Behold a Pale Horse

almost like her own.

‘I recognise your accent, Brother,’ she greeted him. ‘You are from Muman.’

The young man halted and then apparently recognised her.

‘I am Brother Eolann, lady,’ he replied. ‘I am the scriptor here. And you are Sister Fidelma. I saw you in the refectorium. It is said you are the daughter of the King at Cashel.’

‘My father was Failbe Flann who died when I was young. My brother is Colgú who is now the heir apparent to my cousin, Cathal.’

‘Do you bring recent news from my native Muman?’

‘Alas, I have been away from Muman for many months, Brother Eolann.’

He sighed. ‘I have been away from Muman many years and so whatever news you have, even though out of date, will be news to me. Come, join me in my daily walk and tell me what there is to know of home.’

Fidelma was thankful that the scriptor of the abbey might be a more interesting conversationalist than Brother Lonán. The gardener had already wandered off with trowel in hand,seemingly intent in the pursuit of his horticultural tasks. Fidelma turned to the young man. ‘Where do you come from, Brother Eolann?’

‘From Faithleann’s Island — do you know it?’ he replied as they fell in step.

‘But of course. It is a little wooded island in Loch Léin. Is not your chieftain, my own cousin, Congal of the Eóghanacht? You are a long way from home, as am I. How came you here?’

‘That is a story simple to tell, lady. I was a scholar in the abbey on Faithleann’s Island and was chosen to take some books to the library of the Abbey of the Blessed Gall.’

‘Gall?’

‘He was one of the disciples of Colm Bán, whom they called Columbanus here. Indeed, Gall is also called Gallen. But instead of accompanying Colm Bán to Bobium, Gall, and some of his comrades, decided to stay at a place further north beyond the great mountains. They established an abbey there by a great lake, the Lacus Brigantius, as Pliny called it.’

‘Brigantius?’ queried Fidelma. ‘That seems to be a name I should be familiar with.’

‘It was a Gaulish territory with a city called Brigantium. It is a name familiar in many parts, even in Britain during Roman times. Now it is a territory of the Alemanni, where both Colm Bán and Gall preached for a while. Like Bobium, the community has grown magnificently. I spent a little while there before making my way south, learning the language of the Longobards and eventually arriving in Bobium. That was over two years ago. So instead of returning home, I have remained here as scriptor. I have not seen Muman in four years or more.’

‘Ah, then you have indeed been away longer than I have,’ conceded Fidelma. ‘There is little news to give, apart from a list of deaths.’

‘The Yellow Plague has been ravaging this country, so doubtless it has also spread to the Five Kingdoms?’

‘It has. It has created a long and miserable list of deaths and is still ravaging the land. The plague affected many communities and not even prelates have escaped. Abbot Ségéne, one of the successors of Colm Bán at the Abbey of Beannchar, died of it last year. You might know of Colmán, who was chief professor of Finnbarr’s school in Corcaigh? Before I came away, I heard that he had fled with fifty of his pupils to one of the western islands in order to escape the plague.’

Brother Eolann assumed a sad expression. ‘I studied under Colmán before I went to Faithleann’s Island. Your cousin, Congal, had just become Lord of Locha Léin at that time. But Máenach mac Fingin was still King of Muman.’

‘Cathal Cú-cen-maithair succeeded him two years ago, and that was when my brother, Colgú, became his tánaiste — his heir apparent,’ Fidelma told him.

‘Are there any other changes?’

‘There is relative peace among the Five Kingdoms under the sons of Aedo Sláine.’

The two sons of Aedo Sláine had succeeded as joint High Kings of Éireann ten years before and had presided over a peaceful decade.

‘There are times when I would give up the privilege of my position here to see the still blue waters of the Lake of Léin again,’ the young man admitted.

They had already circled the garden.

‘Would it impose too much upon you, Eolann of Faithleann’sIsland, if I asked you to show me the scriptorium?’ Fidelma suddenly asked. ‘I am more than interested in such matters. I especially want to look at the text of the Gospel of Matthew.’

‘You are most welcome there any time, lady,’ replied Brother Eolann without hesitation. He continued to use the term of respect for her as the daughter of a king of his land rather than her position as a religieuse. ‘Come. We have an excellent copy of the Blessed Eusebius’ translation of that Gospel into Latin.’ He led the way from the herbarium back across the courtyard towards the main abbey buildings.

‘I hear there are many good scholars here,’ Fidelma continued, ‘such as Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado. You must have much talent to be appointed scriptor.’

The young man made a gesture of deprecation. ‘There is often a difference between the talent of a scholar and a scriptor. My talent is in taking care of books, not in the writing of them. I was lucky, for when I arrived here the scriptor was ailing and needed an assistant. He died and thus I was made scriptor.’

‘I am told that you have a fine collection of books here?’

Brother Eolann affirmed the fact with immediate enthusiasm. ‘We have one of the largest collections of work of the Faith anywhere in Christendom. Soon after I came here I set up a special group of copyists so that, over the years, copies may be made and sent to the libraries in our other lands.’

Brother Eolann took Fidelma through the main doors, but instead of entering into the refectorium, he turned to his left and went along a short, dark passageway and across a smaller open courtyard with a fountain splashing from the mouths of two stone cherubs in its centre. He approached another door which gave access to a spiral stone staircase which rose in the interior of a tower. Halfway up was a stout oak doorthat gave ingress into a large square room lined with books and manuscripts. On one side were several tall, narrow windows, while at the far end was another large oak door. In spite of the windows, it was dark but, as far as Fidelma could see, the room was empty. With a muttered apology, Brother Eolann spent a little time lighting an oil lamp and then moving to a desk while Fidelma cast her eyes over the books, mentally trying to count them. It was an impressive library but not as impressive as she had thought it would be.

‘The copyists work in the next room,’ explained the scriptor, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Most of the main library is in that room. We store many famous and rare books here, from the poems of Colm Bán himself to some of the great histories written by the Romans, the Greeks, Alexandrians … it is a great honour for me to work here in peace and security.’

‘I am sure it is,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘Yet you say that there are times when you would give it up to see your homeland again?’

Brother Eolann looked embarrassed. ‘I must follow the path God has set for me,’ he muttered. ‘I would not wish that you thought I was unhappy in my calling.’

‘I know that you are not, Brother Eolann. But it is hard not to long for the familiar hills, fields and places of one’s childhood.’

‘That is true,’ replied the scriptor. ‘Don’t we have an old saying — níl aon tintáin mar do thinteán féin.’

‘No hearth like your own hearth,’ repeated Fidelma with a sad smile. ‘Indeed, with that I can entirely agree. One has to have great fortitude to settle in a foreign place where there is conflict and tension surrounding one.’

‘You mean the conflict between the Arians and those ofthe followers of the Nicene Creed? I hear you witnessed the arguments between our abbot and Bishop Britmund.’

‘I was thinking more in terms of the Rule that you obey here. It is so unlike the Rule followed in most of our