Master of Souls

CHAPTER EIGHT

Conri had returned to inform Fidelma and Eadulf that Mugron, the merchant, was prepared to take them across the sound to the land of the Corco Duibhne in the morning providing the weather was reasonable. The dangers of the waters round the coast meant that he would not attempt the crossing if there was bad weather. However, the prospects were favourable, for the storms and high winds they had been experiencing should, by tradition, lead to dull, wet weather with softer winds and a warmer temperature.

‘It should be a fine morning,’ conceded Conri, ‘but I would not count on it.’

Eadulf frowned.

‘Why not?’ he demanded.

Conri indicated the sky with a gesture of his hand. The clouds that afternoon were very high and wispy in appearance. Fidelma explained their significance to Eadulf.

‘We sometimes call those clouds mares’ tails. They can foretell that bad weather is on the way. Never mind. We still have plenty of tasks to keep us occupied here.’

When Conri expressed surprise, Fidelma briefly recounted some of the information that Sister Buan had given them.

Conri made a soft whistling sound.

‘I cannot see what link there could be between my aunt’s murder and the killing of the Venerable Cinaed,’ he said. ‘Do you really think there is one?’

‘We cannot reject the idea,’ Fidelma replied. ‘All we can say is that while people are not exactly lying to us, they are not telling us the complete truth. We have to ask the question — why?’

Conri nodded agreement. ‘So what do you mean to do now?’

‘I mean to question Sister Sinnchene next.’

‘Should I accompany you?’

Fidelma hesitated, then shook her head firmly.

‘Perhaps it would be better if you and Eadulf did not come with me. This questioning may touch on matters that are delicate for her, which she may better deal with woman to woman than with a male present.’

‘That is no problem,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘If there is nothing specific that you want me to do, I heard from one of the brothers that there was to be some chant practice in the abbey church. I would be very interested to hear it.’

‘Then I will accompany you, Brother Eadulf,’ Conri volunteered. ‘I know something of the singers.’

They left Fidelma heading for the tech-nigid and made their way to the main church building of the abbey complex. They could hear the voices of the abbey’s clais, or choir, already raised in what sounded to a surprised Eadulf like some martial war chant. They entered the high-roofed chamber and took their place at the rear of the building. The clais were all males and before them the songmaster stood intently, his very body trembling, as he imparted the tones and rhythms of the music to the singers.

Their voices rose intensely.

Regis regum rectissimi prope est dies Domini dies irae et vindictae tenebrarum et nebulae.

Eadulf listened to the unusual rhythms of what he recognised as a Gallican chant. The melismatic flourishes, the long series of notes on a single syllable, that characterised the chant were utterly unlike the Latin or the wailing chants from Iberia. The melodies of the Gallican chants had arisen among the Gauls, whose language was close to that of their neighbours the Britons. When Christianity had spread to Ireland it was from the Gauls that the early Irish Church had taken their religious music form, mixed a little with their own traditions. At least Eadulf could understand and feel the Latin words. Their spirit was not so different from his own Saxon war chants.

Day of the King most righteous,

The day is close at hand,

The day of wrath and vengeance,

And darkness on the land.

The clais sang several more chants in similar tone and metre before returning to the first martial song. When the rehearsal was over the choristers received a blessing from their master, rose and departed. Conr moved to catch the attention of the choirmaster. He was a tall, thin-faced individual. His dark eyes, sleek hair and swarthy features made him look furtive, as if he had a secret to hide. Eadulf noticed that he wore a silver crucifix round his neck, which was notable because it hung from a string of alternately yellow and green coloured stones. He thought they were garnets.

‘This is Brother Cill n, the stiuirtheoir canaid,’ Conr said, as he led the man back to where Eadulf waited. ‘Brother Cill n, this is Eadulf from Seaxmund’s Ham.’

The songmaster bowed his head and, on raising it, examined Brother Eadulf with a wary eye.

‘I have heard of your coming, Brother Eadulf, and wonder what the companion of the sister of the king of Muman seeks in our poor songs.’

‘Music is a food for the emotions and a feast that everyone enjoys,’ returned Eadulf.

The master of music sniffed disdainfully.

‘Not everyone,’ he corrected. ‘Some may listen to the tune but they do not hear the music.’

‘I have heard that this abbey is renowned for its music,’ Eadulf pressed on.

The choirmaster pulled a face as if to deny it.

‘There are many abbeys that produce better music than we — however, we are progressing.’

‘Progressing?’

‘We are going to perform at the great gathering of Aenach Urmhuman next spring,’ Brother Cill n said with some pride.

‘The Assembly of East Muman? I have heard of it.’

Brother Cill n smiled thinly.

‘It is a famous gathering. Each year there is a singing contest at the great stronghold of the kings… er, the chieftains of the Ui Fidgente by Loch Derg. I am hoping that we will win the contest next year.’

‘Well, the last piece you sang was an excellent hymn,’ observed Eadulf. ‘I do not think I have heard it before. It seems so full of battle imagery that it is hard to reconcile it with the peace of the Faith.’

The choirmaster shrugged.

‘Yet it was written by Colmcille — the blessed dove of the church. It is called the Altus Prosator. It is a good work but not a great work.’

‘It does not sound like a work of peace,’ Eadulf repeated.

‘Perhaps Colmcille saw that war was often the only way forward to assert one’s rights, Brother Eadulf,’ remarked the songmaster wryly. ‘The Ui Fidgente learnt that lesson struggling against the Eoghanacht of Cashel.’

Conri frowned in annoyance.

‘And learnt another lesson when they were defeated,’ he pointed out sharply.

Brother Cillin was about to reply when one of the choristers approached them and coughed meaningfully to attract the attention of the master of song.

Brother Cillin frowned irritably at him. ‘Speak, Brother,’ he instructed.

‘Your pardon, master, we need to consult you on the unending circle.’

Brother Cillin’s features became uneasy as he glanced at Eadulf and Conri. With a muttered apology, he turned and stalked off, followed by the abashed-looking chorister.

‘A strange, almost surly, character,’ observed Eadulf.

Conri grinned.

‘There is no harm in Brother Cillin. He has a good reputation as a teacher of music, especially in the clais-cheol.’

‘Choir-singing? I wish that I had heard more of it. I’d like to know these musical terms-“unending circle”, the chorister said. I’ve not heard of that.’ Eadulf sighed. He paused and then said suddenly: ‘Why is it that the Ui Fidgente resent the Eoghanacht at Cashel so much?’

Conri stuck out his lower lip in a thoughtful expression before answering.

‘The lady Fidelma has never spoken to you of this matter?’

Eadulf smiled softly.

‘She has given me the Eoghanacht side of the story. That is natural. I would hear the Ui Fidgente viewpoint.’

Conri gave a quick laugh.

‘A great diplomat was lost in you, Brother Eadulf. Well, we have been taught over many generations that the Eoghanacht have denied the rights of the Ui Fidgente.’

‘How so?’

‘As you know, Brother, in this land our peoples are bound by genealogists who set forth each family’s line, generation by generation. Our ancestors are important to us, my friend. Those who have gone before often continue to govern us who live now.’

‘That is often the natural order of things,’ confirmed Eadulf. ‘I was an hereditary gerefa — a magistrate — in my own land. I held that position because of my ancestors and not from my choice.’

‘The Eoghanacht dynasties of Muman take their name from Eoghan Mor,’ went on Conri. ‘Eoghan’s grandson was a great king of Cashel called Ailill Fland Bec. He had three sons. The eldest of these was Maine Munchain whose son was Fiachu Fidgennid from whom we take our name the Ui Fidgente, the descendants of Fidgennid.’

Eadulf was frowning.

‘Is that relevant? I have been here long enough to understand that your laws of succession are not governed by eldest male inheritance. At least three generations of the extended family have to meet together to elect the man best fitted for the task of kingship. That is usually done in the lifetime of the ruling prince, and the man chosen as his successor is called the tanaiste, or tanist. Is that not so?’

‘You understand the system perfectly, Brother Eadulf. But the point I am making is that we are true descendants of Eoghan, just as much as the Eoghanacht of Cashel, the Eoghanacht of Aine, the Eoghanacht of Glendamnach and of Chliach and of Raithlind and of Locha Lein. We should be part of the great assembly of Muman. Yet we are excluded. We are told that we are not Eoghanacht and that our genealogists have forged our genealogies.’

‘You obviously believe that your genealogists are right?’

Conri thrust out his chin aggressively.

‘I am an Ui Fidgente,’ he replied simply.

‘But the Eoghanacht believe that your genealogists are wrong.’

‘That is the frustration,’ admitted Conri. ‘That is what led to the conflict even during the time of Erc, who was our chieftain five generations ago. That is why Eoganan, who believed the genealogists and called himself king, led our people to overthrow the Eoghanacht. He was wrong to

He paused for a moment and when Eadulf did not comment he went on.

‘Now that Eoganan is dead and Donennach is our ruler — indeed, many still call him king — we have accepted the rule of Cashel but that does not mean we have accepted the cause of our grievance was mistaken. We still believe that we are the descendants of Eoghan Mor, as our genealogists show. Donennach is fourteen generations in descent from Eoghan Mor in spite of what is claimed at Cashel. We hope one day to persuade Cashel — I would argue that this should be done by peaceful means — to accept us as a voice in the great assembly.’

Eadulf was quite impressed by both the length of the speech and its intensity from the usually quietly spoken and taciturn warlord of the Ui Fidgente.

‘Surely you can appeal to the law courts of the five kingdoms and bring your case before them.’

Conri grimaced ruefully.

‘After our defeat at Cnoc Aine, the High King and his Chief Brehon would hear none of our arguments. We had to pay compensation and tribute. It will be many years, or a new High King at Tara, before we can make such an appeal. That is why, Brother Eadulf, you will find among the Ui Fidgente many who will not yet accept the uneasy peace that has fallen between us and Cashel. The Ui Fidgente will continue to be suspicious of everything Cashel does.’

‘Then why are we here? Here in the lands of the Ui Fidgente? Why did you invite Fidelma to come here?’

‘Has she told you why she accepted my request?’

Eadulf reluctantly confirmed that she had. Conri smiled knowingly.

‘Then that is why I invited her. Anything that can contribute to mending the schism between us.’

Eadulf rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

‘But what if the reverse happens?’ he asked.

It was Conn’s turned to look puzzled.

‘I do not think that I am following you.’

‘Simple enough. What if Fidelma finds out that there is some internal politics at play here?’

‘Be more explicit.’

‘Take the death of the Venerable Cinaed. From what Fidelma tells me, Cinaed was of the opinion that the Ui Fidgente genealogies were forged and that the people should accept the rule of Cashel without complaint. What if that belief led to his death?’

Conri was quiet for a moment or two as he thought over the question.

‘Truth and its discovery are the principal intent, Brother Eadulf,’ he said drily. Then, abruptly, he moved off, saying quickly over his shoulder: ‘Now, let us see if the lady Fidelma has finished her questioning of Sister Sinnchene.’

Fidelma had made her way to the tech-nigid, where she found Sister Sinnchene sweeping the main room with a broom of twigs.

Sister Sinnchene looked up and a suspicious look entered her eyes.

‘I would like a word with you, Sister,’ Fidelma said brightly.

Sister Sinnchene’s suspicious look deepened.

‘About what?’ she responded curtly, almost rudely.

‘About the Venerable Cinaed.’

The young woman carefully put aside her broom and stood tensely before Fidelma.

‘I suppose you have been talking to Sister Buan?’ she asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

‘What makes you say that?’

Sister Sinnchene shrugged. It was a defiant gesture.

‘I know that you are a dalaigh. The gossip among the community is that you are now investigating the death of the Venerable Cinaed as well as that of Abbess Faife and the disappearance of the members of our community.’

‘Let us not stand in the cold,’ Fidelma said, motioning towards the cauldron simmering on the fire. Sister Sinnchene followed her towards it, collecting a couple of stools from nearby. They seated themselves by its warmth opposite one another.

‘When did you last see the Venerable Cinaed?’ Fidelma opened the questioning.

‘You mean before his death?’

Fidelma was patient. ‘You saw his body afterwards?’

‘Of course. After the physician conducted her examination and the body was placed in the fuat, the funeral bier. It was when we all paid our last respects to him.’

‘I see. So when, exactly, before he died, did you last see him?’

Sister Sinnchene paused, head to one side, considering the question.

‘It was on the evening before his death. He came here to the tech-nigid. It was after the evening meal. I was working late.’

Fidelma tried not to show surprise.

‘Here to the washhouse? Did he say why he came?’

The girl thrust out her chin.

‘He often came here.’

‘As Sister Buan does his washing, I presume that it was not to bring his laundry?’

The girl laughed sardonically.

‘That is so. He came here to see me.’

‘I see. Was there a specific purpose to these meetings?’

‘You are naive, Sister,’ replied Sister Sinnchene as if amused by the question.

‘If the Venerable Cinaed was twenty years younger, then I might well be accused of naivete with good reason. But, bearing in mind his age, and the fact that he was married to Sister Buan, and as she attests that he was impotent in his advancing years, I have to put the question to you — was there a specific purpose to these meetings?’

The girl’s expression was not nice.

‘I suggest that you question Sister Buan a little more closely about her relationship with Cinaed.’

‘Are you suggesting that Sister Buan has lied to me?’

The girl shrugged indifferently.

‘That is no answer,’ Fidelma said sharply.

‘The Venerable Cinaed and I were lovers.’

‘Lovers?’ Fidelma looked keenly at the girl. ‘And is this a claim that you can substantiate?’

Sister Sinnchene’s eyes burnt with anger for a moment.

‘You do not believe such a relationship could exist?’

‘I am not saying that. I do say that given the sixty years that separate your age from Cinaed’s, it needs support. What I question is this — you are young, Sinnchene. An attractive young girl in the full bloom of youth. What would attract you to such a frail, ageing person as the Venerable Cinaed, who I gather was not in the best of health?’

The young woman sniffed disdainfully and was silent.

‘Love?’ pressed Fidelma and when the girl refused to respond she

‘Why not?’ snapped the girl. ‘Why is it so hard to believe?’

It was Fidelma’s turn to reflect for a moment or two.

‘Very well. What you are saying is that the Venerable Cinaed and you were having an illicit affair.’

‘Illicit?’

Fidelma had used the old law term aindligthech.

‘Improper. Not sanctioned by law, rule or custom.’

A colour came to the girl’s cheeks.

‘It was not an improper relationship!’

‘You knew that Sister Buan was his legal wife and that he was living with her?’

‘Of course. And we both told her of the situation.’

‘Both?’ queried Fidelma in surprise.

‘We had nothing to hide. If it was unlawful, then it could have been corrected if Buan had accepted me as a dormun, which is provided for in law. Cinaed told me.’

‘It is a law still practised,’ Fidelma admitted, ‘although it is frowned upon by the New Faith and the term ben adaltrach has been introduced to replace the earlier title for such a concubine. It is a law that will doubtless be abolished at the next council called by the High King.’

Every three years there was an assembly at which the High King and the provincial kings gathered with the leading churchmen and Brehons from all five kingdoms of Eireann to discuss and revise the laws.

‘But it is still the law now,’ the girl said stubbornly.

‘And this is what Cinaed wanted as well as you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And he said as much to Sister Buan?’

‘He did.’

Fidelma exhaled softly.

‘And what if Sister Buan denied that he said this?’

‘Then she would be lying.’

‘Could you prove that this happened? Were there any witnesses?’

Sister Sinnchene hesitated a moment and then shook her head.

‘Nevertheless, it does not alter the fact that it is the truth,’ she said defiantly.

Fidelma noticed that the girl’s robe had loosened around her neck and caught a glimpse of a necklet of semi-precious stones.

‘That is hardly the jewellery one expects a member of this community to wear,’ she observed drily.

Sister Sinnchene’s hand went to her neck and then she shrugged. She lowered it to reveal a glittering necklet of silver set with amethysts and topaz.

‘Cinaed gave it me,’ she said quietly. ‘He told me to keep it safe, to let no one here see it.’

‘Why?’

‘It will not hurt to tell now, I suppose. He said that it was evidence.’

‘Evidence of what?’

‘He did not explain. Perhaps evidence of his love for me.’

‘Well, let us accept what you say,’ Fidelma finally said. ‘The evening before his death, the Venerable Cinaed came to this washing room and you were here?’

‘That is correct,’ confirmed the girl.

‘And accepting that you were lovers, what other than the obvious transpired? Did you talk?’

The girl looked irritated.

‘We were not animals,’ she replied angrily. ‘Of course we talked.’

‘What was the subject of conversation? Did you speak of philosophy, theology, history… what?’

Fidelma knew she was being a little sarcastic with the girl for it was obvious that she was no more of a scholar than Sister Buan. In fact, the dalaigh was beginning to wonder what sort of person the Venerable Cinaed really was behind his great reputation as a scholar.

Sister Sinnchene was looking sourly at her.

‘You seem to think that our relationship was based on lust,’ she said.

‘I am trying to understand it,’ Fidelma confessed.

‘We spoke of life, not dead, musty books; not of the past, or the future, nor of things unseen that had no immediate concern for us.’

‘Life?’

‘Cinaed had a great lust for life. He observed everything. The seasons, the weather, the plants growing. He was a very active man. Had he not spent most of his life in the shadow of dark libraries, he would have been a gardener.’

‘And this was the subject of the conversation that evening?’

‘We talked about the herb garden and ways to improve it but we also talked about Sister Buan.’

‘Ah. What about Sister Buan?’

‘Don’t get me wrong. Cinaed had a very generous spirit and felt deeply for Buan. She was fostered in the land of the Corco Duibhne. I presume she was an orphan and later came to the abbey when she was still young to escape poverty. She fulfilled a part of Cinaed’s life. She mothered him, did his cleaning, prepared food for him — for he liked to eat separately from the community most times. She was not his lover but a… a…’ The girl struggled to find the right word.

‘Housekeeper?’ suggested Fidelma.

The girl nodded. ‘Exactly so. But she filled no other need. He was no longer intimate with her.’

‘So, if Sister Buan believed that he was impotent, you would argue that it was because of his rejection of her in bed?’

Sister Sinnchene gestured disdainfully. ‘I don’t think they even slept in the same bed.’

‘But he had no such inhibition with you?’ Fidelma asked softly.

‘We enjoyed our physical beings. That is no sin.’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘The old laws make allowance for human nature provided it offers no harm to others. But you should know, Sister Sinnchene, that the New Faith preaches a different attitude. Sexual intercourse with someone other than one’s spouse or indulging in general sexual infidelity, even in thought and word as well as deed, is considered a sin. Holy Scripture says the Christ put an emphasis on such infidelity as a sin against someone as well as with someone. Such sexual activity is considered a rejection of the divine intention.’

Sister Sinnchene stared at Fidelma. ‘That which gives pleasure cannot be sinful otherwise God would not have created it.’

Fidelma had to admit that she could accept that Sister Sinnchene was probably right.

‘We have to accept the guidelines given by Paul in his letter to the Corinthians when he called on Christians to deal decisively with sexual immorality in the communities.’

Sister Sinnchene sniffed deprecatingly.

‘You sound like the Venerable Mac Faosma,’ she muttered.

‘In what way?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘He preached such a sermon to me as you do. Yet I feel that your heart is not in it as was his.’

Fidelma’s brows came together in a defensive look, angered that this girl could see the doubts in her own mind.

‘Are you saying that the Venerable Mac Faosma knew about your relationship with Cinaed?’ she asked.

‘He did. Some weeks ago, he came unexpectedly into the tech-nigid and… well.’ She shrugged. ‘He saw us.’

‘What happened? What did he say?’ Fidelma asked curiously.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ repeated Fidelma.

‘He simply turned and walked out. Then a few days later he met me outside the oratory and started to give me this homily about the new sexual morality. He was more scholarly than you are, Sister,’ she added with a grin. ‘He quoted so many sources, gospels and epistles that I thought I would go mad.’

‘Did he raise the matter with the Venerable Cinaed?’

‘He never did.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I told Cinaed and asked him if the old… if the Venerable Mac Faosma had approached him. He told me that he had not mentioned it.’

‘I see.’

Fidelma was silent for a while and then shook her head.

‘Let us return to that evening — the evening before Cinaed’s death. You say that you were in the washing room? You have… you had intercourse and then talked about the herb garden and then the problem with Cinaed’s wife, Buan. Is that correct?’

‘Not necessarily in that order,’ interposed Sister Sinnchene.

‘In whatever order,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Then what? Did he simply leave?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then what exactly?’

‘The time was passing and it was dark and Cinaed began to worry that Buan would get suspicious that he was with me…’

‘Suspicious? I thought she knew what was going on from your own lips… from both Cinaed and yourself?’

‘That is true but we did not want her making a fuss, raising a search among the brethren and having a public confrontation. Abbot Erc is of the same mentality as the Venerable Mac Faosma. I think he would entertain the idea of throwing out the old laws and putting in their place the laws of the New Faith, as I have heard some have.’

‘Do you mean the Penitentials?’

The girl nodded.

‘And so what happened then?’

‘It grew late and Cinaed rose and said he would see me at the Feast of the Blessed Ite, which fell on the next day. It is held every year in the little oratory.’

‘And he seemed all right?’

‘I am not sure what you mean? He was in good health, yes.’

‘And in good spirits?’

‘He was in excellent spirits and was talking about some new work that he had written in Latin which he said would annoy Mac Faosma. They were enemies, you know. Enemies fighting with their pens. He would argue and Mac Faosma would respond and so back and forth. I never understood much of it. But that was only one part of his life. But this was something that especially seemed to put him in a good humour and he went away chuckling and… and…’

Suddenly, the girl gave a sob. For some time her shoulders heaved and Fidelma felt a little awkward until the girl seemed to catch herself and wiped her eyes quickly.

‘Forgive me. I thought I had overcome that. Now and then it creeps up on me unaware. I miss Cinaed deeply.’

‘You were crying when we arrived yesterday. For his memory?’

She nodded nervously.

‘That is all I can tell you,’ she said. ‘He went off in a good humour. I watched him from the door of the washing room as he vanished into the darkness.’

Fidelma examined her sternly. ‘And are you sure that you did not see him again… before his death?’

The girl shook her head.

‘You did not meet him later in the oratory?’

Sister Sinnchene flushed and started to protest. Fidelma once more took out the burnt paper and laid it before her.

‘You did not write this?’

The girl grimaced.

‘I cannot write,’ she answered simply. ‘You can ask anyone. I was never taught. So whoever wrote this note was not I.’

Fidelma asked: ‘Was there anyone in the abbey who did not know you could not write?’

The girl thought for a moment.

‘Perhaps,’ she said vaguely. ‘Mac Faosma knew I couldn’t write and so did Brother Cu Mara. Anyway, I did not see Cinaed after he left the washing room…’

She paused for a moment and then her eyes widened a little. Fidelma noticed the reaction immediately.

‘You have remembered something else?’

‘He was nearly out of sight in the darkness when he was joined by another figure. He paused for a moment and then they vanished together. It’s just… just that I thought I heard a raised voice. A voice raised in anger.’

‘Did you recognise who it was who had joined him?’

She shook her head.

‘And the next day… how did you learn of his death?’

‘I awoke late, when it was getting light. There was no one in the hospitium to make me rise early. No cleaning to be done, or preparations to be made. But I became aware of activity outside and raised voices. I put on my robe, neglecting to wash, and went immediately to see what the excitement was. At first I thought it was the return of Conri who had gone to Cashel about the matter of Abbess Faife. We had been expecting his return.’

She paused a moment

‘But you found out that it was not the arrival of Conri. What then?’

The young woman pulled a face.

‘People had gathered round the chapel. I saw the Abbot Erc there with Brother Cu Mara and some others. Sister Buan was also there, with tears flooding down her cheeks… I went towards them and as I approached Sister Buan swung round, saw me, and raised a finger towards me. She cried out something like, “There she is! There is the bitch that did it!” Or words to that effect. The word “bitch” was frequently used as she cried out in some incoherent ramble. Sister Uallann managed to restrain her and she and another sister calmed her and led her away.

‘I asked Abbot Erc what had happened. He looked at me and asked whether I really did not know. Whereupon I was indignant. Why would I ask, if I knew? He told me that that morning he had found Cinaed with his head smashed in, lying behind the altar in the oratory. I was stunned. I could not move. I think I went rigid, moving as if in a dream. I think I asked if I could see the body there and then but they refused. It was only later after the body had been prepared for burial that I was allowed to see

Fidelma folded her hands together and examined Sister Sinnchene’s features carefully. She realised that it was a beautiful and expressive face. No wonder Cinaed could lust — she hastily corrected her thought — could fall in love with the young girl. There seemed no guile in those features. The eyes were wide and clear although they were now lined with red where tears gave an appearance of frailty and vulnerability.

‘So, was anything else said to you after that outburst by Sister Buan?’

‘Brother Cu Mara came to see me. He was nice. He asked me what Sister Buan had meant by her claim.’

‘And you replied?’

‘I told him that such a question was best answered by Sister Buan. So far as I was concerned my conscience was clear.’

Fidelma rose slowly to her feet.

‘One other matter before I leave. Did you have much to do with Abbess Faife?’

The girl suddenly smiled warmly.

‘Of course. She brought me into this community and was my mentor.’

‘How did you come to meet her?’

‘She was passing through the village where I lived. It was a week after my mother died of the Yellow Plague. There was no one left to care for me. Many of my family had died in the Yellow Plague, you understand.’

‘Including your father?’

The girl hesitated, then shook her head.

‘He had left our home some years before. He was a warrior who followed Eoganan. My father was probably killed in some battle or other. We never heard from him after he left. I was on my own when Abbess Faife invited me to join her in this abbey.’

‘I understand that the abbess worked very closely with the Venerable Cinaed?’

‘She did,’ agreed Sister Sinnchene. ‘She helped him with some researches he was doing and in the preparation of his work.’

‘Do you think there might be a connection between Abbess Faife’s death and that of the Venerable Cinaed?’

Sister Sinnchene looked astounded at the question.

‘Do you think there is?’ she countered.

‘I merely ask the question. For example,’ Fidelma went on, looking

Fidelma knew that her repetition of the words that Sister Buan claimed to have overheard was a gamble. The expression on Sister Sinnchene’s face showed that they meant something. She looked confused and did not appear to know how to answer.

‘They are the words that you exchanged with Brother Cu Mara, aren’t they?’ Fidelma pressed.

Once again the girl’s chin came up defiantly.

‘I will not confirm or deny them until I have spoken to Brother Cu Mara,’ she said sullenly.

‘So I can deduce from that that the words spoken are reported accurately?’ Fidelma asked confidently.

‘I do not believe that they have any relevance to Cinaed’s death,’ Sister Sinnchene responded determinedly.

‘But you do believe that something Cinaed might have told Faife was connected with her death. Why?’

‘I have told you as much as I can, Sister. I must speak to Brother Cu Mara.’

Fidelma sighed impatiently.

‘You realise that, as a dalaigh, I can impose a heavy penalty on you for not answering my questions when you have been told to?’

The girl was still defiant.

‘I cannot help you and your stupid rules. I will not answer until I have spoken to-’

Fidelma raised her hand to silence her.

‘I have heard you. Very well. We shall send for Brother Cu Mara. But perhaps you could tell me why you are so adamant that these words have no relevance to Cinaed’s murder?’

Sister Sinnchene raised her eyes to Fidelma and gazed into them for some seconds before she replied in a tight voice.

‘It is because I know who killed Cinaed.’

This time Fidelma could not disguise her surprise.

‘And will you name that person?’

The girl was emphatic.

‘Of course. It was Sister Buan.’