He had, indeed, been about to point out that a member of the brethren was not allowed to sit in the presence of a Father Superior without being invited.
“You are a clever man, Father Máilín,” Fidelma suddenly said, although the Father Superior missed the patronizing tone in her voice.
He stared at her not knowing how to interpret her words.
“I need your advice.”
Father Máilín shifted his weight slightly in his chair. He was bewildered by her abrupt changes of attitude.
“I am at your service, Sister Fidelma.”
“It is just that you have been able to reason out an explanation for a matter which is beyond my understanding and I would like you to explain it to me.”
“I will do my best.”
“Excellent. Tell me how these thieves were able to overpower and hang an old man in his chamber and leave the room, having secured the window on the inside and locking the door behind them, leaving the key in the room?”
Father Máilín stared at her for some moments, his eyes fixed on her in puzzlement. Then he began to chuckle.
“You are misinformed. The key was never found. The thieves took it with them.”
“I am told that there was only one key to that room which the Venerable Connla kept in his possession. Is that true?”
Father Máilín nodded slowly.
“There was no other key. Our smithy had to pick the lock for us to gain entrance to the room.”
Fidelma reached into her marsupium and laid the key before him.
“Don’t worry, I tried it in Connla’s lock. It works. I found the key on the floor behind his desk.”
“I don’t. . I can’t. .”
His voice stumbled over the words.
Fidelma smiled sharply.
“Somehow I didn’t think you would be able to offer an explanation.”
Father Máilín ran a hand, distractedly, through his hair. He said nothing.
“Where are the writings that the Venerable Connla was working on?” went on Fidelma.
“Destroyed,” Father Máilín replied limply.
“Was it you who destroyed them?”
“I take that responsibility.” “Veritas odium parit,” repeated Fidelma softly.
“You know your Terence, eh? But I did not hate old Connla. He was just misguided. The more misguided he became, the more stubborn he became. Ask anyone. Even Brother Ledbán, who worked closely with him, refused to cast a mold for a bookplate which carried some Ogham script because he thought Connla had misinterpreted it.”
“You felt that Connla was so misguided that you had to destroy his work?”
“You do not understand, Sister.”
“I think I do.”
“I doubt it. You could not. Connla was like a father to me. I was protecting him. Protecting his reputation.”
Fidelma raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
“It is the truth that I tell you,” insisted the Father Superior. “Those papers on which he was working, I had hoped that he would never release to the world. He was the great philosopher of the Faith and yet he grew senile and began to doubt his faith.”
“In what way did he grow senile?”
“What other condition could account for his doubt? When I reproved him for his doubt he told me that one must question even the existence of God for if God did exist then he would approve of the homage of reason rather than fear born out of ignorance.”
Fidelma inclined her head.
“He was, indeed, a wise man,” she sighed. “But for those doubts. . you killed him!”
Father Máilín sprang to his feet, his face white.
“What? Do you accuse me of his murder? It was the itinerants, I tell you.”
“I do not believe your itinerant theory, Father Máilín,” she said firmly. “No one who considers the facts could believe it.”
The Father Superior slumped back in his seat with hunched shoulders. There was guilt written on his features. He groaned softly.
“I only sought to protect Connla’s reputation. I did not kill him,” he protested.
“You, yourself, have given yourself a suitable motive for his murder.”
“I didn’t! I did not. .”
“I will leave you for a moment to consider your story. When I return, I shall want the truth.”
She turned out of his chamber and made her way slowly to the chapel. She was about to pass the Venerable Connla’s door when some instinct drew her inside again. She did not know what made her enter until she saw the shelf of books.
She made her way across the room and began to peer along the line of books.
“Gaius Plinius Secundus,” She muttered to herself, as her eyes rested on the book which she was unconsciously looking for-Naturalis Historia.
She began to flip through the pages seeking the half forgotten reference.
Finally, she found the passage and read it through. The passage contained what she expected it would.
She glanced quickly ’round the room and then went to the bed. She climbed on it and stood at the edge, reaching her hands up toward the beam above. It was, for her, within easy arm’s length. She stepped down again to the floor. Then she made her way to the chapel and stood inside the door as she had done a short time before.
Her gaze swept around the chapel and then, making up her mind on some intuition, she walked to the altar and went down on her hands and knees but it was not to pray. She bent forward and lifted an edge of the drape across the altar.
Beneath the altar stood a silver crucifix and two golden chalices. In one of them was a rosary of green stone beads. Fidelma reached forward and took them out. She regarded them for a moment or two and then heaved a deep sigh.
Gathering them in her arms she retraced her steps to Father Máilín’s chamber. He was still seated at his desk. He began to rise when she entered, and then his eyes fell to the trophies she carried. He turned pale and slumped back in his seat.
“Where did you. .” he began, trying to summon up some residue of sharpness by which he hoped to control the situation.
“Listen to me,” she interrupted harshly. “I have told you that it is impossible to accept your story that thieves broke in, killed Connla and left him in a room secured from the inside. I then find that you disapproved of the work which Connla was doing and after his death destroyed it. Tell me how these matters add up to a reasonable explanation?”
Father Máilín was shaking his head.
“It was wrong to blame the itinerants. I realize that It seemed that it was the only excuse I could make. As soon as I realized the situation, I distracted the brethren and quickly went into the chapel and removed the first things that came to hand. The crucifix and the cups. These I placed under the altar where you doubtless discovered them. I returned to Connla’s room and seized the opportunity to take his rosary from the drawer. Then it was easy. I could now claim that we had been robbed.”
“And you destroyed Connla’s work?”
“I only collected the text that Connla had been working on at the time and destroyed it lest it corrupt the minds of the faithful. Surely it was better to remember Connla in the vigor of his youth when he took up the banner of the Faith against all comers and destroyed the idols of the past? Why remember him as he was in his dotage, in his senility-an old embittered man filled with self-doubts?”
“Is that how you saw him?”
“That is how he became, and this I say even though he had been a father to me. He taught us to overthrow the idols of the pagans, to recant the sins of our fathers who lived in heathendom. .”
“By despising, denigrating and destroying all that has preceded us, we will simply teach this and future generations to despise our beliefs.Veritas vos liberabit!”
Father Máilín stared at her quizzically.
“How do you know that?”
“You did not destroy all Connla’s notes. Connla toward the end of his life, suddenly began to realize the cultural we
alth he had been instrumental in destroying. It began to prey on his mind that instead of bringing civilization and knowledge to this land, he was destroying thousands of years of learning. Benignus writes that the Blessed Patrick himself, in his missionary zeal, burnt one hundred and eighty books of the Druids. Imagine the loss to learning!”
“It was right that such books of pagan impropriety be destroyed,” protested the Father Superior.
“To a true scholar it was a sacrilege that should never have happened.”
“Connla was wrong.”
“The burning of books, the destruction of knowledge, is a great crime against humanity. No matter in whose name it is done,” replied Fidelma. “Connla saw that. He knew he was partially responsible for a crime which he had committed against his own culture as well as the learning of the world.”
Father Máilín was silent for a moment and then he said: “I did not kill him. He took his own life. That was why I tried to blame the itinerants.”
“Connla was murdered,” Fidelma said. “But not by the itinerants. He was murdered by a member of this community.”
Father Máilín was pale and shocked.
“You cannot believe that I. . I only meant to cover up his own suicide and hide the nature of his work. I did not kill him.”
“I realize that. . now. The thing that had misled me was the fact that you and the real killer both shared a fear of the nature of Connla’s work. But you each took different ways of dealing with it. When the killer struck, he wanted to make it appear that Connla committed suicide and so discredit him. However, you, believing that Connla’s suicide was genuine and would bring discredit on the Faith, tried to disguise what you thought was a suicide and blamed itinerants for the murder.”
“Who killed the Venerable Connla, then?” demanded Father Máilín. “And how? There was only one key and you say that you found it in the room.”
“Let me first explain why I did not think Connla took his own life. The obvious point was that it was physically impossible for him to do so. He was old and frail. I stood on the bed and reached to the roof beam. I am tall and therefore could reach it. But for an elderly and frail man, and one of short stature, it was impossible for him to stand on the bed, tie the rope, and hang himself.
“Yet one of your brethren went to considerable lengths to draw attention to the nature of the work that Connla was doing, pretending to express approval for it but, at the same time, hinting that Connla was so overawed by his revelations that he could not face the fact of his complicity in the destruction of our ancient beliefs and rituals. He even said that Connla had approved of a quotation by Pliny which, cunningly, he left for me to find, having whetted my curiosity. It was the passage where Pliny wrote that, ‘amid the suffering of life, suicide is the gods’ best gift to men’. The murderer was Brother Ledbán.”
“Ledbán?” Father Máilín looked at her in amazement. “The Delbatóir? But he worked closely with the Venerable Connla. .”
“And so knew all about his work. And one of the mistakes Ledbán made was in pretending he had no knowledge of Ogham when, as you yourself testify, he knew enough to accuse Connla of wrong interpretation.”
“But there is one thing you cannot explain,” Father Máilín pointed out, “and in this your whole argument falls apart. There was only one key and that you confess you found inside Connla’s room.”
Fidelma smiled knowingly.
“I think you will find a second key. What is the task of Brother Ledbán?”
“He’s the Delbatóir. . why?”
“He makes the metal book plates and book shrines, casting them from molds in gold or silver. It is not beyond his capability to cast a second key, having made a mold from the first. You simply take the key and press it into wax to form the mold from which you will make your cast. You will note, as I did, the key I found-Connla’s own key-was covered in grease. A search of Ledbán’s chamber or his forge should bring the second key to light if he does not confess when faced with the rest of the evidence.”
“I see.”
“However, it was wrong of you, Father Máilín, to try to disguise the manner of Connla’s death.”
“You must understand my position. I did believe Connla had committed suicide. If so, the nature of his work would be revealed. Would you rather Christendom knew that one of its great theologians committed suicide in protest of being responsible for the destruction of a few pagan books?”
“I would rather Christendom might learn from such an act. However, it was a greater guilt to fabricate the false evidence.”
“My desire was to save Connla from condemnation,” protested Father Máilín.
“Had Connla resorted to suicide, then he would have been condemned for his action,” Fidelma said. “What was it that Martial wrote?
When all the flattery of life is gone
The fearful steal away to death, the brave live on.
“But, as you frequently remarked, the Venerable Connla was a brave man and would have lived to argue his case had he not been murdered. I will leave it to you to arrest Brother Ledbán and await instructions from the abbot.”
She smiled sadly and turned toward the door.
“Must everything come out?” called Father Máilín. “Must all be revealed?”
“That is up to the abbot,” replied Fidelma, glancing back. “Thankfully, in this case, it is not in my purview to make such moral judgments on what took place here. I only have to report the facts to the abbot.”
THE FOSTERER
Fidelma! I am glad that you have come.”
Brehon Spélan was looking somewhat harassed as Fidelma entered the old judge’s chamber. She had known Spélan for many years and had ridden to the fortress of Críonchoill, the place of the withered wood, in answer to his summons. He had sent her a message that he required some urgent assistance. Now his face was wreathed in a tired smile of relief as he came forward to welcome her.
“What ails you, Spélan?” Fidelma examined him with concern. He did not seem physically ill and a moment later he confirmed that fact to her.
“I did not mean to alarm you, Fidelma.” He was apologetic. “I was due to hear a case this morning; a case of death by neglect and now I have been called to hear a case of kin-slaying in the neighboring territory. The kin-slaying concerns a cleric of noble rank and, as you will know, takes precedence. I am afraid that I must leave at once and yet all the witnesses of the death by neglect case have already been summoned here. It is too late to cancel the hearing. I asked you here to beg a favor of you.”
Fidelma smiled wryly.
“You want me to hear this case of death by neglect?”
“You are qualified to do so,” pointed out the elderly Brehon, as if it might be a matter for dispute.
She nodded in agreement. Being qualified to the level of anruth, only one degree below the highest the law courts could bestow, she could sit in judgment on certain cases, but her main task as a dálaigh was to prosecute or defend and, more often than not, simply to gather information for presentation to the higher courts.
“Of course I will do so. A case of death by neglect? Do you have details?”
“A father whose son has died while in fosterage brings the charge. That is all I know, except such a case should be fairly simple. I have a copy of the Cáin Íarraith, the law on fosterage, should you need it.”
Fidelma inclined her head slightly.
“I would be grateful, Spélan. While I know generalities of the law pertaining to fosterage, I may need to refresh myself on the specifics.”
The old judge moved to his table, picked up a well-thumbed manuscript book and handed it to her. He seemed in a hurry to depart for he glanced at her in embarrassment.
“Thank you for standing in for me, Fidelma. I must be on my way now. My clerk is Brother Corbb. I am leaving him behind. He will guide and advise you.”
He raised his hand in a sort of salutation, picked up the leather satchel, which he had just fini
shed packing as she entered, and left the room.
Fidelma stood for a moment regarding the closed door with a faint smile of amusement. Brehon Spélan had not really given her time to think and she hoped that she had not been pushed into a wrong choice. She dropped her eyes to the law text that the old judge had thrust into her hand and sighed deeply. What did she really know of fosterage? She seated herself at the desk vacated by Brehon Spélan and placed the book before her.
Altram-fosterage-was the keystone of society and practiced in the five kingdoms of Éireann since remote times and by all social ranks. Children were sent to be reared and educated, and those who undertook this responsibility became foster parents of the child. Usually children were sent to fosterage at the age of seven years. They remained in fosterage until the age of fourteen, for girls, and seventeen for boys, when they were deemed to have reached the “Age of Choice.”
There were two types of fosterage, fosterage for affection and fosterage for payment. Kings sent their sons to other kings to be fostered. Had not Lugaid, son of the High King Conn Cétchathach of the Uí Néill, been sent to the Eóghanacht King of Muman, Ailill Olumm, to be raised and educated? From fosterage grew close ties between families. The relationship was regarded as something sacred and often the foster children became more attached to their foster parents than to members of their own family. Cases had occurred where a warrior had voluntarily laid down his own life to save that of his foster father or foster brother.
Fidelma had been told that in the year of her birth, at the great battle of Magh Roth, the High King, Domhnall mac Aedo had been concerned for the personal safety of his rebellious foster son, Congal Cáel, King of Ulaidh, against whom he was fighting. In spite of Congal’s attempt to oust his foster father from the kingship, both foster father and foster son regarded one another with affection, and when Congal was slain, Domhnall lamented as if he had lost the battle.
The law on fosterage was written down in minute detail.
For a while Fidelma thumbed through the text and then she suddenly realized the passage of time. She reached forward and picked up the small silver handbell and shook it. The door opened immediately to its summons and a thin-faced religieux with rounded shoulders scurried into the room to stand before her.
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