Chalice of Blood

CHAPTER SEVEN

Abbot Iarnla walked across to their table as they were rising to leave when the midday meal had finished. The community took three meals a day. The custom was to rise at dawn, wash one’s face and hands, and break one’s fast with a light meal. The eter-shod, or ‘middle meal’, was taken when the sun was at its zenith. Thankfully, it appeared that Glassán and his assistant Saor ate their midday meal on site and so they were spared another monologue on his craft. Gormán was happily occupying his time fishing along the banks of The Great River. Only Fidelma and Eadulf had been seated at their table.

‘I hope you have had a productive morning,’ Abbot Iarnla greeted them anxiously. ‘Have you reached any conclusions?’

‘We are far from any conclusions yet,’ replied Fidelma. ‘There are many questions that still need to be asked before we can proceed to judgement.’

Abbot Iarnla looked about almost furtively and then, as if assuring himself that no one was observing him, dropped his voice and said, ‘I trust you will forgive me for seating you here, Fidelma. As sister to our King, I considered it more appropriate for you and Eadulf to sit alongside me. However, Brother Lugna informs me that Church customs in Rome …’ He hesitated, not sure how to proceed.

‘We are content here, Abbot Iarnla,’ Fidelma replied softly. ‘Brother Lugna has made no secret of his resent ment of our presence here. We would not wish to impose on him more than we have to.’

‘I apologise for him. He is inflexible when it comes to the rules that he has drawn up for the community.’

‘Rules that he has drawn up?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘I thought the drawing up of rules for the community was the prerogative of the abbot?’

‘He believes that the brethren were too lax and free of discipline and order,’ the abbot confessed. ‘Times change, I suppose. I have tried to run things in the spirit of our blessed founder, Mo-Chuada, but, as you know, the Faith is changing. New ideas are coming in from Rome. So I have been persuaded to let Brother Lugna pursue his course of action to strengthen the community.’

Fidelma was about to say that perhaps he was abrogating too much authority to his young steward but the abbot suddenly turned and motioned to a man who was helping an elderly member of the community along the aisle between the tables towards the door. The younger man hesitated and then guided his companion towards them.

The elderly man could barely walk without the help of the young man’s arm and a stout stick he carried in his other hand. His skin was stretched tight on his face, which was white as parchment. His grey eyes were wide, staring and watery. The lips were thin and almost bloodless. He had no hair at all save the white stubble over his chin and upper lip where he had been badly shaved. Flecks of spittle adhered to the corners of his mouth. He could have been any age from four score to a century.

His companion was at no more than three decades in age, with features Fidelma would have described as ugly. His skinwas sallow and although he was clean-shaven, the cheeks and chin had a bluish hue, suggesting a thick beard would result if no altan, or razor, were applied. His blue-black hair was closely cropped, which was unusual, as both men and women usually wore their hair long, as a mark of beauty. He wore the tonsure of the Irish. The eyes were dark and it was almost impossible to discern the pupils. He had a bulbous nose and thick lips, with a protruding lower lip. The half-open mouth displayed badly kept teeth. Fidelma’s eyes dropped to the man’s hands and, as she suspected, the man had unkempt nails which were a sign of ill-breeding. It was the custom among the wealthier classes of her people to keep fingernails cut and carefully rounded. He was not a tall man nor well-built. He looked like someone whose meals were sparse and infrequently come by. His whole appearance gave the impression of melancholy subservience.

The abbot introduced him. ‘This is Brother Gáeth. He was Brother Donnchad’s anam chara. I know you wanted to talk to him.’

At that moment the elderly man peered at Fidelma, his eyes narrowing, and he moved closer to her. There seemed a look of hope on his thin features. Then he sighed, shook his head and said in a disappointed tone, ‘You are not an angel.’

The abbot appeared embarrassed but Fidelma merely smiled at the old man.

‘I am not. I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

The old man was still shaking his head.

‘No angel,’ he muttered.

‘This is the Venerable Bróen, Fidelma.’ The abbot offered the introduction in an apologetic tone. ‘He was with Mo-Chuada when the abbey was founded. Alas, he is a little … a little …’

‘I have seen an angel,’ the old man interjected, speaking in a confidential voice.

Fidelma humoured him. ‘That does not fall to the lot of everyone,’ she replied solemnly. ‘You must be blessed.’

The Venerable Bróen sighed deeply. ‘I saw an angel. The blessed one of God flew in the sky. I saw it.’

‘Forgive me, Fidelma,’ Abbot Iarnla said hurriedly. ‘I wanted to introduce you to Brother Gáeth. Brother Gáeth, remain here with the dálaigh and I will take the Venerable Bróen back to his cubiculum.’ So saying, he took the old man’s arm and began to lead him away.

They heard the Venerable Bróen’s petulant tone. ‘I did see the angel. I did. It came to take the soul of poor Brother Donnchad. I saw it flying in the wind.’

Brother Gáeth remained standing before them with downcast eyes. To Fidelma, he did not look the sort of person to become the soul friend of an intellectual and scholar such as Brother Donnchad had been. Then she remembered the words from Juvenal’s Satires and felt guilty: fronti nulla fides, no reliance can be placed on appearance.

Fidelma waved to the table they had just risen from.

‘Be seated, Brother,’ she instructed, reseating herself. Eadulf followed her example, while Brother Gáeth moved slowly to the far side of the table and lowered himself on to the bench, his eyes still downcast.

‘I am afraid I know nothing of Brother Donnchad’s death,’ he volunteered. The words came out in something of a rush. ‘He had not spoken to me in days and told me to leave him alone.’

‘So when was the last time you spoke to him?’

‘About two or three days before his death.’

‘How long had you known him?’

‘Twenty-five years.’ The answer was without hesitation.

‘That is a long time,’ commented Eadulf. He had estimated Brother Gáeth’s age at no more than thirty-five.

‘I was his soul friend … at one time.’

‘Tell us about him,’ encouraged Fidelma. ‘Firstly, though, tell us something of yourself and how you met him.’

‘I was a field worker of the class of daer-fudir.’

Eadulf looked surprised for he knew that a daer-fudir was someone who had lost all their rights because of some great crime and had to work almost in a state of bondage to redeem themselves. They were considered untrustworthy and were not entitled to bear arms and had no rights within the clan. The third generation of daer-fudir was automatically reinstated, given their rights back, and could be eligible for election to any office within society. But usually a daer-fudir was a stranger, perhaps a fugitive from another territory who had sought asylum; often they were criminals or captives taken in battle.

‘It was my father who caused our family’s downfall,’ muttered Brother Gáeth as if in answer to Fidelma and Eadulf’s unasked question.

‘Tell us more of this,’ invited Fidelma.

‘It was simple enough. My father killed a chieftain of the Uí Liatháin. He fled with my mother and me and sought sanctuary with a lord of the Déisi called Eochaid of An Dún.’

‘You mean the father of Brother Donnchad?’ Eadulf asked in surprise.

Brother Gáeth nodded. ‘I was very young. Eochaid could have handed us back to the Uí Liatháin for punishment but he decided that he would grant my family asylum on the land but as daer-fudir to work and toil for him. My father died after several years of labour, my mother soon after. Eochaid died and Lady Eithne took control. She was a hard mistress.’

‘But you are now a member of the brethren here,’ observed Fidelma. ‘How did this happen?’

‘How did I become a member of this community rather than still toiling in the fields for Lady Eithne of An Dún?’

‘Exactly so,’ replied Fidelma.

‘Through the intercession of Donnchad,’ Brother Gáeth said.

‘In what way did he intercede?’

‘Although I was servant to Lord Eochaid and Lady Eithne, I was treated well by their sons, Cathal and Donnchad. We almost grew up together. It was through them I learnt something of reading and writing. It was Donnchad who spent most time with me, teaching me how to construe words and form letters. And he would speak about the Faith and tell me wondrous things. One day he told me that he and his brother Cathal would be joining the community here at Lios Mór. I felt devastated. Abandoned. I said that I wished I had the freedom to go with him if only to be his servant.

‘At that he laughed and said none of the brethren of the community had servants. Then he paused with a strange look in his eye and left me. A few days later, he found me in the fields and said he had a spoken with his mother. She had agreed to release me to the community. So it was,’ he ended with a shrug.

There was a short silence between them.

‘So you came with Cathal and Donnchad and joined the community.’

‘And have been here ever since.’

‘And what tasks do you perform in the community?’

Brother Gáeth chuckled sourly. ‘I exchanged life as a field worker for Lady Eithne to become a field worker for the abbot of Lios Mór. I am still of the rank of daer-fudir.’

Fidelma was surprised. Such ranks did not exist among the brethren of an abbey.

‘You sound bitter, Brother Gáeth,’ she said.

‘Before my father’s crime, he was a chieftain of the Uí Liatháin, he was Selbach, lord of Dún Guairne. He led some of his people, with a band of missionaries, across the great seato a land of the Britons called Kernow. A ruler called Teudrig massacred most of them there. My father and some others escaped and returned home. He found his cousin had usurped his place as chieftain in his absence and he challenged him to single combat. In the combat that followed my father killed his cousin. His enemies persuaded the people that it was fingal, or kin-slaying. The Brehon, also an enemy to my father, declared the crime so horrendous that my father should be placed in a boat without sail or oars, and with food and water for one day only. He should be taken out to sea and cast adrift. That night he managed to escape and took my mother and me to seek refuge with the Déisi.’

Fidelma gazed at him. ‘What you tell me does not seem to be justice. Surely it could be shown that the Brehon was biased and the punishment a harsh one? Why was this matter not appealed to the Chief Brehon of the kingdom? Why was it not brought to the attention of the King in Cashel? There is provision in law for these things.’

Brother Gáeth shrugged. ‘I only know what I know. I was but a boy at the time and this was over a score of years ago.’

‘And is the current chieftain of the Uí Liatháin related to you?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Uallachán is the nephew of the cousin my father slew,’ said Brother Gáeth.

‘What happened after you joined the community?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘Donnchad continued to treat me well. He became a great scholar and his time was spent mainly in the tech-screptra while I worked from sun-up until sun-down in the fields outside the abbey.’

‘But you became his anam chara, his soul friend.’

‘As I said, he was kind to me. He continued to talk to me as he had when we were boys. He told me much about the wondrousthings he was learning from the great books in the library. He insisted that I be officially regarded as his soul friend.’

‘Did the abbot approve of this?’

‘Not entirely. He felt that Donnchad should have a soul friend who was his intellectual equal.’

Fidelma’s eyes widened at the phrase. It sounded alien to the man.

‘You overheard him say that?’ she asked quickly.

‘Yes. That is what the abbot said to Donnchad. But Donnchad told him that he felt comfortable telling me his problems. So, every week, before the start of the Sabbath, we would meet and he would tell me of the events of the week and I would listen. I often wished I had learning to read the works of the great saints as he did and the very words that our Lord spoke when he walked the earth.’

Eadulf could not help but glance at Fidelma. Surely a soul friend was more than someone to talk at but a friend who could understand and exchange ideas and spiritually guide their friend, saving them from making mistakes.

‘I presume this stopped when the ruler of the Déisi accused Cathal and Donnchad of plotting against him,’ Fidelma said.

‘Yes,’ said Brother Gáeth with a sigh. ‘They had to leave the community and go into hiding. I did not hear from Donnchad until he passed through the abbey for a single night with his brother en route to Ard Mór and lands beyond the seas. He told me he and his brother were going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, the very land in which our saviour walked and taught. Ah, but I wanted to go with him. But I was merely a daer-fudir, a field worker.’

‘And so you stayed here,’ Fidelma said patiently. ‘When did you next see Donnchad?’

Brother Gáeth smiled at the remembrance. ‘On his return. His return here was triumphant. The community, even the abbothimself, turned out to welcome him.’ He paused and shook his head sadly. ‘But Donnchad had changed. I went to greet him but it was as if he did not know me. After that first day, I left him alone for awhile, thinking it was just the strangeness of his return that had made him seem preoccupied and distant. After he had had time to settle, I went to see him again. He was no longer preoccupied but he was harsh and cruel to me.’ Brother Gáeth lowered his head, as if trying to conceal his emotion.

‘How was he cruel?’ pressed Fidelma.

‘He told me that he did not want to know me.’

‘Did he explain why?’

Brother Gáeth shook his head. He reminded Fidelma of a dog who had been badly treated for no reason by his master and could not understand it.

‘He gave you no explanation at all?’

‘He said, cast off your robes and escape from this place into the mountains. In the mountains there is solitude and sanity. There is no sanity among men.’

Fidelma sat back, her eyes a little wider than before. ‘Those were his exact words?’

Brother Gáeth nodded. ‘I remember them as if they were spoken but moments ago.’

‘When did this conversation take place?’

‘That was a day or two before his death. He told me that he did not want to see me ever again. He told me to leave this community and seek sanity. I still have no idea what he meant.’

‘You never spoke to him again?’ asked Eadulf.

‘I have said so,’ Brother Gáeth replied.

‘Did you know that just before he was found dead, his mother came to see him?’ asked Eadulf.

‘I saw her riding to the abbey while I was in the fields but I think that was a few days before he was found dead.’

‘Had you met her again since she gave you leave to join the community here?’

‘Not exactly.’ There was bitterness in his tone. ‘She would pass me by on her visits. Whether she even saw me or not, I do not know. That was how it was when I worked on her lands. Perhaps she would not have recognised who I was anyway. I was just another field worker.’

‘Do you know how she felt about her sons?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Oh, she idolised them. She was very proud of them. It is thanks to the Lady Eithne that there is all this building work at the abbey.’

Eadulf’s head came up sharply. ‘Is it?’

Brother Gáeth looked at him as if surprised he did not know. ‘Of course. When word came that her sons, Cathal and Donnchad, had reached the Holy Land, she came to the abbot. The whole community knows that she offered to help fund the replacement of the wooden buildings with great structures of stone that would last forever and help the abbey become one of the great beacons of the new Faith in the west. The condition she made was that the abbey should be a memorial to them.’

‘I see,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘So all this work is not being paid for by the abbey but by Lady Eithne of Dún?’

‘That is so.’

‘What did Donnchad say about it on his return?’ asked Eadulf.

‘He never mentioned it but, as I have said, he hardly spoke to me.’

‘Do you know if he confided in anyone else?’

‘I do not.’

‘But you observed that something was disturbing him. Could it have been connected with this matter?’ asked Eadulf.

‘All I know is that his face was black as a storm from the moment he rode back through the gates.’

‘Do you think that this was because his brother, Cathal, had decided to remain in Tarantum and accept the pallium as bishop of that city?’ asked Fidelma. ‘After all, they were close as brothers and had come to this place together to be members of the community. And they had undertaken that arduous pilgrimage to the Holy Land together. That must have affected Donnchad.’

Brother Gáeth thrust out his lower lip for a moment. He appeared to give the question some thought and then shook his head slowly.

‘Among the things that he said when he last spoke to me was to curse his brother, calling him a fool and worse.’

Fidelma could not suppress a look of surprise in Eadulf’s direction.

‘Everyone is calling Cathal blessed, that he is one of the saints. Yet you say his own brother called him a fool and cursed him? Why so?’

‘I can only repeat what Donnchad said,’ Brother Gáeth replied stubbornly. ‘That is what he said.’

Fidelma sat back reflectively. ‘You have been most helpful, Brother Gáeth. Thank you for answering our questions.’

Fidelma and Eadulf sat in silence for a few moments after Brother Gáeth had left the refectorium.

‘Well, I had the impression that Brother Gáeth was supposed to be a simpleton,’ Fidelma said. ‘He seems intelligent enough but just constrained by circumstances.’

‘There are a lot of sad people in this world,’ Eadulf commented. ‘Didn’t Horace write, non licet omnibus adire Corinthum — not everyone is permitted to go to Corinth?’ In Horace’s day, Corinth was a centre of entertainment and pleasure that not many people could afford. It had come to mean that circumstances deny people certain achievements.

‘But who altered his circumstances?’ Fidelma wondered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘His father is forced to flee from what, most likely, was an unjust death sentence. Such a sentence is only given to the incorrigibles who will not pay compensation or be rehabilitated. So such a sentence is suspect. He flees from his clan territory and ends his life as a daer-fudir, which involves two generations of bondage. Why did no one among his people take up his cause? Did he not have a friend in the world?’

‘Apparently not,’ said Eadulf. ‘At least we have found the answer to one mystery.’

‘Which is?’

‘Who is providing the funding for the rebuilding of the abbey.’

‘Lady Eithne is committed to the Faith and proud of her sons and their achievements, so that is natural.’

‘What is our next task?’

‘To go to the scriptorium. We must see if we can find out anything more about the missing manuscripts.’

‘So what do we know so far?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Let’s enumerate the facts. You start.’

‘Very well. Brother Donnchad, a well-regarded scholar, returns to this abbey after a pilgrimage, which has made him something of a hero. He starts behaving in a curious manner. He is reported to have some precious manuscripts with him. He becomes reclusive and even tells his soul friend that he does not want to see him. He says he fears that his manuscripts will be stolen and then he fears for his life. He is reported as cursing his brother for a fool and advising his former soul friend to leave the abbey and take to the mountains. A few days later he is found in his cell stabbed to death.’

‘And the curious facts about that are …?’

‘He is stabbed twice in the back but the body is lain on the bed in a position of repose. The door is locked and there is only one key that locks the door and that is found by the body.That poses the question of how did the murderer enter and how did they exit taking, we presume, the manuscripts?’

‘That is so,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Then we have to consider the reason Donnchad gave for requesting a lock on his door with only one key, which you have mentioned. He was fearful someone might rob him of these valuable manuscripts. Yet no one ever saw them …’

‘Except Lady Eithne,’ pointed out Eadulf. ‘Why would she lie?’

‘Therefore we presume that the murderer stole them but how?’

‘And so we shall question the scriptor of this abbey as, if anyone in the abbey knows about such things, it would be the librarian.’

Fidelma rose and turned to the door of the refectorium with Eadulf following. To their surprise they found Abbot Iarnla waiting outside the door for them. He seemed a little self-conscious.

‘How did you get on with Brother Gáeth?’ he asked anxiously.

‘As you thought, he could tell us little,’ Fidelma answered. ‘It seems he has not been in the position of a soul friend since Brother Donnchad’s return.’

‘I thought he would have little to add,’ said the abbot. He stood awkwardly, looking at the ground, as if he wanted to say something more.

‘Brother Gáeth seems to have led a sad life,’ supplied Eadulf when the silence became awkward.

‘Ah.’ Abbot Iarnla looked up and sighed. ‘He told you he was of the daer-fudir?’

‘I was under the impression that once a person passes through the portals of a community, such distinctions no longer existed. A king who abdicates to enter an abbey is regarded as being on the same level as a céile, a free clansman, or a daer-fudir. There is no difference in class between them.’

‘Not exactly so, Brother Eadulf,’ returned the abbot. ‘Fidelmawill confirm this. An abbey comes under the patronage of nobles and the kings, who present the community with the land on which they build. It cannot be alienated and if the community seek to dispense with it, they can only do so with the permission of the noble or king who granted it to them. In this, as in all things, they are subject to the Law of the Fénechus and the judgement of the Brehons.’

‘Yet there is a new movement developing,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘The adoption of Roman ideas, where communities take the land in full ownership and are bound by the Penitentials rather than our own law. Abbots often regard themselves as powerful as kings within these communities.’

Abbot Iarnla flushed. ‘My abbey obeys the laws of this kingdom, Sister, in spite of …’ He was obviously about to say ‘Brother Lugna’s rules’ but he stopped himself. ‘You may assure your brother, the King, of that fact. When Brother Gáeth entered this community, he was released into our charge by the Lady Eithne as a daer-fudir. She said that the initial judgement came from the Uí Liatháin and it must stand; that was the condition. Only Gáeth’s death will absolve him from the liability that his father placed on him.’

‘Or by dispensation of the abbot,’ pointed out Fidelma.

‘Who can only act with the approval of the lord of the territory. ’

‘Doesn’t Brother Gáeth resent the fact that he continues to be condemned by Lady Eithne and yourself?’ asked Eadulf.

‘He told you that?’ asked the abbot sharply, for the first time showing anger.

Fidelma shook her head. ‘We detected a certain resentment but he did not say so outwardly. I think he may have hoped that his life would change when he entered the abbey, as it has for so many others.’

‘You were told his story? How his father Selbach slew a chiefof the Uí Liatháin and how he fled to Lord Eochaid of An Dún from whom we received this land?’

‘He told us.’

‘The Lady Eithne, the widow of Eochaid, allowed him to come here at the earnest request of her son Donnchad, but the law still applies. I have tried to treat him with understanding as I would any other brother here, but clearly he continues to feel resentful.’

‘Can you expect any other attitude given the circumstances?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘I suppose not,’ Abbot Iarnla reluctantly agreed.

‘And you say you cannot change his status because of Lady Eithne.’

‘She will not discuss it.’

‘Couldn’t a daer-fudir be given work other than digging the fields and similar drudgery? He seems sensitive enough.’

‘Sensitivity is not education.’

‘He says that he reads and writes and has some Latin.’

‘We have tested him and, alas, he is not proficient enough to undertake anything more responsible.’

‘Have you given him an opportunity to improve his ability?’

Abbot Iarnla nodded. ‘We are not insensitive ourselves, Fidelma. Indeed, we have tried. He has reached the level that we expect in a young boy. His ability to read is impaired. Beyond a simple level, he does not proceed. He used to get frustrated. Sometimes he threw tantrums like any child would. Brother Donnchad used to be able to calm him.’

‘He did tell us that Brother Donnchad taught him his basic reading and writing,’ said Eadulf.

‘You must have been worried that Brother Donnchad determined on Gáeth as a soul friend,’ Fidelma remarked.

‘It did seem strange that a man as intelligent and scholarly as Donnchad would insist on such a person as his spiritualguide,’ admitted the abbot. ‘But then they had been boys together and playmates. But I saw no benefits in Gáeth being able to give spiritual guidance to Donnchad.’

‘It seems a curious relationship. Did Cathal ever enter it?’

‘Cathal was older than Donnchad and did not have much to do with Gáeth.’

‘What happened when Cathal and Donnchad left on their pilgrimage to the Holy Land?’

‘What happened?’ The abbot did not understand.

‘What was Brother Gáeth’s reaction at the loss of his friend Donnchad? How was Gáeth managed if he had tantrums that could only be calmed by Brother Donnchad?’

‘Ah, I see. Certainly we had some trouble with him. He continued moody and uncommunicative. Once or twice I even thought he might try to abscond from the community. But Gáeth has been constrained by the law and by tradition most of his life, and in the event he knew he could not break with it.’

‘You mean he just accepted the legal obligations of being a daer-fudir?’ Eadulf asked incredulously.

‘I think he knew his place in the scheme of things.’

Eadulf was about to say something else when he caught a warning glance from Fidelma.

‘I am interested, Abbot Iarnla, as to why you seemed concerned that we should talk to Brother Gáeth,’ she said.

Once more, Abbot Iarnla became embarrassed. ‘I wanted you to have a chance to meet and discuss matters with Brother Gáeth.’

‘And now that we have?’ demanded Fidelma sharply, when he hesitated again.

‘Now that you have, did he mention when he last saw Brother Donnchad?’

Fidelma saw that there was some meaning behind the question.

‘He said it was two or three days before Donnchad’s death,’ Eadulf answered.

‘Then he did not tell you the truth. It was the day before Brother Donnchad died,’ said the abbot. ‘I saw him hurrying away from Donnchad’s cell. Brother Lugna wanted to start allocating the accommodation to some of our senior clerics here and I felt that I should inspect them. I was in the next cubiculum but one to Brother Donnchad’s when I heard his door open. I heard Brother Donnchad’s voice say, “I rely on you, Gáeth.” Then I heard Gáeth exit into the passage.’

‘Did Brother Gáeth reply?’ asked Eadulf.

‘He did. He said, “It shall be put in the place of the dead. Have no fear. It will be just as you say.” Then I heard the door close and the key turn.’

‘It shall be put in the place of the dead?’ repeated Fidelma. ‘Did you confront Brother Gáeth?’

Abbot Iarnla shook his head. ‘I did not. As I said, Brother Donnchad shut the door and I heard Gáeth walking past the cell door where I was. When he had passed by I peered out and saw him heading towards the stairs. There is a window overlooking the quadrangle and so I went and leaned out to watch him come out of the building below. He was putting something under his cloak, for he was wearing one.’

‘Something? What sort of something?’

Abbot Iarnla shrugged. ‘I suppose it could have been anything. I had the impression it was a scroll.’

‘What sort of a scroll?’

‘It might have been a parchment.’

‘I wish you had told me this before we spoke to him. I might have been able to draw him out on this matter,’ Fidelma said irritably.

‘I had hoped that he would volunteer the truth rather than have to be confronted by it. One thing is certain, if BrotherDonnchad entrusted Gáeth to undertake this task for him, then we must assume there must still have been some friendship between them,’ the abbot concluded.

‘Perhaps,’ replied Fidelma. ‘This place of the dead that Gáeth mentioned, was it a relec, a graveyard, or was it an otharlige, a specific sepulchre? His exact words might give a clue as to where he was going to bury this object with which Donnchad had entrusted him.’

Abbot Iarnla brightened. ‘You are right, Fidelma. I had not thought of that. Gáeth chose an unusual word. He said dindgna.’

‘That is a mound, a small elevation,’ Fidelma translated. ‘The mound of the dead? Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Not at all. Our cemetery to the east, where Donnchad himself is now buried, is a low-lying flatland surrounded by trees. But our chapel was originally built on a mound because our founder wanted it to overlook the community. The only people buried there are our founder, Mo-Chuada, and his successor, Abbot Cuanan. No one else.’

‘I will not pursue this matter with Brother Gáeth for the moment, for I need to gather a few more facts,’ Fidelma said. ‘It shall remain a secret between us.’

‘You are a discerning person, Fidelma of Cashel. I know that. Otherwise I would not have invited you here to investigate this case.’ The abbot fidgeted, as if trying to formulate words to express what was on his mind, ‘You said that you detected some resentment in Gáeth. Now that you know he has lied to you about the last time he saw Brother Donnchad, what do you think?’

‘I think you should tell me what is on your mind,’ prompted Fidelma.

‘While Brother Donnchad was in this community, he seemed to exercise a control over Gáeth that calmed him and made him at peace with his lot in the scheme of things.

‘And when Brother Donnchad was due to set out on hispilgrimage, Gáeth at first wanted to accompany him and his brother Cathal. That concerned me and it was explained that such a thing was not possible.’

‘What reason did you give?’

Abbot Iarnla shrugged. ‘Simple enough. Cathal was against it and so was Lady Eithne.’

‘Since when does Lady Eithne pronounce rules for this community to obey?’ queried Eadulf.

Abbot Iarnla looked uncomfortable. ‘I have already explained to you that this land is under her jurisdiction according to the law of the Fénechus.’

‘We appreciate that. And this accounts for her control?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Under the law and with the judgement of the Brehons,’ confirmed the abbot patiently. ‘On the matter of the pilgrimage, Cathal probably made his views known to his mother and she made her views known to me. Gáeth was to remain here in the abbey while Cathal and Donnchad proceeded on their pilgrimage. Gáeth was not happy to see his lifetime’s friend and companion leave, especially in view of the fact that Donnchad was the only person among the brethren who seemed to have time to sit down and talk to him.’

‘But then Donnchad returned.’

‘Donnchad returned,’ sighed the abbot. ‘But not the same Donnchad who left, as has been explained to you. Can you imagine what his rejection of his former soul friend meant to Gáeth?’

There was a silence.

‘I once knew a man,’ said Eadulf suddenly in a reflective tone. ‘He had a dog whom he petted and fussed over. The dog went everywhere with him, even slept on his bed. Then the man met a woman. They married. The dog was no longer important and was chased out of the bedroom and when it whined andhowled, it was chased from the house. When it continued to whine and howl, the man chased it from the village, throwing stones at it. As he did so, the dog, angered by the rejection and hurt by the flying stones, leapt for the man and bit him in the throat. The man died.’ Eadulf regarded the abbot expectantly. Finally Abbot Iarnla stirred.

‘You must draw your own conclusions,’ he said. ‘I am just recounting the facts. I will see you in the refectorium this evening.’

They watched him walk away and then Fidelma turned to Eadulf. ‘I cannot see Gáeth having the ability to carry out this killing. The lock, the manuscripts … no. It is too complicated.’

Eadulf pulled a face. ‘But the motive is there. Gáeth could have killed Donnchad in resentment and retaliation for his rejection. It’s a logical suggestion.’

Fidelma shook her head but did not answer.