always been a supporter of our community.’ Abbot Iarnla refused to be distracted from his reminiscence. ‘Her sons, Cathal and Donnchad, were highly intelligent lads and Brother Cathal became one of our best teachers. Alas, it was his very learning that almost became his downfall. Maolochtair, the Prince of the Déisi, who governed the lands this abbey was built on, became jealous of his knowledge and denounced Cathal to the King at Cashel. He claimed Cathal was indulging in magical practices.’
‘I have heard the tale and know that Maolochtair was old and twisted by that time,’ interposed Brother Lugna.
‘He was indeed. But who would dare say it? It was he who instructed Lady Eithne’s husband to give this land to our founder, the Blessed Carthach, over thirty years ago, so that he could build this abbey upon it. We had to respect Maolochtair, although, to be frank, his mind was not what it once was. He was filled with suspicion against family and friend alike, thinking they all meant him harm. We tried to send Brother Cathal out of harm’s way to administer the church and community at Sean Raithín, the old fortress in the mountains north of here. But Maolochtair soon followed him there with his accusations.
‘Maolochtair demanded that the King at Cashel imprison Cathal for a while in order that the grave charges could be considered. The King felt bound to agree, for Maolochtair was kin through his marriage to the aunt of his own father, Failbe Flann. Thanks to the King’s sister, Sister Fidelma, Cathal was cleared. I believe it was her advice that not only secured his release but sent him and his brother, Donnchad, out of the vengeful reach of Maolochtair until that twisted man departed this earthly realm.’
‘I know,’ Brother Lugna replied, showing his irritation. ‘I have heard the story from the Lady Eithne’s own lips. Five years ago Cathal and his brother Donnchad agreed to set out on their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. A short time after they left, Maolochtair died from the
‘Our beloved brethren succeeded in reaching the Holy Land. Ah, what joy it must have been to behold Jerusalem and walk the roads where our Lord once walked.’ The abbot was smiling, seemingly lost in the pleasure of contemplating such an achievement.
‘Except that the joy was not long-lived,’ Brother Lugna pointed out. ‘On the return journey, they were shipwrecked off the southern coast of Italy.’
‘But our brethren survived,’ the abbot responded.
‘Survived? Indeed they were among the few who made it to the shore when their ship was wrecked. But many others, including the crew of the ship, all perished in the turbulent waves.’
‘Cathal was so welcomed by the people of the city where they were brought ashore … what was the name of it? Tarentum? Ah yes, that’s it. Tarentum. He was so welcomed that he decided to settle there. And the people immediately elevated him to be the bishop of that city.’
Brother Lugna sniffed slightly. ‘Their gain was our loss and, indeed, a loss to his own brother as well as to his mother, theLady Eithne, who still mourns him as one dead. At least Brother Donnchad felt it was his obligation to return here to us in Lios Mór.’
The abbot gazed at his steward thoughtfully and then asked softly, ‘Do you imply censure of Brother Cathal?’
Brother Lugna regarded the abbot coldly. ‘I did not mean to imply anything of the sort. Cathal remained in Tarentum because he felt that he had been called by the Christ to serve there. However, the point is that he remained there. The Lady Eithne feels a betrayal that he has not returned. She told me so. And his brother, Donnchad, has not been himself since his journey back to us. And it was an amazing journey. North to Rome, where I have studied; from there to our brethren in Lucca and then on to the famous Bobbio, until finally he returned to us here, bathed in glory.’ The steward’s voice rose with pride. ‘How many of our brethren have been on such a glorious pilgrimage? Just to touch the soles of his sandals which have trodden the same earth and stone that was walked upon by our Blessed Saviour, why, that elevates the spirit in each of us.’
Abbot Iarnla’s lugubrious expression did not alter, apart from a momentary twitch at the corners of his mouth.
‘I doubt that,’ he replied in a monotone. ‘I am sure Brother Donnchad must have worn out many a pair of sandals since leaving the Holy Land on his homeward journey. The sandals that traversed the roads that were once walked by the Saviour would have long been discarded for more serviceable wear.’
Brother Lugna frowned slightly, examining Abbot Iarnla’s features suspiciously. He could not make up his mind whether the abbot was being humorous at his expense or not. Abbot Iarnla’s chubby features bore no sign of amusement and the abbot was not usually given to humour. The steward shrugged slightly and dismissed his suspicion.
‘So,’ the abbot was saying, ‘what do you think is the causeof this melancholy that Brother Donnchad has displayed since his return?’
‘I cannot say. Brother Donnchad has made little effort to reintegrate with the community. He spends most of his time in his cell in contemplation of some ancient books that he brought back with him, books in languages that I do not recognise. He pores over them, as if searching for something. He has even been known to miss the call to the
‘This is not the first time that we have spoken of his behaviour, ’ said the abbot with a small sigh. ‘I believe that you also spoke to Brother Gáeth about it.’
‘I did, but Brother Gáeth has no coherent explanation as to why Brother Donnchad now rejects his friendship as his
‘For what reason?’ demanded the abbot in amazement.
‘That is the essence of the puzzle for it seems there is no reason that can be offered. Had it not been for the fact that Brother Donnchad was displaying his curious behaviour to everyone in the community, I would have thought the ending of that particular relationship was to be applauded. The fact is that his behaviour is worsening. He has ceased to come to services in the chapel and will not give a reason why. Then, several days ago, he absented himself from the abbey for a full day and refused to say where he had been. To my certain knowledge, he has not eaten since yesterday and the door of his cell remains locked, contrary to the Rule and custom.’
‘Yet at your request, Lady Eithne has come twice to see him because of his distressed state,’ Abbot Iarnla said.
‘It was in the purview of my office to suggest it,’ the steward said defensively.
‘So what was resolved by her visit?’
‘After a short time alone with Brother Donnchad last evening, Lady Eithne met me at the gate. She was in an agitated condition. Plainly she had been reduced to tears by her encounter. I feel that I must insist that we take some action. The Rule of the abbey must be obeyed. Because of Brother Donnchad, many of the brethren are restless and uncertain as to their behaviour. There is an air of anarchy that is spreading. I find that I need your authority to take some action to rectify this situation.’
Abbot Iarnla nodded. ‘Yet it is of Brother Donnchad that we speak. He is not only a great scholar but also a hero to the younger brethren, an exemplar to the others …’
‘All because of his successful pilgrimage to the Holy Land,’ pointed out Brother Lugna. ‘It is because of this that his behaviour is so destructive. It cannot be allowed to continue.’
The abbot sat upright suddenly, as if making up his mind.
‘You are right, Brother Lugna. I am at fault for allowing too much tolerance of Brother Donnchad’s behaviour. My excuse for my delay is my respect for his achievements. Now I must confront him and demand his acceptance of the Rule of our community.’
Abbot Iarnla rose abruptly from his seat and Brother Lugna, surprised by his action, followed his example. Without a further word, the abbot turned and led the way from the room. Outside, they passed the wood-bearing Brother Gáeth, now red-faced, as he struggled with an armload of dry wood for the abbot’s smouldering fire. He pressed himself against the wall to allow their passage, his head bowed. They passed by without acknowledging him.
Across the main stone-flagged quadrangle, in whose middle a fountain had been constructed around a natural spring, stood a new three-storey building made of stone. It was set in one corner of the quadrangle and two of its grey walls stood on theedge of the abbey complex. From the walls of the building the land sloped steeply down to the dark waters called An Abhainn Mór, The Great River, which marked the northern borders of
