Chalice of Blood

also Aramaic. I never saw the documents, for he kept them hidden.’

‘The abbey here has a renowned scriptorium, a great library containing many such manuscripts,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Why did he not simply place the documents there? Surely the library is secure enough? What made these manuscripts so precious they had to be locked elsewhere?’

Brother Lugna raised his shoulders and let them drop in a resigned gesture. ‘As I say, I never saw them nor were they found in his cell after his death.’

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed for a moment and she looked at the abbot. ‘Did you see them, Abbot Iarnla?’

The abbot had not.

‘Anyway,’ the steward continued, ‘Brother Donnchad seemed so concerned, so anxious, that we decided to humour him and have a lock made for his door.’

‘Not simply a bolt on the inside?’

‘He was specific about a lock and key.’

‘Who made the lock and key?’

‘Our own smith, Brother Giolla-na-Naomh. He holds the rank of flaith-goba,’ he added with a note of pride.

Fidelma knew that smiths had three distinctions of rankaccording to their qualifications, and the flaith-goba, or chief smith, had knowledge of all metalworking. The other two ranks were limited in both the metals they worked and the artefacts they could produce.

‘How many keys to this lock did he make?’

‘He was instructed to make only one and I presume that he made only one,’ replied the steward.

‘Presumption is not fact,’ observed Fidelma.

It was Abbot Iarnla who said: ‘When we could not gain entrance to Brother Donnchad’s cell, I summoned Brother Giolla-na-Naomh to help us. He had to break down the door. Had he made an extra key, he would have fetched it to save breaking the door.’

It was a good point but Fidelma was not entirely satisfied.

‘You say that you decided to humour Brother Donnchad in his demand for a key. “Humour” seems a curious word to use.’

Abbot Iarnla and Brother Lugna exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

‘Brother Donnchad was-’

‘He had begun to behave in a curious fashion,’ interrupted Brother Lugna.

‘In what way? How did this manifest itself?’ asked Eadulf.

‘He became reclusive,’ the abbot explained. ‘He shut himself away from his oldest friend in the community.’

‘He even stopped going to Mass,’ pointed out Brother Lugna. ‘When we found that he had shut himself away and would not communicate with anyone, I sent for his mother, Lady Eithne, to see if she could find out what was vexing him.’

‘And did she?’

He was about to speak when he was interrupted by the noise of several horses arriving in the quadrangle of the abbey. With a muttered apology, he rose and went to the window to peer out. Then he turned back.

‘You may ask the question of Lady Eithne herself, Sister Fidelma, for she has just arrived with an escort.’

He left the room to greet the newcomers.

Lady Eithne was imposing. Tall though Fidelma was, she had to look up into the face of the woman. There were still traces of a youthful beauty in her features. She wore a slightly austere expression. The sharp blue eyes bore few of the tell-tale marks of age; only when one came nearer was age discernible, for she used berry juice to darken her brows and hair. The person who dressed her hair was clearly skilled, for it was elaborately dressed. Three dark-brown braids curled and wound round her head, held in place by gold circlet pins called flesc, while a fourth braid was left flowing between her shoulders and down her back. On top of her head was a kerchief arranged to show that she was a widow. Her only jewellery was an ornate cross of gold worked with semi-precious stones, the like of which Fidelma had never seen before. It was clearly of foreign workmanship. Lady Eithne wore a bright green dress of siriac, or silk, with a bright blue cloak of sróll, satin, edged with badger’s fur.

She took a pace forward and held out both hands to Fidelma in friendly greeting.

‘You are welcome here, lady. I have been expecting your arrival ever since I heard that you had been invited to come to the abbey.’

‘Lady Eithne,’ replied Fidelma, bowing her head, not to the rank of the woman but to her age and reputation. Lady Eithne was the chieftain of the local territory, being a banchomarbae or female heir, as well as widow of a Déisi prince.

‘And this is Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham?’ Lady Eithne turned to Eadulf with a smile. ‘I have heard much of you. You are both welcome in the territory of the Déisi.’ Then she greeted the abbot with a surly nod.

Looking troubled, the abbot invited her to be seated in the chair he had vacated, which surprised Eadulf for it was not often that an abbot abrogated his rank to the local nobility. Brother Lugna produced another chair, and the abbot reseated himself next to Lady Eithne.

‘Your visit is unexpected, lady,’ the abbot commented, when the steward had served mead to the newcomer.

‘Not so,’ Lady Eithne replied firmly. ‘As soon as I was informed that Fidelma of Cashel was here, I rode here to greet her. I am as much concerned with the resolution of this matter as the abbey of Lios Mór. Perhaps more so.’

It was a clear rebuke and a reminder that it was her son whose murder they were speaking of.

‘Let me say at once, and on behalf of my brother, the King, and our family, that I am sorry for your great loss, lady,’ Fidelma began after a few moments of awkward silence. It was no more than a ritual opening.

‘Your condolences are appreciated,’ she replied automatically. ‘Do you hope to resolve this matter quickly?’

‘We were speaking of the circumstances of your son’s tragic death when you arrived,’ Fidelma replied, not answering her question.

Lady Eithne gazed sadly at her. ‘There is no need to tread carefully with my feelings. I have mourned sufficiently in public. My grief is now for myself. I hope you will be able to discover who is responsible for his death.’

‘We understand that you may have been the last known person to speak with him. We are told that since his return from his pilgrimage, Brother Donnchad had been growing agitated about something.’

‘Agitated?’ queried Lady Eithne distantly.

‘Agitated enough for the steward of the community, Brother Lugna here, to send for you that you might come to the abbeyand speak to him. I am told that Brother Donnchad had withdrawn from his companions and was no longer attending the services of the abbey.’

‘That is correct,’ confirmed Lady Eithne.

‘You acceded to the steward’s request and, therefore, you were probably the last person to see your son before his death.’

There was a silence for a while as Lady Eithne took a sip of her mead. Then she replaced the glass on the side table with a quick nod.

‘Apart, that is, from the person who murdered him,’ she replied. ‘When Brother Lugna sent for me, I was much disquieted by his message. Brother Lugna asked me to come here and speak with my son and perhaps discover the reason for his behaviour.’

‘And did you?’ asked Eadulf quietly.

‘Donnchad told me he was in fear for his life. He told me that he was apprehensive of certain intrigues and jealousies in the abbey. He knew someone was envious of him and the precious manuscripts he had brought back from his travels.’

Fidelma saw a tinge of red colouring Abbot Iarnla’s neck and spreading up his cheeks. The abbot opened his mouth to say something.

‘He told you this clearly?’ Fidelma interjected quickly.