The Monk Who Vanished

soul.’

They entered the cloisters and were about to cross the courtyard towards the guests’ hostel when Eadulf suddenly pulled Fidelma back into the shadows.

She opened her mouth to protest but was silenced by a finger placed to Eadulf’s lips. The Saxon monk jerked his head in the direction of the cloistered passage on the far side of the courtyard.

She looked across.

There was the small, pale-faced figure of Solam, the dálaigh of the Uí Fidgente. He was talking animatedly and waving his arms. He seemed excited. She was not sure to whom he was talking for the other figure stood behind one of the columns of the cloisters. That it was a religieux was obvious from what little she could see of the figure’s habit.

‘Our lawyer friend seems rather agitated,’ muttered Eadulf.

‘I wonder why?’ mused Fidelma. ‘Can we get near without being seen?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Let’s try anyway.’

They began to walk slowly and as quietly as they could along the cloistered corridor along one side of the courtyard before turning downthe other. They could hear Solam’s voice raised slightly but could not make out what he was saying.

Then his voice stopped, as if in mid-flow.

‘I think we have been seen,’ muttered Eadulf.

‘Walk on as if you are not aware of them,’ instructed Fidelma softly. She increased her pace slightly.

By the time they came to the corner, with a view along the far corridor, the two figures had vanished. Solam had obviously entered one of the nearby doorways which gave access to the guests’ hostel. Of the other figure they could hear the slapping of leather sandals on the flagged stones as the wearer hurried away. Eadulf ran forward and peered through the stone arches across the courtyard. A door banged on the far side.

At that moment, Abbot Ségdae appeared through another side door. He halted when he saw Eadulf standing there, a little breathless from the exertion of his sudden run.

‘I heard a door slamming,’ the abbot announced with disapproval in his voice.

Eadulf expression was bland. ‘Yes. I think a Brother left the courtyard hurriedly on the far side.’

‘Shame on him. Even in a hurry a member of the abbey is taught not to slam a door and disturb God’s peace in this holy place.’

Fidelma came up, overhearing the abbot’s remarks.

‘Sometimes the desire to fulfil a task quickly makes one forget one’s etiquette, Ségdae,’ she murmured.

‘If I discover the culprit, he will be given penance enough to remember the lesson,’ the abbot muttered irritably and strode off.

Fidelma turned to Eadulf with a meditative look.

‘Wasn’t it young Brother Daig who said that he was awakened in the night by a slamming door? I thought it was unusual for a member of a community to slam a door. Perhaps the same person has slammed a door on both occasions? A pity we do not know who it was.’

Eadulf smiled conceitedly.

‘But we do.’

Fidelma almost swallowed in surprise.

‘You recognised the person? Then tell me!’ she gasped impatiently.

‘The man half turned in the open doorway as he was closing it. The light was full on him as he was framed there. It was Brother Bardan.’

Chapter Fifteen

Eadulf had been dispatched to gather what information he could on Brother Bardán’s background from Abbot Ségdae with strict instructions to tell the abbot that nothing should be said that might alert Bardán that he was being investigated. Fidelma herself went in search of the highly strung dálaigh of the Uí Fidgente.

She found him, at last, in the tech screpta, the library of the abbey. Imleach was possessed of one of the great libraries in the kingdom for there were well over two hundred manuscript books housed there. Most of the books were not kept on shelves but in leather satchels, hung on pegs or racks round the wall. Each satchel contained one manuscript volume. But one section of the library contained some elaborately wrought and beautifully ornamented leather-bound volumes embellished with silver plating. A few of these were contained in small cases called labor-chomet, or book holders, which were made of metal in order to preserve works of great value. The ‘Confession of Patrick’, the earliest ‘Annals of Imleach’ and a ‘Life of Ailbe’ were amongst them.

Imleach had in its library an area in which scribes worked and studied. When Fidelma entered there were several members of the community bent over their tasks of copying books. The copying was being done on long, thin, smooth, rectangular boards on which vellum was stretched. The vellum was variously made from the skins of sheep, goats or calves. The scribes used ink made from carbon kept in cows’ horns and the work was done with pens made from the quills of geese, swans or even crows.

She noted that a few of the scribes were reading from the flesc filidh, or poet’s rods, staves and wands made from yew or apple tree on which Ogham, the ancient form of Irish writing, was carved.

Fidelma paused a moment to take in the atmosphere of the large room which comprised the abbey’s library. She always felt pleasure at being in a library; it gave her a sense of being in touch with both past and future at the same time for here was the knowledge of the past being transmitted through the present to the scribes of the future. She experienced a sense of childlike wonder whenever she enteredany library, but Imleach was regarded as one of the greatest in the kingdom.

She spotted Solam almost at once, apart from the scribes, seated at a reading table in a corner of the library. She walked quietly across to his table.

‘I see that you are rested and not ill-affected by your experience, Solam.’ Her tone was slightly ironic as she seated herself in front of him.

He glanced up in apparent irritation at being interrupted.

‘It is a matter of luck that I was not injured, Sister,’ he replied, also speaking softly so as not to disturb the others in the library. ‘I will still register my complaint to the Chief Brehon of the five kingdoms. Do not think that you will be able to persuade me otherwise.’

He thrust out his chin defiantly.

‘I would not dream of doing so,’ Fidelma returned gravely. ‘However, as a dálaigh of some reputation …’ she paused pointedly,’ I know that you will take into account the nervousness of the people in view of what happened last night.’

Solam was not mollified. ‘It does not mitigate the fact that, having identified myself, those people tried to kill me.’

‘But you were not killed,’ pointed out Fidelma. ‘However, I would not dream of preventing you from registering your complaint.’

Solam sniffed deprecatingly. ‘I shall do so.’

‘Of course, compensation in settlement to your complaint is only given if it can be justified. That is, if the people had no valid cause to fear you. If they did not genuinely believe that they had been attacked by the Uí Fidgente, then, of course, there would be no cause for their anger to be raised against you. However, if they did believe they had been attacked …’

She waved her hand to dismiss the matter and smiled.

‘You do not have to instruct me in law,’ snapped Solam, his voice rising so that a number of scribes looked up. A stentorian voice from the chief librarian, seated at his central desk, hissed a command for silence.