Chalice of Blood

poor Brother Donnchad. I saw it flying in the wind.’

Brother Gáeth remained standing before them with downcast eyes. To Fidelma, he did not look the sort of person to become the soul friend of an intellectual and scholar such as Brother Donnchad had been. Then she remembered the words from Juvenal’s Satires and felt guilty: fronti nulla fides, no reliance can be placed on appearance.

Fidelma waved to the table they had just risen from.

‘Be seated, Brother,’ she instructed, reseating herself. Eadulf followed her example, while Brother Gáeth moved slowly to the far side of the table and lowered himself on to the bench, his eyes still downcast.

‘I am afraid I know nothing of Brother Donnchad’s death,’ he volunteered. The words came out in something of a rush. ‘He had not spoken to me in days and told me to leave him alone.’

‘So when was the last time you spoke to him?’

‘About two or three days before his death.’

‘How long had you known him?’

‘Twenty-five years.’ The answer was without hesitation.

‘That is a long time,’ commented Eadulf. He had estimated Brother Gáeth’s age at no more than thirty-five.

‘I was his soul friend … at one time.’

‘Tell us about him,’ encouraged Fidelma. ‘Firstly, though, tell us something of yourself and how you met him.’

‘I was a field worker of the class of daer-fudir.’

Eadulf looked surprised for he knew that a daer-fudir was someone who had lost all their rights because of some great crime and had to work almost in a state of bondage to redeem themselves. They were considered untrustworthy and were not entitled to bear arms and had no rights within the clan. The third generation of daer-fudir was automatically reinstated, given their rights back, and could be eligible for election to any office within society. But usually a daer-fudir was a stranger, perhaps a fugitive from another territory who had sought asylum; often they were criminals or captives taken in battle.

‘It was my father who caused our family’s downfall,’ muttered Brother Gáeth as if in answer to Fidelma and Eadulf’s unasked question.

‘Tell us more of this,’ invited Fidelma.

‘It was simple enough. My father killed a chieftain of the Uí Liatháin. He fled with my mother and me and sought sanctuary with a lord of the Déisi called Eochaid of An Dún.’

‘You mean the father of Brother Donnchad?’ Eadulf asked in surprise.

Brother Gáeth nodded. ‘I was very young. Eochaid could have handed us back to the Uí Liatháin for punishment but he decided that he would grant my family asylum on the land but as daer-fudir to work and toil for him. My father died after several years of labour, my mother soon after. Eochaid died and Lady Eithne took control. She was a hard mistress.’

‘But you are now a member of the brethren here,’ observed Fidelma. ‘How did this happen?’

‘How did I become a member of this community rather than still toiling in the fields for Lady Eithne of An Dún?’

‘Exactly so,’ replied Fidelma.

‘Through the intercession of Donnchad,’ Brother Gáeth said.

‘In what way did he intercede?’

‘Although I was servant to Lord Eochaid and Lady Eithne, I was treated well by their sons, Cathal and Donnchad. We almost grew up together. It was through them I learnt something of reading and writing. It was Donnchad who spent most time with me, teaching me how to construe words and form letters. And he would speak about the Faith and tell me wondrous things. One day he told me that he and his brother Cathal would be joining the community here at Lios Mór. I felt devastated. Abandoned. I said that I wished I had the freedom to go with him if only to be his servant.

‘At that he laughed and said none of the brethren of the community had servants. Then he paused with a strange look in his eye and left me. A few days later, he found me in the fields and said he had a spoken with his mother. She had agreed to release me to the community. So it was,’ he ended with a shrug.

There was a short silence between them.

‘So you came with Cathal and Donnchad and joined the community.’

‘And have been here ever since.’

‘And what tasks do you perform in the community?’

Brother Gáeth chuckled sourly. ‘I exchanged life as a field worker for Lady Eithne to become a field worker for the abbot of Lios Mór. I am still of the rank of daer-fudir.’

Fidelma was surprised. Such ranks did not exist among the brethren of an abbey.

‘You sound bitter, Brother Gáeth,’ she said.

‘Before my father’s crime, he was a chieftain of the Uí Liatháin, he was Selbach, lord of Dún Guairne. He led some of his people, with a band of missionaries, across the great seato a land of the Britons called Kernow. A ruler called Teudrig massacred most of them there. My father and some others escaped and returned home. He found his cousin had usurped his place as chieftain in his absence and he challenged him to single combat. In the combat that followed my father killed his cousin. His enemies persuaded the people that it was fingal, or kin-slaying. The Brehon, also an enemy to my father, declared the crime so horrendous that my father should be placed in a boat without sail or oars, and with food and water for one day only. He should be taken out to sea and cast adrift. That night he managed to escape and took my mother and me to seek refuge with the Déisi.’

Fidelma gazed at him. ‘What you tell me does not seem to be justice. Surely it could be shown that the Brehon was biased and the punishment a harsh one? Why was this matter not appealed to the Chief Brehon of the kingdom? Why was it not brought to the attention of the King in Cashel? There is provision in law for these things.’

Brother Gáeth shrugged. ‘I only know what I know. I was but a boy at the time and this was over a score of years ago.’

‘And is the current chieftain of the Uí Liatháin related to you?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Uallachán is the nephew of the cousin my father slew,’ said Brother Gáeth.

‘What happened after you joined the community?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘Donnchad continued to treat me well. He became a great scholar and his time was spent mainly in the tech-screptra while I worked from sun-up until sun-down in the fields outside the abbey.’

‘But you became his anam chara, his soul friend.’

‘As I said, he was kind to me. He continued to talk to me as he had when we were boys. He told me much about the wondrousthings he was learning from the great books in the library. He insisted that I be officially regarded as his soul friend.’

‘Did the abbot approve of this?’

‘Not entirely. He felt that Donnchad should have a soul friend who was his intellectual equal.’

Fidelma’s eyes widened at the phrase. It sounded alien to the man.

‘You overheard him say that?’ she asked quickly.

‘Yes. That is what the abbot said to Donnchad. But Donnchad told him that he felt comfortable telling me his problems. So, every week, before the start of the Sabbath, we would meet and he would tell me of the events of the week and I would listen. I often wished I had learning to read the works of the great saints as he did and the very words that our Lord spoke when he walked the earth.’

Eadulf could not help but glance at Fidelma. Surely a soul friend was more than someone to talk at but a friend who could understand and exchange ideas and spiritually guide their friend, saving them from making mistakes.

‘I presume this stopped when the ruler of the Déisi accused Cathal and Donnchad of plotting against him,’ Fidelma said.