‘I saw Glassán and his band of workmen leaving the abbey a few hours ago,’ Gormán offered. ‘I haven’t seen him return since.’
‘The young boy told me that they have gone to fetch stone from the quarry,’ Fidelma said, ‘so we might avoid a discourse on building.’
There was no sign of Glassán or Saor during the meal. Several people, including the abbot, crossed to their table to inquire after Eadulf’s health. Even Brother Lugna asked, in a sharply disapproving tone, as he passed their table, whether Eadulf thought himself fit enough to eat in the refectorium. Brother Gáeth and Brother Donnán raised their hands in greeting and the Venerable Bróen, leaning heavily on a stick, came across and said in a wheezy voice, ‘I knew you would be all right, Brother. The angel did not appear last night to take your soul.’
Eadulf gazed uncomfortably at him and, with a forced smile, said, ‘I thank you for your concern, Brother.’
The Venerable Bróen leant closer, peering at Eadulf with pale rheumy eyes, and whispered, confidentially, ‘The angel appeared in order to take the soul of poor Brother Donnchad. I saw the angel, floating in the sky. But the angel did not come last night, so I knew that you would be well.’
Brother Gáeth came across to take the old man’s arm.
‘Time to eat, Venerable Bróen,’ he coaxed.
The old man peered round in bewilderment for a moment. ‘Is it time to eat? Very well. We must all go to the refectorium to eat, must we not. Come on, then. Time to eat.’
Brother Gáeth gave them an apologetic smile and led the old man away.
There seemed an uneasy quiet in the dining hall that evening. Now and then they were conscious of surreptitious glances from the brethren. The atmosphere infected them and they exchanged little by way of conversation themselves. Afterwards, the three of them walked several times round the quadrangle of the abbey as a means of digesting their food. Fidelma ran over her conversations with the physician, who once again had not come to the evening meal in the refectorium, and with the boy. There was little to be commented on and Fidelma reminded them that she wanted to visit the fortress of Lady Eithne in order to ask her a few more questions. Eadulf assured her that he was fit enough to accompany her if she wanted to make the journey in the morning. Gormán was also enthusiastic. He was finding the stay in the abbey uninteresting and dull. It was agreed that they would make the journey in the morning.
A gentle tapping on her door woke Fidelma. It was still dark and she had the feeling that she had not long been asleep.
She frowned and swung out of the bed. She drew on her robe, thankful of the full moon which lit her chamber and saved the trouble of trying to light the candle.
‘All right, Eadulf …’ She began pulling open the door, for she expected no one else to arouse her at such a time.
Abbot Iarnla stood outside, one hand holding a lantern while the other seemed to be vainly attempting to shield its light.
Fidelma stared at him in astonishment.
‘My apologies, Sister Fidelma.’ The abbot was whispering. ‘I need to talk to you urgently and without prying ears. That is why I have waited until the community are asleep.’
Fidelma held open the door without speaking and the abbot passed in. She peered out into the darkness of the passage but could see nothing, so she shut the door. She went to the solitary chair in the room over which she had hung her clothes picked them up and laid them on the end of the bed. She motioned for the elderly abbot to sit. He did so, placing his lantern carefully on the table. Fidelma then sat on the edge of the bed and waited expectantly.
‘I want you to know that I am not a fool, Fidelma,’ he began.
‘I did not think you were, Abbot Iarnla,’ she replied. ‘As you told me the other day, you have been a member of this community for thirty years and more, and abbot for a large part of that time.’
The abbot nodded absently. ‘I know what you and Eadulf must be thinking. Poor Iarnla. He must be in his dotage. He has given up control of the abbey to this young upstart of the Uí Briuin Sinna. Do not deny it. I know many in this abbey, many among the brethren, are thinking the same thoughts.’
Fidelma smiled at him. ‘You are certainly not in your dotage, Abbot Iarnla. But there is a mystery here that needs to be resolved. Why would you give so much power to this young man. He only joined the abbey a few years ago and is so intolerant and fanatical in his beliefs — beliefs that seem out of step with the reputation of Lios Mór.’
The abbot shrugged expressively. ‘I am not so blind as to be unaware how opinionated and dogmatic Brother Lugna is, nor how he is regarded by the brethren.’
‘Then tell me,’ invited Fidelma. ‘Why give him such power?’
‘I did not. He has taken it and I do not know how to extricate myself from the position I am placed in.’
‘You will have to explain that.’
‘When Brother Lugna joined us, as you know, he had spent some years in Rome. He came ashore at Ard Mór, presumably to journey back north to his homeland in Connachta. The road ran by the fortress of Lady Eithne who offered him hospitality on his journey. Her two sons were then on their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. She invited Brother Lugna to stay awhile, eager to hear what such journeys were like. I think she wanted to be given hope for the safe return of her sons.’
‘Understandably,’ conceded Fidelma.
‘Indeed. She seemed enthralled by Brother Lugna, his stories and his ideas. She even suggested that he join our community. He was, at first, a bright and likeable young man. My old steward had been weakened by a bout of the yellow plague. He had survived its worst ravages but he became ill again and died. That was when Brother Lugna, who was initially held in some respect by the brethren as one who had been all those years in Rome, was nominated to fill the office as steward.’
The abbot paused and licked his lips, which had gone dry. Fidelma rose and poured water from a jug by her bedside. The abbot swallowed it in two gulps.
‘It was only later that we found that Brother Lugna was in fact sympathetic to some of the extreme sects in Rome. He began to change our native ways and methods of doing things. He even destroyed some of the books in our abbey that he did not agree with.’
‘He is not a tolerant person,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Why didn’t you stand up to him? You could overrule him.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Cannot?’
The old abbot nodded mournfully. ‘He has the full support of Lady Eithne. Everything that Brother Lugna does is deemed to be right by her. In her sons’ absence on pilgrimage, he somehow fulfilled their role for her, and ever since he can do no wrong in her eyes.’
‘How can you stand this? You are the abbot. You have authority.’
‘Do I? You know the law, Fidelma. You know that the chief and the council of the clan on whose land an abbey is built have ultimate say over the fate of the religious community that serves their territory.’
Fidelma knew that in many parts of the country, the lands of the religious communities were still tribal. In several places the abbot was also the chief of the clan or elected in the same manner. The position of abbot and bishop often went through the same family succession. But here, Lady Eithne retained ultimate authority over the community as their chief. It was a curious but not an unusual position.
‘Let me get this right, Abbot Iarnla. Lady Eithne supports Brother Lugna and if you object she threatens the ultimate sanction over the community. Is that it?’
‘The law is the law.’
‘But she can’t strip you of your position as abbot, surely?’
‘No, but she can force the community from these lands or establish a new community under the leadership of Brother Lugna.’
‘Does Abbot Ségdae of Imleach know of this situation?’ Ségdae was also Chief Bishop of Muman. ‘And what of my brother, the King?’