‘Perhaps Glassán and his men are donating their work to the Faith,’ suggested Eadulf.
‘You heard him speak of his fees. I don’t think he will forgo them for the sake of the Faith.’
‘Well, perhaps that is something we should ask Abbot Iarnla about.’
Fidelma nodded absently. ‘Anyway, we have more to concern us than how the abbey has raised the means to pay craftsmen to construct stone buildings.’ She opened the door of her chamber, then turned back to him with a smile. ‘Sleep well, Eadulf. We have much to do in the morning.’
For a moment Eadulf stood gazing moodily at the closed door. Then with a deep sigh he turned and walked slowly to his own allotted chamber.
If Fidelma was so convinced of her future, Eadulf knew that difficult times lay ahead for him. There would be no easyreconciliation, no easy getting back together, as it seemed Fidelma’s brother had hoped.
Eadulf lay down on the straw palliasse of the wooden framed cot and drew a blanket over himself, but it was a long time before sleep came to him.
CHAPTER SIX
The next morning the sky was cloudless and the sun bright.
‘It is going to be a hot day,’ announced Brother Lugna, moodily, after he had greeted Fidelma and Eadulf. They had just emerged from the refectorium, where they had taken a light breakfast.
‘In that case, we should avail ourselves of the early morning freshness to begin at once,’ Fidelma replied.
They had emerged to a cacophony of sound at odds with the usual meditative quiet of an abbey. They could hear the ringing of hammers on stone, the grating of wood being sawn and the harsh shouts of men issuing instructions.
‘That’s the building work,’ explained Brother Lugna. ‘The disturbance of our peace is but a small penance for the reconstruction of the abbey into a monument that will last forever.’
He led them across the stone-flagged quadrangle, past the tipra, the small fresh-water fountain splashing in a basin carved from limestone. Facing them on the eastern side of the quadrangle was the large three-storey stone building which contained Brother Donnchad’s cell. Brother Lugna told them that the cubicula, or individual cells, of all the senior members of the community would eventually be housed in the building.
‘So it is a very new building,’ Fidelma commented, observing the still immaculately polished stonework.
‘Less than a year old,’ Brother Lugna agreed. ‘It was the second of the new buildings to be finished. The first, of course, was our chapel. I regret that the tech-oíged, the guesthouse, will be the last building to be replaced in stone as it is the least important of the complex. But I hope the current building is comfortable enough for you.’
Fidelma wondered whether there was some humour behind his words. But she did not think that Brother Lugna was given to humour.
‘Comfortable enough,’ replied Fidelma. ‘So comfortable that I wonder why the abbey should spend so much on replacing buildings that are well built and still fairly new anyway?’
‘It is the ambition of the abbey that Lios Mór should become one of the greatest centres of the Faith and of learning not only in the Five Kingdoms but beyond the seas as well. The abbey of Darú claims that this year they have attracted pious students from eighteen different nations. To achieve our ambition it was decided that our buildings should reflect our abilities. Great structures of stone will last longer than poor buildings of wood.’
It was the first time they had seen the usually dour steward almost in a state of excitement.
‘But surely wood or stone is merely an outward covering,’ Fidelma suggested. ‘The fame of an abbey lies in the deeds of its community and its scholars.’
Brother Lugna flushed a little and did not respond. Instead he pointed to the upper floor of the building. ‘Brother Donnchad’s cubiculum is on the top floor.’ The steward guided them up a stone stairway to the upper floor before leading them along a corridor and halting before a door. They could see immediately that the lock on the door had been smashed open. There was no sign of the lock but splintered wood marked theplace where it had been fitted. The steward reached out and pushed the door open.
‘Where is the lock and key?’ Fidelma asked.
‘They were handed back to the smith who has been told to keep them for your examination.’
‘So this door has not been secured since you found the body?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Even if it could be, there was no need to secure it,’ replied Brother Lugna primly. ‘Brother Donnchad no longer had need of the lock.’
‘And Brother Donnchad had no possessions to keep safe?’
‘There was little of value here but the abbot ordered that nothing be removed until you came. I can assure you that nothing has. As the abbot and I have told you, there were no precious manuscripts here.’
‘What happened after you found the body?’
‘The abbot and I remained here to examine the room even after the body was taken by the physician for examination and preparation for burial.’
‘The physician did not examine the body here?’
‘He saw Brother Donnchad was dead, so there was little need to do anything further here.’
‘Would you ask the physician to join us here?’
Brother Lugna hesitated.
‘Is there a problem?’ Fidelma asked.
‘There is little he can tell you that I cannot,’ replied the steward.
‘But you are not the physician who examined the body,’ Fidelma said.
Reluctantly, the steward turned and hurried off on his errand.
Fidelma entered the cubiculum and halted just inside the door. She looked round at the small room. It was lit by one narrow window to which Fidelma immediately went. It was high up inthe wall, the sill on a level with her head. She turned round, seized a chair and drew it to the window. She looked out at the walls below the window. They were smooth and obviously could not be scaled without a ladder. The ground beneath appeared muddy, evidence that this had, until recently, been a building site, although here and there a few bushes had sprung up since the building had been constructed. Then she turned her head and glanced upwards. There was an overhang to the roof that made it practically impossible for anyone to descend in order to gain entrance through the window, even if they had been small enough.
‘Well, unless the murderer was a midget, an acrobat, or had wings, I cannot see anyone gaining entrance this way,’ Fidelma announced, climbing off the chair and returning it to its place. ‘Even if they could scale the wall, and perhaps that is possible with all this building work going on with ladders lying unattended. But an intruder would have to squeeze through the window and would have given his victim plenty of warning. We are told there were no signs of a struggle.’
‘And we are told that he was stabbed in the back,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘That means he had his back to the intruder and was not expecting the attack.’
The next thing that struck Fidelma was how bare the room was. For a scholar of Brother Donnchad’s reputation, and one who had travelled on such an important pilgrimage to the Holy Land, it was decidedly empty.
Eadulf agreed. ‘And if we accept the word of the abbot and his steward, nothing has been taken from here except the body.’
The wooden bed, with its straw palliasse and blanket, still lay in turmoil. The mattress and woollen blanket were stained with blood. They had certainly not been touched. Some shelves contained a few odds and ends of writing materials, goose quills and a small knife to cut them. There was a broken stylus andan adarcín, part of a cow’s horn used to contain dhubh, a black ink made from carbon. But there was no sign of any material to write on, vellums or parchments, nor a writing stand or maulstick to guide the hand of the scribe. Indeed, there was no sign of any books, scrolls or manuscripts at all.