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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #blt, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Suspense, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Chalice of Blood
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Abbot Iarnla and Brother Lugna exchanged an uncomfortable glance.
‘Brother Donnchad was—’
‘He had begun to behave in a curious fashion,’ interrupted Brother Lugna.
‘In what way? How did this manifest itself?’ asked Eadulf.
‘He became reclusive,’ the abbot explained. ‘He shut himself away from his oldest friend in the community.’
‘He even stopped going to Mass,’ pointed out Brother Lugna. ‘When we found that he had shut himself away and would not communicate with anyone, I sent for his mother, Lady Eithne, to see if she could find out what was vexing him.’
‘And did she?’
He was about to speak when he was interrupted by the noise of several horses arriving in the quadrangle of the abbey. With a muttered apology, he rose and went to the window to peer out. Then he turned back.
‘You may ask the question of Lady Eithne herself, Sister Fidelma, for she has just arrived with an escort.’
He left the room to greet the newcomers.
Lady Eithne was imposing. Tall though Fidelma was, she had to look up into the face of the woman. There were still traces of a youthful beauty in her features. She wore a slightly austere expression. The sharp blue eyes bore few of the tell-tale marks of age; only when one came nearer was age discernible, for she used berry juice to darken her brows and hair. The person who dressed her hair was clearly skilled, for it was elaborately dressed. Three dark-brown braids curled and wound round her head, held in place by gold circlet pins called
flesc
, while a fourth braid was left flowing between her shoulders and down her back. On top of her head was a kerchief arranged to show that she was a widow. Her only jewellery was an ornate cross of gold worked with semi-precious stones, the like of which Fidelma had never seen before. It was clearly of foreign workmanship. Lady Eithne wore a bright green dress of
siriac
, or silk, with a bright blue cloak of
sróll
, satin, edged with badger’s fur.
She took a pace forward and held out both hands to Fidelma in friendly greeting.
‘You are welcome here, lady. I have been expecting your arrival ever since I heard that you had been invited to come to the abbey.’
‘Lady Eithne,’ replied Fidelma, bowing her head, not to the rank of the woman but to her age and reputation. Lady Eithne was the chieftain of the local territory, being a
banchomarbae
or female heir, as well as widow of a Déisi prince.
‘And this is Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham?’ Lady Eithne turned to Eadulf with a smile. ‘I have heard much of you. You are both welcome in the territory of the Déisi.’ Then she greeted the abbot with a surly nod.
Looking troubled, the abbot invited her to be seated in the chair he had vacated, which surprised Eadulf for it was not often that an abbot abrogated his rank to the local nobility. Brother Lugna produced another chair, and the abbot reseated himself next to Lady Eithne.
‘Your visit is unexpected, lady,’ the abbot commented, when the steward had served mead to the newcomer.
‘Not so,’ Lady Eithne replied firmly. ‘As soon as I was informed that Fidelma of Cashel was here, I rode here to greet her. I am as much concerned with the resolution of this matter as the abbey of Lios Mór. Perhaps more so.’
It was a clear rebuke and a reminder that it was her son whose murder they were speaking of.
‘Let me say at once, and on behalf of my brother, the King, and our family, that I am sorry for your great loss, lady,’ Fidelma began after a few moments of awkward silence. It was no more than a ritual opening.
‘Your condolences are appreciated,’ she replied automatically. ‘Do you hope to resolve this matter quickly?’
‘We were speaking of the circumstances of your son’s tragic death when you arrived,’ Fidelma replied, not answering her question.
Lady Eithne gazed sadly at her. ‘There is no need to tread carefully with my feelings. I have mourned sufficiently in public. My grief is now for myself. I hope you will be able to discover who is responsible for his death.’
‘We understand that you may have been the last known person to speak with him. We are told that since his return from his pilgrimage, Brother Donnchad had been growing agitated about something.’
‘Agitated?’ queried Lady Eithne distantly.
‘Agitated enough for the steward of the community, Brother Lugna here, to send for you that you might come to the abbey
and speak to him. I am told that Brother Donnchad had withdrawn from his companions and was no longer attending the services of the abbey.’
‘That is correct,’ confirmed Lady Eithne.
‘You acceded to the steward’s request and, therefore, you were probably the last person to see your son before his death.’
There was a silence for a while as Lady Eithne took a sip of her mead. Then she replaced the glass on the side table with a quick nod.
‘Apart, that is, from the person who murdered him,’ she replied. ‘When Brother Lugna sent for me, I was much disquieted by his message. Brother Lugna asked me to come here and speak with my son and perhaps discover the reason for his behaviour.’
‘And did you?’ asked Eadulf quietly.
‘Donnchad told me he was in fear for his life. He told me that he was apprehensive of certain intrigues and jealousies in the abbey. He knew someone was envious of him and the precious manuscripts he had brought back from his travels.’
Fidelma saw a tinge of red colouring Abbot Iarnla’s neck and spreading up his cheeks. The abbot opened his mouth to say something.
‘He told you this clearly?’ Fidelma interjected quickly.
‘He did so.’
‘I am told that no manuscripts or arterfacts have been found in his cell.’
Lady Eithne met her eyes steadily. ‘Precisely.’ The tone was emphatic.
‘I see,’ said Fidelma, understanding her implication. ‘Then you believe whoever killed your son also took these precious manuscripts?’
‘I do.’
‘And you saw these documents when you visited your son?’
‘I did. On that very day just hours before his death.’
Fidelma sat back and glanced quickly from Abbot Iarnla to Brother Lugna, before returning her gaze to Lady Eithne.
‘There was some doubt whether these manuscripts actually existed.’
Abbot Iarnla stared at the fire while the steward flushed. Lady Eithne’s lips parted in a humourless smile but she said nothing.
‘When your son told you that he feared the theft of these books, did he mention any specific threat?’ asked Fidelma.
‘He did not.’
‘Then perhaps you could repeat his words – his exact words – so that we might try and interpret them?’ Eadulf suggested.
There was a perceptible tightening of Lady Eithne’s jaw and Fidelma, anxious that she should not take this as questioning her veracity, said hurriedly, ‘Eadulf is right. If you can give us his exact words, there might be something in them that could lead to the root of his fear.’
Lady Eithne relaxed and paused for a moment as if trying to recall.
‘He told me that the Faith was under attack from those who would deny its very message. He feared that these attackers would destroy it.’
‘People who would destroy it?’ echoed Eadulf. ‘He was not specific about names or where they could be found?’
‘Those were his words. I believe my son was killed because of his scholarship and the manuscripts he had brought back with him from the Holy Land.’
‘If possible, lady,’ Fidelma said, ‘let us turn to your last meeting with him. When you arrived here, had he locked himself in his cell?’
‘He had.’
‘But he let you in to speak to him?’
‘I am his mother. Of course he did.’
‘I am told that he had one key to that chamber. The locksmith had made the lock specially.’
‘I asked my son who held the keys to his room, since he was in such fear for his life. He told me that he had the only key.’
‘While you were in his cell and saw those precious manuscripts, did you know what they were? What sort of works were they?’
Lady Eithne sniffed, her chin rising a little.
‘My son was a great scholar. I can read and write my own language and I have a little Latin learning, but not much. I could scarcely understand the varied and unusual works that he had access to. I would not know Greek from Hebrew.’ Lady Eithne gave a shake of her head. ‘My son had several works in his room.’
‘Could one person have carried the manuscripts away with them?’
‘I suppose so. After all, he had to carry them himself on his journey from the Holy Land.’
‘He was also supposed to have brought back some artefacts,’ Eadulf said.
Lady Eithne’s hand went to the strange, ornate cross which hung round her neck.
‘Indeed. He brought back a piece of the True Cross for the abbey and he brought me this. It was a gift from both my sons, bought for me in the very town of Nazareth where Our Saviour grew up and began his work.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not that I know of. Brother Lugna, surely you know what gifts he brought for the abbey.’
Brother Lugna shifted his weight and made an odd gesture with one hand, palm outwards. ‘A piece of the True Cross, which is now in our newly built chapel. A few icons and trinkets for decorative purposes, but that is all.’
‘So now …’ Lady Eithne suddenly rose, and they all followed
her example. ‘It was merely my intention to come to greet you, Fidelma, and extend a welcome to this territory. I must return to my fortress. It is only a few kilometres to the east of the abbey but the sky is darkening. I would welcome your visit there. If there is anything else I can help you with, I shall be most willing. It is hard to lose both my sons …’ She smiled quickly. ‘Cathal is lost to me in a foreign land and now … now Donnchad …’ She ended with a shrug.
‘You have already been more than helpful, lady,’ Fidelma replied gravely.
Lady Eithne inclined her head to Fidelma and then to Eadulf, glanced at Abbot Iarnla in an almost disapproving way, and then turned towards the chamber door which Brother Lugna held open for her.
 
 
A
fter Brother Lugna had followed Lady Eithne down to the courtyard where two warriors of her escort were waiting, Abbot Iarnla reseated himself. He looked ill at ease.
‘Do I detect some tension between Lady Eithne and you?’ asked Fidelma, also sitting down again.
The elderly abbot looked up at her and his expression was not happy.
‘I preside over this abbey where her son has been murdered. In fact, I presided over it when her two sons were falsely accused of plotting the murder of her cousin, Maolochtair, Prince of the Déisi, and thereby forced them to go on pilgrimage to avoid his attentions.’
‘At my suggestion,’ pointed out Fidelma.
‘Nevertheless, I feel that I am the one she blames for all the misfortunes that have befallen her family.’
‘And do you feel that you are to blame?’
‘She believes that I am. That is enough.’
‘How powerful a person is Lady Eithne in this area?’ asked Eadulf. ‘Usually a …’ he fought for the right word, ‘a
bain-trebthach
… a widow … does not exercise much power.’
The abbot gave a quick shake of his head. ‘Lady Eithne was also a
comthigerna
, a co-lord, of the area, so that when
her husband died, even with her two sons living, she continued as lord of the area. While she answers to the senior Prince of the Déisi, Maolochtair’s successor, she has total command in this territory.’
‘A chieftain in her own right,’ Eadulf summed up.
‘That is so,’ confirmed the old abbot. ‘A
bancomharba
, female heir, to the lordship of this territory.’
‘Do you know what she means by these intrigues and jealousies in the abbey? Intrigues that would concern Brother Donnchad?’ Fidelma asked gently, returning to the main point.
‘I have no such knowledge. It is the first I have heard of it from Lady Eithne. But I fear that she accuses me.’
Eadulf was thoughtful. ‘Surely Brother Donnchad had an
anam chara
, a soul friend, with whom he discussed matters and made confession? We might be able to learn more of this from him.’
The
anam chara
was not exactly like the confessor priest in the Roman Church. The soul friend was someone with whom one could discuss one’s deepest and most intimate thoughts and problems; someone who shared one’s very soul and provided support and, where possible, guidance along the spiritual path. It was a concept that was ancient long before the coming of the new Faith and, Eadulf admitted, a better practice than merely the confessing of certain sins as defined by the rules of others, for which a priest could then issue punishments as penance.
‘Before he left on his pilgrimage, his soul friend was Brother Gáeth,’ replied the abbot. ‘Donnchad seemed to spend much of his time with Brother Gáeth. They had known one another since they were children.’
‘Then Brother Gáeth should be able to tell us what it was that troubled Brother Donnchad,’ Eadulf said.
Brother Lugna re-entered the room. Fidelma caught the uncomfortable glance that Abbot Iarnla cast at him as he entered. Brother Lugna had picked up on the last remark.
‘I am afraid you will not get much help from Brother Gáeth,’ he said firmly. ‘Since Brother Donnchad’s return, their friendship ceased. Brother Gáeth was forbidden even to approach him.’
‘Forbidden? By whom?’ queried Fidelma.
‘By none other than Brother Donnchad himself,’ replied the steward.
‘Nevertheless, we shall speak to Brother Gáeth,’ said Fidelma. ‘When did Brother Donnchad become so solitary? Presumably there was a period between the time he came back to the community and when he became reclusive.’
‘He arrived back in early summer. The problems really began about three or four days before his death,’ replied Brother Lugna. ‘I only knew him after he had returned from the pilgrimage, so I am not able to judge any differences in his character. All I can say is that he always kept himself and his thoughts to himself.’
The abbot nodded. ‘It is true that, after his return, he often seemed preoccupied. He was – how should I put it? – of an unfriendly disposition. He confided in no one, kept himself to himself and moved in a secretive way. But three or four days before his death, he locked himself in his cell and refused to see anyone.’
‘And you have no idea what caused him to do that?’
Brother Lugna was shaking his head but it was the abbot who replied. ‘There is no reason that I know of. All I know is that four days before his death, he returned to the abbey and shut himself in his cell.’
‘He
returned
to the abbey?’ Fidelma asked quickly. ‘I am not sure what you mean.’
Brother Lugna, who had compressed his lips in a reaction to the abbot’s words, now spoke awkwardly.
‘The abbot refers to the fact that Brother Donnchad left the abbey for an entire day without our knowledge. We ascribed this breach of our rules to his peculiar behaviour generally. As steward, I was going to reprimand him for that disobedience in not seeking our … the abbot’s approval. That day I noticed he did not attend the early morning service. Then Brother Echen, our stableman, mentioned that Brother Donnchad had taken a horse from the abbey stables and ridden off before dawn, saying that he would return that evening. Brother Echen naturally assumed that he had the permission of the abbot and myself.’
‘And did he return when he said he would?’
‘He came back well after dark, left the horse in the stable and went straight to his cell, locked the door and refused to communicate with anyone. The following day I sent for Lady Eithne. I never saw him alive again.’
‘Did you do anything in response to this curious behaviour, apart from allowing his mother to attempt to reason with him?’
‘On the very morning before we discovered his body, we discussed the best way of dealing with the matter,’ replied the abbot. ‘Rightly or wrongly, I had previously decided that he needed more time to settle back after his momentous journey. But that morning I decided to confront him. I went to his cell with Brother Lugna. When we could not get in, I sent for our blacksmith and he broke down the door. That was when we found him. Murdered.’
‘Let me get this clear.’ Fidelma was thoughtful and spoke quietly. ‘Before he became reclusive, did you discuss with Brother Donnchad any matters that were bothering him?’
‘We had a few discussions immediately after his return but
not since his behaviour became strange and certainly not during the last week.’
‘What were the subjects of the discussions on his return?’
‘Varied. About the sights he had seen in his travels and the gift he brought back. Also about the changes to the abbey, the new building. But he was very preoccupied, as I said. It was as if his heart was not in such matters and his interests lay elsewhere.’
‘So where do you think he went on the day that he left the abbey? Do you think he went to see his mother?’ asked Fidelma.
Brother Lugna shook his head immediately, saying, ‘It was something I asked Lady Eithne but she had not seen him that day or for some time prior. I am afraid that we have no idea where he went on his last journey from the abbey.’
Fidelma sat silently for a few minutes before summing up the facts she had been told.
‘So, in short, what you are telling us is that when Donnchad returned from his pilgrimage, he was troubled by something. He feared that someone would steal the manuscripts he had brought back with him and asked for a lock and key on his door. We hear now that he also feared for his life. His attitude was such that you felt he should be “humoured”, your word, in this matter.’ She glanced at them to emphasise the point. Brother Lugna nodded slightly. The abbot did not meet her eyes. ‘Then he disappeared from the community for an entire day, without permission and without telling anyone where he had been. When he returned, he locked himself in his chamber. Having felt that his behaviour was becoming even more abnormal, Brother Lugna sent for his mother to speak to him but she had no effect. So, finally, you both went to remonstrate with him and found him dead, murdered in his cell, yet the door was locked, and you maintain that it could only have been locked from the inside. Am I right?’
‘Those are the essential details,’ agreed Abbot Iarnla.
Fidelma continued, ‘We will go to examine the cell shortly but you have told me that there was only one key. How do you know it was turned from the inside?’
It was Brother Lugna who answered without hesitation.
‘Because the only key was lying by Brother Donnchad’s body. Therefore it had to have been turned from the inside.’
‘Logical enough,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘But a lot seems to rely on your assertion that there was only one key.’
‘It is no assertion. As I said, our blacksmith was told to make the lock specially and only one key was provided to assure Brother Donnchad of his security.’
‘And these manuscripts that he guarded so diligently, only his mother seems to have glimpsed them.’
‘Lady Eithne says she saw them, so they must have been stolen by whoever killed him,’ asserted the steward firmly.
The abbot said nothing and Fidelma turned to him.
‘You seem uncertain, Abbot Iarnla.’
‘I cannot comment. I never saw the documents.’
‘Do you doubt Lady Eithne’s word?’
‘I would only point out that Lady Eithne admits that she does not know Greek from Hebrew. How can we rely on her word that the manuscripts that she glimpsed were the precious documents that Brother Donnchad claimed they were?’
‘Did anyone else see these valuable manuscripts apart from Lady Eithne?’ Eadulf asked.
‘I imagine that our
scriptor
, Brother Donnán, would have seen them,’ Brother Lugna replied.
‘Did you question the
scriptor
about them?’ Fidelma asked. ‘After all, as the head of your
scriptorium
in this abbey, he should surely have known about such precious manuscripts being brought here.’
‘We have questioned no one,’ replied Brother Lugna, a little sourly, avoiding looking at the abbot. ‘It was felt that such matters should await your arrival.’
‘We will speak with your
scriptor
,’ Fidelma said gently. ‘And we will examine Brother Donnchad’s cell. I presume the obsequies have already been conducted?’
‘As you know, it is our tradition to bury the body within twenty-four hours,’ replied the abbot. ‘He was laid to rest in our burial ground just outside the abbey walls, after the day of watching in the usual custom.’
‘But your physician will be able to report on the manner of his death?’
‘He was stabbed in the back,’ stated Brother Lugna. ‘That’s how he died. Surely that is enough.’
‘Just so, but there are details that only an apothecary or physician would notice. I presume your physician examined him?’
‘Naturally.’ Again there was a defensive tone in the steward’s voice. ‘Brother Seachlann is our physician.’
‘Then we will need to see him.’ She rose, as did Eadulf, but the abbot remained seated as if lost in thought. Then he suddenly realised they were leaving and gestured to his steward.
‘Brother Lugna will see to all your needs. However, the hour grows late. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day to begin.’
Fidelma realised that a distant bell was ringing to mark the end of the day’s work, calling those who tilled the fields to return to the abbey and cleanse themselves before the evening meal.
‘You are right, Father Abbot,’ she conceded. ‘It has been a long day.’ She glanced at Brother Lugna. ‘Has our companion, Gormán, been accommodated and our horses seen to?’
‘They have,’ the steward said. ‘And I have asked our
bruigad
,
our hosteller, to make a chamber ready for you in our
tech-óiged
, our guesthouse—’
‘Separate chambers,’ interrupted Fidelma softly
‘But I thought …’ Abbot Iarnla frowned and then went on hurriedly to avoid embarrassment, ‘Of course. See to it, Brother Lugna. And perhaps you will join us in the
refectorium
for the evening meal when you have had your evening bathe.’
‘I have ordered your baths to be made ready,’ added the steward.
Eadulf had felt a little embarrassed when Fidelma ordered separate chambers. But he realised that life could not continue as before and there was much to be sorted out between Fidelma and himself. He said nothing as the hosteller, who identified himself as Brother Máel Eoin, guided them to the wooden building that was the guesthouse. Their chambers were separate but close to one another. A tub of hot water was waiting for him when he entered. Eadulf had long grown used to the custom of Fidelma’s people of taking a daily bath, usually in the evening, in a large tub called a
dabach
. Guests in any hostel or inn had the baths prepared for them with scented warm water and oils. After guests had washed, combed their hair and put on fresh clothing, they could attend the principal meal of the day, called the
prainn
, which was taken in the evening.

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