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  The abbot introduced him. ‘This is Brother Gáeth. He was Brother Donnchad’s anam chara. I know you wanted to talk to him.’

  At that moment the elderly man peered at Fidelma, his eyes narrowing, and he moved closer to her. There seemed a look of hope on his thin features. Then he sighed, shook his head and said in a disappointed tone, ‘You are not an angel.’

  The abbot appeared embarrassed but Fidelma merely smiled at the old man.

  ‘I am not. I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

  The old man was still shaking his head.

  ‘No angel,’ he muttered.

  ‘This is the Venerable Bróen, Fidelma.’ The abbot offered the introduction in an apologetic tone. ‘He was with Mo-Chuada when the abbey was founded. Alas, he is a little … a little …’

  ‘I have seen an angel,’ the old man interjected, speaking in a confidential voice.

  Fidelma humoured him. ‘That does not fall to the lot of everyone,’ she replied solemnly. ‘You must be blessed.’

  The Venerable Bróen sighed deeply. ‘I saw an angel. The blessed one of God flew in the sky. I saw it.’

  ‘Forgive me, Fidelma,’ Abbot Iarnla said hurriedly. ‘I wanted to introduce you to Brother Gáeth. Brother Gáeth, remain here with the dálaigh and I will take the Venerable Bróen back to his cubiculum.’ So saying, he took the old man’s arm and began to lead him away.

  They heard the Venerable Bróen’s petulant tone. ‘I did see the angel. I did. It came to take the soul of poor Brother Donnchad. I saw it flying in the wind.’

  Brother Gáeth remained standing before them with downcast eyes. To Fidelma, he did not look the sort of person to become the soul friend of an intellectual and scholar such as Brother Donnchad had been. Then she remembered the words from Juvenal’s Satires and felt guilty: fronti nulla fides, no reliance can be placed on appearance.

  Fidelma waved to the table they had just risen from.

  ‘Be seated, Brother,’ she instructed, reseating herself. Eadulf followed her example, while Brother Gáeth moved slowly to the far side of the table and lowered himself on to the bench, his eyes still downcast.

  ‘I am afraid I know nothing of Brother Donnchad’s death,’ he volunteered. The words came out in something of a rush. ‘He had not spoken to me in days and told me to leave him alone.’

  ‘So when was the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘About two or three days before his death.’

  ‘How long had you known him?’

  ‘Twenty-five years.’ The answer was without hesitation.

  ‘That is a long time,’ commented Eadulf. He had estimated Brother Gáeth’s age at no more than thirty-five.

  ‘I was his soul friend … at one time.’

  ‘Tell us about him,’ encouraged Fidelma. ‘Firstly, though, tell us something of yourself and how you met him.’

  ‘I was a field worker of the class of daer-fudir.’

  Eadulf looked surprised for he knew that a daer-fudir was someone who had lost all their rights because of some great crime and had to work almost in a state of bondage to redeem themselves. They were considered untrustworthy and were not entitled to bear arms and had no rights within the clan. The third generation of daer-fudir was automatically reinstated, given their rights back, and could be eligible for election to any office within society. But usually a daer-fudir was a stranger, perhaps a fugitive from another territory who had sought asylum; often they were criminals or captives taken in battle.

  ‘It was my father who caused our family’s downfall,’ muttered Brother Gáeth as if in answer to Fidelma and Eadulf’s unasked question.

  ‘Tell us more of this,’ invited Fidelma.

  ‘It was simple enough. My father killed a chieftain of the Uí Liatháin. He fled with my mother and me and sought sanctuary with a lord of the Déisi called Eochaid of An Dún.’

  ‘You mean the father of Brother Donnchad?’ Eadulf asked in surprise.

  Brother Gáeth nodded. ‘I was very young. Eochaid could have handed us back to the Uí Liatháin for punishment but he decided that he would grant my family asylum on the land but as daer-fudir to work and toil for him. My father died after several years of labour, my mother soon after. Eochaid died and Lady Eithne took control. She was a hard mistress.’

  ‘But you are now a member of the brethren here,’ observed Fidelma. ‘How did this happen?’

  ‘How did I become a member of this community rather than still toiling in the fields for Lady Eithne of An Dún?’

  ‘Exactly so,’ replied Fidelma.

  ‘Through the intercession of Donnchad,’ Brother Gáeth said.

  ‘In what way did he intercede?’

  ‘Although I was servant to Lord Eochaid and Lady Eithne, I was treated well by their sons, Cathal and Donnchad. We almost grew up together. It was through them I learnt something of reading and writing. It was Donnchad who spent most time with me, teaching me how to construe words and form letters. And he would speak about the Faith and tell me wondrous things. One day he told me that he and his brother Cathal would be joining the community here at Lios Mór. I felt devastated. Abandoned. I said that I wished I had the freedom to go with him if only to be his servant.

  ‘At that he laughed and said none of the brethren of the community had servants. Then he paused with a strange look in his eye and left me. A few days later, he found me in the fields and said he had a spoken with his mother. She had agreed to release me to the community. So it was,’ he ended with a shrug.

  There was a short silence between them.

  ‘So you came with Cathal and Donnchad and joined the community.’

  ‘And have been here ever since.’

  ‘And what tasks do you perform in the community?’

  Brother Gáeth chuckled sourly. ‘I exchanged life as a field worker for Lady Eithne to become a field worker for the abbot of Lios Mór. I am still of the rank of daer-fudir.’

  Fidelma was surprised. Such ranks did not exist among the brethren of an abbey.

  ‘You sound bitter, Brother Gáeth,’ she said.

  ‘Before my father’s crime, he was a chieftain of the Uí Liatháin, he was Selbach, lord of Dún Guairne. He led some of his people, with a band of missionaries, across the great sea to a land of the Britons called Kernow. A ruler called Teudrig massacred most of them there. My father and some others escaped and returned home. He found his cousin had usurped his place as chieftain in his absence and he challenged him to single combat. In the combat that followed my father killed his cousin. His enemies persuaded the people that it was fingal, or kin-slaying. The Brehon, also an enemy to my father, declared the crime so horrendous that my father should be placed in a boat without sail or oars, and with food and water for one day only. He should be taken out to sea and cast adrift. That night he managed to escape and took my mother and me to seek refuge with the Déisi.’

  Fidelma gazed at him. ‘What you tell me does not seem to be justice. Surely it could be shown that the Brehon was biased and the punishment a harsh one? Why was this matter not appealed to the Chief Brehon of the kingdom? Why was it not brought to the attention of the King in Cashel? There is provision in law for these things.’

  Brother Gáeth shrugged. ‘I only know what I know. I was but a boy at the time and this was over a score of years ago.’

  ‘And is the current chieftain of the Uí Liatháin related to you?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘Uallachán is the nephew of the cousin my father slew,’ said Brother Gáeth.

  ‘What happened after you joined the community?’ prompted Fidelma.

  ‘Donnchad continued to treat me well. He became a great scholar and his time was spent mainly in the tech-screptra while I worked from sun-up until sun-down in the fields outside the abbey.’

  ‘But you became his anam chara, his soul friend.’

  ‘As I said, he was kind to me. He continued to talk to me as he had when we were boys. He told me much about the wondrous things he was learning from the gre
at books in the library. He insisted that I be officially regarded as his soul friend.’

  ‘Did the abbot approve of this?’

  ‘Not entirely. He felt that Donnchad should have a soul friend who was his intellectual equal.’

  Fidelma’s eyes widened at the phrase. It sounded alien to the man.

  ‘You overheard him say that?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Yes. That is what the abbot said to Donnchad. But Donnchad told him that he felt comfortable telling me his problems. So, every week, before the start of the Sabbath, we would meet and he would tell me of the events of the week and I would listen. I often wished I had learning to read the works of the great saints as he did and the very words that our Lord spoke when he walked the earth.’

  Eadulf could not help but glance at Fidelma. Surely a soul friend was more than someone to talk at but a friend who could understand and exchange ideas and spiritually guide their friend, saving them from making mistakes.

  ‘I presume this stopped when the ruler of the Déisi accused Cathal and Donnchad of plotting against him,’ Fidelma said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Brother Gáeth with a sigh. ‘They had to leave the community and go into hiding. I did not hear from Donnchad until he passed through the abbey for a single night with his brother en route to Ard Mór and lands beyond the seas. He told me he and his brother were going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, the very land in which our saviour walked and taught. Ah, but I wanted to go with him. But I was merely a daer-fudir, a field worker.’

  ‘And so you stayed here,’ Fidelma said patiently. ‘When did you next see Donnchad?’

  Brother Gáeth smiled at the remembrance. ‘On his return. His return here was triumphant. The community, even the abbot himself, turned out to welcome him.’ He paused and shook his head sadly. ‘But Donnchad had changed. I went to greet him but it was as if he did not know me. After that first day, I left him alone for awhile, thinking it was just the strangeness of his return that had made him seem preoccupied and distant. After he had had time to settle, I went to see him again. He was no longer preoccupied but he was harsh and cruel to me.’ Brother Gáeth lowered his head, as if trying to conceal his emotion.

  ‘How was he cruel?’ pressed Fidelma.

  ‘He told me that he did not want to know me.’

  ‘Did he explain why?’

  Brother Gáeth shook his head. He reminded Fidelma of a dog who had been badly treated for no reason by his master and could not understand it.

  ‘He gave you no explanation at all?’

  ‘He said, cast off your robes and escape from this place into the mountains. In the mountains there is solitude and sanity. There is no sanity among men.’

  Fidelma sat back, her eyes a little wider than before. ‘Those were his exact words?’

  Brother Gáeth nodded. ‘I remember them as if they were spoken but moments ago.’

  ‘When did this conversation take place?’

  ‘That was a day or two before his death. He told me that he did not want to see me ever again. He told me to leave this community and seek sanity. I still have no idea what he meant.’

  ‘You never spoke to him again?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘I have said so,’ Brother Gáeth replied.

  ‘Did you know that just before he was found dead, his mother came to see him?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘I saw her riding to the abbey while I was in the fields but I think that was a few days before he was found dead.’

  ‘Had you met her again since she gave you leave to join the community here?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ There was bitterness in his tone. ‘She would pass me by on her visits. Whether she even saw me or not, I do not know. That was how it was when I worked on her lands. Perhaps she would not have recognised who I was anyway. I was just another field worker.’

  ‘Do you know how she felt about her sons?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘Oh, she idolised them. She was very proud of them. It is thanks to the Lady Eithne that there is all this building work at the abbey.’

  Eadulf’s head came up sharply. ‘Is it?’

  Brother Gáeth looked at him as if surprised he did not know. ‘Of course. When word came that her sons, Cathal and Donnchad, had reached the Holy Land, she came to the abbot. The whole community knows that she offered to help fund the replacement of the wooden buildings with great structures of stone that would last forever and help the abbey become one of the great beacons of the new Faith in the west. The condition she made was that the abbey should be a memorial to them.’

  ‘I see,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘So all this work is not being paid for by the abbey but by Lady Eithne of Dún?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘What did Donnchad say about it on his return?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘He never mentioned it but, as I have said, he hardly spoke to me.’

  ‘Do you know if he confided in anyone else?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘But you observed that something was disturbing him. Could it have been connected with this matter?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘All I know is that his face was black as a storm from the moment he rode back through the gates.’

  ‘Do you think that this was because his brother, Cathal, had decided to remain in Tarantum and accept the pallium as bishop of that city?’ asked Fidelma. ‘After all, they were close as brothers and had come to this place together to be members of the community. And they had undertaken that arduous pilgrimage to the Holy Land together. That must have affected Donnchad.’

  Brother Gáeth thrust out his lower lip for a moment. He appeared to give the question some thought and then shook his head slowly.

  ‘Among the things that he said when he last spoke to me was to curse his brother, calling him a fool and worse.’

  Fidelma could not suppress a look of surprise in Eadulf’s direction.

  ‘Everyone is calling Cathal blessed, that he is one of the saints. Yet you say his own brother called him a fool and cursed him? Why so?’

  ‘I can only repeat what Donnchad said,’ Brother Gáeth replied stubbornly. ‘That is what he said.’

  Fidelma sat back reflectively. ‘You have been most helpful, Brother Gáeth. Thank you for answering our questions.’

  Fidelma and Eadulf sat in silence for a few moments after Brother Gáeth had left the refectorium.

  ‘Well, I had the impression that Brother Gáeth was supposed to be a simpleton,’ Fidelma said. ‘He seems intelligent enough but just constrained by circumstances.’

  ‘There are a lot of sad people in this world,’ Eadulf commented. ‘Didn’t Horace write, non licet omnibus adire Corinthum – not everyone is permitted to go to Corinth?’ In Horace’s day, Corinth was a centre of entertainment and pleasure that not many people could afford. It had come to mean that circumstances deny people certain achievements.

  ‘But who altered his circumstances?’ Fidelma wondered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His father is forced to flee from what, most likely, was an unjust death sentence. Such a sentence is only given to the incorrigibles who will not pay compensation or be rehabilitated. So such a sentence is suspect. He flees from his clan territory and ends his life as a daer-fudir, which involves two generations of bondage. Why did no one among his people take up his cause? Did he not have a friend in the world?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ said Eadulf. ‘At least we have found the answer to one mystery.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Who is providing the funding for the rebuilding of the abbey.’

  ‘Lady Eithne is committed to the Faith and proud of her sons and their achievements, so that is natural.’

  ‘What is our next task?’

  ‘To go to the scriptorium. We must see if we can find out anything more about the missing manuscripts.’

  ‘So what do we know so far?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘Let’s enumerate the facts. You start.’

  ‘Very well. Brother Donnchad, a w
ell-regarded scholar, returns to this abbey after a pilgrimage, which has made him something of a hero. He starts behaving in a curious manner. He is reported to have some precious manuscripts with him. He becomes reclusive and even tells his soul friend that he does not want to see him. He says he fears that his manuscripts will be stolen and then he fears for his life. He is reported as cursing his brother for a fool and advising his former soul friend to leave the abbey and take to the mountains. A few days later he is found in his cell stabbed to death.’

  ‘And the curious facts about that are … ?’

  ‘He is stabbed twice in the back but the body is lain on the bed in a position of repose. The door is locked and there is only one key that locks the door and that is found by the body. That poses the question of how did the murderer enter and how did they exit taking, we presume, the manuscripts?’

  ‘That is so,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Then we have to consider the reason Donnchad gave for requesting a lock on his door with only one key, which you have mentioned. He was fearful someone might rob him of these valuable manuscripts. Yet no one ever saw them …’

  ‘Except Lady Eithne,’ pointed out Eadulf. ‘Why would she lie?’

  ‘Therefore we presume that the murderer stole them but how?’

  ‘And so we shall question the scriptor of this abbey as, if anyone in the abbey knows about such things, it would be the librarian.’