‘Bene vobis, my friends,’ he called out as they halted their horses before him. He had a loud baritone voice, full of joviality, and a smiling face to match it.
‘And health to you,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Are you Brother Molua?’
‘My given name is Lugaid being named after Lugaid Loígde, the progenitor of the Corco Lofgde. But as it is such a distinguished name, sister, why, I merely answer to its more gentle diminutive. Molua suits me better. How may I serve you?’
Fidelma slid from her horse and introduced herself and Cass.
‘It is not often that we have such distinguished visitors,’ the big man said. ‘An advocate of the court and a warrior of the king of Cashel’s elite. Come, let me first stable your horses and then, perhaps, you will allow my house to offer you hospitality after your journey?’
Fidelma did not protest as the man insisted on leading off their horses to a stable. She gazed about the small complex of buildings with interest. There were several children playing around what was a chapel, in fact no bigger than an oratory. An elderly religieuse was sitting under a tree further on with half a dozen children round her. She was playing a small wooden reed pipe, a cuisech, and she played it well, so Fidelma thought. The sister seemed to be teaching the children short airs, happy and joyful.
Brother Molua returned smiling.
‘This is a peaceful spot, brother,’ Fidelma observed approvingly.
‘I am content with it, sister,’ agreed Molua. ‘Come this way. Aíbnat!’
A round-faced, homely woman came to the door of one of the buildings. She seemed to share Molua’s bluff, smiling features.
‘Aíbnat, we have guests. This is my radiant wife, Aíbnat.’
Fidelma saw that Molua was possessed of a sense of humour for the meaning of the woman’s name was ‘radiant girl’.
‘I heard that you were both at Ros Ailithir,’ the woman greeted them. ‘Were you not there to investigate old Dacán’s death?’
Fidelma nodded affirmatively.
‘Enough time to talk when our guests have eaten, Aíbnat,’ chided Molua as he ushered them all into the building. They found themselves in a warm chamber in which an oven threw out heat. On it were great pots simmering with aromatic ingredients. Molua motioned them to be seated at a table and produced a pitcher and several pottery goblets.
‘Let me offer you some of my special cuirm to keep out the chill. I distil it myself,’ he added with pride.
Cass readily agreed while Fidelma gazed approvingly around at the kitchen.
‘How many do you have to feed here?’ she asked, interested in the large number of cooking pots.
It was Aíbnat who replied.
‘At the moment we have twenty children under the age of fourteen here, sister. And there are four of us to look after them. My husband, myself and two other sisters of the Faith.’
Molua poured the drinks and they sipped the rough but pleasant-tasting spirit with relish.
‘How long has this orphanage been here?’ asked Cass.
‘Since the first devastations of the Yellow Plague two years ago. Some communities were so badly hit that entire families were wiped out and there was no one to care for the children who remained,’ explained Aíbnat. ‘That was when my husband sought permission of the Abbot Brocc at Ros Ailithir to turn his small farmstead here into a place of refuge for the orphans.’
‘You seem to be succeeding very well,’ Fidelma approved.
‘Will you eat, after your journey?’ invited Molua.
‘We are hungry,’ acknowledged Cass, for they had not eaten since that morning.
‘But it lacks several hours before your evening meal,’ Fidelma pointed out, with a sharp, reproving look at the young warrior.
‘That’s of little consequence,’ smiled Aíbnat. ‘A plate of cold badger meat or … I know … I have a meat pudding, the meat of the sheep, cooked with rowan berries and wild garlic. That complemented by kale and onions and barley bread. Then a dish of sloes and honey to finish with. What would you say to that?’
Molua was smiling happily.
‘My wife has a reputation as the best cook of the Corco Loígde. ’
‘A well-deserved one if the choice of food is anything to go by,’ applauded Cass.
Aíbnat was blushing with pleasure.
‘We have hives here, so the honey is our own.’
‘I had noticed that you have an abundance of beeswax candles,’ Fidelma observed. In many poorer homes the usual form of candlewax was often meat grease or melted tallow into which a peeled rush had been dipped.
‘Now while Aíbnat prepares the food,’ Molua said, sitting down and refilling their goblets from the pitcher of mead, ‘you may tell me why my poor house has been so honoured by your presence.’
‘A week ago Aíbnat brought some children here.’
‘Yes. Two little girls, no more than nine, and a boy about eight years old,’ agreed Molua.
Aíbnat turned from her culinary preparations, frowning.
‘Yes. They were the children rescued from Rae na Scríne. Didn’t you have something to do with that?’
Cass smiled grimly.
‘Indeed. We were the ones who rescued them.’
Molua was shaking his head.
‘We heard of that terrible crime. It is beyond understanding that people can be so cruel to their neighbours in time of distress. Such injustice has been condemned by everyone.’
Fidelma could not help airing her cynicism.
‘It was Plato who wrote that mankind always censures injustice but only because they fear to become victims of it and not because they shrink from committing it.’
Molua’s face was sad.
‘I cannot believe that, sister. I do not believe that man sets out purposely to commit injustice. He always does it because he is blinded by some distorted image of a perceived morality, or of a just cause.’
‘What morality or just cause, however distorted, could have been raised at Rae na Scríne?’ demanded Cass.
Molua shrugged.
‘I am but a simple farmer. When I cultivate a field, turning it with my plough, I destroy life. I destroy the natural grasses and growths in that field. I destroy the natural habitats of field voles, of badgers and other creatures. To them, that is injustice. To me, it is a just cause — the cause of feeding starving people.’
‘Animals!’ Cass muttered. ‘Who is concerned about justice for animals?’
Molua looked pained.
‘Are they not also God’s creatures?’
‘I see the point that you are making, Molua,’ Fidelma intervened. ‘In intellectual discourse, we would doubtless agree. There was a reason why the deed was done at Rae na Scríne but whether the reason was thought justifiable the action is not and cannot be.’
Molua inclined his head.
‘I accept that.’
‘Very well. There were two boys named Cétach and Cosrach, also from Rae na Scríne, who were supposed to be brought tothis orphanage. But they disappeared. One was about ten and the other was older — perhaps fifteen. They had black hair.’
Aíbnat and Molua exchanged a look and both shook their heads.
‘No children answering those descriptions have turned up here.’
‘No. I did not think they would. But perhaps I might be allowed to question the other children?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘They might know some details about these boys.’
Aíbnat frowned slightly.
‘I would not like the children to be upset. Remembering that terrible event may unsettle them.’
Fidelma tried to be reassuring.