‘Your name is Drón?’ Fidelma began.
The head darted up and down. ‘I am Brother Drón of Cill Ria. I am told that you are the dálaigh named Sister Fidelma?’ His face was not happy as he peered from her to Eadulf. ‘And you, scribe, who are you?’
‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk,’ Eadulf replied, falling into the form of introduction that he had grown used to using in the land of Éireann.
‘Ah, ah, of course.’ Brother Drón nodded. ‘Of course. This is a terrible thing, terrible. That an abbot should be murdered while under the protection and hospitality of a king. .’
‘I understand that you were Abbot Ultán’s scribe?’ Fidelma cut in when the man appeared to be launching a complaint.
The elderly man lifted his chin a little pugnaciously. ‘Not just scribe but his steward and adviser. I have served him at the abbey of Cill Ria for four years.’
‘But you are not of the Uí Thuirtrí,’ Fidelma said quickly, having listened to the man’s accent. ‘You do not even speak with the accent of the northern people.’
Brother Drón smiled thinly. ‘You have a good ear, Sister,’ he admitted. ‘I am of the Uí Dróna of Laigin — hence my name. We are the descendants of Breasal Bélach, who ruled Laigin. .’
‘And are now a small sept dwelling to the north-west of Ferna,’ Fidelma pointed out sharply when a note of pride entered his voice.
Brother Drón blinked. ‘You seem to know much about my humble clan,’ he muttered.
‘I dwelt at Cill Dara for a time and it would be remiss of me not to know something of the clans of Laigin.’
There was a pause. When Brother Drón made no further comment she went on: ‘So, tell us, how did you become adviser and scribe to the abbot? Cill Ria in the land of the Uí Thuirtrí is a long way from Ferna.’
‘I left Laigin when I was at the age of maturity and entered the religious. I received my training at Ard Macha.’
‘Why in Ulaidh?’ intervened Eadulf. ‘Laigin has many great ecclesiastical universities — Sléibhte, in your own clan territory, or the mixed house at Cill Dara, both of which are closer to your homeland than Ard Macha.’
Brother Drón turned to him with a thinly veiled sneer. ‘Surely, Saxon, you would be better serving in your own land than here in the five kingdoms of Éireann?’
Eadulf flushed. ‘That does not answer my question,’ he snapped.
‘I am sorry that you do not think so. Not all birds have to live their lives in the nest in which they were born. Ard Macha is the foundation of our great patron, the Blessed Patrick. Why shouldn’t one want to go there and tread on the hallowed soil where he founded the greatest church in these lands?’
‘So, how did you become scribe and adviser to Bishop Ultán?’ repeated Fidelma.
‘Abbot Ultán was a close friend and colleague of the Comarb of Patrick, the archiepiscopus Ségéne, and a frequent visitor at Ard Macha. I had become a scribe at Ard Macha and one day, acknowledging my abilities, he asked me if I would join him at his abbey of Cill Ria in the land of the Uí Thuirtrí. I did so and have served him to the best of those abilities for these last four years.’
‘And we presume that you shared the abbot’s view that Ard Macha should be recognised as the primatial seat of the Faith in the five kingdoms?’ Fidelma spoke gently.
‘Of course. Not only that but I provided him with all the salient arguments in support of the contention.’ Brother Drón did not lack pride.
‘And it was as a matter of course, as his adviser, that you accompanied Abbot Ultán when he embarked on this embassy to the southern kingdoms? Tell us how that came about.’
Brother Drón shrugged quickly. ‘It was at the request of the Comarb of the Blessed Patrick. .’
‘Abbot Ségéne?’
‘The archiepiscopus,’ corrected Brother Drón heavily. ‘He sought an emissary to visit the southern abbeys and churches to argue the case for the recognition of Ard Macha. As it was something that I. . that Abbot Ultán had long argued, he undertook the mission with great joy.’
‘As well as Abbot Ultán and yourself, who else is in this embassy?’
‘Two of our religieuse: Sister Marga and Sister Sétach. We were accompanied by two attendants to look after our wagon and horses.’
‘What is the role of your two religieuse companions?’
‘They were record keepers and had care of the documents we were presenting in argument.’
‘I see,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘And having worked with Abbot Ultán for four years, you must have had a good knowledge of him?’
Brother Drón frowned. ‘A knowledge of him?’
‘Of what kind of man he was, what his hopes and fears were, and whose enmity he aroused,’ Fidelma explained.
Brother Drón sat back with his thin smile and folded his hands in front of him. ‘I would have said that he was a man without faults, unless a passion for his cause be called a fault.’
‘To some that may very well be a fault,’ Eadulf pointed out, looking up from his notes. ‘A man may believe so much in his cause that he becomes intolerant and despotic towards others.’
Brother Drón appeared shocked. ‘You are speaking of the Abbot Ultán, brother.’
‘But a man like any other man,’ Eadulf replied calmly. ‘Being an abbot does not make a man any more or less human, with all the faults that humans have.’
‘I will admit that Abbot Ultán was resolute in his faith and turned a harsh face and a firm hand to those who were enemies to it.’
Eadulf smiled without humour.
‘Fortiter in re, suaviter in modo. .’ he commented softly. Resolutely in action, gently in manner.
‘Apart from these views,’ Fidelma cut in hurriedly, ‘which you have described as “resolute”, would Abbot Ultán have garnered enemies?’
Brother Drón shrugged. ‘His enemies were the enemies of the Faith. Perhaps there are many such enemies still in this land. Abbot Ultán, to my mind, was a great leader of men. Stern and forceful. He was much admired by archiepiscopus Ségéne.’
Fidelma was about to snap that no one outside Ard Macha recognised this new title archiepiscopus, for in the five kingdoms the Comarb of Patrick and the Comarb of Ailbe stood in equal status in matters of ecclesiastical respect. No bishop was superior to another. Then she shrugged. Let Brother Drón call Ségéne of Ard Macha what he may, it did not make it a reality.
‘Sometimes the qualities that you boast of sit ill on a man of religious calling,’ she mused.
Brother Drón frowned, not quite understanding.
‘Firm and forceful, stern and harsh,’ she pointed out. ‘These are not the qualities of someone bringing a message of joy, of peace and love among humankind.’
‘Sister, our movement — the Faith — is like an army on the march,’ Brother Drón argued earnestly. ‘We must conquer souls for Christ. Abbot Ultán was a great general in the crusade to convert the heathen to the one true faith.’
‘Conquer souls?’ Fidelma shook her head immediately. ‘It is not a concept I could ascribe to. It means that you have vanquished the soul, subjugated it and become its master.’ Eadulf nodded supportively as she made the variations of meaning on the old word buad. ‘Is it not better to persuade, by reason and logic, to come to an understanding, than to simply conquer?’
Brother Drón grimaced angrily. ‘It matters not how people come to submit themselves to the true religion. They have to bend their necks before the master.’
‘Submit? Master? Bend their necks? These are words that fit ill in our tongue, Brother Drón. Not even the old gods and goddesses would claim that they were masters, or that we had to bend the knee or submit to them. Nor do I think Christ ever taught that we should. If God gave people free will then we have the will to choose and choice should be made freely — not by conquest, fear or force.’