‘But of course. It is a little wooded island in Loch Léin. Is not your chieftain, my own cousin, Congal of the Eóghanacht? You are a long way from home, as am I. How came you here?’
‘That is a story simple to tell, lady. I was a scholar in the abbey on Faithleann’s Island and was chosen to take some books to the library of the Abbey of the Blessed Gall.’
‘Gall?’
‘He was one of the disciples of Colm Bán, whom they called Columbanus here. Indeed, Gall is also called Gallen. But instead of accompanying Colm Bán to Bobium, Gall, and some of his comrades, decided to stay at a place further north beyond the great mountains. They established an abbey there by a great lake, the Lacus Brigantius, as Pliny called it.’
‘Brigantius?’ queried Fidelma. ‘That seems to be a name I should be familiar with.’
‘It was a Gaulish territory with a city called Brigantium. It is a name familiar in many parts, even in Britain during Roman times. Now it is a territory of the Alemanni, where both Colm Bán and Gall preached for a while. Like Bobium, the community has grown magnificently. I spent a little while there before making my way south, learning the language of the Longobards and eventually arriving in Bobium. That was over two years ago. So instead of returning home, I have remained here as scriptor. I have not seen Muman in four years or more.’
‘Ah, then you have indeed been away longer than I have,’ conceded Fidelma. ‘There is little news to give, apart from a list of deaths.’
‘The Yellow Plague has been ravaging this country, so doubtless it has also spread to the Five Kingdoms?’
‘It has. It has created a long and miserable list of deaths and is still ravaging the land. The plague affected many communities and not even prelates have escaped. Abbot Ségéne, one of the successors of Colm Bán at the Abbey of Beannchar, died of it last year. You might know of Colmán, who was chief professor of Finnbarr’s school in Corcaigh? Before I came away, I heard that he had fled with fifty of his pupils to one of the western islands in order to escape the plague.’
Brother Eolann assumed a sad expression. ‘I studied under Colmán before I went to Faithleann’s Island. Your cousin, Congal, had just become Lord of Locha Léin at that time. But Máenach mac Fingin was still King of Muman.’
‘Cathal Cú-cen-maithair succeeded him two years ago, and that was when my brother, Colgú, became his tánaiste — his heir apparent,’ Fidelma told him.
‘Are there any other changes?’
‘There is relative peace among the Five Kingdoms under the sons of Aedo Sláine.’
The two sons of Aedo Sláine had succeeded as joint High Kings of Éireann ten years before and had presided over a peaceful decade.
‘There are times when I would give up the privilege of my position here to see the still blue waters of the Lake of Léin again,’ the young man admitted.
They had already circled the garden.
‘Would it impose too much upon you, Eolann of Faithleann’sIsland, if I asked you to show me the scriptorium?’ Fidelma suddenly asked. ‘I am more than interested in such matters. I especially want to look at the text of the Gospel of Matthew.’
‘You are most welcome there any time, lady,’ replied Brother Eolann without hesitation. He continued to use the term of respect for her as the daughter of a king of his land rather than her position as a religieuse. ‘Come. We have an excellent copy of the Blessed Eusebius’ translation of that Gospel into Latin.’ He led the way from the herbarium back across the courtyard towards the main abbey buildings.
‘I hear there are many good scholars here,’ Fidelma continued, ‘such as Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado. You must have much talent to be appointed scriptor.’
The young man made a gesture of deprecation. ‘There is often a difference between the talent of a scholar and a scriptor. My talent is in taking care of books, not in the writing of them. I was lucky, for when I arrived here the scriptor was ailing and needed an assistant. He died and thus I was made scriptor.’
‘I am told that you have a fine collection of books here?’
Brother Eolann affirmed the fact with immediate enthusiasm. ‘We have one of the largest collections of work of the Faith anywhere in Christendom. Soon after I came here I set up a special group of copyists so that, over the years, copies may be made and sent to the libraries in our other lands.’
Brother Eolann took Fidelma through the main doors, but instead of entering into the refectorium, he turned to his left and went along a short, dark passageway and across a smaller open courtyard with a fountain splashing from the mouths of two stone cherubs in its centre. He approached another door which gave access to a spiral stone staircase which rose in the interior of a tower. Halfway up was a stout oak doorthat gave ingress into a large square room lined with books and manuscripts. On one side were several tall, narrow windows, while at the far end was another large oak door. In spite of the windows, it was dark but, as far as Fidelma could see, the room was empty. With a muttered apology, Brother Eolann spent a little time lighting an oil lamp and then moving to a desk while Fidelma cast her eyes over the books, mentally trying to count them. It was an impressive library but not as impressive as she had thought it would be.
‘The copyists work in the next room,’ explained the scriptor, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Most of the main library is in that room. We store many famous and rare books here, from the poems of Colm Bán himself to some of the great histories written by the Romans, the Greeks, Alexandrians … it is a great honour for me to work here in peace and security.’
‘I am sure it is,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘Yet you say that there are times when you would give it up to see your homeland again?’
Brother Eolann looked embarrassed. ‘I must follow the path God has set for me,’ he muttered. ‘I would not wish that you thought I was unhappy in my calling.’
‘I know that you are not, Brother Eolann. But it is hard not to long for the familiar hills, fields and places of one’s childhood.’
‘That is true,’ replied the scriptor. ‘Don’t we have an old saying — níl aon tintáin mar do thinteán féin.’
‘No hearth like your own hearth,’ repeated Fidelma with a sad smile. ‘Indeed, with that I can entirely agree. One has to have great fortitude to settle in a foreign place where there is conflict and tension surrounding one.’
‘You mean the conflict between the Arians and those ofthe followers of the Nicene Creed? I hear you witnessed the arguments between our abbot and Bishop Britmund.’
‘I was thinking more in terms of the Rule that you obey here. It is so unlike the Rule followed in most of our own abbeys and religious houses.’
‘It is no hardship for one who is a peregrinus pro amore Christi.’
‘Alas, I am not,’ Fidelma confessed. ‘I am just a messenger, an adviser in law, rather than one who sets out to bring the Faith to the heathen and barbarian. But Magister Ado told me that the Rule of Colm Bán was even harsher than the Rule of Benedict. How can that be so? Our own religious houses, mostly mixed houses, do not agree with such penitential methods.’
‘You forget, lady, that Colm Bán spent many years among the undisciplined Franks and Burgunds before he came among the Longobards.’
‘That is what Sister Gisa said. Then you agree that this shaped his thought?’
‘The society is harsh and barbarous. Crime is violent and punishments are severe. Colm Bán might have tried to establish similar religious houses to those in our own land but found that he needed to control and discipline many of those who flocked to join him. I have seen something of the laws of the places in which he dwelled — the wergelds — it was not unusual for infractions of the law to result in physical punishments. Half of Colm Bán’s Rule was devoted to punishments of the community.’
Fidelma was shaking her head in sad disbelief. ‘What sort of punishments?’
‘From fasting, confinement in one’s cubiculum to the saying of additional prayers and …’ he hesitated
‘ … even to physicalpunishments such as the use of the scourge. He listed two hundred blows, given at twenty-five blows at one time, as the punishment for some infractions. Confessions had to be made in public before the abbot and the entire community.’
‘I cannot believe such a Rule would be proclaimed by someone of our land.’
‘True, alas. The Rule also declared celibacy was the perfection — a goal one must make every wholehearted effort to attain by making the body a temple of virtue. He had declared a code of behaviour of asceticism and austerity. He claimed that the austere spirit had to be totally obedient and that obedience would win merit in the eyes of God. That was the ultimate aim of the life of the religious.’
‘It is amazing. I thought our people were so imbued with the essence of our law that they would never descend to such philosophies. How could Colm Bán believe that he could command the love and allegiance of his followers in this way?’
‘He did not. Many left this abbey during the time when his Rule prevailed,’ replied Brother Eolann. ‘However, his Rule lasted only a decade after his death before the abbey sought the milder form of governance as given by Benedict. I think it is Colm Bán’s myth rather than the reality which commands the present love and allegiance.’
Fidelma swallowed as she contemplated the picture that had been painted. Then she shook herself slightly. ‘And this Arianism? How does that affect the brethren here?’
‘We try to ignore it.’
‘But others do not?’
Brother Eolann gave a sad sigh. ‘It is good to have someone here from one’s own land. There are others of the Five Kingdoms here but not many that one is able to talk with.’
‘How do you mean that?’
‘Well, I mean to converse with intelligence. I do not wish to denigrate anyone … but, well, you have spoken to Brother Lonán? He only comes alive when speaking of herbs and plants. While that is laudable and I do not doubt his knowledge, his conversation on other matters is limited. He would not know the poems of our great poet Dallán Forgaill, nor even the poems of Colm Bán himself, any more than the works of Sophocles or the history of Polybius.’
Fidelma hid a smile. ‘Literature is only one form of knowledge, ’ she rebuked.
‘But these books,’ Brother Eolann waved a hand towards the ranks of shelves around the room, ‘these books open roads to all knowledge.’
‘So you would prefer to speak to scholars rather than gardeners?’
‘Is that wrong?’
‘Much may be learned from both, depending on what you want to know.’
‘I am told you spoke with Brother Ruadán last night.’
‘He was why I came here — to see him. He was my teacher when I was young,’ Fidelma replied, wondering at the sudden change of subject.
‘I suppose they would let you see him,’ Brother Eolann said reflectively.
‘Why would they not let me see him?’ Fidelma was puzzled.
‘Brother Hnikar allows no one to see him. They certainly won’t let me near him, and I would claim that I was closer to Brother Ruadán than anyone else in this abbey.’
Fidelma examined him curiously. ‘Are you saying that you were expressly forbidden to visit him?’
‘I was told that he is too poorly. Sad that, at his age, he should be so violently attacked for preaching the true Faith.’
‘Were there any witnesses to this attack?’
‘No one saw it. He was found outside the gates of the abbey early one morning. I was told that he had been preaching at Travo, which is further down the valley. I can only repeat the common knowledge which is that he was found at the gates, badly beaten, with a paper on which the word haereticus was pinned to his bloodstained robe.’
‘Heretic,’ nodded Fidelma. ‘I have been told.’
‘Those of the Arian Creed denounce us as heretics, even as we denounce them. Poor Brother Ruadán, he must have barely made it back to the gates of this abbey before he collapsed. God gave him strength. He is an old man but he survived until he reached here.’
‘So no one saw the attack nor can blame anyone in particular for it?’
‘With Bishop Britmund absolving any who attacks a heretic, as he calls us, who would bring these attackers to justice?’ Brother Eolann’s tone was grim. ‘The law of the Longobards is not like our own law, lady. The will of their lords and the Arian bishops are all the law that is to be found outside these walls.’
‘But on the matter of the conflict in this valley, what is your opinion of Radoald? Is he to be trusted?’
‘Lord Radoald of Trebbia? Trust is not something that I am prepared to offer any of these Longobards. Radoald appears to be an affable fellow. He is a supporter of King Grimoald who, as you have heard, is a follower of Arius but liberal in allowing everyone to follow their own path. Radoald vows friendship for the abbey but if the pressures were strong enough, perhaps his ardency would lessen.’
Fidelma was quiet for a moment. Brother Eolann was providing a good source of information. ‘You have no reason to suspect any other motive behind the attack on Ruadán than this conflict of religious views?’
‘Goodness, no — why?’ Brother Eolann was clearly astonished at the question. ‘Brother Ruadán had no enemy in the world other than those miserable creatures misled by Bishop Britmund.’
‘I just wanted to make sure, that is all,’ Fidelma said quickly. ‘It is still hard to believe that a different view about whether something is created or begotten could lead men to murder one another.’
‘Such is the nature of mankind, lady,’ replied the librarian sadly. He rose suddenly and was looking along a line of books. He found the one he wanted and laid it on the desk before her. ‘Wasn’t it this that you wanted to see, lady? The text of the Matthew Gospel? Read it at your leisure. I have to make sure my copyists are at their work.’
She turned to the papyrus scroll that he had put before her and began to unroll it. The hand was clear and the Latin easy to follow. It took some time, however, before she encountered the passage she was looking for. She had been so shocked at the words which Lady Gunora had quoted the previous night that she was determined to check if they had really existed. She was aghast to find that Gunora had quoted them almost word perfectly.
Nolite arbitrari quia venerim mittere pacem in terram non veni pacem mittere sed gladium …
She had always been taught that the message of the Christ was peace, not war. Now she found the Christ Himself admitting that He had come to the world not to speak for peace but war. To bring a sword. What shocked her was thestatement that His followers must not love their fathers and mothers, nor daughters or sons, more than Him — for if they did so, they would not be worthy of Him. It was contrary to the laws and philosophies of her people, where love and respect for one’s parents and one’s children were considered of premier importance. That one had to reject this was tantamount to destroying society, especially the kin-based society of her people. That was why fingal — kin-slaying — was considered the worst crime that a person could commit. It struck at the very heart of society. The law of which she was an advocate applied heavy sanctions against the perpetrators of kin-slaying.
She sat back thinking about it for a while and then she remembered the disappearance of Lady Gunora and the young prince. She had almost forgotten about them, apart from the angry quotation that the woman had used.
She heard Brother Eolann re-enter the library room.
‘Did you find what you wanted?’ he asked.
‘I did,’ she said, allowing the papyrus scroll to re-roll itself. She pushed it aside and, changing the subject, quickly added: ‘You have an excellent library here, Brother Eolann.’
Brother Eolann seemed happy as he glanced with pride along the shelves. ‘As I have said, I am proud of the books that we have here. We have been lucky in our collections.’ He indicated a shelf. ‘One previous scriptor was a local man who specialised in collecting ancient works from writers of this area — Paetus
the Stoic philosopher of Patavium, poets and essayists like Varus, Catullus, Catius, Pomponius … in ancient times, the people of this area were highly literate. And they were not even Romans.’
‘You mean that they were Longobards?’ queried Fidelma, not particularly interested.
‘The Longobards only settled in this territory a century ago. The original inhabitants were Gauls. Then the Roman legions conquered this area and that was a full century before the birth of the Christ. But of the Gauls, you will sometimes see an echo of their language here.’
‘So they wrote in their own tongue?’
‘They seemed to have a religious prohibition about writing their secrets in their own language. They wrote mostly in Latin and we have learned much from them, but you will see a few original inscriptions and the names of places which show the ghost of their mother tongue.’
Fidelma realised that it was time to leave, since she had other questions to pursue. Her mind turned to the disappearance of Lady Gunora and the young prince. Also, she had meant to visit Brother Ruadán to see if she could obtain more clarity from the frail old man. So she rose and thanked the librarian for his interesting conversation and left him. She remembered the way back through the tower to the small courtyard and along the dark corridor to the main hall. Once or twice, members of the brethren gave her sharp glances, reminding her that this was not a mixed-house and that women were not supposed to wander unaccompanied within its confines. She ignored them and the whispered remarks that followed her.
She found her way back to the guest-house and reached the door of her chamber. She was about to enter when she heard a movement along the corridor. Turning, she saw Brother Wulfila emerging from what had been the quarters of Lady Gunora and her princely charge. Fidelma called to him, deciding innocence might extract more information.
‘I have not seen Lady Gunora this morning. I trust she is well?’
There was no mistaking the anxious expression thatcrossed the steward’s features. ‘Well enough, Sister,’ he said shortly.
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