Chalice of Blood

CHAPTER EIGHT

The tech-screptra, or scriptorium, was a large wooden structure located next to a muddy area from which a new stone building was rising. Several men were at work on the site, some carrying stones, others sawing and nailing wood. There was no sign of Glassán, the master builder, but they presumed that he would be somewhere in the construction. The wooden scriptorium was the most imposing of the old buildings in the abbey complex. It was imposing not because of its size but in its design. It was an oblong two storeys high, with a frame of large oak timbers and covered with red yew planking decorated with intricate carvings of symbols and icons.

As they entered through large double oak doors, the first impression was of one great room that rose up to a high vaulted ceiling. The second floor, accessible by steep stairs at both ends of the room, was a gallery that ran round the building halfway up. The walls of the library were entirely covered by pels, or racks, from which hung tiaga lebar, leather book satchels. Each satchel contained one or more manuscripts, whose titles were labelled on the outside. The satchels were also used to carry books, especially by missionaries on their travels. They were regarded with great veneration. It was famously told that when Longarad of Sliabh Mairge, a friend of Colmcille and the mosteminent scholar of his age, died, the book satchels of Ireland fell down from their racks.

At the far end of the scriptorium, underneath two large windows that were designed to let in as much light as possible, were six desks. Each had an elaborately edged flat top placed on a carved wooden plinth shaped like a tripod. Six young members of the brethren were bent over books placed on these. One hand used a maulstick to support their wrists while they wrote industriously with the other.

A fleshy-faced man who had been overseeing one of the busy scribes looked up and saw them. He came waddling towards them, for he was overweight and moved awkwardly. His heavy flushed jowls seemed to move of their own accord but there was a friendly smile on his features.

‘Sister Fidelma! You are most welcome. Welcome. As soon as I heard you were in the abbey, I knew that you would come to visit me before long.’

Fidelma held out both hands to take the fat man’s great paw between them.

‘Brother Donnán, it is good to see you again.’

The man beamed happily at her remembrance of him. ‘It is some years since you were here last and then sitting in judgement in the court …’ he began.

‘And you were my clerk and helped to keep the court in order,’ responded Fidelma. She turned to Eadulf. ‘Brother Donnán is the leabhar coimedach here,’ she said, using the Irish term. ‘This is Eadulf.’

‘Greetings, Brother Eadulf.’ Brother Donnán smiled. ‘I am called the scriptor these days. Brother Lugna, our steward, prefers us to use the Roman titles rather than our own Irish ones.’ He suddenly chuckled. ‘Yet he finds it difficult to get people to call him Œconomus instead of rechtaire.’

‘Brother Lugna is the only senior member of the community I have seen here with a Roman tonsure,’ Fidelma remarked.

‘That is true,’ agreed Brother Donnán. ‘And true again that our rechtaire is keen to adopt the ideas agreed at the councils at Streonshalh and at Autun. He wants the abbey to bring in Roman usage and the Rule of Benedict. He has already brought in several new rules.’

‘And what does the community say?’

‘We elect to follow our own liturgy. But Brother Lugna, as steward, makes small changes here and there, such as our titles of office. These changes can be tolerated. But he has begun to discourage the old concepts of the conhospitae. He is one of the aesthetes that favours celibacy.’

‘I had noticed that there were few women in your community now,’ murmured Fidelma.

‘Indeed, and they will not be here long for already arrangements have been made for them to move. This idea of celibacy among us seems to be spreading quickly now.’

‘Brother Lugna appears very involved in the proposals to rebuild the abbey.’

‘Indeed, he is. When he arrived here he was always boasting of the great stone buildings he had seen in Rome. He felt that this abbey should be built in their image.’

‘But I thought it was Lady Eithne’s idea as a tribute to her sons. Are you saying that it was Brother Lugna who persuaded Lady Eithne to rebuild the abbey?’

‘Brother Lugna is a strong personality and no doubt when Abbot Iarnla is taken to the heavenly pasture, Brother Lugna will be his succesor,’ replied Brother Donnán glumly. ‘At that time, I have no doubt that as abbot he will introduce the Penitentials and Benedictine Rule. Let us pray that Abbot Iarnla may have a long life before him.’

‘I suspect that you do not approve of Brother Lugna?’ Eadulf remarked with humour. ‘Do I detect that your steward is not entirely popular?’

The fat librarian grinned. ‘You have a keen eye, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied.

‘Brother Lugna can only enforce his changes if he is elected abbot and the community approve the changes,’ pointed out Fidelma more seriously. This was the custom of all the abbeys and of the native churches. Abbots were chosen and elected in the same way that chieftains and kings were chosen. In the abbeys the community were considered the family of the abbot and therefore it was the derbhfine, the electoral college, who chose and endorsed his successor.

‘True enough, Sister,’ agreed the scriptor. ‘But, as I say, let us hope that the day when Abbot Iarnla stands down as abbot is a long way ahead of us. But enough gossip. I am sure you have come to speak to me about the death of poor Brother Donnchad. How may I serve you?’

‘I am sure that you must have known him well,’ said Fidelma. ‘His reputation as a scholar was well known.’

‘I thought I knew him well enough. I joined the community shortly after he and his brother Cathal did. Both of them spent most of their time in our scriptorium, as did I.’ He gestured with his podgy hand around the hall. ‘They were both scholars of considerable merit. And a great asset to the reputation of this library.’

‘You certainly have a magnificent library, Brother Donnán,’ agreed Eadulf.

The fat librarian seemed to appreciate the praise. ‘We have a great many books here,’ he said with satisfaction. Then his expression changed into one of seriousness. ‘But it is not for books that you have come here.’

‘Would you know Brother Donnchad’s handwriting?’ Fidelma asked.

The scriptor nodded. ‘I believe I would. He wrote with a distinctive style.’

Fidelma produced the scrap of parchment they had found below Donnchad’s window.

‘Si vis transfer calicem istrum a me … Deicide! Deicide! Deicide!’ muttered Brother Donnán as he studied the text.

‘Is that his hand?’ pressed Fidelma.

‘It is not much of a sample by which to judge,’ he said. Then he glanced at it again and shook his head. ‘I would say that Brother Donnchad did not write this.’

‘What subjects was he interested in?’

‘Arguments on philosophical matters mostly. But that was before he left on his pilgrimage.’

‘Did he continue to research here after he returned from his pilgrimage?’

The scriptor shook his head immediately. ‘He did request parchment, ink and quills and I provided him with what he wanted. Such writing materials are getting expensive these days,’ he added.

‘And where are his writings now?’

‘I had assumed they would be in his room but I have heard a rumour that there was nothing there.’

‘Did he leave anything in the library, anything at all?’

‘He lodged several of his early works here as well as copies he made of other scholars’ work. He was a good copyist and his own commentaries were excellent. But that was, of course, before he went on his pilgrimage and I suspect you are more interested in the period following his return.’

‘Your suspicion is correct, Brother Donnán.’

‘Well, he came here several times. I think he was checking references in other works. But I never heard of anything he was writing.’

‘Some libraries keep a record of what books their scholars examine,’ Eadulf said. ‘Do you?’

Brother Donnán glanced towards a desk in the corner. ‘I pride myself on the way I run this library. I do keep a list of the items that members of the brethren ask for in the library.’ He smiled briefly.

‘So what manner of manuscripts was Brother Donnchad interested in?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Works on the philosophy of the Faith mainly, particularly the works of the founding fathers.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

Brother Donnán hesitated, thinking, before he said, ‘He asked to see the works of Origenes.’

‘Origenes?’ Eadulf frowned.

‘A Greek from Alexandria who was one of the great early theologians of the Faith,’ explained Brother Donnán. ‘He lived many centuries ago. He was nicknamed Adamantios — the unbreakable one.’

‘And do you have copies of his works here?’ Fidelma asked.

The scriptor smiled. ‘Not everything of his, I grant you, lady. But we have some of his important works such as On First Principles, some of his many commentaries on the books of the Bible, essays on prayer and on martyrdom …’

‘Do you remember what work Brother Donnchad was particularly interested in?’

Brother Donnán shrugged. ‘Not offhand.’

Eadulf glanced across to the desk in the corner. ‘Then perhaps your lists will provide an answer,’ he suggested, moving towards it.

Brother Donnán hurried forward to the large side table on which a ledger rested. Near the table was a member of the brethren deep in study of one of the manuscript books. He looked up as they approached and smiled briefly. It was the bruigad,the keeper of the guesthouse, Brother Máel Eoin. They exchanged a smile of recognition before he returned to the work he was reading. Brother Donnán started to turn the pages of the ledger. Fidelma and Eadulf peered over his shoulders. The pages consisted of lists given under various names. The scriptor halted at a page headed with Donnchad’s name and began running his finger quickly down the list.

‘Origenes,’ Fidelma said sharply. ‘You ran past the name, Brother Donnán. See there? It says Origenes, eight books entitled Contra Celsum, and you have marked it as a specific request. Isn’t that date only a few days before Brother Donnchad was killed?’

The scriptor flushed, apparently embarrassed at nearly missing the entry. ‘Indeed, I believe it was a week before he died.’

‘Contra Celsum? What is that?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Arguments against Celsus; he was a pagan writer.’

‘I have to admit, Brother Donnán, that I have never heard of Celsus.’

‘Better that no one hears of him,’ replied the scriptor in disapproval. ‘He was a great opponent of the True Faith. However, Origenes pointed out the error of his ways so that people could see his arguments were false.’

‘And do you have this work here?’ asked Fidelma.

Brother Donnán shook his head indignantly. ‘How can you ask if we have the work of Celsus, a pagan, in a Christian library, Sister? For shame.’

‘I meant the work of Origenes, the work that Brother Donnchad requested.’ Fidelma chose not to point out that most libraries were filled with the works of Greeks and Latins who had lived long before the coming of the Faith.

‘We do — or rather we did. The abbey at Ard Mór requested that we lend them the copy. We frequently exchange books with them. As soon as Brother Donnchad had finished with it, wesent it to the abbey of Ard Mór with someone who was making the journey there.’

‘I wonder why Brother Donnchad would be interested in reading the arguments of Origenes against Celsus?’ She posed the question rhetorically, not expecting an answer.

‘Little is known about Celsus except that he was probably a Greek who lived during the reign of the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius.’ The scriptor seem to pride himself on his knowledge of his books and he liked to share it. ‘That is, he lived about two centuries after the birth of the Christ. His main work was called Alethos Logos, which is Greek for The True Word, and he showed himself to be an implacable opponent of the Christians. He tried to ridicule Christians for what he claimed was their advocacy of blind faith instead of reason.’

Fidelma stirred uncomfortably. In the many years that she had served both the law of the Fénechus as well as the Faith, she had always been uncomfortable when her questions could not be answered. On every difficult question she was told one simply had to have faith; one had to believe and not question the belief. She wondered what Origenes had argued if Celsus had brought up similar questions.

‘And what do you know of the book Contra Celsum?’

‘I have not read it.’

‘A pity,’ sighed Eadulf. ‘And you never had a copy of Celsus’s original work? If you had the refutation, it surely would be logical to have a copy of what it refuted.’

‘Brother Donnchad made the very same point,’ replied Brother Donnán. ‘As I have said, our library is filled only with books by the faithful. Indeed, Brother Lugna now insists on obedience to this rule. I was told to discard the works of any that are critical of the Faith.’

‘Sometimes one learns and receives strength by studyingthe arguments of those of contrary opinion,’ Fidelma said. ‘Do we know what matters Celsus raised that needed to be refuted?’

‘The important thing is that we know he was wrong,’ said Brother Donnán with a pious air.

‘But how do we know that?’ asked Fidelma.

Brother Donnán looked shocked. ‘Because Origenes tells us it is so.’

Fidelma sighed softly but did not bother to pursue the argument.

‘Did Brother Donnchad mention why he was researching this work?’

‘He was never much of a conversationalist, unlike his brother Cathal. Cathal was always the talkative one but Donnchad was very introspective, and preferred his own company or that of the simpleton.’

‘Simpleton?’ Eadulf’s tone was sharp.

‘Brother Gáeth,’ the scriptor said, unabashed. ‘He is a field worker who can barely write his own name. You will meet him no doubt and will be able to judge for yourself.’

Fidelma shot a warning glance at Eadulf who was obviously about to admit to their discussion with Brother Gáeth.

‘But he was Brother Donnchad’s anam chara,’ she pointed out.

‘That was before he went on his pilgrimage,’ replied the scriptor. ‘Anyway, Brother Donnchad had no need of such a soul friend.’

‘Do you know if the brethren ever discussed why Brother Donnchad became reclusive?’ she asked, ignoring the remark.

Brother Donnán hesitated before lifting one shoulder and letting it fall to signal his lack of knowledge. ‘I do not listen to gossip.’

‘Yet sometimes gossip leads to truth,’ Fidelma encouraged.

‘I would not know,’ the scriptor replied. Then, realising they were waiting for him to make some further reply to the question,he added, ‘Some said that he was not right in the mind because of the hardships encountered on his journey. Others opined that he felt abandoned by his elder brother Cathal because he remained behind, having been offered the pallium of some foreign city.’

‘But what did you think?’

Brother Donnán was reflective. ‘To be truthful, I thought he had become a little crazy.’

‘In what way?’

‘He became furtive, secretive, felt people were hatching plots against him or about to rob him of things. I heard that he demanded a lock to the door of his cubiculum — a lock and key!’ The scriptor raised his arms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Now I realise that perhaps he wasn’t so crazy after all because of the manner of his death. But I thought at the time that his fears were part of his dementia.’

‘As you say, now that he has been murdered, perhaps he wasn’t so crazy,’ Eadulf commented.

The scriptor remained silent.

‘We are told that he brought back manuscripts from his travels and other artefacts,’ said Fidelma. ‘Precious manuscripts.’

Brother Donnán smiled and turned to her eagerly. ‘I was looking forward to seeing them. I heard there were some valuable manuscripts which our library could take a pride in owning.’

‘But you have not seen them?’

‘Brother Donnchad, as I have said, was scared of someone stealing them and so kept them in his cubiculum.’

‘So he did not deposit any of his manuscripts with the library?’

Brother Donnán shook his head. ‘Not since his return from the pilgrimage.’

‘And the artefacts,’ Eadulf said. ‘Who were they given to?’

‘He brought back a sliver of the True Cross, of course. That is now in the recess of the altar in our chapel.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I think he brought some gifts for his mother Lady Eithne. One was a lovely ornate cross from the east. The jewels are magnificent. When he presented them at the fortress …’ The scriptor suddenly hesitated.

‘You were there?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘I have visited several times to take manuscripts to Lady Eithne,’ admitted the librarian.

‘Brother Donnchad used to visit his mother, then?’

‘Her fortress is not far from here. You passed it on the road that crosses The Great River before you turn along it westward to the abbey.’

‘I know it,’ said Fidelma quickly. ‘So you saw him recently at his mother’s fortress?’

Brother Donnán shook his head. ‘He went to pay his respects to his mother the day after he arrived back. That was early summer. I think he spent several days with her before returning to the abbey. It was a coincidence that I was there at the time.’

‘He was not there more recently?’

‘Not that I know of. I often take books to the fortress.’

‘Did you know that his mother was sent for when it became clear that all was not well with him?’

‘It is now well known among the brethren,’ Brother Donnán said. ‘The master builder, Glassán, told me. He spoke to Lady Eithne when she was leaving the abbey just a few days before he was found murdered. Glassán is a talkative fellow.’

‘Well,’ Fidelma said, after a moment’s further thought, ‘that seems to be all …’ Then she hesitated. ‘One thing does strike me. Do you know of any library that holds the original work of Celsus? Have you ever heard of any library holding such a work?’

Brother Donnán thought deeply before replying: ‘Never.’

‘So Brother Donnchad visited the scriptorium to read some works but you knew nothing of what he was working on apart from the fact that he spent long hours over the text of Origenes. Is that correct?’

‘It is.’

‘But you knew he was behaving oddly in the days before his death.’

‘I have already said it was well known among the brethren. He was always very quiet-’

‘Except that last day he was in here, a day or so before his death.’

They looked round. Brother Máel Eoin had risen from the table, where he had been reading, to put away his text and had overheard Brother Donnán’s last remark. Fidelma turned to him with interest.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was in here that day. You must remember, Brother Donnán,’ the hospitaller said. ‘I like to come, when time permits, and read some of the hagiographies of the saints that we have here.’

‘Go on,’ said Fidelma. ‘What happened?’

‘Well, Brother Donnchad came in. It struck me that he was behaving very out of character. I don’t mean his reclusive change since he returned to the abbey. Not at all. He came roaring into the library.’

‘Roaring?’ For a moment Eadulf had to think about the word that the hospitaller had used. The word was bláedach and not one that Eadulf had heard used of a person before.

‘He was in an angry temper, shouting, his face red. He had mislaid something and was convinced that it had been stolen from him. Don’t you remember, Brother Donnán?’

‘Stolen?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘What was it? A manuscript?’

‘Not as such,’ replied the librarian, entering the conversation for the first time since Brother Máel Eoin’s interruption. ‘It was his pólaire. I had forgotten the incident.’

Eadulf looked blank. ‘A pólaire?’

‘In Latin it is called a ceraculum, from the word for wax,’ explained the scriptor pedantically.

Brother Máel Eoin nodded. ‘Just so. It is a wooden writing tablet whose surface is hollowed out and filled with wax so that one can write on it, making temporary notes. You can re-warm the wax, smooth it out, and re-use it.’

‘And he had lost his?’ Fidelma asked.

‘Indeed. He claimed that it had been stolen from him. I denied all knowledge of seeing it, which was only the truth. He had not left it in the library.’

‘And you told him that?’ asked Fidelma.

‘I did. I had seen him looking at it several times during his former visits here. He was making notes from the Origenes book. But I swear he had taken it with him. I am sure of it.’

‘He went away, but still in a great temper,’ confirmed Brother Donnán. ‘That was the last time ever I saw him.’

‘Let me be clear about this,’ Fidelma said. ‘This incident happened when exactly?’

‘On the day of his death. I am sure of it,’ the hospitaller confirmed.

Fidelma glanced at the scriptor.

‘I suppose it was that day,’ he affirmed after a moment.

‘Had he not been away from the abbey the entire day before?’

‘You are correct, Sister,’ Brother Máel Eoin said. ‘He had, indeed. He might well have left it wherever it was that he went.’

‘You have no idea where he went?’

The hospitaller shook his head.

‘Perhaps he went to visit his mother again,’ offered the librarian.

‘Very well, Brother Donnán,’ Fidelma nodded. ‘Thank you for your information. And thanks also to you, Brother Máel Eoin. You have both been most helpful.’