Master of Souls

by Peter Tremayne

  It was Fidelma’s turn to reflect for a moment or two.

  ‘Very well. What you are saying is that the Venerable Cinaed and you were having an illicit affair.’

  ‘Illicit?’

  Fidelma had used the old law term aindligthech.

  ‘Improper. Not sanctioned by law, rule or custom.’

  A colour came to the girl’s cheeks.

  ‘It was not an improper relationship!’

  ‘You knew that Sister Buan was his legal wife and that he was living with her?’

  ‘Of course. And we both told her of the situation.’

  ‘Both?’ queried Fidelma in surprise.

  ‘We had nothing to hide. If it was unlawful, then it could have been corrected if Buan had accepted me as a dormun, which is provided for in law. Cináed told me.’

  ‘It is a law still practised,’ Fidelma admitted, ‘although it is frowned upon by the New Faith and the term ben adaltrach has been introduced to replace the earlier title for such a concubine. It is a law that will doubtless be abolished at the next council called by the High King.’

  Every three years there was an assembly at which the High King and the provincial kings gathered with the leading churchmen and Brehons from all five kingdoms of Eireann to discuss and revise the laws.

  ‘But it is still the law now,’ the girl said stubbornly.

  ‘And this is what Cinaed wanted as well as you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And he said as much to Sister Buan?’

  ‘He did.’

  Fidelma exhaled softly.

  ‘And what if Sister Buan denied that he said this?’

  ‘Then she would be lying.’

  ‘Could you prove that this happened? Were there any witnesses?’

  Sister Sinnchéne hesitated a moment and then shook her head.

  ‘Nevertheless, it does not alter the fact that it is the truth,’ she said defiantly.

  Fidelma noticed that the girl’s robe had loosened around her neck and caught a glimpse of a necklet of semi-precious stones.

  ‘That is hardly the jewellery one expects a member of this community to wear,’ she observed drily.

  Sister Sinnchéne’s hand went to her neck and then she shrugged. She lowered it to reveal a glittering necklet of silver set with amethysts and topaz.

  ‘Cináed gave it me,’ she said quietly. ‘He told me to keep it safe, to let no one here see it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It will not hurt to tell now, I suppose. He said that it was evidence.’

  ‘Evidence of what?’

  ‘He did not explain. Perhaps evidence of his love for me.’

  ‘Well, let us accept what you say,’ Fidelma finally said. ‘The evening before his death, the Venerable Cinaed came to this washing room and you were here?’

  ‘That is correct,’ confirmed the girl.

  ‘And accepting that you were lovers, what other than the obvious transpired? Did you talk?’

  The girl looked irritated.

  ‘We were not animals,’ she replied angrily. ‘Of course we talked.’

  ‘What was the subject of conversation? Did you speak of philosophy, theology, history … what?’

  Fidelma knew she was being a little sarcastic with the girl for it was obvious that she was no more of a scholar than Sister Buan. In fact, the dálaigh was beginning to wonder what sort of person the Venerable Cinaed really was behind his great reputation as a scholar.

  Sister Sinnchéne was looking sourly at her.

  ‘You seem to think that our relationship was based on lust,’ she said.

  ‘I am trying to understand it,’ Fidelma confessed.

  ‘We spoke of life, not dead, musty books; not of the past, or the future, nor of things unseen that had no immediate concern for us.’

  ‘Life?’

  ‘Cináed had a great lust for life. He observed everything. The seasons, the weather, the plants growing. He was a very active man. Had he not spent most of his life in the shadow of dark libraries, he would have been a gardener.’

  ‘And this was the subject of the conversation that evening?’

  ‘We talked about the herb garden and ways to improve it but we also talked about Sister Buan.’

  ‘Ah. What about Sister Buan?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. Cináed had a very generous spirit and felt deeply for Buan. She was fostered in the land of the Corco Duibhne. I presume she was an orphan and later came to the abbey when she was still young to escape poverty. She fulfilled a part of Cináed’s life. She mothered him, did his cleaning, prepared food for him — for he liked to eat separately from the community most times. She was not his lover but a … a …’ The girl struggled to find the right word.

  ‘Housekeeper?’ suggested Fidelma.

  The girl nodded. ‘Exactly so. But she filled no other need. He was no longer intimate with her.’

  ‘So, if Sister Buan believed that he was impotent, you would argue that it was because of his rejection of her in bed?’

  Sister Sinnchéne gestured disdainfully. ‘I don’t think they even slept in the same bed.’

  ‘But he had no such inhibition with you?’ Fidelma asked softly.

  ‘We enjoyed our physical beings. That is no sin.’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘The old laws make allowance for human nature provided it offers no harm to others. But you should know, Sister Sinnchéne, that the New Faith preaches a different attitude. Sexual intercourse with someone other than one’s spouse or indulging in general sexual infidelity, even in thought and word as well as deed, is considered a sin. Holy Scripture says the Christ put an emphasis on such infidelity as a sin against someone as well as with someone. Such sexual activity is considered a rejection of the divine intention.’

  Sister Sinnchéne stared at Fidelma. ‘That which gives pleasure cannot be sinful otherwise God would not have created it.’

  Fidelma had to admit that she could accept that Sister Sinnchéne was probably right.

  ‘We have to accept the guidelines given by Paul in his letter to the Corinthians when he called on Christians to deal decisively with sexual immorality in the communities.’

  Sister Sinnchéne sniffed deprecatingly.

  ‘You sound like the Venerable Mac Faosma,’ she muttered.

  ‘In what way?’ demanded Fidelma.

  ‘He preached such a sermon to me as you do. Yet I feel that your heart is not in it as was his.’

  Fidelma’s brows came together in a defensive look, angered that this girl could see the doubts in her own mind.

  ‘Are you saying that the Venerable Mac Faosma knew about your relationship with Cináed?’ she asked.

  ‘He did. Some weeks ago, he came unexpectedly into the tech-nigid and … well.’ She shrugged. ‘He saw us.’

  ‘What happened? What did he say?’ Fidelma asked curiously.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ repeated Fidelma.

  ‘He simply turned and walked out. Then a few days later he met me outside the oratory and started to give me this homily about the new sexual morality. He was more scholarly than you are, Sister,’ she added with a grin. ‘He quoted so many sources, gospels and epistles that I thought I would go mad.’

  ‘Did he raise the matter with the Venerable Cinaed?’

  ‘He never did.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I told Cinaed and asked him if the old … if the Venerable Mac Faosma had approached him. He told me that he had not mentioned it.’

  ‘I see.’

  Fidelma was silent for a while and then shook her head.

  ‘Let us return to that evening — the evening before Cináed’s death. You say that you were in the washing room? You have … you had intercourse and then talked about the herb garden and then the problem with Cináed’s wife, Buan. Is that correct?’

  ‘Not necessarily in that order,’ interposed Sister Sinnchéne.

  ‘In whatever order,’ agreed
Fidelma. ‘Then what? Did he simply leave?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then what exactly?’

  ‘The time was passing and it was dark and Cinaed began to worry that Buan would get suspicious that he was with me …’

  ‘Suspicious? I thought she knew what was going on from your own lips … from both Cinaed and yourself?’

  ‘That is true but we did not want her making a fuss, raising a search among the brethren and having a public confrontation. Abbot Erc is of the same mentality as the Venerable Mac Faosma. I think he would entertain the idea of throwing out the old laws and putting in their place the laws of the New Faith, as I have heard some have.’

  ‘Do you mean the Penitentials?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘And so what happened then?’

  ‘It grew late and Cinaed rose and said he would see me at the Feast of the Blessed Íte, which fell on the next day. It is held every year in the little oratory.’

  ‘And he seemed all right?’

  ‘I am not sure what you mean? He was in good health, yes.’

  ‘And in good spirits?’

  ‘He was in excellent spirits and was talking about some new work that he had written in Latin which he said would annoy Mac Faosma. They were enemies, you know. Enemies fighting with their pens. He would argue and Mac Faosma would respond and so back and forth. I never understood much of it. But that was only one part of his life. But this was something that especially seemed to put him in a good humour and he went away chuckling and … and …’

  Suddenly, the girl gave a sob. For some time her shoulders heaved and Fidelma felt a little awkward until the girl seemed to catch herself and wiped her eyes quickly.

  ‘Forgive me. I thought I had overcome that. Now and then it creeps up on me unaware. I miss Cinaed deeply.’

  ‘You were crying when we arrived yesterday. For his memory?’

  She nodded nervously.

  ‘That is all I can tell you,’ she said. ‘He went off in a good humour. I watched him from the door of the washing room as he vanished into the darkness.’

  Fidelma examined her sternly. ‘And are you sure that you did not see him again … before his death?’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘You did not meet him later in the oratory?’

  Sister Sinnchéne flushed and started to protest. Fidelma once more took out the burnt paper and laid it before her.

  ‘You did not write this?’

  The girl grimaced.

  ‘I cannot write,’ she answered simply. ‘You can ask anyone. I was never taught. So whoever wrote this note was not I.’

  Fidelma asked: ‘Was there anyone in the abbey who did not know you could not write?’

  The girl thought for a moment.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said vaguely. ‘Mac Faosma knew I couldn’t write and so did Brother Cú Mara. Anyway, I did not see Cinaed after he left the washing room …’

  She paused for a moment and then her eyes widened a little. Fidelma noticed the reaction immediately.

  ‘You have remembered something else?’

  ‘He was nearly out of sight in the darkness when he was joined by another figure. He paused for a moment and then they vanished together. It’s just … just that I thought I heard a raised voice. A voice raised in anger.’

  ‘Did you recognise who it was who had joined him?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘And the next day … how did you learn of his death?’

  ‘I awoke late, when it was getting light. There was no one in the hospitium to make me rise early. No cleaning to be done, or preparations to be made. But I became aware of activity outside and raised voices. I put on my robe, neglecting to wash, and went immediately to see what the excitement was. At first I thought it was the return of Conrí who had gone to Cashel about the matter of Abbess Faife. We had been expecting his return.’

  She paused a moment

  ‘But you found out that it was not the arrival of Conrí. What then?’

  The young woman pulled a face.

  ‘People had gathered round the chapel. I saw the Abbot Erc there with Brother Cú Mara and some others. Sister Buan was also there, with tears flooding down her cheeks … I went towards them and as I approached Sister Buan swung round, saw me, and raised a finger towards me. She cried out something like, “There she is! There is the bitch that did it!” Or words to that effect. The word “bitch” was frequently used as she cried out in some incoherent ramble. Sister Uallann managed to restrain her and she and another sister calmed her and led her away.

  ‘I asked Abbot Erc what had happened. He looked at me and asked whether I really did not know. Whereupon I was indignant. Why would I ask, if I knew? He told me that that morning he had found Cinaed with his head smashed in, lying behind the altar in the oratory. I was stunned. I could not move. I think I went rigid, moving as if in a dream. I think I asked if I could see the body there and then but they refused. It was only later after the body had been prepared for burial that I was allowed to see it, to pay my last respects along with all the others of the community, as it lay in the main chapel.’

  Fidelma folded her hands together and examined Sister Sinnchéne’s features carefully. She realised that it was a beautiful and expressive face. No wonder Cináed could lust — she hastily corrected her thought — could fall in love with the young girl. There seemed no guile in those features. The eyes were wide and clear although they were now lined with red where tears gave an appearance of frailty and vulnerability.

  ‘So, was anything else said to you after that outburst by Sister Buan?’

  ‘Brother Cú Mara came to see me. He was nice. He asked me what Sister Buan had meant by her claim.’

  ‘And you replied?’

  ‘I told him that such a question was best answered by Sister Buan. So far as I was concerned my conscience was clear.’

  Fidelma rose slowly to her feet.

  ‘One other matter before I leave. Did you have much to do with Abbess Faife?’

  The girl suddenly smiled warmly.

  ‘Of course. She brought me into this community and was my mentor.’

  ‘How did you come to meet her?’

  ‘She was passing through the village where I lived. It was a week after my mother died of the Yellow Plague. There was no one left to care for me. Many of my family had died in the Yellow Plague, you understand.’

  ‘Including your father?’

  The girl hesitated, then shook her head.

  ‘He had left our home some years before. He was a warrior who followed Eoganan. My father was probably killed in some battle or other. We never heard from him after he left. I was on my own when Abbess Faife invited me to join her in this abbey.’

  ‘I understand that the abbess worked very closely with the Venerable Cinaed?’

  ‘She did,’ agreed Sister Sinnchéne. ‘She helped him with some researches he was doing and in the preparation of his work.’

  ‘Do you think there might be a connection between Abbess Faife’s death and that of the Venerable Cinaed?’

  Sister Sinnchéne looked astounded at the question.

  ‘Do you think there is?’ she countered.

  ‘I merely ask the question. For example,’ Fidelma went on, looking keenly at the girl, ‘why would someone wonder whether Cinaed had revealed a certain secret to Abbess Faife? Why would someone else think that the discovery of Abbess Faife’s body at the spot where it was found indicated that there must be a connection?’

  Fidelma knew that her repetition of the words that Sister Buan claimed to have overheard was a gamble. The expression on Sister Sinnchéne’s face showed that they meant something. She looked confused and did not appear to know how to answer.

  ‘They are the words that you exchanged with Brother Cú Mara, aren’t they?’ Fidelma pressed.

  Once again the girl’s chin came up defiantly.

  ‘I will not confirm or deny them until I have spoken to Br
other Cú Mara,’ she said sullenly.

  ‘So I can deduce from that that the words spoken are reported accurately?’ Fidelma asked confidently.

  ‘I do not believe that they have any relevance to Cináed’s death,’ Sister Sinnchéne responded determinedly.

  ‘But you do believe that something Cinaed might have told Faife was connected with her death. Why?’

  ‘I have told you as much as I can, Sister. I must speak to Brother Cú Mara.’

  Fidelma sighed impatiently.

  ‘You realise that, as a dálaigh, I can impose a heavy penalty on you for not answering my questions when you have been told to?’

  The girl was still defiant.

  ‘I cannot help you and your stupid rules. I will not answer until I have spoken to—’

  Fidelma raised her hand to silence her.

  ‘I have heard you. Very well. We shall send for Brother Cú Mara. But perhaps you could tell me why you are so adamant that these words have no relevance to Cináed’s murder?’

  Sister Sinnchéne raised her eyes to Fidelma and gazed into them for some seconds before she replied in a tight voice.

  ‘It is because I know who killed Cinaed.’

  This time Fidelma could not disguise her surprise.

  ‘And will you name that person?’

  The girl was emphatic.

  ‘Of course. It was Sister Buan.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Eadulf and Conrí arrived in search of Fidelma just as Sister Sinnchéne had made her accusation. They stood hesitantly at the door. Eadulf knew better than to react at the words and he caught the warlord’s eye and shook his head to indicate that he should not enter the conversation either.

  Fidelma was examining the girl thoughtfully and ignored their entry.

  ‘And what is the basis of your claim?’ she asked quietly.

  Sister Sinnchéne sniffed. It seemed that this was her habit in times of stress.

  ‘I do not know what you mean,’ she replied.

  ‘What evidence do you have?’

  ‘What need of evidence? It is obvious.’

  Fidelma was patient. ‘Perhaps it is not so obvious to me. Let us go through your reasoning behind this accusation. Is it because of your relationship with Cinaed? The fact that Sister Buan disliked you and you disliked Sister Buan.’