‘The man came into the feasting hall where my brother was seated, having gained access by introducing himself as a member of this abbey, further claiming that he brought a message from you. He said his name was Brother Lennán.’
‘Brother Lennán!’ The name came as an exclamation from Brother Cuineáin.
Fidelma turned quickly to him. ‘It seems that his name is known, then?’
The abbot was sitting back with a curious expression on his thin features.
‘His name is known,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Brother Cuineáin, will you go in search of Brother Ledbán and bring him here? Do not tell him the purpose.’
The steward nodded and immediately went off on his errand.
When he had gone, Abbot Nannid bent forward a little and said, ‘Can you tell me the circumstances of this event? And could you describe this Brother Lennán to me?’
Fidelma told the story rapidly, in short sentences. She had just finished when there came a knock on the door and Brother Cuineáin re-entered and stood aside, holding the door to allow two figures to pass through.
One they recognised as Brother Lugna, the friendly stable-master, who had greeted them on their arrival. The other was an elderly man, walking unsteadily, hanging on his companion’s arm and, with his other hand, using the aid of a heavy blackthorn stick. His back was bent, his skin like parchment, stretched tightly over his bones and across his sunken cheeks. Brother Lugna helped his companion shuffle to a halt before the abbot’s table.
Brother Lugna turned to them with an apologetic smile. ‘Brother Ledbán recently had a fall and that is why I help him. He was once an echere, a groom, in my stables.’
‘This is Fidelma of Cashel,’ the abbot said, raising his voice, for it appeared the old man was hard of hearing. ‘She is a dálaigh and you must answer her questions.’
The old man turned colourless eyes upon her and waited expectantly. It was the abbot who finally asked the question.
‘Tell her your name.’
‘I am Brother Ledbán,’ came the cracked, ancient voice. ‘I came here to work as a groom. They used to call me Ledbán the Plaintive, but that was … that was …’ He screwed up his eyes thoughtfully. ‘That was many years ago.’
‘And tell her of Brother Lennán,’ went on the abbot.
‘Lennán? Why, he was my son.’
‘Your son?’ Fidelma started in astonishment and was aware of Eadulf’s gasp as he stood next to her.
The old man continued to stare at the abbot and went on, without glancing at Fidelma, ‘He was my own son, as dear to me as life, bound in the bond of blood.’
‘Did you know he was dead?’ asked the abbot softly.
The old man’s jaw rose pugnaciously. ‘He was killed, as well you know.’
Fidelma stared amazed at the old man.
‘How would you know that he was killed?’ she demanded. ‘Who told you?’
Now the old man seemed fully aware of her presence, turning to face her instead of addressing his answers to the abbot. ‘He was my own son. How would I not know that he had been killed?’ he replied, as if she had asked a question without logic.
‘But …’ began Fidelma.
Abbot Nannid interrupted, his voice loud and the words expressed slowly. ‘Perhaps you should tell the dálaigh when it was that your son, Brother Lennán, was killed and where,’ he instructed.
‘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.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
There 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?’