Eadulf stood and folded his arms, gazing around before delivering his answer. ‘Brother Mochta has disappeared. The room is supposed to make people think that he has been removed from his chamber in a violent struggle. The bloodstain on the mattress and the disorder point to this. Then there is a broken arrow on the bedside table … ah, that might signify that the arrow was broken when an assailant plunged it into the body of Mochta. The piece with the arrow head was left in Mochta while the end of the arrow with the flight was broken and tossed onto the table.’ He glanced at Fidelma for her approval.
‘Excellently done, Eadulf. That is precisely the message we have been asked to believe. Yet as the scene was so carefully preparedwe must look behind this message for the real significance of this chamber.’
For the first time she entered it and began to examine it foot by foot. Then she picked up the broken arrow and placed it in her marsupium.
‘I do not think it will tell us much until we have garnered more facts.’
She then examined the writing materials in the corner and the pieces of vellum.
‘Brother Mochta wrote a fair hand. He seems to have been writing a Life of Ailbe.’ She began to read from one of the pieces of vellum: ‘“He was called by Christ to his repose in the hundredth year of his life, as recorded in the Annals of Imleach which were began in that year of Our Lord 522.”’ She paused. ‘The rest appears to be missing. But here is another fragment.’ She read again: ‘“The repose of Ailbe has been distorted by the scribes of the north for they do not wish to acknowledge his appearance in Muman before Patrick of Armagh.”’
‘Do these writings have significance?’ queried Eadulf.
‘Perhaps,’ she replied, rolling the pieces of vellum up before placing them in her marsupium. Then she glanced around again. ‘I do not think this chamber will reveal any more secrets to us. Let us go.’
She locked the room after they left, for Brother Madagan had left the key in the door. They returned to the refectory. Outside, a dozen or more male and female religious had gathered, wrapped in long cloaks, carrying bundles and each holding a pilgrim’s staff. Abbot Ségdae was there in front of them, standing with raised right hand, his thumb and third finger pressed against one another so that the first, second and fourth finger were raised to symbolise the Holy Trinity in the Irish fashion.
He delivered the Blessing in Greek, that being considered the language of the Holy Gospels.
Then the pilgrims, two by two, shouldered their bundles and set out towards the open abbey gates. Their voices rose in a joyful chant as they did so.
Cantemus in mni die
concinentes uarie,
conclamantes Deo dignum
hymnum sanctae Mariae
‘Let us sing each day, chanting together in varied harmonies, declaiming to a God a worthy hymn for holy Mary,’ muttered Eadulf, translating the words.
Soon the singing column of pilgrims had passed through the abbey gates, continuing their pilgrimage, their voices receding beyond the walls.
As they stood watching a burly man approached them. He was of average height, well muscled, solidly built with unexceptional grey-brown hair. He wore a leather jerkin over his workmanlike clothes and carried a short sword at his belt. His eyes were bright and keen. His features were ruddy and a little too fleshy to retain the handsomeness he might have enjoyed in his youth. He had the air of acquired wealth about him; acquired because he wore his wealth ostentatiously. He was bejewelled, which seemed at odds with his choice of clothing. Someone to whom such richness came naturally would not have been so tasteless with their wealth. Fidelma suppressed a smile. She suddenly had a vision of this pretentious character wearing a sign around his neck with the legend: ‘Lucri bonus est odor — sweet is the smell of money’. She wondered where the line came from and then remembered it was from Juvenal’s Satires. Well, she was sure that the man would not object to the motto.
‘Are you the Lady Fidelma?’ the man asked, his bright eyes narrowing slightly as he examined her.
Fidelma inclined her head in greeting. ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel,’ she replied.
‘I have heard that you have been asking after me. My name is Samradán of Cashel.’
Fidelma met the gaze of his pale, bright eyes and held it. It was the Cashel merchant that let his gaze dart away first.
‘If there is anything I can help you with?’ Samradan shifted his weight uncomfortably.
Fidelma suddenly smiled disarmingly. ‘Did you know Brother Mochta?’
The merchant shook his head. ‘The monk who has vanished? Everyone is talking about it here at the abbey. No, I did not know him. I traded only with Brother Madagan as the steward of the abbey and, of course, with the abbot himself. I never met Brother Mochta, at least the name never registered with me if I encountered him in the abbey.’
‘You keep a warehouse at Cashel?’
The merchant nodded warily. ‘By the market square, lady. My house is in the town as well.’
‘An assassination attempt on my brother, the King, and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente, was launched from the roof of your warehouse yesterday morning.’
The merchant paled slightly. ‘I have been here in Imleach for severaldays. I knew nothing of this. Besides, anyone can climb onto the roof of my warehouse. It is a flat roof and easily accessible.’
‘I do not accuse you of anything, Samradán,’ chided Fidelma. ‘But it was best that you should know this fact, though.’
The merchant nodded hurriedly. ‘Of course … I thought …’
‘Do you trade among the people of Cnoc Aine?’
‘No. Only to the abbey.’
‘That seems to limit your business,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘You must do a lot of trade here within the abbey to visit so often and stay so long.’
Samradan looked at her uncertainly.
‘I mean that I trade only with the abbey in this area. I also trade with the abbeys at Cill Dalua, north of here, and south at Lios Mhór. I have in recent months even traded as far north as the abbey at Armagh. That was an arduous journey. But I have made it twice in the last two months.’
‘What sort of goods do you trade in?’
‘We barter corn and barley for wool mainly. Around Cill Dalua are first-class tanners and workers in leather. So we buy jackets, leather bottles, shoes and other items and trade to the south.’
‘How fascinating. Do you trade in metal work?’
Samradan was dismissive. ‘Carrying metal objects is a tiresome business for our horses. It weights our wagons and we have to move slowly. There are enough good smiths and forges throughout the country.’
‘So you would not deal in metals like silver? There are some silver mines and other workings of precious metals to the south of here.’
Samradán shook his head vehemently. ‘Be one’s trade good or bad, it is experience that makes one an adept at it,’ he replied, quoting an old proverb. ‘I stick to the trade I know. I know nothing of silver.’
‘You are right,’ agreed Fidelma pleasantly. ‘A trade not properly learned can be an enemy to its success. I understand that you have not dwelt at Cashel very long?’
‘Only these last three years,’ countered Samradan.
‘Then, before you came to Cashel, where did you conduct your business from?’
Was there a shiftiness in the merchant’s eyes now? ‘I was in the land of the Corco Baiscinn.’
‘Is that where you come from?’ pressed Fidelma.
Samradán raised his chin in an automatic gesture of defiance. ‘It is.’ His confirmation was a challenge but Fidelma said nothing further.
After the silence continued, the merchant cleared his throat noisily, as if attracting attention. ‘Is that all?’