The Leper's bell

Chapter Four

It was just before midday when Fidelma and Eadulf, followed by Capa, with Gorman and Caol riding behind, reached the dark flowing waters of the River Suir, west of Cashel, at the point where a bridge crossed to a small island in the middle before continuing on to the far bank. On the island stood a small fortification which served to protect the approaches to Cashel in times of war. Dense woodland grew on either side of the broad waters.

Eadulf recalled the last time he had ridden along this highway with Fidelma. He shivered slightly, for then they had been held up by warriors of the Uí Fidgente when they had been on a journey to Imleach to investigate the mysterious disappearance of the holy relics of St Ailbe and Brother Mochta, Keeper of the Holy Relics. Eadulf glanced nervously about him as they rode up to the bridge. They had been waylaid by enemy warriors at this very spot and he had been forced to swim with his horse, gasping for breath as the icy river clutched at him.

The brooding waters were beginning to reflect the spreading dark clouds coming from the west, which reared up into a flattened anvil shape dominating the sky. Fidelma glanced up.

Thunder clouds,’ she muttered. ‘We might have to seek shelter before we reach Imleach.’

Eadulf recalled that beyond the bridge there was a settlement called the Well of Ara where they had stayed before. A man called Aona who had once commanded the bodyguard of the king of Cashel ran the inn there.

He started nervously.

‘What is it?’ whispered Fidelma, catching his movement.

‘I think that there is someone hidden in the fortress on the island. There is someone watching us.’

Capa edged his horse forward, overhearing Eadulf ‘s alarm.

They should be our warriors, lady. Men were sent out to patrol the roads soon after we discovered the body of Sárait and realised the child was missing. I posted three of my men to check all travellers crossing the bridge.’

He urged his mount forward and led the way across the bridge. Eadulf watched anxiously as a warrior emerged from the small rath ahead of them and made his way to greet them. He saluted Capa and his eyes widened a little as he recognised Fidelma and Eadulf.

‘What news?’ Capa demanded.

‘Little to tell, lord,’ the man replied. There has been nothing out of the ordinary along the road. Soon after we arrived, a band of pilgrims crossed here. Apart from those, only local folk have crossed about their business and they have been well known to us. That is all. No sign of anyone with a baby…’ He cast a look at Fidelma and dropped his eyes awkwardly.

‘Have you watched both day and night?’ Capa said sharply, demanding the man’s attention.

‘My comrades and I have done so most diligently. From the morning that Finguine sent us here, the morning when the alarm was raised, we have maintained a constant watch. We have taken turns on watch — one to watch while the others slept. But no one has ever attempted to cross the bridge at night.’

Eadulf pursed his lips with cynicism. ‘Why cross this bridge at all? There are fords further upstream. Besides, whoever did this deed could have crossed in the hours of darkness on the very night that Sárait was slain and the baby taken,’ he pointed out. This might be a matter of closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.’

‘You may be right, Brother Eadulf,’ Capa agreed with reluctance. ‘But the alarm was raised and patrols sent into the countryside as soon as the facts were learnt. It was better to do something than nothing.’

Tell me more about the pilgrims,’ Fidelma queried, leaning forward slightly to give emphasis to her interest.

The man frowned as if gathering his thoughts, pausing for a moment before replying.

‘Little to tell, lady. We passed them on the road, for they were on foot and we were on horseback. We came here and eventually they caught up with us. There were about six of them. I have seen their sort many times en route to holy sanctuaries in search of cures for their ailments. There was nothing to distinguish them, one from another. Each one of them was clad in robes, and they had their heads covered in cowls so that we could not tell age or even sex. There were no children with them; any babies, that is.’

Fidelma examined him with a frown.

‘What makes you qualify your statement?’

The man hesitated and shrugged.

‘I thought one of them might have been a child, a short, almost misshapen poor soul.’

Fidelma raised an eyebrow. ‘A misshapen child?’ Her voice was sharp.

The warrior shrugged as he considered how best to describe what he had seen.

The pilgrim was not what I would call a child. The figure was quite stocky. And about so high…’ He was a tall man and raised a hand to the level of his waistband.

Capa was looking on with disapproval. ‘You did not check the identities of these travellers, I gather? You surely know that we are looking for the misshapen child who brought the message to Cashel? You should have stopped this pilgrim.’

The man looked unhappy. ‘I was not told about a misshapen child, Capa, only about the baby, Alchú. That is all. Anyway, when we went closer to the pilgrims to question them, this small figure produced a bell — a leper’s bell — and rang it. I noticed the other pilgrims tended to keep their distance. Therefore we did not venture nearer but let them pass on to Imleach.’

Fidelma exhaled slowly. It was her only sign of exasperation. The warrior turned to her with an expression that was almost woeful.

‘Truly, lady,’ he said, speaking directly to her, ‘we were not told to search for a misshapen child — only for a baby.’

Capa looked irritable. ‘Who gave you your orders, warrior?’

‘Why, my lord Finguine did so.’

‘Well, now you know, although I fear it is too late,’ Capa replied. ‘A misshapen child brought the message to Cashel that lured Sárait to her death. Keep a careful watch from now on.’

The warrior nodded glumly.

Low down behind the distant western mountains came a rumble of thunder. Fidelma stirred reluctantly.

‘We should press on to the Well of Ara before the storm breaks.’ Capa turned and led the way across the bridge with Fidelma and Eadulf following and their escort of Caol and Gorman bringing up the rear.

The warrior on the bridge watched their going with a glum face. Then he seemed to relax and pulled himself up with a disdainful gesture of his shoulders. Capa was mad if he expected the men to start searching passing lepers too closely.

The rain was just starting to fall in heavy droplets and the rumble of thunder was growing more prevalent as, some kilometres further on, the party came to a small rise beyond which the road dipped towards another substantial river. On both banks of this river, and connected by a series of easily fordable shallows, lay the settlement of Ara’s Well. In fact, the waters barely came up to the fetlocks of the horses as they splashed through the crossing and halted before a tavern situated exactly by the ford.

A youth, scarcely out of his boyhood, certainly no more than fourteen, opened the door of the inn and came forward to greet them.

‘Welcome, travellers. You are welcome to…’

His eyes suddenly fell on Fidelma and then on Eadulf and a broad urchin grin lit up his features.

‘Greetings to you, Adag.’ Fidelma smiled as she swung down from her horse. ‘Are you well?’

‘Well, indeed, lady. Welcome. Brother Eadulf, welcome. You are both most welcome.’

Eadulf smiled and ruffled the boy’s already tousled hair.

‘Good to see you again, Adag. You have grown since I last laid eyes on you.’

The boy drew himself up. He looked different from the small eleven-year-old whom Eadulf had first seen sitting by the river bank, casting his line into the waters and trying to lift the wild brown trout for the pot.

‘How is your grandfather, Adag?’ asked Fidelma, as the boy took her horse’s reins. The boy paused before he turned to gather the reins of the other mounts.

‘He is inside, lady. He will be happy to see you. I will take your horses to the stable and attend to them. But my grandfather will take care of your wants. Will you be staying? I can look after your horses, if so?’

Fidelma glanced at the sky, just as a lightning flash lit it. She blinked and silently counted, reaching four before the thunder reverberated in the air.

‘It is near enough,’ she observed in resignation. ‘We will wait out the storm.’ With a smile, she added: ‘How long do you think that will be, Adag?’

The boy tilted his head to one side with a serious expression as he surveyed the sky.

‘It will be gone before the hour is up, but there is time enough to take a bowl of stew and a mug of my grandfather’s corma. I will feed and rub down the horses.’

Capa, who had been silent during this exchange, frowned.

‘My men are capable of tending to their own mounts…’

Fidelma raised a hand. ‘Adag can take care of all our mounts, Capa. He is capable enough. Come inside and leave him to do his job.’

She turned and pushed into the interior of the tavern. It was dark inside but a dancing fire provided a curious light, where flames ate hungrily into a pile of crackling logs. There was an aroma of mutton stew simmering in its large pot from a hook above the fire.

An elderly man was placing drinking vessels on the table. He turned as they entered and opened his mouth to welcome them, then halted as he recognised them.

‘Hello, Aona. Are you well?’

‘I am the better for seeing you, my lady. And with our good Saxon friend, Eadulf. Life has been quiet in my tavern since last you visited us.’

‘Ah, I pray that it may continue to be so, Aona,’ replied Fidelma in solemn humour. ‘Better peace than conflict, eh?’

Capa looked irritated at being excluded from this friendly exchange. His handsome features seemed disdainful of the intimacy between Fidelma and the innkeeper.

‘Landlord, fetch us food and drink,’ he said officiously.

Fidelma turned to him and only Eadulf saw the swift look of annoyance cross her features before it was gone.

‘Aona, let me present Capa. Capa now holds the position that you once held.’

Capa frowned, not understanding, colouring at the implied rebuke. Then he peered at the old innkeeper with an expression of surprise as memory came to him.

‘Are you Aona who was commander of the guard of Cashel in the days of my grandfather? Aona whose deeds and combats are still spoken of?’

Behind Capa, Caol and Gorman were regarding the old innkeeper with something approaching awe. They were both young men, full of pride at being chosen to wear the golden necklet of the élite bodyguard of Cashel. But over their fires, at night, they had also heard of the deeds and valour of the great warriors who had gone before them and whose image they wanted to live up to.

The old innkeeper chuckled at their expressions.

‘I am Aona who once served as commander of the guard,’ he replied. ‘But you make me sound positively ancient, my young warrior.’ His grey eyes glinted like steel as he regarded the younger man. ‘So you are now commander of the guard, eh? Well, command is not merely in the strength of one’s muscles, young friend. Let us hope your mind is as agile as your body.’

Capa’s chin came up defensively.

‘I pride myself that Colgú has no cause to complain of me,’ he retorted.

I am glad to hear it,’ Aona assured him calmly. Then he glanced swiftly to Fidelma and winked. ‘You are fond of quoting Publilius Syrus, lady. Didn’t he say that there is but a step between a proud man’s glory and his disgrace?’

He gave the quotation in the original Latin and Capa apparently did not understand it. Fidelma restrained a smile for she knew that Aona had also spotted what she felt was Capa’s weakness — his arrogance. She turned and indicated that Capa and his men should seat themselves and order something to drink. She and Eadulf moved towards the fire while Aona, in answer to their request, placed a jug of reddish-coloured ale called leann, distilled from rye, and some pottery drinking vessels before the three warriors. They fell to with unconcealed eagerness. Fidelma motioned Aona to join them.

‘Before we sample your stew and your famous corma, Aona, have you heard or seen anything unusual on this road? You see…’

Aona interrupted with a shake of his head.

‘You do not have to explain, lady. I have heard of your distress. If there is anything I can do, you have only to command. There have been only a few travellers on the road from Cashel.’

Fidelma’s features expressed silent gratitude.

‘We are trying to pick up some lead,’ she explained. ‘Something to give us a clue to where my baby has been taken. I want to question some pilgrims who will have taken this road.’

Aona raised a hand and pushed back his hair, letting it run through his fingers.

‘Pilgrims? They did not venture near my tavern for which mercy, in truth, I uttered a prayer of thanks.’

‘Why would that be?’ Fidelma asked in surprise.

‘The pilgrims took the western road to Imleach but one of them, who walked in the rear, rang a leper’s bell to warn of his approach. I watched them cross the ford and pass through the settlement without stopping and, I would say, much to everyone’s relief.’ He held up a hand. ‘Do not lecture me on charity, lady. I have charity as much as the next man but even so I could not help feeling gratitude when they passed on, with the leper, without asking for alms or hospitality.’

‘But you saw them pass by?’ Eadulf pressed quickly. ‘Was one short in stature — perhaps a child or a youth?’

‘I only saw them from a distance. Even then they were clad from poll to foot in their robes. They wore cowls. I think that the one with the bell might have been shorter than the others. It was hard to tell. No one was carrying a baby, though.’ He frowned, tugging at his ear. ‘During this week it has been quiet on this road, lady. I’ve scarcely seen a dozen travellers and half of those are known to me. From some of them, I learnt about your baby’s disappearance. Of the strangers with babies … there was an itinerant herbalist with his wife and two babies in a wagon. I was fishing on the river so noticed their arrival. They came from the north, though, along the road from Cappagh, and joined the Cashel road just by the bridge.’

‘When was that?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Four or five days ago.’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘They had two babies with them, you say?’

Aona nodded.

‘No matter,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Has anyone else passed here? Any other strangers?’

‘Two more only. A short time before the apothecary and his wife, two religious passed here. One was from the northern kingdom, travelling with a stranger from beyond the seas. They rode good horses. The stranger from beyond the seas was unlike any foreign religious that I have seen.

At first, I thought him to be a Greek, because I have encountered several of those who have passed on their way to Imleach. Yet he was not quite the same as a Greek…’

That was probably the Persian,’ Eadulf intervened by way of explanation. ‘Was the one who came from the north a brother from the abbey at Ard Macha?’

Aona grimaced indifferently. ‘He could well have been, Brother Eadulf. He was a proud young man and mentioned with pride his king, Blathmac mac Máel Cobo…’

‘Of the Dál Fiatach of Ulaidh,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘How long did they stay here?’

‘Long enough for a meal. They said that they were passing on to Colmán’s abbey on the western coast.’ Aona paused and glanced at the warriors. ‘If you will excuse me, lady, I’d better attend to the food. I presume young Adag is looking after your horses?’

On learning this was the case Aona disappeared, to quickly reappear with bread, freshly baked, and hot bowls of savoury mutton stew.

Eadulf joined the others as they fell to the bowls of steaming soup. While they were so engaged, Aona went round filling pottery mugs with corma, the fiery barley distilled alcohol that he personally brewed on the premises. Eadulf remembered the first time he had been at Aona’s inn and how he had nearly choked as the fiery liquid left him gasping for breath. He asked for a jug of water and met with Aona’s knowing grin.

‘I see you remember my corma well, Brother Eadulf.’

Fidelma sat on a window seat, watching the rain splattering down and nibbling pensively on a dish of fruit that Aona had tempted her with.

Presently, when they were all more relaxed and oblivious of the thunderstorm raging outside, Fidelma and Eadulf drew their chairs before the fire and settled down with Aona to talk more about old times. Adag, having fed and settled the horses, came in then, pausing to shake the rain off his heavy woollen cloak.

‘Do you still reckon on an hour until the storm passes, youngster?’ Capa called cynically.

Adag grinned, unembarrassed. ‘Not much more than an hour, warrior. The mountain hid the full extent of the storm clouds from me. But already there is blue showing behind the clouds, so it will soon pass,’ he added confidently.

Amid the soft conversation of the warriors and the crackle of the fire there appeared a lull in the exchange of the old comrades. Then Aona said sadly: ‘I was unhappy to hear that it was Sárait who had been murdered. A sad family.’

‘Sad?’ queried Eadulf sharply. ‘Did you know her family?’

‘Rather I knew the family of her husband,’ Aona amended. ‘I knew her husband’s father, Cathchern, very well indeed. He was one of my men and came from the Well of Ara. I watched his son Callada grow up and was not surprised when he followed his father into the bodyguard of the kings of Cashel. Callada and Sárait married here — yes, it was here in this very room that we had the feasting. That was three or four years ago.’

‘I did not know Callada well,’ admitted Fidelma.

‘He would have been about ten years older than you, lady.’

‘But why did you say the family was sad?’ Eadulf was puzzled.

‘Well, my old comrade Cathchern was killed in a battle against the Uí Néill when Callada had hardly reached the age of choice. Cathchern’s wife died of the Yellow Plague. Then Callada… he was killed at the battle of Cnoc Áine scarce two years ago.’

That I knew,’ Fidelma said. ‘And because of that, Sárait was given work at my brother’s palace when I returned there for my confinement. She became my nurse and nurse to my baby.’

‘I presume that Cathchern and his son Callada both freely chose life as warriors?’ asked Eadulf. ‘If so, death must be recognised as a constant companion, and many people died in the Yellow Plague. Yet you say they were a sad family?’

‘There were ugly stories.’

‘Ugly stories?’

Aona made an awkward gesture with his hands as if trying to dismiss what he had said. ‘Maybe it is not right to repeat them now.’

Eadulf snorted in annoyance. The time to have hesitated was before you hinted at some intrigue. Continue your tale now.’

Aona hesitated, shrugged and bent forward with lowered voice.

‘I heard from a couple of warriors who were at the battle of Cnoc Áine that Callada was slain not by the enemy — the Uí Fidgente — but by one of his own men.’

Eadulf was not shocked. He had heard similar tales about deaths in battles.

‘You mean that he turned coward on the field? I have heard enough stories of battles to know that often a man has been slain when he showed cowardice and endangered the lives of his comrades.’

That I know. But Callada was no coward. He was a good warrior and descended from a line of great warriors. Yet these stories have persisted. However he died, he was slain at Cnoc Áine. Now Sárait has come by a violent death as well. It is a sad, sad family in which death comes in violent ways and no one is left to sing the praises of the deeds of the past generations.’

Fidelma said nothing for a moment. Then she grimaced.

‘Well, Aona, we have seen our fair share of violence. It would be pleasing now if we could take ourselves off to some isolated valley high up in the mountains and begin to live in peace with ourselves and our surroundings.’

Aona’s face was sad.

There is no permanent sanctuary against the violence of mankind. It is a permanent condition, I fear, lady.’

Fidelma stood up and gazed through the window at the lightening sky.

‘I think Adag is being proved correct. The sky is brighter. The storm is passing. We must soon be on our way to Imleach.’

The old innkeeper rose in response.

‘I wish you well in your quest, lady. May you have all success in finding your child and bringing the murderer of Sárait to justice.’

Capa and his men had also risen.

‘Are we continuing the journey to Imleach, lady?’ Capa asked. At Fidelma’s affirmative, he went on: ‘We will go and prepare the horses, then. No need to trouble the young lad, innkeeper.’ Adag had gone to the brewery at the side of the inn to carry out some jobs for Aona.

The warriors had just left when the door opened again and a thickset, middle-aged man entered. His features showed good humour and he seemed to have a commanding presence.

‘Greetings, Adag. I see your guests are just leaving, warriors by the look of them…’

His eyes suddenly fell on Fidelma and Eadulf and he halted in confusion. Aona turned to Fidelma with a smile.

‘On the very subject of which we have been speaking — this is Cathalán. He fought at Cnoc Áine. Cathalán, this…’

The newcomer had crossed the room and bowed his head in respect.

‘Lady, I had the honour to serve your brother at Cnoc Áine. I recognise you and have heard of your trouble, for which I am sorry.’

Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgement.

‘Cathalán, we were speaking a short time ago of Sárait’s husband and the manner of his death.’

‘Were you a witness to how he died?’ Eadulf asked.

Cathalán shook his head at once.

‘Not a witness, no. I merely heard stories. In battle, Brother Eadulf, one hears a story from someone. When you question them, they say they heard it from someone else and that someone saw it happen. When you ask that person, then they, too, have heard it from someone who, they say, saw it happen. But the story that Callada was killed by one of our own warriors came from two separate sources. One was an Uí Fidgente and the other was one of our own men. I doubt it not. But we have not been able to discover anything further for we have found no one who could be claimed as a true witness.’

‘Was the matter reported to a Brehon?’ queried Fidelma.

‘It was. Brehon Dathal said he had examined the matter but found nothing over which action could be taken.’

‘I see. So you were one of the warriors who were merely repeating what others told you.’

Cathalán hesitated for a moment.

‘There is something else?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘I was Callada’s cenn-feadhna? Eadulf took a moment to remember that the military structures of Éireann were well organised and a cenn-feadhna was the captain of a buden or company of one hundred warriors. ‘We lost sight of one another in the heat of the battle on Cnoc Áine. In fact, several of my company — fourteen men in all — perished that day because we were one of the first to be ordered forward into the centre of the Uí Fidgente.’ He paused. ‘I knew that there was something troubling Callada on the evening before the battle, as we sat round the fire. I asked him what ailed him and he was reluctant to say anything at first. But as he was troubled and I pressed the matter, he finally told me that he had good reason to believe that his wife Sárait was unfaithful to him.’

‘That she was having an affair with another man?’ Eadulf asked, making sure he understood.

‘That she might have been having an affair with another.’ The former warrior corrected the emphasis with a grave expression.

‘Who else knew of this?’ It was Fidelma who posed the question.

‘He spoke to me reluctantly. I do not think that he had told his suspicions to anyone else…’ He suddenly frowned. ‘You think there is some connection with Sárait’s death?’ He shook his head immediately. ‘But no, she was nursing your child and the baby has been kidnapped. There is surely no relation?’

‘Yet all possibilities must be considered,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘Sárait is now dead. She was enticed from the palace to her death. Was it a means to kidnap my child? If so, then-’

She suddenly snapped her mouth shut, realising that she was thinking aloud. She focused her green-blue eyes on Cathalán.

‘Did Callada say whom he suspected of having an affair with his wife?’

‘Alas, he did not.’

‘And hearing this rumour, how he met his death, you are presuming … what exactly?’

Cathalán shrugged. ‘I was not made a cenn-feadhna for presuming things, lady. I merely reported the facts to old Brehon Dathal. Those facts may be connected and thus they pose a question. That is all I am saying.’

Gorman put his head round the inn door without observing the newcomer.

‘The horses are ready, lady.’

Fidelma paused a moment and then smiled at the former warrior.

‘I am grateful for this information, Cathalán. Do not think that I am not. It may or may not be of relevance. Probably not. But all information is of help.’ She turned back to Aona. ‘Once more we are indebted for your welcome hospitality, Aona.’ She pressed some coins into his reluctant hand.

‘I am always pleased to serve you, lady.’ The old innkeeper smiled. ‘There is no person in this kingdom, having heard of your plight, who does not wish you success in tracking down the culprit.’

Eadulf pursed his lips cynically. ‘Surely one would have to accept there must be at least one person in this kingdom who does not, Aona,’ he said dryly as he turned and followed Fidelma from the inn. It took Aona a moment or two before he understood what Eadulf meant, by which time the door had closed behind him.

Within a short time they were following the north bank of the River Ara while, to the south, the long wooded ridge of Slievenamuck stood framed against the lighter sky. The heavy storm clouds had passed over to the east and it looked as though the late afternoon was going to be fine. The sun was in the western sky but not low as yet. Eadulf was trying to remember the name of the hills to the north of them, some miles distant. Fidelma had told him when they had first made their journey along this road.

Fidelma, as though she had read his thoughts, at that moment leant over and touched him on the arm.

‘The Slieve Felim mountains,’ she said, pointing. ‘Beyond those are the lands of the Uí Fidgente. Not a place to go wandering without protection.’

When they emerged from the woodland and into an open hilly area, Eadulf recognised his surroundings immediately.

Imleach Iubhair: ‘the borderland of yew trees’. The great stone walls surrounded the abbey of St Ailbe, who had first preached Christianity in Muman. They dominated the little township that stretched before them. He found it hard to accept that it was here that he and Fidelma had nearly lost their lives. He felt very much at home as he looked on the stretches of grazing land, edged with forests of yew trees, tall and round-headed.

The first time he had seen Imleach it was deserted, but now the market place, directly in front of the abbey, was bustling. People were thronging the stalls and pens in which cattle patiently stood waiting to be sold, and goats, pigs and sheep moved impatiently in their confines. Traders were shouting their wares; cheesemakers, blacksmiths, bakers and a hundred and one others trying to attract customers.

‘Not like the last time I came here,’ Eadulf remarked humorously.

‘Life has returned to normal,’ observed Fidelma shortly as she led the way through the market square towards the sad-looking, burnt-out remains of a massive yew tree that had once dominated even the great walls of the abbey. Once it had risen nearly twenty-two metres in height. Fidelma, with Capa and the other warriors, halted her horse before it and bowed her head. Eadulf remembered that this was once the sacred totem of the Eóghanacht, their ‘Tree of Life’, which was said to have been planted by the hand of Eibhear Foinn, son of Milidh, from whom the Eóghanacht claimed to have descended. Eadulf remembered the time when the enemies of the Eóghanacht had attacked and tried to destroy it. He and Fidelma had been sheltering in the abbey and impotent to halt the destruction. Yet halted it had been.

‘In spite of our enemies,’ Gorman smiled proudly, pointing to some green shoots on some of the higher branches, ‘our tree still thrives.’

Eadulf was surprised that the ancient tree was still living. It remained the symbol of Eóghanacht power. It was an ancient belief that the tree was a symbol of the vitality of the Eóghanacht dynasty and if the tree flourished, they flourished. If it were destroyed … then the dynasty would fall and be no more. But the dynasty, like the tree, had survived; survived, if the ancient bards were to be trusted, for fifty-nine generations since Eibhear Foinn established it.

They turned from the tree and moved on to the abbey. The gatekeeper had already spotted their approach and the great oak doors stood open. A familiar figure stood ready to receive them. It was Brother Madagan, the rechtaire or steward of the abbey.