Suffer Little Children

Chapter Nine

Sister Grella came as a surprise to Fidelma. She was an attractive woman in her late thirties. Though short in height and inclined to fleshiness, nevertheless she was vivacious in character, with well-kept brown hair and humorous dark eyes. To Fidelma, only a pouting, voluptuous mouth marred her features. She was, at first impression, out of place among the sombreness of the abbey, let alone in a library. Yet this was the chief librarian of the abbey. And, in spite of her initial sensual appearance, Sister Grella carried herself in a straight-backed and stately manner, like a queen in the midst of her court. She sat, in an ornately carved oak chair, at the far end of the great library chamber, which was almost as big and as vaulted as the abbey church. It was an impressive building, even by the standards of the great libraries Fidelma had visited elsewhere in the five kingdoms of Éireann.

The books were not kept on shelves but each work was kept in a taig liubhair or book satchel, a leather case which hung on one of a row of pegs along the walls, clearly labelled as to its contents. Fidelma, looking at the impressive collection, was reminded of the story of the death of the saintly Longargán, a most eminent scholar and contemporary of Colmcille. On the night that the Blessed Longargán had died, all the book satchels of Ireland were supposed to have fallen from their pegs as a mark of respect and in symbolism of the loss to learning through his passing.

Most of the books contained in the book satchels were works of reference, frequently consulted by the scholars. But here and there were special works of great value, kept in beautifully ornamented leather covers and embossed with enamels and layers of gold and silver and even studded with precious stones. It was said that Assicos, Patrick’s coppersmith, made quadrangular book covers in copper to hold the books of the saintly man. Some of these works were also kept in special cases of wood as well as metal.

Containers of carved wood were used to keep bundles of hazel and aspen wands, on which were cut letters in ancient Ogham, the rods of the poets, but these works were vanishing as the thin rods of wood rotted. Their information was often transferred to the new alphabet and sheets of vellum before they were destroyed.

There were several people in the musty and gloom-shrouded library. In spite of the daylight filtering through the high windows into the Tech Screptra, giant candles, in large wrought-iron stands, were lit. These cast a flickering illumination across the room. The choking atmosphere of the smoke from these candles, thought Fidelma, was hardly conducive to good scholarship. Here and there scribes sat at special tables crouching over sheets of vellum, quills of swan or goose in one hand and a maulstick to support the wrist in the other as they transcribed in elaborate or ornamental fashion some ancient work for posterity. Others sat reading quietly or with occasional sighs and the rustle of the turning page.

Fidelma made her way along the aisles of book satchels and by the various tables of the diligent scholars. No one raised their head as she passed by.

The reflected glint in the dark eyes of Sister Grella showed that the librarian had watched her approach closely. Fidelma came to the head of the hall, where the librarian’s chair was placed behind a desk on a dais so that she might overlook the length and breadth of the Tech Screptra.

‘Sister Grella? I am …’ began Fidelma as she halted before the librarian.

Sister Grella raised a small but shapely hand to silence her. Then she placed a finger across her lips, rose from her seat and gestured towards a side door.

Fidelma interpreted this as an invitation to follow.

On the other side of the door, Fidelma found herself in a small chamber which was filled with shelves of books but with a table and several chairs. There were sheets of vellum on the table and a conical capped ink holder, an adirícín, with a selection of quills and a pen knife for cutting them into nibs. It was obviously a private workroom.

Sister Grella waited until Fidelma had entered and then closed the door behind her and, with another imperial gesture of her hand, pointed to a chair, indicating that Fidelma should be seated. As Fidelma did so, the librarian lowered herself in the same regal posture into a chair facing her.

‘I know who you are and why you have come,’ the librarian said in a soft soprano voice.

Fidelma smiled quizzically at the personable woman.

‘In that case, my task will be made that much simpler,’ she replied.

The librarian arched an eyebrow but she said nothing.

‘Have you been librarian at Ros Ailithir a long time?’

Sister Grella was obviously not expecting this question to start with and she frowned.

‘I have been leabhar coimedach here for eight years,’ she replied after a moment’s hesitation.

‘And before that?’ Fidelma pressed.

‘I was not at this foundation.’

Fidelma had asked merely in order to obtain some background of the librarian but she detected a faint note of suspicion in the other’s voice and wondered why.

‘Then you must have come here highly recommended toobtain such an important post as librarian without having been trained in this monastery, sister,’ she commented.

Sister Grella made a dismissive gesture, a cutting motion of her left hand.

‘I qualified to the level of sai.’

Fidelma knew that to achieve the degree of a sai one had to study at an ecclesiastical school for six years and have a knowledge of scriptures as well as a general knowledge.

‘Where did you study?’ Her interest was a natural curiosity.

Again, Sister Grella hesitated a little. Then she seemed to make up her mind.

‘At the foundation of the Blessed Colmcille known as Cealla.’

Fidelma stared at her dumbfounded for a moment.

‘Cealla in Osraige?’

‘I know of no other,’ said Grella reprovingly.

‘Are you of Osraige then?’ That borderland between Muman and Laigin seemed to confront her whatever path she took on this investigation. Fidelma was incredulous of the number of times that the kingdom of Osraige seemed to have connections with Ros Ailithir.

‘I was,’ admitted Sister Grella. ‘I have yet to see what this has to do with your task. Abbot Brocc informs me that you are a dálaigh come to investigate the death of Dacán of Fearna. But my birthplace and qualifications have surely little to do with that matter?’

Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at the other.

The woman had become tense. The veins showed blue against the white skin of the forehead. The mouth was trembling slightly and her facial muscles seemed strained. One shapely hand was toying nervously with the silver crucifix which hung around her neck.

‘I am told that the Venerable Dacán spent a considerable portion of his time in the library.’ Fidelma did not bother toreply to Sister Grella’s protest but went straight to her questions about Dacán.

‘He was a scholar. The purpose of his visit to Ros Ailithir was to study. Where else should he spend his time?’

‘How long was he here?’

‘Surely the abbot would have told you that?’

‘Two months,’ Fidelma supplied, realising that the vivacious-looking librarian was not going to be helpful and that her questions would have to be phrased carefully to extract any information at all from her guarded responses. ‘And in that two months,’ Fidelma went on, ‘he spent most of his time in this library studying. What did he study?’

‘He was a scholar of history.’

‘He was well respected for his knowledge, I know,’ replied Fidelma patiently. ‘But what books did he study here?’

‘The books that are studied are a matter for the librarian and the scholar,’ countered Sister Grella woodenly.

Fidelma realised it was time to establish her authority.

‘Sister Grella,’ she said quietly, so softly that the librarian had to bend forward in her chair to catch the words. ‘I am a dálaigh engaged in the investigation of a murder. I am qualified to the level of anruth. This places certain rights and obligations on any whom I feel that I need to question. I am sure that as a sai you are perfectly aware of those obligations. You will now answer the questions that I put to you without further prevarication.’

Sister Grella suddenly sat stiff and upright as Fidelma’s voice rose sharply. Her eyes had widened a little, staring in ill-concealed anger at the younger woman. That she was unused to being so roundly rebuked showed by the tinge of red on her cheeks. She swallowed noisily.

‘What books did Dacán study here?’ repeated Fidelma.

‘He … he was interested in the volumes we have which applied to the history of … of Osraige.’

Osraige yet again! Fidelma gazed at the now impassive face of the librarian.

‘Osraige? Why would an abbey in the land of the Corco Loígde have books on a kingdom that lies many miles from here?’

For the first time Sister Grella’s lips twisted into a smile of superiority. It made her look coarse.

‘Obviously, Fidelma of Kildare, in spite of your qualification in law, you have little knowledge of the history of this land.’

Fidelma shrug indifferently.

‘Everyone is a beginner at another’s trade. I am content with law and leave the profession of history to historians. Enlighten me if there is something I need to know of this matter.’

‘Two hundred years ago there was a chieftain of the Osraige named Lugne. He visited this land of the Corco Loígde and met the chieftain’s daughter named Liadán. For a while they dwelt together on an island off the coast here. A son was born to them whom they named Ciarán and he became one of the great apostles of the Faith in Ireland.’

Fidelma had followed the recital with care.

‘I have read the story of the birth of the Blessed Ciarán which tells how his mother Liadán was sleeping one night and a star fell from heaven into her mouth and after this she became pregnant.’

The librarian was sharply indignant.

‘Storytellers like to embellish their tales with fantasy but the truth, as I tell you, was that Ciarán’s father was Lugne of Osraige.’

‘I do not mean to argue,’ Fidelma mollified her, ‘just that the stories of the great apostles of Ireland are manifold.’

‘I am telling you of the connection between Osraige and the Corco Loígde,’ replied the librarian sourly. ‘Do you want to know it or not?’

‘Continue then.’

‘When Ciarán grew to manhood, his father having died, he set off first to convert the people of his father’s kingdom to the new Faith. At that time, two hundred years ago, the majority still had not heard the Word of Christ. He converted Osraige and he is known as its patron saint, even though he chose to site his community at Saighir, which is just north of its border. This is why he is known as Ciarán of Saighir.’

Fidelma knew this very well but this time held her tongue.

‘I accept that Ciarán had a father from Osraige and a mother from Corco Loígde. Is this what Dacán was studying? A life of Ciarán?’

‘The point is that when Ciarán went to bring the Faith to the Osraige he also took many followers from the Corco Loígde including his own widowed mother, Liadán, who founded a community of religieuse not far from Saighir. And with those followers he took his closest friend and relative, Cúcraide mac Duí, who, after Ciaran had defeated the pagan king of the Osraige, was made king in his stead.’

Fidelma was now suddenly interested in the story.

‘So this is how the kings of the Osraige were chosen from the same family as the chieftains of the Corco Loígde?’

‘Exactly. For two hundred years the Osraige have been ruled by the family of the chieftains of the Corco Loígde. This rule has often been considered unjust. During the last hundred years several kings of the Osraige, from Corco Loígde, have met their death from their people, such as Feradach who was slain in his bed.’

‘And Salbach’s cousin Scandlán is also from the Corco Loígde?’

‘Just so.’

‘Is there still a conflict over the kingship?’

‘There will always be conflict until Osraige is able to reestablish its own line of kings.’

There was a slight vehemence in Grella’s voice which did not pass unnoticed.

‘Was this why Dacan was interested in studying the connections between Osraige and Corco Loígde?’

Grella was immediately on her guard once more.

‘He studied our texts on the history of Osraige and its petty kings, that is all I know.’

Fidelma sighed deeply in exasperation.

‘Come; it is surely logical? Dacán was of Laigin. Laigin has long held claims over Osraige. Perhaps Laigin was interested in placing the native kings of Osraige back in power if those kings turned their allegiance from Cashel to Laigin? Perhaps that is why Dacan was interested in the history of the kingship?’

Grella flushed and her mouth tightened.

Fidelma realised that she had been right and that Grella knew precisely what the old scholar had been studying.

‘Dacán was sent here by Fianamail the new king of Laigin, or by his own brother Abbot Noé of Fearna, who is the advisor to the new king, to gather the background on the kingship of Osraige so that a case might be presented against the Corco Loígde before the High King’s assembly. Surely that is so?’

Grella remained silent, staring defiantly at Fidelma.

Fidelma abruptly smiled at the librarian.

‘You are placed in an awkward position, Grella. As a woman of Osraige, knowing this, you seem to indicate a support for the dispossessed native kings. But I think it is now clear why the Venerable Dacan had come to Ros Ailithir. So why was he killed? To prevent that knowledge being taken back to Laigin?’

Sister Grella’s expression did not alter.

‘Come, speak, Grella,’ insisted Fidelma. ‘We are all entitled to our opinions. You are a woman of Osraige. You doubtless have an opinion. If you supported the return of the nativekings then it would also mean that you had no motive to kill Dacán.’

Grella’s eyes suddenly flashed angrily.

‘I? I, kill Dacan? How dare you suggest …’ She bit her lip and attempted to control her anger. Then she spoke quietly. ‘Yes, of course I have an opinion. Ciarán’s legacy hangs like a millstone around our necks. But I am no revolutionary to change things.’

Fidelma sat back. She found that she had taken a step forward but it had produced many new mysteries and puzzles.

‘So you provided Dacan with all the ancient texts he needed to help him gather this information for the new king of Laigin to lay a fresh claim for the return of Osraige before the High King?’

Sister Grella did not bother to reply but another thought struck Fidelma.

‘Dacán was studying the texts and making notes to prepare a report to take back to Laigin, wasn’t he?’

‘I have admitted as much.’

‘Then where did he keep all the notes and writings that he made?’

Sister Grella grimaced.

‘In his chamber at the hostel, I presume.’

‘Would it surprise you to know there were only a few plain sheets of vellum, some writing materials, and nothing else except …’

Fidelma drew from her robe the short hazel wand she had found discarded in Dacán’s chamber.

Grella took it, turning it over and examining the lettering.

‘It is part of the “Song of Mugain” who was daughter of Cúcraide mac Duí, the first Corco Loígde king of Osraige. It lists part of the genealogy of the native kings of Osraige. I did not even know it was missing.’

She rose from her chair and went to a corner of the chamberand started to looking through containers in which bunches of rods were held. She found one and peered through, making clucking sounds with her tongue.

‘Yes; it is a wand from this collection.’

‘It is in a curious style, more like a will than a genealogy,’ Fidelma pointed out.

Grella’s eyes narrowed.

‘Do you understand Ogham?’ she demanded sharply.

‘I do.’

‘Well, it is not a will.’ Grella’s voice was querulous. ‘The symbolism is that of a poem.’

‘It would seem that Dacán had taken these wands back to his own chamber to transcribe and when he returned them he forgot one of the rods which had fallen to the floor in his room. Would that be a usual thing, his taking material to his chamber?’

Grella shook her head.

‘Unusual. Dacán did not work in that way. He did not want anyone to know what he was working on and so he did not usually remove any material from the Tech Screptra. Usually he worked in this very chamber we now sit in. This is my private study as librarian. Nothing was ever removed from this room.’

‘Then someone did remove at least one of the rods of this “Son of Mugain”,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘How else could it have been found in Dacán’s chamber?’

‘I can make no answer to that question.’

‘And are you saying that he never left his notes or writings here in the library?’

Sister Grella sat stiffly before her.

‘I can assure you that I know nothing of that matter.’

‘Did you know Assid, the merchant?’

The change of tack was so abrupt that Sister Grella asked her to repeat the question.

‘I saw him at the evening meal on the night of Dacán’sdeath,’ Sister Grella replied. ‘What has this man to do with the matter?’

‘Did you observe if Dacán knew Assíd?’

There was no reaction on Grella’s features.

‘Assíd was from Laigin. Most people knew, or at least knew of, Dacán in that kingdom.’

‘I believe that it was Assíd who must have taken the news of Dacán’s death directly to Fearna,’ Fidelma continued. ‘The news of his death travelled swiftly and only a fast sailing barc, taking the coastal route, could have reached Fearna in such a time.’

‘I could not make a comment on that.’

‘Well, could it be that Assíd might have taken Dacán’s notes with him?’

‘Are you saying that Assíd stole them?’ demanded Grella. She did not seem surprised nor outraged.

‘It is a possible explanation.’

‘Possible, yes,’ agreed Sister Grella. ‘But you are surely implying that Assíd killed Dacán?’

‘I have not reached such a conclusion yet.’

Fidelma rose from her seat.

Sister Grella regarded her impassively.

‘Such an explanation would allow the king at Cashel to wriggle off the hook of responsibility.’

Fidelma looked down at her with a trace of a smile.

‘How so?’

‘Why, if Dacán was killed by a man of Laigin then the Laigin claim for Osraige as Dacán’s honour price would become irrelevant, wouldn’t it?’

‘Exactly so,’ agreed Fidelma solemnly.

She turned and left Sister Grella still seated in her chair and walked back through the stillness of the Tech Screptra, amid the sighing breaths, rustle of vellum leaves and scratching of quills.

A figure caught her eye among the racks bearing the booksatchels. The figure attracted attention mainly because it was obvious that it did not wish to be observed by her, Had it been examining the books she might not have taken any notice. But the figure was so ostentatiously trying to look like an earnest reader in the library that it was immediately worthy of a second glance. Well, if the figure so obviously did not want to be seen by her, Fidelma reasoned that she should not give notice that she had spotted it.

It was the young, eager Sister Necht.

Outside the gloomy, candle-lit Tech Screptra, the day had turned chill, the storm clouds suddenly bunching up from the west again, bringing a slow drizzling rain with them.

Fidelma groaned softly and began to hurry towards the hostel.

In the entrance chamber Brother Rumann had ensured that a slow burning fire had been lit in the great hearth. Fidelma was glad of its warmth, for the weather was truly disheartening. She wondered if Sister Eisten or the children had reappeared yet and made her way along to their chambers. The doors were open but the chambers stood empty.

Fidelma compressed her lower lip a moment. She realised that not only were the children’s chambers empty but there was no sign that they had ever been occupied.

Frowning, Fidelma hurried along the corridor to the chamber which Brother Rumann used as his officium.

The plump cenobite was seated before his brandubh board apparently working out some moves.

He glanced up in surprise as Fidelma entered after only the briefest of knocks.

‘Ah, it is you, sister.’ His face wreathed in a smile and he glanced down at the board. ‘Have you come to challenge me to that match we spoke of?’

Fidelma gave a quick negative shake of her head.

‘Not for the moment, Brother Rumann. I am more interested in where the children are.’

‘The children?’

‘The children of Rae na Scríne.’

His face seemed to reshape itself as if bewildered.

‘Why, the children were taken to Brother Midach after the midday meal. Did you want to see them before they left?’

‘Left? For where?’

‘Brother Midach was going to give them a final examination, to ensure that there were no signs of the plague, and then Sister Aíbnat was to take them to the orphanage along the coast which is cared for by the good sister and Brother Molua. I think that they must have left by now.’

‘Have they all gone?’

‘I think so, sister. Brother Midach would know.’

Fidelma found herself hurrying in search of the abbey’s chief physician.

Brother Midach turned out to have the rounded features of an entertainer rather than those commonly associated with a physician. They were certainly in keeping with Fidelma’s general prejudice that all physicians were possessed of humour, for they were creased with many laughter lines. He was balding, so it was hard to see where his tonsure began and what was natural baldness. His lips were thin, the eyes warmly brown and humorous and there was a careless stubble on his cheeks.

Fidelma entered his chambers without knocking. The physician was alone, apparently engaged in mixing some herbs. He glanced up with a frown.

‘I am Fidelma of Kildare,’ she began.

The physician examined her carefully before replying, but did not pause in what he was doing.

‘My colleague, Brother Tóla has spoken of you. Are you seeking him?’

‘No. I am told that you examined the children from Rae na Scríne this afternoon. Is that so?’

The physician raised his dark, bushy eyebrows.

‘That is so. The abbot thought it was best to send them on directly to the care of Brother Molua, who has a house along the coast and cares for orphans. Sister Aíbnat was instructed to take them there. I was asked to examine them to see if they were fit.’

Fidelma showed her disappointment.

‘So they have all gone?’

Midach nodded absently as he continued to pulp leaves by grinding his pestle in a mortar.

‘We have no facilities for children here,’ he explained in a conversational tone. ‘The two little girls were very healthy,’ he smiled. ‘And the sooner the young boy, Tressach, is with others of his kind, the happier he will be. Yes, they will be better off in the house of Molua.’

Fidelma was about to turn for the door when she hesitated and frowned at the chief physician.

‘You say nothing of the two brothers — Cétach and Cosrach?’

Midach raised his head from the mortar, his eyes suddenly dark and fathomless.

‘What two brothers?’ he demanded. ‘There were two sisters …’

‘The black-haired boys,’ she interrupted impatiently. Midach pulled a doleful face.

‘I know nothing of any black-haired boys. I was asked to examine the two girls and a young lad of eight years old.’

‘You saw nothing of a boy of fourteen and one of ten or so?’

Midach shook his head in mystification.

‘Don’t tell me that Brother Rumann has made some mistake and there were two other lads to be sent to Molua? I certainly have not seen them …’

Fidelma was already gone hurrying back to the hostel.

Brother Rumann started in surprise as Fidelma burst in on him again.

‘The two black-haired boys,’ she demanded. ‘Cétach and Cosrach. Where are they?’

Brother Rumann regarded her with a woebegone expression then glanced down at his brandubh board. The pieces had been spilled from their positions, apparently by his jerk of surprise when Fidelma had burst through the door.

‘Really, sister. A little patience. I had almost worked out a new ploy. A wonderful means of …’

He paused, observing, for the first time, her agitated expression.

‘Is something the matter?’

‘I am asking you where the two black-haired boys are — Cétach and Cosrach.’

Brother Rumann began to slowly gather the scattered pieces and replace them on the brandubh board.

‘Sister Aíbnat was told to take all the children to Brother Midach and, if he said that they were healthy enough, then she was to set out for the house of Molua along the coast.’

‘Brother Midach says that he saw only the two little girls, Ciar and Cera, and the boy of about eight years whose name was Tressach. What has happened to the other two boys?’

Brother Rumann climbed to his feet with an expression of annoyance, his hands clutching the brandubh pieces.

‘Are you sure that they did not go with Sister Aíbnat?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Brother Midach knows nothing about them,’ replied Fidelma with an air of exaggerated patience.

‘Then where can they have hidden themselves? Stupid, wilful little children. They should have gone with Sister Aíbnat. Now it means that a second journey will have to be made to take them to Molua’s orphanage.’

‘When did you last see them?’

‘I can’t remember. Perhaps when Salbach arrived here. I recall that young Sister Necht was talking to them in theirroom. The order for the children to be sent to the orphanage came from Brocc shortly afterwards.’

‘Is there anywhere obvious that they would have hidden themselves?’ Fidelma asked, remembering how afraid Cétach had been of Salbach. Could he and his brother have hidden somewhere, waiting for Salbach to leave the abbey? Could they be remaining in hiding not realising that he had already left?

‘There are many hiding places,’ Rumann assured her. ‘But don’t worry, sister. It will soon be vespers and the bell and hunger will draw them out of their hiding place.’

Fidelma was unconvinced.

‘It was thought the bell for the midday meal would lure them out for food. If you see Sister Eisten, tell her that I would like to see her.’

Brother Rumann nodded absently, turning his attention back to the brandubh game. He slowly began to reassemble the pieces on the board.

Back in her chamber Fidelma stretched exhausted on her cot. She wished she had told Brocc that she wanted the children from Rae na Scríne to remain at the abbey until she had resolved the mystery. It had not occurred to her that he would have them removed so soon. For every mystery solved there were new ones to be confronted.

Why had the young boy Cétach pleaded with her not to mention him or his brother, Cosrach, to Salbach? Why had the boys then vanished? Why was Salbach so reluctant to believe her charge against Intat? And had any of these matters a connection with the death of Dacan, which mystery was her main task to solve?

She gave a snort of frustration as she lay on her back with hands clasps behind her head.

So far, there was little that made sense in this investigation. Oh, there were a couple of theories that she could develop but the old Brehon Morann had warned against creating theories before all the evidence was in. What was his favouritesaying? ‘Do not make the cheese until you have first milked the cows.’ Yet she was acutely aware of the rapid passing of her greatest enemy — time.

She wondered how her brother, Colgú, must be feeling now that he was king of Muman. She felt anxiety for her elder brother.

There would be little time to mourn the dead king, Cathal mac Cathail, their cousin. The main thing now was to prevent the impending war. And that great responsibility rested entirely with her.

She found herself wishing once again that Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham was here with her so that she could discuss her ideas and suspicions with him. Then she felt somehow guilty for the thought and did not know why.

The sound of a door banging abruptly caused her to sit up. She could hear heavy footsteps running across the stone-flagged floor below and then ascending the steps to the second floor of the hostel. Such footsteps did not augur well. By the time the steps reached her door and halted she had swung off her cot and stood facing the door.

It was Cass who came pushing through the door, after a cursory knocking. He was breathing hard from his exertions.

He pulled up sharply in the middle of her chamber and stood with heaving shoulders facing her.

‘Sister Fidelma!’ He had to pause to recover his breath.

She stared at him, wondering what had made the young warrior so agitated. She quickly worked out that he would have to run a distance over a difficult path to arrive in such a condition. A warrior, such as he, did not loose breath so easily.

‘Well, Cass?’ she asked quietly. ‘What is it?’

‘Sister Eisten. She has been found.’

Fidelma read what was in his eyes.

‘Has she been found dead?’ she asked softly.

‘She has!’ confirmed Cass grimly.