‘The Venerable Mac Faosma was always making sneering references to the fact,’ he said. ‘Mac Faosma was ordained to conduct the sacrament.’
‘So, the rule that the Council of Nicaea wanted to impose on the priests did not apply to Cinaed,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, Brother Faolchair, do you know how many in Ard Fhearta are ordained as opposed to merely entering the religious life — as Cinaed did in his role as a scholar?’
The assistant librarian thought for a moment.
‘Abbot Erc is ordained, of course. And, as I said, the Venerable Mac Faosma is also ordained priest as well as a scholar. Then Brother Eolas and Brother Cillin are ordained to take the Eucharist…’
‘And I presume that Abbess Faife was also ordained.’
‘And against the rule of the Council of Laodicea, so Abbot Erc argued in my hearing,’ replied the youth. ‘In honesty, Sister, I do not think he liked Abbess Faife much. He was always fond of quoting the decisions of these councils from the remote parts of Christendom.’
Sister Fidelma patted the boy on the shoulder.
‘You have been very helpful, Brother Faolchair.’ She smiled, realising that the hour was growing late and she was suddenly very tired. She would
‘I should keep the Venerable Cinaed’s note somewhere safe. It might be valuable one day,’ she advised, wishing him good night.
Brother Faolchair inclined his head and tried to stifle a yawn.
‘I will, Sister. Good night.’
CHAPTER TEN
I t was one of those crystal clear winter days. The sea was flat and still. Its soft whispering was only perceptible round the coastline. The sun was pallid, almost unnoticeable in the pastel blue wash of the sky. Only a few white fluffs of cloud drifted high up, wispy like odd clumps of sheep’s wool caught on a bush. There was a soft but cold breeze blowing from the north.
Fidelma, Eadulf and Conri, with his two stolid and silent warriors, had boarded Mugron’s sturdy coastal vessel, a tough oak-built serrcenn which was fine for navigating round the coastal waters but not for long voyages on the oceans. Half a dozen men manned its two broad sails and Mugron himself preferred to handle the heavy carved oak tiller. The ship was stacked with merchandise for trading among the Corco Duibhne. It consisted mainly of metalwork from the silver mines in the north of the Ui Fidgente country and religious items made at Ard Fhearta itself.
Mugron had smiled warmly as he welcomed them aboard.
‘We are lucky today. The breeze promises us a fair sail across to the peninsula,’ he said, gesturing to where the mountains of the land of the Corco Duibhne rose to the south, standing out dark and sharp on the horizon. It was an indication of how cold and clear the air was to see their outlines delineated thus, for in warm weather their contours seemed to soften and a mist would hang over them.
‘Are those the Sliabh Mis mountains?’ asked Eadulf, remembering the last time he had seen them.
‘That they are,’ affirmed Mugron. ‘We’ll pick up the breeze as it swings offshore and it should bring us due west through the Machaire Islands. Then we can head south into Breanainn’s Bay. That is where I land my
With the crewmen working the sails to make sure they picked up as much of the wind as possible, and Mugron using the tiller to keep the stern to it so that the forward momentum was maintained, the coastal vessel pushed out from the sheltered harbour, passing a little rock which Mugron pointed out as ‘the island of beautiful cabbage’ which puzzled Eadulf until Fidelma explained that it was an edible seaweed usually called lus na gcarrac.
‘Ah, samphire,’ Eadulf interpreted. ‘St Peter’s herb.’
It also grew off the coast of the land of the South Folk and he knew it was exquisite to the taste when eaten with an oily fish like a mackerel. He glanced with a longing expression at the little rocky island as they were passing. He could see the squat plants growing in abundance, their ridged skins protecting them from the drying salt winds that whispered about them. But he could see no umbrella head of pale, greenish yellow flowers, and reminded himself that it was not summer.
‘Do you truly land there and harvest the samphire?’
‘The place provides a bountiful harvest,’ Mugron affirmed. ‘Samphire is also to be found on the larger island back there, beyond our stern. You would see a different picture if you were here in the summer’s months. That’s when the plants display themselves at their best.’
They were now moving slowly across the broad expanse of water towards the distant flat outline of land which Conri informed them was called the Machaire promontory, a narrow low-lying finger of land pointing due north. At the northern tip was a cluster of islets through which they had to sail to bring the vessel into the broad bay named after Breanainn.
‘I thought Machaire meant a plain?’ queried Eadulf, always willing to extend his knowledge of the language.
‘So it does,’ confirmed Conri, ‘but it also means land that is low lying. The islands to the north are also called the Machaire Islands because they, too, lie low in the sea. There are about eight of them, some no more than rocks jutting out of the sea. I have only twice journeyed in these parts. These are dangerous waters, I have heard.’
Mugron laughed disarmingly.
‘Have no fear, lord Conri, for I know the waters well enough.’
‘Does anyone live on those islands?’ Eadulf asked Mugron, peering forward towards the dark specks.
‘Some religious hermits still live on the largest of them, which is known as Seanach’s Island. A strange band, they are. Now and then I have brought supplies to them but they do not welcome visitors. One wonders why they have chosen such an inhospitable place. There are no natural wells there and often they have to exist on rainwater, and if it doesn’t rain…’ The merchant shrugged.
‘Seanach’s Island?’ queried Eadulf.
‘After the holy man who established their community a century or more ago.’
‘I know of two Seanachs,’ Fidelma intervened. ‘One was abbot of Ard Macha and the other abbot of Clonard. Both of them lived and died nearly a century ago.’
‘Ah, but this Seanach was an Ui Fidgente,’ Conri said, almost with a touch of pride. ‘He was brother of the Blessed Sennin of Inish Carthaigh. He became famous as the tutor of Aidan who was once abbot of Lindisfarne in the land of the Angles.’
‘And you say the community that Seanach set up still lives on this island?’
‘Apart from the lack of fresh water it has good anchorage in summer, but it and the other islands are low and flat and the winds can strike them cruelly,’ Mugron said. ‘It is more the haunt of seabirds than of men. The oystercatchers are particularly numerous there.’
Eadulf never ceased to wonder at the amazing number of small islands around the land of the five kingdoms. And being reminded of seabirds he became aware of the number of them that had been noisily following them. Squabbling gannets hanging motionless on strong updraughts, warning each other off before diving down into the sea in search of their prey; a small flock of strident kittiwakes with black wingtips flying elegantly northward in search of cliff ledges on which to form their colonies, their cries coming back like the souls of those lost in the sea. Mugron suddenly shielded his eyes before pointing to some small black specks pattering on the surface of the sea, as if walking on it.
‘Storm petrels,’ he grunted. ‘Probably a storm coming soon,’ he added, echoing the old sailor’s belief that they represented such a portent.
No one responded and for a while there was comparative quiet as they glided through the calm seas.
It was still very cold in spite of the brightness of the day. The brightness gave an illusion of good weather but there was no heat and the
Mugron said something to Conri who went to a wooden box fixed to the side of the ship near him and extracted a pitcher.