‘It probably has everything to do with it,’ Fidelma replied with a soft, thoughtful smile. ‘But there is nothing we can do here except make sure that Brother Eolas does not blame the poor boy. We have to continue our investigation. Let us see the physician again.’
Sister Uallann was clearly unhappy at being disturbed. She frowned as they entered the apothecary. She sat on a stool before her work bench mixing two curious-looking liquids in a bowl from bottles she held in her hands.
‘I am busy,’ she snapped as they entered.
‘So are we,’ Fidelma replied complacently. ‘As you may recall, we are here to investigate murder. I must ask you more questions.’
Sister Uallann put down the bottles and wiped her hands, staring at Fidelma with eyes that seemed menacing.
‘And if I do not you will remind me that you are a dálaigh and I am liable to penalty if I refuse?’ Her tone was sarcastic.
Fidelma smiled brightly.
‘Something like that, Sister Uallann,’ she agreed evenly.
‘Then ask away and then be gone. I have my work to do.’
Fidelma glanced at the mixture in the bowl. Sister Uallann followed her gaze.
‘It is a drink that I am preparing for someone who has a disorder of the bladder. The main ingredient is barley, to which I am adding some seaweed that I have gathered along the coast here. I have boiled them separately in water and am now mixing them together, making sure that there is more barley than seaweed in the mix. It should ease the disorder.’
Sister Uallann sounded patronising as she described her cure.
‘Tell me, Sister Uallann,’ Fidelma said without responding, ‘what was the cause of your argument with the Venerable Cináed on the night before he died?’
For a moment the physician looked confused.
‘Did I have an argument?’ she countered, trying to recover from her surprise.
‘Do you deny it?’
For a moment both Fidelma and Eadulf thought that she might well be on the verge of denying it. Then she shrugged.
‘It was a personal matter.’
‘Personal? A man has been murdered. Any information about why he was murdered cannot be classed as personal.’
Sister Uallann looked stubborn.
‘It is a matter that I have no wish to discuss.’
‘It is a matter that I intend you should discuss,’ snapped Fidelma.
For a moment Sister Uallann stared belligerently at her. Her chin came up in defiance.
‘Very well.’ Fidelma shrugged. ‘It is your choice. Do you wish to tell us what the cause of your altercation with the Venerable Cinaed was on that night? Or must I use the authority of the law?’
Sister Uallann pursed her lips for a moment. It made her face look ugly. Then, abruptly, she seemed to relent.
‘Venerable Cinaed was a sinner.’
Fidelma could not hide an amused look.
‘A sinner? We are all transgressors against someone or something.’
Sister Uallann was incensed.
‘As well as being a traitor to his people, he was also guilty of the sin of fornication. Of carnal lust.’
‘And therefore … ?’
‘You do not appear to be shocked?’
Fidelma’s gesture was dismissive.
‘I cannot afford to be shocked. Administration of the law allows for no emotions.’
‘The Venerable Cinaed was having an affair with one of the young religieuse of the Abbess Faife.’ Sister Uallann uttered the statement as if revealing some horrifying secret.
‘I am presuming that you are referring to Sister Sinnchéne?’
The physician’s expression changed rapidly from astonished to crestfallen.
‘You knew?’ She was disappointed at Fidelma’s reaction.
‘I knew.’
Sister Uallann’s mouth twisted in an ugly grimace.
‘Then you will know what my argument was about. I saw Cinaed coming from the tech-nigid. I knew whom he had been meeting there and why.’
‘And so you remonstrated with him?’
‘It was dark and well after the evening meal. As he came down the path, heading towards his own chambers, I accosted him. I pleaded with him to give up the affair otherwise I said I would be forced to inform the abbot.’
‘What did he say to that?’
‘He laughed at me … laughed!’
‘What did you expect Abbot Erc to do?’ asked Eadulf. ‘The Venerable Cinaed was not a child to be disciplined for what he did in his private life.’
‘But Sister Sinnchéne is. I could have had her removed from this community.’
‘Ah, so you would have her expelled?’ Eadulf observed. ‘Isn’t that rather narrow-minded? Two people were involved in this affair. But because one is vulnerable you would place all the blame on her.’
Sister Uallann flashed him a look of anger.
‘I believe that this relationship brings down shame on the abbey.’ She turned to Fidelma. ‘Are you saying that you, a dálaigh, condone it? It is illicit in the eyes of the law as well as of God.’
Fidelma inclined her head in agreement.
‘It was not lawful,’ she agreed, correcting the tense of the physician’s comment. ‘Although I have to admit some grey areas in the law. But by and large, there were grounds enough to disapprove of the Venerable Cináed’s behaviour. So, as I said, you remonstrated with him?’
‘I did.’
‘And this was the sole cause of your argument that night?’
‘It was.’
‘And how did you and he leave one another?’
Sister Uallann frowned slightly. ‘How?’
‘Did you part in anger?’
‘We did. I accompanied him as far as his living quarters. He told me to attend to my apothecary and leave morals and philosophy to those better able to interpret them. Those were his words.’
‘When we first spoke, you made it clear that you were not exactly a friend of the Venerable Cinaed. But I did ask you specifically if you disagreed with him on matters of the Faith. I thought that you said you did not, only on his politics.’
Sister Uallann shrugged.
‘His dalliance was a matter of discipline not of faith. At the time I answered truthfully and was more concerned with his secular writings. His attack on my husband’s people, the Uí Fidgente.’
‘You are proud of the Uí Fidgente, aren’t you?’ Eadulf put in.
Sister Uallann cast him a patronising glance.
‘As you are doubtless proud of being a Saxon,’ she retorted.
‘If you need to be accurate, I am an Angle from of the land of the South Folk,’ he corrected mildly.
Sister Uallann’s smile broadened.
‘Exactly so,’ she said softly as if her point had been proved.
‘But you are not an Uí Fidgente,’ Fidelma pointed out sharply. ‘You told us before that you were raised among the Corco Duibhne.’
Sister Uallann coloured.
‘When I married my husband, God rest his soul, I became Uí Fidgente and since he was butchered at Cnoc Aine I shall remain Uí Fidgente until I join him in the Otherworld.’
‘So you were displeased with the Venerable Cináed’s work? You saw him as a traitor.’
‘Is that wrong?’
‘Not unless the displeasure led you to a more violent form of protest.’
Sister Uallann’s mouth thinned.
‘It is no crime to be proud of one’s people nor is it a crime to disagree with scholars. Many people here disagreed with Cinaed … the Venerable Mac Faosma, for example.’
‘When you left him that night, was that the last time you saw him?’ asked Fidelma.
‘The last time until I was asked to examine his body, about which you have already questioned me.’
The physician appeared to be growing impatient. Just then a bell began to sound from the abbey’s refectory.
‘That is the announcement of the evening meal,’ Sister Ua
llann said with an expression of relief.
Fidelma smiled without warmth.
‘You have been most co-operative, Sister,’ she replied with a touch of sarcasm. ‘We thank you for your time.’
Followed by Eadulf, she left the apothecary leaving Sister Uallann staring moodily after them.
Outside, Fidelma gave a deep sigh as she realised it was getting late.
‘One more task, I’m afraid, Eadulf,’ she said. ‘But not one you can help me with. I have some research to do in the library.’
She left Eadulf to return to the hospitium and made her way back to the library. There was no sign of Brother Eolas but young Brother Faolchair was sweeping the ashes from the hearth, the remains of the destroyed books of Cinaed.
Fidelma smiled encouragingly in greeting.
‘Brother Eolas is in a great rage,’ moaned the youth.
‘You told him that we would take charge of the investigation?’
Brother Faolchair put his brush aside.
‘That seemed to make him even more furious and he said he would do his own investigation. He’s taken himself to bed and left me to clean the library and get rid of the soot that clings to the books after such a fire.’
‘Well, I’ll keep you company for a while. I want to look up a law book - the Cáin Lánamna, if you have it.’
‘Indeed we do.’ The boy paused. ‘Oh, and didn’t you want to see Cináed’s notes? They were just a few sentences about law.’
‘I’d nearly forgotten,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘The notes were brought back with another text, weren’t they? The Uraicecht Bec?’
Within moments the boy had brought her both the books and the single page of notes. Fidelma looked at the scrawl. She was slightly bewildered to see that Cinaed had been copying notes about the position of a woman known in law as the banchormarbae — the female heir. There was a reference from the Uraicecht Bec pointing out that it was permissible under law that, if there was no eligible and suitable male inheritor of a chiefship, a woman could claim the position. Fidelma knew that in the history of the five kingdoms only one woman had successfully claimed the High Kingship and that was many centuries ago when Macha of the Red Tresses had become, according to the bards, the seventy-sixth monarch to rule at Tara. Of course, there had been some provincial rulers who were female and several rulers of clans, but usually a derbhfine, the electoral college, preferred a male and it was a poor family where, out of the living generation of males, there was no suitable candidate. Only a strong-minded woman could succeed to such a position. She wondered why Cinaed would be interested in the subject. But then he was a scholar and why not?
She turned to the Cáin Lánamna which was one of the major texts on marriage and the rights of women under the laws of marriage and swiftly found what she was looking for.
She made some mental notes and went to return the books to Brother Faolchair. She found the young assistant librarian exhausted in a chair in the corner. His eyes were closed, but on feeling her presence he started awake, looking guilty.
‘If I were you, I’d close up the library for tonight and return to finish in the morning when you have had some rest,’ she advised.
The boy nodded slowly.
‘I am exhausted, Sister Fidelma,’ he confessed.
She was about to leave when, on an impulse, she said: ‘I believe there are many in this conhospitae who really would prefer to segregate the sexes.’
The young man nodded moodily.
‘There are some who preach against mixed houses and would prefer to see Ard Fhearta as a place of male religious only, Sister,’ he admitted.
Sister Fidelma was thoughtful.
‘And the Venerable Cináed was not one of them?’
Brother Faolchair grinned and shook his head quickly.
‘I once heard him denounce the Edicts of the Council of Nicaea in very eloquent terms,’ he replied. ‘He believed that companionship was the natural condition for men and women.’
‘The Edicts of the Council of Nicaea were not binding on all the churches of Christendom,’ pointed out Fidelma. ‘But as I recall the Council was specific in that one of the rules it issued was that a priest could not marry after ordination. And that, of course, raises a question — I have not heard that the Venerable Cinaed was ordained as a priest. Do you know if he was so ordained?’
Brother Faolchair shook his head at once.
‘The Venerable Mac Faosma was always making sneering references to the fact,’ he said. ‘Mac Faosma was ordained to conduct the sacrament.’
‘So, the rule that the Council of Nicaea wanted to impose on the priests did not apply to Cináed,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, Brother Faolchair, do you know how many in Ard Fhearta are ordained as opposed to merely entering the religious life — as Cinaed did in his role as a scholar?’
The assistant librarian thought for a moment.
‘Abbot Erc is ordained, of course. And, as I said, the Venerable Mac Faosma is also ordained priest as well as a scholar. Then Brother Eolas and Brother Cillín are ordained to take the Eucharist …’
‘And I presume that Abbess Faife was also ordained.’
‘And against the rule of the Council of Laodicea, so Abbot Erc argued in my hearing,’ replied the youth. ‘In honesty, Sister, I do not think he liked Abbess Faife much. He was always fond of quoting the decisions of these councils from the remote parts of Christendom.’
Sister Fidelma patted the boy on the shoulder.
‘You have been very helpful, Brother Faolchair.’ She smiled, realising that the hour was growing late and she was suddenly very tired. She would explain to Sister Buan about her marriage rights when she could. There was certainly no problem about Sister Buan’s claiming any personal inheritance from Cinaed if she could show that she was a legal wife of the old scholar. It would also be a good opportunity to press her about Sister Sinnchéne’s claims. She handed Brother Faolchair back the books.
‘I should keep the Venerable Cináed’s note somewhere safe. It might be valuable one day,’ she advised, wishing him good night.
Brother Faolchair inclined his head and tried to stifle a yawn.
‘I will, Sister. Good night.’
CHAPTER TEN
It was one of those crystal clear winter days. The sea was flat and still. Its soft whispering was only perceptible round the coastline. The sun was pallid, almost unnoticeable in the pastel blue wash of the sky. Only a few white fluffs of cloud drifted high up, wispy like odd clumps of sheep’s wool caught on a bush. There was a soft but cold breeze blowing from the north.
Fidelma, Eadulf and Conrí, with his two stolid and silent warriors, had boarded Mugrón’s sturdy coastal vessel, a tough oak-built serrcenn which was fine for navigating round the coastal waters but not for long voyages on the oceans. Half a dozen men manned its two broad sails and Mugrón himself preferred to handle the heavy carved oak tiller. The ship was stacked with merchandise for trading among the Corco Duibhne. It consisted mainly of metalwork from the silver mines in the north of the Uí Fidgente country and religious items made at Ard Fhearta itself.
Mugrón had smiled warmly as he welcomed them aboard.
‘We are lucky today. The breeze promises us a fair sail across to the peninsula,’ he said, gesturing to where the mountains of the land of the Corco Duibhne rose to the south, standing out dark and sharp on the horizon. It was an indication of how cold and clear the air was to see their outlines delineated thus, for in warm weather their contours seemed to soften and a mist would hang over them.
‘Are those the Sliabh Mis mountains?’ asked Eadulf, remembering the last time he had seen them.
‘That they are,’ affirmed Mugrón. ‘We’ll pick up the breeze as it swings offshore and it should bring us due west through the Machaire Islands. Then we can head south into Bréanainn’s Bay. That is where I land my cargo and where you may acquire horses to journey on to An Daingean, the capital of the Corco Duibhne.’
With the crewme
n working the sails to make sure they picked up as much of the wind as possible, and Mugrón using the tiller to keep the stern to it so that the forward momentum was maintained, the coastal vessel pushed out from the sheltered harbour, passing a little rock which Mugrón pointed out as ‘the island of beautiful cabbage’ which puzzled Eadulf until Fidelma explained that it was an edible seaweed usually called lus na gcarrac.
‘Ah, samphire,’ Eadulf interpreted. ‘St Peter’s herb.’
It also grew off the coast of the land of the South Folk and he knew it was exquisite to the taste when eaten with an oily fish like a mackerel. He glanced with a longing expression at the little rocky island as they were passing. He could see the squat plants growing in abundance, their ridged skins protecting them from the drying salt winds that whispered about them. But he could see no umbrella head of pale, greenish yellow flowers, and reminded himself that it was not summer.
‘Do you truly land there and harvest the samphire?’
‘The place provides a bountiful harvest,’ Mugrón affirmed. ‘Samphire is also to be found on the larger island back there, beyond our stern. You would see a different picture if you were here in the summer’s months. That’s when the plants display themselves at their best.’
They were now moving slowly across the broad expanse of water towards the distant flat outline of land which Conrí informed them was called the Machaire promontory, a narrow low-lying finger of land pointing due north. At the northern tip was a cluster of islets through which they had to sail to bring the vessel into the broad bay named after Bréanainn.
‘I thought Machaire meant a plain?’ queried Eadulf, always willing to extend his knowledge of the language.
‘So it does,’ confirmed Conrí, ‘but it also means land that is low lying. The islands to the north are also called the Machaire Islands because they, too, lie low in the sea. There are about eight of them, some no more than rocks jutting out of the sea. I have only twice journeyed in these parts. These are dangerous waters, I have heard.’
Mugrón laughed disarmingly.
‘Have no fear, lord Conrí, for I know the waters well enough.’
‘Does anyone live on those islands?’ Eadulf asked Mugrón, peering forward towards the dark specks.
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