Master of Souls by Peter Tremayne Read Free Book Online

at peace with my concerns.’
    ‘That I will find hard,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘Anyway, we shall soon be meeting Abbot Erc. I hope you will overcome any antagonism you feel. There appears enough antagonism here as it is. I need your mind and support to help me in this matter. Remember Muirgen and Nessán are nursing little Alchú in the safety of my brother’s fortress. The plans that we have set for the feast day of Imbolc remain in place and they will happen. And here we are, together, with a problem to face and to solve. What better situation can there be?’

    Eadulf reluctantly smiled at her infectious enthusiasm.
    ‘Very well, Fidelma. I will put a curb on my fears. But I shall look forward to the day when we can return to Cashel.’
    There was a movement at the door as Sister Sinnchéne returned.
    ‘The water will be ready when you are, Sister.’
    ‘Excellent.’ Fidelma rose immediately, picking up her cíorbholg , her comb-bag in which all Irish women carried their toilet articles. ‘Show me to this bathhouse, Sister, for I am ready now.’
    Sister Sinnchéne led Fidelma along the corridor to a room in which stood a large wooden tub called the dabach. It was already steaming. A cauldron of water was simmering on a fire in the far corner. There were shelves on which were displayed bars of sléic and linen cloths. Nearby were little jars of oil and extracts of sweet-smelling herbs boiled into a liquid to anoint the body. The place was well equipped with a scaterc - a mirror of fine polished metal - and a selection of clean combs.
    ‘I shall attend you, if it is your wish,’ said the young sister.
    Fidelma nodded absently. It was usual to have an attendant to pour the heated water and pass soap and drying cloths.
    She undressed and climbed into the dabach. The water was not too hot and she relaxed with a sigh, lying back while Sister Sinnchéne passed her a bar of soap.
    ‘Have you been long in this abbey, Sister?’ asked Fidelma as she began to lather herself.
    Sister Sinnchéne was checking on the heat of the water.
    ‘I have been here ever since I reached the age of choice,’ she replied.
    The age of choice, the aimsir togú, was the maturity of a girl arrived at her fourteenth birthday.
    ‘I would say you have not yet reached twenty summers?’ hazarded Fidelma.
    ‘I am twenty-one,’ corrected the girl, turning to pick up a big metal jug and scoop water from the cauldron. She brought it to the tub and poured it in, carefully so as not to scald Fidelma.
    ‘I presume that you knew the Venerable Cinaed?’
    There seemed some hesitation and Fidelma looked up. She was surprised to see a red tinge had settled on Sister Sinnchéne’s cheek.
    ‘We are a small community, Sister,’ the girl returned with an abruptness of tone that caused Fidelma’s eyebrow to rise slightly.

    ‘Of course,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘I am sorry. Naturally you are upset by his loss.’
    ‘He was a kind and generous man,’ replied the other with a catch in her throat.
    ‘Do you have any idea how he came by his death?’
    The young woman frowned, facing Fidelma as if seeking some other significance to her words.
    ‘Everyone knows his head was smashed in while he was in the oratory.’
    ‘Are there any ideas circulating in the abbey about who could have done such a thing?’
    For a moment the young sister looked as if she were about to give vent to the tears that she was trying so desperately to hide. Her face contorted for a moment and then she controlled herself.
    ‘It is not my place to speculate about gossip,’ she finally said. ‘You must asked the abbot.’
    ‘But you must know …’ began Fidelma.
    ‘If that will be all, Sister … ?’ Sister Sinnchéne interrupted pointedly. ‘I have other duties that I must attend to.’
    Fidelma said nothing but inclined her head. She knew when to back away from questions that people did not want to answer. Sister Sinnchéne went quickly out of the bathhouse, leaving