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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As the young steward took an angry step forward, the abbot raised a hand to stay him. Fidelma had not flinched but remained seated. At the same time, she too had raised her hand — aware that Gormán and Enda were grasping the hilts of their swords. She stared challengingly at the young man’s menacing features. Halted by the abbot’s movement, Brother Anfudán stepped back, but the fury had not receded from his expression.

‘It seems that Anfudán lives up to his name,’ Fidelma observed softly, addressing her words to the abbot. The latter actually forced a tight smile. The name meant a turbulent or a tempestuous person.

‘You will forgive my young friend, lady. He has not been with us long. In fact, he is the son of my brother and I have agreed to take him under my care so that he may follow the path of Christ. He has not yet taken the vows of obedience. He is, as you say, a little restive and we hope he will be influenced along the path of serenity. There is no need for apprehension.’

‘Of what should we be apprehensive, in a house of God?’ asked Fidelma gravely.

‘We are merely curious, Abbot Cronán, that is all,’ interposed Eadulf. ‘It is unusual to find the steward of an abbey who has not taken a vow of obedience and service which is marked by the wearing of a tonsure.’

The abbot did not appear concerned. ‘I have appointed him steward so that he may learn responsibility and humility.’ He turned to his flush-faced nephew with a disapproving frown. ‘Now, apologise to the Lady Fidelma for any discourtesy to her rank and then you may leave us and ensure that chambers are set up for her and her companions.’

‘But-’ the young steward began.

‘At once!’ snapped the abbot.

Brother Anfudán glowered for a moment and then inclined his head slowly to the abbot before turning to Fidelma.

‘I seek pardon, lady, for the discourteous way that I have greeted you. I was trying to do my duty to the abbot and this community.’ Before Fidelma could acknowledge his words, the young man strode off.

‘Does he know enough to provide us with water to wash in as well as beds for the night?’ queried Fidelma.

Abbot Cronán looked far from happy.

‘I think you may now accept my word that he will carry out all the rules of hospitality, lady. But, tell me, I had heard that Fidelma, daughter of Failbe Flann, had entered the religious. I also heard that you had married a Saxon.’ He glanced towards Eadulf.

‘An Angle,’ muttered Eadulf.

‘Is there a difference?’ asked the abbot in a cynical tone.

‘To an Angle there is,’ Eadulf replied quickly.

‘You present yourself as Fidelma of Cashel. Does this mean that you are no longer in the religious?’

‘It does,’ she replied. ‘I was trained, as you may know, as an advocate of our law system. I found that many matters I was concerned with in law conflicted with the tenets of religious life. I therefore terminated my role as a religious so that I could concentrate on the law.’

‘So what brings you here to Osraige with your companions? It must be something of great import. This is an isolated place, as you have observed,’ said the abbot. ‘Bog lands stretch around us, so it is not a place that one moves readily through without purpose. Certainly, it is many years since we saw so distinguished a person as an Eóghanacht of Cashel. In fact, so few visitors do we have here that when the sister of the King of Muman and her companions arrive, I must speculate whether it is by chance or whether some specific purpose brings you to our abbey doors.’

‘When this abbey was first built, I was told it was a collection of wooden huts,’ replied Fidelma without answering his question. ‘These new buildings are most impressive, if not a little awesome.’

‘Awesome?’

‘In that the walls look more military than religious. Why is that?’

‘There is no secret behind the intention. You know that we are in a territory that has long been fought over between Muman and Laigin. During the time when the Blessed Chaemóc guided the affairs of this abbey, it was plundered on several occasions by the Uí Néill from the north and the Uí Máil from the east. And when armies did not do so, then there were bandits from local clans who threatened the peace — clans like the Uí Duach to the north of us. When I accepted the task of being abbot here, I decided to facilitate the building of an abbey in which the brethren could be protected; an abbey which would be respected and which would become a great centre that people would approach with a feeling of amazement and respect.’

‘Of course, the Prince of the Osraige, Tuaim Snámha, must be very proud of these new buildings,’ Fidelma said in an innocent tone. ‘I presume everything was done with his permission and patronage?’

The abbot cleared his throat and then said: ‘Tuaim Snámha was indeed a good patron.’

‘So the abbey was built in this manner to defend the community?’

‘It was. The protective shadow of the Eóghanacht does not always extend throughout all the territory they claim jurisdiction over. We needs must look to ourselves for protection. Sadly, this is why you see a fortress to protect the House of God. But you have not yet answered my own question.’

‘Which was?’ asked Fidelma politely.

‘What brings you and your companions to this isolated place?’

‘Would you say that its isolation means that few people travel along your new roads, passing the abbey?’

The abbot frowned suspiciously. It was clear that he thought Fidelma was being evasive. Nevertheless he responded: ‘Few people, indeed.’

‘So that you would know if anyone passed this way yesterday?’

The abbot shifted in his seat but did not drop his eyes.

‘I have heard no reports of horsemen passing this way,’ he told her.

‘I did not say that they were horsemen.’

‘Then how else would they be travelling — by wagon? The tracks through the bogs here are difficult, almost impossible, to traverse.’

‘Yet from what we have seen of the new roads around here, they should have no problem with wagons. But you are right: these people were travelling on foot.’

‘No travellers on foot have passed by this abbey yesterday or for many days. What business would you have with these elusive travellers?’ replied the abbot.

‘Oh, it is in my role as a dálaigh that I need to speak with them, that is all.’ Fidelma dismissed the subject as if it was of little importance. ‘It is curious they did not pass this way, as we are sure that they were following the new roads that you have constructed through the bog land here.’

‘The tracks have been reinforced to help those pilgrims who want to come to worship at the shrine of the Blessed Chaemóc.’

‘He is but fourteen years dead and I had not heard of pilgrims coming to his shrine,’ Fidelma observed.

The abbot frowned. ‘His fame has spread and many come to hear of his miracles. Was it not his bell that awoke the Children of Lir from their curse and changed them from swans to mortal beings again? Did Chaemóc, of blessed name, not baptise them in the New Faith and bury them? Being mortals, they withered and died from the ages they had missed during the eons that they had been forced to exist as immortal swans.’

‘I am surprised that you give credence to these legends of the old gods of our people, for Lir was one of the ancient gods whose second wife had the evil power to turn her stepchildren into swans.’

‘I can only repeat that through the intercession of the Blessed Chaemóc this curse was lifted from them and they died baptised in the New Faith. That is the story that has come down to us.’

‘Yet the abbey is no longer dedicated to his memory,’ murmured Eadulf.

Abbot Cronán flushed slightly. ‘It is my wish that my daughter’s memory be respected here as well as Chaemóc,’ he said shortly.