Master of Souls (13 page)

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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #blt, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Master of Souls
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The Venerable Mac Faosma gave a sneering laugh.
‘So, Sister, you claim to be a scholar of language as well as philosophy?’
‘I claim nothing of the sort. I have simply read the Venerable Cináed’s discourse on the Trinity. All I claim to be is a
dálaigh
investigating his murder.’
‘And what has his death to do with me?’
‘When did you last see him?’
The question was suddenly sharp and caused the old man to blink rapidly.
‘The day before his body was discovered. I passed him in the
tech
-
screptra
. We did not speak. I have no reason to speak to a person whose views are beyond the orthodoxy of the Faith unless in public debate.’
‘You never saw him again?’
‘I have said as much. My servant, Brother Benen, came to me on the following day to say that Cináed’s body had been discovered. That is all I know about the matter.’
‘So you last saw him in the library.’
‘I have said so.’
‘Speaking of the library, I believe that you borrowed one of Cináed’s discourses.’
The Venerable Mac Faosma sucked in his breath, a soft sound, between his teeth.
‘You have been busy, Sister. Have you been asking questions about me?’
‘I was searching for that particular book,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Since you did borrow the book, you might be able to tell me why you did so?’
‘We speak of an evil text,’ replied the old man venomously. ‘More insidious than Cináed’s usual prattling on religion.’
Fidelma folded her hands in front of her and leant back.
‘An evil text?’ she prompted. ‘I am told that this was a discourse on politics.’
‘Cináed was an Uí Fidgente. This land gave him birth and its colleges gave him education and opportunity. Like a cur, he turned on that birthright.’
‘I think that you must explain what you mean.’
‘You are an Eoghanacht and therefore you will have no understanding.’
‘I am a
dálaigh
before I am an Eoghanacht just as you should be a
scholar before you are an Uí Fidgente. We both owe allegiance to the truth,’ replied Fidelma softly.
The Venerable Mac Faosma sat silently watching her, his expression fixed. Then he made a gesture with his shoulders. It was as if he had been struggling to respond and then decided he would let the matter pass.
‘Very well. Cináed wrote an argument denouncing the chiefs of the Uí Fidgente, as he claimed, for betraying their true ancestry as Dairine by claiming to be Dál gCais, descendants of Cormac Cas brother of Eoghan Mór … I am sure that you, as an Eoghanacht, will know the genealogy of the family? Cináed argued that it was the duty of the chiefs to pay fealty to Cashel and honour the Eoghanacht kings and not try to overthrow them.’
There was humour in Fidelma’s smile. ‘To an Eoghanacht, it sounds a reasonable judgement.’
The Venerable Mac Faosma scowled angrily. ‘To an Uí Fidgente, it is treason.’
‘Not so. Times have moved on since Eoganán raised his clans in rebellion and marched on Cashel.’
‘Our king,’ he emphasised the word, ‘our king Eoganán raised his clans to throw off the curse of Cashel.’
‘And met his end in rebellion on Cnoc Aine. Times move on. The current chieftain has made peace with Cashel and his choice of warlord, Conrí, is proof that we can build a new life together and in peace.’
The old man snorted in disgust. ‘That remains to be seen.’
‘So you have borrowed Cináed’s book which would welcome in this new era of peace. Why?’ Fidelma went on. ‘It was written some time ago and you must have read it before.’
‘Why would any scholar seek to obtain the book of another scholar?’
‘Perhaps you will tell me?’
‘I am currently writing a corrective to his arguments by showing that the Uí Fidgente are truly descendants of Cas, brother of Eoghan Mór, and of the bloodline of the true kings of Cashel.’
‘So you still support the rebellion of the Uí Fidgente?’ Fidelma’s eyes narrowed slightly.
‘Rebellion is your word, not mine. As you said earlier, Fidelma of Cashel, my duty is merely to the truth. I am not concerned to what use the truth is put.’
‘The truth as
you see
it,’ muttered Fidelma with emphasis. Then she
added: ‘I would like to see this book. The book of Cinaed which you have borrowed.’
The old man sat silent for several moments, for so long that Fidelma wondered whether he was simply making a silent defiance. Then he raised his head.
‘Brother Benen!’ he called.
The door opened and the young muscular religieux entered.
‘Go to my study and fetch the book of Cinaed that you will find there on my reading table. Bring it to me here.’
‘At once, Venerable Mac Faosma.’
The old man turned back to Fidelma as the young monk hurried away on his errand.
‘After this, I trust I will be left in peace?’
‘Nothing is guaranteed in this life, Venerable Mac Faosma,’ she replied quietly. ‘I have to continue along the path towards the solution of this mystery no matter where it leads and whom I have to meet along it.’
The old man snorted again.
‘I will be honest with you …’ he began.
‘I trust that you have been honest with me from the start,’ she riposted.
‘I will tell you frankly that I have no sorrow in me that Cinaed is dead. Either he was a fool or, as I believe, he was recreant — a renegade and a scoundrel. The world is better off without such mischief-makers.’
Fidelma examined the old man carefully.
‘Such views can rebound on those who utter them,’ she said softly.
‘I thought you wanted honesty,’ replied the old man sarcastically.
‘Very well. You have been honest. Continue to be so and answer me this … did you personally encompass, or did you cause to be encompassed — by word or deed — the death of Cináed?’
For the first time, the old man chuckled. It was a dry, rasping sound.
‘Now if I had done so, would I tell you? There is a limit to virtuousness, Sister Fidelma. If everyone were so honest, what need would we have of the likes of a
dálaigh
and from where would you get your stimulation and satisfaction in solving such conundrums as this murder?’
Fidelma let the corner of her mouth twitch in humour.
‘That, at least, is said in honesty, Venerable Mac Faosma.’
There was a knock at the door and Brother Benen returned. He looked nervous, uncomfortable.
‘Master …’ he began and then paused, looking from the Venerable Mac Faosma to Fidelma and back again.
The old man waited impatiently and when the young man did not speak he heaved a sigh of exasperation.
‘Come, come. Where is the book I sent you for? I do not have all day and have wasted enough time on this matter already.’
Brother Benen licked his lips and then tried to form the words.
‘The book … the book of Cinaed … it is … it is …’
The Venerable Mac Faosma frowned.
‘What? Can’t you find it? Where is it? Mislaid?’
Brother Benen shook his head.
‘I think perhaps it would be easier if you came to your study, Venerable Mac Faosma.’
‘Come to my study?’ The old man was indignant. ‘Can I not rely on anyone to carry out a simple errand that I have to go myself?’
‘If you please …’ begged the young man.
Fidelma rose.
‘Obviously something is worrying this young man, Venerable Mac Faosma. Perhaps we should all go … ?’
The Venerable Mac Faosma rose abruptly, showing himself to be as agile on his feet as his physique indicated.
‘There is a way to my study through here,’ he said, not going the way that Brother Benen had gone but moving through his living chamber to where a tapestry hung. He drew it aside to reveal a wooden door, which he unbolted. Then he led the way down a narrow stone passageway and through another wooden door into a chamber that resembled a library, with many manuscript books, and a scribe’s tripod book stand. Tables, stools and writing materials littered the room. There were three doors, one opening, Fidelma estimated, on to the passageway in which she had declared her
troscud
, while the third was on the opposite wall. The remains of a fire smouldered in the hearth.
The Venerable Mac Faosma began to move to the wooden tripod book stand.
‘I left the book here this morning,’ he said with a frown. ‘It is no longer here.’ He turned to the nervous brother. ‘What does this mean?’
‘Master …’ Brother Benen pointed towards the fire.
The old man frowned but followed the line of his finger.
‘God look down upon us!’ he whispered, moving with surprising rapidity
across to the hearth and then bending down to pick something up. Fidelma could see that it was scorched and burnt pieces of parchment. She breathed deeply.
‘I presume that was Cináed’s book?’ she asked softly.
‘I do not know how it came there, Sister.’ Brother Benen was almost in tears. ‘At noon, the book was on the stand. I saw it there myself after the Venerable Mac Faosma retired for the midday meal. After that he always has a nap before resuming his labours. I touched nothing. I swear it.’
The Venerable Mac Faosma was standing looking down at the burnt papers in his hand with an expression of irritation.
‘Well, someone touched it and destroyed it.’
‘Is it the only copy?’ asked Fidelma.
‘No one has copied it or ever will,’ snapped the old man. ‘It was waiting for young Brother Faolchair to make a copy but now … now there will be no need for me to write a response.’
Fidelma smiled sceptically. ‘That is certainly true.’
The old man frowned and turned to her. ‘What are you implying?’
‘I never imply,’ Fidelma responded quickly. ‘If there is an accusation to be made, I will make it. What is being asserted here is that, between noonday and now, someone entered your study and burnt the Venerable Cináed’s book. Why would they do that?’
The Venerable Mac Faosma raised his chin sharply.
‘There are plenty in this abbey who would be happy to see this work of treachery destroyed. I am not the only one.’
‘Those same people might go so far as to burn it?’
‘It would seem so.’
Fidelma looked round the room slowly, then went to the hearth and confirmed that the book had been well and truly destroyed. Only a few scorched pages remained, and they were beyond reading except for a few words here and there.
‘There are three doors here. Are they all locked?’
‘My assistant has a spare key to that door, the one that leads into the corridor. The door between my chamber and this room bolts on the inside of my chamber and I always keep my chamber locked so there can be no access from there. That door there,’ he pointed to the third door, ‘leads into the courtyard where I sometimes sit on summer’s days. A key on the inside always locks it. There is no access from there.’
‘You have the only key to that outside door?’
‘I believe so.’ The Venerable Mac Faosma frowned. ‘Anyway, there is no need to make a fuss on my behalf. It is best that the book should be destroyed with its vile insinuations and prejudice. I have no complaint to make.’
Fidelma was about to respond but then thought better of it. She merely commented: ‘I lament every time I see a book destroyed, as it means the loss of human thought if not of knowledge.’
The Venerable Mac Faosma assumed his sneering look again.
‘Then I presume you would be critical of our beloved Patrick to whom we owe so much?’
‘In what respect?’
‘I would have thought that a person with the knowledge you aspire to would have already read the life of Patrick as written by his disciple the Blessed Benignus, who was his successor.’
Fidelma smiled wearily.
‘I suppose you mean the passage in which Benignus admits that Patrick burnt one hundred and eighty books of the Druids because they were not Christian. Indeed, I deplore that destruction, for who knows what knowledge — Christian or not — they would have imparted to us? There has been too much destruction of knowledge simply because someone else disagrees with it. In a civilised world, there is room for all knowledge and the truth will eventually emerge triumphant over prejudice. If we do not believe that, then there is no hope for us. We might as well resort to living as wild animals.’
The Venerable Mac Faosma raised his eyebrows in surprise as her words ended on a note of vehemence.
‘Well, well, you do have a pretension to be a philosopher.’

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