Master of Souls

by Peter Tremayne

The girl raised her head a little but a colour sprang to her cheeks.

  Fidelma smiled grimly. ‘There was someone, wasn’t there?’

  Sister Sinnchéne hesitated and then nodded.

  ‘Was it Brother Cú Mara?’

  To Fidelma’s surprise the girl shook her head. ‘The only person that I ever told was Cinaed.’

  Fidelma was silent and then she said slowly, ‘You told the Venerable Cinaed?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘In what context did this arise? When did you tell him?’

  The girl spoke nervously.

  ‘I have told you about my relationship with Cinaed. We were talking about the changing situation in the lands of the Uí Fidgente and he was speaking of the stories that were being spread about Uaman. It was said that Uaman, in spite of his blemish in that he was a leper, was plotting to return the Uí Choirpre Áedba to the throne of the Ui Fidgente. The Uí Choirpre are—’

  Fidelma raised her hand.

  ‘I know all about the two divisions of your chiefs,’ she said.

  ‘Very well. There were stories that Uaman was amassing wealth on the borders of the lands of the Corco Duibhne so that he could buy an army to lead the assault on Caola’s fortress which is Donennach’s capital.’

  ‘But how did your father’s name come into this?’

  ‘Cináed told me that he was just completing a book — this was just before we celebrated the Nativity. In this book he said he would reveal how Uaman was raising his wealth and his army. He mentioned that he had heard that a warrior named Olcán was Uaman’s commander in this enterprise. I showed my horror and Cinaed pressed me on the point. I told him my story.’

  ‘What was his reaction?’

  ‘I told you that Cinaed and I felt for each other. He told me to put Olcán out of my mind. I did so until …’ She paused.

  ‘Until?’ pressed Fidelma quickly.

  ‘It was a few weeks before Cináed’s murder. There had been some travellers from the Corco Duibhne and they were talking of the rumours that Uaman the Leper had perished. Cináed was preoccupied with the news and kept asking me if I had heard any recent rumours about my father. I told him that I had heard nothing.’

  ‘Did he say anything further?’

  ‘He seemed fascinated by the stories that had spread about Uaman’s death and then stories of Uaman being alive again. He kept muttering something about “the old story might be true”.’

  ‘The old story might be true?’ Fidelma repeated. ‘Do you know what he meant by that?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘I asked him and he simply smiled and said he had to look up something about trees in the library.’

  ‘Something about trees?’

  ‘Then he told me that Abbess Faife was taking her band of pilgrims to Bréanainn’s mount soon and they would be passing Uaman’s Island. He wanted me to go with them to see if I could identify Olcán if he dwelt there. Faife refused to take me. Although a friend of Cináed, she did not believe my … my relationship with him was right. That was the last time my father was mentioned by Cinaed. Then I saw Olcán coming into the abbey as a prisoner. It is true, as you say, that I recognised him and fainted.’

  ‘This book that you said Cinaed had prepared … ?’

  ‘I think he had finished it and it was given to young Brother Faolchair to copy. I suppose …’ She paused and her mouth formed an ‘o’. Then she said: ‘Was it one of those that were destroyed in the library?’

  ‘It might well have been,’ countered Fidelma evasively. ‘Can you recall what it was called?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only that it had a Latin title.’

  ‘Scripta quae ad rempublicum . . . ?’ began Fidelma.

  ‘I would not recognise the title,’ replied Sister Sinnchéne firmly. ‘All I know is it was something about gemstones.’

  Fidelma smiled quickly. She had only been seeking confirmation of the title she had suspected it would be.

  ‘De ars sordida gemmae,’ she said softly.

  ‘I told you that I would not recognise the title,’ protested the girl.

  ‘No matter,’ Fidelma said. Absently she began to move away. Then she turned abruptly back to the girl.

  ‘Did you kill your father last night?’

  It was a brutal way to get to the truth but it produced an immediate result. The look on Sister Sinnchéne’s face told her that the news came as a shock. Fidelma found herself watching curiously as the emotions played across the girl’s face and finally resolved themselves into a grim mask.

  ‘Are you saying that he is dead?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘This morning Olcán was found in his cell. He was dead.’

  The girl’s face was now without animation.

  ‘He killed himself? Perhaps he felt that he had to do so rather than face the disgrace of being a prisoner of the Eoghanacht.’

  She now spoke quietly, almost in a matter-of-fact way.

  Fidelma reached out a hand and touched the girl’s shoulder and shook her head.

  ‘I said that he was murdered.’

  The girl’s expression still did not change but Fidelma felt her muscles harden under her hand.

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘I am afraid it is not only possible, Sinnchéne, but it is a fact. That is why I cannot promise you that I can keep your secret now. I will keep it if possible but it may be that it will come out as a means of tracking down the person or persons responsible.’

  Sister Sinnchéne still stood immobile.

  Fidelma hesitated.

  ‘Do you want me to send for anyone to help you?’ she asked.

  Sister Sinnchéne sighed and stirred. Her eyes were fathomless.

  ‘Help me? I need no one’s help. The time I needed help was when I was a young child and needed a father’s support, a father’s help. In reality, my father has been dead these last ten years if only in my mind … now he is dead in reality.’

  She spoke without feeling.

  Yet Fidelma felt a passing sorrow for the poor, lonely young girl whose father had deserted her and who was still hurting in spite of her outward coldness.

  Outside, crossing the frosty courtyard, she saw Eadulf. She left Sister Sinnchéne and went quickly to tell him the news. Eadulf was shocked.

  ‘Does that mean Esumaro and the six religieuse are in danger also?’

  ‘I think not,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Our killer was only afraid of the one person who could probably identify him. I think the others are safe.’

  ‘Are you talking of this master?’

  She nodded.

  ‘The one thing I cannot understand about Sinnchéne’s story is why trees made the Venerable Cinaed so excited.’ She reflected. ‘Something to do with the sacred tree of the clans? Sinnchéne said that he muttered “the old story might be true” and then hurried to the library to consult a book on trees. What old story? What trees?’

  ‘The trouble is,’ complained Eadulf, ‘when you speak of trees in your language, it can mean so many things. Why, even the mast of a ship is called by the same word. Cináed might have been speaking of ships or even a family tree …’

  Fidelma gave a little shout of laughter.

  ‘Eadulf, what would I do without you? Sometimes one cannot see the wood for the trees!’

  Eadulf looked bewildered, knowing that she had made a clever joke but unable to see the meaning of it.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Family tree! That is what the Venerable Cinaed was after. Exactly that.’

  ‘But whose family tree?’

  Fidelma was smiling happily now and was turning towards the library.

  ‘Uaman’s family, of course. The family tree of the Uí Fidgente rulers. The very book that Conrí asked Brother Eolas for last night.’

  In the library they found Brother Faolchair, looking as bothered as usual, continually glancing over his shoulder to see whether Brother Eolas was nearby. But there was no sign of the librarian.

  �
��I am still being blamed for the burning of the Venerable Cináed’s books,’ he told them with a sigh, when he realised that Fidelma and Eadulf had spotted his nervousness. ‘I am afraid that Brother Eolas is of an unforgiving nature.’

  ‘Well, we might soon be able to resolve that matter,’ Fidelma encouraged him. ‘But now we need your help. Do you have a work on the genealogy of the Uí Fidgente?’

  The young assistant librarian answered at once.

  ‘Of course. As one of the best libraries in the kingdom, we keep all the records of our great chiefs and nobles.’

  ‘May we look at the genealogy?’

  ‘Oh, we don’t have it at the moment. It has been borrowed.’

  Their faces fell. Fidelma asked: ‘By whom has it been borrowed?’

  Brother Faolchair smiled. ‘That’s another easy one — Brother Benen came this morning and asked for it on behalf of the Venerable Mac Faosma. He has it.’

  Eadulf exchanged a quick glance with Fidelma but she did not appear to have been surprised or to have seen any significance in the fact.

  ‘There was another thing I wanted to make sure of, Brother Faolchair,’ she went on. ‘The last book that Cinaed appeared to have finished and gave you to copy was … ?’

  ‘De ars sordida gemmae.’

  ‘Exactly so. Do you remember it?’

  ‘I remember it very well. It was one of the books that were destroyed in this very library.’

  ‘When had he given it to you to copy?’

  ‘A few days before his death.’

  ‘I think you said that you had not finished the copy?’

  ‘I had not. Those pages that I had copied were destroyed along with the original.’

  ‘Do you remember anything at all about the book? What were its arguments, its conclusions?’

  Brother Faolchair shrugged. ‘I did not read it.’

  Fidelma was astonished. ‘But you had started to copy it? You must have read it through first?’

  The assistant librarian shook his head. ‘When you are a copyist, Sister, you learn that the first rule is never to read the manuscript that you are copying. You follow line by line copying what you see otherwise you will find yourself making mistakes.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If you think that you know what is written, you will find yourself racing ahead; putting down what you think is coming next instead of what is actually on the page before you. Best not to know and then you are more accurate in the copy.’

  ‘So you have no knowledge of the text?’

  The young man shrugged. ‘I recall that it started with the idea that wealth is needed to create and sustain wars, justly or unjustly. It went on about the wealth of this land being used to sustain the Uí Fidgente chieftains in their wars against Cashel and then argued that it became a never-ending cycle. That wealth was needed to create wars and the more wars that were fought the more wealth was needed. Wealth created wars and wars created wealth. So the more land one had to conquer to extract the wealth to pay for the wars that needed that wealth the more wars had to be fought. He called it the unending circle.’

  Eadulf raised his head quickly.

  ‘The Unending Circle,’ he repeated softly, with a meaningful look at Fidelma.

  ‘What else?’ prompted Fidelma, ignoring him.

  ‘The Venerable Cinaed went on to develop a theme about the extracting of gemstones to raise money … no, to say this was being done to finance a war …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That is as far as I remember. I was still working on copying the thesis.’

  A nervous look entered his eyes. Fidelma turned and saw Brother Eolas entering the library.

  ‘Thanks, that is all we need. You have been helpful as always, Brother Faolchair.’

  Outside the library, Eadulf was almost beside himself with excitement.

  ‘The Unending Circle. Do you see the connection? It is the songmaster who must be behind this. That is the name of his organisation. Remember what the chorister told me at Daingean?’

  ‘You have frequently remarked on it,’ Fidelma observed drily.

  ‘Then we should go to see Brother Cilln?’

  He was disappointed when she shook her head.

  ‘We will go and see the Venerable Mac Faosma and ask to see this genealogy. I think that will answer my question.’

  Eadulf sniffed in disapproval. ‘I fail to see how.’

  Fidelma exhaled softly. ‘Well, it does not need the two of us to do this. While I am talking to the Venerable Mac Faosma, why not go and find out what you can about Brother Cillín and any other information about this organisation of his. Make sure that you do it surreptitiously so that he is unaware of your inquiries.’

  Eadulf drew himself up with injured pride. ‘My inquiries are always done carefully. You know that.’

  Fidelma patted his arm. ‘Of course I know it. But we must be careful now, though, being so close to our prey.’

  Slightly irritated, Eadulf left Fidelma and made his way through the covered walkway from the library towards the hospitium, wondering how best to approach the subject. Conrí suddenly appeared before him, hurrying along with a preoccupied look. He nearly collided with Eadulf, stopped and then recognised him.

  ‘Where is the lady Fidelma?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘You look apprehensive, Conrí.’

  ‘I need to speak to her at once,’ the warlord of the Uí Fidgente said. ‘We have had some unexpected visitors at the abbey gates.’

  Eadulf raised an eyebrow in query.

  ‘Slébéne and a warrior escort have just arrived,’ Conrí explained. ‘We know that he was mixed up in this matter. His arrival means trouble. Where is Fidelma?’

  Eadulf was startled at the news.

  ‘She has gone to see the Venerable Mac Faosma,’ he replied. Before he could question Conrí further, the warrior was moving at a swift trot in the direction of the scholar’s chambers.

  Eadulf stood looking after him in indecision. He was wondering whether he ought to join Conrí when a voice called to him.

  ‘Brother Saxon! So you are here as well?’

  He swung round and it was a few moments before he recognised the chorister who had been at Slébéne’s fortress of An Daingean. The very chorister who had spoken to him of the Unending Circle. A coincidence indeed!

  The chorister was smiling at him.

  ‘Remember me? I have just arrived in the company of lord Slébéne. A fortunate chance as you must know.’

  ‘I am sorry?’ muttered Eadulf, not understanding.

  ‘Why, surely you are at Ard Fhearta for the same reason as I am? The meeting of the Unending Circle?’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After she left Eadulf, Fidelma found her way to the chambers of the Venerable Mac Faosma. This time there was no muscular Brother Benen between her and the oak door and she knocked boldly.

  The Venerable Mac Faosma greeted her with a hostile eye as he opened the door and recognised her.

  ‘Have you come to bother me yet again?’ he demanded irritably before she had time to say anything. ‘I would have thought that you had better things to do.’

  Fidelma smiled sweetly at the old scholar.

  ‘I am engaged in those things that I should be engaged in,’ she replied, her icy tongue not matching the sweetness of her smile.

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘I am told that you borrowed a genealogy from the library.’

  Mac Faosma’s forehead furrowed.

  ‘You take a curious interest in the books that I borrow from the library?’ he said, inflecting the words to form a question.

  ‘I do, don’t I?’ she responded innocently. ‘Perhaps that it is because you borrow some very interesting books. However, I would like to see this one, if I may … that is, if it has not perished in the same way as did the book of Cinaed?’

  Mac Faosma stared at her and if looks had the ability to kill, her life was worthless. Then he shrugged and stoo
d aside, motioning her to enter.

  ‘I do not want you to be sitting troscud outside my door to impel me to show it you,’ he sniffed. ‘Time is too precious without wasting it on melodramatic gestures.’ .’

  She entered his chamber and he closed the door behind her, before leading her to a corner of the room.

  ‘I cannot think why you want to see the genealogy of the Uí Fidgente,’ he said, drawing the manuscript across the table.

  ‘Indulge me,’ Fidelma replied quietly, peering at the rectangular vellum book which had several bound pages. It was, indeed, what she was looking for. She started turning the pages of the various generations.

  ‘Is there anything in particular that you want from it?’ Mac Faosma queried with interest.

  ‘I want to check the descendants of Choirpre, the grandson of Fidgennid.’

  Mac Faosma shrugged.

  ‘I have not come so far as yet. I am working on the generations showing the descent of the Uí Fidgente from Eoghan Mór to support the rightful claim that the Uí Fidgente are Eoghanacht and should not be excluded from the councils of Cashel.’

  Fidelma smiled thinly.

  ‘Then your work is going to be long and hard, Venerable Mac Faosma,’ she replied, still bent to her task. Suddenly she halted on a page, tracing the inscribed names with her finger.

  ‘Here it is. Oengus Lappae, son of Ailill Cendfota, and his son Áed, and Áed’s son Crunmael to his son Eoganan who perished at Cnoc Aine. There are Eoganán’s sons Torcán and Uaman and—’

  She stopped short. It was so neat that she had not noticed before. A tiny rectangle had been cut out of the page. Its size and position showed that it had been cut to obliterate a name … a third name after Uaman.

  She turned and glanced accusingly at the old scholar, but he was staring at it with a bemused expression that could not have been feigned.

  ‘I presume that you knew nothing of this mutilation?’ she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  He shook his head.

  ‘So Eoganan did have a third child,’ she said softly. ‘But the name has recently been cut out of this book.’

  ‘Recently? How do you know?’

  ‘See where the cut has been made with a sharp pointed instrument, probably a knife point? The edges of the vellum are whiter than the page itself. How old is this book?’