Fidelma looked surprised. ‘I have not heard that story.’
‘Your father was distressed, for the King of Laighin was hard pressed by a revolt led by a distant relative, Crimthann mac Aedo Díbchíne, who had gathered support to challenge him for the kingship. King Failbe had concluded a treaty of friendship with King Fáelán, son of Colmán of Laighin. He promised that he would lead his warriors to assist him in times of crisis. Your father’s ailment caused him to be blind in one eye. To his anguish this meant he could not lead his warriors into battle. The Blessed Carthach treated him and cured the disease in his eye. Your father and his warriors joined Fáelán’s army, together with those of Conall, lord of Clann Cholmai, whose sister was married to Fáelán. They defeated Crimthann and his rebels at the Ford of the Smith, Áth Goain, on the River Lifé.’
Fidelma smiled sadly. ‘I knew of the victory of Áth Goain. It is a story told by the bards of my family. But I did not know of Carthach’s intercession with my father.’
‘It happened four years before your birth, the death of your father and the death of the Blessed Carthach all occurred in that one fateful year. It was just before those events that I heard that Mo-Chuada, the Blessed Carthach, had been offered this land by Maolochtair of the Déisi, and I came and joined him. Carthach was a great man, a great educator.’
‘But you say he died in the same year as my father. Is that when you became abbot?’
Abbot Iarnla chuckled with a shake of his head. ‘Bless you, child, I was still a young man. I could not have risen to such a height as abbot. Mo-Chuada’s maternal uncle, Cuanan, became abbot here. He died twenty years ago. That was when I took over.’
‘So there is little about the community here that you do not know,’ Fidelma said seriously.
‘I admit to the sin of pride in that,’ confirmed the abbot.
‘Then perhaps you can answer a question that has puzzled me. Is it usual in this community for a member to have a key to their cubiculum and to lock it?’
The abbot shook his head immediately. ‘It is not usual but there are exceptions.’
‘So Brother Donnchad was an exception? Why was that?’
There was some hesitation before Abbot Iarnla replied. He requested a key because he had returned from his pilgrimage to the Holy Land with some relics that he wished to keep safe.’
Fidelma’s brow furrowed as she considered his reply. ‘You mean that he was worried there might be thieves among your brethren?’
‘That is an insult to our community,’ intervened Brother Lugna, whose cheeks had coloured.
‘It is not I who am insulting them,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘What other interpretation can be placed on why Brother Donnchad wanted a key to lock his cell?’
Brother Lugna’s mouth closed firmly. Abbot Iarnla was also silent for a moment while he seemed to consider the answer.
Fidelma looked from one to the other. Then she insisted softly, ‘How can I investigate this matter if I am not in possession of all the facts?’
Abbot Iarnla lowered his head. ‘Perhaps my steward should explain matters,’ he said in resignation. ‘He dealt with them.’
Brother Lugna hesitated. Fidelma faced him, waiting. Then he sighed. ‘It is true that, when Brother Donnchad came back, he returned with some things which he said he had picked up on his pilgrimage. He wanted them kept safe while he considered them.’
‘Considered them?’ queried Eadulf.
‘They were supposed to be mostly manuscripts rather than objects,’ explained the steward. ‘Like his brother, Cathal, Brother Donnchad was a scholar of many languages, of Greek and Hebrew as well as Latin, and also Aramaic. I never saw the documents, for he kept them hidden.’
‘The abbey here has a renowned scriptorium, a great library containing many such manuscripts,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Why did he not simply place the documents there? Surely the library is secure enough? What made these manuscripts so precious they had to be locked elsewhere?’
Brother Lugna raised his shoulders and let them drop in a resigned gesture. ‘As I say, I never saw them nor were they found in his cell after his death.’
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed for a moment and she looked at the abbot. ‘Did you see them, Abbot Iarnla?’
The abbot had not.
‘Anyway,’ the steward continued, ‘Brother Donnchad seemed so concerned, so anxious, that we decided to humour him and have a lock made for his door.’
‘Not simply a bolt on the inside?’
‘He was specific about a lock and key.’
‘Who made the lock and key?’
‘Our own smith, Brother Giolla-na-Naomh. He holds the rank of flaith-goba,’ he added with a note of pride.
Fidelma knew that smiths had three distinctions of rankaccording to their qualifications, and the flaith-goba, or chief smith, had knowledge of all metalworking. The other two ranks were limited in both the metals they worked and the artefacts they could produce.
‘How many keys to this lock did he make?’
‘He was instructed to make only one and I presume that he made only one,’ replied the steward.
‘Presumption is not fact,’ observed Fidelma.
It was Abbot Iarnla who said: ‘When we could not gain entrance to Brother Donnchad’s cell, I summoned Brother Giolla-na-Naomh to help us. He had to break down the door. Had he made an extra key, he would have fetched it to save breaking the door.’
It was a good point but Fidelma was not entirely satisfied.
‘You say that you decided to humour Brother Donnchad in his demand for a key. “Humour” seems a curious word to use.’
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.