When Sister Síomha had not shown up at the guests’ hostel half-an-hour after the noon hour, the time when Fidelma had requested her presence, Fidelma decided to go in search of the steward of the community. She checked the time as she passed the ornate bronze sundial which stood in the centre of the courtyard with its ostentatious Latin inscription:
‘Horas non numero nisi serenas —
I do not count the hours unless they are bright.’ The day was cold but, certainly, it was bright and clear. The snow clouds that had passed in the night were long gone.
It was the pretty young Sister Lerben who was able to direct Fidelma to the tower which rose behind the wooden church. Fidelma had discovered that Sister Lerben was more personal servant than simple attendant to the abbess. Lerben told Fidelma that she would find Sister Síomha in the tower attending to the water-clock. The tower was a large construction standing immediately next to the stone store room which Fidelma had entered on the previous evening. The tower’s foundations were of stone and then its upper storeys were built of wood, rising to a height of thirty-five feet. Fidelma could see, on the flat top of the tower, the main bell by which the community was summoned to prayer.
Ascending the wooden stairs within the squat stone foundations, Fidelma felt an increasing annoyance at the arrogance of the steward who had ignored her summons. If a
dálaigh
demanded the presence of a witness, then the witness
had to obey on pain of a fine. Fidelma determined that she would ensure the conceited Sister Síomha learned this lesson.
The square tower was built in a series of chambers placed one on top of the other with floors of birch planking supported by heavy oak beams from which steps led from one chamber to another. Each chamber had four small windows which commanded views on all four sides but these made the rooms gloomy rather than bringing light into them. The tower itself, or at least the first two floors of it, were filled by the community’s
Tech-screptra,
the ‘house of manuscripts’ or library. Wooden fames crossed the room on which rows of pegs hung and from each peg was suspended a
tiag liubhar
or book satchel.
Fidelma paused amazed at the collection of books which the abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells had in its possession. There must have been fully fifty or more hanging from the pegs on the first two floors. She carefully examined several of them finding, among them, to her further surprise, copies of the works of the eminent Irish scholar Longarad of Sliabh Marga. Another book satchel contained the works of Dallán Forgaill of Connacht, who had presided at the Great Bardic Assemblies of his day, and who had been murdered seventy years ago. Suspicion was laid at the door of Guaire the Hospitable, king of Connacht, but nothing was ever proved. It was one of the great mysteries which Fidelma often found herself contemplating and wishing that she had lived in those times so that she could solve the riddle of Dallán’s death.
She looked in a third book satchel and found a copy of
Teagasc Ri
, The Instruction of the King. The author of this work was the High King Cormac Mac Art, who had died at Tara in AD 254. Although he had not been of the Faith he was famed as one of the wisest and most beneficent of monarchs. He had composed the book of instructions on the conduct of life, health, marriage and manners. Fidelma smiled as she remembered her first day under instruction of
her mentor, the Brehon Morann of Tara. She had been shy and almost afraid to speak. Morann had quoted from Cormac’s book: ‘If you be too talkative, you will not be heeded: if you be too silent, you will not be regarded.’
A frown crossed her face as she examined the vellum leaves of the book. Many of them were stained with a reddish mud. How could any good librarian allow such a treasure to be so defaced? She made a mental note to speak of the condition of the book to the librarian and thrust it back into its satchel, rebuking herself from being waylaid from her purpose in coming to the tower.
Reluctantly, she drew herself away from the library and climbed to the third floor. Here was a room set out for the scribes and copyists of the community. It was empty now but there were writing tables ready with piles of quills of geese, swans, and crows ready to be sharpened. Writing boards with vellum, the stretched skins of sheep, goat and calves, stood ready. Pots of ink made from carbon, black and durable.
Fidelma glanced around and presumed that the scriptors who occupied the copying room were at their midday meal following the noon Angelus. The pale sun infiltrated into the room from the southern and western windows, illuminating it in a sharp beam of translucent light, making it seem warm and comfortable in spite of the chill air. It was a spacious and secure place to work in, she reflected. From here the view was breathtaking. To the south and west, through the windows, she could see the shimmering sea and encompassing headlands around the inlet. The Gaulish ship still rode at anchor. The sails were furled but she could see no sign of Odar and his men on board. She presumed they were resting or at their noonday meal. The water sparkled around the vessel reflecting the pastel colour of the clear sky. Looking due west she could see the fortress of Adnár and turning to the north and east, she could see the forests and the rising snow-capped peaks of the mountains behind the abbey,
peaks which ran along the peninsula like the ridged back of a lizard.
She moved across to the northern window and peered out. Below her the buildings of the abbey stretched around the large clearing on the low-lying headland. The place seemed deserted now, confirming her belief that the sisters were eating their midday meal in the refectory. The abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells was certainly situated in a most beautiful spot. The high cross stood tall and white in the sun. Immediately below was the courtyard, with its central sundial. There were numerous unconnected buildings forming the sides of the courtyard with the large wooden church, the
duirthech
, which ran along the southern side of the paved yard. Behind the main buildings fronting the courtyard were several other structures of wood, and a few of stone, in which the community lived and worked.
Fidelma was about to turn back into the room when she caught a slight movement on a track about half a mile distant from the abbey. It was a track that seemed to wend its way down from the mountains and disappear behind the tree line, heading, presumably, in the direction of Adnár’s fortress. A dozen riders were cautiously guiding their horses along this road. Fidelma screwed her eyes to sharpen the vision. Behind the horsemen, more men were trotting on foot. She felt sorry for them as she saw they were hard pressed to keep up with the riders on the sloping, rocky ground.
She could make out nothing, except that the foremost riders were richly accoutred. The sun splashed on the vivid colours of their dress and sparkled and blazed on the burnished shields of several of the mounted men. At the head of the column, one of the riders carried a banner on a long pole. A stream of silk, with some emblem which she could not discern, snapped and twisted in the breeze. She frowned at some strange shape on one of the riders’ shoulders. From this distance, her first glance made it initially seem as if he
had two heads. No! She could now and then see a movement from the shape and realised that perched on this rider’s shoulder was a large hawk. The line of riders, with those following on foot, eventually passed down below the tree line and out of her vision.
Fidelma stood a few moments wondering if she would catch sight of them again but the thick surrounding oak forest hid them from view now that they were down off the high ground. She wondered who they were and then gave a mental shrug. It was no use wasting time wondering when she did not have the ability to resolve the answer.
She turned away from the window and made her way to the steps that led to the fourth and highest room of the tower.
She entered through the trap door into this upper room without pausing to knock or otherwise announce her presence.
Sister Síomha was bending over a large bronze basin which stood on a stone fireplace and was steaming gently. The
rechtaire
of the community glanced up with an angry frown and then let her expression change a little when she recognised Fidelma.
‘I was wondering when you would come,’ the steward of the community greeted her in an irritable tone.
For once, Fidelma found herself without words. Her eyes involuntarily widened.
Sister Síomha paused to adjust a small copper bowl which was floating on top of the steaming bronze basin before straightening up and turning to face Fidelma.
Once more Fidelma found the angelic heart-shaped face difficult to equate with the attitude and office of
rechtaire
. Fidelma examined her carefully, registering that the eyes were large and of an amber colour. The lips were full and here and there a strand of brown hair poked from under her head dress. A disarming splash of freckles daubed her face. The young sister gave an impression of wide-eyed innocence. Yet something sparkled deep within those amber eyes, an
expression that Fidelma had difficulty in interpreting. It was a restless, angry fire.
Fidelma drew her brows together and tried to recover her feeling of annoyance.
‘We agreed to meet at the guests’ hostel at noon,’ she began but to her surprise the young sister shook her head firmly.
‘We did not agree,’ she replied in an abrupt tone. ‘You told me to be there at noon and then walked away before I could answer.’
Fidelma was taken aback. It was certainly one interpretation of the exchange. However, one had to bear in mind the young girl’s initial haughty presumption that had made Fidelma react in order to curb her insolence and disrespect for Fidelma’s office. Obviously, no lesson had been learned and now Fidelma had been placed on a wrong footing.
‘You realise, Sister Síomha, that I am an attorney of the court and have certain rights? I summoned you before me as a witness and failure to obey my summons results in your liability to a fine.’
Sister Síomha sneered arrogantly.
‘I have no concern for your law. I am steward of this community and my responsibilities here require my attention. My first duty is to my abbess and to the Rule of this community.’
Fidelma swallowed sharply.
She was unsure whether the younger sister was innocently obstructive or merely wilful.
‘Then you have much to learn,’ Fidelma finally replied with bite. ‘You will pay me such fine as I judge worthy and, to ensure your compliance, this will be done before the Abbess Draigen. In the meantime, you will tell me how you came to be with Sister Brónach when the corpse was drawn from the well.’
Sister Síomha opened her mouth as if to dispute with Fidelma but she changed her mind. Instead, she moved to a chair and slumped in it. There was no indication in the
movement of her body that her carriage was that of a religieuse. There was no calm poise, no modest folding of her hands, no contemplative submission. Her body spoke of aggression and arrogance.
It was the only seat in the room and there was nothing for Fidelma to do but to stand before the seated girl. Fidelma quickly cast a glance around. The room, like the others before, had four open windows but these were larger than those on the lower floors. There was a stack of small logs and twigs on one side of this room. On the other side was the stone fireplace whose smoke escaped through the western aperture, though, with the changing breeze, sometimes the smoke blew back into the room causing a pungent odour of woodsmoke. A small table, with writing tablets and a few
graib
, or metal writing stylus, on it, was the only other furniture in the room. However, before the north window, there stood a large copper gong and a stick.
A ladder in another corner gave access to the flat roof of the tower on which, she knew, stood the structure from which hung a large bronze bell. At the appropriate time of service and prayer, a sister would climb up to ring it.
All this, Fidelma took in during her brief glance. Then she turned her gaze back to the discourteously seated Sister Síomha.
‘You have not replied to my question,’ Fidelma said quietly.
‘Sister Brónach undoubtedly told you what happened,’ she answered stubbornly.
Fidelma’s expression held a dangerous fire.
‘And now you will tell me.’
The steward repressed a sigh. She made her voice wooden, like a child repeating a well-known lesson.
‘It was Sister Brónach’s task to draw water from the well. When the Abbess Draigen returned from the midday prayers in the church, Sister Brónach usually had the water waiting for her in her chamber. That day there was no sign of the
water or of Sister Brónach. I was with the abbess who asked me, as steward, to go in search of Brónach …’
‘Sister Brónach holds the title of doorkeeper of this abbey, doesn’t she?’ interrupted Fidelma, knowing full well the answer but seeking a means to disrupt the wooden delivery.
Síomha looked disconcerted for a moment and then gave a little motion of her head which implied confirmation.
‘She has been here many years. She is older than most people in the community, except our librarian who is the eldest. She bears the title, in respect of her age, rather than her ability.’