain at the back of the wind?’ mused Fidelma. ‘Is that near here?’
‘Close by,’ confirmed the smith. ‘It is one of the highest of the mountains here and we have many stories—’
‘Keep the stories for those who want to be entertained by them,’ sneered Brother Lachtna. ‘Anyway, one would expect more sense from one trained as a warrior.’
‘You are talking of Brother Dorchú?’ asked Eadulf with interest.
‘He was one of the lord of The Cuala’s warriors before he joined the brethren,’ confirmed the physician. ‘He was trained, but I do not think he was held in high regard. He was appointed to guard the lead mines near here and when they fell into disuse he was set to watch over the stored metals from neighbouring mines until they were ready to be shipped. All he had to do was sit outside a bolted door all day and sometimes at night too.’
‘So it was boredom that caused him to join you?’ Eadulf queried mischievously. ‘Not religion?’
‘Boredom?’ Brother Gobbán laughed hollowly. ‘He saw things … and I believe him when he says so.’
‘It doesn’t help that the old hag Iuchra was always about with her tales of doom and gloom,’ the physician observed with resignation. ‘Abbot Daircell encourages her.’
‘Abbot Daircell says he is recording folklore,’ cut in Brother Gobbán. ‘Such ancient knowledge is sacrosanct and should not be written down.’
‘Especially when he is from Osraige?’ the physician said in amusement. ‘Just as Iuchra is. Superstition is not confined to one place.’
The smith sniffed. ‘The Cuala mountains cast their shadows over all our lives, whether we live north, west, south or east of them. So there is no significance as to where their shadows fall.’
Eadulf turned to him with a look of interest. ‘Coming from the mountains here, you must know all about these legends?’
‘I know many of the legends,’ replied the smith.
‘The Aos Sí,’ Eadulf said. ‘I thought they were just the former gods and goddesses who had been vanquished by the New Faith?’
Brother Gobbán assumed the manner of a master addressing pupils. ‘The Aos Dána were the old deities. But they say that the Aos Sí, the phantasms of the mountains, have always dwelt in the caverns that lie deep below The Cuala, and only started to stir when the New Faith drove the good gods and goddesses into the hills.’
‘And this is believed by many in this region?’
Brother Lachtna chuckled. ‘Only by some,’ he said, glancing at the smith. ‘In fact, if the truth were known, I believe that some of the local nobles propagated the idea to protect their property.’
‘In what way can this protect their property?’ Eadulf asked, missing the point.
‘When you have mines rich in metal ores, they are often difficult places to guard from theft,’ replied Brother Lachtna. ‘Ask our friend Brother Dorchú when you next see him. But stories of the Aos Sí seeking vengeance on humankind … well, that is a different story.’
‘So who owns the mines in these mountains?’ Fidelma asked.
‘Well, each local chieftain governs his own territory but they have to pay tribute to the lord of The Cuala, to Dicuil Dóna of the Uí Máil. All the gold and silver is his to dispose of. I have heard many of the chieftains encourage old Iuchra to spread her stories. The more she can frighten folk with bizarre tales the better they like it.’
‘I, too, maintain that she is encouraged by the local chieftains,’ Brother Eochaí suggested. He had been quiet some time. ‘I suspect even the lord of The Cuala himself pays her.’
‘What were the local mines that Brother Dorchú mentioned? Are they still worked?’ Fidelma asked.
‘This area is rich in metals,’ Brother Lachtna replied. ‘You will find many mines here – not just iron, lead and copper, but silver and gold. Was it not said that Tigernmas was the first to have the smiths of The Cuala smelt gold, over a thousand years ago? Look at the great granite mountains that surround you. It is around the edges of the granite that you will find such metal ore. The nobles who discovered these metals were quick to exploit them. Whole caves in the mountains were excavated and from the north side of the mountain of Céim an Doire through to this valley many tunnels were made. Metal is precious and has made the nobles here rich.’
Brother Gobbán grimaced sourly. ‘These mines do not make this abbey wealthy.’
‘And do not forget this is the territory of the Uí Máil, the family of Fianamail mac Máele Tuile, our king,’ Brother Lachtna added meaningfully as he also rose. ‘The Uí Máil guard their wealth as a mother guards her new-born child.’
‘I thought the Uí Máil capital was in Fearna, to the south?’ queried Eadulf.
The physician shook his head. ‘The real power of the Uí Máil is not with King Fianamail in Fearna but with his uncle. If you cross the mountains a short distance to the west, you will come to an isolated valley called Gleann Uí Máil. That is the chief territory of the Uí Mail. It is there that Dicuil Dóna, the uncle of the King, has his stronghold. His control of The Cuala mountains is such that hardly anything passes among them without his knowledge of it.’
Fidelma glanced thoughtfully at the physician. ‘I did not know this.’
Brother Lachtna smiled quickly. ‘Dicuil Dóna is a power to be reckoned with. Some say that he would have made a better king than his nephew, Fianamail.’
‘So one could presume that he should know about the finding of the body of Brehon Brocc and any activity of brigands in the mountains that might have led to it?’
Brother Lachtna said, ‘Well, you can be assured that the lord of The Cuala has informers throughout the mountains.’
‘Some folk speak of him with hushed tones,’ admitted the smith, Brother Gobbán, with a dramatic shiver. ‘It is said that he knows of things before they happen.’
Brother Lachtna began
to smile but Eadulf cut in: ‘You were talking of the belief in the Aos Sí. Are you saying that people see some connection with the lord of The Cuala and malignant spirits?’
‘There are many folk who have not truly embraced the New Faith and new thinking,’ Brother Eochaí answered dryly.
‘Is one of them this lord of The Cuala?’ pressed Eadulf.
Brother Gobbán was uncomfortable now. ‘Dicuil Dóna is a descendant of Laignich Faelann,’ he said, as if the name had meaning.
Eadulf glanced at Fidelma for enlightenment but she shrugged; the name meant nothing to her.
‘What is the significance of that name?’ Eadulf asked the smith.
Brother Gobbán glanced round as if nervous that someone would overhear him. ‘According to the old scribes, Laignich Faelann lived a century ago. By the accounts he was the Laigin King who made himself Lord of Osraige for a time. On certain days, when twilight fell, when the evening frost began to settle among the mountains of The Cuala, he was said to assume the form of a wolf and go hunting in the mountains, returning to his body before dawn with the red meat and blood of his kill on him.’
Brother Lachtna began to chuckle. ‘Stories from ancient times! Half-wits with delusions of being dogs. Peasants with irrational fears of evil spirits. People have used the idea to instil fear into their enemies since the time beyond time. Any warriors will tell you that the Fianna used to howl like wolves as they ran into battle. It was said to bring fear to the timid. So are all such stories. Fantasy, that is all.’
Brother Gobbán glowered. ‘If such things did not exist, then why is it that our legends and the stories told around the fire at night are full of cynanthropy and shapeshifting? What about the story of the daughters of Airitecht?’
Again, Eadulf did not know the story and said so.
Fidelma was tired by the subject but felt she should explain. ‘The story is that Airitecht had three daughters. On a certain night, usually on feast of Samhain, they would change into wolves and go into the countryside and feast on sheep. The shepherds and farmers called on a famous hero of the Fianna, the High King’s bodyguard, called Cailte, son of Ronán, to save their flocks. They asked him to track down the three she-wolves. It was said that they were fond of music and that it caused them to shapeshift back into their original human forms. So Cailte asked a famous harper, Cos Corach, to join him as a companion on the hunt. They found the she-wolves and Cos Corach started to play. As they changed shape into humans, Cailte threw his spears. He killed all three. The shepherds were never troubled thereafter.’
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