Without another word he turned and hurried away. The antechamber was bare of any furniture. There were no seats and not even a fire was burning in the hearth. The whole grey stone interior gave out an atmosphere of forbidding chilliness and dark. They could just make out a wooden cross hung on one of the walls but, apart from this, there were no other ornaments or tapestries to offer relief.
Eadulf shuffled nervously. ‘Not exactly an effusive welcome,’ he muttered.
‘Did you expect there to be one?’ Fidelma replied.
‘Uí Fidgente territory or not, this is still a territory that is subject to the Kingdom of Muman, and you are sister to the King,’ he pointed out.
‘I do not have to remind you of the differences between the Uí Fidgente and the Eóghanacht,’ she murmured. ‘We are in their territory now and must accept that they do not love us.’
The door suddenly swung open as the grim-faced religieux returned, holding a lit oil lamp which spread some light in the gloom of the chamber. Behind him came a short but well-built man in dark robes, wearing the tonsure of the Blessed John. From around his bald pate, straggly grey curly hairs seemed to float in all directions. He was a fleshy-faced man with eyes of indiscernible colour, perhaps grey, perhaps light blue. They could not tell. He seemed to have a particular habit of rubbing his right wrist with his left hand.
‘I am Brother Cuineáin, the steward of this abbey.’ He looked at them expectantly.
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel and this is Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, my husband. Waiting outside with our horses is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh.’
Brother Cuineáin inclined his head in brief acknowledgement. Then he raised his pale eyes to examine them closely.
‘What do you seek here?’ His voice was as lacking in warmth as that of the religieux who had opened the door to them.
‘I wish to speak with Abbot Nannid,’ replied Fidelma.
The steward regarded her without emotion.
‘These are strange times, lady. Only a few months ago, this abbey was attacked by rebels commanded by Étain of An Dún. Now, I have heard of Fidelma and Eadulf – who has not? But it was of Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf that I have heard. While this Eadulf wears the tonsure of the Blessed Peter, you come in the robes of nobility, lady – you do not wear the robes of a religieuse. Perhaps you can let me have some proof that you are who you say you are?’
‘Brother Cuineáin.’ Fidelma was patient. ‘You have made a reasonable request but one to which we cannot respond. On our journey here, at the Hill of Ulla, we were attacked by brigands and our symbols of authority, being valuable, were taken from us.’
The steward regarded them for a few moments and then sighed, rubbing the side of his nose with a pudgy forefinger.
‘That presents me with an awkward situation. Without proof, I am not at liberty to accept that you are who you claim to be and therefore I can offer you neither admittance nor assistance. These times are fraught with unease and enemies can come in friendly guises. We must protect ourselves.’
Fidelma’s eyes flashed. ‘I am Fidelma, sister to Colgú, King of Cashel. I demand to see Abbot Nannid.’
‘You can demand all you want, lady,’ the steward said indifferently. ‘However, until you can prove your identity I am only fulfilling my duty to the abbot of this place in refusing to admit you.’
‘I come to him on a matter of law.’
The steward shook his head. ‘That cannot be allowed. Abbot Nannid will not see strangers, moreover, strangers who have no proof that they are who they claim to be. I cannot admit you under the rules of this abbey, which are to safeguard it from any possible harm.’
Frustrated, Eadulf just restrained himself from taking a step forward. Brother Cuineáin’s eyes narrowed quickly.
‘Threats will do you little good, my friend. I suggest that, as the day darkens, you should all be on your way.’
‘You do us an injustice, Brother Cuineáin,’ Fidelma said softly.
‘I can only obey the rule of this abbey.’
‘Is it not said that rules are only for the obedience of fools but the guidance of wise men?’ she snapped.
The steward pursed his lips in an ugly grimace. ‘I would have to own, then, that I am either a fool or a wise man. The proof of which is difficult to discern at this time.’
‘Then it seems we shall have to return when we are in possession of that proof,’ Fidelma replied, suppressing her annoyance, ‘and then we shall discuss the answer.’
Outside, Gormán was waiting patiently for them. Brother Cuineáin had followed them out into the courtyard to watch them depart. He glanced at Gormán and called with dry cynicism: ‘I see that your companion, who you claim is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh, wears no Golden Collar and seems to possess no sword for his empty scabbard.’