‘Those are the essential details,’ agreed Abbot Iarnla.
Fidelma continued, ‘We will go to examine the cell shortly but you have told me that there was only one key. How do you know it was turned from the inside?’
It was Brother Lugna who answered without hesitation.
‘Because the only key was lying by Brother Donnchad’s body. Therefore it had to have been turned from the inside.’
‘Logical enough,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘But a lot seems to rely on your assertion that there was only one key.’
‘It is no assertion. As I said, our blacksmith was told to make the lock specially and only one key was provided to assure Brother Donnchad of his security.’
‘And these manuscripts that he guarded so diligently, only his mother seems to have glimpsed them.’
‘Lady Eithne says she saw them, so they must have been stolen by whoever killed him,’ asserted the steward firmly.
The abbot said nothing and Fidelma turned to him.
‘You seem uncertain, Abbot Iarnla.’
‘I cannot comment. I never saw the documents.’
‘Do you doubt Lady Eithne’s word?’
‘I would only point out that Lady Eithne admits that she does not know Greek from Hebrew. How can we rely on her word that the manuscripts that she glimpsed were the precious documents that Brother Donnchad claimed they were?’
‘Did anyone else see these valuable manuscripts apart from Lady Eithne?’ Eadulf asked.
‘I imagine that our scriptor, Brother Donnán, would have seen them,’ Brother Lugna replied.
‘Did you question the scriptor about them?’ Fidelma asked. ‘After all, as the head of your scriptorium in this abbey, he should surely have known about such precious manuscripts being brought here.’
‘We have questioned no one,’ replied Brother Lugna, a little sourly, avoiding looking at the abbot. ‘It was felt that such matters should await your arrival.’
‘We will speak with your scriptor,’ Fidelma said gently. ‘And we will examine Brother Donnchad’s cell. I presume the obsequies have already been conducted?’
‘As you know, it is our tradition to bury the body within twenty-four hours,’ replied the abbot. ‘He was laid to rest in our burial ground just outside the abbey walls, after the day of watching in the usual custom.’
‘But your physician will be able to report on the manner of his death?’
‘He was stabbed in the back,’ stated Brother Lugna. ‘That’s how he died. Surely that is enough.’
‘Just so, but there are details that only an apothecary or physician would notice. I presume your physician examined him?’
‘Naturally.’ Again there was a defensive tone in the steward’s voice. ‘Brother Seachlann is our physician.’
‘Then we will need to see him.’ She rose, as did Eadulf, but the abbot remained seated as if lost in thought. Then he suddenly realised they were leaving and gestured to his steward.
‘Brother Lugna will see to all your needs. However, the hour grows late. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day to begin.’
Fidelma realised that a distant bell was ringing to mark the end of the day’s work, calling those who tilled the fields to return to the abbey and cleanse themselves before the evening meal.
‘You are right, Father Abbot,’ she conceded. ‘It has been a long day.’ She glanced at Brother Lugna. ‘Has our companion, Gormán, been accommodated and our horses seen to?’
‘They have,’ the steward said. ‘And I have asked our bruigad,our hosteller, to make a chamber ready for you in our tech-óiged, our guesthouse-’
‘Separate chambers,’ interrupted Fidelma softly
‘But I thought …’ Abbot Iarnla frowned and then went on hurriedly to avoid embarrassment, ‘Of course. See to it, Brother Lugna. And perhaps you will join us in the refectorium for the evening meal when you have had your evening bathe.’
‘I have ordered your baths to be made ready,’ added the steward.
Eadulf had felt a little embarrassed when Fidelma ordered separate chambers. But he realised that life could not continue as before and there was much to be sorted out between Fidelma and himself. He said nothing as the hosteller, who identified himself as Brother Máel Eoin, guided them to the wooden building that was the guesthouse. Their chambers were separate but close to one another. A tub of hot water was waiting for him when he entered. Eadulf had long grown used to the custom of Fidelma’s people of taking a daily bath, usually in the evening, in a large tub called a dabach. Guests in any hostel or inn had the baths prepared for them with scented warm water and oils. After guests had washed, combed their hair and put on fresh clothing, they could attend the principal meal of the day, called the prainn, which was taken in the evening.
Eadulf had noticed that Brother Lugna used the Latin term refectorium instead of praintech, the usual word for an eating house. Eadulf had noticed that in many abbeys Latin terms were replacing native words for functions and places — the use of the Latin cubiculum for chamber instead of the usual cotultech; of scriptor for librarian and scriptorium for library in place of leabhar coimedach, keeper of books, and tech-screptra, library. It seemed that the abbey of Lios Mór, too, was changing. Perhaps Brother Lugna’s Roman tonsure was more significant than he had previously thought.
It was a short time later when Brother Máel Eoin came to show him and Fidelma the way to the refectorium. At the doors of the refectorium they found Gormán about to enter.
‘Are you being looked after well?’ Fidelma greeted the young warrior.
‘I have a good bed, lady,’ he replied with a brief smile. ‘I am quartered above the stables with the echaire, the stableman. I have been looking around at the new buildings. It seems the abbey is growing rapidly since last I came here. A chapel in stone and two other buildings already completed. The abbey appears to have come into great wealth.’
He was interrupted by a gesture from Brother Eoin as he opened the doors and showed them into the great hall where the community was eating. He steered them through the rows of long tables to a table set to one side of the refectorium. Many of the brethren raised their heads to observe their passage with undisguised curiosity. A low murmur arose from them. Fidelma noticed that there were few women in the hall, although there were some. Lios Mór had, she recalled, initially been a conhospitae, a mixed house, where men and women cohabited, raising their children to the service of the new religion. She remembered the story of how Carthach had come to Lios Mór with Flandait, the daughter of Cuanan, and several other women to help form the community. They found a holy woman named Caimel already living by the river. Caimel had become the head of the community of women at Lios Mór. She wondered whether Abbot Iarnla was gradually leading the religious community towards celibacy, for there was little evidence of women being co-equal as they had been when she last visited.