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 abbeyand 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 I am told that Brother Donnchad had withdrawn from his companions and was no longer attending the services of the abbey.’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 followedher 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.