Peter Tremayne - Chalice of Blood

The physician frowned and began to clear away the dishes in which he had been mixing his last patience’s medication.

‘I always like to take a walk before preparing myself for repose,’ he said. ‘It helps to clear the mind.’

‘But so late?’

‘I am no slave to the motions of the sun and moon,’ he replied shortly. ‘If I were, then I would not be a physician because sickness and injury do not take account of night or day.’

‘That is true. What made you become a physician? Are you descended from one of those families of hereditary healers?’

Brother Seachlann flushed. She saw a glimpse of some emotion she could not recognise cross his features.

‘I went to study the healing arts when I saw there was a need of them among my people.’

‘That is very laudable, Brother Seachlann. It is this abbey’s good fortune that you decided to leave your people and come here.’

‘The physician should serve all people, irrespective of who they are.’

‘So you saw there was a need among your people but, having qualified, you decided that others had greater need of your talents?’

‘That much is obvious as I am here,’ he replied waspishly.

Fidelma merely smiled and waited.

‘I qualified among the religious and thereafter I considered them my people,’ he tried to justify himself.

‘Indeed, so you came here to my brother’s kingdom,’ she said, reminding him that she held power in the land. ‘In this kingdom,’ she went on, ‘as I think that you learnt from our first meeting, a dálaigh has particular authority, especially when that authority is backed by the rank of birth. Usually, rank of birth does not enter into matters until someone attempts to usurp the authority of the law.’

There was a moment’s silence and then he dropped his gaze to the floor.

‘I beg your forgiveness, lady,’ he said thickly. ‘When you first came here, I was told that I should be careful about what I said to you. I was told neither your rank nor your position.’

‘And it was Brother Lugna, of course, who said that to you.’

He seemed nervous at the suggestion.

‘Do not worry, Brother Seachlann. I presume that you were not in the refectorium for the evening meal last night?’

He frowned and shook his head.

‘Can I ask you where you were? Even a physician has to eat.’

‘I was called earlier that evening to attend to a patient. I did not return to the abbey until after dark.’

‘Who was the patient?’

‘A warrior at a nearby fortress.’

‘Which fortress?’

‘Lady Eithne’s.’

‘What was wrong with the warrior?’

‘An ulcerated wound. It was easily treated and there was no cause for me to be called to her fortress. A herbalist, or evenLady Eithne herself, could have done as much as I did. I saw she was quite knowledgeable about healing herbs and anatomy. However, she believed it beneath her dignity to treat one of her own warriors.’

‘You say that it was an ulcerated wound.’

‘I was told that the man had been practising with his sword and sustained a cut on his arm which he simply washed. I mixed some sorrel and apple juice and applied it to the wound with the white of a hen’s egg. If he keeps the wound clean, then there should be no problems.’

‘So you were kept at the fortress and returned here after dark.’

‘That is so.’ He hesitated and asked, ‘And if I had been here for the evening meal what then?’

‘Then you would have witnessed the steward of this abbey having to acknowledge my authority. I had already learnt that he had given some bad advice to you and others.’

‘I suppose I should have known better.’ The physician sighed.

‘You should,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘But as you have been here only a few weeks …’ She shrugged. ‘What made you choose to come here?’

Once again a guarded look spread across his features. ‘Much praise has been given to Lios Mór for its scholars and learning. It is good to be associated with such a community.’

‘Where did you study? I think you mentioned Sléibhte.’

‘Indeed. I studied at the medical school attached to the abbey at Sléibhte in Laighin.’

‘I know it, for I was once at Cill Dara, which is not far distant. Aedh is abbot at Sléibhte, is he not?’

Brother Seachlann gave a grunt of assent.

‘It is a small world,’ Fidelma said pointedly.

‘It is,’ he responded, ‘and so you will know that there isregular contact between Lios Mór and the abbey of Sléibhte. It is surely not strange that it would bring me here.’

‘That is true,’ Fidelma agreed. It was clear that the physician was determined to provide as little information as possible while seeming to answer her questions. She thanked him for his help and left him to his herbs and potions.

Fidelma made her way slowly towards the building site again. She realised that it would have been quite a distance for the physician to carry the inert body of Eadulf by himself in the darkness. She was almost tempted to demand that Brother Seachlann reveal who his companion had been. He seemed to be hiding something but she knew she would not find out what by directly confronting him.

It was late afternoon now and Fidelma was surprised to find the site deserted. There was no shouting, no sounds of hammering, sawing or the clash of stone on stone. She hesitated before the half-built door whose lintel had so nearly put an end to Eadulf’s life. A cold shiver went down her spine. She realised that she would not have been able to continue had anything happened to Eadulf. She felt a sudden desire to cry. Then she sniffed and drew herself up, trying to chase the thought from her mind.

The lintel had been replaced in position on top of the door and a line of stones had been laid to secure it. Fidelma looked round at the deserted site and shook her head. She was about to turn away when suddenly a young voice started singing from beyond the walls of the half-built construction.

Hymnum dicat turba fratrum,

hymnum canos personet …

Band of brethren raise the hymn,

let our song the hymn resound …

Fidelma picked her way towards the sound of the singing.

It was the young boy Gúasach, busy piling up loose pieces of wood.

‘Hello,’ Fidelma called.

The boy turned with a frown and then, on recognising her, smiled broadly.

‘Were you looking for Glassán, Sister?’ he asked.

‘Everyone seems to have vanished except you,’ countered Fidelma. ‘Where have they gone? It is surely early to stop work for the day.’

The boy shook his head. ‘They have not stopped work. All are needed down at the quarry to bring up more stones to the site.’

‘Ah, I see. You seem to like this work,’ she said, perching herself on a low stone wall.

‘I am learning to be a master builder under the fosterage of my aite .’ The boy spoke proudly.

‘And where are you from?’

‘I am of the Uí Briún Sinna, Sister.’

‘Then you are from the Kingdom of Connachta. But isn’t your foster-father from Laighin?’

‘I do not know. I am told that he came to live among us just after I was born. My own father was a builder of mills and so Glassán and he worked together. When I was seven years old, my family, wanting me to train to be a master builder, arranged for me to go into fosterage with Glassán.’

Fidelma knew that the Law of the Fénechus determined that a mill-maker could charge two cumals , the equivalent of six cows, for a finely constructed mill. But a master builder was higher up the professional scale and could receive more money.

The boy added, ‘My father pays Glassán a cumal , three milch cows, for my tuition.’