Fidelma nodded thoughtfully. ‘Wagons, you say? Who drives them?’
‘He has three companions but they prefer to stay in the inn in the township outside the abbey.’ He sniffed in disapproval. ‘Not the best of places for it has no good reputation. It is not a lawful inn for it has no licence from the local bó-aire, the magistrate. I have had to intervene once or twice with the innkeeper, a lewd woman named Cred, concerning her morals …’
Fidelma interrupted. She was not interested in the morals of the woman, Cred. ‘How long has Samradan been with you on this trip?’
Ségdae stroked the side of his nose as if it helped the process of his memory. ‘You seem very interested in this Sarnradán? Is he suspected of anything?’
Fidelma made a negative gesture with her hand. ‘No. I was just interested. I thought I knew most people who dwelt in Cashel, or of them, but Samradán I do not know. How long did you say he has been staying in the abbey?’
‘A few days. No, more like a week to be precise. You will meet him at the morning meal, no doubt. Perhaps he will inform you of those things you need to know. And now, should I show you to your quarters for the night?’
Eadulf smiled, happy at the thought. ‘A good suggestion, lord abbot. I am exhausted. It has been a long day filled with incident.’
‘Once you have refreshed yourselves,’ went on the abbot, ‘you will doubtless want to join the brethren for the midnight services.’
He did not notice the woebegone expression on the face of the Saxon as he conducted them along a corridor and across a cloistered courtyard.
‘This is our domus hospitale,’ he said, indicating a door. ‘Our guests’ hostel,’ he added as he knocked once.
A figure appeared in the doorway. A short shadowy figure whose silhouette clearly identified the sex of the person.
‘This is our domina, Sister Scothnat.’
Eadulf had not realised until that moment that the Abbey of Imleach was a conhospitae, a mixed house in which religious of both sexes lived and worked together. Such ‘double-houses’ were rare among his own people but he knew that both the Britons and the Irish religious foundations were based on such cohabitation.
‘This is Sister Fidelma, Scothnat.’
Sister Scothnat bobbed nervously for she knew that Fidelma was the sister of the King.
‘I have your room prepared, lady,’ she announced breathlessly. ‘As soon as the abbot informed me that you had arrived, I prepared it.’
Fidelma held out a hand and touched Sister Scothnat lightly on the arm. Usually, among her fellow religious, she made no distinction of her relationship with the King of Muman. Only when she needed that extra authority did she make the point.
‘My name is Fidelma. We are, after all, Sisters of the Faith, Scothnat.’ She turned to Ségdae and Eadulf. ‘Until the midnight service, then. Dominus vobiscum.’
‘Dominus tecum,’ responded Ségdae solemnly.
The abbot conducted Eadulf across the cloistered courtyard once again into a corridor on the far side where they found a tall religieux who greeted them.
‘Madagan,’ saluted the abbot. ‘Excellent. We were coming in search of you. This is Brother Eadulf. Because of the pilgrims in the domus hospitale this night, I have suggested that he share your chamber as you have a spare bed there.’
Brother Madagan cast a searching glance over Eadulf, as if assessinghim. His eyes were cold and when he smiled there was no warmth in the expression.
‘You are most welcome, Brother.’
‘Good.’ The word on Ségdae’s lips seemed to be at odds with his unhappy tone. ‘Then, Brother Eadulf, I shall see you at the midnight service.’ With a distracted expression, the abbot disappeared.
‘I am the steward of the abbey,’ Madagan announced confidingly, as he drew Eadulf towards a door in the corridor. ‘My chamber is larger than most so I think you will find it comfortable.’
He threw open the door of a chamber which contained two small cots, one table and chair. A candle stood on the table. The whole was exceptionally neat with nothing else on the table by the candle except a small leather-covered book. Another table stood behind the door on which was a bowl, a jug of water, and some drying cloths.
Brother Madagan pointed to one of the two cots in the small cell. ‘That will be your bed, Brother … sorry, I cannot pronounce your Saxon name. It is hard to my poor ears.’
‘Ah’dolf,’ pronounced Eadulf patiently.
‘Does it have any meaning?’
‘It means “noble wolf’,’ explained Eadulf with some degree of pride.
Brother Madagan rubbed his chin pensively. ‘I wonder how that should be translated into our language? Perhaps, Conrí — king of wolves?’
Eadulf sniffed deprecatingly. ‘A person’s name does not need to be translated. It is what it is.’
‘Perhaps so,’ admitted the steward of the abbey. ‘May I say that you speak our language well?’
Eadulf sat himself on the bed and gently tested it. ‘I have studied at Durrow and Tuaim Brecain.’
Madagan looked surprised. ‘Yet you still wear the tonsure of a stranger?’
‘I wear the tonsure of St Peter,’ corrected Eadulf firmly, ‘cut in memory of the crown of thorns of Our Saviour.’
‘But it is not the tonsure that we of the five kingdoms wear nor that which the Britons nor the men of Alba nor Armorica wear.’
‘It is the tonsure of all those who follow the Rule of Rome.’
Brother Madagan pursed his lips sourly. ‘You are proud of your tonsure, noble wolf of the Saxons,’ he observed.
‘I would not wear it otherwise.’
‘Of course not. It is merely that it is outlandish to the eyes of the brothers here.’
Eadulf was about to make an end to the conversation when hesuddenly paused as a thought struck him. ‘Yet you must have seen it often enough before,’ he commented slowly.
Brother Madagan was pouring some water into a bowl to wash his hands. He glanced round at Eadulf and shook his head. ‘The tonsure of St Peter? I can’t say I have. I have not wandered far from Imleach for I was born near here on the slopes of Cnoc Loinge, just to the south. They call it the hill of the ship because that is the shape of it.’
‘If you have not seen this tonsure before, how would you describe Brother Mochta’s tonsure?’ demanded Eadulf.
Brother Madagan shrugged in bewilderment. ‘How would I describe it?’ he repeated slowly. ‘I have no understanding of your meaning.’
Eadulf almost stamped his foot in irritation. ‘If my tonsure seems so strange to you, surely the fact that Brother Mochta wore the same tonsure, until he started growing his hair recently, should have been a matter of some comment?’
Brother Madagan was totally confused. ‘But Brother Mochta did not wear a tonsure like the one you wear, Brother Noble Wolf.’
Eadulf controlled his exasperation, and explained, ‘But Brother Mochta wore the tonsure of St Peter until a few weeks ago.’
‘You are mistaken, Noble Wolf. Brother Mochta wore the tonsure of St John which we all wear here, the head shaven back to a line from ear to ear, so that the crown of thorns may be seen when we gaze upon the face of the brother.’
Eadulf sat down abruptly on his cot. It was his turn to be totally bewildered.
‘Let me get this clear in my mind, Brother Madagan. Are you telling me that Brother Mochta did not wear a tonsure similar to that which I am wearing?’
‘Assuredly not.’ Brother Madagan was emphatic.
‘Nor was he growing his hair to cover it?’
‘Even more assuredly. At least this was so when I saw him at Vespers last evening. He wore the tonsure of St John.’
Eadulf sat staring at him for a moment or two as he realised what the man was saying.
Whoever the slain monk was at Cashel, and in spite of the description, even down to the tattoo mark, it could not be Brother Mochta of Imleach. It could not. But how was such a thing possible?