The elderly man could barely walk without the help of the young man’s arm and a stout stick he carried in his other hand. His skin was stretched tight on his face, which was white as parchment. His grey eyes were wide, staring and watery. The lips were thin and almost bloodless. He had no hair at all save the white stubble over his chin and upper lip where he had been badly shaved. Flecks of spittle adhered to the corners of his mouth. He could have been any age from four score to a century.
His companion was at no more than three decades in age, with features Fidelma would have described as ugly. His skinwas sallow and although he was clean-shaven, the cheeks and chin had a bluish hue, suggesting a thick beard would result if no altan, or razor, were applied. His blue-black hair was closely cropped, which was unusual, as both men and women usually wore their hair long, as a mark of beauty. He wore the tonsure of the Irish. The eyes were dark and it was almost impossible to discern the pupils. He had a bulbous nose and thick lips, with a protruding lower lip. The half-open mouth displayed badly kept teeth. Fidelma’s eyes dropped to the man’s hands and, as she suspected, the man had unkempt nails which were a sign of ill-breeding. It was the custom among the wealthier classes of her people to keep fingernails cut and carefully rounded. He was not a tall man nor well-built. He looked like someone whose meals were sparse and infrequently come by. His whole appearance gave the impression of melancholy subservience.
The abbot introduced him. ‘This is Brother Gáeth. He was Brother Donnchad’s anam chara. I know you wanted to talk to him.’
At that moment the elderly man peered at Fidelma, his eyes narrowing, and he moved closer to her. There seemed a look of hope on his thin features. Then he sighed, shook his head and said in a disappointed tone, ‘You are not an angel.’
The abbot appeared embarrassed but Fidelma merely smiled at the old man.
‘I am not. I am Fidelma of Cashel.’
The old man was still shaking his head.
‘No angel,’ he muttered.
‘This is the Venerable Bróen, Fidelma.’ The abbot offered the introduction in an apologetic tone. ‘He was with Mo-Chuada when the abbey was founded. Alas, he is a little … a little …’
‘I have seen an angel,’ the old man interjected, speaking in a confidential voice.
Fidelma humoured him. ‘That does not fall to the lot of everyone,’ she replied solemnly. ‘You must be blessed.’
The Venerable Bróen sighed deeply. ‘I saw an angel. The blessed one of God flew in the sky. I saw it.’
‘Forgive me, Fidelma,’ Abbot Iarnla said hurriedly. ‘I wanted to introduce you to Brother Gáeth. Brother Gáeth, remain here with the dálaigh and I will take the Venerable Bróen back to his cubiculum.’ So saying, he took the old man’s arm and began to lead him away.
They heard the Venerable Bróen’s petulant tone. ‘I did see the angel. I did. It came to take the soul of poor Brother Donnchad. I saw it flying in the wind.’
Brother Gáeth remained standing before them with downcast eyes. To Fidelma, he did not look the sort of person to become the soul friend of an intellectual and scholar such as Brother Donnchad had been. Then she remembered the words from Juvenal’s Satires and felt guilty: fronti nulla fides, no reliance can be placed on appearance.
Fidelma waved to the table they had just risen from.
‘Be seated, Brother,’ she instructed, reseating herself. Eadulf followed her example, while Brother Gáeth moved slowly to the far side of the table and lowered himself on to the bench, his eyes still downcast.
‘I am afraid I know nothing of Brother Donnchad’s death,’ he volunteered. The words came out in something of a rush. ‘He had not spoken to me in days and told me to leave him alone.’
‘So when was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘About two or three days before his death.’
‘How long had you known him?’
‘Twenty-five years.’ The answer was without hesitation.
‘That is a long time,’ commented Eadulf. He had estimated Brother Gáeth’s age at no more than thirty-five.
‘I was his soul friend … at one time.’
‘Tell us about him,’ encouraged Fidelma. ‘Firstly, though, tell us something of yourself and how you met him.’
‘I was a field worker of the class of daer-fudir.’
Eadulf looked surprised for he knew that a daer-fudir was someone who had lost all their rights because of some great crime and had to work almost in a state of bondage to redeem themselves. They were considered untrustworthy and were not entitled to bear arms and had no rights within the clan. The third generation of daer-fudir was automatically reinstated, given their rights back, and could be eligible for election to any office within society. But usually a daer-fudir was a stranger, perhaps a fugitive from another territory who had sought asylum; often they were criminals or captives taken in battle.
‘It was my father who caused our family’s downfall,’ muttered Brother Gáeth as if in answer to Fidelma and Eadulf’s unasked question.
‘Tell us more of this,’ invited Fidelma.
‘It was simple enough. My father killed a chieftain of the Uí Liatháin. He fled with my mother and me and sought sanctuary with a lord of the Déisi called Eochaid of An Dún.’
‘You mean the father of Brother Donnchad?’ Eadulf asked in surprise.
Brother Gáeth nodded. ‘I was very young. Eochaid could have handed us back to the Uí Liatháin for punishment but he decided that he would grant my family asylum on the land but as daer-fudir to work and toil for him. My father died after several years of labour, my mother soon after. Eochaid died and Lady Eithne took control. She was a hard mistress.’
‘But you are now a member of the brethren here,’ observed Fidelma. ‘How did this happen?’
‘How did I become a member of this community rather than still toiling in the fields for Lady Eithne of An Dún?’
‘Exactly so,’ replied Fidelma.
‘Through the intercession of Donnchad,’ Brother Gáeth said.
‘In what way did he intercede?’
‘Although I was servant to Lord Eochaid and Lady Eithne, I was treated well by their sons, Cathal and Donnchad. We almost grew up together. It was through them I learnt something of reading and writing. It was Donnchad who spent most time with me, teaching me how to construe words and form letters. And he would speak about the Faith and tell me wondrous things. One day he told me that he and his brother Cathal would be joining the community here at Lios Mór. I felt devastated. Abandoned. I said that I wished I had the freedom to go with him if only to be his servant.
‘At that he laughed and said none of the brethren of the community had servants. Then he paused with a strange look in his eye and left me. A few days later, he found me in the fields and said he had a spoken with his mother. She had agreed to release me to the community. So it was,’ he ended with a shrug.
There was a short silence between them.
‘So you came with Cathal and Donnchad and joined the community.’
‘And have been here ever since.’
‘And what tasks do you perform in the community?’
Brother Gáeth chuckled sourly. ‘I exchanged life as a field worker for Lady Eithne to become a field worker for the abbot of Lios Mór. I am still of the rank of daer-fudir.’
Fidelma was surprised. Such ranks did not exist among the brethren of an abbey.