Fidelma coloured a little. ‘I have left the religious,’ she said. ‘I am, as you may have heard, a dálaigh. I now serve the law on behalf of my brother, King Colgú of Cashel.’
‘And the purpose of your seeking to speak with the Father Abbot, lady?’ Only by the alteration of his means of addressing her did he indicate that he understood her change of status.
‘An attempt was made on my brother’s life; on the life of the King. The assassin identified himself as one of the brethren of this abbey, bearing an important message from Abbot Nannid. That is why we have come here.’
The steward halted in astonishment and swung round, staring at her. ‘In that case I must take you to the abbot immediately,’ he said. It was as if all the authority had suddenly left him. For a moment Fidelma was looking at a deflated and frightened man. He almost scurried along the long, gloomy corridors before them, barely taking time to light a lantern to guide them. Finally, with some breathlessness, he came to a halt before a dark oak door.
Here the steward paused, as if to gather himself, and then gave three loud raps on it. Then, with a muttered ‘Wait here!’ he opened it and disappeared beyond, appearing to forget that he had left them in the ill-lit corridor. It did not seem that long, however, before the door swung open again, shedding a little light on them, and Brother Cuineáin waved at them to enter.
The chamber of the abbot was well-lit by several lanterns. It was large, and the walls were covered in tapestries that gave warmth to the otherwise cold grey stonework. There was a yew writing table, elaborate and ornamental, which stood on a single support, balanced on three short legs near the base. On the top was an angle board on which the scribe could rest his book or vellum, or even taibhli filidh, tablets of poets that were usually beech or birch frames into which wax was poured. Notes could be made with a stylus and afterwards the wax was smoothed over again for reuse. To one side hung a number of book satchels. A few chairs and a large table on which two oil lamps stood completed the rest of the furniture.
A tall, thin man rose awkwardly from behind the table to greet them. It was difficult to see his features clearly, but his long robes and the ornate silver crucifix with its jewel insets proclaimed him to be abbot. He had a pale, gaunt face and wore the tonsure of the Blessed John, denoting him as a follower of the churches of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann rather than Rome.
In spite of the flickering shadows, Fidelma noticed, with some prejudice, that the man’s eyebrows met across the brow; she had always been told that this was a sign of a bad temper. Although she knew it was folklore, she could not help but recall it. She also noted that his lips were thin and twisted in one corner. Fidelma mentally rebuked herself as the words of Juvenal came into her mind. Fronti nulla fides. No reliance can be placed on appearance. After all, her brother knew the Abbot of Mungairit and had a good opinion of him.
‘I am Abbot Nannid,’ the thin man said. ‘My steward has informed me of the terrible news you bring from Cashel. How is the King, your brother?’
‘He still lives,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Your steward will also have informed you that I am a dálaigh, as well as sister to the King?’
The man stared at her for a moment and then slowly nodded.
‘This is my husband, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. Our companion is Gormán of my brother’s bodyguard,’ she went on. ‘You will excuse our appearance. On the journey here we were attacked by brigands, and our valuables and emblems of office were stolen from us.’
It was clear that the steward had already imparted this information, for the abbot made a sympathetic clicking sound with his tongue and waved them to chairs.
‘Please be seated. Is my steward correct when he tells me that the assassin is supposed to be a member of our brethren? Who is this person?’
‘I believe we should ask who this person was,’ Fidelma said solemnly. ‘The assassin was killed, you see – although not before he had seriously wounded my brother and murdered the Chief Brehon of Muman.’
‘If the assassin is dead, how is it known that he came from this abbey?’ the abbot asked defensively.
Eadulf was wondering whether the abbot was defensive because of guilt or whether he was considering the fact that as ‘father’ of his community, he would be responsible for the fines and compensation that were involved, should one of his community commit a criminal act. If Colgú died, that meant the value of forty-eight milch cows. As it was, the death of the Chief Brehon of Muman already meant a fine of forty-two milch cows. Eadulf mentally shook himself. He should not be thinking along such lines at this time.