Chalice of Blood

CHAPTER TWELVE

Fidelma found Brother Seachlann in the bróinbherg treating a member of the brethren who glanced up shame-faced as she entered.

‘Am I disturbing you, Brother Seachlann?’

The physician shrugged. ‘I am just finished with this one,’ he replied. Turning to the obviously embarrassed man, he gave him a small earthenware jug. ‘Take this mixture and drink a small cupful at frequent intervals and if there is no relief you must come back to me.’

The man nodded quickly, rose and left the chamber.

Brother Seachlann grimaced. ‘A case of food poisoning, I think. He is suffering the buinnech. When he first came yesterday I treated him with meadowsweet but it was not strong enough, so I have made an infusion of agrimony which is stronger and should work within three days.’

‘Buinnech?’ Fidelma queried. ‘That’s … flux.’

‘Diarrhoea,’ agreed the physician. ‘Since no one else has succumbed, I suspect the Brother has been eating something that he should not have been. Some of the brethren do tend to cheat on the meals as laid down in the rules drawn up by our resolute steward Brother Lugna. He believes in frugality.’

‘Agrimony has a bitter taste,’ commented Fidelma. ‘I much prefer boiled sorrel with red wine.’

‘Fine for those who can afford red wine,’ the physician retorted. ‘Now what can I do for you? I hope Brother Eadulf has not taken a turn for the worse.’

Fidelma offered him a reassuring smile. ‘I came to thank you for all that you have done for Eadulf.’

‘It was no more than my profession calls on me to do.’

‘But it was lucky that you were passing by where he lay.’ When he did not respond, she went on, ‘How did you come to be there so late at night?’

The physician frowned and began to clear away the dishes in which he had been mixing his last patience’s medication.

‘I always like to take a walk before preparing myself for repose,’ he said. ‘It helps to clear the mind.’

‘But so late?’

‘I am no slave to the motions of the sun and moon,’ he replied shortly. ‘If I were, then I would not be a physician because sickness and injury do not take account of night or day.’

‘That is true. What made you become a physician? Are you descended from one of those families of hereditary healers?’

Brother Seachlann flushed. She saw a glimpse of some emotion she could not recognise cross his features.

‘I went to study the healing arts when I saw there was a need of them among my people.’

‘That is very laudable, Brother Seachlann. It is this abbey’s good fortune that you decided to leave your people and come here.’

‘The physician should serve all people, irrespective of who they are.’

‘So you saw there was a need among your people but, having qualified, you decided that others had greater need of your talents?’

‘That much is obvious as I am here,’ he replied waspishly.

Fidelma merely smiled and waited.

‘I qualified among the religious and thereafter I considered them my people,’ he tried to justify himself.

‘Indeed, so you came here to my brother’s kingdom,’ she said, reminding him that she held power in the land. ‘In this kingdom,’ she went on, ‘as I think that you learnt from our first meeting, a dálaigh has particular authority, especially when that authority is backed by the rank of birth. Usually, rank of birth does not enter into matters until someone attempts to usurp the authority of the law.’

There was a moment’s silence and then he dropped his gaze to the floor.

‘I beg your forgiveness, lady,’ he said thickly. ‘When you first came here, I was told that I should be careful about what I said to you. I was told neither your rank nor your position.’

‘And it was Brother Lugna, of course, who said that to you.’

He seemed nervous at the suggestion.

‘Do not worry, Brother Seachlann. I presume that you were not in the refectorium for the evening meal last night?’

He frowned and shook his head.

‘Can I ask you where you were? Even a physician has to eat.’

‘I was called earlier that evening to attend to a patient. I did not return to the abbey until after dark.’

‘Who was the patient?’

‘A warrior at a nearby fortress.’

‘Which fortress?’

‘Lady Eithne’s.’

‘What was wrong with the warrior?’

‘An ulcerated wound. It was easily treated and there was no cause for me to be called to her fortress. A herbalist, or evenLady Eithne herself, could have done as much as I did. I saw she was quite knowledgeable about healing herbs and anatomy. However, she believed it beneath her dignity to treat one of her own warriors.’

‘You say that it was an ulcerated wound.’

‘I was told that the man had been practising with his sword and sustained a cut on his arm which he simply washed. I mixed some sorrel and apple juice and applied it to the wound with the white of a hen’s egg. If he keeps the wound clean, then there should be no problems.’

‘So you were kept at the fortress and returned here after dark.’

‘That is so.’ He hesitated and asked, ‘And if I had been here for the evening meal what then?’

‘Then you would have witnessed the steward of this abbey having to acknowledge my authority. I had already learnt that he had given some bad advice to you and others.’

‘I suppose I should have known better.’ The physician sighed.

‘You should,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘But as you have been here only a few weeks …’ She shrugged. ‘What made you choose to come here?’

Once again a guarded look spread across his features. ‘Much praise has been given to Lios Mór for its scholars and learning. It is good to be associated with such a community.’

‘Where did you study? I think you mentioned Sléibhte.’

‘Indeed. I studied at the medical school attached to the abbey at Sléibhte in Laighin.’

‘I know it, for I was once at Cill Dara, which is not far distant. Aedh is abbot at Sléibhte, is he not?’

Brother Seachlann gave a grunt of assent.

‘It is a small world,’ Fidelma said pointedly.

‘It is,’ he responded, ‘and so you will know that there isregular contact between Lios Mór and the abbey of Sléibhte. It is surely not strange that it would bring me here.’

‘That is true,’ Fidelma agreed. It was clear that the physician was determined to provide as little information as possible while seeming to answer her questions. She thanked him for his help and left him to his herbs and potions.

Fidelma made her way slowly towards the building site again. She realised that it would have been quite a distance for the physician to carry the inert body of Eadulf by himself in the darkness. She was almost tempted to demand that Brother Seachlann reveal who his companion had been. He seemed to be hiding something but she knew she would not find out what by directly confronting him.

It was late afternoon now and Fidelma was surprised to find the site deserted. There was no shouting, no sounds of hammering, sawing or the clash of stone on stone. She hesitated before the half-built door whose lintel had so nearly put an end to Eadulf’s life. A cold shiver went down her spine. She realised that she would not have been able to continue had anything happened to Eadulf. She felt a sudden desire to cry. Then she sniffed and drew herself up, trying to chase the thought from her mind.

The lintel had been replaced in position on top of the door and a line of stones had been laid to secure it. Fidelma looked round at the deserted site and shook her head. She was about to turn away when suddenly a young voice started singing from beyond the walls of the half-built construction.

Hymnum dicat turba fratrum,

hymnum canos personet …

Band of brethren raise the hymn,

let our song the hymn resound …

Fidelma picked her way towards the sound of the singing.

It was the young boy Gúasach, busy piling up loose pieces of wood.

‘Hello,’ Fidelma called.

The boy turned with a frown and then, on recognising her, smiled broadly.

‘Were you looking for Glassán, Sister?’ he asked.

‘Everyone seems to have vanished except you,’ countered Fidelma. ‘Where have they gone? It is surely early to stop work for the day.’

The boy shook his head. ‘They have not stopped work. All are needed down at the quarry to bring up more stones to the site.’

‘Ah, I see. You seem to like this work,’ she said, perching herself on a low stone wall.

‘I am learning to be a master builder under the fosterage of my aite.’ The boy spoke proudly.

‘And where are you from?’

‘I am of the Uí Briún Sinna, Sister.’

‘Then you are from the Kingdom of Connachta. But isn’t your foster-father from Laighin?’

‘I do not know. I am told that he came to live among us just after I was born. My own father was a builder of mills and so Glassán and he worked together. When I was seven years old, my family, wanting me to train to be a master builder, arranged for me to go into fosterage with Glassán.’

Fidelma knew that the Law of the Fénechus determined that a mill-maker could charge two cumals, the equivalent of six cows, for a finely constructed mill. But a master builder was higher up the professional scale and could receive more money.

The boy added, ‘My father pays Glassán a cumal, three milch cows, for my tuition.’

‘And so you learn while working for Glassán.’

‘I do. I came into fosterage at the same time that Glassán was invited here to start rebuilding this abbey in stone. Everything I have learnt so far, I have learnt here. Of course, I am not as strong as the men, so can’t do the heavy work. But I have learnt how to do other tasks like woodworking. I can also use the plumb line and measuring rods to help position the stones.’

‘That is clever,’ Fidelma said. ‘But dangerous work as well. That lintel that fell last night might have fallen while you were working underneath.’

The boy nodded solemnly. ‘It must have been badly placed.’ Then he added defensively, ‘I did not measure the place for it. Anyway, sometimes accidents happen if you don’t concentrate properly. Glassán taught me that.’

‘A wise thing to remember,’ Fidelma solemnly agreed.

‘Indeed. Glassán was very angry when the Saxon Brother was injured.’

‘Was he?’

‘To be honest, there have been a few accidents here since Gealbháin left. I think Gealbháin used to go around the site every evening to ensure everything was in order. He was a very careful builder.’

‘Gealbháin? Who was he?’

‘He was the assistant to Glassán.’

‘But I understood that Saor, the carpenter, is second-in-command here.’

‘Saor has been with us only a short time. He replaced Gealbháin who quit the job several weeks ago.’

‘Why did he quit?’

‘I do not know, Sister.’

‘So these accidents have occurred since Gealbháin left?’

‘Saor is not as thorough as Gealbháin.’

‘But isn’t it the task of Glassán, as master builder, to check everything, to make sure it is safe?’

The boy shrugged and said, ‘He has many tasks to perform. Saor is all right but I have not learnt much from him.’

‘Oh? Why is that?’

‘He does not seem to have time.’

‘Who taught you your carpentry, then?’

‘Gealbháin mostly.’

‘Where was Gealbháin from? Connachta?’

‘He was a local man … I think from a clan called the Uí Liatháin.’

‘I see. Are the other workmen from around these parts or do most of them come from Connachta like you and Glassán?’

‘Oh, no. Most of them are recruited from these parts. Although Saor is of the Uí Bairrche.’

‘The Uí Bairrche? They are a clan from southern Laighin, aren’t they?’

‘So Saor has told me, Sister. I only know of my own lands and this place. I’ve never been out of sight of the abbey since we came here.’

‘And do you stay in the abbey? I have only seen Glassán and Saor eating in the abbey refectorium.’

‘We live in the wickerwork bothans we constructed outside the abbey walls by the river. That’s where we all stay except Glassán. He has a special room in the guesthouse. The bothans are also where our stores are kept. That way, we do not interfere with the running of the abbey. Glassán explained that to us.’

A bell started to toll.

‘That is the bell for the evening meal, Sister. I must go to join the others.’

Fidelma thanked the child before making her own way to eat. She was slightly annoyed for, not having noticed the passing of time; she realised that she would have to miss the ritual of her evening bath before the meal. She paused at the fountain to wash her hands and face. Then she saw Eadulf walking slowly to the refectorium guided by Gormán.

‘Eadulf!’ Her voice was a rebuke as she greeted him. ‘Is this wise?’

He grimaced before saying, ‘I am hungry. A bowl of vegetable soup does not put strength back into one. I am all right. A slight headache still and soreness on the forehead but I have to admit that Brother Seachlann’s noxious potion is doing the trick. But the aftertaste is awful.’

‘Well, if you are sure.’

‘I just hope that Glassán will not wax lyrical this evening.’ He smiled.

‘I saw Glassán and his band of workmen leaving the abbey a few hours ago,’ Gormán offered. ‘I haven’t seen him return since.’

‘The young boy told me that they have gone to fetch stone from the quarry,’ Fidelma said, ‘so we might avoid a discourse on building.’

There was no sign of Glassán or Saor during the meal. Several people, including the abbot, crossed to their table to inquire after Eadulf’s health. Even Brother Lugna asked, in a sharply disapproving tone, as he passed their table, whether Eadulf thought himself fit enough to eat in the refectorium. Brother Gáeth and Brother Donnán raised their hands in greeting and the Venerable Bróen, leaning heavily on a stick, came across and said in a wheezy voice, ‘I knew you would be all right, Brother. The angel did not appear last night to take your soul.’

Eadulf gazed uncomfortably at him and, with a forced smile, said, ‘I thank you for your concern, Brother.’

The Venerable Bróen leant closer, peering at Eadulf with pale rheumy eyes, and whispered, confidentially, ‘The angel appeared in order to take the soul of poor Brother Donnchad. I saw the angel, floating in the sky. But the angel did not come last night, so I knew that you would be well.’

Brother Gáeth came across to take the old man’s arm.

‘Time to eat, Venerable Bróen,’ he coaxed.

The old man peered round in bewilderment for a moment. ‘Is it time to eat? Very well. We must all go to the refectorium to eat, must we not. Come on, then. Time to eat.’

Brother Gáeth gave them an apologetic smile and led the old man away.

There seemed an uneasy quiet in the dining hall that evening. Now and then they were conscious of surreptitious glances from the brethren. The atmosphere infected them and they exchanged little by way of conversation themselves. Afterwards, the three of them walked several times round the quadrangle of the abbey as a means of digesting their food. Fidelma ran over her conversations with the physician, who once again had not come to the evening meal in the refectorium, and with the boy. There was little to be commented on and Fidelma reminded them that she wanted to visit the fortress of Lady Eithne in order to ask her a few more questions. Eadulf assured her that he was fit enough to accompany her if she wanted to make the journey in the morning. Gormán was also enthusiastic. He was finding the stay in the abbey uninteresting and dull. It was agreed that they would make the journey in the morning.

A gentle tapping on her door woke Fidelma. It was still dark and she had the feeling that she had not long been asleep.

She frowned and swung out of the bed. She drew on her robe, thankful of the full moon which lit her chamber and saved the trouble of trying to light the candle.

‘All right, Eadulf …’ She began pulling open the door, for she expected no one else to arouse her at such a time.

Abbot Iarnla stood outside, one hand holding a lantern while the other seemed to be vainly attempting to shield its light.

Fidelma stared at him in astonishment.

‘My apologies, Sister Fidelma.’ The abbot was whispering. ‘I need to talk to you urgently and without prying ears. That is why I have waited until the community are asleep.’

Fidelma held open the door without speaking and the abbot passed in. She peered out into the darkness of the passage but could see nothing, so she shut the door. She went to the solitary chair in the room over which she had hung her clothes picked them up and laid them on the end of the bed. She motioned for the elderly abbot to sit. He did so, placing his lantern carefully on the table. Fidelma then sat on the edge of the bed and waited expectantly.

‘I want you to know that I am not a fool, Fidelma,’ he began.

‘I did not think you were, Abbot Iarnla,’ she replied. ‘As you told me the other day, you have been a member of this community for thirty years and more, and abbot for a large part of that time.’

The abbot nodded absently. ‘I know what you and Eadulf must be thinking. Poor Iarnla. He must be in his dotage. He has given up control of the abbey to this young upstart of the Uí Briuin Sinna. Do not deny it. I know many in this abbey, many among the brethren, are thinking the same thoughts.’

Fidelma smiled at him. ‘You are certainly not in your dotage, Abbot Iarnla. But there is a mystery here that needs to be resolved. Why would you give so much power to this young man. He only joined the abbey a few years ago and is so intolerant and fanatical in his beliefs — beliefs that seem out of step with the reputation of Lios Mór.’

The abbot shrugged expressively. ‘I am not so blind as to be unaware how opinionated and dogmatic Brother Lugna is, nor how he is regarded by the brethren.’

‘Then tell me,’ invited Fidelma. ‘Why give him such power?’

‘I did not. He has taken it and I do not know how to extricate myself from the position I am placed in.’

‘You will have to explain that.’

‘When Brother Lugna joined us, as you know, he had spent some years in Rome. He came ashore at Ard Mór, presumably to journey back north to his homeland in Connachta. The road ran by the fortress of Lady Eithne who offered him hospitality on his journey. Her two sons were then on their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. She invited Brother Lugna to stay awhile, eager to hear what such journeys were like. I think she wanted to be given hope for the safe return of her sons.’

‘Understandably,’ conceded Fidelma.

‘Indeed. She seemed enthralled by Brother Lugna, his stories and his ideas. She even suggested that he join our community. He was, at first, a bright and likeable young man. My old steward had been weakened by a bout of the yellow plague. He had survived its worst ravages but he became ill again and died. That was when Brother Lugna, who was initially held in some respect by the brethren as one who had been all those years in Rome, was nominated to fill the office as steward.’

The abbot paused and licked his lips, which had gone dry. Fidelma rose and poured water from a jug by her bedside. The abbot swallowed it in two gulps.

‘It was only later that we found that Brother Lugna was in fact sympathetic to some of the extreme sects in Rome. He began to change our native ways and methods of doing things. He even destroyed some of the books in our abbey that he did not agree with.’

‘He is not a tolerant person,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Why didn’t you stand up to him? You could overrule him.’

‘I cannot.’

‘Cannot?’

The old abbot nodded mournfully. ‘He has the full support of Lady Eithne. Everything that Brother Lugna does is deemed to be right by her. In her sons’ absence on pilgrimage, he somehow fulfilled their role for her, and ever since he can do no wrong in her eyes.’

‘How can you stand this? You are the abbot. You have authority.’

‘Do I? You know the law, Fidelma. You know that the chief and the council of the clan on whose land an abbey is built have ultimate say over the fate of the religious community that serves their territory.’

Fidelma knew that in many parts of the country, the lands of the religious communities were still tribal. In several places the abbot was also the chief of the clan or elected in the same manner. The position of abbot and bishop often went through the same family succession. But here, Lady Eithne retained ultimate authority over the community as their chief. It was a curious but not an unusual position.

‘Let me get this right, Abbot Iarnla. Lady Eithne supports Brother Lugna and if you object she threatens the ultimate sanction over the community. Is that it?’

‘The law is the law.’

‘But she can’t strip you of your position as abbot, surely?’

‘No, but she can force the community from these lands or establish a new community under the leadership of Brother Lugna.’

‘Does Abbot Ségdae of Imleach know of this situation?’ Ségdae was also Chief Bishop of Muman. ‘And what of my brother, the King?’

Abbot Iarnla shrugged. ‘The law favours Lady Eithne. I disagree with the way my steward runs the affairs of the community but that is not an argument that carries weight in either the law or in the rules of the religious. They would merely say that in my old age I am fearful of fresh blood and ideas.’

‘And fearful of appealing to my brother and his Chief Bishop?’ Then she paused. ‘Do you suspect these matters have anything to do with Brother Donnchad’s death?’

The abbot’s eyes widened. ‘Heaven forfend! Do you think that when Brother Donnchad returned to the abbey, Brother Lugna thought his position here weakened? That Lady Eithne would reject him in favour of her own son, Brother Donnchad? That Lugna murdered him in order to retain her support?’

‘More terrible things than that have happened,’ Fidelma replied quietly. ‘However, it seems unlikely, for if that is what happened, I would have thought Brother Lugna would have been more subtle about the way he has been conducting himself. Nonetheless, I shall not discount it.’

‘This used to be a place of happiness, even in the latter days of Maolochtair, when the old chieftain had become senile and saw threats lurking in every corner. Today, I walk through the abbey and see these new stone edifices rising but feel it has become a dark, evil and threatening place.’

Fidelma leaned forward and placed a sympathetic hand on the old man’s arm. ‘We will overcome this evil, Abbot Iarnla. Dabit Deus his quoque finem — God will grant an end even to these troubles. I am sure of that. Brother Lugna has tested his strength against mine and found that I am not wanting. I do not think he will be foolish enough to try to block my path in the future. But I will continue to keep a careful watch on him. However, I need to find out more from Lady Eithne. I meanto question her further about Brother Donnchad so tomorrow Eadulf and I, with Gormán, will ride to her fortress and speak to her.’

The abbot rose to his feet and took his lantern.

‘This conversation must remain a secret,’ he said sadly.

‘Don’t worry. Brother Lugna will not hear of it, and nor will Lady Eithne. But I must confide in Eadulf. And at the end of this investigation I shall be duty bound to bring the matter to the attention of my brother and to Abbot Ségdae.’

Abbot Iarnla seemed suddenly very old. ‘I thank you for that, Fidelma. I hate to think such thoughts but it is almost providential that Brother Donnchad’s death provided the means to bring you to Lios Mór so that you can help restore the abbey and its community to happiness once again.’

‘That, indeed, is not a good thought and best forgotten,’ Fidelma replied. ‘By the way, can you confirm my assumption that it was Brother Lugna who brought Glassán to the abbey? Did you know of the builder’s work before he came here?’

‘As far as I was aware, Lady Eithne recommended him. But then, as I have said, she supports Brother Lugna’s choices in all things,’ replied Abbot Iarnla with a frown. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘Nothing that is relevant as yet,’ Fidelma returned. She rose and went to the door, opened it quietly and peered outside. The passage was still dark and silent. There was no one about. She stood aside and without another word the abbot went out, shielding his lantern before him. For a moment Fidelma was left in darkness and then the moon raced out from behind a cloud, leaving her with light to shut the door and return to her bed.

Automatically, she picked up the bundle of clothes and returned them to the back of the chair and then sat down on the bed. Shesat there for a long time, turning over in her mind what the abbot had said. Sleep took her unaware and the next thing she knew, the light that shone through the window was the rising sun and not the pale light of the moon.