‘Ah, is she in her chamber? I will speak with her.’
Brother Wulfila moved slightly as if he would block the door. Then he seemed to make a decision. ‘She is not here,’ he admitted.
Fidelma waited in silence. It seemed that the steward was trying to think of something to say. ‘I believe that she and the young prince have left the abbey.’
Fidelma’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Left the abbey? I thought there was some danger for them outside these walls?’
‘I am sure that the Father Abbot knows what he is doing,’ the man muttered.
‘Ah! Then they left with the approval of Abbot Servillius?’
‘I am not at liberty to say.’ Brother Wulfila was agitated. He turned and scurried off along the corridor.
Fidelma stared after him a moment or two. If anyone knew why and how Lady Gunora and the boy had left the abbey, it was surely the steward, who had been in the corridor during the night.
Fidelma entered her own chamber and took a moment to tidy herself and wash her hands. A bell began to ring, but she knew it was not to summon the brethren for a meal. She left her room to find one of the Brothers hurrying by. When she asked him what the bell signified, he answered it was for the midday prayers. She let him hurry on. The abbey was quiet now and she realised it was the ideal time to see if Brother Ruadán was able to talk further with her. She made her way down towards his chamber and had just rounded the corner into the passage when she came face to face with the apothecary.
‘Ah, Sister Fidelma.’ The portly man greeted her with disapproval, almost barring her way.
‘Brother Hnikar. I was just on my way to see Brother Ruadán. I trust he is well enough to see me today?’ She hoped that he would not suspect that she had visited her old mentor earlier that morning.
A shadow crossed the features of the apothecary. He paused a moment and then cleared his throat, his lower lip jutting out like a child about to burst into tears.
‘That will not be possible.’
‘Not possible?’ Fidelma tried to control her irritation. ‘Why not?’
Of all the answers she was expecting, she did not expect his next sentence.
‘I am afraid Brother Ruadán is dead. He died in his sleep during the night.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fidelma paused but a second before she dodged nimbly round the portly apothecary and thrust open the door of Brother Ruadán’s chamber. She could hear Brother Hnikar’s outraged protests behind her. She hesitated briefly on the threshold. Brother Ruadán lay on his bed. Then she strode to the bedside and stood looking down at the body.
The elderly Brother looked peaceful now. It was clear that his body had already been washed and prepared ready for the services that would precede the burial. Then her eye fell on his hands, carefully folded on his breast. Some of the fingernails were torn — split, as if ill-kept — with dried blood visible beneath them. They were not the nails of the hand she had held that morning. One of the things that people of her country prided themselves on were their hands and fingernails. Among the aristocracy and the professional classes, the fingernails had to be kept carefully cut and rounded as a sign of breeding. To be insulting, one of the worst terms one could use against another person was to call them crécht-ingnech or ‘ragged nails’. Between the time that she had seen the old man earlier that morning to the time of his death, Brother Ruadán must have fought with his hands againstsomething, against someone, breaking his nails and causing blood from his assailant to be caught under them.
Her expression was stony as she gazed down at her old tutor. Ill as Brother Ruadán had been, someone had determined to end his life. He had been murdered.
She re-examined his face, the slightly blue texture of the skin and the lips stretched over the yellowing teeth and the eyes that had not been completely closed after death. She noticed little spots of dried blood around the nostrils. In a flash she realised that the killer had probably held a pillow over the old man’s face, holding him down while he made a desperate attempt to push them off, scratching and clawing at the powerful arms of his assailant. That was how he had damaged his hands.
Fidelma glanced up at the apothecary who had followed her into the chamber, still protesting at her behaviour.
‘When did this happen?’ she interrupted him.
‘I told you, it was reported to me that he had died in the night. Really, Sister, you presume too much to enter without approval-’
‘He has already been washed and prepared for burial. Why was I not informed when this happened?’
Brother Hnikar blinked at the sharp tone of her voice.
‘I have known poor Ruadán since I was a little girl,’ she went on. ‘I have a right to know.’
‘You have no right to be here without permission of the abbot.’
‘Then I shall address my questions to the abbot,’ replied Fidelma coldly.
An uneasy look entered Brother Hnikar’s eyes. ‘What questions?’ he asked.
Fidelma did not respond but gave one last took at the corpse, turned and left the room.
Fidelma entered the abbot’s study before he had finished his invitation to enter. He was speaking with Magister Ado and Brother Faro.
‘Have you been informed of Brother Ruadán’s death?’ she demanded without preamble.
Abbot Servillius seemed surprised at her belligerent tone.
‘We have, my child, and allow me to express my condolences to you on the passing of your old friend and tutor. This abbey has lost a good man in his passing.’
‘His body has already been washed and prepared for burial. Why was I not told of his death earlier?’
The abbot’s frown deepened. ‘Earlier than what, my daughter?’ he asked softly. ‘As soon as Brother Hnikar told me the news, I sent Brother Faro to look for you.’
‘I thought you were in the herbarium,’ confirmed Brother Faro. ‘But you were not there and Brother Lonán did not know where you had gone.’
Fidelma swallowed sharply. It was true that she had spent a long time in the library and no one had known that she was there apart from Brother Eolann. It seemed, perhaps, that it might be her own fault that she had not been informed earlier.
‘When did it happen?’ she went on. ‘When was his death known?’
‘Brother Hnikar was informed that something was amiss and went to attend him.’
‘Who informed him?’
‘Probably the steward, as it is his task to make a daily check on all matters. The apothecary came to find me immediately but, of course, we were locked in debate with Britmund. He felt he should not interrupt. So he waited until he heard that we had finished, by which time you were reported to have gone to the herb garden. So we sent BrotherFaro to find you. I appreciate that this is upsetting for you. Such a long journey to see your old mentor and now to find him dead.’ He paused, cleared his throat, and then dismissed Brother Faro.
When he had departed, Abbot Servillius indicated that Fidelma should be seated while Magister Ado said: ‘We must also remember that Sister Fidelma is a lawyer in her own land. As such, perhaps she is used to deaths being reported immediately to her. So we can forgive her agitation at being the last to find out.’
The abbot took a jug from his table, pouring its contents into three beakers.
‘As the Blessed Timothy advised, Noli adhuc aquam bibere, sed vino modico utere propter stomachum tuum.’
Fidelma had heard the saying mentioned before: drink no longer water but use a little wine for your stomach’s sake. She realised that wine would be welcome, for it was hard to take the shock of Brother Ruadán’s murder. And now she did not know whom to trust with her thoughts.
‘Brother Ruadán was fond of our local red wine,’ the abbot said as he handed her the beaker. ‘His body will be taken for burial at midnight in our necropolis. It lies on the hillside behind the abbey buildings. I believe the ceremony is not dissimilar to the one you practise in Hibernia.’
Fidelma sigh
ed deeply as she sipped the wine and tried to gather her thoughts in some order. ‘If there is something, some relic of his, that I could take back to his abbey on Inis Celtra …? That was where he came from and studied, and where I first knew him.’
‘Of course,’ agreed the abbot at once. ‘I also believe it is your custom to have someone who knew the deceased to speak some words about him at the graveside?’
‘That is so.’
‘I shall say a few words of his labours here in the abbey, but we know nothing of his life before he left his own land. I believe God has guided your footsteps here so that you may speak the praises of this worthy servant of His. Will you speak those words?’
Fidelma had no hesitation in agreeing.
‘Death always comes as a shock,’ went on the abbot, ‘even when one is entirely prepared. If Brother Ruadán had a fault it was in his zeal to bring the truth of the Faith to those who had been led astray into heresy. They had no respect for his frail body but they feared the strength of his voice and the truth of his words.’
‘Are you satisfied that your abbey contains no followers of Arius?’ she asked, her mind still thinking over who might have murdered her mentor as he lay helpless in his bed.
The question seemed to startle both the abbot and the Magister Ado.
‘We are a refuge from such heresies,’ said the abbot. ‘What makes you ask such a thing? We are an island of the true Faith. Why would heretics need to send one of their number among us?’
‘Oh, just something he said.’ She made the prevarication without a blush. ‘We lawyers are inquisitive people and so the slightest remark that we do not understand tends to irritate and worry us.’
Magister Ado examined her suspiciously. ‘Something Brother Ruadán said? But I thought you had not spoken to him apart from when you first arrived, when his mind was wandering.’
Fidelma realised that she ought to be more careful when trying to gather information. But she was sure now thatBrother Ruadán had not been calling out in fever when he warned her that there was evil in this abbey. He had been murdered. She was sure of it. Now she had to find out who had smothered him on his sickbed — and why.
She rose and placed the empty beaker of wine on the table. ‘It was just that I was thinking about those who had beaten him because he was preaching against the Creed of Arius. You’ll forgive me. I shall return to the guest-house and lie down.’
She was almost at the door when Abbot Servillius said, ‘I understand from my steward, Brother Wulfila, that you were concerned that Lady Gunora and Prince Romuald had left the abbey. Lady Gunora was apprehensive for the boy’s safety and came to me last night. She announced her intention of leaving the abbey before first light and making her way to the fortress of Lord Radoald where she believed that she would have more protection.’
‘That does not seem a wise plan, judging from what I have been told,’ Fidelma replied. ‘If the country here is in such a state of alarm, she would have been better within the walls of this abbey.’
The abbot grimaced without humour. ‘I think Lady Gunora and yourself have much in common,’ he observed. ‘You share a determination that will accept no counter-argument. When I put it to her that her proposal lacked wisdom, even as you put it, she told me that I was an aged fool and she would leave the abbey whether she was wise to do so or not.’
Fidelma flushed. ‘I can only point out where logic does not prevail,’ she told him.
‘In Lady Gunora’s case, that is accepted,’ replied the abbot. ‘Rest well, Fidelma. Brother Ruadán’s body will be removed to the chapel soon where the community can take their turnin praying over it until midnight, which is our traditional hour of interment.’
‘I shall attend,’ Fidelma said, with a glance of acknowledgement to both men before leaving.
A long, lonely afternoon stretched out before her. Curiously, she did not feel enthusiastic about sitting in the chapel and watching over the corpse of her old teacher. Outside, it was hot, the sky blue and the sun still strong. It was a time to be out in the fresh air, outside with the living. Death should only come at night, Fidelma thought. Night and death went hand in hand. It did not suit blue skies and warm sunshine. She would go and wake the dead at nightfall but not during such a day given over to life.
Brother Ruadán was dead — but why? Everyone was saying he had been set upon and beaten because of his vehement denunciation of the Arian Creed and his support of the Nicene Creed. And yet he had been killed by someone who had access to the abbey. So was there a different motive? Had he been murdered because someone was afraid of what he would say? What had he said? Something to do with coins, gold coins … She tried hard to remember exactly.
With these thoughts running in her mind, Fidelma walked slowly through the abbey and her footsteps initially took her back into the herbarium. Her head bowed, she traversed the paths among the beds of plants. Now and then she passed by figures, who stood aside and muttered acknowledgement with, ‘Laus Deo,’ ‘Deus misereatur,’ and so on. It seemed inevitable that her footsteps would eventually lead her back to one person with whom she felt at ease, and so she climbed the tower to the scriptorium of Brother Eolann. He rose, somewhat confused, from his desk as she entered.
‘I am sorry, lady. I heard that poor Brother Ruadán has passed on. I knew him well during my days here and I am saddened by that loss. He was a great teacher and a scholar, as well as being one of our own. He will be missed among our brethren.’
‘Thank you, Brother Eolann. He was, indeed, a fine teacher,’ she replied gravely.
‘He had a sharp mind.’
‘A sharp mind,’ Fidelma echoed as she seated herself by his desk. ‘Did he ever talk to you about coins? Gold coins?’
Brother Eolann regarded her in silence for a moment. ‘Coins? In what way?’
‘Maybe not coins but missing treasure?’
The scriptor shook his head firmly. ‘I have to say that he did not. Brother Ruadán was interested in many things, as you know, but I never heard him express any inclination to know about coins. Why do you ask?’
‘So he never came here to inquire about such a subject?’ Fidelma ignored his last question by inserting one of her own. ‘He never expressed interest in coins or treasure?’
‘Never.’
‘Could he have come here and found a book on the subject without you knowing?’
Brother Eolann replied with an almost painful smile. ‘There is always that possibility. We try to ensure that anyone who uses the scriptorium is known. Even in such a place as this, we find that not everyone places the same value on books as should be given to them. Sometimes people abuse the books, may they be forgiven. I consider such abuse a crime.’
‘People abuse the books?’ She was distracted by the thought.
‘We had good copies of the histories of Polybius and ofLivinius and I recently found that both these works were damaged.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Some time ago I was checking a reference in Polybius and found that someone had cut some pages out of the book.’
‘It is a sacrilege to treat a book so,’ Fidelma agreed.
‘What is worse, the same thing happened with the history of Livinius — pages cut out with a sharp knife. It took my copyists several days of checking through all our books to ensure that nothing else had been damaged.’
He went to a shelf and took down a book. She noticed that it was entitled Ab Urbae Conditae Libri. It was Livy’s history of Rome from the birth of the city. He turned to a page and pointed.
‘See, this page has been cut out.’
‘I wonder why.’ She glanced at the preceeding one and saw that it was about someone called Marcus entering the Senate in triumphal dress. ‘You say it was recent? What do you intend to do?’
‘I shall report the matter to the abbot. I suspect there is little he can do except preach a sermon to the community and pronounce God’s punishment on those who do not confess this crime.’
‘Can the books be restored?’
‘Only if we find an original copy. I have sent a messenger to the community of the Blessed Fridian at Lucca. They have copies of these books. I hope we can copy or purchase them. It is a stain on my reputation as scriptor that such a thing could happen in my scriptorium.’
‘It is hard to believe that someone could treat books in such a fashion. Perhaps it was someone not of the community?’
‘It had crossed my mind, lady, but who, apart from members of the community, would be able to access such works? Surely it indicates that whoever removed the pages wanted those particular books or those particular pages. If it was just for the sake of any pieces of parchment, why not take them from the nearest books? Look!’ He pointed. ‘Other books were more easy to access than those two, which were placed on different shelves.’
‘Then, if one knew what the passages on the missing pages were, what they related to, it might give a clue as to the interest of the person who cut them out. With such a clue one might be able to track down the culprit.’
Brother Eolann considered this and grew excited at the prospect. ‘You are right, lady. Ah, hopefully, we may secure copies before long. I am already intrigued.’
‘You have no idea of what they might be about?’
‘Alas, I do not.’
‘Well, I am sorry to bother you on the matter of coins. It was of minor interest.’
The abbey bell began to ring to call the brethren to the evening meal, and with a sigh she thanked him and went to join the others in the refectorium. It had been good to have her mind distracted by the problems of the library rather than dwell on the death of Brother Ruadán. But dwell on it, she must. There was a mystery to be solved. A murderer to be caught.
In Fidelma’s culture it was the custom to watch the corpse for a night and a day. She found the custom here slightly different, but it carried the same intent. The body had been watched in the abbey chapel all afternoon and evening. After the evening meal, Fidelma joined the brethren and someof the Sisters in prayers in the chapel, seated before the bier. All the senior clerics were in attendance now, from the abbot to Brother Lonán, the gardener. After a while, Lord Radoald, accompanied by the warrior, Wulfoald, entered the chapel and came straight to her side to sit down.
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