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Authors: Peter Tremayne

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BOOK: Master of Souls

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Fidelma examined Eadulf with a sad expression.

‘Do you have cause to doubt that it will happen?’ she asked softly.

Eadulf raised an arm in a brief gesture almost of helplessness and let it fall.

‘Sometimes I am not so sure. We seem to be constantly drifting from one drama to another.’

‘Then let me tell you this,’ Fidelma said earnestly. ‘It was my brother’s wish that I should come here, not my response to Conrí, which would have not been enthusiastic in the circumstances. My brother is king. My decision was made in response to the wishes of the king. I tried to explain that to you before we set out.’ As Eadulf opened his mouth to reply, she held up her hand, as if to silence him, and went on. ‘A resolution of this particular drama, as I said, is important to my brother’s kingdom, Eadulf. And since we have arrived here at Ard Fhearta we find the drama has intensified because the Venerable Cinaed has been murdered. The Venerable Cinaed is known and respected throughout all five kingdoms and is admired by the High King himself. His death will create a greater
shock throughout these lands than even that of Conrí’s aunt, the Abbess Faife.’

Fidelma’s brother, Colgú, had certainly made the political importance of helping Conrí clear enough when they had spoken together. If Cashel could respond to an Uí Fidgente call for help in solving the mystery at the abbey of Ard Fhearta, it would be important in helping to heal the rift that had for so long set the rulers of the Uí Fidgente and the kings of Muman against one another.

‘I know what Colgú has argued,’ acknowledged Eadulf with asperity. ‘He is not the one who has had to enter Uí Fidgente country without escort and chance the dangers …’

Fidelma suddenly smiled mischievously.

‘Why, Eadulf! Are you saying that you are solely concerned for my safety?’

Eadulf grimaced in irritation at her levity. Then he said: ‘I am concerned for the safety of both of us. The warriors of your brother’s guard should have escorted us. Men we could trust. Now we have to rely on Conrí and the goodwill of the Uí Fidgente.’

Fidelma shook her head in disagreement. ‘I put my trust in Conrí.’

‘I remember very clearly my time as a prisoner of the Uí Fidgente. You cannot expect me to trust them.’

‘Yet you went alone through Uí Fidgente territory in search of Alchú,’ Fidelma reminded him. ‘You were not concerned with safety then.’

‘I had only myself to worry about. You were safe in Cashel.’ Fidelma shook her head, smiling.

‘As it turned out, I was not,’ she reminded him. ‘I was a prisoner of the rebel Uí Fidgente myself. And it was Conrí who helped me escape.’

‘Fidelma, I will never win an argument with you.’ Eadulf raised his hands as if fending off some imaginary attacker. ‘I should know better than to try. Since we are here, let me be at peace with my concerns.’

‘That I will find hard,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘Anyway, we shall soon be meeting Abbot Erc. I hope you will overcome any antagonism you feel. There appears enough antagonism here as it is. I need your mind and support to help me in this matter. Remember Muirgen and Nessán are nursing little Alchú in the safety of my brother’s fortress. The plans that we have set for the feast day of Imbolc remain in place and they will happen. And here we are, together, with a problem to face and to solve. What better situation can there be?’

Eadulf reluctantly smiled at her infectious enthusiasm.

‘Very well, Fidelma. I will put a curb on my fears. But I shall look forward to the day when we can return to Cashel.’

There was a movement at the door as Sister Sinnchéne returned.

‘The water will be ready when you are, Sister.’

‘Excellent.’ Fidelma rose immediately, picking up her
cíorbholg
, her comb-bag in which all Irish women carried their toilet articles. ‘Show me to this bathhouse, Sister, for I am ready now.’

Sister Sinnchéne led Fidelma along the corridor to a room in which stood a large wooden tub called the
dabach.
It was already steaming. A cauldron of water was simmering on a fire in the far corner. There were shelves on which were displayed bars of
sléic
and linen cloths. Nearby were little jars of oil and extracts of sweet-smelling herbs boiled into a liquid to anoint the body. The place was well equipped with a
scaterc -
a mirror of fine polished metal - and a selection of clean combs.

‘I shall attend you, if it is your wish,’ said the young sister.

Fidelma nodded absently. It was usual to have an attendant to pour the heated water and pass soap and drying cloths.

She undressed and climbed into the
dabach.
The water was not too hot and she relaxed with a sigh, lying back while Sister Sinnchéne passed her a bar of soap.

‘Have you been long in this abbey, Sister?’ asked Fidelma as she began to lather herself.

Sister Sinnchéne was checking on the heat of the water.

‘I have been here ever since I reached the age of choice,’ she replied.

The age of choice, the
aimsir togú,
was the maturity of a girl arrived at her fourteenth birthday.

‘I would say you have not yet reached twenty summers?’ hazarded Fidelma.

‘I am twenty-one,’ corrected the girl, turning to pick up a big metal jug and scoop water from the cauldron. She brought it to the tub and poured it in, carefully so as not to scald Fidelma.

‘I presume that you knew the Venerable Cinaed?’

There seemed some hesitation and Fidelma looked up. She was surprised to see a red tinge had settled on Sister Sinnchéne’s cheek.

‘We are a small community, Sister,’ the girl returned with an abruptness of tone that caused Fidelma’s eyebrow to rise slightly.

‘Of course,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘I am sorry. Naturally you are upset by his loss.’

‘He was a kind and generous man,’ replied the other with a catch in her throat.

‘Do you have any idea how he came by his death?’

The young woman frowned, facing Fidelma as if seeking some other significance to her words.

‘Everyone knows his head was smashed in while he was in the oratory.’

‘Are there any ideas circulating in the abbey about who could have done such a thing?’

For a moment the young sister looked as if she were about to give vent to the tears that she was trying so desperately to hide. Her face contorted for a moment and then she controlled herself.

‘It is not my place to speculate about gossip,’ she finally said. ‘You must asked the abbot.’

‘But you must know …’ began Fidelma.

‘If that will be all, Sister … ?’ Sister Sinnchéne interrupted pointedly. ‘I have other duties that I must attend to.’

Fidelma said nothing but inclined her head. She knew when to back away from questions that people did not want to answer. Sister Sinnchéne went quickly out of the bathhouse, leaving Fidelma gazing after her with a thoughtful frown.

CHAPTER THREE

T
he evening meal had been eaten and the brethren had departed to their various tasks before retiring for the night. Abbot Erc, who had only formally greeted Fidelma and Eadulf before the meal, which - according to a tradition set by the founder of the abbey - was consumed in total silence, now invited them, together with Conrí, to accompany him to his chamber to discuss matters. Abbot Erc was elderly and grey-haired, with a sharp angular face, thin lips, small dark eyes and a permanent look of disapproval. Conrí had already warned Fidelma that the abbot, who had been a supporter of the old Uí Fidgente regime, did not entirely approve of the presence of Fidelma in the abbey. It seemed that he shared the views of his steward, Brother Cú Mara, who accompanied them to the abbot’s chamber.

The steward was coldly polite towards them. As they entered the room, Eadulf asked him why the meal had been eaten in strict silence.

‘Our blessed founder believed that food and drink, that which sustains life, is a great gift from the Creator, and should therefore be consumed with meditative thought on the wonders of that creation. To speak is both to insult the cook and to scorn one’s own existence, for it is only by food and drink that one exists. Indeed, it is to disdain the Creator himself who gave us that food and drink so that we may live and glorify him. So now it is a rule of the abbey.’

Eadulf was thoughtful.

‘I have not heard such emphasis placed on the contemplation of food. Our minds should be open to receive the food of knowledge as well as paying silent tribute to what we eat. Isn’t there a saying about excusing the ignorant when their feeding is better than their education?’

Abbot Erc, overhearing this, commented irritably: ‘Our meditation on
food is limited to the space of our meals and these, as you will have remarked …’ He paused and eyed the Saxon monk with something approaching contempt. ‘You will have noticed that we do not believe in over-feeding as is done in some communities. We believe in the saying that when the fruit is scarcest, its taste is sweetest.’

A fire had been prepared in the chamber and Brother Cú Mara brought a tray of mulled wine. Eadulf raised an eyebrow as he took his goblet with its generous measure. Once again the old abbot caught the expression and interpreted it correctly.

‘We Uí Fidgente have another saying, Brother Eadulf, that it is not an invitation to hospitality without a drink.’ He silently raised his goblet and they responded. ‘Now, it is no longer the time to contemplate the fruits of the earth.’ He gestured to the chairs that had been set before the fire. ‘I have invited you to my chamber to discuss serious matters. Let me say at once, I cannot approve of lord Conrí’s wisdom in bringing you here, Fidelma of Cashel. There are many Brehons of repute among the Uí Fidgente who should be able to resolve our problems, without involving Cashel.’

‘Cashel is not involved,’ Fidelma assured him evenly, as she settled into the wooden chair before the fire. ‘I am not confined by territories or kingdoms in the exercise of my duties as a
dálaigh.
So, let us start with an account of the facts as you know them.’

Abbot Erc sat down, took a sip of the wine, and then placed the goblet on the table at his side, leaning back in his chair. He did not look particularly happy and for a moment Eadulf thought he was going to refuse to co-operate with them. But the abbot simply said: ‘I believe that there is little to add to that which Conrí has already told you.’

‘Pretend that he has told me nothing.’ Fidelma smiled but her voice was sharp. ‘It is better to seek knowledge first-hand than to hear it from others.’

‘We are, as you have seen, a
conhospitae,
a mixed house of males and females,’ Abbot Erc began. ‘Our children are raised to the service of Christ. I cannot say that I approve of this, as I have come to support those who argue for celibacy among the religious.’ He paused and shrugged. ‘However, I have served as abbot here for ten years while Abbess Faife had been seven years as head of the female religieuse. Each year for seven years she has taken groups from the community on the annual pilgrimage to Bréanainn’s mount, where our blessed founder was
called to set forth and establish communities to glorify Christ and the New Faith.’

He paused but no one commented.

‘Well, Abbess Faife departed from our gates with her charges. She travelled overland, south to the abbey of Colman for there was some business to be enacted there between our two abbeys. After that she was to proceed through the territory of the Corco Duibhne to where Bréanainn’s mount rises.’

He paused but there was silence again and so he continued.

‘The first time I knew that anything was amiss was when the merchant Mugrón appeared at this abbey. Mugrón carries on his trade from our nearest sea harbour, An Bhearbha, which is on the coast some eight kilometres from here.’

‘An Bhearbha? A curious name for a port, surely? Doesn’t it mean a place where the water boils?’ asked Eadulf, anxious to improve his knowledge.

‘It is named after a river which enters the sea at that point,’ explained the abbot. ‘The river is turbulent and its currents are unpredictable. Mugrón had been dealing among the Corco Duibhne. Due to the inclement weather that prevented him sailing back across the bay, he was returning along the coastal road to the abbey of Colman. It was cold and the snow was starting to drive thickly along the road. Mugrón knew the area and knew there was a small stone cabin by the roadside, and he decided to seek shelter there. That was where he found the body of Abbess Faife. She had been stabbed through the heart. He decided to bury the body in a snowdrift as a means of preserving it and then come here with all speed.’

Fidelma asked: ‘What did you do on receipt of the news?’

‘As chance would have it, Conrí, who is the Abbess Faife’s nephew, was at the abbey. He and his warriors elected to take Mugrón back to the place to recover the body. It was still cold and the snow had preserved … er, preserved things. But there was no sign of the missing six religieuse. Conrí and his men returned via Colmán’s abbey in order to find out if Abbess Faife and her charges had passed that way before they reached the place where she was discovered.’ ‘And they had?’

Conrí intervened. ‘As I told you, lady, all was normal until after they left the abbey of Colman. The Abbess Faife and her six charges had conducted their business there and passed on their way.’

‘And where is this stone cabin where her body was found in relation to the abbey?’

‘As one leaves the abbey and travels on to the peninsula of the land of the Corco Duibhne, along the road that runs south of the mountains by the shore, I would estimate that it was no more than twenty kilometres.’

Eadulf was frowning. ‘Isn’t that close by a place called the Island where once Uaman, who called himself Lord of the Passes, had his stronghold?’

Abbot Erc’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know of that place?’

‘I was once a prisoner of Uaman the Leper. I saw him die and I was not sorry to see his end.’

‘You are right, Brother Eadulf,’ affirmed Conrí. ‘The blackened ruins of his stronghold, Uaman’s Tower, stand almost within sight of the place where the abbess’s body was found. They say that the local people destroyed it - the tower, that is.’

Eadulf’s lips thinned with grim satisfaction.

‘I can vouch for that destruction. I saw the people do it after Uaman was drowned, caught by the quicksand that made the journey to his island fortress at low tide so hazardous.’

‘People did suffer grievously through his actions,’ agreed Abbot Erc quietly. ‘Uaman’s bands extracted money from all who travelled through his territory. But I will say one word of good. There lingered in him a remembrance that he was once a prince of the Uí Fidgente and he never harmed the passing religious. Abbess Faife passed through his territory several times in safety on her annual pilgrimage to Bréanainn’s mount.’

‘As Brother Eadulf says, Uaman is dead and his men dispersed,’ Conrí pointed out quickly. ‘We must concentrate on what explanations now exist.’

Fidelma was sitting with her hands folded in her lap before her.

‘You say, then, this spot is near the coast? Is there any chance that some sea raiders could have come to shore there and carried off the six young women? Saxon and Frankish pirates have often attacked parts of our southern coast in search of such plunder.’

Abbot Erc considered this.

‘A possibility, perhaps. But the weather was very intemperate at that time, especially along these coasts. It would be a foolhardy captain who would lead a raid across the great oceans in such weather.’

‘A possibility not to be discounted, though,’ Fidelma said. ‘Merchant vessels land at these ports. Which reminds me, I would like to speak to this merchant, Mugrón.’

‘He can be sent for,’ said Brother Cú Mara. ‘He can be here tomorrow, after the morning meal.’

‘That will be convenient,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘I feel that there is no more to be learnt until I see him. We will leave that matter aside. However, there is now the killing of the Venerable Cinaed to be discussed.’

Abbot Erc raised his head in surprise.

‘Are you claiming authority to conduct an investigation into Cináed’s death as well as the death of Abbess Faife?’ he demanded. It was clear from his tone that he objected to the very idea.

‘I am a
dálaigh,’
responded Fidelma quietly. ‘It is unusual for two prominent members of the same community to be murdered. We must ask if there is some connection between these two events.’

‘I don’t see how there could be,’ the abbot retorted in displeasure. ‘Abbess Faife could only have been killed by bandits. I presume that her companions have been abducted as slaves. However, Cinaed was bludgeoned to death in the oratory here. That could only be a result of malice. There seems no connection.’

‘I will make some inquiries all the same,’ Fidelma said firmly.

The old abbot gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment, realising that behind her quiet tone was a strong will. He shrugged as if he were no longer interested in what she did.

‘What do you wish to know?’

‘Let us begin with the finding of Cináed’s body. I understand it was you who discovered it? And this was three days ago?’

‘I did. I went to the oratory to prepare for the annual ceremony to commemorate the feast day of

te, who taught our beloved Brénnain. Usually it was the Venerable Cináed and myself who prepared the chapel for the ceremony. The place was in darkness and, at first, I did not think he was there. Then I found his body, behind the altar, with his skull smashed in.’

‘Show me where the wound was,’ said Fidelma.

The old abbot touched the back of his skull.

‘The corpse was lying face down … ?’

Abbot Erc shook his head. ‘It was not. He lay upon his back.’

Fidelma pursed her lips but said nothing.

‘Was there any sign of a weapon?’ asked Eadulf.

‘None that we found.’

‘Yet it must have been a heavy weapon to deliver such a blow,’ Eadulf
observed quietly. ‘And what of the blood? Surely such a wound would have caused much blood to spray out, staining the clothing of whoever was responsible?’

Fidelma cast an appreciative glance at Eadulf and turned to the abbot.

‘Was anyone seen with blood on his or her clothing? Was a search made for any such clothing?’

It was clear that such a thought had not occurred to him. He glanced at his steward.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Was such a search made?’

The young steward spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

‘I will do so now,’ he said defensively.

Fidelma grimaced disapprovingly. ‘A little late, perhaps. But it will do no harm. I presume that there is a communal laundry for the brethren?’

‘There is, indeed, a
tech-nigid
, a washhouse,’ confirmed the steward.

‘And when is the washing done?’

‘Every week on
Cét-ain,
the day of the first fast.’