Peter Tremayne - Master of Souls

‘That is no problem,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘If there is nothing specific that you want me to do, I heard from one of the brothers that there was to be some chant practice in the abbey church. I would be very interested to hear it.’

‘Then I will accompany you, Brother Eadulf,’ Conri volunteered. ‘I know something of the singers.’

They left Fidelma heading for the tech-nigid and made their way to the main church building of the abbey complex. They could hear the voices of the abbey’s clais, or choir, already raised in what sounded to a surprised Eadulf like some martial war chant. They entered the high-roofed chamber and took their place at the rear of the building. The clais were all males and before them the songmaster stood intently, his very body trembling, as he imparted the tones and rhythms of the music to the singers.

Their voices rose intensely.

Regis regum rectissimi prope est dies Domini dies irae et vindictae tenebrarum et nebulae.

Eadulf listened to the unusual rhythms of what he recognised as a Gallican chant. The melismatic flourishes, the long series of notes on a single syllable, that characterised the chant were utterly unlike the Latin or the wailing chants from Iberia. The melodies of the Gallican chants had arisen among the Gauls, whose language was close to that of their neighbours the Britons. When Christianity had spread to Ireland it was from the Gauls that the early Irish Church had taken their religious music form, mixed a little with their own traditions. At least Eadulf could understand and feel the Latin words. Their spirit was not so different from his own Saxon war chants.

Day of the King most righteous,

The day is close at hand,

The day of wrath and vengeance,

And darkness on the land.

The clais sang several more chants in similar tone and metre before returning to the first martial song. When the rehearsal was over the choristers received a blessing from their master, rose and departed. Conr moved to catch the attention of the choirmaster. He was a tall, thin-faced individual. His dark eyes, sleek hair and swarthy features made him look furtive, as if he had a secret to hide. Eadulf noticed that he wore a silver crucifix round his neck, which was notable because it hung from a string of alternately yellow and green coloured stones. He thought they were garnets.

‘This is Brother Cill n, the stiuirtheoir canaid,’ Conr said, as he led the man back to where Eadulf waited. ‘Brother Cill n, this is Eadulf from Seaxmund’s Ham.’

The songmaster bowed his head and, on raising it, examined Brother Eadulf with a wary eye.

‘I have heard of your coming, Brother Eadulf, and wonder what the companion of the sister of the king of Muman seeks in our poor songs.’

‘Music is a food for the emotions and a feast that everyone enjoys,’ returned Eadulf.

The master of music sniffed disdainfully.

‘Not everyone,’ he corrected. ‘Some may listen to the tune but they do not hear the music.’

‘I have heard that this abbey is renowned for its music,’ Eadulf pressed on.

The choirmaster pulled a face as if to deny it.

‘There are many abbeys that produce better music than we — however, we are progressing.’

‘Progressing?’

‘We are going to perform at the great gathering of Aenach Urmhuman next spring,’ Brother Cill n said with some pride.

‘The Assembly of East Muman? I have heard of it.’

Brother Cill n smiled thinly.

‘It is a famous gathering. Each year there is a singing contest at the great stronghold of the kings… er, the chieftains of the Ui Fidgente by Loch Derg. I am hoping that we will win the contest next year.’

‘Well, the last piece you sang was an excellent hymn,’ observed Eadulf. ‘I do not think I have heard it before. It seems so full of battle imagery that it is hard to reconcile it with the peace of the Faith.’

The choirmaster shrugged.

‘Yet it was written by Colmcille — the blessed dove of the church. It is called the Altus Prosator. It is a good work but not a great work.’

‘It does not sound like a work of peace,’ Eadulf repeated.

‘Perhaps Colmcille saw that war was often the only way forward to assert one’s rights, Brother Eadulf,’ remarked the songmaster wryly. ‘The Ui Fidgente learnt that lesson struggling against the Eoghanacht of Cashel.’

Conri frowned in annoyance.

‘And learnt another lesson when they were defeated,’ he pointed out sharply.

Brother Cillin was about to reply when one of the choristers approached them and coughed meaningfully to attract the attention of the master of song.

Brother Cillin frowned irritably at him. ‘Speak, Brother,’ he instructed.

‘Your pardon, master, we need to consult you on the unending circle.’

Brother Cillin’s features became uneasy as he glanced at Eadulf and Conri. With a muttered apology, he turned and stalked off, followed by the abashed-looking chorister.

‘A strange, almost surly, character,’ observed Eadulf.

Conri grinned.

‘There is no harm in Brother Cillin. He has a good reputation as a teacher of music, especially in the clais-cheol.’

‘Choir-singing? I wish that I had heard more of it. I’d like to know these musical terms-“unending circle”, the chorister said. I’ve not heard of that.’ Eadulf sighed. He paused and then said suddenly: ‘Why is it that the Ui Fidgente resent the Eoghanacht at Cashel so much?’

Conri stuck out his lower lip in a thoughtful expression before answering.

‘The lady Fidelma has never spoken to you of this matter?’

Eadulf smiled softly.

‘She has given me the Eoghanacht side of the story. That is natural. I would hear the Ui Fidgente viewpoint.’

Conri gave a quick laugh.

‘A great diplomat was lost in you, Brother Eadulf. Well, we have been taught over many generations that the Eoghanacht have denied the rights of the Ui Fidgente.’

‘How so?’

‘As you know, Brother, in this land our peoples are bound by genealogists who set forth each family’s line, generation by generation. Our ancestors are important to us, my friend. Those who have gone before often continue to govern us who live now.’

‘That is often the natural order of things,’ confirmed Eadulf. ‘I was an hereditary gerefa — a magistrate — in my own land. I held that position because of my ancestors and not from my choice.’

‘The Eoghanacht dynasties of Muman take their name from Eoghan Mor,’ went on Conri. ‘Eoghan’s grandson was a great king of Cashel called Ailill Fland Bec. He had three sons. The eldest of these was Maine Munchain whose son was Fiachu Fidgennid from whom we take our name the Ui Fidgente, the descendants of Fidgennid.’

Eadulf was frowning.

‘Is that relevant? I have been here long enough to understand that your laws of succession are not governed by eldest male inheritance. At least three generations of the extended family have to meet together to elect the man best fitted for the task of kingship. That is usually done in the lifetime of the ruling prince, and the man chosen as his successor is called the tanaiste, or tanist. Is that not so?’

‘You understand the system perfectly, Brother Eadulf. But the point I am making is that we are true descendants of Eoghan, just as much as the Eoghanacht of Cashel, the Eoghanacht of Aine, the Eoghanacht of Glendamnach and of Chliach and of Raithlind and of Locha Lein. We should be part of the great assembly of Muman. Yet we are excluded. We are told that we are not Eoghanacht and that our genealogists have forged our genealogies.’

‘You obviously believe that your genealogists are right?’

Conri thrust out his chin aggressively.

‘I am an Ui Fidgente,’ he replied simply.