At that moment the sound of a shout and a loud bang from the direction of the new building caused them to glance in that direction. Loud and angry voices rose. Someone had apparently dropped something heavy and was being rebuked by another of the builders. Eadulf caught sight of a small figure dodging among the debris. As he turned back to Fidelma, he saw Brother Lugna appear round the corner of the scriptorium.
‘Lupus in sermone,’ muttered Fidelma, ‘the wolf in the story’, whose colloquial meaning was ‘talk of the devil’.
The rechtaire of the abbey greeted them without expression.
‘How goes your investigation? Is there progress?’
‘We move slowly,’ replied Fidelma.
‘But we move surely,’ added Eadulf, whose dislike of the man had hardened.
Brother Lugna looked at him, as if trying to decide what the tone in his voice implied.
‘I am pleased to hear it,’ he replied flatly.
‘Did Brother Donnchad report to you that he had lost his ceraculum?’ Fidelma asked.
A frown passed quickly over Brother Lugna’s features before they re-formed without expression.
‘As a matter of fact I do recall encountering him one day on his way back from the scriptorium. He mentioned that some thief had taken it. I pointed out that it was a serious accusation, especially if he was accusing someone among the brethren. He called me a fool and walked away. That was shortly before his mother came to the abbey to speak to him about his behaviour. After that visit he refused to open his door to anyone. What makes you ask?’
‘He apparently flew into a rage when it went missing. We wondered why that was. Surely he could obtain another such notebook easily within the community?’
‘Brother Donnchad’s behaviour was always curious insofar as I was concerned. I presumed that he had important notes still on the writing tablet and that was what annoyed him. That would be a logical conclusion.’
‘Of course.’ Fidelma smiled, as if the problem had been solved. Then she glanced around. ‘I see the building work is going well,’ she remarked, changing the subject. ‘The new chapel looks truly magnificent.’
‘It is indeed.’ Eadulf could almost swear that the steward’s chest expanded with pride. ‘Soon our name will resound throughout Christendom for the purity of the abbey and its teachings.’
‘The purity of its teachings?’ queried Fidelma softly, as if the words had a special meaning.
Brother Lugna gazed sharply at her before replying: ‘There is a difficult task before us, to cleanse the lax and impure ways that have been allowed to develop among the community. That is my task, as I see it. Absolution is given too freely to those who do not adhere to strict obedience to the disciplines of the Faith. Those who turn away from the truth and then think they can return and be immediately forgiven for …’ He halted, as if he realised he had said too much. With a curt nod of his head, he left them, striding quickly away. Fidelma looked long and thoughtfully after him.
‘There is something about that man,’ muttered Eadulf.
‘He is not the most likeable of people,’ she agreed. ‘Come, let us follow up the matter the abbot told us about. The matter of Brother Gáeth placing something in the “mound of the dead”. We’ll start with the chapel.’
The daimhliag – the usual term now applied to churches built of stone – was quite imposing, built of substantial stone blocks, carefully cut and smoothed. Like many churches, it was built on an east west axis, the entrance being at the west end and the altar at the east. Already, the brethren had begun to plant trees around the new building, mainly yew for ornament, so that a symbolic sanctuary encircled it, called the fidnemed, or grove of the sanctuary. It was considered sacrilege to cut down or despoil these sacred groves. It was a custom that had been adopted since the days before the Faith had arrived in the Five Kingdoms. They wondered whether Brother Lugna approved of this ancient custom.
The stone church was not as big as many abbey chapels that Fidelma had seen. It was twenty-five metres long and six metres wide. From base to apex the long sloping roof was about nine metres. Beside the main door at the western end was a bell and a rope, used to summon the congregation to services. The oak door was well built; as was usual, the jambs of the door and the windows were angled so that the bottom of the opening was wider than the top. Round them were set large stones, with a horizontal lintel. The windows were long and narrow with a triangular top. The steep, sloping roof was covered with flat, thin stones.
Inside, the walls were hung with woollen tapestries depicting scenes from the life of the Blessed Carthach, or Mo-Chuada, the founder of the abbey. At the eastern end, the altar was of carved oak, behind which, as was the custom, the priest would face the congregation to conduct the services, although some of those now following the Roman liturgy performed the service facing the altar, with their back to the congregation. The congregation stood; there were no benches, unlike some continental churches that Fidelma had seen.
Fidelma and Eadulf stood gazing around.
‘This seems a curious place to hide something,’ Eadulf remarked.
‘Let’s find the tombs of the abbots,’ replied Fidelma.
In fact, the tombs lay beneath their feet. The memorial stone to the Blessed Carthach lay immediately in front of the altar. The stone was part of the flagged flooring, with a Chi-Ro symbol engraved on it and the single name Mo-Chuada. The foot of the slab was at the eastern end and the head at the western end, in accordance with the custom that one should be buried with one’s feet towards the east. The memorial to the second Abbot of Lios Mór, Mo-Chuada’s maternal uncle, Cuanan, was placed in similar fashion but on the southern side of the chapel. They searched around the tombs for a while and Eadulf even examined under the altar but there was no sign of any place where anything could be hidden.
‘I suppose we will have to ask Brother Gáeth what it was Donnchad gave him and where he put it,’ sighed Eadulf.
‘Do you really think he will respond to such a question?’ snapped Fidelma irritably. ‘He did not volunteer the information for a reason and will never do so if we confront him with the fact that he was not open with us. Use your sense, Eadulf.’
Eadulf coloured hotly at her rebuke.
‘One of the things I find difficult about you, Fidelma, is that there are two people in you.’ His words flooded out in reaction.
She turned to stare at him in surprise. She had never seen him lose control of his tongue before.
‘There is the person I fell in love with,’ the words continued to rush out, ‘the companion who is humorous and sensitive. Then there is the person who is arrogant, with an acid-sharp tongue; a confrontational and aggressive person whose attitude I do not like; the person who is ready to chastise, to criticise without listening to the reason for my comments or actions. It is as if I do not count when you are undertaking these investigations. My opinions may be just as valid as yours, sometimes more so. I do not criticise you because I take the trouble to understand what you are thinking, even if I disagree with your thoughts. I prefer to ask the question why, although you always take that as censure of your ability.’
Fidelma stood still, as if she had been slapped in the face. There was shock in her expression. Then her jaw tightened. Her eyes flashed dangerously.
‘So, perhaps we are getting to the truth of your views about me.’ Her voice was cold and hard.
Eadulf, red in the face, was now in control of himself.
‘Do not react until you have considered what I am saying. I am not so uncaring that I cannot see both sides of you. But I have to tell you that I am weary of being a …’ He tried to think of an Irish term. ‘I am weary of being an idbartach.’ He chose the word for ‘sacrifice’ and hoped that it would convey the idea of someone who was used as a victim.
Fidelma’s face had become a mask. He waited for the explosion he presumed would come. Then, amazingly, her frozen features seemed to dissolve into a troubled expression. She said in
a quiet voice, ‘What is it that you want in life, Eadulf?’
He did not reply immediately, too surprised by the softness of her tone.
‘What do I want for the future? I don’t want to live without you or our son, Alchú. But I want to be regarded as someone whose feelings should be considered as equal.’
‘Do you think that forcing me to give up the law, as you tried to do, and move to some enclosed community would be a recipe for happiness?’
‘Perhaps I was wrong to think it. But I don’t want to be a mere appendage of Fidelma of Cashel,’ he replied firmly. ‘I want to be my own person. I want to be regarded for my own worth and not for your sake.’
‘You don’t think that you are already?’ she asked with a frown.
‘I certainly do not,’ he returned immediately. ‘Although I have spent many years here, I am not of your country, Fidelma. I rely on your charity for my subsistence.’
She shook her head with a sad smile. ‘We knew that life together would not be easy. That was why I insisted on pursuing our custom of living with each other for a year and a day before we took our final vows of marriage.’
‘I know, I know. Perhaps it was my fault. There was little Alchú to consider,’ he muttered angrily.
‘Eadulf, all I can say is that I am sorry you feel that you are not regarded for your own worth. I know I am cursed with a temper. I cannot stop the criticism that springs from my tongue when I am distracted. But let me tell you this. As far as I am concerned, without you, your advice, your ability to analyse, I would not have succeeded in many of the investigations we have undertaken. Remember the time when you were able to understand the Law of the Fénechus to the level where you were able to successfully defend me when I was unjustly charged with murder. Who of importance in this kingdom has not shown you respect? My brother, the King, respects you, as does the nobility of Muman. Abbot Ségdae of Imleach respects you, and so do most of the religious of Muman. Indeed, even the High King himself knows and respects your abilities.’
Eadulf was silent for a moment.
‘I suppose,’ he said uncertainly, ‘I sometimes feel that I am not respected by the one person I really want respect from.’
Fidelma looked long and hard at him and there was suddenly a brightness in her eyes.
‘For that I am truly sorry. I know I must try to curb my temper, yet I cannot change my life or my ambition. I have explained many times that my cousin, Abbot Laisran, acted for my benefit when he told me to join the community at Cill Dara. It seemed a good idea at the time but I soon discovered it was not. For some time, because I was young and inexperienced, I did not know what path I should take. But finally, I know what I should do. My whole being is involved with law and the administration of justice. Not pursuing this will mean the death of my soul. No sacrifice that involves me giving this up is possible.’
‘Do you regret your time with me, as you regret your time in the community at Cill Dara?’ asked Eadulf.
Fidelma shook her head vehemently. ‘It tortures me, Eadulf, to think that we have come so far along our path in life together and may not continue on. I do not want to lose you. You will forever be my soul mate, my anam chara, and if you go, my soul will die. But if I am constrained from doing what I need to do in life to be fully alive, my heart will die. So what is my choice?’
He did not know how to answer or, indeed, how to sort out the thoughts that crowded into his mind.
‘What would you do in a religious community, Eadulf?’ Fidelma pressed when he did not answer.
‘In a religious community there is security.’
‘Security?’ Fidelma actually chuckled. ‘Look at this community and at the many communities to which we have been called when our talents are needed. Little security here, I’m afraid.’
Eadulf found himself smiling for it did seem a contradictory thing to say.
‘I mean in terms of position,’ he added, ‘of putting food on the table.’
‘Have we not security enough in Cashel? Are not our talents in demand far and wide? One day, we find ourselves summoned to Tara to investigate the death of the High King; another day our path takes us to Autun in Burgundia to advise at a council. Now, here we are in Lios Mór, where our talents are required yet again. Who knows where our footsteps may take us? But let us remember the saying from Horace – vestigia nulla retrorsum – no steps backwards. We have much to do to finish this investigation and once we have, I swear we will talk about our future. We know what we each want; we must see if we can reconcile our wants to some compatibility of purpose and, of course, the welfare of our son.’
Eadulf forced a wan smile. ‘Very well. And let me also quote Horace, as advice for both of us: ira furor brevis est: animum rege: qui nisi imperat.’
Fidelma laid a hand on his arm. ‘Well considered, Eadulf. Anger is a momentary madness, so we shall both control it before it controls us. And now I think it is time to return to the guesthouse and prepare for the evening meal.’
She turned and was leading the way from the chapel steps when she halted abruptly, causing Eadulf to cannon into her.
‘Eadulf, I think you have made an excellent suggestion.’ She turned excitedly.
He stared at her in bewilderment.
‘About controlling anger?’ he asked.
‘Is there not a saying, in anger there is truth?’
‘I have never heard it,’ he replied.
‘Then perhaps we shall invent it.’ She suddenly gave that mischievous grin that he had fallen in love with. ‘I have an idea …’
Before she could explain, they were hailed by Gormán who was crossing the quadrangle and had spied them.
‘I was looking for you,’ he announced as he came up to them.
‘Is anything the matter?’ inquired Fidelma, observing the excitement in the warrior’s expression.
‘I’ve been chatting with the echaire, the stableman, about the builders,’ he said.
‘Haven’t you heard enough about builders after Glassán’s eloquence the other night?’ Eadulf had reacquired his sense of humour.
‘In fact, it was Glassán we were chatting about. Did you know that Brother Echen is originally from Laighin?’
‘We did not,’ responded Fidelma solemnly, ‘but it is good to know that he has an appropriate name for a stableman.’ Echen meant a ‘steed’.
Gormán ignored her humour and went on, ‘It seems that his cousin is actually the táisech scuir, the man in charge of the King of Laighin’s stables.’
‘There is a point to this?’ Fidelma pressed gently.
‘Of course. Did you know that Glassán was of the degree of ollamh?’
An ollamh was the highest degree in any of the professions within the Five Kingdoms.
‘I am only surprised that he neglected to tell us,’ Fidelma said wryly. ‘He was quite eloquent about his merits and the merits of his profession. It seems perfectly reasonable for the abbey to employ a master builder of his degree.’
Gormán smiled without humour. ‘Well, it might surprise you to know that our friend, Glassán, was once master builder to the King of Laighin.’
‘Was?’ queried Eadulf. ‘I did not think that master builders to kings resigned their office unless they retired. And he is not old enough to retire from such a position.’
‘He does not have to have left that position,’ Fidelma corrected quickly. ‘Usually the ollamh builder is employed in direct service to the King, and answers to him for a fixed annual payment of seven cumals, equivalent to the value of twenty-one milch cows. However, he is also permitted to exercise his art for general commissions from members of the public. He has probably taken on this work as extra to his service to the King of Laighin. Although, I grant, it does seem odd that he has crossed into the kingdom of Muman for employment.’
Gormán was shaking his head. ‘You are wrong, lady. Brother Eadulf raises a good question. Brother Echen grew quite loquacious after I shared a flagon of korma with him. He was told,
by his own brother, who serves the King of Laighin, something that is quite interesting about Glassán.’
‘I wish you would get to the point of this tale,’ Fidelma said irritably. Then she glanced at Eadulf, grimaced and added, ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Simply that some years ago Glassán was dismissed from the service of the King of Laighin’s in disgrace. It turned out that he had been asked to construct and oversee the work of a guest hostel at the fortress residence of some relation to the King. It was badly constructed and the roof fell in, killing several people, including one of the builders.’
Eadulf whistled silently and then glanced nervously at the chapel behind them.
‘What happened?’ Fidelma was now interested.
‘He was taken before the King’s Brehon. It was argued that, while his task had been the design of the building, and he should have been there to oversee its construction, he had not actually followed through. He had left the work to an assistant who had not placed the supports correctly or strongly enough.’
‘So was he judged responsible?’
‘On the contrary, it was his responsibility to have overseen the building at every stage. While the assistant had to pay the bereaved families the honour price of the persons killed, Glassán himself was deemed culpable and had to pay court fines to the King and was stripped of his rank of ollamh.’
‘Yet he is here rebuilding this abbey,’ breathed Eadulf in amazement.
‘Does your friend, Brother Echen, know how this came about?’ asked Fidelma.
‘How Glassán was commissioned to build here? He seems to have come here at the invitation of Brother Lugna.’
‘Did Brother Echen tell Abbot Iarnla about Glassán?’
‘He said he told Brother Lugna who, as steward, is in charge of the building on behalf of the abbey. Brother Lugna as good as told him that he should remain silent, for judgement had been passed and Glassán had paid the fines.’
‘That, of course, is true,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘A person cannot continue to be punished after they have made reparation in the eyes of the law. But one thing intrigues me. What defence did Glassán present, if any, at the hearing? Did Brother Echen know?’
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