Valley of the Shadow

Chapter Eleven

Something had awakened her.

She was not sure what it was. It was still dark. She lay on her bed listening carefully. Then she realised the cause. It had been the sound of whispered voices. They were low but intense enough to penetrate into her fitful sleep.

‘Very well. It has to be done.’

She sought to identify the voice. It was a moment or two before she realised that it was the young monk, Brother Dianach, who was speaking. Then she located where the voices were coming from, Brother Dianach’s sleeping chamber. The rooms were only partitioned by wood and so the sounds were not exactly muffled.

She did not move but lay listening intently for the second voice. She had already guessed who it would be. She was not disappointed.

‘Give me the vellum and I will hand it to him.’

It was Brother Solin’s voice.

‘I have it here.’

Solin gave a hiss. ‘Not so loud, boy, otherwise you might wake our fellow guests. We would not want that to happen.’

Brother Dianach gave an uncharacteristic laugh.

‘The Saxon will not wake. He quaffed enough mead and wine to sleep a week. Listen, you can hear him snoring like a pig!’

‘Quickly, now!’ Brother Solin became impatient. ‘It is essential I keep the rendezvous.’

‘Here is the vellum, Brother.’

There was a silence as if Solin were checking the object that he had been handed.

‘Good. Now back to sleep with you. I will report to you in the morning. If all goes well, Cashel will fall to us before the summer is out.’

Fidelma started up with a jerk. It was a reaction which she could not help. It was lucky that her movement had been drowned by the departure of Solin himself. Fidelma sat for a moment, heart pounding. She could hear from the soft footfalls that Solin wastip-toeing past her sleeping chamber. She swung out of bed and dragged on her robe and leather-soled shoes.

Solin had left the hostel by the time she had reached the head of the stairs but she had to refrain from any hurried descent for it would alert Brother Dianach. There was no time to wake Eadulf who slept in the chamber opposite. She went as swiftly as she could down the stairs and out into the cold darkness of the early morning.

The night was so still; so quiet. Yet the moon, although passed its full, shone with a bright white light, bathing the courtyard with its eerie glow. The figure of Brother Solin was hurrying quietly across the courtyard. She could see that he was carrying something, something white and rolled up in one hand. She found she had to wait in the darkened shadows of the hostel door because the moonlight was too intense to venture straight across the courtyard after him.

Brother Solin vanished round the corner of the building complex which she and Eadulf had visited a few hours before. Only after he had turned the corner did she hurry forward. Having reached the corner, she halted and peered carefully around it. Fidelma stood still, frustrated. There was now no sign at all of Brother Solin; no indication of where he could have disappeared to. She peered into the twilight, turning in all directions. Burning torches throughout the ráth enhanced the curious flickering twilight which spread over the buildings. There was no sign of the northern cleric’s stocky figure or even inviting shadows which might indicate where he lurked. The main pathway led directly towards the stables of the ráth and she took a few hesitant steps along it, then stopped and shrugged.

There was no point in attempting to find Solin now. He had gone to ground. There was little choice left to her but to return to the hostel and her interrupted sleep. What had Brother Solin meant? Cashel would fall before the summer had ended. That was what he had said. Summer had but one more month to run. What threat was here and how was Solin involved? That the key to the mystery lay with Solin was now abundantly clear in her mind. But what was the mystery? She still could not see any possible explanation.

She had already moved a reluctant pace or two in the direction of the hostel when she heard a scuffling noise. She held her head to one side. It had come from the direction of the stables. She turned back and moved quietly into the shadows, moving slowly down towards the stable entrance. A brand torch was lit above the stable door throwing a pool of flickering light over the entrance.

Had she heard a smothered cry, drawn out as if in agony? She waited some moments trying to detect any further sound.

A figure abruptly emerged at the stable entrance, standing for a moment as if examining whether it was observed.

It was clad from head to foot in a cloak and a hood which was held by one hand across the lower part of the face. Only the eyes and nose were visible. It was a slender figure, Fidelma could tell that in spite of the cloak which almost shrouded it. It was as the figure glanced along the path that the torchlight fell on the visible portion of its features — fell only momentarily and with shadows dancing this way and that, obscuring the exact contours of the face. However, Fidelma felt in no doubt that she had recognised the distinctive dark eyes and the features of Orla.

The slender figure hurried abruptly into the darkness towards the building which housed Murgal’s apartment and others.

Fidelma stood in indecision. Should she follow the furtive figure and if so for what reason? She still had to find Brother Solin. Solin would surely be the last person that Orla would wish a tryst with in the middle of the night after her threat to kill him.

Perhaps Brother Solin had gone elsewhere? Why shouldn’t the sister of the chieftain and wife of his tanist visit the stables of the ráth at any hour she wanted to do so? It was no business of Fidelma’s and yet … yet it was clear that Orla had no wish to be seen. Why? By the time Fidelma had considered the problem the figure had vanished into the darkness and Fidelma was alone in the silence of the night.

Fidelma suppressed a sigh and turned away. If the unlikely had happened and Solin had met Orla in the stable then he must have departed by another exit.

The groan was so low that for a moment she thought it was some movement of the night wind. Then it came again. It was a human sound, she realised within a moment, and it came from the stables.

She turned back and hurried to the doorway, peering into the darkness beyond. There was a gasping of agonised breath.

She could see only the shadowy outlines of the horses now moving restlessly in the dark. She moved to the brand torch outside and took it down from its metal holder. Then, carrying it aloft, she moved forward looking carefully to locate the source of the sound.

The figure lay at the far end of the stable, stretched on its back, one hand across its chest, the other stretched out behind its head.

Fidelma had no trouble recognising the thick-set figure of Brother Solin of Armagh.

She moved quickly to his side but one glance at the blood pumping from his lower chest, where his hand was vainly trying to stem the flow, was enough to show that Brother Solin was dying. His eyes were closed, his lips twisted in pain.

‘Solin!’ she spoke sharply. ‘Who did this to you?’

The man rolled his head but did not open his eyes. The lips twisted further in agony.

‘Solin, it is Fidelma. Who stabbed you?’

The lips parted and Fidelma had to lean close to hear the painful gasping breath.

‘Suaviter … suaviter in modo …’

The head fell back. Brother Solin of Armagh was dead.

Fidelma sighed and finished off the aphorism, ‘ … fortiter in re.’

She compressed her lips and stared down at the body. And what did that mean? ‘Gentle in manner,’ Solin had begun. The end of the aphorism was ‘resolute in deed’. Well, his killer had been resolute in this deed but certainly it was not done in gentle manner. Orla had said that she would kill Solin if she saw him again and she had, apparently, kept her word.

Realising Solin was beyond mortal help, she made a quick search of his body. The piece of vellum which Brother Dianach had given him, and which she had seen him carrying, was nowhere in the vicinity. She held her torch aloft and peered carefully around. There was no sign of anything remotely resembling the vellum. Had Orla taken it? If so, why? And what had Orla’s anger with Solin to do with Solin’s threat of Cashel falling before the summer ended?

Fidelma began to rise, torch in hand, and as she did so she felt a sharp sensation in her back. A harsh male voice hissed: ‘Make no further move, lady.’

She recognised the voice of Artgal.

She stood still.

‘I shall not move,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘What do you want of me?’

The man gave a sharp bark of laughter.

‘You have a droll sense of humour, lady. Stand still.’

To Fidelma’s surprise he suddenly raised his voice in a loud cry for the members of the watch.

‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, less certain of herself.

‘You may turn and face me,’ Artgal replied. ‘But slowly.’

Fidelma did so, facing the grim warrior-blacksmith who stoodsword in hand, its point towards her. In the distance she could hear answering shouts.

‘What are you doing?’ she demanded again.

‘Easy to say,’ Artgal smiled sourly. ‘What does one do when one finds a murderess bending over the body of her victim?’

‘But I did not …’ she began to protest but was unable to finish before Rudgal and another guard hurried into the stable followed a few seconds later by Laisre himself. The chieftain wore a heavy cloak wrapped around his person as if just aroused from his bed. Artgal stiffened respectfully before his chieftain.

‘What does this mean, Artgal?’ frowned Laisre, peering around the stable.

‘I was on night watch, Laisre. I was passing by the stable and saw the torch which usually lit the doorway was gone. There was a light inside the stable. I entered and saw this woman …’

He jerked his head towards Fidelma. Laisre frowned at Artgal’s discourtesy and interrupted.

‘Do you mean Fidelma of Cashel?’

Artgal was not to be put off.

‘I saw this woman bending over the body of the Christian priest, Solin. She is the killer.’

‘That is not so!’ protested Fidelma aghast at such an accusation.

Laisre had now caught sight of the body on the ground. He exclaimed in surprise and bent forward.

‘By the long grasp of Lugh,’ he whispered, ‘it is, indeed, the Christian envoy from Armagh!’ He straightened up and stared in bewilderment at Fidelma. ‘What does this mean?’

‘I did not kill him,’ Fidelma asserted.

‘No?’ Artgal sneered. ‘I am a witness to the deed. Lies will not help you.’

‘You are the liar,’ replied Fidelma, ‘for I defy you to say that you saw me plunge a knife into this poor soul.’

Artgal blinked at the vehemence of her denial.

‘I came in and saw you bending over him. There was no one else here.’

‘What have you to say in reply to this, Fidelma?’ asked Laisre, regarding her in some bewilderment.

‘I was following Brother Solin,’ Fidelma explained. ‘I lost him on the path outside. I was turning back to the hostel when I heard a sound from the stable. A figure came out and disappeared into the night. Then I heard a groan. I went inside and found Brother Solin. He was dying. He whispered something to me that does not make sense. A piece of Latin. Then he expired. I was just aboutto call the watch when Artgal stuck the point of his sword against my back.’

Artgal guffawed in derision.

‘There was no one here except you,’ he repeated.

‘You have the word of a dálaigh of the Brehon courts for the truth of what I say as well as the word of an Eóghanacht princess!’

‘Perhaps that is not enough,’ replied Artgal, refusing to be intimidated by her.

Laisre held up his hand for silence.

‘In this case, Fidelma of Cashel, Artgal is right. Your word is not enough. Why were you following Solin in the first place?’

‘Because …’ Fidelma hesitated, not wishing to reveal her suspicions. If there was some plot to overthrow Cashel, she wondered who else would be involved. Artgal misread her hesitation for guilt and turned in triumphant amusement.

‘Because she was angry at his presence,’ the warrior interposed. ‘We all saw her anger in the council meeting yesterday. There is always some conflict among these Christians. I heard her saying that Armagh and Imleach were rivals, both seeking power over our lives. They are squabbling with one another for the right to dictate to us. That’s the root of this matter, believe me.’

Everyone knew of the animosity between Solin and Fidelma. Laisre cast a dubious look at her.

‘It is a plausible motive.’

‘No. My reason to be suspicious of Brother Solin was a simple one.’ Fidelma had been thinking furiously. ‘He rose in the night and left the hostel. What good intention does someone have for so doing? I was suspicious of that. So I followed him.’

‘You claim that you saw a person standing at the stable door?’ Laisre reflected. ‘I don’t suppose that you could identify who it was?’

‘Of course she can’t!’ interrupted Artgal.

‘Let her reply,’ advised Laisre, gazing intently at Fidelma.

Fidelma felt a conflict, not wishing to reveal Orla’s presence until she had investigated herself, but she realised that she must now justify herself to Laisre.

‘Yes, I can,’ she answered to Laisre’s visible surprise. ‘But I would prefer not to reveal the name until I have had a chance to investigate.’

‘Investigate?’ They were startled by the voice of Murgal who had entered the stable unnoticed. ‘If there is an investigation, it is not you, lady, who shall conduct it. I am the Brehon here.’

Laisre glanced at his Druid as if he would dispute this but then shrugged.

‘Murgal is right, Fidelma of Cashel. You are a suspect in a murder. You can no longer act as a dálaigh. So you must cooperate with us. Tell us the name of the person who you saw outside the stable.’

‘If you can,’ Artgal added with a sneer.

‘I saw the lady Orla,’ Fidelma said quietly.

Laisre gave a sharp intake of breath. There was an expression of astonishment on his face.

‘What perfidy is this?’ demanded Artgal angrily. ‘She seeks to put the blame of her deed on the sister of our chieftain! The wife of our tanist!’

‘I seek only the truth,’ replied Fidelma firmly.

Murgal was staring at her with open suspicion.

‘Will this bring the truth nearer, by insulting your host, the chieftain of Gleann Geis, by claiming the lady Orla is a murderess?’

‘I said that I saw her emerge from the stable …’

‘The lady Orla, indeed?’ snapped Artgal. ‘This is an affront to all our people, Laisre!’

Laisre’s face had grown taut.

‘If you had given any other name but that one, Fidelma, I might have inclined to a lenient approach and might have even believed you.’

Fidelma thrust out her chin defiantly.

‘I can only speak the truth. Find Orla and bring her forth to deny my truth.’

Laisre stood undecided for a moment.

‘This is a bad business, Fidelma of Cashel. But this business is better discussed in my council chamber. Artgal, go to the chambers of Colla and Orla and request my sister’s presence. Do not even hint at what has happened here or why she is summoned.’ He turned abruptly to Murgal. ‘You are my Brehon. You will come with us and advise on procedure and judgment.’

Murgal inclined his head gravely. He signalled to Rudgal and the other guard to come forward.

‘One of you stay here with the body. Ensure that nothing is touched until I say so. The other may accompany us.’

‘Wait!’ cried Fidelma as Rudgal moved forward and took her by the arm.

Laisre was moving through the door but halted and turned to regard Fidelma questioningly.

‘What is it? Do you wish to change your story?’ he demanded.

‘How can I alter what is the truth?’ replied Fidelma in irritation. ‘No; if I am supposed to have killed Solin, even as Artgal entered the stable, then I would have used a knife to kill him. Examine the wound in the body, Murgal. You are a Brehon. How did he die?’

Murgal moved over and took the torch from her hand, bending over the body and examining it carefully.

‘One wound, a stab straight through the lower rib cage,’ he announced.

‘It is not disputed that Brother Solin was stabbed to death,’ Laisre said, with a quick glance at Artgal, who had also stayed after Fidelma had called out.

‘Artgal says that he saw me bending over Brother Solin’s dying form; saw me rising from the body, believing that I had just killed the man.’

‘That is exactly as I saw it,’ Artgal agreed.

‘Very well. I demand to be searched now for the knife.’

‘What?’ frowned Murgal.

‘Search me for the weapon with which I killed Brother Solin. I have not moved from this spot since Artgal came upon me. There has been no time for me to have concealed or cast away that weapon.’

Laisre hesitated and exchanged a hesitant glance with Murgal.

The saturnine Druid rose from the body and handed the torch to Rudgal.

‘Then with your permission, Fidelma of Cashel …?’

He moved forward and ran his hands impersonally through her clothing. His search was thorough, systematic and dispassionate.

‘She has no weapon hidden on her person,’ he reported.

‘Now look on the floor by the body,’ instructed Fidelma. She knew that no weapon would be found there as she had already cast around in a quick examination when she had seen how Brother Solin had come by his mortal wound.

Laisre sighed deeply.

‘We will search, Fidelma. Though you must already be sure that we will find nothing.’

‘I am only sure that I did not commit this killing.’

Murgal turned to Rudgal’s companion, for Rudgal himself had taken up a position just behind Fidelma in the manner of her escort.

‘Search, then, and if you find anything at all, bring it to us in the council chamber. Artgal, you have your instructions. Bring Orla to the chamber. Rudgal, you will escort Fidelma of Cashel.’

With Laisre leading the way and Murgal following, they madetheir way across the courtyard. Only a few people had been disturbed by the noise of Artgal’s alarm and had gathered, whispering among themselves in the courtyard. Fidelma looked anxiously for Eadulf but he was not there. However, she saw the white-faced Brother Dianach at the hostel door.

Rudgal leant close to her and whispered apologetically in her ear.

‘I hope that we will be able to solve this mystery quickly, Sister. But there will be much ill feeling at your accusation of Orla. She is well liked in Gleann Geis.’

In the council chamber Laisre clapped his hands and a servant came forward to relight the oil lamps and stir the embers of the grey fire into a dancing display of sparks before adding fuel to rekindle it.

Laisre sat uncomfortably in his chair of office and motioned Murgal to be seated at his side. He indicated Fidelma to be seated before them while Rudgal took up a discreet position just behind her chair.

‘This is a very bad business, Fidelma,’ muttered Laisre uneasily. ‘This morning we were due to conclude an agreement.’

‘I am fully aware of that.’ There was coldness in Fidelma’s voice. ‘Perhaps that is no coincidence? We have already been prevented from such a discussion once before.’

She stared directly at Murgal when she spoke. His face showed anger as he realised her implication.

‘My chieftain,’ he said harshly, ‘as your Brehon, I should conduct this matter from now on.’

Laisre gestured that he relinquished the matter to Murgal. The Brehon gave Fidelma a sallow smile.

‘At the moment your case is not good, Fidelma. What have you to say to the proposition put forward by Artgal as to your motive?’

‘No argument on theology is worth resorting to violence as a resolution,’ replied Fidelma.

‘Yet it is not unknown that people of your Faith have violent arguments on matters which are pointless to most people. We know, for example, how many clerics here argue against the authority of Rome and now we hear that Imleach does not even agree with the authority of Armagh. Surely you all worship the same God?’

Fidelma smiled thinly.

‘That itself is arguable.’

‘This Brother Solin was so certain that he represented the true way to your God and that all others dwelt in ignorance. I suppose you also argue that your way is the only way?’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘I would not be that impertinent, Murgal. There are many paths to the same objective. We can be absolutely certain only about those things that we do not properly comprehend. To have a path through life made certain is the aspiration of most people in this unclear and uncertain existence. But certainty is often an illusion. We are born to doubt. Those who know nothing, doubt nothing.’

Murgal’s expression was one of amazement.

‘If I did not see that you carry the symbols of the new Faith, Fidelma of Cashel, I would swear that you were of the old Faith. Perhaps you are wearing the wrong cloak?’

‘My Faith is the best armour in which to travel through life but it is the worst cloak.’

There was a silence as they tried to work out her meaning. It was broken by the sounds of voices outside and Artgal threw open the door. Colla, looking as if he had just risen from bed, a cloak wrapped around him, entered. Behind him, came Orla, looking sleepy and tousled-haired. Fidelma was surprised to see Orla’s dishevelled appearance as if she, too, had just been awakened from a deep sleep. She also had a cloak wrapped around her nightgown.

‘What is it?’ demanded Colla. ‘What demands our presence in the middle of the night? What has happened? There are people standing around the courtyard in whispering groups.’

Fidelma noticed that Artgal was standing just inside the door with a grin of satisfaction on his features.

‘Has Artgal not informed you of what has taken place?’ Fidelma asked suspiciously.

Colla shook his head emphatically.

‘He simply roused us and told us that Laisre wished to see us in the council chamber at once.’

Murgal intervened in annoyance.

‘I am in charge of these proceedings,’ he announced. ‘I am conducting these proceedings in my office as Brehon.’ He turned to Orla. ‘Orla, were you at the stables within the last hour?’

Orla’s look of bewilderment could surely not be feigned. Fidelma began to have a sinking feeling. Could she have been mistaken? No; she was certain.

‘Are you making some jest, Murgal? If so, it is in poor taste.’

‘I am not jesting. Where have you been this last hour?’

‘In the same place that I have been since returning after last evening’s festivities,’ Orla replied perplexed. ‘In my husband’s bed. We have not stirred until Artgal came knocking upon our door.’

The tanist’s wife was very convincing.

‘And Colla will doubtless confirm this?’ smiled Murgal grimly.

‘Of course I will,’ Colla snapped irritably. ‘We have not stirred these last few hours. Now, what does this mean?’

‘I can sympathise with your annoyance, Colla,’ Murgal replied. ‘There is worse to come. The cleric from Armagh, Solin, was stabbed to death in the stable within this last hour.’

Colla let out a low whistle of astonishment and Orla’s expression of bewilderment seemed to grow broader.

‘But what has this to do with us? Why do you ask if I had been at the stable …? Oh!’ Her eyes grew rounded as she stared at Fidelma. ‘I had told you that I would kill that pig! You think that … but it was just a figure of speech. I did not do so.’

Laisre intervened diplomatically.

‘Someone thought that they had seen you there.’

‘Well, it was not I,’ replied Orla firmly.

‘And I can vouch for that,’ added Colla.

Murgal glanced at Fidelma.

‘I do not think there is anything to be gained in pursuing this matter, Fidelma. Do you?’

However, Fidelma turned to Orla.

‘Yet you do remember telling me that if you met Brother Solin again you would kill him? That was yesterday afternoon?’

Orla flushed.

‘Yes, but, as I said, I did not mean …’

‘You said that you would kill him,’ repeated Fidelma firmly. ‘Why was that?’

Orla bit her lip, glancing at Colla under lowered eyebrows.

‘He insulted me.’

‘In what way?’ Fidelma pressed.

‘He … he made a lewd suggestion.’

Colla started angrily at his wife’s confession.

‘What? You did not tell me this.’

Orla was dismissive.

‘I was able to deal with the lascivious pig. I slapped him hard. When I said that I would kill him if I saw him again …’

‘You did not mean it?’ intervened Laisre. ‘Of course, we understand.’ He looked at Fidelma. ‘The fact is, my sister’s movements are now accounted for whatever opinions she held of Brother Solin.’

Fidelma opened her mouth to protest but then shrugged her shoulders in silent acquiescence.

The testimony of Colla and the apparently genuine look of astonishment on Orla’s face told her that no amount of questioningwould change their story. Fidelma was a pragmatist. She knew that it was no use pounding away at an immovable object even if she had irresistible force on her side and that she had not. Only she knew what she had seen at the stable door had been a reality.

‘I will not pursue the matter for the moment. Let Orla and her husband return to their disturbed slumber.’

Colla hesitated. He looked to Murgal and to Laisre in curiosity. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with a belligerence.

‘Just what is going on here? Why does Fidelma of Cashel accuse my wife of this deed apart from those hasty words which she uttered?’

Murgal held up a hand in pacification.

‘As to who killed Solin, we have yet to be certain, Colla. And it seems that it was only a mistake of identity by someone passing in the darkness that involved Orla. Best go to bed now and we will discuss this in the morning.’

Reluctantly, Colla escorted his wife from the chamber.

Artgal was still standing, with folded arms, grinning smugly at Fidelma.

‘I was right all along, eh?’ he sneered at her. ‘Your ruse did not work.’

Murgal appeared annoyed at the warrior’s attitude.

‘I would return to your tasks, Artgal. You may leave Fidelma of Cashel with us and remember this, she is still the sister of the king at Cashel. Respect is her due, whatever she has done.’

Artgal ground his teeth in anger at this rebuke but turned on his heel and left.

Murgal returned a troubled look to Fidelma.

‘Artgal is in many ways primitive to the extent that he has little respect for anything which cannot hurt him. Cashel and the reach of its king is too abstract a thought to him. He cannot give you respect unless he experiences the power your brother represents.’

Fidelma shrugged indifferently.

‘If you have shame, forebear to pluck the beard of a dead lion.’

‘An interesting thought,’ Murgal mused. ‘Is that your own epigram?’

‘Martial. A Latin poet. But I do not want respect for who my ancestors or relatives are. Only for what I am.’

‘That is an argument that might not count with Artgal,’ interposed Laisre. ‘At the moment you are someone accused of murder.’

Fidelma felt that they had fenced enough.

‘The one thing that I am sure of is that I saw Orla at the stable.’

‘It cannot be so,’ Laisre rebuked her. ‘Unless you now accuse both Orla and Colla of lying.’

‘I can only say what I saw,’ Fidelma insisted.

‘Orla is my sister.’ Laisre was unhappy. ‘I can assure you that she is not one to lie. Colla is my tanist, my heir-elect. You accuse him of lying to protect his wife? If that is the sum total of your defence then you would do well to reflect on matters.’

‘So you have both decided that I am as guilty as Artgal claims that I am?’

Murgal’s expression was dour.

‘You are a dálaigh, Fidelma. You know the procedure that must now be undertaken. Tell me, what else am I to conclude from what I have heard? We have a witness in Artgal. In counter claim, you have accused the sister of our chieftain. Her husband is a witness to the fact that she was not where you claim she was. And your only argument is to call her and her husband liars.’

Laisre was flushed. It appeared that the offence of Fidelma’s charge had finally sunk into him. He was unable to restrain the anger from his voice.

‘I have to warn you, Fidelma of Cashel, and with all respect to your rank, when you accuse my sister of murder and then lying, you go too far.’

‘I saw what I saw,’ replied Fidelma stubbornly.

‘Fidelma of Cashel, I am chieftain of my people. We do not share a religion but we share a common law, a law far older than the time when Patrick the Briton was allowed to sit on Laoghaire’s council to study and revise it. The law guides me, as chieftain, to the path that I must take. You know that path as well as I. The matter is now entirely in the hands of Murgal, my Brehon.’

Laisre rose abruptly and left the chamber.

Fidelma had also risen from her chair to face Murgal.

‘I did not kill Brother Solin,’ she insisted.

‘Then you must prove that. As the law prescribes, we will meet in this place nine days from now at which time you will have to answer this charge. In the meantime, you will be placed under guard in our Chamber of Isolation.’

‘Nine days?’ Fidelma gasped in astonishment. ‘What can I do while I am incarcerated?’

‘It is a matter prescribed by law, as well you know it,’ confirmed Murgal. ‘For the crime of murder, I can do no less.’

Fidelma felt a sudden cold foreboding.

‘How can I prove my innocence if I am not even allowed movement within this ráth?’ she demanded.

‘Then you must find a Brehon to act for you as anyone else must do in your place. We cannot make special allowances to rank and privilege.’

‘A Brehon?’ Fidelma was cynical. ‘I do not suppose there is an abundance of lawyers in Gleann Geis?’

Murgal chose not to answer her. He signalled to Rudgal who still stood behind her chair.

‘Take Fidelma of Cashel to the Chamber of Isolation. Make sure you treat her with respect and obey her wishes as regards comfort and access to anything which may help her defence … within reason, that is.’

Rudgal moved forward to touch her elbow. He gazed compassionately at her for a moment before averting his eyes to focus just above her head.

‘Come with me, Sister Fidelma,’ he said softly, his voice a monotone.

Fidelma glanced again at Murgal but the austere Druid had turned away, hands behind his back, and seemed intent on examining the flames of the iron brazier which heated the chamber. There would be no sympathy forthcoming from any pleading with Murgal, the Brehon of Gleann Geis.