Atonement of Blood

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Put down your weapon, Gormán,’ Fidelma ordered quietly as she saw the warrior clutch the hilt of his sword in automatic reaction. ‘We have no reason to suppose whoever is outside is not speaking the truth.’

Gormán slowly drew his sword and placed it on the ground. Fidelma then went to the doorway and pulled aside the temporary barricade they had erected to protect themselves from stray animals during the night.

‘We are coming out — unarmed,’ she called.

‘Come forth, then,’ invited the grating voice.

She glanced over her shoulder at Eadulf and Gormán. ‘Do nothing foolish until we see who summons us in this fashion.’ Then she turned and took a step outside.

The man who had summoned them had not been lying. Five men sat on their horses forming a semi-circle before the ruined chapel. Those at either end of this semi-circle had bows strung with arrows aimed. Two others had their swords ready while only the central figure sat at his ease on his horse without a weapon in his hand.

Fidelma automatically noted that once this man might have been handsome. He was tall, muscular, with a shock of sandy-coloured curly hair and a beard to match. However, his face was disfigured by a scar that caused a white welt from his forehead diagonally across his left eye, nose and cheek. It was not clear whether the eye was blind but it was certainly a pale, opaque colour compared to the restless blue orb that was its companion. He stared at them almost with disinterest. There was no way of telling whether he was smiling or not, for the thick beard hid all his lower features.

‘Well, now, what have we here?’ he muttered as Fidelma, followed by Eadulf and Gormán, appeared through the doorway. ‘A warrior.’ The glance fell on Gormán’s empty scabbard. ‘You were wise to abandon your sword, warrior. Now raise your hands just in case you are tempted to seek the knife I see still in your belt. Quickly!’

Keeping a rein on his anger, Gormán did as he was bid.

The man nodded approvingly. ‘Bowmen, keep a watch on that one. He wears a golden circlet around his neck. You know what that means? He is a warrior of the Nasc Niadh, the Golden Collar, who regard themselves as élite champions. They don’t surrender easily and are full of tricks. If he even moves a finger to scratch his nose, loose your arrows.’

Fidelma took a step forward.

‘If you recognise a warrior of the Nasc Niadh, the bodyguard of your King, you know that you trespass on dangerous ground, whoever you are. Name yourself!’

This time there was no doubting that the sandy-bearded warrior was laughing, as a deep throaty sound issued from where the beard hid his mouth. He then focused his gaze down on Fidelma.

‘I have no wish to name myself,’ he replied evenly. ‘I am the captor and, in case you have missed it, you are the captives. Now, who are you that travel in the company of a foreign religious and a warrior of the Golden Collar?’

Fidelma thrust out her jaw pugnaciously. ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel, sister to your King, Colgú.’

‘Not my King, woman,’ replied the man, as if amused. ‘And if you are Fidelma of Cashel, why do you sport clothes of this fashion. It is well known that Colgú’s sister went into religious service. Does not everyone talk of Sister Fidelma?’

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘So might they. But since you know so much, you may know that I have left the religious and pursue my rôle as dálaigh, an advocate at my brother’s court.’

The sandy-haired leader grunted indifferently and glanced at Eadulf.

‘So who is the foreigner?’

‘I am able to speak for myself,’ Eadulf snapped. ‘I am Eadulf of Saxmund’s Ham in the Land of the South Folk, among the Angles.’

‘There is a sound of arrogance in your voice, Saxon,’ sneered the man.

‘I am an Angle,’ replied Eadulf.

‘Angle or Saxon — what matters? You are a foreigner.’

‘And now you know who we are, I suggest you identify yourself,’ Fidelma said again, to show she would not be intimidated.

The man turned his gaze on her for a moment and then said, ‘I see no reason to do so.’ He addressed one of his companions. ‘These folk have no use for their horses. Turn them loose.’

With a grin at his leader, the man trotted off to the makeshift paddock where Gormán had left their horses. A few moments later came the sound of shouting and the thud of hooves on the soft ground. Then the man returned.

‘In more arduous times,’ the leader of the group addressed them languidly, ‘we might have had need of your horses. But we can dispense with them.’

Once again he signalled to his two immediate companions who, leaving the others with their arrows still strung and threatening, dismounted swords in hand and moved towards the captives.

‘This can either be done easily without the shedding of blood, or the harder way which will cause you much suffering,’ the leader called.

‘What is it that you want?’ Fidelma demanded suspiciously.

‘Only that which is valuable,’ replied the man. ‘We will take your belongings and leave.’

Fidelma’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You are just thieves? Robbers?’

‘Were you expecting that we were warriors with some lofty purpose in mind?’ The sandy-haired man laughed in amusement. ‘I regret that I have disappointed you. Alas, I am no more than a simple brigand who would relieve you of the burden of carrying such items as the golden torque that your friend of the Golden Collar wears around his neck.’

Even as he said this, his two men began to search Gormán at swordpoint, removing his dagger that he wore at his belt, the gold circlet showing his rank, a ring from his finger and a few other trinkets. Then they moved on to Eadulf, taking the silver crucifix he wore and a few other items of value including the silver seal that Brother Conchobhar had given him.

Fidelma glared at the leader of the brigands. ‘You may regret this day,’ she said fiercely.

The man made a bored gesture with his hand. ‘Indeed, I may. But “may” is a word of uncertainty. I may regret it and I may not. That is something only the future and soothsayers can tell.’

While the arrows unwaveringly covered them, the two men searched Fidelma with professional detachment, removing her jewellery and the smaller version of the golden circlet she wore at her neck. In her marsupium they also discovered a small wand of white rowan wood on which was fixed a figurine in gold. It was the image of an antlered stag, the emblem of Fidelma’s authority when acting for her brother. They added this to their store of booty while Fidelma and her companions looked on powerlessly. When they had finished collecting the spoils, one of the men packed the loot into a bag and tied it to his saddle while the other went into the ruined chapel and apparently searched the belongings they had left there. He came out after a few moments, holding Gormán’s sword which he handed to the leader. The sandy-haired man glanced at it, weighed it in his hand and muttered approval.

‘A good blade, warrior,’ he said. ‘I expect it has been put to expert use. I could use a better blade than I have.’

Gormán gritted his teeth in impotence. The sword had been an especial favourite of his.

The leader of the brigands now glanced at his comrade but the man shook his head.

‘That is all,’ the man said. ‘But the trinkets and gold torcs will pay well for this day’s work.’

‘That is true.’ The leader turned to Fidelma. ‘Think yourself lucky. I feel in a generous mood, so we’ll leave you with your lives. Two days ago we encountered a young merchant who was not as accommodating as you. He objected to us in most aggressive terms. So we hanged him.’

He gestured to his companions, who swung up on their horses. The two silent bowmen remained with their arrows still aimed while this was done. Then the sandy-bearded man yelled: ‘Ride!’

Before Fidelma and her companions could move, the band of five brigands had wheeled round and set off at a fast pace through the ruined village towards the western hills.

Gormán uttered a curse, hand to his empty scabbard. Then he was peering on the ground, apparently trying to retrieve his dagger.

Fidelma heaved a sigh, moved to a boulder and sat down.

‘Well, what now?’ Eadulf asked resignedly.

Gormán had recovered his dagger and rejoined them.

‘They have driven off our horses,’ he said, stating the obvious.

‘In that they have made one mistake,’ Fidelma replied confidently, suddenly rising to her feet again.

‘I don’t understand,’ the young warrior replied.

‘Had they been sensible, they would have driven the horses before them. Or, indeed, have taken them. Instead, they just turned them loose.’

Gormán and Eadulf looked puzzled as Fidelma strode back to the ruined chapel and, with some dexterity, managed to scramble to the top of one of the thick walls and stood eyes shaded against the rising sun. She caught sight of Aonbharr, her horse, some distance away, grazing unconcernedly. She raised her voice and began a series of long, loud wordless calls. She saw the beast’s head raise, the ears prick forward. Then the head shook up and down on its thick neck, the mane flowing in each direction. The horse gave an answering series of snorts and whinnies, pounding the earth with a front hoof, and then came trotting back towards the ruins.

Fidelma climbed down from her perch and went to stroke the muzzle of the animal as it came up to her.

‘Obviously our thieves know little about the bonds that can develop between people and their mounts. Aonbharr is not one to be chased off like that.’

‘That is well and good,’ replied Eadulf. ‘But I don’t think our horses have the same affection for us.’

Fidelma gazed at him reprovingly. ‘If you will look behind Aonbharr you’ll see that he is not alone. Horses are herd animals. The other two beasts are following him back. All we have to do now is saddle them. But I think we should break our fast first and see what these brigands have left us.’

Indeed, there was little of value that had been left, although Fidelma always carried some gold pieces for emergencies and these the thieves had missed. However, the most important items missing were the symbols of office, the white rowan-wood wand and the golden torcs which showed her and Gormán to be of the Order of the Golden Collar. Jewels and rings could be replaced, but the symbols of rank and authority were more difficult to obtain.

‘Perhaps we should turn back,’ Gormán suggested uneasily. ‘If we are to ride into Uí Fidgente country we will need to do so with some authority.’

Fidelma disagreed. ‘We are less than a day’s ride from the Abbey of Mungairit, and to turn back now would be an act of foolishness.’

‘I have no sword, nor means to defend you,’ protested Gormán.

‘Surely a sword is easily replaced?’

‘You do not understand, lady. That was a special sword.’

‘A sword is only as good as the hand that wields it,’ replied Fidelma firmly.

Gormán knew when to give up the argument.

The remaining belongings were gathered. They ate sparingly, not having much appetite after the morning’s encounter. Gormán went to refill the water bags before they mounted their horses and began to move off along the track that led to the north-west. For the main part, they journeyed in silence, a slow and thoughtful trek over the cold, undulating hills, fording numerous small streams and rivers. They passed close to the banks of a larger river, which Fidelma identified as An Mhaoilchearn.

Even Gormán, who seemed depressed over the theft of his emblem and sword, which Eadulf knew was considered a loss to his honour and status as a warrior of the bodyguard of the King of Cashel, roused himself from his torpor.

‘You will never starve by those banks,’ he assured Eadulf, who had asked about the river. ‘It is a great spawning place of salmon and sea lamprey. Otters crowd its banks. It heads north to join the great River Sionnan. You know the story of its creation?’

Before Eadulf could answer, Fidelma intervened testily: ‘There are several stories of its creation. There is even one that says that under the estuary lies a city of the Fomorii, the underwater people, which rises to the surface every seven years and all mortals who look upon it will die.’

Gormán shook his head slightly. ‘I was thinking of the story of the daughter of Lodan, the son of the Sea God Lir. She was a wayward girl and one day went to the Well of Ségais, the forbidden Well of Knowledge. Because she did a forbidden thing, the well rose up and chased her across the land until she reached the sea, where she drowned. The waters of the well that chased her formed the path of the great river that is named after her.’

‘That is one story,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Yet another is that there was a great beast, a dragon named Oilliphéist. It was chased by the Blessed Patrick and the passage of the beast created the gorge which filled with water to become the river.’

Eadulf realised they were talking merely to ease the passing of time on their journey.

‘Well, as stories go, I like the one about Sionnan,’ he piped up. ‘She seems like a real character to me — someone who is not afraid to look for forbidden knowledge in forbidden places.’ His expression was bland.

Fidelma pulled a face at him. He had not seen her mischievous grin for a while and it comforted him to know she was still capable of humour.

‘Tell me more about this Well of Knowledge,’ he invited.

‘That is your story, Gormán.’ Fidelma glanced at the young warrior.

‘The Well of Ségais? There are many stories about it. Two of them are associated with the formation of rivers. The well was said to be surrounded by nine hazel trees which bore the nuts of knowledge, and these fell into the well in which a salmon dwelled. Because he ate of the nuts, he became Fintan, the Salmon of Knowledge.’

Although they continued to keep the conversation light for a while, it was clear that the robbery had shaken Fidelma more than she would admit. The loss of the symbols of power and identity were the main concern. Even Eadulf knew how much such symbols mattered in the culture of Fidelma’s people. Without them, Fidelma would find it hard to assert her authority over the rebellious Uí Fidgente.

It was well after midday that they came into an area of low-lying bog, covered in sedges and long grasses.

‘It looks like a wilderness,’ commented Eadulf.

‘Well done, friend Eadulf!’ Gormán told him. ‘This area is called Fasagh Luimneach, the Wilderness of the Bare Place. That is why the abbey we seek is so named.’

Eadulf frowned. ‘Mungairit? You’ll have to explain that to me.’

‘Mun comes from moing, the tall bog brass, while gairit is from garidh, a mound that rises above the low-lying boglands.’

It was not long before they came within sight of the great Abbey of the Blessed Nessán at Mungairit.

It seemed to Eadulf to be a grey and forbidding edifice. He counted six chapels nestling among the abbey buildings.

‘It is larger than I thought it would be.’

‘It is certainly a great seat of learning,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘When was it founded?’

‘Nessán, its founder, died here well over a century ago. It is one of the biggest and most important abbeys among the Uí Fidgente, who claim to be the descendants of Cass.’

They followed the track, passing an ancient standing stone, to the walls of the abbey. The fields around were deserted but, in more temperate weather, it was obvious that the brethren used them to plant and then harvest the crops to sustain the inhabitants of the vast complex of buildings.

The gates stood open and they rode through into a large square. There were several religious moving here and there, apparently intent on various errands. A tall, burly member of the brethren, looking more like a warrior than a religieux, was striding towards them with a smile of welcome. He was a pleasant-looking man, with dark hair and sea-green eyes that were sharp and perceptive.

‘You are most welcome, pilgrims. I am Brother Lugna, the abbey’s táisech scuir, the master of the stables. How can I serve you?’

‘Where may we find the rechtaire, the steward of this abbey?’ enquired Gormán.

Brother Lugna turned and indicated one of the many buildings. ‘You will find our steward, Brother Cuineáin, in there. Shall I take care of your horses while you consult him?’

‘There is no need, Brother,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘Gormán here will look after them until we have spoken with the steward.’

‘Well, if you need to have them stabled and foddered, you will find me in that building.’ The man pointed. ‘That’s our stables. Just ask for me, Brother Lugna.’

‘That is much appreciated, Brother Lugna.’ Fidelma led the way forward and came to a halt in front of the building that the man had indicated. Dismounting and handing the reins to Gormán, Fidelma and Eadulf went to the main door of the building. A bell-rope hung by it. A distant chime came to their ears as Eadulf tugged on the rope. A moment passed before the door swung open and a grim-faced religieux stood before them. His expression was in contrast with that of the stable-master and he showed no sign of welcome.

‘Pax tecum,’ Fidelma greeted him solemnly. ‘Are you the rechtaire, the steward of this abbey?’

The man’s eyes flickered from side to side as he examined them each in turn. Then he turned back to Fidelma with a slightly hostile look.

‘Pax vobiscum,’ he replied. ‘I am not the rechtaire. Who wishes to see him?’

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel and my companion is Brother Eadulf; beyond, with our horses, is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh.’

The expression of hostility seemed to become more pronounced, as the religieux moved reluctantly aside.

‘Enter in peace.’ The words were uttered as an expressionless ritual.

They entered a dark antechamber and the religieux went to close the door on them, saying, ‘If you will wait here, I will inform the rechtaire of your arrival.’

Without another word he turned and hurried away. The antechamber was bare of any furniture. There were no seats and not even a fire was burning in the hearth. The whole grey stone interior gave out an atmosphere of forbidding chilliness and dark. They could just make out a wooden cross hung on one of the walls but, apart from this, there were no other ornaments or tapestries to offer relief.

Eadulf shuffled nervously. ‘Not exactly an effusive welcome,’ he muttered.

‘Did you expect there to be one?’ Fidelma replied.

‘Uí Fidgente territory or not, this is still a territory that is subject to the Kingdom of Muman, and you are sister to the King,’ he pointed out.

‘I do not have to remind you of the differences between the Uí Fidgente and the Eóghanacht,’ she murmured. ‘We are in their territory now and must accept that they do not love us.’

The door suddenly swung open as the grim-faced religieux returned, holding a lit oil lamp which spread some light in the gloom of the chamber. Behind him came a short but well-built man in dark robes, wearing the tonsure of the Blessed John. From around his bald pate, straggly grey curly hairs seemed to float in all directions. He was a fleshy-faced man with eyes of indiscernible colour, perhaps grey, perhaps light blue. They could not tell. He seemed to have a particular habit of rubbing his right wrist with his left hand.

‘I am Brother Cuineáin, the steward of this abbey.’ He looked at them expectantly.

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel and this is Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, my husband. Waiting outside with our horses is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh.’

Brother Cuineáin inclined his head in brief acknowledgement. Then he raised his pale eyes to examine them closely.

‘What do you seek here?’ His voice was as lacking in warmth as that of the religieux who had opened the door to them.

‘I wish to speak with Abbot Nannid,’ replied Fidelma.

The steward regarded her without emotion.

‘These are strange times, lady. Only a few months ago, this abbey was attacked by rebels commanded by Étain of An Dún. Now, I have heard of Fidelma and Eadulf — who has not? But it was of Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf that I have heard. While this Eadulf wears the tonsure of the Blessed Peter, you come in the robes of nobility, lady — you do not wear the robes of a religieuse. Perhaps you can let me have some proof that you are who you say you are?’

‘Brother Cuineáin.’ Fidelma was patient. ‘You have made a reasonable request but one to which we cannot respond. On our journey here, at the Hill of Ulla, we were attacked by brigands and our symbols of authority, being valuable, were taken from us.’

The steward regarded them for a few moments and then sighed, rubbing the side of his nose with a pudgy forefinger.

‘That presents me with an awkward situation. Without proof, I am not at liberty to accept that you are who you claim to be and therefore I can offer you neither admittance nor assistance. These times are fraught with unease and enemies can come in friendly guises. We must protect ourselves.’

Fidelma’s eyes flashed. ‘I am Fidelma, sister to Colgú, King of Cashel. I demand to see Abbot Nannid.’

‘You can demand all you want, lady,’ the steward said indifferently. ‘However, until you can prove your identity I am only fulfilling my duty to the abbot of this place in refusing to admit you.’

‘I come to him on a matter of law.’

The steward shook his head. ‘That cannot be allowed. Abbot Nannid will not see strangers, moreover, strangers who have no proof that they are who they claim to be. I cannot admit you under the rules of this abbey, which are to safeguard it from any possible harm.’

Frustrated, Eadulf just restrained himself from taking a step forward. Brother Cuineáin’s eyes narrowed quickly.

‘Threats will do you little good, my friend. I suggest that, as the day darkens, you should all be on your way.’

‘You do us an injustice, Brother Cuineáin,’ Fidelma said softly.

‘I can only obey the rule of this abbey.’

‘Is it not said that rules are only for the obedience of fools but the guidance of wise men?’ she snapped.

The steward pursed his lips in an ugly grimace. ‘I would have to own, then, that I am either a fool or a wise man. The proof of which is difficult to discern at this time.’

‘Then it seems we shall have to return when we are in possession of that proof,’ Fidelma replied, suppressing her annoyance, ‘and then we shall discuss the answer.’

Outside, Gormán was waiting patiently for them. Brother Cuineáin had followed them out into the courtyard to watch them depart. He glanced at Gormán and called with dry cynicism: ‘I see that your companion, who you claim is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh, wears no Golden Collar and seems to possess no sword for his empty scabbard.’

Fidelma made no response.

‘I knew something like this would happen,’ muttered Gormán. ‘We should have turned back and picked up other means of identity before coming into Uí Fidgente land.’

‘The word “should” is as negative a word as “if”, Gormán,’ Fidelma said, her voice waspish. ‘We have to deal with reality and not lament decisions that do not prove the right ones.’

‘What now?’ asked Eadulf.

‘I can see no alternative but to find a place of safety for the oncoming night and then seek the help of my nearest cousin of the Eóghanacht Áine — and that’s over a day’s ride to the east.’

Fidelma was about to mount her horse when a shout came from the other side of the courtyard.

‘Sister! Sister Fidelma!’

A young religieux was hurrying across the flagstones towards them, waving his hand in a manner undignified for one of his calling.

Fidelma turned to stare at the young man and then moved to meet him with a smile on her face; her hands were held out in greeting.

‘Brother Cú-Mara!’

The young man came up slightly breathless and caught her hands. There was ill-concealed excitement on his youthful features.

‘I thought I recognised you. What are you doing here?’ He turned and clapped her companion on the back. ‘And Brother Eadulf! I did not think to see you in this corner of the world.’

‘It is good to see you again, Brother Cú-Mara,’ Fidelma replied, smiling at the effusiveness of his greeting. ‘And I might ask the same question of you? You are a long way from the Abbey of Ard Fhearta.’

The young man chuckled. ‘I am, indeed, but on a visit to bring a copy of one of the books from our tech screptra, our library, to that of this abbey. I am due to return to my abbey tomorrow.’

Brother Cú-Mara was the steward of the Abbey of Ard Fhearta. He had once studied the art of calligraphy under Fidelma’s own cousin, Abbot Laisran of Darú. It was while they were staying at Ard Fhearta that Fidelma and Eadulf had been able to resolve the evil threat of the person known as the ‘Master of Souls’.

‘It seems we might be in luck to have found you here before your return to the coast,’ Eadulf said dryly.

Brother Cú-Mara looked puzzled. ‘Why so, Brother Eadulf?’

Eadulf glanced over his shoulder to where Brother Cuineáin had been standing at the doorway, and was startled to find that the steward had moved forward and was now close behind him. He was staring at Brother Cú-Mara.

‘Am I to understand that you know these people and can identify them?’ he demanded in a heavy tone.

The steward of Ard Fhearta looked at Brother Cuineáin in astonishment.

‘I do not know the warrior who accompanies them, but of course I know them! I thought everyone knew Sister Fidelma and her husband Brother Eadulf. If they did not know them in person, then their reputation is spread among the Five Kingdoms. I know them personally, for only a few years ago they spent time at our abbey and saved the kingdom from relapsing into war.’

The steward of Mungairit appeared flustered. A look of embarrassment began to spread across his features.

‘Then it is up to me to offer my apologies.’ He almost mumbled the words, addressing Fidelma. ‘I have to say that in refusing you entry here I was only acting by the rules and best intentions to protect our abbey from the many threats with which it is surrounded. I now offer you and your companions the hospitality of the abbey.’

‘We will accept not only your apology but your offer,’ replied Fidelma graciously, ‘and with many thanks for we are exhausted since our experiences on the road here.’

Brother Cú-Mara was puzzled as he tried to follow the conversation.

Eadulf took pity on him. ‘We were attacked on the road here by brigands. They stole what valuables we had, including all our means of identification, the symbols of office.’

‘Ah!’ the young man exclaimed. ‘I begin to understand why the steward, if he did not know you, was reticent about your admittance to this abbey. You may recall the abbey was recently attacked by Étain of An Dún? But we must talk later for I have to meet the leabhair coimedach, the librarian, to conclude my business here. We will meet at the evening meal.’ Then, with a wave of his hand, the young man was gone.

‘He turned up at an opportune moment,’ muttered Gormán.

Brother Cuineáin had signalled for his assistant and gave orders for their mounts to be taken to the stables. And, with their saddle-bags removed, he motioned them to follow him.

‘I will ensure that the hospitality of the abbey is yours and beg your forgiveness, Sister.’

Fidelma coloured a little. ‘I have left the religious,’ she said. ‘I am, as you may have heard, a dálaigh. I now serve the law on behalf of my brother, King Colgú of Cashel.’

‘And the purpose of your seeking to speak with the Father Abbot, lady?’ Only by the alteration of his means of addressing her did he indicate that he understood her change of status.

‘An attempt was made on my brother’s life; on the life of the King. The assassin identified himself as one of the brethren of this abbey, bearing an important message from Abbot Nannid. That is why we have come here.’

The steward halted in astonishment and swung round, staring at her. ‘In that case I must take you to the abbot immediately,’ he said. It was as if all the authority had suddenly left him. For a moment Fidelma was looking at a deflated and frightened man. He almost scurried along the long, gloomy corridors before them, barely taking time to light a lantern to guide them. Finally, with some breathlessness, he came to a halt before a dark oak door.

Here the steward paused, as if to gather himself, and then gave three loud raps on it. Then, with a muttered ‘Wait here!’ he opened it and disappeared beyond, appearing to forget that he had left them in the ill-lit corridor. It did not seem that long, however, before the door swung open again, shedding a little light on them, and Brother Cuineáin waved at them to enter.

The chamber of the abbot was well-lit by several lanterns. It was large, and the walls were covered in tapestries that gave warmth to the otherwise cold grey stonework. There was a yew writing table, elaborate and ornamental, which stood on a single support, balanced on three short legs near the base. On the top was an angle board on which the scribe could rest his book or vellum, or even taibhli filidh, tablets of poets that were usually beech or birch frames into which wax was poured. Notes could be made with a stylus and afterwards the wax was smoothed over again for reuse. To one side hung a number of book satchels. A few chairs and a large table on which two oil lamps stood completed the rest of the furniture.

A tall, thin man rose awkwardly from behind the table to greet them. It was difficult to see his features clearly, but his long robes and the ornate silver crucifix with its jewel insets proclaimed him to be abbot. He had a pale, gaunt face and wore the tonsure of the Blessed John, denoting him as a follower of the churches of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann rather than Rome.

In spite of the flickering shadows, Fidelma noticed, with some prejudice, that the man’s eyebrows met across the brow; she had always been told that this was a sign of a bad temper. Although she knew it was folklore, she could not help but recall it. She also noted that his lips were thin and twisted in one corner. Fidelma mentally rebuked herself as the words of Juvenal came into her mind. Fronti nulla fides. No reliance can be placed on appearance. After all, her brother knew the Abbot of Mungairit and had a good opinion of him.

‘I am Abbot Nannid,’ the thin man said. ‘My steward has informed me of the terrible news you bring from Cashel. How is the King, your brother?’

‘He still lives,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Your steward will also have informed you that I am a dálaigh, as well as sister to the King?’

The man stared at her for a moment and then slowly nodded.

‘This is my husband, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. Our companion is Gormán of my brother’s bodyguard,’ she went on. ‘You will excuse our appearance. On the journey here we were attacked by brigands, and our valuables and emblems of office were stolen from us.’

It was clear that the steward had already imparted this information, for the abbot made a sympathetic clicking sound with his tongue and waved them to chairs.

‘Please be seated. Is my steward correct when he tells me that the assassin is supposed to be a member of our brethren? Who is this person?’

‘I believe we should ask who this person was,’ Fidelma said solemnly. ‘The assassin was killed, you see — although not before he had seriously wounded my brother and murdered the Chief Brehon of Muman.’

‘If the assassin is dead, how is it known that he came from this abbey?’ the abbot asked defensively.

Eadulf was wondering whether the abbot was defensive because of guilt or whether he was considering the fact that as ‘father’ of his community, he would be responsible for the fines and compensation that were involved, should one of his community commit a criminal act. If Colgú died, that meant the value of forty-eight milch cows. As it was, the death of the Chief Brehon of Muman already meant a fine of forty-two milch cows. Eadulf mentally shook himself. He should not be thinking along such lines at this time.

‘The man came into the feasting hall where my brother was seated, having gained access by introducing himself as a member of this abbey, further claiming that he brought a message from you. He said his name was Brother Lennán.’

‘Brother Lennán!’ The name came as an exclamation from Brother Cuineáin.

Fidelma turned quickly to him. ‘It seems that his name is known, then?’

The abbot was sitting back with a curious expression on his thin features.

‘His name is known,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Brother Cuineáin, will you go in search of Brother Ledbán and bring him here? Do not tell him the purpose.’

The steward nodded and immediately went off on his errand.

When he had gone, Abbot Nannid bent forward a little and said, ‘Can you tell me the circumstances of this event? And could you describe this Brother Lennán to me?’

Fidelma told the story rapidly, in short sentences. She had just finished when there came a knock on the door and Brother Cuineáin re-entered and stood aside, holding the door to allow two figures to pass through.

One they recognised as Brother Lugna, the friendly stable-master, who had greeted them on their arrival. The other was an elderly man, walking unsteadily, hanging on his companion’s arm and, with his other hand, using the aid of a heavy blackthorn stick. His back was bent, his skin like parchment, stretched tightly over his bones and across his sunken cheeks. Brother Lugna helped his companion shuffle to a halt before the abbot’s table.

Brother Lugna turned to them with an apologetic smile. ‘Brother Ledbán recently had a fall and that is why I help him. He was once an echere, a groom, in my stables.’

‘This is Fidelma of Cashel,’ the abbot said, raising his voice, for it appeared the old man was hard of hearing. ‘She is a dálaigh and you must answer her questions.’

The old man turned colourless eyes upon her and waited expectantly. It was the abbot who finally asked the question.

‘Tell her your name.’

‘I am Brother Ledbán,’ came the cracked, ancient voice. ‘I came here to work as a groom. They used to call me Ledbán the Plaintive, but that was … that was …’ He screwed up his eyes thoughtfully. ‘That was many years ago.’

‘And tell her of Brother Lennán,’ went on the abbot.

‘Lennán? Why, he was my son.’

‘Your son?’ Fidelma started in astonishment and was aware of Eadulf’s gasp as he stood next to her.

The old man continued to stare at the abbot and went on, without glancing at Fidelma, ‘He was my own son, as dear to me as life, bound in the bond of blood.’

‘Did you know he was dead?’ asked the abbot softly.

The old man’s jaw rose pugnaciously. ‘He was killed, as well you know.’

Fidelma stared amazed at the old man.

‘How would you know that he was killed?’ she demanded. ‘Who told you?’

Now the old man seemed fully aware of her presence, turning to face her instead of addressing his answers to the abbot. ‘He was my own son. How would I not know that he had been killed?’ he replied, as if she had asked a question without logic.

‘But …’ began Fidelma.

Abbot Nannid interrupted, his voice loud and the words expressed slowly. ‘Perhaps you should tell the dálaigh when it was that your son, Brother Lennán, was killed and where,’ he instructed.

‘Why, I am not sure how many years have passed now. Maybe four — but he was killed at the Battle of Cnoc Áine, when the Eóghanacht defeated the young warriors of the Uí Fidgente.’