Master of Souls

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘You forget that he did not know who Conrí would be bringing to the abbey,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘But I’ll agree that Abbot Erc did not really want us to investigate Cináed’s death.’

  ‘It is bewildering,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘One thing is certain, we will have to question everyone again in the light of what Sister Buan has told us.’

  ‘Might that not endanger her?’

  She ignored his question. ‘The person I am now looking forward to speaking to is Sister Sinnchéne. If Sister Buan is at all right in her accusations, then, indeed, she is the one on whom suspicion must fall.’

  ‘Well, from what you have told me about the attitude of the Venerable Mac Faosma, he is certainly responsible for the burning of Cináed’s book. Therefore, he could well have been responsible for his death. Even if he did not do it physically, he might well have ordered another to do it — that Brother Benen, for example. My suspect is the Venerable Mac Faosma.’

  Fidelma smiled without humour.

  ‘You may well be right. There is a tangled skein here that needs to be unravelled. At least, thanks to Sister Buan, we have some ends of the skein to begin to pick at and hopefully disentangle.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Conrí had returned to inform Fidelma and Eadulf that Mugrón, the merchant, was prepared to take them across the sound to the land of the Corco Duibhne in the morning providing the weather was reasonable. The dangers of the waters round the coast meant that he would not attempt the crossing if there was bad weather. However, the prospects were favourable, for the storms and high winds they had been experiencing should, by tradition, lead to dull, wet weather with softer winds and a warmer temperature.

  ‘It should be a fine morning,’ conceded Conrí, ‘but I would not count on it.’

  Eadulf frowned.

  ‘Why not?’ he demanded.

  Conri indicated the sky with a gesture of his hand. The clouds that afternoon were very high and wispy in appearance. Fidelma explained their significance to Eadulf.

  ‘We sometimes call those clouds mares’ tails. They can foretell that bad weather is on the way. Never mind. We still have plenty of tasks to keep us occupied here.’

  When Conri expressed surprise, Fidelma briefly recounted some of the information that Sister Buan had given them.

  Conrí made a soft whistling sound.

  ‘I cannot see what link there could be between my aunt’s murder and the killing of the Venerable Cinaed,’ he said. ‘Do you really think there is one?’

  ‘We cannot reject the idea,’ Fidelma replied. ‘All we can say is that while people are not exactly lying to us, they are not telling us the complete truth. We have to ask the question — why?’

  Conrí nodded agreement. ‘So what do you mean to do now?’

  ‘I mean to question Sister Sinnchéne next.’

  ‘Should I accompany you?’

  Fidelma hesitated, then shook her head firmly.

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you and Eadulf did not come with me. This questioning may touch on matters that are delicate for her, which she may better deal with woman to woman than with a male present.’

  ‘That is no problem,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘If there is nothing specific that you want me to do, I heard from one of the brothers that there was to be some chant practice in the abbey church. I would be very interested to hear it.’

  ‘Then I will accompany you, Brother Eadulf,’ Conrí volunteered. ‘I know something of the singers.’

  They left Fidelma heading for the tech-nigid and made their way to the main church building of the abbey complex. They could hear the voices of the abbey’s clais, or choir, already raised in what sounded to a surprised Eadulf like some martial war chant. They entered the high-roofed chamber and took their place at the rear of the building. The clais were all males and before them the songmaster stood intently, his very body trembling, as he imparted the tones and rhythms of the music to the singers.

  Their voices rose intensely.

  Regis regum rectissimi

  prope est dies Domini

  dies irae et vindictae

  tenebrarum et nebulae.

  Eadulf listened to the unusual rhythms of what he recognised as a Gallican chant. The melismatic flourishes, the long series of notes on a single syllable, that characterised the chant were utterly unlike the Latin or the wailing chants from Iberia. The melodies of the Gallican chants had arisen among the Gauls, whose language was close to that of their neighbours the Britons. When Christianity had spread to Ireland it was from the Gauls that the early Irish Church had taken their religious music form, mixed a little with their own traditions. At least Eadulf could understand and feel the Latin words. Their spirit was not so different from his own Saxon war chants.

  Day of the King most righteous,

  The day is close at hand,

  The day of wrath and vengeance,

  And darkness on the land.

  The clais sang several more chants in similar tone and metre before returning to the first martial song. When the rehearsal was over the choristers received a blessing from their master, rose and departed. Conr moved to catch the attention of the choirmaster. He was a tall, thin-faced individual. His dark eyes, sleek hair and swarthy features made him look furtive, as if he had a secret to hide. Eadulf noticed that he wore a silver crucifix round his neck, which was notable because it hung from a string of alternately yellow and green coloured stones. He thought they were garnets.

  ‘This is Brother Cilln, the stiúirtheóir canaid,’ Conr said, as he led the man back to where Eadulf waited. ‘Brother Cilln, this is Eadulf from Seaxmund’s Ham.’

  The songmaster bowed his head and, on raising it, examined Brother Eadulf with a wary eye.

  ‘I have heard of your coming, Brother Eadulf, and wonder what the companion of the sister of the king of Muman seeks in our poor songs.’

  ‘Music is a food for the emotions and a feast that everyone enjoys,’ returned Eadulf.

  The master of music sniffed disdainfully.

  ‘Not everyone,’ he corrected. ‘Some may listen to the tune but they do not hear the music.’

  ‘I have heard that this abbey is renowned for its music,’ Eadulf pressed on.

  The choirmaster pulled a face as if to deny it.

  ‘There are many abbeys that produce better music than we — however, we are progressing.’

  ‘Progressing?’

  ‘We are going to perform at the great gathering of Aenach Urmhuman next spring,’ Brother Cilln said with some pride.

  ‘The Assembly of East Muman? I have heard of it.’

  Brother Cilln smiled thinly.

  ‘It is a famous gathering. Each year there is a singing contest at the great stronghold of the kings … er, the chieftains of the Uí Fidgente by Loch Derg. I am hoping that we will win the contest next year.’

  ‘Well, the last piece you sang was an excellent hymn,’ observed Eadulf. ‘I do not think I have heard it before. It seems so full of battle imagery that it is hard to reconcile it with the peace of the Faith.’

  The choirmaster shrugged.

  ‘Yet it was written by Colmcille — the blessed dove of the church. It is called the Altus Prosator. It is a good work but not a great work.’

  ‘It does not sound like a work of peace,’ Eadulf repeated.

  ‘Perhaps Colmcille saw that war was often the only way forward to assert one’s rights, Brother Eadulf,’ remarked the songmaster wryly. ‘The Uí Fidgente learnt that lesson struggling against the Eoghanacht of Cashel.’

  Conrí frowned in annoyance.

  ‘And learnt another lesson when they were defeated,’ he pointed out sharply.

  Brother Cillín was about to reply when one of the choristers approached them and coughed meaningfully to attract the attention of the master of song.

  Brother Cillín frowned irritably at him. ‘Speak, Brother,’ he instructed.

  ‘Your pardon, master, we need to consult you on the unending circle.
’

  Brother Cillín’s features became uneasy as he glanced at Eadulf and Conrí. With a muttered apology, he turned and stalked off, followed by the abashed-looking chorister.

  ‘A strange, almost surly, character,’ observed Eadulf.

  Conrí grinned.

  ‘There is no harm in Brother Cillín. He has a good reputation as a teacher of music, especially in the clais-cheól.’

  ‘Choir-singing? I wish that I had heard more of it. I’d like to know these musical terms—“unending circle”, the chorister said. I’ve not heard of that.’ Eadulf sighed. He paused and then said suddenly: ‘Why is it that the Uí Fidgente resent the Eoghanacht at Cashel so much?’

  Conrí stuck out his lower lip in a thoughtful expression before answering.

  ‘The lady Fidelma has never spoken to you of this matter?’

  Eadulf smiled softly.

  ‘She has given me the Eoghanacht side of the story. That is natural. I would hear the Uí Fidgente viewpoint.’

  Conrí gave a quick laugh.

  ‘A great diplomat was lost in you, Brother Eadulf. Well, we have been taught over many generations that the Eoghanacht have denied the rights of the Uí Fidgente.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘As you know, Brother, in this land our peoples are bound by genealogists who set forth each family’s line, generation by generation. Our ancestors are important to us, my friend. Those who have gone before often continue to govern us who live now.’

  ‘That is often the natural order of things,’ confirmed Eadulf. ‘I was an hereditary gerefa —a magistrate — in my own land. I held that position because of my ancestors and not from my choice.’

  ‘The Eoghanacht dynasties of Muman take their name from Eoghan Mór,’ went on Conrí. ‘Eoghan’s grandson was a great king of Cashel called Ailill Fland Bec. He had three sons. The eldest of these was Maine Munchaín whose son was Fiachu Fidgennid from whom we take our name the Uí Fidgente, the descendants of Fidgennid.’

  Eadulf was frowning.

  ‘Is that relevant? I have been here long enough to understand that your laws of succession are not governed by eldest male inheritance. At least three generations of the extended family have to meet together to elect the man best fitted for the task of kingship. That is usually done in the lifetime of the ruling prince, and the man chosen as his successor is called the tánaiste, or tanist. Is that not so?’

  ‘You understand the system perfectly, Brother Eadulf. But the point I am making is that we are true descendants of Eoghan, just as much as the Eoghanacht of Cashel, the Eoghanacht of Aine, the Eoghanacht of Glendamnach and of Chliach and of Raithlind and of Locha Léin. We should be part of the great assembly of Muman. Yet we are excluded. We are told that we are not Eoghanacht and that our genealogists have forged our genealogies.’

  ‘You obviously believe that your genealogists are right?’

  Conrí thrust out his chin aggressively.

  ‘I am an Uí Fidgente,’ he replied simply.

  ‘But the Eoghanacht believe that your genealogists are wrong.’

  ‘That is the frustration,’ admitted Conrí. ‘That is what led to the conflict even during the time of Erc, who was our chieftain five generations ago. That is why Eoganan, who believed the genealogists and called himself king, led our people to overthrow the Eoghanacht. He was wrong to squander the lives of his people in such a hopeless manner and his defeat and death at Cnoc Aine and our resulting shame have shown that he was wrong.’

  He paused for a moment and when Eadulf did not comment he went on.

  ‘Now that Eoganan is dead and Donennach is our ruler — indeed, many still call him king — we have accepted the rule of Cashel but that does not mean we have accepted the cause of our grievance was mistaken. We still believe that we are the descendants of Eoghan Mór, as our genealogists show. Donennach is fourteen generations in descent from Eoghan Mór in spite of what is claimed at Cashel. We hope one day to persuade Cashel — I would argue that this should be done by peaceful means — to accept us as a voice in the great assembly.’

  Eadulf was quite impressed by both the length of the speech and its intensity from the usually quietly spoken and taciturn warlord of the Uí Fidgente.

  ‘Surely you can appeal to the law courts of the five kingdoms and bring your case before them.’

  Conrí grimaced ruefully.

  ‘After our defeat at Cnoc Aine, the High King and his Chief Brehon would hear none of our arguments. We had to pay compensation and tribute. It will be many years, or a new High King at Tara, before we can make such an appeal. That is why, Brother Eadulf, you will find among the Uí Fidgente many who will not yet accept the uneasy peace that has fallen between us and Cashel. The Uí Fidgente will continue to be suspicious of everything Cashel does.’

  ‘Then why are we here? Here in the lands of the Uí Fidgente? Why did you invite Fidelma to come here?’

  ‘Has she told you why she accepted my request?’

  Eadulf reluctantly confirmed that she had. Conrí smiled knowingly.

  ‘Then that is why I invited her. Anything that can contribute to mending the schism between us.’

  Eadulf rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘But what if the reverse happens?’ he asked.

  It was Conn’s turned to look puzzled.

  ‘I do not think that I am following you.’

  ‘Simple enough. What if Fidelma finds out that there is some internal politics at play here?’

  ‘Be more explicit.’

  ‘Take the death of the Venerable Cinaed. From what Fidelma tells me, Cinaed was of the opinion that the Uí Fidgente genealogies were forged and that the people should accept the rule of Cashel without complaint. What if that belief led to his death?’

  Conrí was quiet for a moment or two as he thought over the question.

  ‘Truth and its discovery are the principal intent, Brother Eadulf,’ he said drily. Then, abruptly, he moved off, saying quickly over his shoulder: ‘Now, let us see if the lady Fidelma has finished her questioning of Sister Sinnchéne.’

  Fidelma had made her way to the tech-nigid, where she found Sister Sinnchéne sweeping the main room with a broom of twigs.

  Sister Sinnchéne looked up and a suspicious look entered her eyes.

  ‘I would like a word with you, Sister,’ Fidelma said brightly.

  Sister Sinnchéne’s suspicious look deepened.

  ‘About what?’ she responded curtly, almost rudely.

  ‘About the Venerable Cinaed.’

  The young woman carefully put aside her broom and stood tensely before Fidelma.

  ‘I suppose you have been talking to Sister Buan?’ she asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Sister Sinnchéne shrugged. It was a defiant gesture.

  ‘I know that you are a dálaigh. The gossip among the community is that you are now investigating the death of the Venerable Cináed as well as that of Abbess Faife and the disappearance of the members of our community.’

  ‘Let us not stand in the cold,’ Fidelma said, motioning towards the cauldron simmering on the fire. Sister Sinnchéne followed her towards it, collecting a couple of stools from nearby. They seated themselves by its warmth opposite one another.

  ‘When did you last see the Venerable Cinaed?’ Fidelma opened the questioning.

  ‘You mean before his death?’

  Fidelma was patient. ‘You saw his body afterwards?’

  ‘Of course. After the physician conducted her examination and the body was placed in the fuat, the funeral bier. It was when we all paid our last respects to him.’

  ‘I see. So when, exactly, before he died, did you last see him?’

  Sister Sinnchéne paused, head to one side, considering the question.

  ‘It was on the evening before his death. He came here to the tech-nigid. It was after the evening meal. I was working late.’

  Fidelma tried not to show surprise.

&nbs
p; ‘Here to the washhouse? Did he say why he came?’

  The girl thrust out her chin.

  ‘He often came here.’

  ‘As Sister Buan does his washing, I presume that it was not to bring his laundry?’

  The girl laughed sardonically.

  ‘That is so. He came here to see me.’

  ‘I see. Was there a specific purpose to these meetings?’

  ‘You are naive, Sister,’ replied Sister Sinnchéne as if amused by the question.

  ‘If the Venerable Cinaed was twenty years younger, then I might well be accused of naïveté with good reason. But, bearing in mind his age, and the fact that he was married to Sister Buan, and as she attests that he was impotent in his advancing years, I have to put the question to you — was there a specific purpose to these meetings?’

  The girl’s expression was not nice.

  ‘I suggest that you question Sister Buan a little more closely about her relationship with Cinaed.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Sister Buan has lied to me?’

  The girl shrugged indifferently.

  ‘That is no answer,’ Fidelma said sharply.

  ‘The Venerable Cinaed and I were lovers.’

  ‘Lovers?’ Fidelma looked keenly at the girl. ‘And is this a claim that you can substantiate?’

  Sister Sinnchéne’s eyes burnt with anger for a moment.

  ‘You do not believe such a relationship could exist?’

  ‘I am not saying that. I do say that given the sixty years that separate your age from Cináed’s, it needs support. What I question is this — you are young, Sinnchéne. An attractive young girl in the full bloom of youth. What would attract you to such a frail, ageing person as the Venerable Cinaed, who I gather was not in the best of health?’

  The young woman sniffed disdainfully and was silent.

  ‘Love?’ pressed Fidelma and when the girl refused to respond she continued: ‘So what is this chemistry called love? Can it overreach the natural barriers that separate youth from age?’

  ‘Why not?’ snapped the girl. ‘Why is it so hard to believe?’