‘You sound bitter, Brother Gáeth,’ she said.
‘Before my father’s crime, he was a chieftain of the Uí Liatháin, he was Selbach, lord of Dún Guairne. He led some of his people, with a band of missionaries, across the great seato a land of the Britons called Kernow. A ruler called Teudrig massacred most of them there. My father and some others escaped and returned home. He found his cousin had usurped his place as chieftain in his absence and he challenged him to single combat. In the combat that followed my father killed his cousin. His enemies persuaded the people that it was fingal, or kin-slaying. The Brehon, also an enemy to my father, declared the crime so horrendous that my father should be placed in a boat without sail or oars, and with food and water for one day only. He should be taken out to sea and cast adrift. That night he managed to escape and took my mother and me to seek refuge with the Déisi.’
Fidelma gazed at him. ‘What you tell me does not seem to be justice. Surely it could be shown that the Brehon was biased and the punishment a harsh one? Why was this matter not appealed to the Chief Brehon of the kingdom? Why was it not brought to the attention of the King in Cashel? There is provision in law for these things.’
Brother Gáeth shrugged. ‘I only know what I know. I was but a boy at the time and this was over a score of years ago.’
‘And is the current chieftain of the Uí Liatháin related to you?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Uallachán is the nephew of the cousin my father slew,’ said Brother Gáeth.
‘What happened after you joined the community?’ prompted Fidelma.
‘Donnchad continued to treat me well. He became a great scholar and his time was spent mainly in the tech-screptra while I worked from sun-up until sun-down in the fields outside the abbey.’
‘But you became his anam chara, his soul friend.’
‘As I said, he was kind to me. He continued to talk to me as he had when we were boys. He told me much about the wondrousthings he was learning from the great books in the library. He insisted that I be officially regarded as his soul friend.’
‘Did the abbot approve of this?’
‘Not entirely. He felt that Donnchad should have a soul friend who was his intellectual equal.’
Fidelma’s eyes widened at the phrase. It sounded alien to the man.
‘You overheard him say that?’ she asked quickly.
‘Yes. That is what the abbot said to Donnchad. But Donnchad told him that he felt comfortable telling me his problems. So, every week, before the start of the Sabbath, we would meet and he would tell me of the events of the week and I would listen. I often wished I had learning to read the works of the great saints as he did and the very words that our Lord spoke when he walked the earth.’
Eadulf could not help but glance at Fidelma. Surely a soul friend was more than someone to talk at but a friend who could understand and exchange ideas and spiritually guide their friend, saving them from making mistakes.
‘I presume this stopped when the ruler of the Déisi accused Cathal and Donnchad of plotting against him,’ Fidelma said.
‘Yes,’ said Brother Gáeth with a sigh. ‘They had to leave the community and go into hiding. I did not hear from Donnchad until he passed through the abbey for a single night with his brother en route to Ard Mór and lands beyond the seas. He told me he and his brother were going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, the very land in which our saviour walked and taught. Ah, but I wanted to go with him. But I was merely a daer-fudir, a field worker.’
‘And so you stayed here,’ Fidelma said patiently. ‘When did you next see Donnchad?’
Brother Gáeth smiled at the remembrance. ‘On his return. His return here was triumphant. The community, even the abbothimself, turned out to welcome him.’ He paused and shook his head sadly. ‘But Donnchad had changed. I went to greet him but it was as if he did not know me. After that first day, I left him alone for awhile, thinking it was just the strangeness of his return that had made him seem preoccupied and distant. After he had had time to settle, I went to see him again. He was no longer preoccupied but he was harsh and cruel to me.’ Brother Gáeth lowered his head, as if trying to conceal his emotion.
‘How was he cruel?’ pressed Fidelma.
‘He told me that he did not want to know me.’
‘Did he explain why?’
Brother Gáeth shook his head. He reminded Fidelma of a dog who had been badly treated for no reason by his master and could not understand it.
‘He gave you no explanation at all?’
‘He said, cast off your robes and escape from this place into the mountains. In the mountains there is solitude and sanity. There is no sanity among men.’
Fidelma sat back, her eyes a little wider than before. ‘Those were his exact words?’
Brother Gáeth nodded. ‘I remember them as if they were spoken but moments ago.’
‘When did this conversation take place?’
‘That was a day or two before his death. He told me that he did not want to see me ever again. He told me to leave this community and seek sanity. I still have no idea what he meant.’
‘You never spoke to him again?’ asked Eadulf.
‘I have said so,’ Brother Gáeth replied.
‘Did you know that just before he was found dead, his mother came to see him?’ asked Eadulf.
‘I saw her riding to the abbey while I was in the fields but I think that was a few days before he was found dead.’
‘Had you met her again since she gave you leave to join the community here?’
‘Not exactly.’ There was bitterness in his tone. ‘She would pass me by on her visits. Whether she even saw me or not, I do not know. That was how it was when I worked on her lands. Perhaps she would not have recognised who I was anyway. I was just another field worker.’
‘Do you know how she felt about her sons?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Oh, she idolised them. She was very proud of them. It is thanks to the Lady Eithne that there is all this building work at the abbey.’
Eadulf’s head came up sharply. ‘Is it?’
Brother Gáeth looked at him as if surprised he did not know. ‘Of course. When word came that her sons, Cathal and Donnchad, had reached the Holy Land, she came to the abbot. The whole community knows that she offered to help fund the replacement of the wooden buildings with great structures of stone that would last forever and help the abbey become one of the great beacons of the new Faith in the west. The condition she made was that the abbey should be a memorial to them.’
‘I see,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘So all this work is not being paid for by the abbey but by Lady Eithne of Dún?’
‘That is so.’
‘What did Donnchad say about it on his return?’ asked Eadulf.
‘He never mentioned it but, as I have said, he hardly spoke to me.’
‘Do you know if he confided in anyone else?’
‘I do not.’
‘But you observed that something was disturbing him. Could it have been connected with this matter?’ asked Eadulf.
‘All I know is that his face was black as a storm from the moment he rode back through the gates.’
‘Do you think that this was because his brother, Cathal, had decided to remain in Tarantum and accept the pallium as bishop of that city?’ asked Fidelma. ‘After all, they were close as brothers and had come to this place together to be members of the community. And they had undertaken that arduous pilgrimage to the Holy Land together. That must have affected Donnchad.’
Brother Gáeth thrust out his lower lip for a moment. He appeared to give the question some thought and then shook his head slowly.
‘Among the things that he said when he last spoke to me was to curse his brother, calling him a fool and worse.’
Fidelma could not suppress a look of surprise in Eadulf’s direction.