would have thought that you had better things to do.’
Fidelma smiled sweetly at the old scholar.
‘I am engaged in those things that I should be engaged in,’ she replied, her icy tongue not matching the sweetness of her smile.
‘Indeed?’
‘I am told that you borrowed a genealogy from the library.’
Mac Faosma’s forehead furrowed.
‘You take a curious interest in the books that I borrow from the library?’ he said, inflecting the words to form a question.
‘I do, don’t I?’ she responded innocently. ‘Perhaps that it is because you borrow some very interesting books. However, I would like to see this one, if I may… that is, if it has not perished in the same way as did the book of Cinaed?’
Mac Faosma stared at her and if looks had the ability to kill, her life was worthless. Then he shrugged and stood aside, motioning her to enter.
‘I do not want you to be sitting troscud outside my door to impel me to show it you,’ he sniffed. ‘Time is too precious without wasting it on melodramatic gestures.’.’
She entered his chamber and he closed the door behind her, before leading her to a corner of the room.
‘I cannot think why you want to see the genealogy of the Ui Fidgente,’ he said, drawing the manuscript across the table.
‘Indulge me,’ Fidelma replied quietly, peering at the rectangular vellum book which had several bound pages. It was, indeed, what she was looking for. She started turning the pages of the various generations.
‘Is there anything in particular that you want from it?’ Mac Faosma queried with interest.
‘I want to check the descendants of Choirpre, the grandson of Fidgennid.’
Mac Faosma shrugged.
‘I have not come so far as yet. I am working on the generations showing the descent of the Ui Fidgente from Eoghan Mor to support the rightful claim that the Ui Fidgente are Eoghanacht and should not be excluded from the councils of Cashel.’
Fidelma smiled thinly.
‘Then your work is going to be long and hard, Venerable Mac Faosma,’ she replied, still bent to her task. Suddenly she halted on a page, tracing the inscribed names with her finger.
‘Here it is. Oengus Lappae, son of Ailill Cendfota, and his son Aed, and Aed’s son Crunmael to his son Eoganan who perished at Cnoc Aine. There are Eoganan’s sons Torcan and Uaman and-’
She stopped short. It was so neat that she had not noticed before. A tiny rectangle had been cut out of the page. Its size and position showed that it had been cut to obliterate a name… a third name after Uaman.
She turned and glanced accusingly at the old scholar, but he was staring at it with a bemused expression that could not have been feigned.
‘I presume that you knew nothing of this mutilation?’ she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
He shook his head.
‘So Eoganan did have a third child,’ she said softly. ‘But the name has recently been cut out of this book.’
‘Recently? How do you know?’
‘See where the cut has been made with a sharp pointed instrument, probably a knife point? The edges of the vellum are whiter than the page itself. How old is this book?’
‘Ard Fhearta has had it in the library for fifty years. The scribes who wrote it are long since dead.’
‘But the name of Eoganan’s third child must be known to many. You yourself must know it.’
Mac Faosma shook his head.
‘I recall there was talk of a third child at the time when Eoganan’s second wife fled from his fortress with her lover leaving a child behind. There was talk of its being sent away to fosterage to some local chieftain but I don’t remember the details.’
‘Is there anyone who would know the name of this child?’
‘If the child was of the same generation as its siblings, Torcan and Uaman, it would be more than a child now,’ the old man pointed out.
Fidelma was thoughtful.
‘That is true,’ she said. ‘I understand that Brother Benen collected this book for you this morning?’
‘That’s right.’ Mac Faosma pointed to his writing table where he was working on sheets of vellum. ‘You see, I am preparing a book which lists the generations of Ui Fidgente and needed this for reference. I merely went to the pages that concerned me and did not look at the page about Eoganan.’
‘So we may safely assume that this was done before the book came into your possession.’
‘I am a scholar,’ protested Mac Faosma. ‘Books are sacred things to me. I would not destroy a book no matter how bad or ill formed.’
‘Of course,’ conceded Fidelma. ‘My main concern now is to find out who this third child was… or is.’
‘Why are you so interested? I doubt that any progeny of Eoganan is likely to claim the title now that Donennach is chief.’
Fidelma ignored his question.
‘You have been most helpful in this matter, Venerable Mac Faosma. Keep that book safe. It may be wanted as evidence.’
In the courtyard Eadulf was staring at the chorister from An Daingean.
‘The meeting of the Unending Circle?’ He was trying to hide his astonishment. Then he attempted to look enthusiastic. ‘Of course. The meeting.’
‘And just in time.’
‘In time?’
‘Indeed, I was told by one of our number at the gates that the meeting was about to start in the small chapel. Brother Cillin is already there. I presume that you are on your way there now?’
Eadulf hesitated only a moment. There was only one thing to do and that was brazen it out.
‘Oh, of course.’
The chorister seized his arm in a display of comradeship.
‘Come, then. We mustn’t miss what Brother Cillin has to tell us.’
Eadulf found himself almost reluctantly pushed towards the chapel. There were several others hurrying towards the building and Eadulf noticed that all of them had their cowls pulled over their heads. His companion now did likewise. It was with relief that he did the same.
Inside the small chapel, Eadulf found at least thirty or forty male members of the community assembled in rows, all hooded. He entered uneasily and stood with his new-found companion at the back of the chapel by one of the pillars.
There was a hush and then Brother Cillin, the songmaster, came from a side door with two companions and stood before the assembly. Although he, too, was cowled, Eadulf recognised him easily.
‘My brethren, it gladdens me to see so many of you gathered here,’ he began in a resonant baritone. ‘Soon the great day is coming and what we have been working for will finally be achieved. That day when we gather in the great abbey before the high altar, the company will fall astounded before us.’
Eadulf eased nervously backwards as if this action would somehow hide him from Brother Cillin’s piercing glances as the songmaster surveyed the brethren before him. Eadulf tugged nervously at his hood to make sure it hid as much of his face as possible. Brother Cillin was continuing: ‘You have all been chosen to join the Unending Circle. It is a unique honour and in the future we will be spoken of in hushed tones throughout the five kingdoms. In the old days the unending circle symbolised life: no beginning and no end. The circle encompasses the cross and the unending knot symbolises life. We chosen few have taken as our motto the Latin phrase sic itur ad astra — thus one goes to the stars! For it is our work and destiny that will take us to the stars, my brethren. We will fly there as singing birds.’
Eadulf was beginning to think that Brother Cillin must be quite mad. The rhetoric was overwhelming in its
