Chalice of Blood

CHAPTER FOUR

Fidelma and Eadulf were relaxing in chairs before the glowing fire in the chamber of Abbot Iarnla. One of the brethren who attended the abbot had presented them with the traditional cup of mead to refresh themselves after their journey, before withdrawing. Now they were alone with the Abbot and his dour-faced steward. The abbot reclined in his comfortable chair to one side of the hearth while his rechtaire, Brother Lugna, sat upright in his chair on the other. He was clearly not at ease. But it had been the steward who had greeted them, albeit somewhat stiffly, at the gates of the abbey before he brought them to the abbot’s chamber. They had left Gormán in the hands of the echaire, who looked after the stables, so that he could help attend to the horses and ensure their comfort.

‘It is some time since I have visited Lios Mór,’ Fidelma was saying. ‘It seems that the abbey is prospering.’

‘How so?’ inquired the abbot.

‘I see that much building work is going on here.’

‘We have to move with the times,’ Brother Lugna intervened defensively. ‘The old wooden buildings were fine for our founders over three decades ago but our community has grown quickly and now we must put up buildings that will last and proclaim the importance and purity of the community.’

‘As you say, it is some time since you were here,’ the abbot added, ‘and it is sad that your coming now is caused by the death of a distinguished member of our brotherhood.’

‘Other than yourself and your steward, who knew that we were coming to Lios Mór?’ Eadulf asked.

The elderly abbot frowned for a moment, considering the question. ‘I did not think it a secret,’ he replied. ‘I suppose the word has spread through the community, and I certainly informed the Lady Eithne, the mother of poor Brother Donnchad.’

‘Is there something the matter?’ asked Brother Lugna. ‘Should your coming have been kept quiet?’

‘We were attacked on the road here,’ explained Eadulf. ‘It was almost as if the attackers were lying in wait for us.’

Abbot Iarnla registered his surprise. ‘Are you saying that this attack had some connection with your coming to investigate Brother Donnchad’s death?’

‘Perhaps there was no connection at all,’ Fidelma replied quickly. ‘They could simply have been robbers waiting to attack any passer-by. But it does seem curious that they attacked with the obvious intention of killing us rather than merely threatening and robbing us. They had the advantage of the ambush.’

‘What happened to them?’ Brother Lugna asked.

‘Gormán, our bodyguard, killed one and the other ran off.’

There was a silence. Abbot Iarnla looked shocked. His steward frowned as he considered the matter.

‘Therein is the answer to your question,’ Brother Lugna’s tone was dismissive. ‘They saw you had a warrior with you, a member of the King’s bodyguard, and rather than pit their strength against his, they decided to attack first. They were just cowardly robbers, no doubt. I will be frank with you, Sister Fidelma. I was not in favour of the abbot’s decision to bring you here.’

Fidelma regarded him with surprise at his abrupt change of subject. She smiled thinly. ‘May I ask why not?’

‘I believe-’

‘My rechtaire believed that the matter should be resolved within the abbey community,’ Abbot Iarnla intervened hastily, with an uncomfortable glance at Brother Lugna. ‘He believes that, as abbot, I have the power of judgement and punishment in such matters. But this abbey does not subscribe to the Penitentials.’

The steward gave a disdainful sniff and Eadulf noted the tension between him and the abbot. ‘So I take it you believe in the Penitentials, Brother Lugna,’ he observed. ‘I see that you wear the tonsure of Saint Peter and so favour the Rule of Rome.’

‘As do you, Brother Eadulf. I studied five years in Rome.’

‘Where do you originate from, Brother Lugna?’ asked Fidelma. ‘I do not hear the local accents of this kingdom in your voice.’

‘I am from Connachta, of the Uí Briuin Sinna of the Plain of the Sea.’ The announcement was a simple statement of fact, without pride.

‘Then you are a long way from home, Brother Lugna.’

‘The Faith is universal and whether one is in Rome or Lios Mór, or even in Connachta, one is among brethren if they follow the true teachings.’

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Eadulf was aware of a growing dislike for the arrogant young Brother Lugna.

Abbot Iarnla gave a hesitant smile. ‘Well, we are glad no harm befell you and your companions on your journey here, Fidelma. The news of the attack on you, for whatever cause, is alarming. We will offer a special prayer of thanks in the chapel tonight for your safe arrival. I believe your coming here to preside over this important matter is necessary. I would trust no one else with it.’ He glanced at his steward with a curious expression they could not interpret. ‘That is why I have overruled the advice of my steward. Your judgement,at the time when Maolochtair tried to harm both Donnchad and Cathal, saved them from a greater harm as well as saving Maolochtair from his own fantasy. That is why I requested that you come to help us.’

It sounded almost as if he were trying to explain his reasons to his steward.

‘I understand that Brother Cathal remains in Tarentum and may never return to Lios Mór,’ Fidelma observed.

‘Cathal has accepted the pallium offered by the people of Tarnetum. They call him Cataldus now,’ Brother Lugna replied. The sour tone in his voice made it clear that he did not approve.

‘I remember when Cathal was acting abbot. It was when I was sitting in judgement at the court here,’ Fidelma continued.

‘Ah yes. I was away at a Council at the abbey of Imleach at the time and appointed Cathal to take charge in my absence,’ replied the elderly abbot. ‘Brother Lugna, of course, was not with us then. He did not join us until three years ago.’

‘Three years? A short time to have risen to be rechtaire of the abbey,’ commented Eadulf softly.

‘Blessed are those who can recognise talent in others,’ Brother Lugna replied almost pugnaciously.

After a quick frown of disapproval at Eadulf, Fidelma turned her gaze to the abbot. ‘But you have been abbot here a long time, Iarnla,’ she said. ‘You must have known Cathal and Donnchad since they were young lads.’

‘I came here when our blessed founder, Carthach, whom we lovingly refer to by the pet name of Mo-Chuada, was still alive. He died in the very same year as your own father, King Failbe Flann. Sadly, you did not know either of them, Fidelma.’

A momentary melancholy crossed Fidelma’s features. ‘I was a babe in arms when my father died,’ she replied quietly. She had often expressed regret that she had never known her fatherand barely remembered her mother who had also died when she was young.

‘Your father and the Blessed Carthach were good friends. When the Uí Néill drove Carthach and his community out of Raithean, they fled south here to the Kingdom of Muman. Your father offered Carthach lands near Cashel to set up a new community but that holy man had a vision to come to this place, for he had passed through this country some years before. Did you know that Carthach actually healed your father of an ailment in his eye?’

Fidelma looked surprised. ‘I have not heard that story.’

‘Your father was distressed, for the King of Laighin was hard pressed by a revolt led by a distant relative, Crimthann mac Aedo Díbchíne, who had gathered support to challenge him for the kingship. King Failbe had concluded a treaty of friendship with King Fáelán, son of Colmán of Laighin. He promised that he would lead his warriors to assist him in times of crisis. Your father’s ailment caused him to be blind in one eye. To his anguish this meant he could not lead his warriors into battle. The Blessed Carthach treated him and cured the disease in his eye. Your father and his warriors joined Fáelán’s army, together with those of Conall, lord of Clann Cholmai, whose sister was married to Fáelán. They defeated Crimthann and his rebels at the Ford of the Smith, Áth Goain, on the River Lifé.’

Fidelma smiled sadly. ‘I knew of the victory of Áth Goain. It is a story told by the bards of my family. But I did not know of Carthach’s intercession with my father.’

‘It happened four years before your birth, the death of your father and the death of the Blessed Carthach all occurred in that one fateful year. It was just before those events that I heard that Mo-Chuada, the Blessed Carthach, had been offered this land by Maolochtair of the Déisi, and I came and joined him. Carthach was a great man, a great educator.’

‘But you say he died in the same year as my father. Is that when you became abbot?’

Abbot Iarnla chuckled with a shake of his head. ‘Bless you, child, I was still a young man. I could not have risen to such a height as abbot. Mo-Chuada’s maternal uncle, Cuanan, became abbot here. He died twenty years ago. That was when I took over.’

‘So there is little about the community here that you do not know,’ Fidelma said seriously.

‘I admit to the sin of pride in that,’ confirmed the abbot.

‘Then perhaps you can answer a question that has puzzled me. Is it usual in this community for a member to have a key to their cubiculum and to lock it?’

The abbot shook his head immediately. ‘It is not usual but there are exceptions.’

‘So Brother Donnchad was an exception? Why was that?’

There was some hesitation before Abbot Iarnla replied. He requested a key because he had returned from his pilgrimage to the Holy Land with some relics that he wished to keep safe.’

Fidelma’s brow furrowed as she considered his reply. ‘You mean that he was worried there might be thieves among your brethren?’

‘That is an insult to our community,’ intervened Brother Lugna, whose cheeks had coloured.

‘It is not I who am insulting them,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘What other interpretation can be placed on why Brother Donnchad wanted a key to lock his cell?’

Brother Lugna’s mouth closed firmly. Abbot Iarnla was also silent for a moment while he seemed to consider the answer.

Fidelma looked from one to the other. Then she insisted softly, ‘How can I investigate this matter if I am not in possession of all the facts?’

Abbot Iarnla lowered his head. ‘Perhaps my steward should explain matters,’ he said in resignation. ‘He dealt with them.’

Brother Lugna hesitated. Fidelma faced him, waiting. Then he sighed. ‘It is true that, when Brother Donnchad came back, he returned with some things which he said he had picked up on his pilgrimage. He wanted them kept safe while he considered them.’

‘Considered them?’ queried Eadulf.

‘They were supposed to be mostly manuscripts rather than objects,’ explained the steward. ‘Like his brother, Cathal, Brother Donnchad was a scholar of many languages, of Greek and Hebrew as well as Latin, and also Aramaic. I never saw the documents, for he kept them hidden.’

‘The abbey here has a renowned scriptorium, a great library containing many such manuscripts,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Why did he not simply place the documents there? Surely the library is secure enough? What made these manuscripts so precious they had to be locked elsewhere?’

Brother Lugna raised his shoulders and let them drop in a resigned gesture. ‘As I say, I never saw them nor were they found in his cell after his death.’

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed for a moment and she looked at the abbot. ‘Did you see them, Abbot Iarnla?’

The abbot had not.

‘Anyway,’ the steward continued, ‘Brother Donnchad seemed so concerned, so anxious, that we decided to humour him and have a lock made for his door.’

‘Not simply a bolt on the inside?’

‘He was specific about a lock and key.’

‘Who made the lock and key?’

‘Our own smith, Brother Giolla-na-Naomh. He holds the rank of flaith-goba,’ he added with a note of pride.

Fidelma knew that smiths had three distinctions of rankaccording to their qualifications, and the flaith-goba, or chief smith, had knowledge of all metalworking. The other two ranks were limited in both the metals they worked and the artefacts they could produce.

‘How many keys to this lock did he make?’

‘He was instructed to make only one and I presume that he made only one,’ replied the steward.

‘Presumption is not fact,’ observed Fidelma.

It was Abbot Iarnla who said: ‘When we could not gain entrance to Brother Donnchad’s cell, I summoned Brother Giolla-na-Naomh to help us. He had to break down the door. Had he made an extra key, he would have fetched it to save breaking the door.’

It was a good point but Fidelma was not entirely satisfied.

‘You say that you decided to humour Brother Donnchad in his demand for a key. “Humour” seems a curious word to use.’

Abbot Iarnla and Brother Lugna exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

‘Brother Donnchad was-’

‘He had begun to behave in a curious fashion,’ interrupted Brother Lugna.

‘In what way? How did this manifest itself?’ asked Eadulf.

‘He became reclusive,’ the abbot explained. ‘He shut himself away from his oldest friend in the community.’

‘He even stopped going to Mass,’ pointed out Brother Lugna. ‘When we found that he had shut himself away and would not communicate with anyone, I sent for his mother, Lady Eithne, to see if she could find out what was vexing him.’

‘And did she?’

He was about to speak when he was interrupted by the noise of several horses arriving in the quadrangle of the abbey. With a muttered apology, he rose and went to the window to peer out. Then he turned back.

‘You may ask the question of Lady Eithne herself, Sister Fidelma, for she has just arrived with an escort.’

He left the room to greet the newcomers.

Lady Eithne was imposing. Tall though Fidelma was, she had to look up into the face of the woman. There were still traces of a youthful beauty in her features. She wore a slightly austere expression. The sharp blue eyes bore few of the tell-tale marks of age; only when one came nearer was age discernible, for she used berry juice to darken her brows and hair. The person who dressed her hair was clearly skilled, for it was elaborately dressed. Three dark-brown braids curled and wound round her head, held in place by gold circlet pins called flesc, while a fourth braid was left flowing between her shoulders and down her back. On top of her head was a kerchief arranged to show that she was a widow. Her only jewellery was an ornate cross of gold worked with semi-precious stones, the like of which Fidelma had never seen before. It was clearly of foreign workmanship. Lady Eithne wore a bright green dress of siriac, or silk, with a bright blue cloak of sróll, satin, edged with badger’s fur.

She took a pace forward and held out both hands to Fidelma in friendly greeting.

‘You are welcome here, lady. I have been expecting your arrival ever since I heard that you had been invited to come to the abbey.’

‘Lady Eithne,’ replied Fidelma, bowing her head, not to the rank of the woman but to her age and reputation. Lady Eithne was the chieftain of the local territory, being a banchomarbae or female heir, as well as widow of a Déisi prince.

‘And this is Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham?’ Lady Eithne turned to Eadulf with a smile. ‘I have heard much of you. You are both welcome in the territory of the Déisi.’ Then she greeted the abbot with a surly nod.

Looking troubled, the abbot invited her to be seated in the chair he had vacated, which surprised Eadulf for it was not often that an abbot abrogated his rank to the local nobility. Brother Lugna produced another chair, and the abbot reseated himself next to Lady Eithne.

‘Your visit is unexpected, lady,’ the abbot commented, when the steward had served mead to the newcomer.

‘Not so,’ Lady Eithne replied firmly. ‘As soon as I was informed that Fidelma of Cashel was here, I rode here to greet her. I am as much concerned with the resolution of this matter as the abbey of Lios Mór. Perhaps more so.’

It was a clear rebuke and a reminder that it was her son whose murder they were speaking of.

‘Let me say at once, and on behalf of my brother, the King, and our family, that I am sorry for your great loss, lady,’ Fidelma began after a few moments of awkward silence. It was no more than a ritual opening.

‘Your condolences are appreciated,’ she replied automatically. ‘Do you hope to resolve this matter quickly?’

‘We were speaking of the circumstances of your son’s tragic death when you arrived,’ Fidelma replied, not answering her question.

Lady Eithne gazed sadly at her. ‘There is no need to tread carefully with my feelings. I have mourned sufficiently in public. My grief is now for myself. I hope you will be able to discover who is responsible for his death.’

‘We understand that you may have been the last known person to speak with him. We are told that since his return from his pilgrimage, Brother Donnchad had been growing agitated about something.’

‘Agitated?’ queried Lady Eithne distantly.

‘Agitated enough for the steward of the community, Brother Lugna here, to send for you that you might come to the abbeyand speak to him. I am told that Brother Donnchad had withdrawn from his companions and was no longer attending the services of the abbey.’

‘That is correct,’ confirmed Lady Eithne.

‘You acceded to the steward’s request and, therefore, you were probably the last person to see your son before his death.’

There was a silence for a while as Lady Eithne took a sip of her mead. Then she replaced the glass on the side table with a quick nod.

‘Apart, that is, from the person who murdered him,’ she replied. ‘When Brother Lugna sent for me, I was much disquieted by his message. Brother Lugna asked me to come here and speak with my son and perhaps discover the reason for his behaviour.’

‘And did you?’ asked Eadulf quietly.

‘Donnchad told me he was in fear for his life. He told me that he was apprehensive of certain intrigues and jealousies in the abbey. He knew someone was envious of him and the precious manuscripts he had brought back from his travels.’

Fidelma saw a tinge of red colouring Abbot Iarnla’s neck and spreading up his cheeks. The abbot opened his mouth to say something.

‘He told you this clearly?’ Fidelma interjected quickly.

‘He did so.’

‘I am told that no manuscripts or arterfacts have been found in his cell.’

Lady Eithne met her eyes steadily. ‘Precisely.’ The tone was emphatic.

‘I see,’ said Fidelma, understanding her implication. ‘Then you believe whoever killed your son also took these precious manuscripts?’

‘I do.’

‘And you saw these documents when you visited your son?’

‘I did. On that very day just hours before his death.’

Fidelma sat back and glanced quickly from Abbot Iarnla to Brother Lugna, before returning her gaze to Lady Eithne.

‘There was some doubt whether these manuscripts actually existed.’

Abbot Iarnla stared at the fire while the steward flushed. Lady Eithne’s lips parted in a humourless smile but she said nothing.

‘When your son told you that he feared the theft of these books, did he mention any specific threat?’ asked Fidelma.

‘He did not.’

‘Then perhaps you could repeat his words — his exact words — so that we might try and interpret them?’ Eadulf suggested.

There was a perceptible tightening of Lady Eithne’s jaw and Fidelma, anxious that she should not take this as questioning her veracity, said hurriedly, ‘Eadulf is right. If you can give us his exact words, there might be something in them that could lead to the root of his fear.’

Lady Eithne relaxed and paused for a moment as if trying to recall.

‘He told me that the Faith was under attack from those who would deny its very message. He feared that these attackers would destroy it.’

‘People who would destroy it?’ echoed Eadulf. ‘He was not specific about names or where they could be found?’

‘Those were his words. I believe my son was killed because of his scholarship and the manuscripts he had brought back with him from the Holy Land.’

‘If possible, lady,’ Fidelma said, ‘let us turn to your last meeting with him. When you arrived here, had he locked himself in his cell?’

‘He had.’

‘But he let you in to speak to him?’

‘I am his mother. Of course he did.’

‘I am told that he had one key to that chamber. The locksmith had made the lock specially.’

‘I asked my son who held the keys to his room, since he was in such fear for his life. He told me that he had the only key.’

‘While you were in his cell and saw those precious manuscripts, did you know what they were? What sort of works were they?’

Lady Eithne sniffed, her chin rising a little.

‘My son was a great scholar. I can read and write my own language and I have a little Latin learning, but not much. I could scarcely understand the varied and unusual works that he had access to. I would not know Greek from Hebrew.’ Lady Eithne gave a shake of her head. ‘My son had several works in his room.’

‘Could one person have carried the manuscripts away with them?’

‘I suppose so. After all, he had to carry them himself on his journey from the Holy Land.’

‘He was also supposed to have brought back some artefacts,’ Eadulf said.

Lady Eithne’s hand went to the strange, ornate cross which hung round her neck.

‘Indeed. He brought back a piece of the True Cross for the abbey and he brought me this. It was a gift from both my sons, bought for me in the very town of Nazareth where Our Saviour grew up and began his work.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not that I know of. Brother Lugna, surely you know what gifts he brought for the abbey.’

Brother Lugna shifted his weight and made an odd gesture with one hand, palm outwards. ‘A piece of the True Cross, which is now in our newly built chapel. A few icons and trinkets for decorative purposes, but that is all.’

‘So now …’ Lady Eithne suddenly rose, and they all followedher example. ‘It was merely my intention to come to greet you, Fidelma, and extend a welcome to this territory. I must return to my fortress. It is only a few kilometres to the east of the abbey but the sky is darkening. I would welcome your visit there. If there is anything else I can help you with, I shall be most willing. It is hard to lose both my sons …’ She smiled quickly. ‘Cathal is lost to me in a foreign land and now … now Donnchad …’ She ended with a shrug.

‘You have already been more than helpful, lady,’ Fidelma replied gravely.

Lady Eithne inclined her head to Fidelma and then to Eadulf, glanced at Abbot Iarnla in an almost disapproving way, and then turned towards the chamber door which Brother Lugna held open for her.