Atonement of Blood(45)

Fidelma pulled a face at him. He had not seen her mischievous grin for a while and it comforted him to know she was still capable of humour.

‘Tell me more about this Well of Knowledge,’ he invited.

‘That is your story, Gormán.’ Fidelma glanced at the young warrior.

‘The Well of Ségais? There are many stories about it. Two of them are associated with the formation of rivers. The well was said to be surrounded by nine hazel trees which bore the nuts of knowledge, and these fell into the well in which a salmon dwelled. Because he ate of the nuts, he became Fintan, the Salmon of Knowledge.’

Although they continued to keep the conversation light for a while, it was clear that the robbery had shaken Fidelma more than she would admit. The loss of the symbols of power and identity were the main concern. Even Eadulf knew how much such symbols mattered in the culture of Fidelma’s people. Without them, Fidelma would find it hard to assert her authority over the rebellious Uí Fidgente.

It was well after midday that they came into an area of low-lying bog, covered in sedges and long grasses.

‘It looks like a wilderness,’ commented Eadulf.

‘Well done, friend Eadulf!’ Gormán told him. ‘This area is called Fasagh Luimneach, the Wilderness of the Bare Place. That is why the abbey we seek is so named.’

Eadulf frowned. ‘Mungairit? You’ll have to explain that to me.’

‘Mun comes from moing, the tall bog brass, while gairit is from garidh, a mound that rises above the low-lying boglands.’

It was not long before they came within sight of the great Abbey of the Blessed Nessán at Mungairit.

It seemed to Eadulf to be a grey and forbidding edifice. He counted six chapels nestling among the abbey buildings.

‘It is larger than I thought it would be.’

‘It is certainly a great seat of learning,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘When was it founded?’

‘Nessán, its founder, died here well over a century ago. It is one of the biggest and most important abbeys among the Uí Fidgente, who claim to be the descendants of Cass.’

They followed the track, passing an ancient standing stone, to the walls of the abbey. The fields around were deserted but, in more temperate weather, it was obvious that the brethren used them to plant and then harvest the crops to sustain the inhabitants of the vast complex of buildings.

The gates stood open and they rode through into a large square. There were several religious moving here and there, apparently intent on various errands. A tall, burly member of the brethren, looking more like a warrior than a religieux, was striding towards them with a smile of welcome. He was a pleasant-looking man, with dark hair and sea-green eyes that were sharp and perceptive.

‘You are most welcome, pilgrims. I am Brother Lugna, the abbey’s táisech scuir, the master of the stables. How can I serve you?’

‘Where may we find the rechtaire, the steward of this abbey?’ enquired Gormán.

Brother Lugna turned and indicated one of the many buildings. ‘You will find our steward, Brother Cuineáin, in there. Shall I take care of your horses while you consult him?’

‘There is no need, Brother,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘Gormán here will look after them until we have spoken with the steward.’

‘Well, if you need to have them stabled and foddered, you will find me in that building.’ The man pointed. ‘That’s our stables. Just ask for me, Brother Lugna.’

‘That is much appreciated, Brother Lugna.’ Fidelma led the way forward and came to a halt in front of the building that the man had indicated. Dismounting and handing the reins to Gormán, Fidelma and Eadulf went to the main door of the building. A bell-rope hung by it. A distant chime came to their ears as Eadulf tugged on the rope. A moment passed before the door swung open and a grim-faced religieux stood before them. His expression was in contrast with that of the stable-master and he showed no sign of welcome.

‘Pax tecum,’ Fidelma greeted him solemnly. ‘Are you the rechtaire, the steward of this abbey?’

The man’s eyes flickered from side to side as he examined them each in turn. Then he turned back to Fidelma with a slightly hostile look.

‘Pax vobiscum,’ he replied. ‘I am not the rechtaire. Who wishes to see him?’

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel and my companion is Brother Eadulf; beyond, with our horses, is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh.’

The expression of hostility seemed to become more pronounced, as the religieux moved reluctantly aside.

‘Enter in peace.’ The words were uttered as an expressionless ritual.

They entered a dark antechamber and the religieux went to close the door on them, saying, ‘If you will wait here, I will inform the rechtaire of your arrival.’