‘I didn’t see him.’
‘We shall keep an eye on him without alarming him.’
‘There has been no word about the discovery of the remains of Sarnradán’s driver,’ Eadulf added with an involuntary shiver.
Fidelma wrinkled her nose distastefully.
‘Sometimes those taken by wolves are never found. I will say a prayer for the repose of that poor man’s soul.’
They entered the cloisters and were about to cross the courtyard towards the guests’ hostel when Eadulf suddenly pulled Fidelma back into the shadows.
She opened her mouth to protest but was silenced by a finger placed to Eadulf’s lips. The Saxon monk jerked his head in the direction of the cloistered passage on the far side of the courtyard.
She looked across.
There was the small, pale-faced figure of Solam, the dálaigh of the Uí Fidgente. He was talking animatedly and waving his arms. He seemed excited. She was not sure to whom he was talking for the other figure stood behind one of the columns of the cloisters. That it was a religieux was obvious from what little she could see of the figure’s habit.
‘Our lawyer friend seems rather agitated,’ muttered Eadulf.
‘I wonder why?’ mused Fidelma. ‘Can we get near without being seen?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Let’s try anyway.’
They began to walk slowly and as quietly as they could along the cloistered corridor along one side of the courtyard before turning down the other. They could hear Solam’s voice raised slightly but could not make out what he was saying.
Then his voice stopped, as if in mid-flow.
‘I think we have been seen,’ muttered Eadulf.
‘Walk on as if you are not aware of them,’ instructed Fidelma softly. She increased her pace slightly.
By the time they came to the corner, with a view along the far corridor, the two figures had vanished. Solam had obviously entered one of the nearby doorways which gave access to the guests’ hostel. Of the other figure they could hear the slapping of leather sandals on the flagged stones as the wearer hurried away. Eadulf ran forward and peered through the stone arches across the courtyard. A door banged on the far side.
At that moment, Abbot Ségdae appeared through another side door. He halted when he saw Eadulf standing there, a little breathless from the exertion of his sudden run.
‘I heard a door slamming,’ the abbot announced with disapproval in his voice.
Eadulf expression was bland. ‘Yes. I think a Brother left the courtyard hurriedly on the far side.’
‘Shame on him. Even in a hurry a member of the abbey is taught not to slam a door and disturb God’s peace in this holy place.’
Fidelma came up, overhearing the abbot’s remarks.
‘Sometimes the desire to fulfil a task quickly makes one forget one’s etiquette, Ségdae,’ she murmured.
‘If I discover the culprit, he will be given penance enough to remember the lesson,’ the abbot muttered irritably and strode off.
Fidelma turned to Eadulf with a meditative look.
‘Wasn’t it young Brother Daig who said that he was awakened in the night by a slamming door? I thought it was unusual for a member of a community to slam a door. Perhaps the same person has slammed a door on both occasions? A pity we do not know who it was.’
Eadulf smiled conceitedly.
‘But we do.’
Fidelma almost swallowed in surprise.
‘You recognised the person? Then tell me!’ she gasped impatiently.
‘The man half turned in the open doorway as he was closing it. The light was full on him as he was framed there. It was Brother Bardan.’
Chapter Fifteen
Eadulf had been dispatched to gather what information he could on Brother Bardán’s background from Abbot Ségdae with strict instructions to tell the abbot that nothing should be said that might alert Bardán that he was being investigated. Fidelma herself went in search of the highly strung dálaigh of the Uí Fidgente.
She found him, at last, in the tech screpta, the library of the abbey. Imleach was possessed of one of the great libraries in the kingdom for there were well over two hundred manuscript books housed there. Most of the books were not kept on shelves but in leather satchels, hung on pegs or racks round the wall. Each satchel contained one manuscript volume. But one section of the library contained some elaborately wrought and beautifully ornamented leather-bound volumes embellished with silver plating. A few of these were contained in small cases called labor-chomet, or book holders, which were made of metal in order to preserve works of great value. The ‘Confession of Patrick’, the earliest ‘Annals of Imleach’ and a ‘Life of Ailbe’ were amongst them.
Imleach had in its library an area in which scribes worked and studied. When Fidelma entered there were several members of the community bent over their tasks of copying books. The copying was being done on long, thin, smooth, rectangular boards on which vellum was stretched. The vellum was variously made from the skins of sheep, goats or calves. The scribes used ink made from carbon kept in cows’ horns and the work was done with pens made from the quills of geese, swans or even crows.
She noted that a few of the scribes were reading from the flesc filidh, or poet’s rods, staves and wands made from yew or apple tree on which Ogham, the ancient form of Irish writing, was carved.
Fidelma paused a moment to take in the atmosphere of the large room which comprised the abbey’s library. She always felt pleasure at being in a library; it gave her a sense of being in touch with both past and future at the same time for here was the knowledge of the past being transmitted through the present to the scribes of the future. She experienced a sense of childlike wonder whenever she entered any library, but Imleach was regarded as one of the greatest in the kingdom.
She spotted Solam almost at once, apart from the scribes, seated at a reading table in a corner of the library. She walked quietly across to his table.
‘I see that you are rested and not ill-affected by your experience, Solam.’ Her tone was slightly ironic as she seated herself in front of him.
He glanced up in apparent irritation at being interrupted.
‘It is a matter of luck that I was not injured, Sister,’ he replied, also speaking softly so as not to disturb the others in the library. ‘I will still register my complaint to the Chief Brehon of the five kingdoms. Do not think that you will be able to persuade me otherwise.’
He thrust out his chin defiantly.
‘I would not dream of doing so,’ Fidelma returned gravely. ‘However, as a dálaigh of some reputation …’ she paused pointedly,’ I know that you will take into account the nervousness of the people in view of what happened last night.’
Solam was not mollified. ‘It does not mitigate the fact that, having identified myself, those people tried to kill me.’
‘But you were not killed,’ pointed out Fidelma. ‘However, I would not dream of preventing you from registering your complaint.’
Solam sniffed deprecatingly. ‘I shall do so.’
‘Of course, compensation in settlement to your complaint is only given if it can be justified. That is, if the people had no valid cause to fear you. If they did not genuinely believe that they had been attacked by the Uí Fidgente, then, of course, there would be no cause for their anger to be raised against you. However, if they did believe they had been attacked …’
She waved her hand to dismiss the matter and smiled.
‘You do not have to instruct me in law,’ snapped Solam, his voice rising so that a number of scribes looked up. A stentorian voice from the chief librarian, seated at his central desk, hissed a command for silence.
‘How well do you know Brother Bardan?’ Fidelma continued innocently.
The little man looked at her disdainfully.
‘Do you think it proper that we, as opposing counsels, should be discussing any matters affecting the hearing at Cashel?’
Fidelma felt her tem
per stirring but kept it in check.
‘I was not aware that we were doing so,’ she replied, trying to soften the icy tinge to her voice. ‘Though from what you tell me you have been informed of all the details of the case so it matters not if we talk in general terms.’
‘As a dálaigh, it is my task to question who I please. My Prince, Donennach, sent a messenger instructing me to proceed to Cashel and the messenger had a copy of the protocol drawn up by Donndubhain, the tanist of Cashel. Therefore, I set out immediately.’
Fidelma smiled quickly. ‘I suppose that the messenger from Cashel told you that I had come to Imleach, which is why you came here?’
Solam flushed.
‘I came here …’ he began, and then he realised the path he had been drawn along.
‘The road from Luimneach to Cashel runs north of here. So I deduced that you thought it wise to come here first. Is that so?’
The little man’s eyes narrowed.
‘You are a very clever lady, Fidelma,’ he said icily. ‘I have heard of your reputation.’
‘That is gratifying.’ She paused, allowing the silence to press the question.
‘As a dálaigh,’ Solam explained, ‘it was my duty to see if you had been able to identify the crucifix. I understand that you have. It was the crucifix of Ailbe who founded this abbey; a crucifix which has disappeared from the chapel where it has been kept for the last century or more.’
Fidelma tried to hide her surprise that Solam had been able to gather the information so quickly.
The dálaigh was sitting back with a self-satisfied look.
‘I did not know that Brother Bardan was such a loquacious man,’ she said quietly.
Solam did not attempt to deny his information had come from the apothecary. ‘He is certainly more helpful than many here.’
‘You do your reputation justice, Solam,’ Fidelma replied.
‘You will find that I now have proof that this assassination plot was not inspired by the Uí Fidgente as you have claimed it to be.’
‘You have been misinformed, Solam,’ countered Fidelma. ‘I have never claimed anything. You mention the duties of a dálaigh. It is also my duty to gather the facts and present them to the Brehons. Other people have made claims, not 1. I shall continue to seek the truth until I am satisfied that I have found it.’
‘I think that the truth will be found much closer to Cashel than you think,’ the Uí Fidgente lawyer replied. He suddenly leant forward across the table, thrusting his face towards her in an unblinking stare. He kept his voice in an even monotone, scarcely above a whisper. ‘I believe that your brother plots to destroy the Uí Fidgente. I believe that he means to complete the victory he gained at Cnoc Áine last year when our king, Eóganián, was slain. How better to find justification to annihilate us than to claim that our Prince Donennach was involved in a plot to assassinate him out of vengeance? If he can persuade people to believe that story, then he will gain their support to destroy the Uí Fidgente. Well, I shall reveal the truth - and the truth is that it is Colgú, your brother, who is behind this plot!’
Solam sat back in defiance and folded his arms.
Fidelma was quiet for a moment or two and then she allowed a small smile to crease the corner of her mouth. She shook her head sadly.
‘You have an excellent court-room technique, Solam. Unfortunately, you would do better to keep it for the court room. But remember this, Brehons deal in facts, not in emotional outbursts.’
Solam leapt to his feet. His face was flushed. Fidelma’s assessment of his highly strung character was certainly an accurate one. Mentally she noted that his expressive irritability might be a weapon in her hands when arguing her case before the Brehons. For a moment or two, Fidelma thought that Solam’s rage was about to explode in verbal anger. Then the little dálaigh managed to control himself.
‘We shall see,’ muttered Solam angrily before he flounced from the library room. One or two of the scribes glanced up from their books, disturbed at his noisy exit.
The chief librarian rose from his seat and came over. There was a look of annoyance on his features.
‘The Uí Fidgente did not hand back his book,’ he pointed out. The book Solam was looking at was still on the table. ‘I presume that he has finished with it?’
Fidelma grimaced at the librarian. ‘I should imagine he has.’
The librarian bent to pick up the small, leather-bound volume. Fidelma suddenly stretched out a hand and stayed him.
‘One moment …’
She turned the book around so that she could read the title. It was a ‘Life of Ailbe’. She passed it back to the chief librarian thoughtfully.
Fidelma found Abbot Ségdae still with Eadulf in his private chambers. Both of them looked up with surprise as she entered the room. She came straight to the point.
‘How would Brother Bardan know that I had shown you a sketch of a crucifix found on one of the dead assassins in Cashel and that it had been identified as one of the missing Relics of Ailbe?’ she demanded without preamble.
The elderly, hawk-faced abbot blinked.
‘I did not tell him,’ he protested. ‘But it is no secret that the Relics and Brother Mochta have vanished, Fidelma.’
‘But no one would know that the crucifix had been discovered on the body of the assassin.’
The abbot spread his hands.
‘I did not think it was a matter to be made a secret among the senior religieux of this abbey. The Relics are of concern to us. After all, we are the primacy of the kingdom. This is where the Eóghanacht kings come to take their sacred oath by the ancient yew-tree. Why should this matter be a secret?’
‘I am not blaming you for anything, Ségdae,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘So, tell me, who did you mention it to?’
‘I told Brother Madagan, he being the steward of the abbey.’
‘And Brother Bardan? He was told?’
‘The abbey is a close community. New travels quickly. You cannot keep secrets from among the Brothers and Sisters of the Faith.’
Fidelma gave a mental sigh. The abbot was perfectly right in what he said.
Ségdae was clearly worried as he glanced from Fidelma to Eadulf.
‘Why do you both mention Brother Bardan?’ he asked. ‘Brother Eadulf here was also asking about him. Do you suspect him of any conduct unseemly for a member of this abbey?’
‘I have told the Father Abbot that we merely want to clarify some points of background,’ interposed Eadulf hurriedly.
‘That is so, Ségdae,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘Eadulf has doubtless asked you to use total discretion. You see, in order to get at the truth it is often necessary to ask questions about people in order to verify facts. It contains no slur on their character nor any suspicion of wrongdoing. So we would appreciate it if no mention was made of our questions to Brother Bardan.’
The abbot looked bewildered but indicated his assent. ‘I shall not speak about this to anyone.’
‘Not even to your steward, Brother Madagan,’ insisted Fidelma.
‘Not to anyone,’ emphasised the abbot. ‘I have told Eadulf here that I have every confidence in Brother Bardan. He has been with our community for over ten years, working as our apothecary and mortician.’
‘The abbot tells me he was a local man,’ Eadulf said. ‘That he was a herbalist before he went to the medical school at the monastery of Tír dhá Ghlas. He became an apothecary and mortician and then joined the community here.’
‘Had he ever been a warrior?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Never,’ replied the abbot in some surprise. ‘What gave you that idea?’
‘Just a thought. Do you know if he was a particular friend of Brother Mochta?’
‘We are all Brothers and Sisters in this community, Fidelma. Brother Bardán’s chamber was next to Brother Mochta’s. I do not doubt they would be friends. So was young Daig. Poor child. Brother Bardán had recently asked permission to take Daig into the apothecary and train him to be his as
sistant.’
‘So, as far as you knew, Brother Bardan was not close to the monk who vanished?’ insisted Fidelma.
Abbot Ségdae shook his head. ‘I would not know. In this community, we are all one under God.’
Fidelma nodded almost absently. ‘Very well.’ She opened the door. ‘Thank you, Ségdae.’
The abbot looked anxious. ‘Is there any news of a resolution to this mystery?’ he called fretfully.
‘I will let you know when I have some news,’ replied Fidelma tersely.
Outside, she said to Brother Eadulf: ‘Let’s go and examine Brother Mochta’s room again.’
‘Do you have an idea?’ Eadulf asked as he followed her along the corridor. She caught the expectation in his voice and had to answer him with a sardonic grunt.
‘This is one case, Eadulf, where I am totally at a loss. Whenever I think I see links, they vanish as abruptly as they come. There is nothing here but suspicion. On this evidence I would not even obtain the sympathy of the court. We now have less than a week to gather evidence.’
‘But if we cannot get evidence which points to those responsible, neither can the other side get evidence to prove their case,’ Eadulf pointed out.
‘It does not work like that,’ Fidelma told him. ‘Prince Donennach was a guest under the protection of my brother when the assassins launched their attack. My brother was responsible for the safety of his guests. He now has to demonstrate that he is not to be held responsible. Prince Donennach does not have to prove that my brother was to blame.’
‘I am not sure that I follow that.’
‘Only if my brother can show that this was a plot by the Ui Fidgente or some other faction is he absolved from his responsibility.’
‘It is a fine point,’ observed Eadulf.
‘But the fulcrum of the law nevertheless.’
‘Well, what can we hope to see in Brother Mochta’s room now? We have examined it before.’
They had reached the door of the chamber.
The Monk Who Vanished Page 21