Atonement of Blood (18 page)

‘Why, I am not sure how many years have passed now. Maybe four – but he was killed at the Battle of Cnoc Áine, when the Eóghanacht defeated the young warriors of the Uí Fidgente.’

T
here was a silence before Fidelma turned to Brother Lugna. ‘Perhaps Brother Ledbán had better sit down,’ she said gently. ‘Then he can tell us about his son, Brother Lennán.’

‘Thank you, lady,’ the stable-master said, and helped his elderly companion to a seat. When Brother Ledbán had settled himself, Fidelma suggested that the old man begin by telling them something of himself.

‘Something of myself?’ queried Brother Ledbán with a puzzled expression.

‘I presume that you were not always a religieux?’

‘Ah, no. I was a stableman for a chieftain who had a rath along the banks of the Mháigh, south of here. They were good days – happy days. My wife and I had no problems and raised our children under the shadow of Dún Eochair Mháigh.’

‘So when did you leave there and join this abbey?’

‘Oh, that was just after my wife died.’

‘When was that?’

‘My wife was a victim of the Yellow Plague. My son, Lennán, had already come to this abbey to study the physician’s art, so I came here and joined him. I thought it would bring me closer to him. You see, there was nothing left for me at Dún Eochair Mháigh.’

Abbot Nannid was nodding in agreement. ‘We were very happy to welcome Brother Ledbán into our community. We have a good stable. Brother Lugna has been our stable-master for many years, but he found Brother Ledbán an excellent asset. He was a good worker.’

‘A good worker until I grew old and careless,’ muttered the old man. ‘I had too many accidents. Now I am just a burden.’

‘Of course you are not,’ boomed Brother Lugna, placing a large comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘We all have accidents. I, myself, was bitten by a fretful horse.’ He briefly showed a scar on his right wrist that had long since healed.

‘So when did your son, Lennán, enter this abbey?’ continued Fidelma.

‘He was my eldest child. He came here a few years before his mother died from that fearful scourge which turned the skin yellow and from whose fever no one recovered.’

For many years the Yellow Plague had swept through the known world; prelates and princes succumbed to it – even two High Kings of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann fell to its ravages.

‘Go on,’ Fidelma urged.

‘Well, after his mother died, my son concentrated his efforts on finding a cure for the pestilence that had devoured her.’

Abbot Nannid added: ‘He was one of our most promising physicians. Then came the day when our Prince Eoganán sent the
crois tara
– the fiery cross, the summons to arms – throughout the clans and septs of the Uí Fidgente. As you know, he had declared that his line, the Dál gCais, were the rightful bloodline to be Kings of Muman. He raised an army to march on Cashel after your brother Colgú succeeded as King.’

Gormán stirred uneasily and glanced at Fidelma, who simply commented: ‘Those were the facts and whether they were justified or not is another matter.’

‘Just so,’ agreed the abbot diplomatically.

‘So what happened when the summons to arms reached here?’ Fidelma asked, turning to the old man.

‘My son left the abbey to accompany the Prince’s army.’

‘Understand, Brother Lennán went as a physician,’ the abbot emphasised hastily. ‘He did not go to kill but to tend to the wounded and injured during the conflict.’

‘My poor son,’ sighed the old man. ‘When I heard that he had been cut down in the rage of that battle on Cnoc Áine, I could not believe it. He was merely tending the wounded. God’s curse on him who struck that fatal blow. Survivors said that it was a man who wore the golden circlet around his neck. The Devil take them all.’

The abbot leaned forward and shook his head reprovingly.

‘The pain of your loss is understandable, Brother Ledbán. But we must remember the teaching of Christ that we must forgive our enemies.’ He glanced at Fidelma with an apologetic smile as if on behalf of the old man.

‘We can appreciate your loss,’ acknowledged Fidelma. ‘Who identified your son’s body?’

The old man seemed puzzled. ‘I do not understand.’

‘It seems someone has been making free with your son’s name,’ explained the abbot. ‘I think that the lady Fidelma wishes to make sure that he is quite dead.’

‘Did I not see the body of my own son when he was brought back here?’ demanded the old man, his voice full of bitterness.

‘Let me explain.’ It was Brother Lugna who spoke. ‘I knew poor Brother Lennán as well as any man. A report came to the abbey that he was one of the dead and so I rode to the Hill of Áine, found and brought the body back to this place for burial myself.’

‘Does anyone here have any idea why someone would come to Cashel and announce himself to be Brother Lennán of this abbey?’ asked Fidelma.

‘I find it hard to believe that anyone could have done such a wicked thing,’ replied Abbot Nannid, while the others shook their head.

‘Not only did they do so, but they used the excuse that they bore a message from you, Father Abbot, in order to approach my brother,’ Fidelma said, her emotions still very raw.

Brother Ledbán looked up at her and his old eyes were steady. ‘Then all I can say is, they have sullied my son’s name, for he gave his life for healing and not for killing.’

‘Perhaps he had a friend who decided that he would avenge him?’ suggested Eadulf.

Once more the abbot decided to respond on behalf of them all. ‘Brother Saxon, may I remind you that Paul wrote to the Romans:
sed date locum irae scriptum est enim mihi vindictam ego retribuam dicit Dominus
. Is it not written “Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” saith the Lord?’

‘That is true, yet it is not a teaching that is universally obeyed, for even your own law provides reasons why, under certain conditions, vengeance killings may be excused,’ replied Eadulf coolly. ‘And I am not a Saxon but an Angle.’

Fidelma glanced at him in rebuke. She knew that Eadulf had discovered this ancient law when they were dealing with the mystery of the death of Brother Donnchadh at Lios Mór, but now was not the right time to debate such points with the abbot.

‘Brother Eadulf makes a valid point,’ she conceded. ‘Would anyone spring to mind if we were seeking someone close to Brother Lennán whose emotions might well lead them to overlook the teachings of the Faith? Perhaps they might be thinking that they were acting under the ancient law?’

She was looking directly at the old man when she asked the question. There was no guile in his expression when he replied, ‘There was no one other than myself who was as close to poor Lennán. Certainly, no one who would do this thing.’

‘Very well,’ sighed Fidelma. ‘Oh, one more question. Perhaps it might mean something to you. When the person calling himself Brother Lennán struck the blows, he shouted a name. He shouted, “Remember Liamuin!” Does that—?’

She stopped abruptly, aware that the old man was completely still, staring at her with an expression that was almost akin to horror. Then a pale hue crossed his features. It spread noticeably, making his lips almost bloodless. His eyes rolled back and he slid unconscious from his chair to the floor.

Brother Lugna gave an exclamation of dismay and started forward, but Eadulf sprang up and was by the old man’s side in a moment.

‘He has fainted. Have you water?’

Brother Cuineáin went to lift a nearby pitcher of water to pour into a beaker but his hands were shaking and the water was spilling. Brother Lugna reached forward to take the beaker from him. The steward was apologetic.

‘Sorry, it is an ague I suffer from which sometimes stops me picking up things unless I am careful.’

Eadulf ignored him and turned to the prone figure on the floor. They gathered round in a concerned circle while Eadulf tried to revive the man by coaxing the water between his lips. Brother Ledbán spluttered and coughed but he did not come back to full consciousness.

The abbot stood undecided for a moment. ‘We’d best remove him to his chamber.’

‘I can manage that, Father Abbot,’ said Brother Lugna.

‘Brother Cuineáin will help you carry him there.’ Then Abbot Nannid added to his steward, ‘You had best send for the physician to attend him.’

The steward and the stable-master picked up the inert man and carried him from the room.

After they had left, the abbot turned to Fidelma with a sad shake of his head. ‘Poor Brother Ledbán is an old man. We have exerted too much pressure on him, conjuring painful memories. It is good that he has such a friend and patient helper in Brother Lugna.’

‘He seems a kind person,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘Brother Lugna has been working at the stables of this abbey since he was seventeen years old, over twenty years. He is a generous and pious soul. He ran away from … from a good family to come here. Anyway, I hope Brother Ledbán will be better in the morning. A good night’s rest is in order.’

‘Perhaps in the morning he will be able to finish answering my question,’ Fidelma said. ‘We will leave matters until then.’

The abbot was quick to agree. ‘It will soon be time for the evening service and meal. I will get someone to show you to the guest house.’ He picked up a hand bell and shook it several times. In moments, there was a knock on the door and another religieux entered, waiting while the abbot issued instructions. ‘A bell will be rung for the evening services which are held just before the meal. Either follow the sound of the bell or ask any of the brethren to take you to the refectory.’

The Abbey of Mungairit was obviously a rich one. In spite of the frugality of the entrance chamber where Brother Cuineáin had greeted them, once beyond that the wealth became obvious. The fact that it possessed its own large stables should have been an indication. When Nessán had founded the abbey, it was under the patronage of Lomman, son of Erc, Prince of the Uí Fidgente. When Nessán died it was endowed by Prince Manchin, son of Sedna, who claimed descent from Cormac Cas, who maintained that his people were senior to the Eóghanacht in their claim to the Kingdom of Muman. It was a claim that the Eóghanacht denied.

The abbey had grown in influence and learning and housed several schools of learning which brought it wealth and prestige. As they were conducted through the corridors and halls to their chambers, Fidelma and her companions could not ignore the riches that adorned the abbey walls. Great tapestries hung there, depicting all manner of religious scenes as well as scenes of hunts, horse races and battles … scenes from every aspect of life in the country. There were carved statues and gold and silver religious icons that the steward of a king’s palace might envy.

Fidelma disappeared to the guests’ bathing room for the traditional evening
dabach
or hot bath while Eadulf joined Gormán in a more Spartan strip wash with a section of the brethren of the abbey.

Later that day, after the evening meal, when they were back in their chamber in the guests’ hostel, Fidelma sat down next to Eadulf. It was the first time they had been alone and could speak privately. ‘Was Brother Ledbán truly unwell or did his fainting attack have something to do with my mentioning the name Liamuin?’ she asked.

‘He really did faint,’ Eadulf told her. ‘It could have been a coincidence, or perhaps the old man recognised the name and reacted badly to it.’

Fidelma sighed wearily. ‘Well, there is nothing else we can do but wait until the morning before we can ask him.’

‘I did not see Brother Cú-Mara in the refectory for the evening meal,’ Eadulf said.

‘That is true. Perhaps his business with the librarian has kept him busy. It was good luck that he should have been here just at the very moment he was needed.’

‘Coincidences still seem to occur frequently at the moment,’ Eadulf remarked.

Fidelma looked at him curiously. ‘Explain,’ she invited.

‘The fact that we found that girl, Aibell, whose mother just happens to bear the name shouted by the assassin. The fact that she just happened to be in the woodshed where the assassin changed his clothes. The fact that Brother Cú-Mara, all the way from the Abbey of Ard Fhearta, just happened to be in this courtyard and was able to identify us. There is the fact that Brother Ledbán happens to come from the same place as the girl and faints when the name Liamuin is spoken. And didn’t Aibell mention that her mother’s father had joined an abbey? It crossed my mind, could it be that old Ledbán was Liamuin’s father?’

Fidelma chuckled softly. ‘I swear that you are looking for coincidences in everything.’

Eadulf joked, ‘Suspicion is something easily acquired when one lives with a
dálaigh
in this country.’

Fidelma pulled a face at him. Then, thinking of her brother, she had a moment of guilt that she could still be light-hearted.

‘Anyway, the stable-master seems a pleasant man, giving such time to look after old Brother Ledbán,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘There is a particular friendship among people who look after horses.’

Eadulf knew that one of Fidelma’s loves was horses and it seemed true that she had an empathy with people who worked with them.