The Devil's seal

CHAPTER FIVE

The morning sky was dark and it had started to rain long before dawn. There was no wind to promise the dispersal of low-hanging clouds and yet it was not exceptionally cold. The rain swept the fertile plains around Cashel, falling so thickly that anyone looking from The Rock, on which the palace of Colgú stood, could barely see the town nestling beneath. Even the pall of smoke of the numerous domestic fires was obscured by the downpour.

It was a day which was cursed by farmers and travellers alike. The farmers cursed it because the soil became a quagmire, thus delaying the planting of oats and barley. The travellers cursed it because the tracks and roads were turned to muddy stretches, the streams became turbulent rivers, while rivers became impassable. It was a day when no one felt like venturing out unless they had no alternative; a day when any outside task that could be delayed was ignored. It was the same within the buildings of the King’s palace at Cashel. Those warriors of the Golden Collar, the King’s élite bodyguards, who were not on duty, remained in the Laochtech, the Hall of Heroes as their accommodation was known. Even the horse-master and his stable lads remained cosseted inside by the fire.

Fidelma and Eadulf had decided that Eadulf should introduce his brother to their son Alchú, and then conduct him around the palace. While he was doing this, Fidelma would take the opportunity to seek out her friend Abbess Líoch and diplomatically question her about their suspicions.

Fidelma found the abbess in the Tech-screptra, the House of Manuscripts. She was alone in the library apart from leabhar coimedach, the Keeper of the Books, who sat in a corner working on a wax tablet, which was often employed to make notes, after which the wax could be smoothed out for further use. The man started to rise as Fidelma entered, but she placed a finger to her lips and nodded towards the figure of the abbess sitting engrossed in a manuscript in a distant corner of the library. Cashel was proud of its library; although it was smaller than most abbey libraries, it possessed several treasures in Greek, Latin and Hebrew, as well as the language of the Five Kingdoms. These were hung in leather book-satchels on pegs or racks along the walls. The books were greatly valued and often brought as gifts to the King.

Abbess Líoch glanced up as Fidelma approached. There was a slight frown on her features.

‘Are you busy, Líoch?’ Fidelma asked pleasantly, seating herself without being invited.

The abbess tapped the top of her desk with a forefinger. ‘I am reading the latest work of Tirechán of the Uí Amolngid of Connacht.’

Fidelma was surprised. ‘Tirechán? I heard that he had died recently. Wasn’t he a great propagandist for the claim of Armagh to be considered the principal seat of the Faith in the Five Kingdoms?’

‘So he was. But there have been many counter-claims from abbeys older and more important than Armagh.’

‘I didn’t realise this library had the work of Tirechán,’ Fidelma said. ‘Abbot Ségdae would doubtless be horrified. As I recall, Tirechán also claimed that Patricius built each and every church and abbey in the Five Kingdoms.’

‘Tirechán calls everyone who does not agree that Ard Macha should be the first city of the Faith “deserters, thieves and robbers, and merely war-lords”,’ agreed Abbess Líoch.

‘As Abbot of Imleach and Chief Bishop of Muman, Ségdae would be the first to dispute that Ard Macha held any authority over all the churches and abbeys,’ rejoined Fidelma.

‘I am intrigued to hear you take so much interest in matters of ecclesiastical authority, Fidelma. As far as I knew, you were always more interested in law than in religion.’

Fidelma was not offended. ‘Sometimes the religious insist on having an impact on law. You yourself are known as standing against the adoption of the Penitentials — the laws that are to the detriment of our own laws. Several abbots have adopted these Penitentials, especially those who believe we should move in closer alliance with the teachings of Rome.’

‘You are a clever advocate, I’ll not gainsay that. Indeed, I stand for both our Faith and our native laws,’ replied the abbess. ‘I was not surprised to hear that you had formally left the religious. Yet you are still known widely as Sister Fidelma. However, you were always better suited to law than the religious life.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘It is meant as such. I had not met your husband, Eadulf, before yesterday. He still wears the tonsure of Rome. How does he regard himself?’

‘In respect to the Faith? He accepts the teachings of the Faith but he always had a mind for justice which transcends other matters. He was converted by missionaries from Connacht who went to the Kingdom of the East Angles where he comes from. Then he came to study here.’

‘Although he wears the tonsure of Rome?’

‘He left here and went to Rome. I met him at the Great Debate at Streonshalh where he supported the Roman side.’

Abbess Líoch’s austere features broke into a rueful smile.

‘That was not so many years ago. What is it — six or seven? Do you remember our little band of pilgrims? We all met together at the Abbey of the Blessed Machaoi on the island of Oen Druim to take ship across the narrow sea to I-Shona.’

‘I remember it well,’ nodded Fidelma. ‘It was the first time I had travelled so far north among the Five Kingdoms, north to the country of the Dál Riada of Ulaidh. We were all afraid of the wild tempest, for the passage across the narrow sea from Oen Druim to I-Shona was a turbulent one.’

‘I was sick most of the way,’ recalled Abbess Líoch. ‘However, with God’s grace, we arrived safe on the island of Colmcille.’

‘A beautiful little island,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘Then came the journey onwards and through the Land of the Cruthin and into the Kingdom of Oswy. What excitement we felt as we followed the steps of Aidan and the others to Hilda’s Abbey. It was to be our first great clash with those who wanted to impose these new ideas from Rome.’

Abbess Líoch gave a sidelong glance at Fidelma. ‘Even then you went there, not to advocate religion, but to advise our delegation on law.’

‘I have not denied it. But why did you take that journey, and what made you halt before we reached the Abbey of Hilda?’

‘If you recall, I was travelling with a young scholar. He was. . he was a good friend of mine.’

‘I remember. Olcán was his name. What happened?’

‘We left your group and made our way south-west to a place called Laestingau; it was a small abbey which one of the kings of the area had set up because he had chosen it as the place where he wanted to be buried. It was only a full day’s ride from Hilda’s Abbey and we had originally meant to rejoin you after a few days.’

‘But why did you go there?’

‘Cedd was the abbot at Laestingau at that time.’

‘Cedd was one of the main interpreters at the Great Council,’ Fidelma remarked, but could not see where her story was going.

‘Cedd was adept at several languages,’ the abbess continued. ‘He had asked Cumméne, the abbot of I-Shona, to send him a copy of the Computus of Mo Sinu maccu Min of Beannchoir as he wished to study it before the council began. Cumméne entrusted the manuscript to the care of Olcán and myself. We were told to take it directly to Cedd’s abbey at Laestingau. And that was the reason why we left you on your way to Streonshalh.’

‘But Cedd came to Streonshalh and took a lively part in the debate. Why didn’t you and Olcán join him?’

‘When we reached Laestingau, Cedd had already gone on to Streonshalh. We needed to rest so we stayed there that night. And that night. .’ She paused and there was a curious expression on her face. ‘We were prevented from joining you.’

Fidelma was frowning. ‘Prevented? How so?’

‘The abbey was only a small group of wooden buildings without any defensive walls. As we lay in bed, it was attacked. Olcán was killed. Others were killed as well, including some of the women.’

‘I didn’t know. I am sorry.’

‘As you say, it was years ago now.’

‘How did you escape?’

Abbess Líoch made a sound that was closer to a moan than anything else.

‘Escape? I did not escape. I was used and left for dead. When Cedd returned after the council, he found the survivors huddling in the ruins. I was one of them. It took me several weeks to recover.’

‘Who were the perpetrators?’

‘Raiders from the neighbouring Kingdom of Mercia.’

Fidelma breathed out softly. She was recalling how raids from Mercia had threatened the peace during the Council at Streonshalh.

‘Were the raiders ever caught and punished?’

‘All I knew was that it was not long after Cedd returned to his abbey that he sickened. It was the autumn of that year that he fell ill with the Yellow Plague and died. We buried him in the burned-out ruins of the abbey at Laestingau. I spent some time trying to repay those people for looking after me when I was beside myself with grief and shame. Without their support, I would surely have died. But after a while, I made my way back here to my own land, my own people, and buried myself in the work of my little abbey at Cill Náile. Within a short time I found myself risen to lead my small community and was appointed Abbess.’ Abbess Líoch sat back and smiled ruefully at Fidelma. ‘That is my sad story. Since my return, all has been well.’

‘Until now?’

The abbess started and for a moment she stared at Fidelma before dropping her gaze.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Until the appearance of Brother Cerdic at your abbey. I find it curious that he calls on you and tells you that it is in your interest to attend at Cashel. He comes to you before he has even consulted Abbot Ségdae or my brother. I am told by Eadulf that the leader of the deputation coming here is led by a Bishop Arwald of Magonsaete and that is a sub-Kingdom of Mercia.’

‘My response to your question has not altered since yesterday,’ replied the abbess tightly.

‘You told me that you did not know Brother Cerdic.’

‘It is true. I never saw him before he came to Cill Náile.’

‘Eadulf says that his name would indicate that he too was from Magonsaete.’

‘Which implies?’ The abbess glared at her.

‘After your experience at Laestingau, I would expect you to have some antipathy towards people from that land,’ pointed out Fidelma.

The abbess’ mouth formed into a thin line. ‘I would hope, even after my experience, that I could differentiate between an entire people and individuals.’

‘That would be a laudable quality. But I have to ask you. . did you kill Brother Cerdic?’

‘I did not!’ came the sharp reply.

‘You had the opportunity,’ went on Fidelma. ‘You left your horse at the bottom of the hill and came up here on foot. You told me that you wanted to rest your horse.’

‘It is the truth. Sister Dianaimh thought her mount was going lame.’

‘So you both came into the palace on foot. Why?’

‘I came to see Abbot Ségdae.’

‘But you did not find him. You did not find him and so returned without speaking to anyone. Only the guard saw you come and then depart. Where did you look for the abbot? In the chapel?’

Abbess Líoch’s face was a pale mask without expression.

‘You have already made up your mind, is that it?’ she said slowly. ‘I thought you were only interested in truth. It seems you are more interested in finding a sacrifice to explain this man’s death.’

Fidelma gazed into her eyes, long and hard. ‘Tell me, by all you hold sacred, by our friendship when we were young, Líoch. . that you did not have anything to do with the death of Brother Cerdic.’

Abbess Líoch pushed her head towards Fidelma so that their faces were scarcely a hand’s width apart. Her expression was intense.

‘I tell you by all I hold sacred, on the grave of poor Olcán, far away in a foreign land, that I raised no hand against this man Cerdic.’

Fidelma waited for a few moments and then said: ‘I have accepted your word, Líoch. You, I hope, will understand why I had to pursue this path. Unless we find out who killed Brother Cerdic, Colgú will have much to answer for when Bishop Arwald and his deputation arrive here.’

Abbess Líoch stared bleakly at her friend.

‘We have known the days, Fidelma of Cashel. We were both young and, perhaps, innocent. Now we have grown to know that there is much evil in the world and that it must be challenged. You have chosen your method of challenging it and I have chosen mine. When I depart from here, I will have no wish to see you as a friend again. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall return to my studies.’

‘I am sad to hear that,’ Fidelma said. ‘But friendship does not cancel out the search for truth.’

Fidelma left the library feeling dissatisfied. She had made no progress at all. If anything, she had simply gathered more suspicions. The story of what had happened at Laestingau could well have provided Líoch with a motive. Fidelma thought she knew the abbess well enough to accept her oath, and yet there was a conflict of emotions within her; she was not entirely at ease with the woman’s denial.

She paused in the covered entrance outside the library door. A figure was hurrying through the driving rain, across the courtyard, head down. It was the abbess’ young female steward, Sister Dianaimh. She halted before Fidelma in the cover of the porch and wiped the rain from her pale face, then gave a nervous smile.

‘I am looking for the abbess — have you seen her?’

‘She is inside,’ confirmed Fidelma, but as the girl moved to open the library door, Fidelma stayed her. ‘A word with you first.’

The bright blue eyes of the girl turned enquiringly on her.

‘I wondered how long you have served Abbess Líoch?’

‘Since last summer.’

‘You are young to be a bann-mhaor.’

‘Before joining the abbess, I served in the Abbey of Sléibhte in Laighin, lady. I joined Abbot Aéd’s community there when I was at the age of choice.’

‘When Brother Cerdic called at Cill Náile a few days ago to see Abbess Líoch, had she ever seen him before?’

Sister Dianaimh’s chin came up defiantly. ‘You should ask the abbess that question.’

‘You see,’ went on Fidelma, ignoring her reply, ‘I have to ask questions when someone has been killed. You will recall that I rode with you into Cashel, having met you on the highway. .’

‘Riding with your son and a warrior,’ the girl nodded. ‘I remember.’

‘And I left you and the abbess riding into the township to find lodgings while we went on to the palace here. Then you changed your minds, left your horses at the bottom of the hill and came up here on foot. I find that strange.’

‘The abbess suddenly realised that she should let Abbot Ségdae know that we had arrived in the township. However, we thought the horses were tired — my horse was developing a limp — so we left them in the care of a boy and walked up the hill to the palace.’

‘You did not find Abbot Ségdae.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘The abbess has already told you that we did not,’ replied the bann-mhaor suspiciously.

‘So where did you search for him?’

For the first time Sister Dianaith looked uncertain. ‘I did not. I remained at the gate while the abbess went to find him.’

‘Did she ask the guard at the gates where he might be found?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘I cannot remember — I presume so.’

‘So the abbess went to look while you remained at the gate; was that by the gate or in the courtyard?’

‘Just inside the gate. The abbess was not gone very long. She found a member of the brethren, an old man, who told her that the abbot was with the King. So she decided that we should continue to look for lodgings in the township. We had barely returned to our horses and set off when you and the Saxon, your husband, overtook us. And now, if that is all. .?’

‘A moment more.’ Fidelma held up a hand. ‘You said you remained inside the gate?’

‘I did,’ the girl replied impatiently.

‘In that case, you could see across the main courtyard to the side of the chapel that faces it. Did anyone cross that courtyard while you were there?’

‘A few people, as would be expected.’

‘Such as? Describe them.’

Sister Dianaimh made a gesture with her shoulder as if dismissing the question. ‘I would not know them. The echaire — that is, the stable-master, two warriors. . oh, and a religieux.’

‘A religieux? What did he look like?’

‘He had his hood over his head. Even if he had been uncovered, I would not have recognised him. I have not been here before. Now, can I go?’

Fidelma nodded thoughtfully as the girl moved past and entered the library. She waited a few moments before pulling her cloak tightly around her and going out into the still driving rain, hurrying towards the smaller courtyard at the back of the chapel where, in a corner, Brother Conchobhar’s apothecary was situated.

She entered the apothecary with its almost overpowering aromas that arose from the countless dried plants and herbs that hung from the ceiling or grew in pots on benches that crowded inside. Old Brother Conchobhar was bent over a bench at the far end, busily mixing a paste with a mortar in a pestle. He looked up as she entered and laid the work aside.

‘I was expecting you,’ he greeted her. His expression was serious.

‘You were?’ she frowned.

‘I thought you would come to see me about Deogaire’s outlandish behaviour last night.’

‘Ah, that. Yes, it was extraordinary,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘But that was not my main purpose.’

‘Then how can I help?’ The old man was surprised.

‘I was told Abbess Líoch might have been about here early yesterday. It was before Eadulf found the body of Brother Cerdic. I just wondered if you saw her then.’

Brother Conchobhar rubbed the side of his temple, as if it aided his memory. ‘Yes, I saw her and she was enquiring for Abbot Ségdae,’ he confirmed. ‘That’s right. . I told her that the abbot was with the King. She thanked me and left.’ He paused and then added: ‘Wait! That is in the wrong order. I was in here and happened to glance at that little door across the way which leads into the back of the chapel. She was trying the handle.’

‘So you saw Abbess Líoch at the door of the chapel. Did anyone answer her?’

Brother Conchobhar shook his head. ‘Not that I am aware. Certainly, when I saw her there, I went and told her that the door was kept bolted from the inside. Only the main doors were open. I asked if I could help her. When she said she was looking for Abbot Ségdae, that was when I was able to tell her that he had gone to see your brother.’

‘And then she left?’

‘She did. I was waiting for Deogaire to join me to help me carry some things to the blacksmith’s forge.’

‘But she might have gone into the chapel,’ mused Fidelma.

Brother Conchobhar looked quizzically at her. ‘Not unless someone came and opened the bolts when I turned my back. Surely you don’t suspect Abbess Líoch of killing the Saxon — Brother Cerdic?’

‘It is my nature to be suspicious, as you know well, old wolf-lover,’ she replied, using the literal meaning of her mentor’s name as a form of endearment.

‘I know your nature well enough. Didn’t I teach you something of the art of seeking answers when you were a child?’ he replied with a smile.

‘You especially taught me that one should ask the right questions to obtain the right answers. The trouble is, the answers to the questions that I have been asking do not make sense.’

‘Which means that you are not asking the right questions,’ rejoined the old man.

‘That may well be so.’ Then a thought occurred to her. ‘It must have been only a short time after this encounter with the abbess that you were joined by Deogaire and you were walking around the front of the chapel, across the main square?’

‘That is so. Deogaire had returned and he and I were taking some herbs to the smithy’s forge when Eadulf appeared at the door on the other side of the chapel and called out to us. He asked if we had seen anyone leave the chapel, which we had not. There was no one about. . well, I saw Brother Madagan on the far side of the courtyard, but he was going in the other direction. Then Eadulf showed us the body of Brother Cerdic.’

Fidelma shook her head in frustration. ‘There is something that I am missing. Ah well, it will come back to me soon.’

‘And Deogaire?’ asked Brother Conchobhar. ‘Is your brother thinking of punishing him for his outburst last night?’

‘I would not think so, unless those present felt insulted,’ replied Fidelma.

Brother Conchobhar was unhappy. ‘As you know, Deogaire claims to have the imbas forosnai — the prophecy of the poets. It is not wise to boast of such things nowadays.’

‘Abbot Ségdae says it is forbidden. He claims it is a denial of the New Faith.’

‘True,’ the old man sighed. ‘But forbidden or not, it does not make it vanish as if it has never existed. Many things are forbidden but are none the less true because of it. Did not Fionn Mac Cumhaill often display that talent for such divination? Between us, I believe Deogaire has some gift. He has often proved a worthy sage.’

‘Yet is it not said that a sage is not wise all the time?’ Fidelma pointed out.

‘True once again,’ agreed the old man. ‘And they say that there are times when the silent mouth sounds most melodious. Perhaps Deogaire should have pursued the most melodious course?’

‘Did he ever explain to you what he means about his prophecy?’

‘The prophecy never came to me before.’ The voice cut through the pause before Brother Conchobhar could respond. Deogaire emerged from the back room into the apothecary.

‘And in what form did your prophecy come to you, Deogaire?’ asked Fidelma, undeterred by the sudden appearance of the young man.

‘It came last night, when I was watching the queen of the night rise above the hills. Do we not often call her Aesca, the place where knowledge is found?’

‘And watching the moon, you suddenly saw danger approaching my brother’s palace?’

‘I’ll not deny it.’

‘I know you have little time for the New Faith, Deogaire. But is it wise to boast of the possession of the imbas forosnai?’

‘Not everyone has forsaken the old paths of knowledge for the new and unknown, lady. You have left the religious yourself in order to maintain our old laws.’

‘I have left the religious — which does not mean that I have left the Faith, Deogaire. And what I was going to say is that while you reject the New Faith, yet your prophecy was laced with images of the New Faith.’

Deogaire chuckled. ‘Should I have placed older images of our ancient faith and culture in my warning? How then would the interpretation of what I said have been made clear? Images, like words in a foreign language, have no meaning unless they are shared.’

‘As a matter of fact, the images were lost on some until I pointed out the meanings of the terms you were using,’ replied Fidelma, amused. ‘Why did you give this warning that Satan was about to descend on Cashel?’

‘I used the images of the Devil because it would have had little impact if I had warned that the messengers of the Fomorii were about to come and sup with the King.’

Fidelma’s eyes widened a little. The Fomorii had been the ancient evil deities of her people; the name meant ‘undersea dwellers’. From their caverns beneath the waves, led by Cichol, Balor of the Evil Eye and the goat-headed Gaborchend, they launched attack after attack on the good gods and goddesses, the Children of Danú. Finally, Lugh Lamhfada and Nuada of the Silver Hand drove them back into the sea.

‘Well, in whatever image,’ Fidelma replied, ‘your prophecy is that evil is about to strike Cashel?’

‘Has it not already done so?’

‘You mean the murder of Brother Cerdic?’

‘I will leave it to you to make your own interpretation, Fidelma of Cashel. All I say is that I feel a chill wind from the east. I would issue you with a warning. Two glances behind you are sometimes better than looking straight ahead. Death can come in many forms — even a winged demon out of the sky. You know that I am not given to idle speculation. I inherited the gift of the imbas forosnai from my mother’s mother and back to her mother’s mother and their line since the dawn of time.’

With that he turned and left the apothecary.

Brother Conchobhar stood a moment in silence and then he coughed nervously, extending his arms in a helpless gesture.

‘I am sorry, Fidelma.’

She had been thinking and now she raised her head with a smile. ‘You have no need to be, old wolf-lover. I have known some with the gift of prophecy — enough to know it would be silly to dismiss it lightly. If there is evil approaching from the east, then we must be prepared for it.’