Master of Souls Page 6

  The paper was scorched and torn. He handed it to Fidelma.

  The only readable matter she could make out was ‘ … midnight. Orat … alone … Sin …’.

  Eadulf peered at it over her shoulder and shook his head.

  ‘It makes no sense. It could mean anything. Why would this Sister Buan think it was significant?’

  ‘She said that the Venerable Cinaed must have burnt it on the night he went to the oratory.’

  ‘Well, we will doubtless have a word with this Sister Buan,’ Fidelma said. ‘Have we now identified all Cináed’s friends? Is there anyone else … any particular friend of Cinaed?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Abbot Erc replied and made to take back the piece of burnt paper, but Fidelma shook her head with a smile.

  ‘We’ll hold on to this for the time being,’ she said, putting it carefully in her marsupium.

  Slightly put out, the abbot reseated himself.

  Conrí, who had been silent during most of the discussion, coughed slightly to draw attention to himself and said: ‘My aunt, the Abbess Faife, was a close friend of the Venerable Cinaed. You have forgotten her. She often helped Cinaed in the library, for his eyesight was not of the best as he grew older.’

  Abbot Erc flushed.

  ‘Of course,’ he said stiffly. ‘There was the Abbess Faife, but as she is … no longer with us, I did not think her name need be mentioned.’

  Eadulf’s lips twitched in a grimace.

  ‘On the contrary, it is useful to know there was such a link between the two victims of violent death.’

  ‘Do you think that there was some connection between the deaths then, Brother Eadulf?’ the steward demanded.

  ‘Perhaps. We need …’ he avoided Fidelma’s eyes, ‘we need facts before we can speculate.’

  ‘Your primary task was to find out why the Abbess Faife was killed and where her charges are,’ the abbot exclaimed in disapproval. ‘This cannot be accomplished in this abbey. You should go to the lands of the Corco Duibhne and make inquiries there.’

  Fidelma rose abruptly from her seat.

  ‘You are quite right, Abbot Erc. I do mean to proceed very shortly. But not until I have made those inquiries here that I think necessary. However, as it grows late, and we have had a long ride today, we shall retire now and continue in the morning.’

  The abbot also rose, looking confused. He had apparently expected some argument or some further discussion.

  The young rechtaire, taking a lantern, conducted them from the abbot’s chamber through the grounds of the abbey to the guests’ quarters.

  ‘If there is anything you wish, call upon me or Sister Sinnchéne.’

  He was turning to go when Fidelma stayed him.

  ‘You will remember that Brother Eadulf will be conducting a search of the clothing in the washroom tomorrow?’

  ‘I have not forgotten.’

  ‘Nor that I shall be expecting the merchant, Mugrón, at the abbey tomorrow in the morning.’

  ‘Neither have I forgotten that, lady.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Fidelma smiled. ‘Then first thing in the morning, I would like to talk to you while we await Mugrón’s arrival.’

  Brother Cú Mara looked surprised.

  ‘Me, lady?’

  ‘I need your advice as the rechtaire.’

  ‘Of course.’ The young man was puzzled but acknowledged her request. ‘I shall be at your service.’

  The morning service was over. The bell denoting the end of prayers had scarcely ceased to toll before the community of the entire abbey became a hive of activity as the religious dispersed to their individual tasks. Some had gone to tend the herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, others to the herb gardens or to the fields, although there was little to do in the freezing wasteland at this time of year. Even during the more clement weather the crops were not bountiful in this open stretch of coastland where the winds off the great western sea were so fierce and constant. Other members of the community departed to the libraries - the scriptors, the artists, the researchers and the students.

  Brother Eadulf, with the two warriors who had accompanied Conrí, had set off to the tech-nigid. Conrí, wanting to be active, had volunteered to ride south along the road to meet Mugrón the merchant and escort him to the abbey.

  Seizing the quiet time that ensued, Fidelma accompanied Brother Cú Mara to a corner of the herb garden where they could speak without being overheard.

  ‘Last night you said that you needed my advice, lady,’ the young man said, as they seated themselves on a wooden bench in a sheltered corner.

  ‘I did,’ agreed Fidelma. She paused to make herself comfortable. ‘I think that you wanted to tell me something about Sister Buan but were dissuaded by the presence of the abbot. Is it not so?’

  The young steward flushed and seemed to hesitate. ‘I suppose I was about to say that Sister Buan was more than the Venerable Cináed’s companion.’

  Fidelma gazed at him with interest. ‘In what sense are you speaking?’

  ‘As in male and female,’ he said as if in embarrassment.

  ‘Does that cause some concern? Is that not a normal relationship for men and women to follow?’

  ‘Oh, truly.’

  ‘Is not this abbey a conhospitae, a mixed house in which male and female live together working for the glory of God and where their children are raised to that ideal? Mind you, I have not seen many children here.’

  ‘It is so. We are a conhospitae. However, children are not encouraged here and there are some who …’ Brother Cú Mara hesitated.

  ‘Who would welcome these new ideas of celibacy coming from Rome?’ ended Fidelma.

  ‘Indeed. The Venerable Mac Faosma, for example, since he arrived here has been a vociferous advocate of the idea of celibacy. He would have all the females expelled from here and the abbey given over to being solely a male house.’

  ‘I see. Does that meet with the approval of the Abbot Erc?’

  The rechtaire grinned cynically. ‘Since the Venerable Mac Faosma came here, things have changed.’

  ‘So the arguments of Mac Faosma are clearly heeded by the abbot?’

  ‘Oh, there are many who support the argument for celibacy within the abbey.’

  ‘But the Venerable Cinaed did not?’

  ‘He did not and could quote from the holy writings, chapter and verse, to support his contention that the religious life was never meant to deny people what he described as that basic part of their humanity.’

  ‘That must have brought forth some response from the Venerable Mac Faosma?’

  ‘Indeed, it did. His words were quite violent and … oh!’

  The young man raised a hand to his mouth and looked shocked at the admission he had made.

  Fidelma did not comment. ‘I presume that Abbot Erc was well aware of their conflict?’

  Brother Cú Mara nodded unhappily.

  Fidelma sighed. ‘It seems our inquiry begins to show that poor Cinaed was not so universally loved as it was first claimed. He had a fierce antagonist and that antagonist had supporters in this abbey.’

  ‘But it was merely a conflict of ideas - celibacy versus non-celibacy. That has been debated within many communities and at many times.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘However, to begin to see the garden one must clear away the weeds.’

  Brother Cú Mara looked bewildered.

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘It is of no consequence. Your information is most useful. Is there anything else that I should have been informed about?’

  The young steward continued to look puzzled.

  Sister Fidelma unbent.

  ‘Last night we were asking about people who nurtured possible enmity against the Venerable Cinaed. We are at first informed that everyone loved him. Little by little we learn that the Venerable Mac Faosma was his scholastic enemy and used violent words against him. Not just that, but that the Venerable Mac Faosma had a following. Were they equa
lly violent towards the Venerable Cinaed? Were there others who displayed hostility to him?’

  Brother Cú Mara shrugged.

  ‘I do not think that the Venerable Mac Faosma or any of his supporters would go so far as—’

  Fidelma made a quick cutting motion with her hand.

  ‘Perhaps that is for me to decide … once I am given the relevant information.’

  The young steward shook his head.

  ‘I have only heard cross words exchanged between them during their debates. Although I have heard the Venerable Mac Faosma berating Sister Buan in private for her relationship with Cinaed.’

  Fidelma closed her eyes for a moment.

  ‘You told me last night that you knew Cinaed well. How long have you been rechtaire of the abbey?’

  ‘Less than a year.’ The words seemed to be an admission of some guilty secret.

  ‘That is not long,’ Fidelma observed gently. ‘And before you became steward?’

  ‘I was a scribe.’ Now the words were defensive and the young man had coloured again.

  ‘I see. Did you work for Cinaed in the library? Were you his copyist?’

  Brother Cú Mara hesitated.

  ‘Brother Faolchair, the assistant librarian, always copied the Venerable Cináed’s works. I was only promoted to being a scribe when the Venerable Mac Faosma came to the abbey. I worked under his direction.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘So? Are you one of the supporters of the Venerable Mac Faosma?’

  Brother Cú Mara raised his chin defensively.

  ‘As steward I am above such things …’

  ‘But during the time the Venerable Mac Faosma was your superior, you being his scribe, you must have had some sympathy with his ideas?’ pressed Fidelma quickly.

  The young man raised his hands helplessly.

  ‘I … I was impressed by what the Venerable Mac Faosma had to say. I’ll not deny that.’

  ‘Did you ever enter the arguments … the debates, that is … between Mac Faosma and Cinaed?’

  ‘I attended them, that is all. And, no, I did not harbour any angry thoughts, towards the Venerable Cinaed, that is. We are all entitled to our opinions but in the end truth will always prevail without our help.’

  Fidelma smiled quickly.

  ‘So, other than your inwardly held beliefs that Cinaed was wrong in his outlook and teachings … ?’

  ‘I harboured no ill will towards him.’

  ‘And as rechtaire do you declare your stand, that you favour the new ideas of Rome?’

  ‘I do not!’ The words came indignantly. ‘As steward, holding a high office in the abbey, my beliefs should not be an influence on the others …’ He paused a moment, his lips pressed tightly together.

  ‘So where do you stand on this matter of celibacy?’

  The young man flushed.

  ‘As I said, I am the steward of the abbey. I have to be independent.’

  ‘That is a hard thing to be on such a matter,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Did the Venerable Cinaed know your views? Your real views?’

  ‘I told you, I keep my views to myself. They are no concern of others. However, if you must know, I support Abbot Erc. That doesn’t mean that I killed Cinaed, if that is what you are implying.’

  The young man had risen to his feet but Fidelma regarded him with a mild smile.

  ‘You wear your temper on the sleeve of your robe, Brother Cú Mara. I have not imputed anything but have simply asked you some questions. It is my task as a dálaigh to ask questions and it is your obligation to answer them. Now, be seated and calm yourself.’

  Brother Cú Mara stood undecided for a moment or two and then he shrugged and sat down again.

  ‘Excellent,’ she approved. ‘Now tell me, when did you first learn of the death of the Venerable Cinaed?’

  ‘When?’ The young man frowned. ‘It is now four days ago. It was before dawn. I had arisen and washed and was about to go to the chapel to attend the service for the Blessed Íte, which we hold on her feast day. She it was who—’

  Fidelma interrupted impatiently. ‘I know who Íte was. Go on.’

  ‘I was on my way there when one of the community came rushing up saying that he had heard shouting from the oratory.’

  ‘Shouting? As in an argument?’

  ‘Someone crying for help. It turned out to be the abbot, for I went there without delay and found the abbot in great distress. He had discovered the body of the Venerable Cinaed lying behind the altar and the rest you know. I helped carry the body to the physician. We then learnt that the old man had been murdered and the method - a blow on the back of the skull. The body was laid out and waked for the required day and night and then at midnight on the next day we buried Cinaed in the graveyard behind the abbey.’

  ‘I see. As rechtaire, what steps did you undertake to investigate the crime?’

  The young man looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I am not a dálaigh like you, lady.’ The words were uttered as a protest.

  ‘So you did nothing?’

  ‘On the contrary. I asked the members of the community if anyone knew anything.’

  ‘They did not, of course?’ Fidelma said cynically.

  ‘They did not. It was generally agreed that some wandering bandit probably entered the abbey grounds and was discovered by Cinaed who then paid with his life for attempting to stop the thief.’

  ‘Having obliged his assailant by turning his back to him?’

  The young man did not understand Fidelma’s sarcasm and said so.

  ‘By whom was it generally agreed?’ pressed Fidelma, ignoring his remark.

  ‘By the elders of the community.’

  ‘Being the abbot … and who else?’

  ‘The Venerable Mac Faosma, Brother Eolas the librarian, our physician …’

  ‘Was anything stolen by these wandering bandits?‘interrupted Fidelma.

  ‘Stolen?’

  Fidelma felt the young man was being deliberately obtuse.

  ‘Presumably, in your oratory, you would have icons and items worthy of theft? Why else would this hypothetical thief break into the abbey?’

  The young steward paused a moment and then shook his head.

  ‘Nothing was taken. The oratory was searched for a weapon. It was not found, showing that the murderer took it away with him.’

  ‘So much for the theory of the thief,’ Fidelma observed coldly.

  Before Brother Cú Mara could respond, Eadulf emerged at the entrance of the herb garden, hurrying towards them with a triumphant expression. He bore a bundle of clothing in his arms.

  ‘Success!’ he cried.

  He held out two robes. They both bore the unmistakable dark patches of bloodstains.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fidelma rose from the bench to examine the bloodstained robes that Eadulf held out to her.

  ‘Indeed, it is dried blood and splattered in such quantity that the wearer must have bled profusely or been in contact with someone whose blood has drenched their clothing.’ She gave an appreciative look at Eadulf. ‘Well done. Now, is there a way of finding out the identity of the wearer?’

  Brother Cú Mara was staring at the clothes with a curious frown.

  ‘Did you not ask Sister Sinnchéne?’ he inquired. ‘She is very particular about the washing and would not mix such stained garments with the other clothing for wash.’

  Eadulf looked a little crestfallen.

  ‘I was so agitated by the discovery that I came straightway to inform you, Fidelma. Sister Sinnchéne was not in the tech-nigid when I discovered them and so I did not think to ask. They were certainly in a pile set to one side,’ he added defensively to the young steward.

  Fidelma reached out a hand to touch Eadulf’s arm.

  ‘Go now and repair the omission. Seek the identity of the wearer of these garments but do not approach them until I am ready. I see,’ she glanced across the herb garden, ‘Conrí has returned and that must be the me
rchant with him. I will deal with him and then we will pursue the wearer of these clothes.’

  A little downcast, for he realised that he should have discovered the information before coming to Fidelma, Eadulf nodded and went back to the tech-nigid.

  Fidelma turned to watch Conrí approaching with his companion. Mugrón looked more like a sailor than a merchant. He was a stocky man, barrel-chested and walking, arms akimbo, with the rolling gait of someone more used to being on the swaying deck of a ship than terra firma. He had large hands, sturdy legs, a short neck and a round, florid face set with dark hair that was beginning to streak with silver. His eyes were of a fathomless blue, almost violet.

  ‘Greetings, Fidelma of Cashel. We have met before.’ He had a deep, rasping voice.

  Fidelma frowned, searching her memory but gave up with a shake of her head.

  ‘I do not recall …’ she began.

  The merchant interrupted with a smile.

  ‘You would not. You were a little girl. I was a young merchant, sailing my ship up the River Siur to the trading post that serves Cashel. Máenach mac Fíngin was king at that time. You and your brother had come down to the quay to see my boat come in.’

  Memory came back to her. Her father, King Failbe Flann, had died when she was a baby. She had little memory of her father’s successor, King Cuan, who had also died when she was four or five years of age. But Máenach had been king during most of her childhood until she had been sent away to study under the great Brehon Morann at Tara. She and her brother Colgú had looked upon Maenach as a kindly uncle for he was certainly, in their eyes, old enough to be so, although he was actually their first cousin. He had been the son of Fingín, the elder brother of their father Failbe Flann. He had looked after Fidelma and Colgú well, ensuring that they were properly educated. He had died two years before she had set out for the great Synod at Hilda’s Abbey in Northumbria, and another cousin, Cathal, had taken the throne until he died of the Yellow Plague. Máenach had been the only relative that she could think of in terms of what it must have been like to have a father. And she did remember playing along the banks of the great Siur with her brother and watching the trading boats coming up and down the river.