Fidelma rose and turned to the door of the refectorium with Eadulf following. To their surprise they found Abbot Iarnla waiting outside the door for them. He seemed a little self-conscious.
‘How did you get on with Brother Gáeth?’ he asked anxiously.
‘As you thought, he could tell us little,’ Fidelma answered. ‘It seems he has not been in the position of a soul friend since Brother Donnchad’s return.’
‘I thought he would have little to add,’ said the abbot. He stood awkwardly, looking at the ground, as if he wanted to say something more.
‘Brother Gáeth seems to have led a sad life,’ supplied Eadulf when the silence became awkward.
‘Ah.’ Abbot Iarnla looked up and sighed. ‘He told you he was of the daer-fudir?’
‘I was under the impression that once a person passes through the portals of a community, such distinctions no longer existed. A king who abdicates to enter an abbey is regarded as being on the same level as a céile, a free clansman, or a daer-fudir. There is no difference in class between them.’
‘Not exactly so, Brother Eadulf,’ returned the abbot. ‘Fidelma will confirm this. An abbey comes under the patronage of nobles and the kings, who present the community with the land on which they build. It cannot be alienated and if the community seek to dispense with it, they can only do so with the permission of the noble or king who granted it to them. In this, as in all things, they are subject to the Law of the Fénechus and the judgement of the Brehons.’
‘Yet there is a new movement developing,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘The adoption of Roman ideas, where communities take the land in full ownership and are bound by the Penitentials rather than our own law. Abbots often regard themselves as powerful as kings within these communities.’
Abbot Iarnla flushed. ‘My abbey obeys the laws of this kingdom, Sister, in spite of …’ He was obviously about to say ‘Brother Lugna’s rules’ but he stopped himself. ‘You may assure your brother, the King, of that fact. When Brother Gáeth entered this community, he was released into our charge by the Lady Eithne as a daer-fudir. She said that the initial judgement came from the Uí Liatháin and it must stand; that was the condition. Only Gáeth’s death will absolve him from the liability that his father placed on him.’
‘Or by dispensation of the abbot,’ pointed out Fidelma.
‘Who can only act with the approval of the lord of the territory. ’
‘Doesn’t Brother Gáeth resent the fact that he continues to be condemned by Lady Eithne and yourself?’ asked Eadulf.
‘He told you that?’ asked the abbot sharply, for the first time showing anger.
Fidelma shook her head. ‘We detected a certain resentment but he did not say so outwardly. I think he may have hoped that his life would change when he entered the abbey, as it has for so many others.’
‘You were told his story? How his father Selbach slew a chief of the Uí Liatháin and how he fled to Lord Eochaid of An Dún from whom we received this land?’
‘He told us.’
‘The Lady Eithne, the widow of Eochaid, allowed him to come here at the earnest request of her son Donnchad, but the law still applies. I have tried to treat him with understanding as I would any other brother here, but clearly he continues to feel resentful.’
‘Can you expect any other attitude given the circumstances?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘I suppose not,’ Abbot Iarnla reluctantly agreed.
‘And you say you cannot change his status because of Lady Eithne.’
‘She will not discuss it.’
‘Couldn’t a daer-fudir be given work other than digging the fields and similar drudgery? He seems sensitive enough.’
‘Sensitivity is not education.’
‘He says that he reads and writes and has some Latin.’
‘We have tested him and, alas, he is not proficient enough to undertake anything more responsible.’
‘Have you given him an opportunity to improve his ability?’
Abbot Iarnla nodded. ‘We are not insensitive ourselves, Fidelma. Indeed, we have tried. He has reached the level that we expect in a young boy. His ability to read is impaired. Beyond a simple level, he does not proceed. He used to get frustrated. Sometimes he threw tantrums like any child would. Brother Donnchad used to be able to calm him.’
‘He did tell us that Brother Donnchad taught him his basic reading and writing,’ said Eadulf.
‘You must have been worried that Brother Donnchad determined on Gáeth as a soul friend,’ Fidelma remarked.
‘It did seem strange that a man as intelligent and scholarly as Donnchad would insist on such a person as his spiritual guide,’ admitted the abbot. ‘But then they had been boys together and playmates. But I saw no benefits in Gáeth being able to give spiritual guidance to Donnchad.’
‘It seems a curious relationship. Did Cathal ever enter it?’
‘Cathal was older than Donnchad and did not have much to do with Gáeth.’
‘What happened when Cathal and Donnchad left on their pilgrimage to the Holy Land?’
‘What happened?’ The abbot did not understand.
‘What was Brother Gáeth’s reaction at the loss of his friend Donnchad? How was Gáeth managed if he had tantrums that could only be calmed by Brother Donnchad?’
‘Ah, I see. Certainly we had some trouble with him. He continued moody and uncommunicative. Once or twice I even thought he might try to abscond from the community. But Gáeth has been constrained by the law and by tradition most of his life, and in the event he knew he could not break with it.’
‘You mean he just accepted the legal obligations of being a daer-fudir?’ Eadulf asked incredulously.
‘I think he knew his place in the scheme of things.’
Eadulf was about to say something else when he caught a warning glance from Fidelma.
‘I am interested, Abbot Iarnla, as to why you seemed concerned that we should talk to Brother Gáeth,’ she said.
Once more, Abbot Iarnla became embarrassed. ‘I wanted you to have a chance to meet and discuss matters with Brother Gáeth.’
‘And now that we have?’ demanded Fidelma sharply, when he hesitated again.
‘Now that you have, did he mention when he last saw Brother Donnchad?’
Fidelma saw that there was some meaning behind the question.
‘He said it was two or three days before Donnchad’s death,’ Eadulf answered.
‘Then he did not tell you the truth. It was the day before Brother Donnchad died,’ said the abbot. ‘I saw him hurrying away from Donnchad’s cell. Brother Lugna wanted to start allocating the accommodation to some of our senior clerics here and I felt that I should inspect them. I was in the next cubiculum but one to Brother Donnchad’s when I heard his door open. I heard Brother Donnchad’s voice say, “I rely on you, Gáeth.” Then I heard Gáeth exit into the passage.’
‘Did Brother Gáeth reply?’ asked Eadulf.
‘He did. He said, “It shall be put in the place of the dead. Have no fear. It will be just as you say.” Then I heard the door close and the key turn.’
‘It shall be put in the place of the dead?’ repeated Fidelma. ‘Did you confront Brother Gáeth?’
Abbot Iarnla shook his head. ‘I did not. As I said, Brother Donnchad shut the door and I heard Gáeth walking past the cell door where I was. When he had passed by I peered out and saw him heading towards the stairs. There is a window overlooking the quadrangle and so I went and leaned out to watch him come out of the building below. He was putting something under his cloak, for he was wearing one.’
‘Something? What sort of something?’
Abbot Iarnla shrugged. ‘I suppose it could have been anything. I had the impression it was a scroll.’
‘What sort of a scroll?’
‘It might have been a parchment.’
‘I wish you had told me this before we spoke to him. I might have been able to draw him out on this matter,’ Fidelma said irritably.
‘I had hoped that he would volunteer the truth rather than have to be confronted by it. One thing is certain, if Brother Donnchad entrusted Gáeth to undertake this task for him, then we must assume there must still have been some friendship between them,’ the abbot concluded.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Fidelma. ‘This place of the dead that Gáeth mentioned, was it a relec, a graveyard, or was it an otharlige, a specific sepulchre? His exact words might give a clue as to where he was going to bury this object with which Donnchad had entrusted him.’
Abbot Iarnla brightened. ‘You are right, Fidelma. I had not thought of that. Gáeth chose an unusual word. He said dindgna.’
‘That is a mound, a small elevation,’ Fidelma translated. ‘The mound of the dead? Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Not at all. Our cemetery to the east, where Donnchad himself is now buried, is a low-lying flatland surrounded by trees. But our chapel was originally built on a mound because our founder wanted it to overlook the community. The only people buried there are our founder, Mo-Chuada, and his successor, Abbot Cuanan. No one else.’
‘I will not pursue this matter with Brother Gáeth for the moment, for I need to gather a few more facts,’ Fidelma said. ‘It shall remain a secret between us.’
‘You are a discerning person, Fidelma of Cashel. I know that. Otherwise I would not have invited you here to investigate this case.’ The abbot fidgeted, as if trying to formulate words to express what was on his mind, ‘You said that you detected some resentment in Gáeth. Now that you know he has lied to you about the last time he saw Brother Donnchad, what do you think?’
‘I think you should tell me what is on your mind,’ prompted Fidelma.
‘While Brother Donnchad was in this community, he seemed to exercise a control over Gáeth that calmed him and made him at peace with his lot in the scheme of things.
‘And when Brother Donnchad was due to set out on his pilgrimage, Gáeth at first wanted to accompany him and his brother Cathal. That concerned me and it was explained that such a thing was not possible.’
‘What reason did you give?’
Abbot Iarnla shrugged. ‘Simple enough. Cathal was against it and so was Lady Eithne.’
‘Since when does Lady Eithne pronounce rules for this community to obey?’ queried Eadulf.
Abbot Iarnla looked uncomfortable. ‘I have already explained to you that this land is under her jurisdiction according to the law of the Fénechus.’
‘We appreciate that. And this accounts for her control?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Under the law and with the judgement of the Brehons,’ confirmed the abbot patiently. ‘On the matter of the pilgrimage, Cathal probably made his views known to his mother and she made her views known to me. Gáeth was to remain here in the abbey while Cathal and Donnchad proceeded on their pilgrimage. Gáeth was not happy to see his lifetime’s friend and companion leave, especially in view of the fact that Donnchad was the only person among the brethren who seemed to have time to sit down and talk to him.’
‘But then Donnchad returned.’
‘Donnchad returned,’ sighed the abbot. ‘But not the same Donnchad who left, as has been explained to you. Can you imagine what his rejection of his former soul friend meant to Gáeth?’
There was a silence.
‘I once knew a man,’ said Eadulf suddenly in a reflective tone. ‘He had a dog whom he petted and fussed over. The dog went everywhere with him, even slept on his bed. Then the man met a woman. They married. The dog was no longer important and was chased out of the bedroom and when it whined and howled, it was chased from the house. When it continued to whine and howl, the man chased it from the village, throwing stones at it. As he did so, the dog, angered by the rejection and hurt by the flying stones, leapt for the man and bit him in the throat. The man died.’ Eadulf regarded the abbot expectantly. Finally Abbot Iarnla stirred.
‘You must draw your own conclusions,’ he said. ‘I am just recounting the facts. I will see you in the refectorium this evening.’
They watched him walk away and then Fidelma turned to Eadulf. ‘I cannot see Gáeth having the ability to carry out this killing. The lock, the manuscripts … no. It is too complicated.’
Eadulf pulled a face. ‘But the motive is there. Gáeth could have killed Donnchad in resentment and retaliation for his rejection. It’s a logical suggestion.’
Fidelma shook her head but did not answer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The tech-screptra, or scriptorium, was a large wooden structure located next to a muddy area from which a new stone building was rising. Several men were at work on the site, some carrying stones, others sawing and nailing wood. There was no sign of Glassán, the master builder, but they presumed that he would be somewhere in the construction. The wooden scriptorium was the most imposing of the old buildings in the abbey complex. It was imposing not because of its size but in its design. It was an oblong two storeys high, with a frame of large oak timbers and covered with red yew planking decorated with intricate carvings of symbols and icons.
As they entered through large double oak doors, the first impression was of one great room that rose up to a high vaulted ceiling. The second floor, accessible by steep stairs at both ends of the room, was a gallery that ran round the building halfway up. The walls of the library were entirely covered by pels, or racks, from which hung tiaga lebar, leather book satchels. Each satchel contained one or more manuscripts, whose titles were labelled on the outside. The satchels were also used to carry books, especially by missionaries on their travels. They were regarded with great veneration. It was famously told that when Longarad of Sliabh Mairge, a friend of Colmcille and the most eminent scholar of his age, died, the book satchels of Ireland fell down from their racks.
At the far end of the scriptorium, underneath two large windows that were designed to let in as much light as possible, were six desks. Each had an elaborately edged flat top placed on a carved wooden plinth shaped like a tripod. Six young members of the brethren were bent over books placed on these. One hand used a maulstick to support their wrists while they wrote industriously with the other.
A fleshy-faced man who had been overseeing one of the busy scribes looked up and saw them. He came waddling towards them, for he was overweight and moved awkwardly. His heavy flushed jowls seemed to move of their own accord but there was a friendly smile on his features.
‘Sister Fidelma! You are most welcome. Welcome. As soon as I heard you were in the abbey, I knew that you would come to visit me before long.’
Fidelma held out both hands to take the fat man’s great paw between them.
‘Brother Donnán, it is good to see you again.’
The man beamed happily at her remembrance of him. ‘It is some years since you were here last and then sitting in judgement in the court …’ he began.
‘And you were my clerk and helped to keep the court in order,’ responded Fidelma. She turned to Eadulf. ‘Brother Donnán is the leabhar coimedach here,’ she said, using the Irish term. ‘This is Eadulf.’
‘Greetings, Brother Eadulf.’ Brother Donnán smiled. ‘I am called the scriptor these days. Brother Lugna, our steward, prefers us to use the Roman titles rather than our own Irish ones.’ He suddenly chuckled. ‘Yet he finds it difficult to get people to call him Œconomus instead of rechtaire.’
‘Brother Lugna is the only senior member of the community I have seen here with a Roman tonsure,’ Fidelma remarked.
‘That is true,’ agreed Brother Donnán. ‘And true again that our rechtaire is keen to adopt the ideas agreed at the councils at Streonshalh and at Autun. He wants the abbey to bring in Roman usage and the Rule of Benedict. He has already brought in several new rules.’
‘And what does the community say?’
‘We elect to follow our own liturgy. But Brother Lugna, as steward, makes small changes here and there, such as our titles of office. These changes can be tolerated. But he has begun to discourage the old concepts
of the conhospitae. He is one of the aesthetes that favours celibacy.’
‘I had noticed that there were few women in your community now,’ murmured Fidelma.
‘Indeed, and they will not be here long for already arrangements have been made for them to move. This idea of celibacy among us seems to be spreading quickly now.’
‘Brother Lugna appears very involved in the proposals to rebuild the abbey.’
‘Indeed, he is. When he arrived here he was always boasting of the great stone buildings he had seen in Rome. He felt that this abbey should be built in their image.’
‘But I thought it was Lady Eithne’s idea as a tribute to her sons. Are you saying that it was Brother Lugna who persuaded Lady Eithne to rebuild the abbey?’
‘Brother Lugna is a strong personality and no doubt when Abbot Iarnla is taken to the heavenly pasture, Brother Lugna will be his succesor,’ replied Brother Donnán glumly. ‘At that time, I have no doubt that as abbot he will introduce the Penitentials and Benedictine Rule. Let us pray that Abbot Iarnla may have a long life before him.’
‘I suspect that you do not approve of Brother Lugna?’ Eadulf remarked with humour. ‘Do I detect that your steward is not entirely popular?’
The fat librarian grinned. ‘You have a keen eye, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied.
‘Brother Lugna can only enforce his changes if he is elected abbot and the community approve the changes,’ pointed out Fidelma more seriously. This was the custom of all the abbeys and of the native churches. Abbots were chosen and elected in the same way that chieftains and kings were chosen. In the abbeys the community were considered the family of the abbot and therefore it was the derbhfine, the electoral college, who chose and endorsed his successor.
‘True enough, Sister,’ agreed the scriptor. ‘But, as I say, let us hope that the day when Abbot Iarnla stands down as abbot is a long way ahead of us. But enough gossip. I am sure you have come to speak to me about the death of poor Brother Donnchad. How may I serve you?’
‘I am sure that you must have known him well,’ said Fidelma. ‘His reputation as a scholar was well known.’
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