‘Everyone is calling Cathal blessed, that he is one of the saints. Yet you say his own brother called him a fool and cursed him? Why so?’
‘I can only repeat what Donnchad said,’ Brother Gáeth replied stubbornly. ‘That is what he said.’
Fidelma sat back reflectively. ‘You have been most helpful, Brother Gáeth. Thank you for answering our questions.’
Fidelma and Eadulf sat in silence for a few moments after Brother Gáeth had left the refectorium.
‘Well, I had the impression that Brother Gáeth was supposed to be a simpleton,’ Fidelma said. ‘He seems intelligent enough but just constrained by circumstances.’
‘There are a lot of sad people in this world,’ Eadulf commented. ‘Didn’t Horace write, non licet omnibus adire Corinthum — not everyone is permitted to go to Corinth?’ In Horace’s day, Corinth was a centre of entertainment and pleasure that not many people could afford. It had come to mean that circumstances deny people certain achievements.
‘But who altered his circumstances?’ Fidelma wondered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘His father is forced to flee from what, most likely, was an unjust death sentence. Such a sentence is only given to the incorrigibles who will not pay compensation or be rehabilitated. So such a sentence is suspect. He flees from his clan territory and ends his life as a daer-fudir, which involves two generations of bondage. Why did no one among his people take up his cause? Did he not have a friend in the world?’
‘Apparently not,’ said Eadulf. ‘At least we have found the answer to one mystery.’
‘Which is?’
‘Who is providing the funding for the rebuilding of the abbey.’
‘Lady Eithne is committed to the Faith and proud of her sons and their achievements, so that is natural.’
‘What is our next task?’
‘To go to the scriptorium. We must see if we can find out anything more about the missing manuscripts.’
‘So what do we know so far?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Let’s enumerate the facts. You start.’
‘Very well. Brother Donnchad, a well-regarded scholar, returns to this abbey after a pilgrimage, which has made him something of a hero. He starts behaving in a curious manner. He is reported to have some precious manuscripts with him. He becomes reclusive and even tells his soul friend that he does not want to see him. He says he fears that his manuscripts will be stolen and then he fears for his life. He is reported as cursing his brother for a fool and advising his former soul friend to leave the abbey and take to the mountains. A few days later he is found in his cell stabbed to death.’
‘And the curious facts about that are …?’
‘He is stabbed twice in the back but the body is lain on the bed in a position of repose. The door is locked and there is only one key that locks the door and that is found by the body.That poses the question of how did the murderer enter and how did they exit taking, we presume, the manuscripts?’
‘That is so,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Then we have to consider the reason Donnchad gave for requesting a lock on his door with only one key, which you have mentioned. He was fearful someone might rob him of these valuable manuscripts. Yet no one ever saw them …’
‘Except Lady Eithne,’ pointed out Eadulf. ‘Why would she lie?’
‘Therefore we presume that the murderer stole them but how?’
‘And so we shall question the scriptor of this abbey as, if anyone in the abbey knows about such things, it would be the librarian.’
Fidelma rose and turned to the door of the refectorium with Eadulf following. To their surprise they found Abbot Iarnla waiting outside the door for them. He seemed a little self-conscious.
‘How did you get on with Brother Gáeth?’ he asked anxiously.
‘As you thought, he could tell us little,’ Fidelma answered. ‘It seems he has not been in the position of a soul friend since Brother Donnchad’s return.’
‘I thought he would have little to add,’ said the abbot. He stood awkwardly, looking at the ground, as if he wanted to say something more.
‘Brother Gáeth seems to have led a sad life,’ supplied Eadulf when the silence became awkward.
‘Ah.’ Abbot Iarnla looked up and sighed. ‘He told you he was of the daer-fudir?’
‘I was under the impression that once a person passes through the portals of a community, such distinctions no longer existed. A king who abdicates to enter an abbey is regarded as being on the same level as a céile, a free clansman, or a daer-fudir. There is no difference in class between them.’
‘Not exactly so, Brother Eadulf,’ returned the abbot. ‘Fidelmawill confirm this. An abbey comes under the patronage of nobles and the kings, who present the community with the land on which they build. It cannot be alienated and if the community seek to dispense with it, they can only do so with the permission of the noble or king who granted it to them. In this, as in all things, they are subject to the Law of the Fénechus and the judgement of the Brehons.’
‘Yet there is a new movement developing,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘The adoption of Roman ideas, where communities take the land in full ownership and are bound by the Penitentials rather than our own law. Abbots often regard themselves as powerful as kings within these communities.’
Abbot Iarnla flushed. ‘My abbey obeys the laws of this kingdom, Sister, in spite of …’ He was obviously about to say ‘Brother Lugna’s rules’ but he stopped himself. ‘You may assure your brother, the King, of that fact. When Brother Gáeth entered this community, he was released into our charge by the Lady Eithne as a daer-fudir. She said that the initial judgement came from the Uí Liatháin and it must stand; that was the condition. Only Gáeth’s death will absolve him from the liability that his father placed on him.’
‘Or by dispensation of the abbot,’ pointed out Fidelma.
‘Who can only act with the approval of the lord of the territory. ’
‘Doesn’t Brother Gáeth resent the fact that he continues to be condemned by Lady Eithne and yourself?’ asked Eadulf.
‘He told you that?’ asked the abbot sharply, for the first time showing anger.
Fidelma shook her head. ‘We detected a certain resentment but he did not say so outwardly. I think he may have hoped that his life would change when he entered the abbey, as it has for so many others.’
‘You were told his story? How his father Selbach slew a chiefof the Uí Liatháin and how he fled to Lord Eochaid of An Dún from whom we received this land?’
‘He told us.’
‘The Lady Eithne, the widow of Eochaid, allowed him to come here at the earnest request of her son Donnchad, but the law still applies. I have tried to treat him with understanding as I would any other brother here, but clearly he continues to feel resentful.’
‘Can you expect any other attitude given the circumstances?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘I suppose not,’ Abbot Iarnla reluctantly agreed.
‘And you say you cannot change his status because of Lady Eithne.’
‘She will not discuss it.’
‘Couldn’t a daer-fudir be given work other than digging the fields and similar drudgery? He seems sensitive enough.’
‘Sensitivity is not education.’
‘He says that he reads and writes and has some Latin.’
‘We have tested him and, alas, he is not proficient enough to undertake anything more responsible.’
‘Have you given him an opportunity to improve his ability?’
Abbot Iarnla nodded. ‘We are not insensitive ourselves, Fidelma. Indeed, we have tried. He has reached the level that we expect in a young boy. His ability to read is impaired. Beyond a simple level, he does not proceed. He used to get frustrated. Sometimes he threw tantrums like any child would. Brother Donnchad used to be able to calm him.’