The Devil's Seal (11 page)

T
he morning sky was dark and it had started to rain long before dawn. There was no wind to promise the dispersal of low-hanging clouds and yet it was not exceptionally cold. The rain swept the fertile plains around Cashel, falling so thickly that anyone looking from The Rock, on which the palace of Colgú stood, could barely see the town nestling beneath. Even the pall of smoke of the numerous domestic fires was obscured by the downpour.

It was a day which was cursed by farmers and travellers alike. The farmers cursed it because the soil became a quagmire, thus delaying the planting of oats and barley. The travellers cursed it because the tracks and roads were turned to muddy stretches, the streams became turbulent rivers, while rivers became impassable. It was a day when no one felt like venturing out unless they had no alternative; a day when any outside task that could be delayed was ignored. It was the same within the buildings of the King’s palace at Cashel. Those warriors of the Golden Collar, the King’s élite bodyguards, who were not on duty, remained in the
Laochtech
, the Hall of Heroes as their accommodation was known. Even the horse-master and his stable lads remained cosseted inside by the fire.

Fidelma and Eadulf had decided that Eadulf should introduce his brother to their son Alchú, and then conduct him around the palace. While he was doing this, Fidelma would take the opportunity to seek out her friend Abbess Líoch and diplomatically question her about their suspicions.

Fidelma found the abbess in the
Tech-screptra
, the House of Manuscripts. She was alone in the library apart from
leabhar coimedach
, the Keeper of the Books, who sat in a corner working on a wax tablet, which was often employed to make notes, after which the wax could be smoothed out for further use. The man started to rise as Fidelma entered, but she placed a finger to her lips and nodded towards the figure of the abbess sitting engrossed in a manuscript in a distant corner of the library. Cashel was proud of its library; although it was smaller than most abbey libraries, it possessed several treasures in Greek, Latin and Hebrew, as well as the language of the Five Kingdoms. These were hung in leather book-satchels on pegs or racks along the walls. The books were greatly valued and often brought as gifts to the King.

Abbess Líoch glanced up as Fidelma approached. There was a slight frown on her features.

‘Are you busy, Líoch?’ Fidelma asked pleasantly, seating herself without being invited.

The abbess tapped the top of her desk with a forefinger. ‘I am reading the latest work of Tirechán of the Uí Amolngid of Connacht.’

Fidelma was surprised. ‘Tirechán? I heard that he had died recently. Wasn’t he a great propagandist for the claim of Armagh to be considered the principal seat of the Faith in the Five Kingdoms?’

‘So he was. But there have been many counter-claims from abbeys older and more important than Armagh.’

‘I didn’t realise this library had the work of Tirechán,’ Fidelma said. ‘Abbot Ségdae would doubtless be horrified. As I recall, Tirechán also claimed that Patricius built each and every church and abbey in the Five Kingdoms.’

‘Tirechán calls everyone who does not agree that Ard Macha should be the first city of the Faith “deserters, thieves and robbers, and merely war-lords”,’ agreed Abbess Líoch.

‘As Abbot of Imleach and Chief Bishop of Muman, Ségdae would be the first to dispute that Ard Macha held any authority over all the churches and abbeys,’ rejoined Fidelma.

‘I am intrigued to hear you take so much interest in matters of ecclesiastical authority, Fidelma. As far as I knew, you were always more interested in law than in religion.’

Fidelma was not offended. ‘Sometimes the religious insist on having an impact on law. You yourself are known as standing against the adoption of the Penitentials – the laws that are to the detriment of our own laws. Several abbots have adopted these Penitentials, especially those who believe we should move in closer alliance with the teachings of Rome.’

‘You are a clever advocate, I’ll not gainsay that. Indeed, I stand for both our Faith
and
our native laws,’ replied the abbess. ‘I was not surprised to hear that you had formally left the religious. Yet you are still known widely as Sister Fidelma. However, you were always better suited to law than the religious life.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘It is meant as such. I had not met your husband, Eadulf, before yesterday. He still wears the tonsure of Rome. How does he regard himself?’

‘In respect to the Faith? He accepts the teachings of the Faith but he always had a mind for justice which transcends other matters. He was converted by missionaries from Connacht who went to the Kingdom of the East Angles where he comes from. Then he came to study here.’

‘Although he wears the tonsure of Rome?’

‘He left here and went to Rome. I met him at the Great Debate at Streonshalh where he supported the Roman side.’

Abbess Líoch’s austere features broke into a rueful smile.

‘That was not so many years ago. What is it – six or seven? Do you remember our little band of pilgrims? We all met together at the Abbey of the Blessed Machaoi on the island of Oen Druim to take ship across the narrow sea to I-Shona.’

‘I remember it well,’ nodded Fidelma. ‘It was the first time I had travelled so far north among the Five Kingdoms, north to the country of the Dál Riada of Ulaidh. We were all afraid of the wild tempest, for the passage across the narrow sea from Oen Druim to I-Shona was a turbulent one.’

‘I was sick most of the way,’ recalled Abbess Líoch. ‘However, with God’s grace, we arrived safe on the island of Colmcille.’

‘A beautiful little island,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘Then came the journey onwards and through the Land of the Cruthin and into the Kingdom of Oswy. What excitement we felt as we followed the steps of Aidan and the others to Hilda’s Abbey. It was to be our first great clash with those who wanted to impose these new ideas from Rome.’

Abbess Líoch gave a sidelong glance at Fidelma. ‘Even then you went there, not to advocate religion, but to advise our delegation on law.’

‘I have not denied it. But why did you take that journey, and what made you halt before we reached the Abbey of Hilda?’

‘If you recall, I was travelling with a young scholar. He was . . . he was a good friend of mine.’

‘I remember. Olcán was his name. What happened?’

‘We left your group and made our way south-west to a place called Laestingau; it was a small abbey which one of the kings of the area had set up because he had chosen it as the place where he wanted to be buried. It was only a full day’s ride from Hilda’s Abbey and we had originally meant to rejoin you after a few days.’

‘But why did you go there?’

‘Cedd was the abbot at Laestingau at that time.’

‘Cedd was one of the main interpreters at the Great Council,’ Fidelma remarked, but could not see where her story was going.

‘Cedd was adept at several languages,’ the abbess continued. ‘He had asked Cumméne, the abbot of I-Shona, to send him a copy of the
Computus
of Mo Sinu maccu Min of Beannchoir as he wished to study it before the council began. Cumméne entrusted the manuscript to the care of Olcán and myself. We were told to take it directly to Cedd’s abbey at Laestingau. And that was the reason why we left you on your way to Streonshalh.’

‘But Cedd came to Streonshalh and took a lively part in the debate. Why didn’t you and Olcán join him?’

‘When we reached Laestingau, Cedd had already gone on to Streonshalh. We needed to rest so we stayed there that night. And that night . . .’ She paused and there was a curious expression on her face. ‘We were prevented from joining you.’

Fidelma was frowning. ‘Prevented? How so?’

‘The abbey was only a small group of wooden buildings without any defensive walls. As we lay in bed, it was attacked. Olcán was killed. Others were killed as well, including some of the women.’

‘I didn’t know. I am sorry.’

‘As you say, it was years ago now.’

‘How did you escape?’

Abbess Líoch made a sound that was closer to a moan than anything else.

‘Escape? I did not escape. I was used and left for dead. When Cedd returned after the council, he found the survivors huddling in the ruins. I was one of them. It took me several weeks to recover.’

‘Who were the perpetrators?’

‘Raiders from the neighbouring Kingdom of Mercia.’

Fidelma breathed out softly. She was recalling how raids from Mercia had threatened the peace during the Council at Streonshalh.

‘Were the raiders ever caught and punished?’

‘All I knew was that it was not long after Cedd returned to his abbey that he sickened. It was the autumn of that year that he fell ill with the Yellow Plague and died. We buried him in the burned-out ruins of the abbey at Laestingau. I spent some time trying to repay those people for looking after me when I was beside myself with grief and shame. Without their support, I would surely have died. But after a while, I made my way back here to my own land, my own people, and buried myself in the work of my little abbey at Cill Náile. Within a short time I found myself risen to lead my small community and was appointed Abbess.’ Abbess Líoch sat back and smiled ruefully at Fidelma. ‘That is my sad story. Since my return, all has been well.’

‘Until now?’

The abbess started and for a moment she stared at Fidelma before dropping her gaze.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Until the appearance of Brother Cerdic at your abbey. I find it curious that he calls on you and tells you that it is in your interest to attend at Cashel. He comes to you before he has even consulted Abbot Ségdae or my brother. I am told by Eadulf that the leader of the deputation coming here is led by a Bishop Arwald of Magonsaete and that is a sub-Kingdom of Mercia.’

‘My response to your question has not altered since yesterday,’ replied the abbess tightly.

‘You told me that you did not know Brother Cerdic.’

‘It is true. I never saw him before he came to Cill Náile.’

‘Eadulf says that his name would indicate that he too was from Magonsaete.’

‘Which implies?’ The abbess glared at her.

‘After your experience at Laestingau, I would expect you to have some antipathy towards people from that land,’ pointed out Fidelma.

The abbess’ mouth formed into a thin line. ‘I would hope, even after my experience, that I could differentiate between an entire people and individuals.’

‘That would be a laudable quality. But I have to ask you . . . did you kill Brother Cerdic?’

‘I did not!’ came the sharp reply.

‘You had the opportunity,’ went on Fidelma. ‘You left your horse at the bottom of the hill and came up here on foot. You told me that you wanted to rest your horse.’

‘It is the truth. Sister Dianaimh thought her mount was going lame.’

‘So you both came into the palace on foot. Why?’

‘I came to see Abbot Ségdae.’

‘But you did not find him. You did not find him and so returned without speaking to anyone. Only the guard saw you come and then depart. Where did you look for the abbot? In the chapel?’

Abbess Líoch’s face was a pale mask without expression.

‘You have already made up your mind, is that it?’ she said slowly. ‘I thought you were only interested in truth. It seems you are more interested in finding a sacrifice to explain this man’s death.’

Fidelma gazed into her eyes, long and hard. ‘Tell me, by all you hold sacred, by our friendship when we were young, Líoch . . . that you did not have anything to do with the death of Brother Cerdic.’

Abbess Líoch pushed her head towards Fidelma so that their faces were scarcely a hand’s width apart. Her expression was intense.

‘I tell you by all I hold sacred, on the grave of poor Olcán, far away in a foreign land, that I raised no hand against this man Cerdic.’

Fidelma waited for a few moments and then said: ‘I have accepted your word, Líoch. You, I hope, will understand why I had to pursue this path. Unless we find out who killed Brother Cerdic, Colgú will have much to answer for when Bishop Arwald and his deputation arrive here.’

Abbess Líoch stared bleakly at her friend.

‘We have known the days, Fidelma of Cashel. We were both young and, perhaps, innocent. Now we have grown to know that there is much evil in the world and that it must be challenged. You have chosen your method of challenging it and I have chosen mine. When I depart from here, I will have no wish to see you as a friend again. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall return to my studies.’

‘I am sad to hear that,’ Fidelma said. ‘But friendship does not cancel out the search for truth.’

Fidelma left the library feeling dissatisfied. She had made no progress at all. If anything, she had simply gathered more suspicions. The story of what had happened at Laestingau could well have provided Líoch with a motive. Fidelma thought she knew the abbess well enough to accept her oath, and yet there was a conflict of emotions within her; she was not entirely at ease with the woman’s denial.

She paused in the covered entrance outside the library door. A figure was hurrying through the driving rain, across the courtyard, head down. It was the abbess’ young female steward, Sister Dianaimh. She halted before Fidelma in the cover of the porch and wiped the rain from her pale face, then gave a nervous smile.