‘Is there anyone there?’ Abbot Erc’s nervous question came out as a croak. He cleared his throat. ‘In the name of God, is there anyone there?’ he called in a stronger tone.
There was no reply.
He moved forward. The altar was a solid block of limestone, carved with the names of the Sanctissimus Ordo, the first holy saints of Eireann. He edged round it, holding the candle high.
The body was stretched on its back with its hands above the head as if someone had dragged it behind the altar by the outstretched arms. There was blood all over the skull, matting the white hair, and it was obvious that someone had used some heavy cudgel to batter the head.
The abbot let out a low moan.
‘Oh, my God! Not again! Not again!’
Abbot Erc had recognised the corpse immediately. It was the Venerable Cinaed.
The rechtaire was so excited that he quite forgot to knock on the door of Abbot Erc’s chamber. He burst in, causing the grey-haired abbot to glance up from his chair as he sat before the blazing fire. He frowned with annoyance towards the youthful, fresh-faced steward.
‘They have arrived,’ cried Brother Cu Mara. Before the abbot could reprimand him, he went on, ‘They have been seen approaching the abbey. The lord Conri rides at their head. I will go and greet them at the gates.’
Before Abbot Erc could say a word in reply, the young steward, seeming to forget all sense of place and protocol in his excitement, turned and hurried off, leaving the chamber door open and a draught whistling through.
The abbot put down the goblet of wine he had been sipping and rose to his feet. He shuffled to the door, paused a moment and then, with a sigh, shrugged and closed it.
Although he kept a passive expression on his features, he had to admit that he shared something of the steward’s excitement. It had been ten days since he had asked Conri, warlord of the Ui Fidgente, for help. Last month, six young female members of the community had left the abbey with Abbess Faife. They had only been gone a few days when Mugron, a merchant who was well known at Ard Fhearta, had arrived at the abbey with horrifying news. He had found the body of Abbess Faife near the roadside south of the Sliabh Mis mountains. There had been no sign of her six companions. By coincidence, Abbess Faife’s nephew, Conri, the warlord of the Ui Fidgente, was visiting the abbey at the time. Having recovered the body of the abbess and attended the rituals of burial, Conri dalaigh, who could solve such a mystery as that now facing them. He had left the abbey with two warriors, promising to find the dalaigh and return to the abbey as soon as possible.
And now Conri was returning. But in the meantime a second tragic mystery had occurred: the murder of the Venerable Cinaed.
Abbot Erc shivered slightly as he remembered finding the Venerable Cinaed’s body in the oratory. God! What evil cursed the great abbey that such things could happen? The abbot stared moodily into the fire and wondered what manner of person it was whom Conri was bringing to his abbey to resolve these mysteries and in whom he had so much faith.
Conri, King of Wolves, warlord of the Ui Fidgente, paused on the brow of the hill and patted the neck of his bay stallion. He was tall and well-muscled, with a shock of black hair, grey eyes and the livid white of a scar across his left cheek. In spite of that, he was a handsome young man whose humour was especially marked when he smiled. It was the smile that changed the haughtiness of his expression into a look of boyish mischievous fun. He turned to his companions and pointed north-westward across the plain.
‘There is the great abbey of Ard Fhearta, lady.’
His companions were a red-haired religieuse and a stocky man wearing the tonsure of St Peter. Behind them rode two young but dour-looking warriors. The woman and her companion edged their horses close to Conri and followed the line of his outstretched arm.
‘Well, Conri, our journey has not been long from Cashel,’ observed the woman.
‘It is as I promised,’ agreed the young warrior. ‘I am only sorry that I felt no other choice was left to me but to ask you to come here to help us.’
The religieuse’s companion grimaced sceptically. ‘Since you put your case so well, Conri, how could we refuse you?’
Conri glanced suspiciously at him.
‘I have no eloquence, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied shortly. ‘I think the lady Fidelma was persuaded by the strangeness of the facts.’
Brother Eadulf was about to make some rejoinder when Sister Fidelma held up a hand and put her head slightly to one side.
‘Listen! What is that noise?’
There came to their ears a faint rhythmic sound like the distant pounding of a drum. It seemed to have a slow but regular beat.
‘Have you never been in this corner of Muman, lady?’ asked Conri. He always addressed Fidelma by her rank as sister to Colgu, king of Muman, rather than her religious title.
‘I have not crossed beyond the Sliabh Luachra, the mountain barrier that divides us from the heartland of the Ui Fidgente,’ she replied. Then she grinned mischievously, adding, ‘For obvious reasons, as you will appreciate, Conri.’
It was not so long ago that the Ui Fidgente chieftains had led their people into a futile war to overthrow her brother, newly placed upon the throne at Cashel. The Ui Fidgente had been defeated at Cnoc Aine scarcely two years ago. Out of their defeat, young Conri had been elected as the new warlord, and he had proved his diplomatic skills by forging an alliance with Cashel on behalf of the new chief Donennach.
‘I thought these lands belonged to the Ciarraige Luachra, not the Ui Fidgente?’ Brother Eadulf was snappish. He had disapproved of this journey from the start. However, he had decided to do some research in the library of Cashel before they had set off.
Conri did not lose his good humour.
‘Two generations ago, our chieftain Oengus mac Nechtain brought the Ciarraige Luachra into our territory. But you are right, Brother Eadulf, the main Ui Fidgente territory is more to the north-east.’
‘So what is the sound we hear?’ Fidelma demanded, reverting to the unanswered question that she had posed.
‘That is the sound of the sea. We are scarcely six kilometres from it.’
‘I have been closer to seashores before and not heard such a noise.’
‘Before the abbey, beyond those hills, is a wide sandy shore which runs south to north some eleven or twelve kilometres. We call it Banna Strand, the sandy seashore of the peaks. The sea is so very high and tempestuous here, even on the calmest days, and its rollers are so thunderous, that you might feel as if the earth is trembling as you get nearer. The winds that whip off the sea are fierce at times and produce a good robust air by which the people here prosper in health, or so I have been told by the apothecaries.’
Brother Eadulf viewed the scene before him with critical eyes.
‘It does not seem that the trees prosper,’ he observed. ‘Those that are
Not for the first time, during the two days of their journey from Cashel, Fidelma shot Eadulf a glance of disapproval at his carping tone. Then she turned back to the vista that stretched before them.
The abbey, its buildings enclosed by a circular defensive wall like most of the monastic settlements in these parts, was built on the crown of a hill. Round the bottom of the hill a river meandered its way to the sea. Eadulf could see a number of fortified homesteads and farms dotted here and there across the valley and reminded himself that until recently the Ui Fidgente had been a very martial people. There seemed to be no clusters of buildings immediately outside the walls of the abbey, which unlike some of the great monasteries was clearly not used as a centre of habitation.
Conri was at pains to point out the number of holy wells in the vicinity, the standing stones and thriving farmsteads. ‘Ard Fhearta is over a hundred years old,’ he told them, and there was pride in his voice. ‘It was built by the great Breanainn-’
‘Of the Ciarraige Luachra,’ Brother Eadulf could not help but interpose. ‘I have read the story.’
‘The name Ard Fh
earta means “height of the graveyard”, doesn’t it?’ Fidelma mused, ignoring him. ‘So the abbey is built on the site of an old pagan burial ground?’
‘As are many abbey foundations and churches of our new Faith,’ agreed Conri. ‘I am told by Abbot Erc that the purpose of doing so is to sanctify the old sites so that all our ancestors may join us in the Christian Otherworld.’
Brother Eadulf frowned. His people, the South Folk, who traced their descent to Casere, son of the great god Woden, had believed that the only way to achieve immortality was to die sword in hand, the name of Woden on their lips. Then and only then would they be allowed into the afterlife, to sit with the gods in the great hall of the heroes. Now and then the indoctrination of his early years rose and fought with his conversion to the New Faith. Eadulf still sought guarantees, and that was why he had rejected the teachings of the Irish who had converted and educated him for the more fundamental absolutes of Rome.
The small band continued on their way towards the grey stone and wooden buildings of the abbey. They rode along a wide avenue between
As they made their way up the incline towards the walls of Ard Fhearta, the wooden gates opened and a young man emerged. He stood awaiting their approach with ill-concealed excitement on his features.
‘God be with you this day, Brother Cu Mara,’ said Conri, reining his horse to a standstill in front of the open gates.
‘God and Mary protect you, Conri son of Conmael.’ The young man gave the ritual response. Then he turned to greet the others and his eyes suddenly narrowed as they beheld Fidelma.
‘Brother Cu Mara is the rechtaire of the abbey,’ Conri said.
‘Welcome to Ard Fhearta, lady.’ The coldness of his tone did not match the words.
Fidelma raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem to know who I am?’
The young man inclined his head slightly. ‘Who does not know of Fidelma, sister to Colgu, King of Muman? Your reputation as a dalaigh has spread in all five kingdoms of Eireann.’
Fidelma glanced accusingly at Conri. ‘I thought you said that you had not warned anyone here that I would be coming?’
Before Conri could speak, Brother Cu Mara intervened.
‘I only knew myself a moment ago when I recognised you.’ He spoke in a curiously disapproving tone.
‘Then you have seen me before?’
‘I studied the art of calligraphy under Abbot Laisran at Durrow, lady. I saw you several times there.’
Fidelma smiled. Durrow — the abbey of the oak plain. It seemed an age since she had last been there. The genial Abbot Laisran had looked upon Fidelma as his protegee, having persuaded her to join the religious after she had won her degrees in law at the great school of the Brehon Morann. Dear, kindly Abbot Laisran, and his infectious humour.
Brother Cu Mara had turned to Eadulf with the same serious scrutiny.
‘And you are…?’
‘This is my companion, Brother Eadulf,’ said Fidelma.
The young monk’s expression did not alter.
‘Of course,’ he said shortly. He turned back to Conri. ‘The abbot will
Fidelma could still hear the disapproval in the young man’s tone.
‘I will see him directly, then,’ Conri assured him. ‘I presume there is no word from the missing religieuse?’
The steward’s expression turned into an unpleasant grimace.
‘No word from them, lord Conri. However, the abbey has received a further tragic blow.’
‘Then do not keep us in suspense, Brother,’ Conri replied shortly.
‘Three days ago, the Venerable Cinaed was found dead in the oratory.’
‘The Venerable Cinaed?’ It was Fidelma who asked the question. ‘Would that be Cinaed the scholar?’
‘Do you know his work, lady?’ The steward seemed surprised.
‘Who does not know of his treatises on philosophy and history?’ she responded at once. ‘His work was renowned throughout the five kingdoms of Eireann. Do I judge that he was elderly? I hope he died a peaceful death?’
Brother Cu Mara shook his head. ‘He was elderly, just as you say, lady, but he died violently. A heavy blow apparently crushed the back of his skull.’
Conri gasped while Fidelma’s eyes widened a little.
‘I presume, from your choice of words, that this was no accident?’ she pressed.
‘His body was found behind the altar in the oratory and there was no sign of the implement which caused the death blow.’
‘Has the culprit been discovered?’ Conri demanded. He glanced to Fidelma and added: ‘This is bad news, indeed. Cinaed was a great supporter of our new chief, Donennach, and was one of his advisers.’
The steward did not look unduly grief-stricken.
‘There are some here who think that this place has become cursed because of the surrender of Donennach,’ he said quietly.
Fidelma’s mouth tightened as she identified the hostility in the steward’s tone.
‘Cursed?’ She made the word sound belligerent.
‘Perhaps it is the shades of past generations of the Ui Fidgente who lie buried here — perhaps they are released from their Otherworld slumber to come back and wreak havoc upon us for the misfortune brought on them?’
Fidelma stared at the youthful steward in surprise. He seemed so reasonable and so matter of fact with his question. She could not tell whether he was serious or possessed of some perverse sense of humour.
‘As a member of the Faith, Brother, you should know better than to voice such superstitious nonsense.’
‘I merely articulate what many here are thinking. Indeed, what some have actually voiced already,’ the steward said defensively. ‘The abbey was built on an ancient pagan cemetery and perhaps we have angered the old spirits of the Ui Fidgente by our defeat?’
‘It seems that we have arrived at an opportune time,’ said Eadulf seriously. ‘We have come to save you Ui Fidgente from slipping back into fearful idolatry.’
Only Fidelma recognised the tone of voice when Eadulf spoke in jest.
Brother Cu Mara was about to respond in anger but then he turned away, speaking over his shoulder.
‘I would not keep Abbot Erc waiting, lord Conri. As for the lady Fidelma and her companion, the abbot will doubtless expect you both to join him after the evening prayers and meal. Come, let me take you to the hospitium so that you may refresh yourselves after your travels.’
Eadulf noted the use of the Latin term.
‘Do you follow the Roman rule here, Brother?’ he asked as they dismounted and followed the steward on foot, leading their horses, into the abbey complex.
Brother Cu Mara shook his head immediately.
‘I perceive that you bear the tonsure of Rome, Brother Eadulf, but here we adhere to the teachings of our Church Fathers. Nevertheless, Latin is much in fashion in the abbey. Our scholars pride themselves on translating from the Latin texts. The Venerable Cinaed was keeping a great chronicle in Latin wherein he was recording the history of this abbey since its foundation by the Blessed Breanainn.’
Conri had handed his horse to one of his companions, a taciturn warrior named Socht, and departed to find the abbot. The young steward fell silent as he guided the rest of the party through the abbey grounds, through buildings of various shapes and sizes that made up the complex, to a large wooden structure they presumed was the hospitium. Brother Cu Mara paused.
‘There are no other guests at the moment so the guest-house is all yours. Make yourselves welcome. Sister Sinnchene is inside. She will attend to
Without another word, the young steward turned and left.
The warrior Socht and his companion took charge of the horses and led them away to the abbey stables.
Eadulf pulled a face in the direction of the vanishing Brother Cu Mara.
‘I get the impression that that young man is not exactly pleased to see us,’ he commented.
‘Remember that we are in Ui Fidgente territory, Eadulf,’ Fidelma replied. ‘My brot
her was victorious in battle over them just over two years ago. Some people do not forgive and forget so easily.’
Eadulf opened the door to the guest-house and ushered Fidelma inside. They entered a large chamber of red yew panels which, it appeared, was a general room where guests could rest before a fire. The sky was already darkening, for dusk came early on these cold winter’s days, but there was a cheerful fire crackling in a stone-flagged hearth. A young woman was bending over an oil lamp set on a central table and adjusting its flickering wick. She glanced up, startled by their silent entrance, and Fidelma noticed that her eyes seemed red-rimmed. The light flickered on the tears gathered on her lashes.
She straightened up quickly, raising a hand to wipe her eyes. Fidelma took in the girl’s attractive features. She had a fair skin, blue eyes and a shock of golden hair.
‘I am Sister Sinnchene,’ she announced with a sniff. ‘I presume that you are the guests we have been expecting? How may I be of assistance to you?’
It was clear that they had entered on some private moment of grief that she had no wish to share.
Fidelma introduced herself and Eadulf. It was clear that the young woman did not know of Fidelma’s relationship to the king of Muman.
‘Will you be wanting to bathe after your journey, Sister?’ she asked. ‘I can have hot water ready in the bathhouse shortly. Our facilities are primitive so there are no separate arrangements for men and women. If your companion can wait until you have finished, I will ensure there is hot water for him as well.’
Eadulf had never really understood the Irish passion for such fastidious cleanliness. In the land of the South Folk, bathing had consisted of a dip in the river and that carried out none too often.
‘I can wait,’ he agreed hurriedly.
‘There are separate chambers for your sleeping quarters,’ Sister Sinnchene continued, pointing to a corridor that led off from the room behind her. ‘The bathing house and defectarium stand beyond.’
‘The lord Conri and two of his warriors accompanied us here. They will be wanting beds,’ Fidelma pointed out.
‘The warriors will doubtless make do with beds in the dormitory.’ Sister Sinnchene’s voice was brisk and business-like. ‘If you will choose your chamber, Sister, I shall return and tell you when the water is heated.’
Master of Souls sf-16 Page 3