There were several brothers tending a small garden set behind an artificial shelter of stone-slabbed walls. She noticed, also to her surprise, that there were two wells.
‘This is truly an amazing place,’ she whispered to Cass. ‘No wonder the brothers are so obdurate about their privacy.’
The anchorite who had accompanied them had disappeared, presumably into one of the stone buildings.
They had been spotted by the gardeners who had halted their work and were muttering uneasily among themselves.
‘I do not think that they are pleased to see you, Fidelma,’ Cass said, his hand staying on the hilt of his sword.
The anchorite reappeared with the same abruptness as he had vanished.
‘This way. Father Mel will speak with you.’
They found a wizened-faced old man seated cross-legged in one of the beehive-shaped huts. It was small so that they either had to follow the old man’s example and seat themselves on some sheepskins which covered the floor or stay standing, slightly stooped. Fidelma gave the lead by lowering herself into a cross-legged position in front of the old man.
He gazed at her thoughtfully with bright blue eyes. His faceseemed hewed out of the rock of his island. Stern and granitelike. The lines were many and were etched deeply into his weather-beaten brown face.
‘In hoc loco non ero, ubi enim ovis, ibi mulier … ubi mulier … ibi peccatum,’ intoned the old man dispassionately.
‘I am aware that you have no wish to associate with women,’ Fidelma replied. ‘I would not intrude on your rule unless there was a greater purpose.’
‘Greater purpose? The association of the sexes in the Faith is contrary to the discipline of the Faith,’ grunted Father Mel.
‘On the contrary, if both sexes forsook each other there would soon be no people, Faith or church,’ returned Fidelma cynically.
‘Abneganbant mulierum administrationem separantes eas a monasteriis,’ intoned Father Mel piously.
‘We can sit here and discourse in Latin, if you like,’ Fidelma sighed. ‘But I am come on more important matters. I do not wish to impose myself where I am unwelcome, though I find it hard to believe that there are places within the five kingdoms of Éireann where our laws and customs have been so sadly rejected. However, the sooner I can get answers to my questions then the sooner I can depart from this place.’
Father Mel allowed an eyebrow to twitch in irritation at her response.
‘What is it you wish?’ he demanded coldly. ‘My disciple told me you were a dálaigh with a commission from the temporal king of this land.’
‘That is so.’
‘Then what must I do to help you fulfil your commission and allow you to depart swiftly?’
‘Do you have anyone from the land of Osraige in this monastery?’
‘We welcome everyone into our brotherhood.’
Fidelma checked her irritation at the unspecific response.
‘That was not what I asked.’
‘Very well, I am from Osraige myself,’ replied Father Mel with diffidence. ‘What would you ask of me?’
‘I believe that some time ago someone from Osraige found sanctuary here. A descendant of the native kings. An heir of Illan. If that is so, then I wish to see him for I fear his life is in danger.’
Father Mel almost smiled.
‘Then perhaps you wish to talk to me? Illan, of whom you speak, was my cousin, though I would not consider myself heir to any temporal glory.’
‘Is this true?’ Dacan had said the heir of Illan was being looked after by his cousin but she was hardly expecting the cousin to be this aging Father Superior.
‘I am not in the habit of lying, woman,’ snapped the old man. ‘Now, do you believe me to be in danger of my life?’
Fidelma slowly shook her head. Father Mel himself was certainly no threat to the security of the current petty kings of Osraige nor a possible rallying point for any future insurrection.
‘No. There is no danger for you. But I am told that there is a young heir of Illan. That his cousin, obviously yourself, was taking care of him.’
Father Mel’s face was set like stone.
‘There is no young heir to Illan on this island,’ he said firmly, ‘You may take my holy oath of office on it.’
Could this long, arduous journey have really been for nothing? Had Dacán made that same mistake? Father Mel could not take such an oath unless it were true.
‘Is there anything else?’ came Father Mel’s curt tone.
Fidelma rose to her feet trying to hide her disappointment.
‘Nothing. I accept the truth of what you say. You shelter no young heir of Illan.’ She hesitated. ‘Have you been visited by a merchant named Assid of Laigin?’
Father Mel met her gaze evenly.
‘There are many merchants that land here. I do not recall all their names.’
‘Then does the name of the Venerable Dacán mean anything to you?’
‘As a scholar of the Faith,’ replied the Father Superior easily. ‘Everyone has surely heard of the man.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Nothing else,’ affirmed the old man. ‘Now, if that is all …?’
Fidelma led the way from the building, bitterly disappointed. Cass followed with bewilderment on his features.
‘Is that all?’ he asked. ‘Surely, we did not come all this way for this?’
‘Father Mel would not have taken oath that there was no young heir of Illan in this monastery if there was,’ Fidelma pointed out.
‘Religious have been known to lie,’ countered Cass darkly.
They were suddenly aware of an anchorite, a flat-faced, lugubrious-looking man of middle age, blocking their path.
‘I …’ the man hesitated. ‘I overheard. You asked if there was anyone from Osraige here. Refugees.’
The monk’s face mirrored some deep conflict of emotions.
‘That’s right,’ she agreed. ‘What is your name?’
‘I am Brother Febal. I tend the gardens here.’
The monk abruptly took out of his robes a small object and handed it with all solemnity to Fidelma.
It was a corn doll. It was old, weather-worn, with the stuffing bursting out from broken joins where the weave had burst or torn.
‘What’s this?’ demanded Cass.
Fidelma stared at it and turned it over in her hands. ‘What can you tell us about this, brother?’
Brother Febal hesitated, throwing a look towards the hut of the Father Superior and he motioned them to follow a littleway down the path, out of sight of the main complex of buildings.
‘Father Mel has not told you the exact truth,’ he confessed. ‘The good Father is afraid, not for himself but for his charges.’
‘I was sure that he was being frugal with the truth,’ Fidelma replied gravely. ‘But I cannot believe he would lie so blatantly if there was a young heir to Illan of Osraige on this island.’
‘There is not, so he spoke the truth,’ Brother Febal replied. ‘However, six months ago he brought two boys to the island. He told us that their father, a cousin of his, had died and he was going to take care of them for a few months until a new home could be arranged for them. When the younger child became bored here, as young children would, the elder boy made him this corn doll to amuse him. When they left, I found that the boy had left it behind.’
Fidelma looked puzzled.
‘Two boys. How old?’
‘One about nine years old, the other only a few years older’
‘Then there was not an older boy with them? A boy reaching the age of choice?’
To her disappointment, Brother Febal shook his head.