Master of Souls

CHAPTER TWO

I t was still dark when Abbot Erc left his warm chamber in the great abbey of Ard Fhearta, throwing his woollen cloak around his bent shoulders, to make his way through the vallium monasterii. It was still dark although he could see that the clouds were low in the sky and the rain was fine like an icy spray against his face. The winter sun would not rise for several hours yet but the community of the abbey would soon be waking to the tolling of the bell that announced the start of a new day. For the ageing abbot this was a special day, for it was the feast of the Blessed Ite, ‘the bright sun of the women of Muman’, who had fostered and taught Breanainn, the founder of Ard Fhearta. Today, special prayers would be offered in the tiny oratory where, it was said, Breanainn had first read the principal triad of Ite’s teachings to those men and women whom he had called together at this place. He had exhorted them, as Ite had, to have a pure heart, live a simple life, and be generous with their love. Since then the community had lived as a conhospitae, a mixed community, men and women working together in the service of the New Faith.

Abbot Erc paused for a moment outside the small, stone-built aireagal — the house of prayer, as it was called, although many of the brethren preferred to use the Latin term oraculum. Then he pushed open the wooden door and stood for a moment in the utter darkness of the interior. He was surprised that there was no light inside and his immediate reaction was irritation. It was the task of the rechtaire, the steward of the community, to ensure that a lamp was always lit in the aireagal. He had also expected the Venerable Cinaed to be waiting for him so that together they could bless the oratory and light the altar candles ready for the morning prayers.

He turned and looked back through the gloom and misty rain towards the darkened buildings of the abbey behind him.

There was no sign indicating that the Venerable Cinaed was on his way. That was unlike the abbey’s oldest scholar. Cinaed was reputed to be so old that many of the younger religious felt he must surely have known Breanainn himself. The truth was that Cinaed had, indeed, known some older members of the abbey who had, in turn, known the blessed founder. He had been at Ard Fhearta longer than anyone else and when Erc had been elected by the community to be abbot here, he had been worried by the thought that it was a position which Cinaed should rightfully hold. But Cinaed was content to confine himself to his cell with his manuscripts and writing materials and indulge in his scholastic pursuits. He occasionally taught the young ones in the arts of calligraphy and composition. More important, while the Venerable Cinaed was a religieux he was not ordained into the priesthood and showed no inclination to be so. However, it was a tradition that as the oldest member of the community he should assist in the ceremony of blessing the oratory on Ite’s feast day.

Abbot Erc paused for a moment or two longer and then turned to the shelf by the door on which he knew a tallow candle stood. A tinderbox reposed close by. He reached out, feeling rather than seeing in the gloom, and with a practice born of long years he was able, after a few minutes, to ignite the shavings to produce a flame for the candle.

Feeling a little calmer, he moved forward into the aireagal and came to a halt before the altar.

Awkwardly, he lowered himself to his knees, placed the spluttering candle before him, and stretched out his arms to make a symbolic crucifix form with his body in order to intone the cros-figill, the Cross prayer before the altar.

He was about to start the ritual when he noticed something on the flagstones just before him. He frowned and reached forward. It was a bronze crotal, a closed bell: a pear-shaped metal form in which was a loose metal ball, which created the musical tone. As he picked it up, he realised that its surface was wet… sticky wet. He drew his hand away and looked at it in the light of the candle. The sticky substance was blood.

Abbot Erc reached for the candle and clambered to his feet, peering round in the gloom. The aireagal was clearly empty, unless… He looked at the altar and noticed the dark stains before it.

‘Is there anyone there?’ Abbot Erc’s nervous question came out as a croak. He cleared his throat. ‘In the name of God, is there anyone there?’ he called in a stronger tone.

There was no reply.

He moved forward. The altar was a solid block of limestone, carved with the names of the Sanctissimus Ordo, the first holy saints of Eireann. He edged round it, holding the candle high.

The body was stretched on its back with its hands above the head as if someone had dragged it behind the altar by the outstretched arms. There was blood all over the skull, matting the white hair, and it was obvious that someone had used some heavy cudgel to batter the head.

The abbot let out a low moan.

‘Oh, my God! Not again! Not again!’

Abbot Erc had recognised the corpse immediately. It was the Venerable Cinaed.

The rechtaire was so excited that he quite forgot to knock on the door of Abbot Erc’s chamber. He burst in, causing the grey-haired abbot to glance up from his chair as he sat before the blazing fire. He frowned with annoyance towards the youthful, fresh-faced steward.

‘They have arrived,’ cried Brother Cu Mara. Before the abbot could reprimand him, he went on, ‘They have been seen approaching the abbey. The lord Conri rides at their head. I will go and greet them at the gates.’

Before Abbot Erc could say a word in reply, the young steward, seeming to forget all sense of place and protocol in his excitement, turned and hurried off, leaving the chamber door open and a draught whistling through.

The abbot put down the goblet of wine he had been sipping and rose to his feet. He shuffled to the door, paused a moment and then, with a sigh, shrugged and closed it.

Although he kept a passive expression on his features, he had to admit that he shared something of the steward’s excitement. It had been ten days since he had asked Conri, warlord of the Ui Fidgente, for help. Last month, six young female members of the community had left the abbey with Abbess Faife. They had only been gone a few days when Mugron, a merchant who was well known at Ard Fhearta, had arrived at the abbey with horrifying news. He had found the body of Abbess Faife near the roadside south of the Sliabh Mis mountains. There had been no sign of her six companions. By coincidence, Abbess Faife’s nephew, Conri, the warlord of the Ui Fidgente, was visiting the abbey at the time. Having recovered the body of the abbess and attended the rituals of burial, Conri dalaigh, who could solve such a mystery as that now facing them. He had left the abbey with two warriors, promising to find the dalaigh and return to the abbey as soon as possible.

And now Conri was returning. But in the meantime a second tragic mystery had occurred: the murder of the Venerable Cinaed.

Abbot Erc shivered slightly as he remembered finding the Venerable Cinaed’s body in the oratory. God! What evil cursed the great abbey that such things could happen? The abbot stared moodily into the fire and wondered what manner of person it was whom Conri was bringing to his abbey to resolve these mysteries and in whom he had so much faith.

Conri, King of Wolves, warlord of the Ui Fidgente, paused on the brow of the hill and patted the neck of his bay stallion. He was tall and well-muscled, with a shock of black hair, grey eyes and the livid white of a scar across his left cheek. In spite of that, he was a handsome young man whose humour was especially marked when he smiled. It was the smile that changed the haughtiness of his expression into a look of boyish mischievous fun. He turned to his companions and pointed north-westward across the plain.

‘There is the great abbey of Ard Fhearta, lady.’

His companions were a red-haired religieuse and a stocky man wearing the tonsure of St Peter. Behind them rode two young but dour-looking warriors. The woman and her companion edged their horses close to Conri and followed the line of his outstretched arm.

‘Well, Conri, our journey has not been long from Cashel,’ observed the woman.

‘It is as I promised,’ agreed the young warrior. ‘I am only sorry that I felt no other choice was left to me but to ask you to come here to help us.’

The religieuse’s companion grimaced sceptically. ‘Since you put your case so well, Conri, how could we refuse you?’

Conri glanced suspiciously at him.

‘I have no eloquence, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied shortly. ‘I think the lady Fidelma was persuaded by the strangeness of the facts.’

Brother Eadulf was about to make some rejoinder when Sister Fidelma held up a hand and put her head slightly to one side.

‘Listen! What is that noise?’

There came to their ears a faint rhythmic sound like the distant pounding of a drum. It seemed to have a slow but regular beat.

‘Have you never been in this corner of Muman, lady?’ asked Conri. He always addressed Fidelma by her rank as sister to Colgu, king of Muman, rather than her religious title.

‘I have not crossed beyond the Sliabh Luachra, the mountain barrier that divides us from the heartland of the Ui Fidgente,’ she replied. Then she grinned mischievously, adding, ‘For obvious reasons, as you will appreciate, Conri.’

It was not so long ago that the Ui Fidgente chieftains had led their people into a futile war to overthrow her brother, newly placed upon the throne at Cashel. The Ui Fidgente had been defeated at Cnoc Aine scarcely two years ago. Out of their defeat, young Conri had been elected as the new warlord, and he had proved his diplomatic skills by forging an alliance with Cashel on behalf of the new chief Donennach.

‘I thought these lands belonged to the Ciarraige Luachra, not the Ui Fidgente?’ Brother Eadulf was snappish. He had disapproved of this journey from the start. However, he had decided to do some research in the library of Cashel before they had set off.

Conri did not lose his good humour.

‘Two generations ago, our chieftain Oengus mac Nechtain brought the Ciarraige Luachra into our territory. But you are right, Brother Eadulf, the main Ui Fidgente territory is more to the north-east.’

‘So what is the sound we hear?’ Fidelma demanded, reverting to the unanswered question that she had posed.

‘That is the sound of the sea. We are scarcely six kilometres from it.’

‘I have been closer to seashores before and not heard such a noise.’

‘Before the abbey, beyond those hills, is a wide sandy shore which runs south to north some eleven or twelve kilometres. We call it Banna Strand, the sandy seashore of the peaks. The sea is so very high and tempestuous here, even on the calmest days, and its rollers are so thunderous, that you might feel as if the earth is trembling as you get nearer. The winds that whip off the sea are fierce at times and produce a good robust air by which the people here prosper in health, or so I have been told by the apothecaries.’

Brother Eadulf viewed the scene before him with critical eyes.

‘It does not seem that the trees prosper,’ he observed. ‘Those that are

Not for the first time, during the two days of their journey from Cashel, Fidelma shot Eadulf a glance of disapproval at his carping tone. Then she turned back to the vista that stretched before them.

The abbey, its buildings enclosed by a circular defensive wall like most of the monastic settlements in these parts, was built on the crown of a hill. Round the bottom of the hill a river meandered its way to the sea. Eadulf could see a number of fortified homesteads and farms dotted here and there across the valley and reminded himself that until recently the Ui Fidgente had been a very martial people. There seemed to be no clusters of buildings immediately outside the walls of the abbey, which unlike some of the great monasteries was clearly not used as a centre of habitation.

Conri was at pains to point out the number of holy wells in the vicinity, the standing stones and thriving farmsteads. ‘Ard Fhearta is over a hundred years old,’ he told them, and there was pride in his voice. ‘It was built by the great Breanainn-’

‘Of the Ciarraige Luachra,’ Brother Eadulf could not help but interpose. ‘I have read the story.’

‘The name Ard Fhearta means “height of the graveyard”, doesn’t it?’ Fidelma mused, ignoring him. ‘So the abbey is built on the site of an old pagan burial ground?’

‘As are many abbey foundations and churches of our new Faith,’ agreed Conri. ‘I am told by Abbot Erc that the purpose of doing so is to sanctify the old sites so that all our ancestors may join us in the Christian Otherworld.’

Brother Eadulf frowned. His people, the South Folk, who traced their descent to Casere, son of the great god Woden, had believed that the only way to achieve immortality was to die sword in hand, the name of Woden on their lips. Then and only then would they be allowed into the afterlife, to sit with the gods in the great hall of the heroes. Now and then the indoctrination of his early years rose and fought with his conversion to the New Faith. Eadulf still sought guarantees, and that was why he had rejected the teachings of the Irish who had converted and educated him for the more fundamental absolutes of Rome.

The small band continued on their way towards the grey stone and wooden buildings of the abbey. They rode along a wide avenue between

As they made their way up the incline towards the walls of Ard Fhearta, the wooden gates opened and a young man emerged. He stood awaiting their approach with ill-concealed excitement on his features.

‘God be with you this day, Brother Cu Mara,’ said Conri, reining his horse to a standstill in front of the open gates.

‘God and Mary protect you, Conri son of Conmael.’ The young man gave the ritual response. Then he turned to greet the others and his eyes suddenly narrowed as they beheld Fidelma.

‘Brother Cu Mara is the rechtaire of the abbey,’ Conri said.

‘Welcome to Ard Fhearta, lady.’ The coldness of his tone did not match the words.

Fidelma raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem to know who I am?’

The young man inclined his head slightly. ‘Who does not know of Fidelma, sister to Colgu, King of Muman? Your reputation as a dalaigh has spread in all five kingdoms of Eireann.’

Fidelma glanced accusingly at Conri. ‘I thought you said that you had not warned anyone here that I would be coming?’

Before Conri could speak, Brother Cu Mara intervened.

‘I only knew myself a moment ago when I recognised you.’ He spoke in a curiously disapproving tone.

‘Then you have seen me before?’

‘I studied the art of calligraphy under Abbot Laisran at Durrow, lady. I saw you several times there.’

Fidelma smiled. Durrow — the abbey of the oak plain. It seemed an age since she had last been there. The genial Abbot Laisran had looked upon Fidelma as his protegee, having persuaded her to join the religious after she had won her degrees in law at the great school of the Brehon Morann. Dear, kindly Abbot Laisran, and his infectious humour.

Brother Cu Mara had turned to Eadulf with the same serious scrutiny.

‘And you are…?’

‘This is my companion, Brother Eadulf,’ said Fidelma.

The young monk’s expression did not alter.

‘Of course,’ he said shortly. He turned back to Conri. ‘The abbot will

Fidelma could still hear the disapproval in the young man’s tone.

‘I will see him directly, then,’ Conri assured him. ‘I presume there is no word from the missing religieuse?’

The steward’s expression turned into an unpleasant grimace.

‘No word from them, lord Conri. However, the abbey has received a further tragic blow.’

‘Then do not keep us in suspense, Brother,’ Conri replied shortly.

‘Three days ago, the Venerable Cinaed was found dead in the oratory.’

‘The Venerable Cinaed?’ It was Fidelma who asked the question. ‘Would that be Cinaed the scholar?’

‘Do you know his work, lady?’ The steward seemed surprised.

‘Who does not know of his treatises on philosophy and history?’ she responded at once. ‘His work was renowned throughout the five kingdoms of Eireann. Do I judge that he was elderly? I hope he died a peaceful death?’

Brother Cu Mara shook his head. ‘He was elderly, just as you say, lady, but he died violently. A heavy blow apparently crushed the back of his skull.’

Conri gasped while Fidelma’s eyes widened a little.

‘I presume, from your choice of words, that this was no accident?’ she pressed.

‘His body was found behind the altar in the oratory and there was no sign of the implement which caused the death blow.’

‘Has the culprit been discovered?’ Conri demanded. He glanced to Fidelma and added: ‘This is bad news, indeed. Cinaed was a great supporter of our new chief, Donennach, and was one of his advisers.’

The steward did not look unduly grief-stricken.

‘There are some here who think that this place has become cursed because of the surrender of Donennach,’ he said quietly.

Fidelma’s mouth tightened as she identified the hostility in the steward’s tone.

‘Cursed?’ She made the word sound belligerent.

‘Perhaps it is the shades of past generations of the Ui Fidgente who lie buried here — perhaps they are released from their Otherworld slumber to come back and wreak havoc upon us for the misfortune brought on them?’

Fidelma stared at the youthful steward in surprise. He seemed so reasonable and so matter of fact with his question. She could not tell whether he was serious or possessed of some perverse sense of humour.

‘As a member of the Faith, Brother, you should know better than to voice such superstitious nonsense.’

‘I merely articulate what many here are thinking. Indeed, what some have actually voiced already,’ the steward said defensively. ‘The abbey was built on an ancient pagan cemetery and perhaps we have angered the old spirits of the Ui Fidgente by our defeat?’

‘It seems that we have arrived at an opportune time,’ said Eadulf seriously. ‘We have come to save you Ui Fidgente from slipping back into fearful idolatry.’

Only Fidelma recognised the tone of voice when Eadulf spoke in jest.

Brother Cu Mara was about to respond in anger but then he turned away, speaking over his shoulder.

‘I would not keep Abbot Erc waiting, lord Conri. As for the lady Fidelma and her companion, the abbot will doubtless expect you both to join him after the evening prayers and meal. Come, let me take you to the hospitium so that you may refresh yourselves after your travels.’

Eadulf noted the use of the Latin term.

‘Do you follow the Roman rule here, Brother?’ he asked as they dismounted and followed the steward on foot, leading their horses, into the abbey complex.

Brother Cu Mara shook his head immediately.

‘I perceive that you bear the tonsure of Rome, Brother Eadulf, but here we adhere to the teachings of our Church Fathers. Nevertheless, Latin is much in fashion in the abbey. Our scholars pride themselves on translating from the Latin texts. The Venerable Cinaed was keeping a great chronicle in Latin wherein he was recording the history of this abbey since its foundation by the Blessed Breanainn.’

Conri had handed his horse to one of his companions, a taciturn warrior named Socht, and departed to find the abbot. The young steward fell silent as he guided the rest of the party through the abbey grounds, through buildings of various shapes and sizes that made up the complex, to a large wooden structure they presumed was the hospitium. Brother Cu Mara paused.

‘There are no other guests at the moment so the guest-house is all yours. Make yourselves welcome. Sister Sinnchene is inside. She will attend to

Without another word, the young steward turned and left.

The warrior Socht and his companion took charge of the horses and led them away to the abbey stables.

Eadulf pulled a face in the direction of the vanishing Brother Cu Mara.

‘I get the impression that that young man is not exactly pleased to see us,’ he commented.

‘Remember that we are in Ui Fidgente territory, Eadulf,’ Fidelma replied. ‘My brother was victorious in battle over them just over two years ago. Some people do not forgive and forget so easily.’

Eadulf opened the door to the guest-house and ushered Fidelma inside. They entered a large chamber of red yew panels which, it appeared, was a general room where guests could rest before a fire. The sky was already darkening, for dusk came early on these cold winter’s days, but there was a cheerful fire crackling in a stone-flagged hearth. A young woman was bending over an oil lamp set on a central table and adjusting its flickering wick. She glanced up, startled by their silent entrance, and Fidelma noticed that her eyes seemed red-rimmed. The light flickered on the tears gathered on her lashes.

She straightened up quickly, raising a hand to wipe her eyes. Fidelma took in the girl’s attractive features. She had a fair skin, blue eyes and a shock of golden hair.

‘I am Sister Sinnchene,’ she announced with a sniff. ‘I presume that you are the guests we have been expecting? How may I be of assistance to you?’

It was clear that they had entered on some private moment of grief that she had no wish to share.

Fidelma introduced herself and Eadulf. It was clear that the young woman did not know of Fidelma’s relationship to the king of Muman.

‘Will you be wanting to bathe after your journey, Sister?’ she asked. ‘I can have hot water ready in the bathhouse shortly. Our facilities are primitive so there are no separate arrangements for men and women. If your companion can wait until you have finished, I will ensure there is hot water for him as well.’

Eadulf had never really understood the Irish passion for such fastidious cleanliness. In the land of the South Folk, bathing had consisted of a dip in the river and that carried out none too often.

‘I can wait,’ he agreed hurriedly.

‘There are separate chambers for your sleeping quarters,’ Sister Sinnchene continued, pointing to a corridor that led off from the room behind her. ‘The bathing house and defectarium stand beyond.’

‘The lord Conri and two of his warriors accompanied us here. They will be wanting beds,’ Fidelma pointed out.

‘The warriors will doubtless make do with beds in the dormitory.’ Sister Sinnchene’s voice was brisk and business-like. ‘If you will choose your chamber, Sister, I shall return and tell you when the water is heated.’

She moved off in a brisk fashion.

Fidelma went into the corridor. There were three or four cell-like rooms leading off it, each only big enough for a cot-like bed and little else. She entered the first room and threw her bag down on the bed with a sigh. Eadulf took the next room and followed Fidelma back to the main chamber, where she sank into the nearest chair.

‘While we have this moment alone,’ she said abruptly, ‘you’d best tell me what troubles you.’

Eadulf raised his eyebrows.

‘Should anything trouble me?’ he asked in feigned innocence.

Fidelma grimaced with annoyance.

‘All through the journey here you have been as querulous as an old woman. It would be better to say what is on your mind now rather than leave it until later.’

Eadulf hesitated, shrugged and sat down opposite her.

‘What troubles me is the same matter that has troubled me since Conri came to Cashel,’ he said heavily.

‘Which is?’ prompted Fidelma sharply.

‘It is barely a few weeks since our son, Alchu, was abducted. Thanks be to God that we recovered him safely. We had scarcely reunited as a family, scarcely made it back to safety in Cashel. It was clearly time to settle down for a while. Then along comes Conri and you decide to go charging off into dangerous territory. This area may still be within your brother’s kingdom but it is an area that has been in constant rebellion against him. And all because this Conri pleads with you to do so.’

Fidelma returned his gaze with an expression of sadness. For a moment, Eadulf recognised the hurt in her eyes.

‘Eadulf,’ her voice was heavy with emphasis, ‘I am Alchu’s mother. Do you think I care nothing about my son? My pain in leaving him in Cashel dalaigh. That is my training, that is my skill in life. You know the problems that my brother has had with the Ui Fidgente. Now I am presented with an ideal means to build on the fragile peace between Cashel and this wild people. Conri, the warlord of the Ui Fidgente, came to Cashel seeking my help as a dalaigh. By extending that help to him, I will strengthen the move to reunite my brother’s kingdom.’

Eadulf saw her argument but his personal feelings did not allow him to be convinced by it.

‘I could understand that if all else had been equal for us but it is not so,’ he protested. ‘It is only a matter of weeks since we settled down at Cashel, united as a family again, and started to plan the ceremony by which we will be permanently bound together, which was supposed to be on the feast of Imbolc, when the ewes come into milk. On that day you were supposed to become my cetmuintir.’

For nearly a year now Fidelma and Eadulf had been joined as ban charrthach and fer comtha, partners for a year and a day, a legal marriage under the law, but a temporary one. After a year and a day, if incompatible, they could go their separate ways without blame and without payment of compensation to one another.

Fidelma examined Eadulf with a sad expression.

‘Do you have cause to doubt that it will happen?’ she asked softly.

Eadulf raised an arm in a brief gesture almost of helplessness and let it fall.

‘Sometimes I am not so sure. We seem to be constantly drifting from one drama to another.’

‘Then let me tell you this,’ Fidelma said earnestly. ‘It was my brother’s wish that I should come here, not my response to Conri, which would have not been enthusiastic in the circumstances. My brother is king. My decision was made in response to the wishes of the king. I tried to explain that to you before we set out.’ As Eadulf opened his mouth to reply, she held up her hand, as if to silence him, and went on. ‘A resolution of this particular drama, as I said, is important to my brother’s kingdom, Eadulf. And since we have arrived here at Ard Fhearta we find the drama has intensified because the Venerable Cinaed has been murdered. The Venerable Cinaed is known and respected throughout all five kingdoms and is admired by the High King himself. His death will create a greater

Fidelma’s brother, Colgu, had certainly made the political importance of helping Conri clear enough when they had spoken together. If Cashel could respond to an Ui Fidgente call for help in solving the mystery at the abbey of Ard Fhearta, it would be important in helping to heal the rift that had for so long set the rulers of the Ui Fidgente and the kings of Muman against one another.

‘I know what Colgu has argued,’ acknowledged Eadulf with asperity. ‘He is not the one who has had to enter Ui Fidgente country without escort and chance the dangers…’

Fidelma suddenly smiled mischievously.

‘Why, Eadulf! Are you saying that you are solely concerned for my safety?’

Eadulf grimaced in irritation at her levity. Then he said: ‘I am concerned for the safety of both of us. The warriors of your brother’s guard should have escorted us. Men we could trust. Now we have to rely on Conri and the goodwill of the Ui Fidgente.’

Fidelma shook her head in disagreement. ‘I put my trust in Conri.’

‘I remember very clearly my time as a prisoner of the Ui Fidgente. You cannot expect me to trust them.’

‘Yet you went alone through Ui Fidgente territory in search of Alchu,’ Fidelma reminded him. ‘You were not concerned with safety then.’

‘I had only myself to worry about. You were safe in Cashel.’ Fidelma shook her head, smiling.

‘As it turned out, I was not,’ she reminded him. ‘I was a prisoner of the rebel Ui Fidgente myself. And it was Conri who helped me escape.’

‘Fidelma, I will never win an argument with you.’ Eadulf raised his hands as if fending off some imaginary attacker. ‘I should know better than to try. Since we are here, let me be at peace with my concerns.’

‘That I will find hard,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘Anyway, we shall soon be meeting Abbot Erc. I hope you will overcome any antagonism you feel. There appears enough antagonism here as it is. I need your mind and support to help me in this matter. Remember Muirgen and Nessan are nursing little Alchu in the safety of my brother’s fortress. The plans that we have set for the feast day of Imbolc remain in place and they will happen. And here we are, together, with a problem to face and to solve. What better situation can there be?’

Eadulf reluctantly smiled at her infectious enthusiasm.

‘Very well, Fidelma. I will put a curb on my fears. But I shall look forward to the day when we can return to Cashel.’

There was a movement at the door as Sister Sinnchene returned.

‘The water will be ready when you are, Sister.’

‘Excellent.’ Fidelma rose immediately, picking up her ciorbholg, her comb-bag in which all Irish women carried their toilet articles. ‘Show me to this bathhouse, Sister, for I am ready now.’

Sister Sinnchene led Fidelma along the corridor to a room in which stood a large wooden tub called the dabach. It was already steaming. A cauldron of water was simmering on a fire in the far corner. There were shelves on which were displayed bars of sleic and linen cloths. Nearby were little jars of oil and extracts of sweet-smelling herbs boiled into a liquid to anoint the body. The place was well equipped with a scaterc — a mirror of fine polished metal — and a selection of clean combs.

‘I shall attend you, if it is your wish,’ said the young sister.

Fidelma nodded absently. It was usual to have an attendant to pour the heated water and pass soap and drying cloths.

She undressed and climbed into the dabach. The water was not too hot and she relaxed with a sigh, lying back while Sister Sinnchene passed her a bar of soap.

‘Have you been long in this abbey, Sister?’ asked Fidelma as she began to lather herself.

Sister Sinnchene was checking on the heat of the water.

‘I have been here ever since I reached the age of choice,’ she replied.

The age of choice, the aimsir togu, was the maturity of a girl arrived at her fourteenth birthday.

‘I would say you have not yet reached twenty summers?’ hazarded Fidelma.

‘I am twenty-one,’ corrected the girl, turning to pick up a big metal jug and scoop water from the cauldron. She brought it to the tub and poured it in, carefully so as not to scald Fidelma.

‘I presume that you knew the Venerable Cinaed?’

There seemed some hesitation and Fidelma looked up. She was surprised to see a red tinge had settled on Sister Sinnchene’s cheek.

‘We are a small community, Sister,’ the girl returned with an abruptness of tone that caused Fidelma’s eyebrow to rise slightly.

‘Of course,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘I am sorry. Naturally you are upset by his loss.’

‘He was a kind and generous man,’ replied the other with a catch in her throat.

‘Do you have any idea how he came by his death?’

The young woman frowned, facing Fidelma as if seeking some other significance to her words.

‘Everyone knows his head was smashed in while he was in the oratory.’

‘Are there any ideas circulating in the abbey about who could have done such a thing?’

For a moment the young sister looked as if she were about to give vent to the tears that she was trying so desperately to hide. Her face contorted for a moment and then she controlled herself.

‘It is not my place to speculate about gossip,’ she finally said. ‘You must asked the abbot.’

‘But you must know…’ began Fidelma.

‘If that will be all, Sister…?’ Sister Sinnchene interrupted pointedly. ‘I have other duties that I must attend to.’

Fidelma said nothing but inclined her head. She knew when to back away from questions that people did not want to answer. Sister Sinnchene went quickly out of the bathhouse, leaving Fidelma gazing after her with a thoughtful frown.