Now the old man seemed fully aware of her presence, turning to face her instead of addressing his answers to the abbot. ‘He was my own son. How would I not know that he had been killed?’ he replied, as if she had asked a question without logic.
‘But …’ began Fidelma.
Abbot Nannid interrupted, his voice loud and the words expressed slowly. ‘Perhaps you should tell the dálaigh when it was that your son, Brother Lennán, was killed and where,’ he instructed.
‘Why, I am not sure how many years have passed now. Maybe four — but he was killed at the Battle of Cnoc Áine, when the Eóghanacht defeated the young warriors of the Uí Fidgente.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was a silence before Fidelma turned to Brother Lugna. ‘Perhaps Brother Ledbán had better sit down,’ she said gently. ‘Then he can tell us about his son, Brother Lennán.’
‘Thank you, lady,’ the stable-master said, and helped his elderly companion to a seat. When Brother Ledbán had settled himself, Fidelma suggested that the old man begin by telling them something of himself.
‘Something of myself?’ queried Brother Ledbán with a puzzled expression.
‘I presume that you were not always a religieux?’
‘Ah, no. I was a stableman for a chieftain who had a rath along the banks of the Mháigh, south of here. They were good days — happy days. My wife and I had no problems and raised our children under the shadow of Dún Eochair Mháigh.’
‘So when did you leave there and join this abbey?’
‘Oh, that was just after my wife died.’
‘When was that?’
‘My wife was a victim of the Yellow Plague. My son, Lennán, had already come to this abbey to study the physician’s art, so I came here and joined him. I thought it would bring me closer to him. You see, there was nothing left for me at Dún Eochair Mháigh.’
Abbot Nannid was nodding in agreement. ‘We were very happy to welcome Brother Ledbán into our community. We have a good stable. Brother Lugna has been our stable-master for many years, but he found Brother Ledbán an excellent asset. He was a good worker.’
‘A good worker until I grew old and careless,’ muttered the old man. ‘I had too many accidents. Now I am just a burden.’
‘Of course you are not,’ boomed Brother Lugna, placing a large comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘We all have accidents. I, myself, was bitten by a fretful horse.’ He briefly showed a scar on his right wrist that had long since healed.
‘So when did your son, Lennán, enter this abbey?’ continued Fidelma.
‘He was my eldest child. He came here a few years before his mother died from that fearful scourge which turned the skin yellow and from whose fever no one recovered.’
For many years the Yellow Plague had swept through the known world; prelates and princes succumbed to it — even two High Kings of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann fell to its ravages.
‘Go on,’ Fidelma urged.
‘Well, after his mother died, my son concentrated his efforts on finding a cure for the pestilence that had devoured her.’
Abbot Nannid added: ‘He was one of our most promising physicians. Then came the day when our Prince Eoganán sent the crois tara — the fiery cross, the summons to arms — throughout the clans and septs of the Uí Fidgente. As you know, he had declared that his line, the Dál gCais, were the rightful bloodline to be Kings of Muman. He raised an army to march on Cashel after your brother Colgú succeeded as King.’
Gormán stirred uneasily and glanced at Fidelma, who simply commented: ‘Those were the facts and whether they were justified or not is another matter.’
‘Just so,’ agreed the abbot diplomatically.
‘So what happened when the summons to arms reached here?’ Fidelma asked, turning to the old man.
‘My son left the abbey to accompany the Prince’s army.’
‘Understand, Brother Lennán went as a physician,’ the abbot emphasised hastily. ‘He did not go to kill but to tend to the wounded and injured during the conflict.’
‘My poor son,’ sighed the old man. ‘When I heard that he had been cut down in the rage of that battle on Cnoc Áine, I could not believe it. He was merely tending the wounded. God’s curse on him who struck that fatal blow. Survivors said that it was a man who wore the golden circlet around his neck. The Devil take them all.’
The abbot leaned forward and shook his head reprovingly.
‘The pain of your loss is understandable, Brother Ledbán. But we must remember the teaching of Christ that we must forgive our enemies.’ He glanced at Fidelma with an apologetic smile as if on behalf of the old man.
‘We can appreciate your loss,’ acknowledged Fidelma. ‘Who identified your son’s body?’
The old man seemed puzzled. ‘I do not understand.’
‘It seems someone has been making free with your son’s name,’ explained the abbot. ‘I think that the lady Fidelma wishes to make sure that he is quite dead.’
‘Did I not see the body of my own son when he was brought back here?’ demanded the old man, his voice full of bitterness.
‘Let me explain.’ It was Brother Lugna who spoke. ‘I knew poor Brother Lennán as well as any man. A report came to the abbey that he was one of the dead and so I rode to the Hill of Áine, found and brought the body back to this place for burial myself.’
‘Does anyone here have any idea why someone would come to Cashel and announce himself to be Brother Lennán of this abbey?’ asked Fidelma.
‘I find it hard to believe that anyone could have done such a wicked thing,’ replied Abbot Nannid, while the others shook their head.
‘Not only did they do so, but they used the excuse that they bore a message from you, Father Abbot, in order to approach my brother,’ Fidelma said, her emotions still very raw.
Brother Ledbán looked up at her and his old eyes were steady. ‘Then all I can say is, they have sullied my son’s name, for he gave his life for healing and not for killing.’
‘Perhaps he had a friend who decided that he would avenge him?’ suggested Eadulf.
Once more the abbot decided to respond on behalf of them all. ‘Brother Saxon, may I remind you that Paul wrote to the Romans: sed date locum irae scriptum est enim mihi vindictam ego retribuam dicit Dominus. Is it not written “Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” saith the Lord?’
‘That is true, yet it is not a teaching that is universally obeyed, for even your own law provides reasons why, under certain conditions, vengeance killings may be excused,’ replied Eadulf coolly. ‘And I am not a Saxon but an Angle.’
Fidelma glanced at him in rebuke. She knew that Eadulf had discovered this ancient law when they were dealing with the mystery of the death of Brother Donnchadh at Lios Mór, but now was not the right time to debate such points with the abbot.
‘Brother Eadulf makes a valid point,’ she conceded. ‘Would anyone spring to mind if we were seeking someone close to Brother Lennán whose emotions might well lead them to overlook the teachings of the Faith? Perhaps they might be thinking that they were acting under the ancient law?’
She was looking directly at the old man when she asked the question. There was no guile in his expression when he replied, ‘There was no one other than myself who was as close to poor Lennán. Certainly, no one who would do this thing.’
‘Very well,’ sighed Fidelma. ‘Oh, one more question. Perhaps it might mean something to you. When the person calling himself Brother Lennán struck the blows, he shouted a name. He shouted, “Remember Liamuin!” Does that-?’
She stopped abruptly, aware that the old man was completely still, staring at her with an expression that was almost akin to horror. Then a pale hue crossed his features. It spread noticeably, making his lips almost bloodless. His eyes rolled back and he slid unconscious from his chair to the floor.