Master of Souls

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘There are no other guests at the moment so the guest-house is all yours. Make yourselves welcome. Sister Sinnchéne is inside. She will attend to your wants. I will come to collect you after evening prayers and take you to Abbot Erc’s chamber.’

  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 Cú Mara.

  ‘I get the impression that that young man is not exactly pleased to see us,’ he commented.

  ‘Remember that we are in Uí Fidgente territory, Eadulf,’ Fidelma replied. ‘My brother 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 Sinnchéne,’ 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 Sinnchéne continued, pointing to a corridor that led off from the room behind her. ‘The bathing house and defectarium stand beyond.’

  ‘The lord Conrí 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 Sinnchéne’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.’

  She moved off in a brisk fashion.

  Fidelma went into the corridor. There were three or four cell-like rooms leading off it, each only big enough for a cot-like bed and little else. She entered the first room and threw her bag down on the bed with a sigh. Eadulf took the next room and followed Fidelma back to the main chamber, where she sank into the nearest chair.

  ‘While we have this moment alone,’ she said abruptly, ‘you’d best tell me what troubles you.’

  Eadulf raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Should anything trouble me?’ he asked in feigned innocence.

  Fidelma grimaced with annoyance.

  ‘All through the journey here you have been as querulous as an old woman. It would be better to say what is on your mind now rather than leave it until later.’

  Eadulf hesitated, shrugged and sat down opposite her.

  ‘What troubles me is the same matter that has troubled me since Conrí came to Cashel,’ he said heavily.

  ‘Which is?’ prompted Fidelma sharply.

  ‘It is barely a few weeks since our son, Alchú, was abducted. Thanks be to God that we recovered him safely. We had scarcely reunited as a family, scarcely made it back to safety in Cashel. It was clearly time to settle down for a while. Then along comes Conrí and you decide to go charging off into dangerous territory. This area may still be within your brother’s kingdom but it is an area that has been in constant rebellion against him. And all because this Conrí pleads with you to do so.’

  Fidelma returned his gaze with an expression of sadness. For a moment, Eadulf recognised the hurt in her eyes.

  ‘Eadulf,’ her voice was heavy with emphasis, ‘I am Alchú’s mother. Do you think I care nothing about my son? My pain in leaving him in Cashel after so short a time is as great, if not greater, than your own. However, I am sister to the King and, as well you know, above all things, I am a dálaigh. That is my training, that is my skill in life. You know the problems that my brother has had with the Uí Fidgente. Now I am presented with an ideal means to build on the fragile peace between Cashel and this wild people. Conrí, the warlord of the Uí Fidgente, came to Cashel seeking my help as a dálaigh. By extending that help to him, I will strengthen the move to reunite my brother’s kingdom.’

  Eadulf saw her argument but his personal feelings did not allow him to be convinced by it.

  ‘I could understand that if all else had been equal for us but it is not so,’ he protested. ‘It is only a matter of weeks since we settled down at Cashel, united as a family again, and started to plan the ceremony by which we will be permanently bound together, which was supposed to be on the feast of Imbolc, when the ewes come into milk. On that day you were supposed to become my cétmuintir.’

  For nearly a year now Fidelma and Eadulf had been joined as ban charrthach and fer comtha, partners for a year and a day, a legal marriage under the law, but a temporary one. After a year and a day, if incompatible, they could go their separate ways without blame and without payment of compensation to one another.

  Fidelma examined Eadulf with a sad expression.

  ‘Do you have cause to doubt that it will happen?’ she asked softly.

  Eadulf raised an arm in a brief gesture almost of helplessness and let it fall.

  ‘Sometimes I am not so sure. We seem to be constantly drifting from one drama to another.’

  ‘Then let me tell you this,’ Fidelma said earnestly. ‘It was my brother’s wish that I should come here, not my response to Conrí, which would have not been enthusiastic in the circumstances. My brother is king. My decision was made in response to the wishes of the king. I tried to explain that to you before we set out.’ As Eadulf opened his mouth to reply, she held up her hand, as if to silence him, and went on. ‘A resolution of this particular drama, as I said, is important to my brother’s kingdom, Eadulf. And since we have arrived here at Ard Fhearta we find the drama has intensified because the Venerable Cinaed has been murdered. The Venerable Cinaed is known and respected throughout all five kingdoms and is admired by the High King himself. His death will create a greater shock throughout these lands than even that of Conrí’s aunt, the Abbess Faife.’

  Fidelma’s brother, Colgú, had certainly made the political importance of helping Conrí clear enough when they had spoken together. If Cashel could respond to an Uí Fidgente call for help in solving the mystery at the abbey of Ard Fhearta, it would be important in helping to heal the rift that had for so long set the rulers of the Uí Fidgente and the kings of Muman against one another.

  ‘I know what Colgú has argued,’ acknowledged Eadulf with asperity. ‘He is not the one who has had to enter Uí Fidgente country without escort and chance the dangers …’

  Fidelma suddenly smiled mischievously.

  ‘Why, Eadulf! Are you saying that you are solely concerned for my safety?’

  Eadulf grimaced in irritation at her levity. Then he said: ‘I am concerned for the safety of both of us. The warriors of your brother’s gua
rd should have escorted us. Men we could trust. Now we have to rely on Conrí and the goodwill of the Uí Fidgente.’

  Fidelma shook her head in disagreement. ‘I put my trust in Conrí.’

  ‘I remember very clearly my time as a prisoner of the Uí Fidgente. You cannot expect me to trust them.’

  ‘Yet you went alone through Uí Fidgente territory in search of Alchú,’ Fidelma reminded him. ‘You were not concerned with safety then.’

  ‘I had only myself to worry about. You were safe in Cashel.’ Fidelma shook her head, smiling.

  ‘As it turned out, I was not,’ she reminded him. ‘I was a prisoner of the rebel Uí Fidgente myself. And it was Conrí who helped me escape.’

  ‘Fidelma, I will never win an argument with you.’ Eadulf raised his hands as if fending off some imaginary attacker. ‘I should know better than to try. Since we are here, let me be at peace with my concerns.’

  ‘That I will find hard,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘Anyway, we shall soon be meeting Abbot Erc. I hope you will overcome any antagonism you feel. There appears enough antagonism here as it is. I need your mind and support to help me in this matter. Remember Muirgen and Nessán are nursing little Alchú in the safety of my brother’s fortress. The plans that we have set for the feast day of Imbolc remain in place and they will happen. And here we are, together, with a problem to face and to solve. What better situation can there be?’

  Eadulf reluctantly smiled at her infectious enthusiasm.

  ‘Very well, Fidelma. I will put a curb on my fears. But I shall look forward to the day when we can return to Cashel.’

  There was a movement at the door as Sister Sinnchéne returned.

  ‘The water will be ready when you are, Sister.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Fidelma rose immediately, picking up her cíorbholg, her comb-bag in which all Irish women carried their toilet articles. ‘Show me to this bathhouse, Sister, for I am ready now.’

  Sister Sinnchéne led Fidelma along the corridor to a room in which stood a large wooden tub called the dabach. It was already steaming. A cauldron of water was simmering on a fire in the far corner. There were shelves on which were displayed bars of sléic and linen cloths. Nearby were little jars of oil and extracts of sweet-smelling herbs boiled into a liquid to anoint the body. The place was well equipped with a scaterc - a mirror of fine polished metal - and a selection of clean combs.

  ‘I shall attend you, if it is your wish,’ said the young sister.

  Fidelma nodded absently. It was usual to have an attendant to pour the heated water and pass soap and drying cloths.

  She undressed and climbed into the dabach. The water was not too hot and she relaxed with a sigh, lying back while Sister Sinnchéne passed her a bar of soap.

  ‘Have you been long in this abbey, Sister?’ asked Fidelma as she began to lather herself.

  Sister Sinnchéne was checking on the heat of the water.

  ‘I have been here ever since I reached the age of choice,’ she replied.

  The age of choice, the aimsir togú, was the maturity of a girl arrived at her fourteenth birthday.

  ‘I would say you have not yet reached twenty summers?’ hazarded Fidelma.

  ‘I am twenty-one,’ corrected the girl, turning to pick up a big metal jug and scoop water from the cauldron. She brought it to the tub and poured it in, carefully so as not to scald Fidelma.

  ‘I presume that you knew the Venerable Cinaed?’

  There seemed some hesitation and Fidelma looked up. She was surprised to see a red tinge had settled on Sister Sinnchéne’s cheek.

  ‘We are a small community, Sister,’ the girl returned with an abruptness of tone that caused Fidelma’s eyebrow to rise slightly.

  ‘Of course,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘I am sorry. Naturally you are upset by his loss.’

  ‘He was a kind and generous man,’ replied the other with a catch in her throat.

  ‘Do you have any idea how he came by his death?’

  The young woman frowned, facing Fidelma as if seeking some other significance to her words.

  ‘Everyone knows his head was smashed in while he was in the oratory.’

  ‘Are there any ideas circulating in the abbey about who could have done such a thing?’

  For a moment the young sister looked as if she were about to give vent to the tears that she was trying so desperately to hide. Her face contorted for a moment and then she controlled herself.

  ‘It is not my place to speculate about gossip,’ she finally said. ‘You must asked the abbot.’

  ‘But you must know …’ began Fidelma.

  ‘If that will be all, Sister … ?’ Sister Sinnchéne interrupted pointedly. ‘I have other duties that I must attend to.’

  Fidelma said nothing but inclined her head. She knew when to back away from questions that people did not want to answer. Sister Sinnchéne went quickly out of the bathhouse, leaving Fidelma gazing after her with a thoughtful frown.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The evening meal had been eaten and the brethren had departed to their various tasks before retiring for the night. Abbot Erc, who had only formally greeted Fidelma and Eadulf before the meal, which - according to a tradition set by the founder of the abbey - was consumed in total silence, now invited them, together with Conrí, to accompany him to his chamber to discuss matters. Abbot Erc was elderly and grey-haired, with a sharp angular face, thin lips, small dark eyes and a permanent look of disapproval. Conrí had already warned Fidelma that the abbot, who had been a supporter of the old Uí Fidgente regime, did not entirely approve of the presence of Fidelma in the abbey. It seemed that he shared the views of his steward, Brother Cú Mara, who accompanied them to the abbot’s chamber.

  The steward was coldly polite towards them. As they entered the room, Eadulf asked him why the meal had been eaten in strict silence.

  ‘Our blessed founder believed that food and drink, that which sustains life, is a great gift from the Creator, and should therefore be consumed with meditative thought on the wonders of that creation. To speak is both to insult the cook and to scorn one’s own existence, for it is only by food and drink that one exists. Indeed, it is to disdain the Creator himself who gave us that food and drink so that we may live and glorify him. So now it is a rule of the abbey.’

  Eadulf was thoughtful.

  ‘I have not heard such emphasis placed on the contemplation of food. Our minds should be open to receive the food of knowledge as well as paying silent tribute to what we eat. Isn’t there a saying about excusing the ignorant when their feeding is better than their education?’

  Abbot Erc, overhearing this, commented irritably: ‘Our meditation on food is limited to the space of our meals and these, as you will have remarked …’ He paused and eyed the Saxon monk with something approaching contempt. ‘You will have noticed that we do not believe in over-feeding as is done in some communities. We believe in the saying that when the fruit is scarcest, its taste is sweetest.’

  A fire had been prepared in the chamber and Brother Cú Mara brought a tray of mulled wine. Eadulf raised an eyebrow as he took his goblet with its generous measure. Once again the old abbot caught the expression and interpreted it correctly.

  ‘We Uí Fidgente have another saying, Brother Eadulf, that it is not an invitation to hospitality without a drink.’ He silently raised his goblet and they responded. ‘Now, it is no longer the time to contemplate the fruits of the earth.’ He gestured to the chairs that had been set before the fire. ‘I have invited you to my chamber to discuss serious matters. Let me say at once, I cannot approve of lord Conrí’s wisdom in bringing you here, Fidelma of Cashel. There are many Brehons of repute among the Uí Fidgente who should be able to resolve our problems, without involving Cashel.’

  ‘Cashel is not involved,’ Fidelma assured him evenly, as she settled into the wooden chair before the fire. ‘I am not confined by territories or kingdoms in the exercise of my duties as a dálaigh. So, let us start with an account of th
e facts as you know them.’

  Abbot Erc sat down, took a sip of the wine, and then placed the goblet on the table at his side, leaning back in his chair. He did not look particularly happy and for a moment Eadulf thought he was going to refuse to co-operate with them. But the abbot simply said: ‘I believe that there is little to add to that which Conrí has already told you.’

  ‘Pretend that he has told me nothing.’ Fidelma smiled but her voice was sharp. ‘It is better to seek knowledge first-hand than to hear it from others.’

  ‘We are, as you have seen, a conhospitae, a mixed house of males and females,’ Abbot Erc began. ‘Our children are raised to the service of Christ. I cannot say that I approve of this, as I have come to support those who argue for celibacy among the religious.’ He paused and shrugged. ‘However, I have served as abbot here for ten years while Abbess Faife had been seven years as head of the female religieuse. Each year for seven years she has taken groups from the community on the annual pilgrimage to Bréanainn’s mount, where our blessed founder was called to set forth and establish communities to glorify Christ and the New Faith.’

  He paused but no one commented.

  ‘Well, Abbess Faife departed from our gates with her charges. She travelled overland, south to the abbey of Colman for there was some business to be enacted there between our two abbeys. After that she was to proceed through the territory of the Corco Duibhne to where Bréanainn’s mount rises.’

  He paused but there was silence again and so he continued.

  ‘The first time I knew that anything was amiss was when the merchant Mugrón appeared at this abbey. Mugrón carries on his trade from our nearest sea harbour, An Bhearbha, which is on the coast some eight kilometres from here.’

  ‘An Bhearbha? A curious name for a port, surely? Doesn’t it mean a place where the water boils?’ asked Eadulf, anxious to improve his knowledge.