Behold a Pale Horse (17 page)

‘How many of the brethren here are from Hibernia?’ she asked as he turned his attention to some shrubs she did not recognise.

‘At the moment there are twelve of our compatriots among the brethren,’ he replied absently. ‘I suppose I have been here the longest now. Of course, all of the original founders have passed on.’

‘Do many of our people pass through here on their way to Rome or elsewhere in the south? I am told that many of our
peregrinatio pro Christo
have established themselves in this land.’

The question met with a shrug that indicated he was either uninterested or unconcerned. In fact, all of her questions about life at the abbey and personalities were met with similar indifference, while questions about herbs and other plants were greeted with little bursts of enthusiasm, albeit coupled with longwinded responses. Within half an hour, Fidelma had grown bored and decided to end her visit.

It was while she was making up her mind what excuse she could offer to cut the examination of the herb garden short that another member of the brethren passed by and greeted Brother Lonán in his own language. She turned to examine him. He was a young man with thin pale features, light blue eyes and flaming red hair, almost like her own.

‘I recognise your accent, Brother,’ she greeted him. ‘You are from Muman.’

The young man halted and then apparently recognised her.

‘I am Brother Eolann, lady,’ he replied. ‘I am the
scriptor
here. And you are Sister Fidelma. I saw you in the
refectorium
. It is said you are the daughter of the King at Cashel.’

‘My father was Failbe Flann who died when I was young. My brother is Colgú who is now the heir apparent to my cousin, Cathal.’

‘Do you bring recent news from my native Muman?’

‘Alas, I have been away from Muman for many months, Brother Eolann.’

He sighed. ‘I have been away from Muman many years and so whatever news you have, even though out of date, will be news to me. Come, join me in my daily walk and tell me what there is to know of home.’

Fidelma was thankful that the
scriptor
of the abbey might be a more interesting conversationalist than Brother Lonán. The gardener had already wandered off with trowel in hand, seemingly intent in the pursuit of his horticultural tasks. Fidelma turned to the young man. ‘Where do you come from, Brother Eolann?’

‘From Faithleann’s Island – do you know it?’ he replied as they fell in step.

‘But of course. It is a little wooded island in Loch Léin. Is not your chieftain, my own cousin, Congal of the Eóghanacht? You are a long way from home, as am I. How came you here?’

‘That is a story simple to tell, lady. I was a scholar in the abbey on Faithleann’s Island and was chosen to take some books to the library of the Abbey of the Blessed Gall.’

‘Gall?’

‘He was one of the disciples of Colm Bán, whom they called Columbanus here. Indeed, Gall is also called Gallen. But instead of accompanying Colm Bán to Bobium, Gall, and some of his comrades, decided to stay at a place further north beyond the great mountains. They established an abbey there by a great lake, the Lacus Brigantius, as Pliny called it.’

‘Brigantius?’ queried Fidelma. ‘That seems to be a name I should be familiar with.’

‘It was a Gaulish territory with a city called Brigantium. It is a name familiar in many parts, even in Britain during Roman times. Now it is a territory of the Alemanni, where both Colm Bán and Gall preached for a while. Like Bobium, the community has grown magnificently. I spent a little while there before making my way south, learning the language of the Longobards and eventually arriving in Bobium. That was over two years ago. So instead of returning home, I have remained here as
scriptor
. I have not seen Muman in four years or more.’

‘Ah, then you have indeed been away longer than I have,’ conceded Fidelma. ‘There is little news to give, apart from a list of deaths.’

‘The Yellow Plague has been ravaging this country, so doubtless it has also spread to the Five Kingdoms?’

‘It has. It has created a long and miserable list of deaths and is still ravaging the land. The plague affected many communities and not even prelates have escaped. Abbot Ségéne, one of the successors of Colm Bán at the Abbey of Beannchar, died of it last year. You might know of Colmán, who was chief professor of Finnbarr’s school in Corcaigh? Before I came away, I heard that he had fled with fifty of his pupils to one of the western islands in order to escape the plague.’

Brother Eolann assumed a sad expression. ‘I studied under Colmán before I went to Faithleann’s Island. Your cousin, Congal, had just become Lord of Locha Léin at that time. But Máenach mac Fingin was still King of Muman.’

‘Cathal Cú-cen-maithair succeeded him two years ago, and that was when my brother, Colgú, became his
tánaiste
– his heir apparent,’ Fidelma told him.

‘Are there any other changes?’

‘There is relative peace among the Five Kingdoms under the sons of Aedo Sláine.’

The two sons of Aedo Sláine had succeeded as joint High Kings of Éireann ten years before and had presided over a peaceful decade.

‘There are times when I would give up the privilege of my position here to see the still blue waters of the Lake of Léin again,’ the young man admitted.

They had already circled the garden.

‘Would it impose too much upon you, Eolann of Faithleann’s Island, if I asked you to show me the
scriptorium
?’ Fidelma suddenly asked. ‘I am more than interested in such matters. I especially want to look at the text of the Gospel of Matthew.’

‘You are most welcome there any time, lady,’ replied Brother Eolann without hesitation. He continued to use the term of respect for her as the daughter of a king of his land rather than her position as a religieuse. ‘Come. We have an excellent copy of the Blessed Eusebius’ translation of that Gospel into Latin.’ He led the way from the
herbarium
back across the courtyard towards the main abbey buildings.

‘I hear there are many good scholars here,’ Fidelma continued, ‘such as Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado. You must have much talent to be appointed
scriptor
.’

The young man made a gesture of deprecation. ‘There is often a difference between the talent of a scholar and a
scriptor
. My talent is in taking care of books, not in the writing of them. I was lucky, for when I arrived here the
scriptor
was ailing and needed an assistant. He died and thus I was made
scriptor
.’

‘I am told that you have a fine collection of books here?’

Brother Eolann affirmed the fact with immediate enthusiasm. ‘We have one of the largest collections of work of the Faith anywhere in Christendom. Soon after I came here I set up a special group of copyists so that, over the years, copies may be made and sent to the libraries in our other lands.’

Brother Eolann took Fidelma through the main doors, but instead of entering into the
refectorium
, he turned to his left and went along a short, dark passageway and across a smaller open courtyard with a fountain splashing from the mouths of two stone cherubs in its centre. He approached another door which gave access to a spiral stone staircase which rose in the interior of a tower. Halfway up was a stout oak door that gave ingress into a large square room lined with books and manuscripts. On one side were several tall, narrow windows, while at the far end was another large oak door. In spite of the windows, it was dark but, as far as Fidelma could see, the room was empty. With a muttered apology, Brother Eolann spent a little time lighting an oil lamp and then moving to a desk while Fidelma cast her eyes over the books, mentally trying to count them. It was an impressive library but not as impressive as she had thought it would be.

‘The copyists work in the next room,’ explained the
scriptor
, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Most of the main library is in that room. We store many famous and rare books here, from the poems of Colm Bán himself to some of the great histories written by the Romans, the Greeks, Alexandrians … it is a great honour for me to work here in peace and security.’

‘I am sure it is,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘Yet you say that there are times when you would give it up to see your homeland again?’

Brother Eolann looked embarrassed. ‘I must follow the path God has set for me,’ he muttered. ‘I would not wish that you thought I was unhappy in my calling.’

‘I know that you are not, Brother Eolann. But it is hard not to long for the familiar hills, fields and places of one’s childhood.’

‘That is true,’ replied the
scriptor
. ‘Don’t we have an old saying –
níl aon tintáin mar do thinteán féin
.’

‘No hearth like your own hearth,’ repeated Fidelma with a sad smile. ‘Indeed, with that I can entirely agree. One has to have great fortitude to settle in a foreign place where there is conflict and tension surrounding one.’

‘You mean the conflict between the Arians and those of the followers of the Nicene Creed? I hear you witnessed the arguments between our abbot and Bishop Britmund.’

‘I was thinking more in terms of the Rule that you obey here. It is so unlike the Rule followed in most of our own abbeys and religious houses.’

‘It is no hardship for one who is a
peregrinus pro amore Christi
.’

‘Alas, I am not,’ Fidelma confessed. ‘I am just a messenger, an adviser in law, rather than one who sets out to bring the Faith to the heathen and barbarian. But Magister Ado told me that the Rule of Colm Bán was even harsher than the Rule of Benedict. How can that be so? Our own religious houses, mostly mixed houses, do not agree with such penitential methods.’

‘You forget, lady, that Colm Bán spent many years among the undisciplined Franks and Burgunds before he came among the Longobards.’

‘That is what Sister Gisa said. Then you agree that this shaped his thought?’

‘The society is harsh and barbarous. Crime is violent and punishments are severe. Colm Bán might have tried to establish similar religious houses to those in our own land but found that he needed to control and discipline many of those who flocked to join him. I have seen something of the laws of the places in which he dwelled – the
wergelds
– it was not unusual for infractions of the law to result in physical punishments. Half of Colm Bán’s Rule was devoted to punishments of the community.’

Fidelma was shaking her head in sad disbelief. ‘What sort of punishments?’

‘From fasting, confinement in one’s
cubiculum
to the saying of additional prayers and …’ he hesitated ‘… even to physical punishments such as the use of the scourge. He listed two hundred blows, given at twenty-five blows at one time, as the punishment for some infractions. Confessions had to be made in public before the abbot and the entire community.’

‘I cannot believe such a Rule would be proclaimed by someone of our land.’

‘True, alas. The Rule also declared celibacy was the perfection – a goal one must make every wholehearted effort to attain by making the body a temple of virtue. He had declared a code of behaviour of asceticism and austerity. He claimed that the austere spirit had to be totally obedient and that obedience would win merit in the eyes of God. That was the ultimate aim of the life of the religious.’

‘It is amazing. I thought our people were so imbued with the essence of our law that they would never descend to such philosophies. How could Colm Bán believe that he could command the love and allegiance of his followers in this way?’

‘He did not. Many left this abbey during the time when his Rule prevailed,’ replied Brother Eolann. ‘However, his Rule lasted only a decade after his death before the abbey sought the milder form of governance as given by Benedict. I think it is Colm Bán’s myth rather than the reality which commands the present love and allegiance.’

Fidelma swallowed as she contemplated the picture that had been painted. Then she shook herself slightly. ‘And this Arianism? How does that affect the brethren here?’

‘We try to ignore it.’

‘But others do not?’

Brother Eolann gave a sad sigh. ‘It is good to have someone here from one’s own land. There are others of the Five Kingdoms here but not many that one is able to talk with.’

‘How do you mean that?’

‘Well, I mean to converse with intelligence. I do not wish to denigrate anyone … but, well, you have spoken to Brother Lonán? He only comes alive when speaking of herbs and plants. While that is laudable and I do not doubt his knowledge, his conversation on other matters is limited. He would not know the poems of our great poet Dallán Forgaill, nor even the poems of Colm Bán himself, any more than the works of Sophocles or the history of Polybius.’