cannot pronounce your Saxon name. It is hard to my poor ears.’
‘Ah’dolf,’ pronounced Eadulf patiently.
‘Does it have any meaning?’
‘It means “noble wolf’,’ explained Eadulf with some degree of pride.
Brother Madagan rubbed his chin pensively. ‘I wonder how that should be translated into our language? Perhaps, Conrí — king of wolves?’
Eadulf sniffed deprecatingly. ‘A person’s name does not need to be translated. It is what it is.’
‘Perhaps so,’ admitted the steward of the abbey. ‘May I say that you speak our language well?’
Eadulf sat himself on the bed and gently tested it. ‘I have studied at Durrow and Tuaim Brecain.’
Madagan looked surprised. ‘Yet you still wear the tonsure of a stranger?’
‘I wear the tonsure of St Peter,’ corrected Eadulf firmly, ‘cut in memory of the crown of thorns of Our Saviour.’
‘But it is not the tonsure that we of the five kingdoms wear nor that which the Britons nor the men of Alba nor Armorica wear.’
‘It is the tonsure of all those who follow the Rule of Rome.’
Brother Madagan pursed his lips sourly. ‘You are proud of your tonsure, noble wolf of the Saxons,’ he observed.
‘I would not wear it otherwise.’
‘Of course not. It is merely that it is outlandish to the eyes of the brothers here.’
Eadulf was about to make an end to the conversation when hesuddenly paused as a thought struck him. ‘Yet you must have seen it often enough before,’ he commented slowly.
Brother Madagan was pouring some water into a bowl to wash his hands. He glanced round at Eadulf and shook his head. ‘The tonsure of St Peter? I can’t say I have. I have not wandered far from Imleach for I was born near here on the slopes of Cnoc Loinge, just to the south. They call it the hill of the ship because that is the shape of it.’
‘If you have not seen this tonsure before, how would you describe Brother Mochta’s tonsure?’ demanded Eadulf.
Brother Madagan shrugged in bewilderment. ‘How would I describe it?’ he repeated slowly. ‘I have no understanding of your meaning.’
Eadulf almost stamped his foot in irritation. ‘If my tonsure seems so strange to you, surely the fact that Brother Mochta wore the same tonsure, until he started growing his hair recently, should have been a matter of some comment?’
Brother Madagan was totally confused. ‘But Brother Mochta did not wear a tonsure like the one you wear, Brother Noble Wolf.’
Eadulf controlled his exasperation, and explained, ‘But Brother Mochta wore the tonsure of St Peter until a few weeks ago.’
‘You are mistaken, Noble Wolf. Brother Mochta wore the tonsure of St John which we all wear here, the head shaven back to a line from ear to ear, so that the crown of thorns may be seen when we gaze upon the face of the brother.’
Eadulf sat down abruptly on his cot. It was his turn to be totally bewildered.
‘Let me get this clear in my mind, Brother Madagan. Are you telling me that Brother Mochta did not wear a tonsure similar to that which I am wearing?’
‘Assuredly not.’ Brother Madagan was emphatic.
‘Nor was he growing his hair to cover it?’
‘Even more assuredly. At least this was so when I saw him at Vespers last evening. He wore the tonsure of St John.’
Eadulf sat staring at him for a moment or two as he realised what the man was saying.
Whoever the slain monk was at Cashel, and in spite of the description, even down to the tattoo mark, it could not be Brother Mochta of Imleach. It could not. But how was such a thing possible?
Chapter Nine
Fidelma regarded Eadulf across the refectory table, at which they were breaking their fast the next morning, with a slight smile.
‘You seem alarmed by this mystery of Brother Mochta,’ she observed, as she tore a piece of bread from the loaf before her.
Eadulf s eyes rounded in perplexity. ‘Are you not alarmed? This borders on the miraculous. How can it be the same man?’
‘Alarmed? Not I. Didn’t the Roman Tacitus say that the unknown always passes for the miraculous? Well, once the matter ceases to be unknown it ceases to be miraculous.’
‘Are you saying that there must be some logical explanation for this mystery?’
Fidelma looked at him in a reproach. ‘Isn’t there always?’
‘Well, I do not see it,’ Eadulf replied, thrusting out his chin. ‘It smacks of sorcery to me.’
‘Sorcery!’ Fidelma was scornful. ‘We have sorted out such mysteries before and found not one that was beyond our resources. Remember, Eadulf,
Eadulf bowed his head to hide his exasperation. ‘One might prevail through patience but we have never had a mystery as confounding.’ He glanced up and saw Brother Madagan approaching. He lowered his voice. ‘Here is the Brother who raised the alarm when Mochta went missing. It is the steward of the abbey, Brother Madagan.’
The tall monk approached them with a smile.
‘A fine morning,’ he said, seating himself and addressing himself to Fidelma. ‘I am the
Fidelma returned the man’s scrutiny and found herself disliking him though she could not put her finger on why. He was pleasant-featured enough, a little angular, a little gaunt, but there was nothing in his face that gave her outward revulsion. His manner too was friendly. She put it down to some chemical reaction which she could not explain.
‘Good morning, Brother Madagan.’ She inclined her head politely. ‘I am told that you were the one who discovered that the Holy Relics were missing?’
‘Indeed, I did.’
‘In what circumstances did you do so?’
‘It being the feastday of Ailbe, I rose early, for on that day …’
‘I know the order of the feast,’ Fidelma interrupted quickly.
Brother Madagan blinked.
It was then that Fidelma realised what it was that made her suspicious of the man. When he blinked his eyelids came down, heavy and deliberately, pausing for a fraction of a second before returning. It was as if he had hooded those eyes. The action bore a curious resemblance to the hooded blink of a hawk. She realised that they were cold in spite of the mask of friendship. There was a personality behind that face which was kept hidden to all but the keenest inspection.
‘Very well,’ he continued. ‘There was much to do here in preparation …’
‘Tell me how you discovered that the Holy Relics were missing.’
This time Brother Madagan did not seem perturbed at her sharp interruption.
‘I went to the chapel where the Holy Relics were kept,’ he replied calmly.
‘Yet you were not the Keeper of the Holy Relics of Ailbe. Why did you go there?’ Her voice was even but the question probing.
‘Because that night it was my duty to act as warden — to keep the watch. The duties involve making the rounds of the abbey to ensure all is secure.’
