Suffer Little Children

Chapter Nineteen

The abbey church itself had been turned into the Dál, or court, for the purpose of the High King’s great assembly. The building was bursting with people, both religious and others, who spilled through the doors. The occasion was regarded as momentous, for never in the memory of the people had a High King held an assembly outside his personal territory of royal Meath. On a specially constructed dais before the High Altar sat the Chief Brehon of the five kingdoms of Éireann. He was the one person who was so influential that even the High King was not allowed to speak at the great assemblies until he had spoken. Fidelma had never seen Barrán before and she tried to gauge his personality in spite of his ceremonial robes of office which disguised his features. All she could make out were bright, unblinking eyes, a stern, thin-lipped mouth and a prominent nose. He could have been any age at all.

Next to him on the dais, at his left hand, sat his personal ollamh, a learned advocate to consult with him on matters of law, then sat a scriptor and an assistant to keep the record. On the Chief Brehon’s right hand sat the High King himself — Sechnassach, lord of Meath and High King of Ireland. He was a thin man, in his mid-thirties, with scowling features and dark hair. Fidelma knew from her own experience at Tara that Sechnassach was not the stern, authoritarian ruler that he appeared to be. He was a thoughtful man, possessed of a dry sense of humour. She wondered whether he would recall that without her aid, in solving the mystery of the theft of the HighKing’s ceremonial sword, Sechnassach might never have sat on the throne. Then she felt guilty for allowing such a thought to come to her mind as if some personal bias would influence the High King in her favour.

Next to the High King sat Ultan, Archbishop of Armagh, Chief Apostle of the Faith of the five kingdoms. He was a dour, elderly man, with white, untidy hair. Fidelma knew that Ultan had the reputation of being supportive to the Roman faction and had often favoured the idea that the ecclesiastical laws should displace the civil laws of the five kingdoms.

Directly in front of this impressive gathering of judges was a small lectern which had been set up in the manner of the cos-na-dála, the tribune from which each dálaigh, or advocate, would plead their case.

On the right-hand side of the High Altar, in the transept, the benches were occupied by the representatives of Laigin with their fiery young king, Fianamail, and his advisors. Fidelma had already picked out the grim, grey-visaged Abbot Noé of Fearna. And she saw that in front, seated next to his king, was the thin, cadaverous Forbassach, who would be presenting the claims of Laigin.

Fidelma’s brother Colgú and his advisors filled the benches in the transept on the left-hand side of the High Altar. Fidelma, as their dálaigh, sat alongside her brother, awaiting her turn to be called before the cos-na-dála to state the case for the kingdom of Cashel.

The rest of the church, along the broad nave, was packed with spectators of every degree and station, filling it with a stuffy, airless atmosphere in spite of the grandeur and sweep of the tall building. Fidelma had noticed several warriors bearing the insignia of the High King; these were his fianna or bodyguard. They were stationed at strategic points around the church and were the only armed warriors allowed at the assembly. The warriors of Colgú and Fianamail were confirmed to quarters outside the abbey walls.

The proceedings opened abruptly with Barrán, the Chief Brehon, rapping on the wooden table before him with his staff of office and calling for silence.

The hubbub of the assembly slowly died away and an expectant quiet emerged.

‘Be it known that there are three ways to destroy wisdom in a court of law,’ intoned the Chief Brehon with the words of the ritual opening. His voice was deep and rich in tone, resounding through the church. His light-coloured eyes glinted as he glared around. ‘The first way is a judge without knowledge, the second way is a pleading without understanding and the third way is a talkative court.’

Archbishop Ultan then rose slowly and asked a blessing on the court and its proceedings in his thin, reed-like monotone.

After Ultan had reseated himself, the Chief Brehon called on the advocates of either side to stand and identify themselves. Once they had done so he reminded them of the procedures of the court and of the sixteen signs of bad advocacy. For any one of the sixteen prohibitive aspects, an advocate could be fined one séd, a gold coin which was the value of one milch cow. The fine, Barrán reminded them, would be imposed if the advocates abused each other, incited those attending the court to violence, indulged in self-praise, spoke too harshly, refused to obey the orders of the court or shifted the grounds of their pleas without reason. Having accepted that they understood, Barrán indicated that the hearing could begin.

‘Remember that there are three doors through which the truth may be recognised in this court: a patient counter-pleading; a firm case; and reliance on witnesses,’ Barrán gave the ritual warning to the advocates.

Forbassach moved forward to the cos-na-dála, for as Laigin was demanding compensation for a death, it was his right to present the arguments first. He did so simply and withouttheatrics, merely stating that the Venerable Dacán, a man of Laigin, had been given hospitality by the king of Muman, in that he had been allowed into the kingdom to both study and teach at the abbey of Ros Ailithir. It was the abbot’s immediate responsibility to provide for the safety of those he took into his house.

Nonetheless, Dacan had been murdered in a most horrible fashion at Ros Ailithir. No murderer had been found and so the responsibility lay with the abbot and ultimately with the king of Muman. The king was responsible for the safety of Dacán firstly because he had been welcomed into the kingdom and secondly because the abbot was a kinsman and the king was head of his family and responsible for all fines made against that family. That was the law. And that law was specific in terms of culpability. For every death the fine was seven cumals, the worth of twenty-one milch cows. That was the basic fine. But what of Dacán’s honour price? He was a cousin to the king of Laigin. He was a man of the Faith, whose benevolence and scholarship were known throughout the five kingdoms of Éireann.

When, several centuries before, the High King, Edirsceal of Muman, had been assassinated, the Chief Brehon and his assembly had determined that the honour price of Edirsceal was such that they ordered that the kingdom of Osraige should be handed over to Muman. Now Laigin demanded that Osraige should be handed back to them as the honour price for Dacán.

Fidelma sat through Forbassach’s plea with bowed head. There was nothing new in his statement and he had delivered it in a moderate, unemotional and clear fashion which the court could follow with ease.

With a glance of complacent satisfaction in Fidelma’s direction, Forbassach returned to his seat. Fidelma saw the young king, Fianamail, leaning forward and smilingly patting his advocate on the shoulder in approval.

‘Fidelma of Kildare,’ Barrán turned to the Muman benches, ‘will you now plead for Muman?’

‘No,’ she said in a clear voice, causing a ripple of astonishment from the court. ‘I am here to plead for truth.’

There was an angry murmuring, especially from the Laigin benches, as Fidelma rose and made her way to the tribune before the Chief Brehon. Barrán was frowning in annoyance at her dramatic opening.

‘I trust that you do not imply that we have heard wilful lies before this court?’ There was a dangerous coldness in his voice.

‘No,’ replied Fidelma calmly. ‘Nor have we heard the whole truth but only so small an amount that no judgment can be safely made upon its evidence.’

‘What is the substance of your counter-plea?’

‘It is of two elements, Barrán. Firstly, that the Venerable Dacan was not honest about his activities when he came to Muman. That lack of honesty exonerates both the king and the abbot from their responsibilities under the law of hospitality.’

There was a gasp of indignation from the Laigin benches and she could see, from the corner of her eye, that the Abbot Noé was leaning forward in his seat, white-faced in scarcely controlled anger as he stared at her.

‘Secondly,’ went on Fidelma unperturbed, ‘that if the identity of Dacán’s murderer was revealed, and it was found that the murderer was not of the family of the king of Cashel, nor holding allegiance to him, then the advocate of Laigin would have no claim to make against Cashel. That is the substance of my plea.’

Forbassach had stood up.

‘I challenge this plea. The first argument is an insult to a compassionate and pious scholar. It accuses a devout man, now unable to defend himself, of lying. The second argument is mere contention and not supported by evidence.’

Barrán’s expression was serious.

‘You are experienced in the ways of the courts, Sister Fidelma. Therefore I would presume that you do not make these statements without some substantiation?’

‘I do not. But I will ask your indulgence as this is a long and complicated story and I will need a little time to unravel it to the court.’

She paused, her expression asking a question of the Chief Brehon. Barrán indicated that she should continue.

‘When I was asked to investigate the death of Dacan by my brother, Colgú, I did not realise what a long, tortuous path I had to tread. Not only had Dacan been killed but many others had to perish before I neared the end of that path. Cass, of the king of Cashel’s bodyguard, sent by my brother as my companion in this quest; Sister Eisten; many other religious of the house of Molua; and twenty innocent little children. And there were others at Rae na Scríne who have not been accounted.’

Forbassach was on his feet, protesting once again.

‘We are here to speak of the murder of Dacán and no others,’ he angrily pointed out. ‘To raise the matter of other deaths is merely some screen by which Fidelma is attempting to obscure Laigin’s case.’

Barrán frowned at Laigin’s advocate.

‘You will reseat yourself, Forbassach, and with a warning. Did I not recite the sixteen signs of bad advocacy? Wait until the dálaigh of Cashel has made her submission and then argue your case. I must point out that she did not interrupt your plea once.’

Forbassach slumped back with annoyance on his features.

‘I will continue,’ Fidelma went on quietly. ‘Truly, this was a complex affair. It has its roots centuries ago in the conflict over the kingdom of Osraige. During the last centuries Laigin have argued many times that Osraige should be returned to its jurisdiction and each time, at their assemblies, the Brehons ofthe five kingdoms have upheld the initial decision to cede it to Muman.

‘At the same time, for the last two hundred years, the people of Osraige have been ruled by kings from the Corco Loígde. This was because the Blessed Ciaran of Saighir, the son of an Osraige father and a mother from the Corco Loígde, imposed his own family as kings there after he had begun to convert the people of Osraige to the Faith. Since then the descendants of the native chieftains have lived under this injustice. Several Osraige kings from the Corco Loígde have been slain in quarrels in that troubled land.

‘It is obvious that Laigin, whose admitted ambition all these years has been to have Osraige returned to it, have watched and perhaps even encouraged the unrest there.’

There was a chorus of angry shouts from the benches on which Laigin’s representatives sat. Many even stood up and shook their fists at Fidelma.

The Chief Brehon rapped his staff upon the table for order.

Forbassach had sprung to his feet again but Barrán turned and stared at him in such a way that he sank back without speaking.

‘I must warn the representatives of Laigin that it will do their case little good to demonstrate in such a manner.’ He turned, his eyes glinting, to Fidelma. ‘And must I remind you, Sister Fidelma, that a fine of one séd is payable if an advocate incites a court to violence?’

Fidelma bowed her head.

‘I am contrite, Barrán. I had not thought my words would provoke anger nor, in fact, did I think that they would be contested. What I have said is simply a matter of common knowledge.’

At this point the High King leant towards his Chief Brehon and whispered something. The Chief Brehon nodded swiftly and instructed Fidelma to continue her plea.

‘The struggle for the kingship of Osraige developed last year into a struggle between Scandlán, the cousin of Salbach of the Corco Loígde, and Illan, a descendant of the line of native kings. Illan was killed by Scandlán over a year ago.’

There was a sound of disturbance, this time from the benches of Muman. A stocky, florid-faced man had risen with anger on his features. He had a mass of sandy hair and a bushy beard, standing like a bear at bay.

‘I demand to speak!’ he cried. ‘I am Scandlán, king of Osraige.’

‘Sit down!’ The Chief Brehon’s heavy bass voice quelled the whispering that was echoing through the church. ‘As king you surely know the rules of procedure of this assembly?’

‘My name is being sullied!’ protested the muscular chieftain. ‘Do I not have a chance to answer my accuser?’

‘There is no accusation at the moment,’ Fidelma said. ‘What then is in error?’

The High King was again whispering to the Chief Brehon. Fidelma saw a smile hovering on the High King’s lips.

‘Very well,’ agreed the Chief Brehon. ‘There is one question that I will ask of Scandlán now. King of Osraige, did you kill Illan?’

‘Of course I did,’ snapped the sandy-haired man. ‘It is my right as king to protect myself and Illan was in insurrection against me and …’

The Chief Brehon raised his hand for silence.

‘Then it seems that Sister Fidelma has only stated the truth. She has impugned no mean motive, so far. We will hear you later if either of the learned advocates call upon you to give testimony. Until then, you will not interrupt the proceedings.’

He returned his gaze to Fidelma and indicated that she might continue again.

‘The death of Illan was not the end of the contention. Illan had offspring who were not then at the age of choice when they might take their official claims to the people. Theproblem was that no one seemed to know who the offspring of Illan were, for it appeared that he had several children. They had all been sent out of Osraige into fosterage until the time when the eldest of them would be of age and able to present his claim to his people.

‘There were two people who were interested in the heirs of Illan. Scandlán was interested because he knew that sooner or later those heirs would once more contend with him for the kingship of Osraige. And Fianamail of Laigin was interested. Fianamail felt that if the heirs could be found and supported in their fight to throw out Scandlán, then Laigin might influence the future of Osraige so that it would eventually be returned to their authority.’

She paused expectantly but this time there was no outcry.

‘But the heirs of Illan had vanished. The question was how to discover who they were and where they were. One way to discover the identity of these heirs, so it was thought, was to examine the genealogies of the Osraige. Now since the Corco Loígde had ruled Osraige, it had been their scribes who had kept the detailed genealogies and histories. And where were these genealogies kept?’

Fidelma paused again and glanced around at the expectant faces in the now silent abbey church.

‘They were kept here, here in Ros Ailithir.’

There was a muttering as some began to see where her arguments were leading.

‘Fianamail of Laigin sent his best scholar to Ros Ailithir to examine the genealogies in order to trace the heir of Illan. That scholar was none other than Dacan, brother of Abbot Noé of Fearna, and cousin to Fianamail, the king. Now let Fianamail deny this on his sacred oath!’

‘A question!’ cried Forbassach. ‘I have the right to ask a question!’

The Chief Brehon conceded that he had.

‘If the current king of Osraige was, as Muman’s advocatesuggests, so keen to track down Illan’s heirs, why did he not send his own scholar to examine these records which are here, in his own family territory? That would have been easy for him to do.’

‘The simply answer is that he, or rather his family, did,’ Fidelma replied evenly. ‘But I have asked Fianamail to deny that Dacán was sent here with that task on his behalf. I deserve an answer.’

Forbassach turned to exchange a hurried word with Fianamail and the grim-faced Abbot Noé. The Chief Brehon cleared his throat meaningfully and Forbassach smiled.

‘Whatever research Dacán may have been conducting, it does not cancel out the fact that he was murdered, and responsibility for his death lies with the abbot and ultimately with the king of Muman.’

His voice was firm but less assured than he had been in his opening argument.

‘Not,’ replied Fidelma with emphasis, ‘if Dacán’s purpose for being here was not what he claimed it to be.’

This time it was the ollamh of the Chief Brehon who bent forward and whispered into Barrán’s ear. The Chief Brehon regarded Fidelma gravely.

‘If this is the basis of your counter-plea, Sister Fidelma, then I am advised to caution you that it is a tenuous defence. Dacán stated that he wanted to research and teach at Ros Ailithir and on that condition he was granted the hospitality of the king of Cashel and the abbot of Ros Ailithir. The fact that he did not stipulate the precise nature of that research does not exclude him from legal protection. He was, after all, conducting research.’

‘I would have to argue this,’ conceded Fidelma, ‘but I made my opening plea with two points. We will leave the first for the time being. I think I can demonstrate later that it is a means of dismissing culpability. But we have more important matters to deal with first. Such as the identity of Dacán’s killer.’

There was another outburst of muttering among the assembly. Barrán’s eyes narrowed as he leant forward in his chair and rapped for silence.

‘Are you saying that you know the identity of the murderer?’ he demanded.

Fidelma smiled enigmatically.

‘We will come to that in a moment. I must be allowed to explain some other matters.’

Barrán gestured impatiently for her to continue.

‘As I have said, Dacan came to Ros Ailithir for a single purpose. The purpose was to trace the genealogy of the Illan. To his surprise, Dacán found that his former wife, Grella from the abbey of Cealla, was working here as librarian. He thought that he had been the recipient of good fortune for Grella was from Osraige and her relationship with Dacán had not ended in enmity. So Dacán enlisted her help to obtain the records which he required. She gave that help willingly because she was also interested in finding the heirs of Illan. Alas, her reasons for that interest were not the same as those of her former husband.’

There was another commotion from the benches behind Fidelma.

Barrán raised a tired head and called for order while his ollamh began hurriedly speaking in an undertone to him.

Fidelma turned and saw Sister Grella standing, her face distorted and filled with passion.

‘Sister Grella, be seated!’ ordered Barrán as his ollamh identified her.

‘I will not sit and be insulted!’ cried Grella hysterically, ‘nor unjustly accused.’

‘Has Sister Fidelma insulted you?’ demanded the Chief Brehon wearily. ‘I am not aware that she has. If so, please tell me in what way has the insult been made? Were you or were you not married to Dacán of Fearna?’

‘Mugrón, the captain of the Laigin warship, stands ready togive witness,’ warned Fidelma quickly, pointing to where the seaman sat on the Laigin benches.

‘I was married to Dacán but …’ conceded Grella.

‘And that marriage ended in divorce?’ interposed the Chief Brehon.

‘Yes.’

‘When Dacán came to Ros Ailithir, did he know that you were librarian of the abbey?’

‘No.’

‘But he enlisted your help for his research?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you gave it willingly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you share Dacán’s motives for this research?’

Grella’s face reddened and she hung her head.

‘Then there is no insult,’ Barrán said, assuming her answer. ‘Be seated, Sister Grella, lest you insult this court by your animosity.’

‘But I know that this woman is trying to claim that I killed Dacan! She is playing like a cat with a mouse! Let her accuse me openly!’

‘Are you accusing Sister Grella of the murder of Dacán?’ asked the Chief Brehon of Fidelma.

Fidelma smiled wryly.

‘I think that I may eventually clear this matter up, Barrán, but by questioning Salbach, chieftain of the Corco Loígde.’

‘Whatever accusations you make, Fidelma, you must substantiate them,’ Barrán warned.

‘That I am prepared to do.’

Barrán motioned to one of the warriors of fianna, the High King’s bodyguard. A few moments later Salbach was brought, his hands bound before him. He stood somewhat defiantly before the assembly.

‘Salbach of the Corco Loígde,’ Fidelma began, ‘you already stand before this assembly denounced as responsible for theactions of your bó-aire, Intat. Intat was responsible for the slaughter of many innocents in your name both at Ros na Scríne and at the house of Molua.’

Salbach raised his chin belligerently but did not reply.

‘You do not deny these charges?’ demanded the Chief Brehon.

Salbach still did not speak.

Barrán sighed heavily.

‘You do not have to answer the accusation but some inference will be placed on your silence by this court. If you do not answer then the allegations must be considered as true and punishment must follow.’

‘I am ready for your punishment,’ Salbach said curtly. It was apparent that Salbach had reflected on the weight of the evidence against him and saw no alternative to admitting his culpability.

‘And is Sister Grella also ready to accept punishment?’ Fidelma asked, hoping that she had judged Salbach’s feeling for the librarian correctly. If Salbach was reconciled to his punishment, she wondered whether he was as willing to inflict it on Grella? Salbach swung round to Fidelma, his expression impassive.

‘She is not guilty of any of the misdeeds attributed to me,’ he said quietly. ‘Let her go.’

‘Yet Sister Grella was your lover, wasn’t she, Salbach?’

‘I have admitted that.’

‘It was either your cousin, Scandlán, or you — it matters not where the idea came from — who suggested that Grella might use her position as librarian to look through the genealogical books of Osraige, which are kept at the abbey, in an attempt to find Illan’s heir. Isn’t that true?’

‘You are bound to reply,’ instructed the Chief Brehon as Salbach hesitated.

‘It is true.’

‘Then came a coincidence. Grella told you, probably duringyour pillow talk, that her former husband, Dacán, had arrived at Ros Ailithir for exactly the same purpose. He, too, was searching for Illan’s heir. Knowing him to be the better scholar, Grella persuaded him to work closely with her so that she could then inform you how he was proceeding. Isn’t that so? You wanted to know who the heir of Illan was as much as Dacan did. But whereas Dacán was interested in finding them to use him to serve Laigin’s purpose, you wanted to find him to destroy the last of the family of native kings. That would forever safeguard the dynasty of the Corco Loígde in Osraige.’

There was a tense silence. No one spoke. All eyes were on Salbach. It was Sister Grella who broke the silence with a wail of fear as, for the first time, she finally realised the enormity of what had been done.

‘But it is not true … I did not know that Salbach … I did not know he wanted to kill them … I am not responsible for the death of all those innocent children … I am not.’

Salbach turned and snapped at her to be silent.

‘When Dacán discovered the whereabouts of the heir of Illan,’ Fidelma went on remorselessly, ‘Grella ran to tell you. It was the day before Dacán’s death. He had found that the Father Superior of Sceilig Mhichil, the monastery of Michael the Archangel, was a cousin of Illan. He had discovered that Illan’s heir had been taken there for safety. He wrote of his news and announced that he was about to set out for Sceilig Mhichil. He was killed before he did so.’

‘How did he discover this information? Surely the records placed here would not announce the hiding place of Illan’s heirs?’ demanded the Chief Brehon.

‘Curiously enough, they did. Dacán found Illan’s will on some rods of the poets. The irony of this tale is that when Scandlán killed Illan, he seized his fortress and goods. Illan’s library was also seized. In that library was his will, which he had specifically chosen to write in Ogham on rods of the poets.The irony was that Scandlán, unable to read it, had sent it, with other books, as a gift to this abbey, the chief abbey of the Corco Loígde.’

‘Even so,’ protested Barrán, ‘surely any reasonable scholar could have read the Ogham of the will and ultimately deciphered the information?’

‘Illan was obviously a literary man, for the will was coded. I found a wand from the will in Dacán’s chamber where he had carelessly left it. It went unnoticed by his murderer. I have only an extract from one rod. The others had been destroyed.’

She turned and retrieved the small piece of burnt stick which she had taken from the sepulchre the previous night.

‘Only this piece now remains. This says “the resolve of the honourable one determines the fosterage of my children”.’

‘That sounds gibberish,’ laughed Forbassach.

‘Not if you know the code and the full text. The piece that I recall from the wand I found in Dacán’s chamber stated: “let my sweet cousin care for my sons on the rock of Michael as my honourable cousin shall dictate”.’

‘Even more gibberish!’ sneered Forbassach.

‘Dacán did not think so. He knew that the rock of Michael was Sceilig Mhichil. It was easy to learn that the Father Superior was named Mel. The meaning of that name is “sweet”. Mel was, therefore, Illan’s “sweet” cousin!’

‘You make the interpretation of the puzzle sound easy,’ observed the Chief Brehon.

‘Then allow me to return to it later. Sufficient to know at this time that Dacán deciphered the will’s puzzle and wrote a report of his finding. Sister Grella saw that report and informed Salbach. Salbach dispatched Intat immediately to “the rock of Michael”. But Illan’s sons were no longer there. Indeed, Intat learnt that there were two sons of Illan on that rock but they had been removed by a religieux. This religieux was a cousin of Father Mel.

‘It is then that Grella entered the picture again to provideinformation to Salbach. Grella had become soul-friend to Sister Eisten at Rae na Scríne. Eisten, by one of those apparent coincidences which are all too common in life, was the very person to whom the young sons of Illan had been given for safekeeping after their removal from Sceilig Mhichil. They had been sent to her orphanage at Rae na Scríne. Sister Eisten made the biggest mistake of her life. She confessed the intrigue to her soul-friend, Sister Grella.

‘Grella triumphantly informed Salbach. He thought he would lay a trap by inviting Eisten and her orphans to his fortress. Once he was able to identify her charges … well, Eisten accompanied Grella but did not take her children. There was plague in the village and she did not want to move the children unnecessarily. It was a decision which actually saved the lives of the sons of Illan but which cost the village its existence.

‘In desperation, Salbach told Intat to go to Rae na Scríne and destroy the children. The trouble was that Intat had no means to identify them. He decided, brutal man that he was, to destroy the entire village. When I and Cass came along, Intat tried to disguise the true nature of this crime by claiming that there was plague in the village and presenting himself and his men as frightened neighbouring villagers burning out the plague. Sister Eisten and some of her children survived.

‘Eisten was shocked. I thought she was shocked by the death of the people and especially by the death of a baby she tried to save. However, in reality she was shocked because she had worked out the real reason for the killings. She even knew who had betrayed her. She asked me if a soul-friend could betray a confidence. I should have listened to her more closely for then she might not have been killed. I might have saved her. Do you follow the events so far, Salbach?’

Salbach’s mouth was pressed tight. He was clearly shocked at the extent of her awareness and knew that there was little he could say in the face of Fidelma’s remorseless knowledge except to resort to truth.

‘You have a brilliant mind, Fidelma. I knew that I should not underestimate you. Yes, you are right. I accept your knowledge.’

‘When you came to this abbey and found that Sister Eisten had survived with several of her children, you could not dare allow that to pass. Intat, doubtless on your orders, managed to waylay Sister Eisten while she was down at the harbour. He tortured her to find out where the sons of Illan had been taken. She would not reply and so he killed her, dumping her body in the waters of the inlet.

‘Grella came to your aid once more, eventually discovering that some children from Rae na Scríne had been taken to the house of Molua. The bodies of four religious and twenty children and the charred ruins of their houses are the mute testament to Intat’s visit.’

‘I will deny nothing. But let me take oath that my cousin, Scandlán of Osraige, did not know my plans to safeguard the kingship of Osraige for our family. Neither did Grella. She is innocent of the blood that I have spilt.’

Fidelma regarded Salbach with an expression of undisguised revulsion. She found it difficult to accept that a man could admit responsibility for such death and destruction but could seek to protect others with a twisted concept of honour and love. But then it was a strange world and humankind were the strangest creatures in it.

Grella was sobbing openly now, crying: ‘I did not know any of this! I did not know!’

Fidelma glanced at her without pity.

‘You were so besotted by your love for Salbach that you had not reasoned out the truth. I concede that it is possible but find it difficult to believe. You would not believe that your lover was capable of ordering the death of little children. I think the reality is that you did not want to know what was going on around you.’

There was a commotion at one of the doors. Fidelma smiledsourly when she saw that Scandlán’s seat was empty. The Chief Brehon had noticed also and waved to a member of the fianna and issued instructions in a low voice.

‘Your cousin will not get out of this abbey,’ Barrán told Salbach.

‘What does it matter now?’ Salbach gave an eloquent shrug. ‘I have admitted my guilt in this matter. I am prepared to stand for judgment. Doubtless my wealth and chieftainship will be forfeit as compensation and I shall be sent into exile. I am prepared for it. Let us proceed with the judgment forthwith.’

Forbassach had risen from the Laigin benches amid the pandemonium that had broken out. He was smiling crookedly.

‘We are grateful to Sister Fidelma for discovering the culprit. But I must point out that Salbach, as chieftain of the Corco Loígde, still owes his allegiance to Cashel. What Fidelma is proving is that responsibility for the death of Dacán still rests with Cashel. Our demand for Osraige as his honour price is still valid.’

The Chief Brehon, Barrán, looked grave.

‘That appears true. Or is there more to this story you wish to tell us, Sister Fidelma?’

‘Much more,’ Fidelma affirmed grimly. ‘For I am not accusing Salbach of the death of Dacán. He is only responsible for the slaughter of the innocents, for the death of those I have named. Neither he nor Grella killed the Venerable Dacán. ’