Atonement of Blood

CHAPTER EIGHT

There was a silence before Fidelma turned to Brother Lugna. ‘Perhaps Brother Ledbán had better sit down,’ she said gently. ‘Then he can tell us about his son, Brother Lennán.’

‘Thank you, lady,’ the stable-master said, and helped his elderly companion to a seat. When Brother Ledbán had settled himself, Fidelma suggested that the old man begin by telling them something of himself.

‘Something of myself?’ queried Brother Ledbán with a puzzled expression.

‘I presume that you were not always a religieux?’

‘Ah, no. I was a stableman for a chieftain who had a rath along the banks of the Mháigh, south of here. They were good days — happy days. My wife and I had no problems and raised our children under the shadow of Dún Eochair Mháigh.’

‘So when did you leave there and join this abbey?’

‘Oh, that was just after my wife died.’

‘When was that?’

‘My wife was a victim of the Yellow Plague. My son, Lennán, had already come to this abbey to study the physician’s art, so I came here and joined him. I thought it would bring me closer to him. You see, there was nothing left for me at Dún Eochair Mháigh.’

Abbot Nannid was nodding in agreement. ‘We were very happy to welcome Brother Ledbán into our community. We have a good stable. Brother Lugna has been our stable-master for many years, but he found Brother Ledbán an excellent asset. He was a good worker.’

‘A good worker until I grew old and careless,’ muttered the old man. ‘I had too many accidents. Now I am just a burden.’

‘Of course you are not,’ boomed Brother Lugna, placing a large comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘We all have accidents. I, myself, was bitten by a fretful horse.’ He briefly showed a scar on his right wrist that had long since healed.

‘So when did your son, Lennán, enter this abbey?’ continued Fidelma.

‘He was my eldest child. He came here a few years before his mother died from that fearful scourge which turned the skin yellow and from whose fever no one recovered.’

For many years the Yellow Plague had swept through the known world; prelates and princes succumbed to it — even two High Kings of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann fell to its ravages.

‘Go on,’ Fidelma urged.

‘Well, after his mother died, my son concentrated his efforts on finding a cure for the pestilence that had devoured her.’

Abbot Nannid added: ‘He was one of our most promising physicians. Then came the day when our Prince Eoganán sent the crois tara — the fiery cross, the summons to arms — throughout the clans and septs of the Uí Fidgente. As you know, he had declared that his line, the Dál gCais, were the rightful bloodline to be Kings of Muman. He raised an army to march on Cashel after your brother Colgú succeeded as King.’

Gormán stirred uneasily and glanced at Fidelma, who simply commented: ‘Those were the facts and whether they were justified or not is another matter.’

‘Just so,’ agreed the abbot diplomatically.

‘So what happened when the summons to arms reached here?’ Fidelma asked, turning to the old man.

‘My son left the abbey to accompany the Prince’s army.’

‘Understand, Brother Lennán went as a physician,’ the abbot emphasised hastily. ‘He did not go to kill but to tend to the wounded and injured during the conflict.’

‘My poor son,’ sighed the old man. ‘When I heard that he had been cut down in the rage of that battle on Cnoc Áine, I could not believe it. He was merely tending the wounded. God’s curse on him who struck that fatal blow. Survivors said that it was a man who wore the golden circlet around his neck. The Devil take them all.’

The abbot leaned forward and shook his head reprovingly.

‘The pain of your loss is understandable, Brother Ledbán. But we must remember the teaching of Christ that we must forgive our enemies.’ He glanced at Fidelma with an apologetic smile as if on behalf of the old man.

‘We can appreciate your loss,’ acknowledged Fidelma. ‘Who identified your son’s body?’

The old man seemed puzzled. ‘I do not understand.’

‘It seems someone has been making free with your son’s name,’ explained the abbot. ‘I think that the lady Fidelma wishes to make sure that he is quite dead.’

‘Did I not see the body of my own son when he was brought back here?’ demanded the old man, his voice full of bitterness.

‘Let me explain.’ It was Brother Lugna who spoke. ‘I knew poor Brother Lennán as well as any man. A report came to the abbey that he was one of the dead and so I rode to the Hill of Áine, found and brought the body back to this place for burial myself.’

‘Does anyone here have any idea why someone would come to Cashel and announce himself to be Brother Lennán of this abbey?’ asked Fidelma.

‘I find it hard to believe that anyone could have done such a wicked thing,’ replied Abbot Nannid, while the others shook their head.

‘Not only did they do so, but they used the excuse that they bore a message from you, Father Abbot, in order to approach my brother,’ Fidelma said, her emotions still very raw.

Brother Ledbán looked up at her and his old eyes were steady. ‘Then all I can say is, they have sullied my son’s name, for he gave his life for healing and not for killing.’

‘Perhaps he had a friend who decided that he would avenge him?’ suggested Eadulf.

Once more the abbot decided to respond on behalf of them all. ‘Brother Saxon, may I remind you that Paul wrote to the Romans: sed date locum irae scriptum est enim mihi vindictam ego retribuam dicit Dominus. Is it not written “Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” saith the Lord?’

‘That is true, yet it is not a teaching that is universally obeyed, for even your own law provides reasons why, under certain conditions, vengeance killings may be excused,’ replied Eadulf coolly. ‘And I am not a Saxon but an Angle.’

Fidelma glanced at him in rebuke. She knew that Eadulf had discovered this ancient law when they were dealing with the mystery of the death of Brother Donnchadh at Lios Mór, but now was not the right time to debate such points with the abbot.

‘Brother Eadulf makes a valid point,’ she conceded. ‘Would anyone spring to mind if we were seeking someone close to Brother Lennán whose emotions might well lead them to overlook the teachings of the Faith? Perhaps they might be thinking that they were acting under the ancient law?’

She was looking directly at the old man when she asked the question. There was no guile in his expression when he replied, ‘There was no one other than myself who was as close to poor Lennán. Certainly, no one who would do this thing.’

‘Very well,’ sighed Fidelma. ‘Oh, one more question. Perhaps it might mean something to you. When the person calling himself Brother Lennán struck the blows, he shouted a name. He shouted, “Remember Liamuin!” Does that-?’

She stopped abruptly, aware that the old man was completely still, staring at her with an expression that was almost akin to horror. Then a pale hue crossed his features. It spread noticeably, making his lips almost bloodless. His eyes rolled back and he slid unconscious from his chair to the floor.

Brother Lugna gave an exclamation of dismay and started forward, but Eadulf sprang up and was by the old man’s side in a moment.

‘He has fainted. Have you water?’

Brother Cuineáin went to lift a nearby pitcher of water to pour into a beaker but his hands were shaking and the water was spilling. Brother Lugna reached forward to take the beaker from him. The steward was apologetic.

‘Sorry, it is an ague I suffer from which sometimes stops me picking up things unless I am careful.’

Eadulf ignored him and turned to the prone figure on the floor. They gathered round in a concerned circle while Eadulf tried to revive the man by coaxing the water between his lips. Brother Ledbán spluttered and coughed but he did not come back to full consciousness.

The abbot stood undecided for a moment. ‘We’d best remove him to his chamber.’

‘I can manage that, Father Abbot,’ said Brother Lugna.

‘Brother Cuineáin will help you carry him there.’ Then Abbot Nannid added to his steward, ‘You had best send for the physician to attend him.’

The steward and the stable-master picked up the inert man and carried him from the room.

After they had left, the abbot turned to Fidelma with a sad shake of his head. ‘Poor Brother Ledbán is an old man. We have exerted too much pressure on him, conjuring painful memories. It is good that he has such a friend and patient helper in Brother Lugna.’

‘He seems a kind person,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘Brother Lugna has been working at the stables of this abbey since he was seventeen years old, over twenty years. He is a generous and pious soul. He ran away from … from a good family to come here. Anyway, I hope Brother Ledbán will be better in the morning. A good night’s rest is in order.’

‘Perhaps in the morning he will be able to finish answering my question,’ Fidelma said. ‘We will leave matters until then.’

The abbot was quick to agree. ‘It will soon be time for the evening service and meal. I will get someone to show you to the guest house.’ He picked up a hand bell and shook it several times. In moments, there was a knock on the door and another religieux entered, waiting while the abbot issued instructions. ‘A bell will be rung for the evening services which are held just before the meal. Either follow the sound of the bell or ask any of the brethren to take you to the refectory.’

The Abbey of Mungairit was obviously a rich one. In spite of the frugality of the entrance chamber where Brother Cuineáin had greeted them, once beyond that the wealth became obvious. The fact that it possessed its own large stables should have been an indication. When Nessán had founded the abbey, it was under the patronage of Lomman, son of Erc, Prince of the Uí Fidgente. When Nessán died it was endowed by Prince Manchin, son of Sedna, who claimed descent from Cormac Cas, who maintained that his people were senior to the Eóghanacht in their claim to the Kingdom of Muman. It was a claim that the Eóghanacht denied.

The abbey had grown in influence and learning and housed several schools of learning which brought it wealth and prestige. As they were conducted through the corridors and halls to their chambers, Fidelma and her companions could not ignore the riches that adorned the abbey walls. Great tapestries hung there, depicting all manner of religious scenes as well as scenes of hunts, horse races and battles … scenes from every aspect of life in the country. There were carved statues and gold and silver religious icons that the steward of a king’s palace might envy.

Fidelma disappeared to the guests’ bathing room for the traditional evening dabach or hot bath while Eadulf joined Gormán in a more Spartan strip wash with a section of the brethren of the abbey.

Later that day, after the evening meal, when they were back in their chamber in the guests’ hostel, Fidelma sat down next to Eadulf. It was the first time they had been alone and could speak privately. ‘Was Brother Ledbán truly unwell or did his fainting attack have something to do with my mentioning the name Liamuin?’ she asked.

‘He really did faint,’ Eadulf told her. ‘It could have been a coincidence, or perhaps the old man recognised the name and reacted badly to it.’

Fidelma sighed wearily. ‘Well, there is nothing else we can do but wait until the morning before we can ask him.’

‘I did not see Brother Cú-Mara in the refectory for the evening meal,’ Eadulf said.

‘That is true. Perhaps his business with the librarian has kept him busy. It was good luck that he should have been here just at the very moment he was needed.’

‘Coincidences still seem to occur frequently at the moment,’ Eadulf remarked.

Fidelma looked at him curiously. ‘Explain,’ she invited.

‘The fact that we found that girl, Aibell, whose mother just happens to bear the name shouted by the assassin. The fact that she just happened to be in the woodshed where the assassin changed his clothes. The fact that Brother Cú-Mara, all the way from the Abbey of Ard Fhearta, just happened to be in this courtyard and was able to identify us. There is the fact that Brother Ledbán happens to come from the same place as the girl and faints when the name Liamuin is spoken. And didn’t Aibell mention that her mother’s father had joined an abbey? It crossed my mind, could it be that old Ledbán was Liamuin’s father?’

Fidelma chuckled softly. ‘I swear that you are looking for coincidences in everything.’

Eadulf joked, ‘Suspicion is something easily acquired when one lives with a dálaigh in this country.’

Fidelma pulled a face at him. Then, thinking of her brother, she had a moment of guilt that she could still be light-hearted.

‘Anyway, the stable-master seems a pleasant man, giving such time to look after old Brother Ledbán,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘There is a particular friendship among people who look after horses.’

Eadulf knew that one of Fidelma’s loves was horses and it seemed true that she had an empathy with people who worked with them.

‘Anyway, we have many things to consider here,’ she said.

‘And best we consider them after a proper rest,’ Eadulf advised, yawning. ‘Last night, sleeping in ruins and then being robbed by brigands, before riding all the way to this place, was hardly conducive to our being able to reflect clearly on these matters.’

‘You are right,’ Fidelma sighed before turning and blowing out the candle by their bedside. She was asleep almost immediately.

In the morning, when Fidelma arose, Eadulf was already awake, washed and dressed. She washed her face and hands as was the custom, before joining Eadulf in making their way to the praintech or refectory. They were met at the door of the dining hall by Brother Cuineáin.

‘Would you come with me?’ he requested without preamble. It was clear that something was worrying the man.

Abbot Nannid enlightened them as soon as they entered his chamber.

‘I am afraid Brother Ledbán passed to his eternal rest during the night,’ he intoned solemnly.

‘He was quite old,’ added Brother Cuineáin as if anxious to give an explanation. ‘Perhaps the remembrance of what happened to his son caused such distress that the strain was too much for him to bear.’

Fidelma received the news with feelings of suspicion and frustration.

‘Does your physician concur with this cause of death?’ she asked brusquely.

The abbot blinked briefly before he responded. ‘Of course. Brother Ledbán was a frail and-’

‘I would like Brother Eadulf here to examine the body,’ cut in Fidelma.

The abbot drew in his breath in irritation. ‘I see no reason-’

‘The reason is that I am a dálaigh and the acting Chief Brehon will require it,’ she said firmly. ‘Brother Ledbán died in the middle of answering my questions.’

Abbot Nannid hesitated. ‘If it is required by law, then that is the law. Though it seems strange that the word of our physician is not to be trusted.’

‘I have not said that the word of your physician is not to be trusted. I am investigating the attempted assassination of the King. I have a responsibility to answer to the Chief Brehon that all was done as the law requires.’

The abbot glanced at his steward and gestured indifferently.

‘Very well. Show Brother Eadulf to the chamber of our departed brother.’

Fidelma decided to follow Eadulf and Brother Cuineáin through several stone corridors and across a yard into a building close to the stables and paddocks of the abbey. They entered a small cell with room for a bed and little else.

The body of the old man lay stretched out on his bed. He had not yet been bathed nor had his body been wrapped in the racholl or shroud as the winding sheet was called, in preparation for the aire or watching which would last presumably until midnight — the traditional time of interment.

Brother Cuineáin stood back and allowed Eadulf to bend over the body. He waited by the door as Eadulf made his examination, which was not a long one.

‘It certainly seems that he expired in the night, for the body is cold and stiffening.’ He turned to the steward. ‘When was the physician called to examine the body?’

The steward paused for thought and then said: ‘At first light. I was about to attend early morning prayers when Brother Lugna came to find me and told me that old Brother Ledbán appeared to be dead. He had been worried when the old man passed out last evening and decided to check on him at dawn. The physician was then called and confirmed the death.’

‘In what condition was the body?’ asked Eadulf.

‘I do not understand.’

‘Did the body show signs of contraction, the experience of any agony which sometimes overtakes one in a seizure? Or did it lie peacefully as now?’

‘Oh, he was almost exactly as he is now. I doubt if he knew he was departing life, for he left it while asleep and at peace.’

‘Very well.’ Fidelma saw that her husband had a resolute expression but something prevented her from asking further questions. ‘There is nothing to keep us here.’

A sigh of relief seemed to come from Brother Cuineáin. ‘Then I suggest we return to the abbot’s chamber.’

To Fidelma’s surprise, Eadulf replied, ‘We have not broken our fast yet. May we therefore return to the refectory and take some sustenance? I think we shall be leaving the abbey soon as there is a long ride before us.’

Another look of relief crossed the steward’s features and then he assumed a sombre expression and nodded.

‘You are quite right, Brother Eadulf. I should have let you attend to the morning meal before I broke this news to you. I will go to the abbot and report that you are in concurrence with our physician and that you will shortly be leaving us.’ He conducted them back to the refectory and left them at the door.

They found Gormán striding up and down, looking anxious. He seemed relieved to find them safe and sound.

‘I wondered what had happened to you both,’ he said. ‘I heard there was a death last night but could find out no other details.’

‘There was a death,’ replied Fidelma grimly. ‘Our main witness, old Brother Ledbán, has died.’ She swung round to Eadulf with a frown. ‘What was the meaning of your telling the steward that you agreed with his physician and that we would be leaving shortly? I had the distinct impression that you did not agree at all with his deduction.’

‘Firstly, I really do think that we should all break our fast,’ Eadulf smiled briefly. ‘Secondly, there is nothing that I can prove about the old man. He did die in the night, but …’

‘But?’ snapped Fidelma, irritated.

‘There is something I cannot explain. I noticed there was blood in the corner of his eyes, and blood in his nostrils that someone has tried to clean: you have to look carefully to see it. And there were specks of blood at the corners of his mouth. I have seen such conditions before.’

‘And what do they signify?’

‘Such signs are usually consistent with someone having such a powerful seizure that bleeding occurs from these orifices. If he did not have a seizure then he was smothered.’

‘You mean that he was murdered?’ gasped Gormán.

‘The trouble is, I cannot make a definite pronouncement because he could have had a seizure,’ replied Eadulf.

‘Yet surely, had a seizure been the cause of death, the body would have shown clearer signs of it,’ mused Fidelma. ‘It would not have been in the state of repose the steward said it was in, when he and the physician examined it.’

Eadulf was in agreement. ‘Exactly. That means, if we accept the murder theory, that someone in this abbey did not want him to speak further to us.’

‘He collapsed as soon as you uttered that name — Liamuin,’ Gormán caught on.

Eadulf glanced round. ‘We’d best have our meal and not stand here for all to see like a group of conspirators.’

They entered the almost empty refectory and were given bread, boiled fish, apples and a jug of water. When they were seated in a corner, Fidelma said: ‘But you told the steward that we agreed with the physician and would soon be continuing our journey. If this is murder, then the murderer is here and we must stay here to discover him.’

‘I do not think that will avail us anything,’ Eadulf argued. ‘If old Ledbán was killed to prevent him talking to us about the identity of Liamuin, then only three people were in the room when the matter came up and it became obvious that he had reacted to the name.’

‘You mean — Abbot Nannid, Brother Cuineáin and Brother Lugna?’

‘And if they, one or all, are behind this, how long should we be left unmolested in this abbey? We are here on sufferance because Brother Cú-Mara vouched for our identity. But remember, we don’t have any means of asserting our authority. It would be difficult for us to pursue enquiries among a community which is in the heart of the Uí Fidgente country and where folk are hostile. It would be easy for us to “disappear”.’

Fidelma looked shocked. ‘You cannot mean that the abbot would allow the law to be flouted and would fail to respect my position as an attorney of the courts of this country?’

It was Gormán who answered. ‘I am afraid friend Eadulf is right, lady. If there is a conspiracy here, then the life of a king or a Chief Brehon would not be valued by these conspirators. That being so, what would the life of a mere dálaigh be worth — meaning no disrespect, lady.’

‘Are you suggesting we abandon this investigation?’ Fidelma’s voice was hard.

‘I am suggesting a strategic withdrawal,’ Eadulf replied. ‘Let whoever killed the old man enjoy a false sense of security while we pursue the investigation elsewhere. We may then be able to return here in a position of authority.’

‘I think friend Eadulf makes an excellent point,’ confirmed Gormán.

‘Where do you propose that we pursue the investigation?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘Where we would have gone anyway, had nothing happened here.’

‘I am not sure I follow …’ Gormán began and then he sighed. ‘Oh, you mean go south to the Dún Eochar Mháigh?’

‘Exactly,’ confirmed Eadulf. ‘We have had several interesting strands and they all seem to lead to Dún Eochair Mháigh.’

‘So we leave the abbey pretending that we have noticed nothing unusual? Very well. Shall I get our horses ready for the journey?’ asked Gormán.

‘We will have to officially bid farewell to the abbot,’ Fidelma said.

Just then, a voice hailed them from across the refectory. It was Brother Cú-Mara.

‘I was wondering whether you were still here, lady,’ he said as he came up to their table and seated himself. He greeted Eadulf and Gormán with a nod. ‘I became involved with the librarian last night and could not join you for the evening meal. How long are you here for?’

‘We are departing now,’ Fidelma told him. ‘We were lucky that you were here to identify us yesterday.’

‘I was pleased to be able to help,’ the steward of Ard Fhearta said. ‘You rendered our abbey great assistance when Eadulf and you were there. I have not forgotten, lady.’

Fidelma glanced at Brother Cú-Mara with interest. ‘Have you known Brother Cuineáin for some time?’

‘I think he joined the abbey back at the time when Prince Eoganán rose up against Cashel. Ah, no, it was shortly after that. I have been an intermediary between my abbot and Abbot Nannid several times. That is why I am here now. Our copyists have just completed a copy of Aipgitir Chrábaid — The Alphabet of Piety. It was made at the request of the librarian here and so I came to deliver it.’

‘Well, it was fortunate that you were here. It seems Brother Cuineáin was fully intent on denying us entry because we could not prove who we were.’

‘Some of the brethren here would say he was too conscientious,’ replied Brother Cú-Mara. ‘Do not get me wrong. He is good at administration but his devotion to the Faith has been questioned several times.’

Fidelma was surprised. ‘Has it really? In what manner does he lack devotion to the Faith?’

‘Oh, perhaps I should not spread gossip, but then gossip always spreads in a confined community like this.’

‘He who goes about as a tale-bearer reveals secrets,’ Eadulf added almost sanctimoniously.

Fidelma glanced at him in disapproval. ‘I am sure the quoting of Scripture is appropriate in its place but in this instance I would be interested to know what it was the brethren complained of.’

‘Well, they felt that it was unjust that Brother Cuineáin should be made steward before other, longer-serving candidates.’

‘I am not sure I understand. The brethren usually elect the officers of the abbey from the most suitable candidates in accordance with the law.’

Brother Cú-Mara smiled briefly. ‘In this case, it was Abbot Nannid who appointed him. His argument was that the death of Prince Eoganán at Cnoc Áine and the defeat of the Uí Fidgente warriors had thrown this land into turmoil. Stability was needed both across the land as well as in Mungairit. Therefore someone used to administration was needed as a temporary measure.’

‘Someone used to administration? So Brother Cuineáin had been an administrator in the abbey before this?’

The steward of Ard Fhearta shook his head. ‘My understanding was that he was newly arrived at the abbey.’

‘But from where?’

‘That, no one knows for certain. No one, of course, except the abbot himself. The end of the war here was a tough time for all of us. It changed the lives and attitudes of many. For example, Brother Lugna, the stable-master, was a more humorous man before the conflict. Now he seems just as pleasant but more reserved than before. He no longer tells jokes as he once did.’

‘The abbot appointed his steward?’ queried Fidelma. ‘It is unusual, not only to appoint someone without the approval of the brethren of the abbey but to appoint someone who is not even from the abbey; someone whose background seems shrouded in mystery. Has anyone challenged Brother Cuineáin on his background?’

‘Brother Cuineáin claims that he spent time on a mission to the Kingdom of Neustria in Gaul. Some years ago, a missionary named Fursa set up an abbey at a place called Latiniacum …’ He halted, for Eadulf had made an involuntary movement. ‘Does that mean anything to you, Brother Eadulf?’

‘Nothing of significance in this matter,’ replied Eadulf. ‘But it was Fursa who came to my country, the Kingdom of the South Folk of the East Angles, and converted them to the Faith.’

‘So Brother Cuineáin was in Neustria and then came back here?’ Fidelma pressed. ‘That must have caused some annoyance to those religieux who have spent years in this abbey.’

‘It certainly did, according to the stories I have heard,’ agreed Brother Cú-Mara. ‘And I have also heard other stories about his origin.’

‘Such as?’

‘He came to Mungairit soon after the Battle of Cnoc Áine and the stories about being in Gaul are lies. They say that he commanded a company of warriors during that battle and that he was a favourite cousin of Prince Eoganán. The story is that he fled to this abbey after the defeat and was given shelter by Nannid, who is uncle to Prince Donennach.’

‘I knew of Abbot Nannid’s relationship to the Uí Fidgente princes.’

‘I suppose it is logical that all the Uí Fidgente nobles are related,’ muttered Eadulf. He was thinking back to the proposition he had put forward. If Ledbán had been killed to prevent him from being questioned further about the identity of Liamuin, then only three people knew — and one of them was Brother Cuineáin. At the moment, it seemed to him that Brother Cuineáin was the most likely candidate to be the murderer.

A prayer bell was chiming in the distance and Brother Cú-Mara stood up.

‘I presume that you are taking the road south to Cashel?’

‘No,’ Fidelma said. ‘We’ll take the road west and join the river An Mháigh before turning south. We intend to visit Dún Eochair Mháigh before we return.’

‘I heard about the attack on King Colgú,’ the young steward said in a low voice. ‘Do you really think there is another Uí Fidgente conspiracy against your brother?’

‘We are here to find out.’

‘I have heard no whispers in my travels across the territory. I know Prince Donennach has gone to pay tribute to the High King in Tara. Indeed, the wounds of the war are such that I do not think anyone would contemplate a renewal of it, especially in Mungairit.’

‘Why do you say that — especially in Mungairit?’ Eadulf picked up on the point.

‘I was speaking to one of the scribes when I first arrived here. That was over a week or so ago. Maolán was his name. He told me that the abbot kept a small chamber containing a shrine to the memory of the Uí Fidgente defeat at Cnoc Áine. The room is filled with swords and shields, spears and battle helmets, even emblems of the warriors gathered from the battlefield. This was done so that the battle could be remembered.’

Fidelma was not impressed. ‘A strange thing to do. What is it, a shrine to be worshipped?’

The young man shook his head. ‘Shrine was not perhaps the best word, for I understand that the abbot has ordered the door to be kept locked; only he and the steward have the key to it. It was created, we are told, to remind the abbey of the evil consequences of war.’

‘How does this Maolán know of this shrine if it is kept locked?’

‘That I am not sure.’

‘I would like a word with him.’

‘He is no longer in the abbey. He left a day or so after I arrived. I think he said he was going east where his calligraphical talent was needed. I don’t think he was expecting to return.’

‘Well, let us hope that there is no conspiracy at all. Nevertheless, my brother lies close to death and the Chief Brehon of Muman is dead. Whether this is an isolated case of vengeance or part of something more widespread and serious, we must find an answer.’

‘I trust you will.’ Brother Cú-Mara’s face suddenly brightened. ‘But if you are leaving shortly and going towards An Mháigh, we will be taking the same road. Perhaps we can travel together as far as the ford, where I continue on towards Ard Fhearta?’

Fidelma agreed as she rose. ‘It is always good to have companions on the road. And now Eadulf and I must make our farewells to Abbot Nannid. Gormán will go and ready our horses.’

Brother Cú-Mara also rose. ‘Then I will accompany Gormán here to the stables for I have to collect my own beast.’ He chuckled. ‘Only an ass, I am afraid. Religious without rank do not have the privilege of riding on horses unless by special dispensation.’

Fidelma and Eadulf made their way to the abbot’s chamber and found Abbot Nannid closeted with Brother Cuineáin. The abbot seemed nervous and preoccupied.

‘We have come to say our farewells,’ Fidelma announced.

Almost at once there was a change in the man’s features.

‘Are you leaving us already?’ The regret in his voice was so obviously feigned that Eadulf felt embarrassed.

‘I am afraid we must,’ he said.

‘So where do you go now?’ asked Brother Cuineáin.

‘Why, we shall head west with Brother Cú-Mara,’ Fidelma replied, but she did not elaborate further.

Abbot Nannid seemed surprised. ‘I thought you had not known that Brother Cú-Mara was visiting us until you arrived here?’

‘Correct — but what a lucky chance that he was here. He probably told you that Eadulf and I spent some time at the Abbey of Ard Fhearta a few years ago.’

‘He did. Indeed, a coincidence.’

‘We offer you and the abbey our condolences over the demise of poor Brother Ledbán. He obviously led a long and active life so I suppose death came as no surprise.’

‘Death is the one event that is inevitable in all our lives,’ Abbot Nannid intoned. ‘However, we are sorry to hear the news of the death of Chief Brehon Áedo as we are shocked at the attempt on the life of the King, your brother. They will both be remembered in our prayers, but especially, we will pray for the recovery of your brother.’

‘Please accept our gratitude for your hospitality,’ Fidelma said politely.

‘May you find God on every road you travel,’ replied the abbot.

Thus dismissed, they followed Brother Cuineáin out of the abbey buildings and into the courtyard. Gormán was already there with their horses and nearby, Brother Cú-Mara was standing with his patiently waiting ass.

The farewell from Brother Cuineáin was less effusive than from his abbot and, as they passed through the gates of the abbey and turned westward along the road, Eadulf was uncomfortably aware of the steward standing watching them intently until the trees and shrubs that grew alongside the road hid him from sight.