‘I have heard the tale and know that Maolochtair was old and twisted by that time,’ interposed Brother Lugna.
‘He was indeed. But who would dare say it? It was he who instructed Lady Eithne’s husband to give this land to our founder, the Blessed Carthach, over thirty years ago, so that he could build this abbey upon it. We had to respect Maolochtair, although, to be frank, his mind was not what it once was. He was filled with suspicion against family and friend alike, thinking they all meant him harm. We tried to send Brother Cathal out of harm’s way to administer the church and community at Sean Raithín, the old fortress in the mountains north of here. But Maolochtair soon followed him there with his accusations.
‘Maolochtair demanded that the King at Cashel imprison Cathal for a while in order that the grave charges could be considered. The King felt bound to agree, for Maolochtair was kin through his marriage to the aunt of his own father, Failbe Flann. Thanks to the King’s sister, Sister Fidelma, Cathal was cleared. I believe it was her advice that not only secured his release but sent him and his brother, Donnchad, out of the vengeful reach of Maolochtair until that twisted man departed this earthly realm.’
‘I know,’ Brother Lugna replied, showing his irritation. ‘I have heard the story from the Lady Eithne’s own lips. Five years ago Cathal and his brother Donnchad agreed to set out on their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. A short time after they left, Maolochtair died from the delirium tremens.’
‘Our beloved brethren succeeded in reaching the Holy Land. Ah, what joy it must have been to behold Jerusalem and walk the roads where our Lord once walked.’ The abbot was smiling, seemingly lost in the pleasure of contemplating such an achievement.
‘Except that the joy was not long-lived,’ Brother Lugna pointed out. ‘On the return journey, they were shipwrecked off the southern coast of Italy.’
‘But our brethren survived,’ the abbot responded.
‘Survived? Indeed they were among the few who made it to the shore when their ship was wrecked. But many others, including the crew of the ship, all perished in the turbulent waves.’
‘Cathal was so welcomed by the people of the city where they were brought ashore … what was the name of it? Tarentum? Ah yes, that’s it. Tarentum. He was so welcomed that he decided to settle there. And the people immediately elevated him to be the bishop of that city.’
Brother Lugna sniffed slightly. ‘Their gain was our loss and, indeed, a loss to his own brother as well as to his mother, the Lady Eithne, who still mourns him as one dead. At least Brother Donnchad felt it was his obligation to return here to us in Lios Mór.’
The abbot gazed at his steward thoughtfully and then asked softly, ‘Do you imply censure of Brother Cathal?’
Brother Lugna regarded the abbot coldly. ‘I did not mean to imply anything of the sort. Cathal remained in Tarentum because he felt that he had been called by the Christ to serve there. However, the point is that he remained there. The Lady Eithne feels a betrayal that he has not returned. She told me so. And his brother, Donnchad, has not been himself since his journey back to us. And it was an amazing journey. North to Rome, where I have studied; from there to our brethren in Lucca and then on to the famous Bobbio, until finally he returned to us here, bathed in glory.’ The steward’s voice rose with pride. ‘How many of our brethren have been on such a glorious pilgrimage? Just to touch the soles of his sandals which have trodden the same earth and stone that was walked upon by our Blessed Saviour, why, that elevates the spirit in each of us.’
Abbot Iarnla’s lugubrious expression did not alter, apart from a momentary twitch at the corners of his mouth.
‘I doubt that,’ he replied in a monotone. ‘I am sure Brother Donnchad must have worn out many a pair of sandals since leaving the Holy Land on his homeward journey. The sandals that traversed the roads that were once walked by the Saviour would have long been discarded for more serviceable wear.’
Brother Lugna frowned slightly, examining Abbot Iarnla’s features suspiciously. He could not make up his mind whether the abbot was being humorous at his expense or not. Abbot Iarnla’s chubby features bore no sign of amusement and the abbot was not usually given to humour. The steward shrugged slightly and dismissed his suspicion.
‘So,’ the abbot was saying, ‘what do you think is the cause of this melancholy that Brother Donnchad has displayed since his return?’
‘I cannot say. Brother Donnchad has made little effort to reintegrate with the community. He spends most of his time in his cell in contemplation of some ancient books that he brought back with him, books in languages that I do not recognise. He pores over them, as if searching for something. He has even been known to miss the call to the refectorium for meals and, of late, Mass.’
‘This is not the first time that we have spoken of his behaviour, ’ said the abbot with a small sigh. ‘I believe that you also spoke to Brother Gáeth about it.’
‘I did, but Brother Gáeth has no coherent explanation as to why Brother Donnchad now rejects his friendship as his anam chara. I am told that they were the closest of friends before the pilgrimage, a relationship, as I have said, that I consider unhealthy. I am informed that Brother Donnchad has now forbidden Brother Gáeth to so much as approach him.’
‘For what reason?’ demanded the abbot in amazement.
‘That is the essence of the puzzle for it seems there is no reason that can be offered. Had it not been for the fact that Brother Donnchad was displaying his curious behaviour to everyone in the community, I would have thought the ending of that particular relationship was to be applauded. The fact is that his behaviour is worsening. He has ceased to come to services in the chapel and will not give a reason why. Then, several days ago, he absented himself from the abbey for a full day and refused to say where he had been. To my certain knowledge, he has not eaten since yesterday and the door of his cell remains locked, contrary to the Rule and custom.’
‘Yet at your request, Lady Eithne has come twice to see him because of his distressed state,’ Abbot Iarnla said.
‘It was in the purview of my office to suggest it,’ the steward said defensively.
‘So what was resolved by her visit?’
‘After a short time alone with Brother Donnchad last evening, Lady Eithne met me at the gate. She was in an agitated condition. Plainly she had been reduced to tears by her encounter. I feel that I must insist that we take some action. The Rule of the abbey must be obeyed. Because of Brother Donnchad, many of the brethren are restless and uncertain as to their behaviour. There is an air of anarchy that is spreading. I find that I need your authority to take some action to rectify this situation.’
Abbot Iarnla nodded. ‘Yet it is of Brother Donnchad that we speak. He is not only a great scholar but also a hero to the younger brethren, an exemplar to the others …’
‘All because of his successful pilgrimage to the Holy Land,’ pointed out Brother Lugna. ‘It is because of this that his behaviour is so destructive. It cannot be allowed to continue.’
The abbot sat upright suddenly, as if making up his mind.
‘You are right, Brother Lugna. I am at fault for allowing too much tolerance of Brother Donnchad’s behaviour. My excuse for my delay is my respect for his achievements. Now I must confront him and demand his acceptance of the Rule of our community.’
Abbot Iarnla rose abruptly from his seat and Brother Lugna, surprised by his action, followed his example. Without a further word, the abbot turned and led the way from the room. Outside, they passed the wood-bearing Brother Gáeth, now red-faced, as he struggled with an armload of dry wood for the abbot’s smouldering fire. He pressed himself against the wall to allow their passage, his head bowed. They passed by without acknowledging him.
Across the main stone-flagged quadrangle, in whose middle a fountain had been constructed around a natural spring, stood a new three-storey building made of stone. It was set in one corner of the quadrangle and two of its grey walls stood on the edge of the abbey compl
ex. From the walls of the building the land sloped steeply down to the dark waters called An Abhainn Mór, The Great River, which marked the northern borders of Lios Mór. It was an unusual building, for most of the others in the complex, except the chapel, were made of wood. But it was clear that there was much new building work taking place across the abbey where the elderly wooden structures were replaced with ones of stone.
Abbot Iarnla moved swiftly for an elderly and rather portly cleric. Without pausing in his pace, he entered the stone building and climbed the flight of stairs to the upper floors with Brother Lugna hurrying after him. The door at the far end of the corridor on the top floor was the entrance to Brother Donnchad’s cubiculum, literally a ‘sleeping room’ in Latin. Abbot Iarnla halted before it but did not knock, as was the custom. He seized the handle and turned it. The door failed to open; it was locked.
Irritated, the abbot took a step back and raised his fist, giving three sharp blows on the dark woodwork.
‘Open, Brother Donnchad. It is I, Abbot Iarnla.’
He waited a few moments but there was no response.
Behind him, Brother Lugna coughed nervously. ‘As I told you, this aberrant behaviour is now usual. He does not respond to any of our entreaties to open.’
Abbot Iarnla raised his fist again and gave several sharp blows to the door. Then he paused and announced in a stentorian tone, ‘This is the abbot, Brother Donnchad. You are commanded to open this door.’
There was still no response. The abbot’s features grew grim and bright spots of red on his cheeks showed his mortification.
‘Brother Donnchad, if you do not open this door, I shall summon the means to break it open.’
As the silence continued, the abbot turned to Brother Lugna.
‘Summon Brother Giolla-na-Naomh.’
Brother Lugna hurried off. When he eventually returned with the Abbey’s blacksmith, Abbot Iarnla was waiting impatiently.
‘Break it open,’ he ordered.
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh was a tall, muscular man, as befitted his calling. His strength and willingness to do hard physical work had earned him his name ‘Servant of the Saints’ soon after he had arrived at the abbey and his original name had long been forgotten. The blacksmith examined the door critically for a moment. Then, waving the others to stand aside, he turned his back to the door, balanced on his left foot and with his right foot gave the lock a powerful back kick. There was a splintering of wood around the metal lock and the door crashed inwards. The lock hung for a moment from the jamb before it slowly fell with a clatter to the floor.
‘You may go,’ Abbot Iarnla told the blacksmith, before proceeding across the threshold. ‘Brother Donnchad, I warned you—’
The abbot’s voice stopped abruptly.
Brother Lugna peered into the room over his shoulder.
They could see inside clearly, for a window lit the cubiculum. Below it was the wooden cot and on it was stretched the occupant of the room, lying as if asleep, quiet and still.
Brother Lugna squeezed past the frozen figure of the abbot and moved to the bed. He bent down and touched the features of the man who lay there, withdrawing his hand quickly as if he had been scalded. He looked at the abbot.
‘Brother Donnchad is dead,’ he said flatly.
‘Attende Domine, et miserere …’ The abbot began to softly intone the injunction for God’s mercy.
To the abbot’s surprise, Brother Lugna turned the body over on to its side so that the back was towards him. He stared at it for a moment and finally let it fall back into its original position.
The abbot paused in his prayer. ‘What are you looking for, Brother Lugna? Do you think he took his own life?’
The steward stood upright and turned to the abbot. His face was paler than usual and he wore a troubled expression.
‘Took his own life? Not unless he was able to stab himself twice in the back before he climbed on to the bed and lay down,’ he rejoined drily.
The abbot’s ruddy face blanched and he performed the sign of the Cross.
‘Lux perpetua lucent eis. Qui erant in poenis tenebrarum …’ he began to mutter. ‘Let perpetual light shine unto them which were in the pain of darkness.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Are you telling me that you are rejecting the Faith, Fidelma?’ Ségdae, Abbot of Imleach, demanded in a scandalised voice.
Fidelma stood before the abbot in the private chamber that was always set aside for his visits to the palace of Cashel. By virtue of his ecclesiastical role as Chief Bishop of Muman, Ségdae was always treated with the greatest respect when he came to see his King.
‘I am not rejecting the Faith, only the life of a religieuse,’ Fidelma replied patiently.
Abbot Ségdae examined her with suspicion. ‘This is not good. I know that you have had concerns over the years …’
Fidelma raised a hand and Abbot Ségdae paused to allow her to speak.
‘When I attended the school of the Brehon Morann and qualified in the study of law, which was my passion, my brother was not then King of Muman, and I needed the means of supporting myself before I could make a reputation as an advocate, a dálaigh of the courts. My cousin, Abbot Laisran of Darú, suggested I join the house of Brigid at Cill Dara, because they needed someone with legal ability. It is some years ago since I shook the dust of that place from my sandals for reasons that I think you know well.’
Abbot Ségdae shrugged. ‘One bad apple does not mean that the entire crop is ruined,’ he commented.
A smile crossed Fidelma’s features but there was little humour in it.
‘It seems that there are many bad apples in this world. During the seven or so years that I have practised the legal arts, I have come across more than I care to enumerate – even in the palace of the Holy Father in Rome. Anyway, since leaving Cill Dara, I have based myself at my brother’s court here in Cashel and sought to serve him and this kingdom, and even the High King, to the best of my ability when my opinion has been sought. The Church has little need of me to serve the Faith, but the law does have need of me.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’ Abbot Ségdae demanded.
‘That I will no longer be a member of the religieuse in name. Many years have passed since I was truly a Sister of a community. Even before I went to Cill Dara, I was never committed to the rules and regulations of the religieuse. It was only a means of security in an uncertain world. Now, my brother often needs me at his side to advise and sit with him in matters of law and this kingdom.’
The abbot frowned briefly. ‘I hear what you say, Fidelma. I hear it and am concerned by it. Is this matter something to do with Brother Eadulf ?’
A flush came to Fidelma’s face.
‘Eadulf? Why do you say that?’ she demanded defensively.
The abbot sat back and examined her closely. ‘It has been observed, Fidelma, that since your return from the Council of Autun, and the problems you encountered after you left the port of Naoned, you and Brother Eadulf have led separate lives. Why is that?’
‘It is … it is a private matter,’ Fidelma said hesitantly.
The abbot shook his head sadly. ‘Anything that affects the well-being of the King’s sister, that causes her to withdraw from the religieuse, must surely be of concern to me as the King’s chief spiritual adviser.’
‘My decision has nothing to do with Eadulf,’ she insisted in annoyance. ‘I needed time at Cashel while Eadulf wanted to spend some time in contemplation with the community of the abbey of the Blessed Rúan north of here. That is all.’
‘All?’
‘What else can there be?’ she demanded petulantly.
Abbot Ségdae’s voice was sorrowful. ‘That, my child, is what I am attempting to find out. You and Eadulf had hardly returned here, to Cashel, when he left to go to the abbey of Rúan, while you remained here with your son, Alchú.’
‘Is there anything wrong with a desire to spend some time with my son?’ Fidelma’s voice was fierce.
The abbot ignored her aggressive tone and continued in an even voice. ‘Then you come to me and tell me that, after these many years, you wish to leave the religieuse. You must forgive me for thinking that these matters may be connected.’
There was an uneasy silence between them.
‘We have known one another a long time, Fidelma,’ the abbot began again. ‘I know that you are possessed of a sharp mind and it is your questioning ability that stands you in good stead as an advocate in your profession. I know, too, that it often leads you to question some of the tenets of the Faith. The Faith is not something that you can question and always achieve a rational answer – that’s what makes it a faith and not an art or science. It is not something that can be proven by evidence as in your law textbooks or even by rational thought.’
He saw Fidelma’s lips compress in a stubborn line.
‘I have told you, I accept the Faith,’ she said softly. ‘I am not questioning the Faith.’
‘Have you spoken of this matter with your brother, the King?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have. My brother Colgú has come to rely on my advice more often than before. It is known that the Chief Brehon of Muman, Baithen, is ill with a wasting sickness and has expressed his wish to withdraw into private life.’
Abbot Ségdae’s eyes widened a little. ‘And you would aspire to be Chief Brehon of your brother’s kingdom?’
Fidelma’s chin rose a little. ‘Not only aspire,’ she replied sharply. ‘I feel that the Council of Brehons would support me in that office.’
‘Baithen was of the rank of ollamh, the highest degree possible in law. Yet you—’
‘I am of the rank of an anruth, the second highest degree to an ollamh,’ snapped Fidelma. ‘That has never excluded me from being consulted in legal matters even by the High King, let alone provincial kings.’
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