Atonement of Blood (17 page)

‘You can demand all you want, lady,’ the steward said indifferently. ‘However, until you can prove your identity I am only fulfilling my duty to the abbot of this place in refusing to admit you.’

‘I come to him on a matter of law.’

The steward shook his head. ‘That cannot be allowed. Abbot Nannid will not see strangers, moreover, strangers who have no proof that they are who they claim to be. I cannot admit you under the rules of this abbey, which are to safeguard it from any possible harm.’

Frustrated, Eadulf just restrained himself from taking a step forward. Brother Cuineáin’s eyes narrowed quickly.

‘Threats will do you little good, my friend. I suggest that, as the day darkens, you should all be on your way.’

‘You do us an injustice, Brother Cuineáin,’ Fidelma said softly.

‘I can only obey the rule of this abbey.’

‘Is it not said that rules are only for the obedience of fools but the guidance of wise men?’ she snapped.

The steward pursed his lips in an ugly grimace. ‘I would have to own, then, that I am either a fool or a wise man. The proof of which is difficult to discern at this time.’

‘Then it seems we shall have to return when we are in possession of that proof,’ Fidelma replied, suppressing her annoyance, ‘and then we shall discuss the answer.’

Outside, Gormán was waiting patiently for them. Brother Cuineáin had followed them out into the courtyard to watch them depart. He glanced at Gormán and called with dry cynicism: ‘I see that your companion, who you claim is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh, wears no Golden Collar and seems to possess no sword for his empty scabbard.’

Fidelma made no response.

‘I knew something like this would happen,’ muttered Gormán. ‘We should have turned back and picked up other means of identity before coming into Uí Fidgente land.’

‘The word “should” is as negative a word as “if”, Gormán,’ Fidelma said, her voice waspish. ‘We have to deal with reality and not lament decisions that do not prove the right ones.’

‘What now?’ asked Eadulf.

‘I can see no alternative but to find a place of safety for the oncoming night and then seek the help of my nearest cousin of the Eóghanacht Áine – and that’s over a day’s ride to the east.’

Fidelma was about to mount her horse when a shout came from the other side of the courtyard.

‘Sister! Sister Fidelma!’

A young religieux was hurrying across the flagstones towards them, waving his hand in a manner undignified for one of his calling.

Fidelma turned to stare at the young man and then moved to meet him with a smile on her face; her hands were held out in greeting.

‘Brother Cú-Mara!’

The young man came up slightly breathless and caught her hands. There was ill-concealed excitement on his youthful features.

‘I thought I recognised you. What are
you
doing here?’ He turned and clapped her companion on the back. ‘And Brother Eadulf! I did not think to see you in this corner of the world.’

‘It is good to see you again, Brother Cú-Mara,’ Fidelma replied, smiling at the effusiveness of his greeting. ‘And I might ask the same question of you? You are a long way from the Abbey of Ard Fhearta.’

The young man chuckled. ‘I am, indeed, but on a visit to bring a copy of one of the books from our
tech screptra
, our library, to that of this abbey. I am due to return to my abbey tomorrow.’

Brother Cú-Mara was the steward of the Abbey of Ard Fhearta. He had once studied the art of calligraphy under Fidelma’s own cousin, Abbot Laisran of Darú. It was while they were staying at Ard Fhearta that Fidelma and Eadulf had been able to resolve the evil threat of the person known as the ‘Master of Souls’.

‘It seems we might be in luck to have found you here before your return to the coast,’ Eadulf said dryly.

Brother Cú-Mara looked puzzled. ‘Why so, Brother Eadulf?’

Eadulf glanced over his shoulder to where Brother Cuineáin had been standing at the doorway, and was startled to find that the steward had moved forward and was now close behind him. He was staring at Brother Cú-Mara.

‘Am I to understand that you know these people and can identify them?’ he demanded in a heavy tone.

The steward of Ard Fhearta looked at Brother Cuineáin in astonishment.

‘I do not know the warrior who accompanies them, but of course I know them! I thought everyone knew Sister Fidelma and her husband Brother Eadulf. If they did not know them in person, then their reputation is spread among the Five Kingdoms. I know them personally, for only a few years ago they spent time at our abbey and saved the kingdom from relapsing into war.’

The steward of Mungairit appeared flustered. A look of embarrassment began to spread across his features.

‘Then it is up to me to offer my apologies.’ He almost mumbled the words, addressing Fidelma. ‘I have to say that in refusing you entry here I was only acting by the rules and best intentions to protect our abbey from the many threats with which it is surrounded. I now offer you and your companions the hospitality of the abbey.’

‘We will accept not only your apology but your offer,’ replied Fidelma graciously, ‘and with many thanks for we are exhausted since our experiences on the road here.’

Brother Cú-Mara was puzzled as he tried to follow the conversation.

Eadulf took pity on him. ‘We were attacked on the road here by brigands. They stole what valuables we had, including all our means of identification, the symbols of office.’

‘Ah!’ the young man exclaimed. ‘I begin to understand why the steward, if he did not know you, was reticent about your admittance to this abbey. You may recall the abbey was recently attacked by Étain of An Dún? But we must talk later for I have to meet the
leabhair coimedach
, the librarian, to conclude my business here. We will meet at the evening meal.’ Then, with a wave of his hand, the young man was gone.

‘He turned up at an opportune moment,’ muttered Gormán.

Brother Cuineáin had signalled for his assistant and gave orders for their mounts to be taken to the stables. And, with their saddle-bags removed, he motioned them to follow him.

‘I will ensure that the hospitality of the abbey is yours and beg your forgiveness, Sister.’

Fidelma coloured a little. ‘I have left the religious,’ she said. ‘I am, as you may have heard, a
dálaigh
. I now serve the law on behalf of my brother, King Colgú of Cashel.’

‘And the purpose of your seeking to speak with the Father Abbot, lady?’ Only by the alteration of his means of addressing her did he indicate that he understood her change of status.

‘An attempt was made on my brother’s life; on the life of the King. The assassin identified himself as one of the brethren of this abbey, bearing an important message from Abbot Nannid. That is why we have come here.’

The steward halted in astonishment and swung round, staring at her. ‘In that case I must take you to the abbot immediately,’ he said. It was as if all the authority had suddenly left him. For a moment Fidelma was looking at a deflated and frightened man. He almost scurried along the long, gloomy corridors before them, barely taking time to light a lantern to guide them. Finally, with some breathlessness, he came to a halt before a dark oak door.

Here the steward paused, as if to gather himself, and then gave three loud raps on it. Then, with a muttered ‘Wait here!’ he opened it and disappeared beyond, appearing to forget that he had left them in the ill-lit corridor. It did not seem that long, however, before the door swung open again, shedding a little light on them, and Brother Cuineáin waved at them to enter.

The chamber of the abbot was well-lit by several lanterns. It was large, and the walls were covered in tapestries that gave warmth to the otherwise cold grey stonework. There was a yew writing table, elaborate and ornamental, which stood on a single support, balanced on three short legs near the base. On the top was an angle board on which the scribe could rest his book or vellum, or even
taibhli filidh
, tablets of poets that were usually beech or birch frames into which wax was poured. Notes could be made with a stylus and afterwards the wax was smoothed over again for reuse. To one side hung a number of book satchels. A few chairs and a large table on which two oil lamps stood completed the rest of the furniture.

A tall, thin man rose awkwardly from behind the table to greet them. It was difficult to see his features clearly, but his long robes and the ornate silver crucifix with its jewel insets proclaimed him to be abbot. He had a pale, gaunt face and wore the tonsure of the Blessed John, denoting him as a follower of the churches of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann rather than Rome.

In spite of the flickering shadows, Fidelma noticed, with some prejudice, that the man’s eyebrows met across the brow; she had always been told that this was a sign of a bad temper. Although she knew it was folklore, she could not help but recall it. She also noted that his lips were thin and twisted in one corner. Fidelma mentally rebuked herself as the words of Juvenal came into her mind.
Fronti nulla fides
. No reliance can be placed on appearance. After all, her brother knew the Abbot of Mungairit and had a good opinion of him.

‘I am Abbot Nannid,’ the thin man said. ‘My steward has informed me of the terrible news you bring from Cashel. How is the King, your brother?’

‘He still lives,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Your steward will also have informed you that I am a
dálaigh
, as well as sister to the King?’

The man stared at her for a moment and then slowly nodded.

‘This is my husband, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. Our companion is Gormán of my brother’s bodyguard,’ she went on. ‘You will excuse our appearance. On the journey here we were attacked by brigands, and our valuables and emblems of office were stolen from us.’

It was clear that the steward had already imparted this information, for the abbot made a sympathetic clicking sound with his tongue and waved them to chairs.

‘Please be seated. Is my steward correct when he tells me that the assassin is supposed to be a member of our brethren? Who is this person?’

‘I believe we should ask who this person
was
,’ Fidelma said solemnly. ‘The assassin was killed, you see – although not before he had seriously wounded my brother and murdered the Chief Brehon of Muman.’

‘If the assassin is dead, how is it known that he came from this abbey?’ the abbot asked defensively.

Eadulf was wondering whether the abbot was defensive because of guilt or whether he was considering the fact that as ‘father’ of his community, he would be responsible for the fines and compensation that were involved, should one of his community commit a criminal act. If Colgú died, that meant the value of forty-eight milch cows. As it was, the death of the Chief Brehon of Muman already meant a fine of forty-two milch cows. Eadulf mentally shook himself. He should not be thinking along such lines at this time.

‘The man came into the feasting hall where my brother was seated, having gained access by introducing himself as a member of this abbey, further claiming that he brought a message from you. He said his name was Brother Lennán.’

‘Brother Lennán!’ The name came as an exclamation from Brother Cuineáin.

Fidelma turned quickly to him. ‘It seems that his name is known, then?’

The abbot was sitting back with a curious expression on his thin features.

‘His name is known,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Brother Cuineáin, will you go in search of Brother Ledbán and bring him here? Do not tell him the purpose.’

The steward nodded and immediately went off on his errand.

When he had gone, Abbot Nannid bent forward a little and said, ‘Can you tell me the circumstances of this event? And could you describe this Brother Lennán to me?’

Fidelma told the story rapidly, in short sentences. She had just finished when there came a knock on the door and Brother Cuineáin re-entered and stood aside, holding the door to allow two figures to pass through.

One they recognised as Brother Lugna, the friendly stable-master, who had greeted them on their arrival. The other was an elderly man, walking unsteadily, hanging on his companion’s arm and, with his other hand, using the aid of a heavy blackthorn stick. His back was bent, his skin like parchment, stretched tightly over his bones and across his sunken cheeks. Brother Lugna helped his companion shuffle to a halt before the abbot’s table.

Brother Lugna turned to them with an apologetic smile. ‘Brother Ledbán recently had a fall and that is why I help him. He was once an
echere
, a groom, in my stables.’

‘This is Fidelma of Cashel,’ the abbot said, raising his voice, for it appeared the old man was hard of hearing. ‘She is a
dálaigh
and you must answer her questions.’

The old man turned colourless eyes upon her and waited expectantly. It was the abbot who finally asked the question.

‘Tell her your name.’

‘I am Brother Ledbán,’ came the cracked, ancient voice. ‘I came here to work as a groom. They used to call me Ledbán the Plaintive, but that was … that was …’ He screwed up his eyes thoughtfully. ‘That was many years ago.’

‘And tell her of Brother Lennán,’ went on the abbot.

‘Lennán? Why, he was my son.’

‘Your son?’ Fidelma started in astonishment and was aware of Eadulf’s gasp as he stood next to her.

The old man continued to stare at the abbot and went on, without glancing at Fidelma, ‘He was my own son, as dear to me as life, bound in the bond of blood.’

‘Did you know he was dead?’ asked the abbot softly.

The old man’s jaw rose pugnaciously. ‘He was killed, as well you know.’

Fidelma stared amazed at the old man.

‘How would you know that he was killed?’ she demanded. ‘Who told you?’

Now the old man seemed fully aware of her presence, turning to face her instead of addressing his answers to the abbot. ‘He was my own son. How would I not know that he had been killed?’ he replied, as if she had asked a question without logic.

‘But …’ began Fidelma.

Abbot Nannid interrupted, his voice loud and the words expressed slowly. ‘Perhaps you should tell the
dálaigh
when it was that your son, Brother Lennán, was killed and where,’ he instructed.