Chalice of Blood

CHAPTER FIVE

After Brother Lugna had followed Lady Eithne down to the courtyard where two warriors of her escort were waiting, Abbot Iarnla reseated himself. He looked ill at ease.

‘Do I detect some tension between Lady Eithne and you?’ asked Fidelma, also sitting down again.

The elderly abbot looked up at her and his expression was not happy.

‘I preside over this abbey where her son has been murdered. In fact, I presided over it when her two sons were falsely accused of plotting the murder of her cousin, Maolochtair, Prince of the Déisi, and thereby forced them to go on pilgrimage to avoid his attentions.’

‘At my suggestion,’ pointed out Fidelma.

‘Nevertheless, I feel that I am the one she blames for all the misfortunes that have befallen her family.’

‘And do you feel that you are to blame?’

‘She believes that I am. That is enough.’

‘How powerful a person is Lady Eithne in this area?’ asked Eadulf. ‘Usually a …’ he fought for the right word, ‘a bain-trebthach … a widow … does not exercise much power.’

The abbot gave a quick shake of his head. ‘Lady Eithne was also a comthigerna, a co-lord, of the area, so that whenher husband died, even with her two sons living, she continued as lord of the area. While she answers to the senior Prince of the Déisi, Maolochtair’s successor, she has total command in this territory.’

‘A chieftain in her own right,’ Eadulf summed up.

‘That is so,’ confirmed the old abbot. ‘A bancomharba, female heir, to the lordship of this territory.’

‘Do you know what she means by these intrigues and jealousies in the abbey? Intrigues that would concern Brother Donnchad?’ Fidelma asked gently, returning to the main point.

‘I have no such knowledge. It is the first I have heard of it from Lady Eithne. But I fear that she accuses me.’

Eadulf was thoughtful. ‘Surely Brother Donnchad had an anam chara, a soul friend, with whom he discussed matters and made confession? We might be able to learn more of this from him.’

The anam chara was not exactly like the confessor priest in the Roman Church. The soul friend was someone with whom one could discuss one’s deepest and most intimate thoughts and problems; someone who shared one’s very soul and provided support and, where possible, guidance along the spiritual path. It was a concept that was ancient long before the coming of the new Faith and, Eadulf admitted, a better practice than merely the confessing of certain sins as defined by the rules of others, for which a priest could then issue punishments as penance.

‘Before he left on his pilgrimage, his soul friend was Brother Gáeth,’ replied the abbot. ‘Donnchad seemed to spend much of his time with Brother Gáeth. They had known one another since they were children.’

‘Then Brother Gáeth should be able to tell us what it was that troubled Brother Donnchad,’ Eadulf said.

Brother Lugna re-entered the room. Fidelma caught the uncomfortable glance that Abbot Iarnla cast at him as he entered. Brother Lugna had picked up on the last remark.

‘I am afraid you will not get much help from Brother Gáeth,’ he said firmly. ‘Since Brother Donnchad’s return, their friendship ceased. Brother Gáeth was forbidden even to approach him.’

‘Forbidden? By whom?’ queried Fidelma.

‘By none other than Brother Donnchad himself,’ replied the steward.

‘Nevertheless, we shall speak to Brother Gáeth,’ said Fidelma. ‘When did Brother Donnchad become so solitary? Presumably there was a period between the time he came back to the community and when he became reclusive.’

‘He arrived back in early summer. The problems really began about three or four days before his death,’ replied Brother Lugna. ‘I only knew him after he had returned from the pilgrimage, so I am not able to judge any differences in his character. All I can say is that he always kept himself and his thoughts to himself.’

The abbot nodded. ‘It is true that, after his return, he often seemed preoccupied. He was — how should I put it? — of an unfriendly disposition. He confided in no one, kept himself to himself and moved in a secretive way. But three or four days before his death, he locked himself in his cell and refused to see anyone.’

‘And you have no idea what caused him to do that?’

Brother Lugna was shaking his head but it was the abbot who replied. ‘There is no reason that I know of. All I know is that four days before his death, he returned to the abbey and shut himself in his cell.’

‘He returned to the abbey?’ Fidelma asked quickly. ‘I am not sure what you mean.’

Brother Lugna, who had compressed his lips in a reaction to the abbot’s words, now spoke awkwardly.

‘The abbot refers to the fact that Brother Donnchad left the abbey for an entire day without our knowledge. We ascribed this breach of our rules to his peculiar behaviour generally. As steward, I was going to reprimand him for that disobedience in not seeking our … the abbot’s approval. That day I noticed he did not attend the early morning service. Then Brother Echen, our stableman, mentioned that Brother Donnchad had taken a horse from the abbey stables and ridden off before dawn, saying that he would return that evening. Brother Echen naturally assumed that he had the permission of the abbot and myself.’

‘And did he return when he said he would?’

‘He came back well after dark, left the horse in the stable and went straight to his cell, locked the door and refused to communicate with anyone. The following day I sent for Lady Eithne. I never saw him alive again.’

‘Did you do anything in response to this curious behaviour, apart from allowing his mother to attempt to reason with him?’

‘On the very morning before we discovered his body, we discussed the best way of dealing with the matter,’ replied the abbot. ‘Rightly or wrongly, I had previously decided that he needed more time to settle back after his momentous journey. But that morning I decided to confront him. I went to his cell with Brother Lugna. When we could not get in, I sent for our blacksmith and he broke down the door. That was when we found him. Murdered.’

‘Let me get this clear.’ Fidelma was thoughtful and spoke quietly. ‘Before he became reclusive, did you discuss with Brother Donnchad any matters that were bothering him?’

‘We had a few discussions immediately after his return butnot since his behaviour became strange and certainly not during the last week.’

‘What were the subjects of the discussions on his return?’

‘Varied. About the sights he had seen in his travels and the gift he brought back. Also about the changes to the abbey, the new building. But he was very preoccupied, as I said. It was as if his heart was not in such matters and his interests lay elsewhere.’

‘So where do you think he went on the day that he left the abbey? Do you think he went to see his mother?’ asked Fidelma.

Brother Lugna shook his head immediately, saying, ‘It was something I asked Lady Eithne but she had not seen him that day or for some time prior. I am afraid that we have no idea where he went on his last journey from the abbey.’

Fidelma sat silently for a few minutes before summing up the facts she had been told.

‘So, in short, what you are telling us is that when Donnchad returned from his pilgrimage, he was troubled by something. He feared that someone would steal the manuscripts he had brought back with him and asked for a lock and key on his door. We hear now that he also feared for his life. His attitude was such that you felt he should be “humoured”, your word, in this matter.’ She glanced at them to emphasise the point. Brother Lugna nodded slightly. The abbot did not meet her eyes. ‘Then he disappeared from the community for an entire day, without permission and without telling anyone where he had been. When he returned, he locked himself in his chamber. Having felt that his behaviour was becoming even more abnormal, Brother Lugna sent for his mother to speak to him but she had no effect. So, finally, you both went to remonstrate with him and found him dead, murdered in his cell, yet the door was locked, and you maintain that it could only have been locked from the inside. Am I right?’

‘Those are the essential details,’ agreed Abbot Iarnla.

Fidelma continued, ‘We will go to examine the cell shortly but you have told me that there was only one key. How do you know it was turned from the inside?’

It was Brother Lugna who answered without hesitation.

‘Because the only key was lying by Brother Donnchad’s body. Therefore it had to have been turned from the inside.’

‘Logical enough,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘But a lot seems to rely on your assertion that there was only one key.’

‘It is no assertion. As I said, our blacksmith was told to make the lock specially and only one key was provided to assure Brother Donnchad of his security.’

‘And these manuscripts that he guarded so diligently, only his mother seems to have glimpsed them.’

‘Lady Eithne says she saw them, so they must have been stolen by whoever killed him,’ asserted the steward firmly.

The abbot said nothing and Fidelma turned to him.

‘You seem uncertain, Abbot Iarnla.’

‘I cannot comment. I never saw the documents.’

‘Do you doubt Lady Eithne’s word?’

‘I would only point out that Lady Eithne admits that she does not know Greek from Hebrew. How can we rely on her word that the manuscripts that she glimpsed were the precious documents that Brother Donnchad claimed they were?’

‘Did anyone else see these valuable manuscripts apart from Lady Eithne?’ Eadulf asked.

‘I imagine that our scriptor, Brother Donnán, would have seen them,’ Brother Lugna replied.

‘Did you question the scriptor about them?’ Fidelma asked. ‘After all, as the head of your scriptorium in this abbey, he should surely have known about such precious manuscripts being brought here.’

‘We have questioned no one,’ replied Brother Lugna, a little sourly, avoiding looking at the abbot. ‘It was felt that such matters should await your arrival.’

‘We will speak with your scriptor,’ Fidelma said gently. ‘And we will examine Brother Donnchad’s cell. I presume the obsequies have already been conducted?’

‘As you know, it is our tradition to bury the body within twenty-four hours,’ replied the abbot. ‘He was laid to rest in our burial ground just outside the abbey walls, after the day of watching in the usual custom.’

‘But your physician will be able to report on the manner of his death?’

‘He was stabbed in the back,’ stated Brother Lugna. ‘That’s how he died. Surely that is enough.’

‘Just so, but there are details that only an apothecary or physician would notice. I presume your physician examined him?’

‘Naturally.’ Again there was a defensive tone in the steward’s voice. ‘Brother Seachlann is our physician.’

‘Then we will need to see him.’ She rose, as did Eadulf, but the abbot remained seated as if lost in thought. Then he suddenly realised they were leaving and gestured to his steward.

‘Brother Lugna will see to all your needs. However, the hour grows late. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day to begin.’

Fidelma realised that a distant bell was ringing to mark the end of the day’s work, calling those who tilled the fields to return to the abbey and cleanse themselves before the evening meal.

‘You are right, Father Abbot,’ she conceded. ‘It has been a long day.’ She glanced at Brother Lugna. ‘Has our companion, Gormán, been accommodated and our horses seen to?’

‘They have,’ the steward said. ‘And I have asked our bruigad,our hosteller, to make a chamber ready for you in our tech-óiged, our guesthouse-’

‘Separate chambers,’ interrupted Fidelma softly

‘But I thought …’ Abbot Iarnla frowned and then went on hurriedly to avoid embarrassment, ‘Of course. See to it, Brother Lugna. And perhaps you will join us in the refectorium for the evening meal when you have had your evening bathe.’

‘I have ordered your baths to be made ready,’ added the steward.

Eadulf had felt a little embarrassed when Fidelma ordered separate chambers. But he realised that life could not continue as before and there was much to be sorted out between Fidelma and himself. He said nothing as the hosteller, who identified himself as Brother Máel Eoin, guided them to the wooden building that was the guesthouse. Their chambers were separate but close to one another. A tub of hot water was waiting for him when he entered. Eadulf had long grown used to the custom of Fidelma’s people of taking a daily bath, usually in the evening, in a large tub called a dabach. Guests in any hostel or inn had the baths prepared for them with scented warm water and oils. After guests had washed, combed their hair and put on fresh clothing, they could attend the principal meal of the day, called the prainn, which was taken in the evening.

Eadulf had noticed that Brother Lugna used the Latin term refectorium instead of praintech, the usual word for an eating house. Eadulf had noticed that in many abbeys Latin terms were replacing native words for functions and places — the use of the Latin cubiculum for chamber instead of the usual cotultech; of scriptor for librarian and scriptorium for library in place of leabhar coimedach, keeper of books, and tech-screptra, library. It seemed that the abbey of Lios Mór, too, was changing. Perhaps Brother Lugna’s Roman tonsure was more significant than he had previously thought.

It was a short time later when Brother Máel Eoin came to show him and Fidelma the way to the refectorium. At the doors of the refectorium they found Gormán about to enter.

‘Are you being looked after well?’ Fidelma greeted the young warrior.

‘I have a good bed, lady,’ he replied with a brief smile. ‘I am quartered above the stables with the echaire, the stableman. I have been looking around at the new buildings. It seems the abbey is growing rapidly since last I came here. A chapel in stone and two other buildings already completed. The abbey appears to have come into great wealth.’

He was interrupted by a gesture from Brother Eoin as he opened the doors and showed them into the great hall where the community was eating. He steered them through the rows of long tables to a table set to one side of the refectorium. Many of the brethren raised their heads to observe their passage with undisguised curiosity. A low murmur arose from them. Fidelma noticed that there were few women in the hall, although there were some. Lios Mór had, she recalled, initially been a conhospitae, a mixed house, where men and women cohabited, raising their children to the service of the new religion. She remembered the story of how Carthach had come to Lios Mór with Flandait, the daughter of Cuanan, and several other women to help form the community. They found a holy woman named Caimel already living by the river. Caimel had become the head of the community of women at Lios Mór. She wondered whether Abbot Iarnla was gradually leading the religious community towards celibacy, for there was little evidence of women being co-equal as they had been when she last visited.

The fact that there were few women in the hall had also occurred to Eadulf. He had also noticed that the women who were present had been placed at the lower end of therefectorium. The abbot’s table was at the far end on a raised platform and here Abbot Iarnla, his steward and several others were seated at their meal. Eadulf presumed that the abbot’s table was filled with the hierarchy of the abbey and they were all male. Then he realised that Brother Eoin was leading them to a table to one side of the hall. Eadulf knew from experience that Fidelma, as sister to the King was usually seated as a distinguished guest. He saw that Fidelma gave no sign that she was insulted by what seemed a breach of natural courtesy. One or two of the brethren bowed their heads towards them in obvious recognition as they passed between the tables.

At the table to which they were guided they found two other guests, who introduced themselves. Glassán was a man of middle age, with even features, bright blue eyes and wiry brown hair, and a firm chin with a cleft jaw. He looked used to being outside in the elements and his clothing did not hide his well-muscled body. He seemed to assume a natural command over his companion who was introduced as Saor. He was thin and sinewy, a swarthy fellow with close-set eyes.

‘Are you guests in the abbey?’ Fidelma asked as they seated themselves. She was interested by their appearance, for neither seemed like men who would choose life in an abbey.

‘That we are,’ replied Glassán with a broad smile that was almost patronising. ‘Fairly permanent and important ones.’

‘Permanent and important?’ Gormán’s query seemed to be without irony, but his eyes were glinting. ‘What manner of men are you who honour us with your company?’

‘I am an ailtíre,’ the brawny Glassán declared without any modesty. ‘Saor, here, is my carpenter and assistant.’

‘Ah, you are a … a master builder?’ Eadulf tried to translate the technical office.

‘I am in charge of the rebuilding of the abbey,’ confirmed Glassán. Clearly he was not a man who believed in humility.

‘We saw that there had been changes,’ Gormán replied. ‘A lot of new stone buildings have appeared where I remember buildings of wood.’

‘Quite right, my young friend,’ agreed Glassán. ‘For three years now the abbey has employed me to oversee the new building work.’

‘That must be an enormous task,’ Eadulf commented. He was genuinely interested.

‘I have several men working under me, including some of the finest caisleóir, stonemasons, of the south.’

‘The abbey must be rich to engage in such rebuilding,’ observed Gormán.

The master builder grimaced. ‘That you would have to ask Brother Lugna. For my part, each fee for services is specified by the Law of the Fénechus, as is compensation for craftsmen injured in the pursuit of their work.’

Eadulf looked surprised and Fidelma explained. ‘A master builder is considered on the same level as the intended successor to a bo-aire, which would mean his honour price is worth twenty seds — the value of twenty milch cows.’

Glassán was looking at Fidelma with interest.

‘You know something of the law, Sister?’ Then he smiled. ‘Ah, of course. You are the dálaigh that the brethren here have been talking about. Someone who is going to make a report about the cleric who died.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Know him? We are too busy to socialise with the brethren here, even if they were sociable.’ He grinned at his quip. No one laughed.

‘Twenty seds is a large sum, indeed,’ observed Eadulf, filling the awkward silence.

‘Small compensation for the many years of study and apprenticeship, as in all arts and crafts,’ pointed out Glassán in an almost defensive manner. ‘There is a lot of responsibility in superintending the construction of these buildings, and one has to be a master in many different things, stonemasonry, carpentry …’ He suddenly shot a condescending look at his quiet companion. ‘Thankfully, Saor here takes many onerous tasks from my shoulders. He is my chief assistant.’

‘But if you are building in stone, surely you need stonemasons rather than carpenters,’ queried Gormán.

Saor’s chin came up defensively and he spoke for the first time. ‘Even with stone work, wooden frames must be made and carpentry must be employed,’ he announced with a tone of annoyance.

‘Of course.’ Glassán smiled, regaining the conversation. It was clear that he was enthusiastic about his craft and not loath to expand on the problems and skill that faced him and the rest of his team of workmen. As master builder, Glassán was provided with accommodation in the guesthouse, while his assistant and his workmen lived outside the abbey, along the river bank, in a collection of huts they had erected for the purpose. For the rest of the meal he continued to talk of the problems of replacing some of the wooden structures of the abbey with buildings of stone. He had a habit of talking in a low droning tone, almost without stopping, so that there was little dialogue.

Gormán’s expression quickly took on a slightly glazed look, as if he had shut off his mind from Glassán’s interminable details and technical explanations. Throughout, the thin-faced Saor, sat in almost moody silence, apart from one or two muttered comments. At the end of the meal, Fidelma and Eadulf rose hurriedly, thankful to be able to escape.

Outside her chamber, in the tech-oíged, or guesthouse, Fidelma turned apologetically to Eadulf.

‘I did not mean to embarrass you earlier about our accommodation, ’ she said softly. ‘But there are many things we must discuss in case we fall back into old habits which are no good for either of us.’

‘I understand,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘I realise that it is your brother who is trying to mend fences; it was not your doing to bring me back to Cashel.’

‘It is not that I regret his interference, Eadulf,’ Fidelma said quickly. ‘I welcome it as a means whereby we might try to rebuild our relationship on a better footing. I am firm in my resolve to pursue the course I have set myself. I would be a hypocrite to do otherwise. How that will square with whatever else must be taken into consideration … well, we must talk more clearly when there are no other problems to distract our thoughts.’

‘Agreed,’ Eadulf replied with a smile. ‘Let us give our minds completely to the current problem.’

She answered his smile. Then said, ‘Gormán made a good point this evening.’

‘You mean his ability to switch off his mind while our builder friend was chattering on,’ Eadulf observed wryly. ‘I swear the man did not even pause to eat his food, yet his plate was clean at the end of the meal. How did he talk and eat at the same time?’

‘That is not what I meant.’ She laughed. ‘I meant the point he made about the abbey being rich to embark on all this new building work.’

‘That observation was made before. Many communities are building and expanding. Why not Lios Mór?’

‘As you know, Lios Mór was only established a little overthirty years ago, Eadulf. It was levelled and fenced in with the members of the community building it with their own hands. They sought no help from outside. The material was the timber from the surrounding woods. The community have barely had time to establish themselves, let alone start to rebuild from stone.’

‘I have seen many communities in the Five Kingdoms putting up buildings of stone,’ Eadulf pointed out.

‘Usually in the west where stone is more easily accessible than wood,’ replied Fidelma. ‘But here, wood is plenty and varied. I know that the community is expanding, but to bring in a professional builder and his men is surprising. Glassán was right when he said that the law lays down strict rules, regulations and fees for professional builders and craftsmen. If the community here can afford to pay those rates, it means they have the finances to do so. How have they achieved such wealth in so short a time?’

‘Perhaps Glassán and his men are donating their work to the Faith,’ suggested Eadulf.

‘You heard him speak of his fees. I don’t think he will forgo them for the sake of the Faith.’

‘Well, perhaps that is something we should ask Abbot Iarnla about.’

Fidelma nodded absently. ‘Anyway, we have more to concern us than how the abbey has raised the means to pay craftsmen to construct stone buildings.’ She opened the door of her chamber, then turned back to him with a smile. ‘Sleep well, Eadulf. We have much to do in the morning.’

For a moment Eadulf stood gazing moodily at the closed door. Then with a deep sigh he turned and walked slowly to his own allotted chamber.

If Fidelma was so convinced of her future, Eadulf knew that difficult times lay ahead for him. There would be no easyreconciliation, no easy getting back together, as it seemed Fidelma’s brother had hoped.

Eadulf lay down on the straw palliasse of the wooden framed cot and drew a blanket over himself, but it was a long time before sleep came to him.