The Leper's bell

Chapter Two

‘Brother Eadulf, the king is expecting you.’

Capa, the warrior who commanded the king of Muman’s bodyguard, greeted the Saxon monk as he entered the antechamber to the king’s apartments in the ancient palace of Cashel. He was a tall, handsome man with fair hair and blue eyes and wore his golden necklet of office with an unconscious pride. But he did not smile in greeting as the sad-faced religieux made his way across the reception room. Neither did the several dignitaries who stood waiting in ones and twos to be called into the king’s presence. They all knew Brother Eadulf but now they dropped their eyes and no one made any attempt to greet him. Eadulf seemed too preoccupied to notice them.

Capa moved to a tall oak door, tapped discreetly on it and then, without waiting for a response, threw it open.

‘Go straight in, Brother Eadulf,’ he instructed in a soft tone, as if he were issuing a condolence.

Brother Eadulf crossed the threshold and the door closed silently behind him.

Colgú, king of Muman, a young man with red, burnished hair, was standing before a great hearth in which a log fire crackled. He stood, feet apart, hands behind his back. His face was grave. As Brother Eadulf entered the room, the young man came forward with hands outstretched to greet him. There was anxiety on his features and his green eyes, which usually danced with merriment, appeared pale and dead.

‘Come in, Eadulf,’ he said, gripping the Saxon’s hand in both his own. ‘Come in, be seated. Do not stand on ceremony. How is my sister?’ The words came out all in one breathless rush.

Brother Eadulf gestured a little helplessly by letting his shoulders slump as he took the seat indicated by the king.

‘Thanks be to God, she is taking the first proper sleep that she has had in days,’ he said. ‘In truth, I feared for her health. She had not closed her eyes since we returned from Rath Raithlen and met your messenger outside the monastery of Finan the Leper.’

Colgú sighed deeply as he sank into a chair opposite.

‘I worry for her. She is of a disposition that keeps a tight rein on her emotions. She tries to suppress them because she thinks it unseemly to allow others to see her real feelings. It is unnatural to do so.’

‘Have no fear of that,’ Eadulf said. ‘Between ourselves, she has sobbed her heart out these last few nights until I believe she is unable to conjure up any more tears. Do not mention this to her for, as you say, she would prefer others to think she is in control.’

‘Even her own brother?’ Colgú grimaced. ‘Well, at least she has displayed the emotion to you.’ He paused for a moment and then said moodily: ‘I feel that I am to blame for this grave misfortune which has fallen on our house.’

Eadulf raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘What blame can attach itself to you?’

‘Did I not persuade Fidelma to go to Rath Raithlen, leaving her son in the care of the nurse Sárait? Now Sárait has been murdered and Alchú, my nephew, has been abducted.’

Brother Eadulf replied with a shake of his head. ‘Unless you possessed some precognition of the event, what blame is there? You did not know, any more than we could know, what would happen in our absence. How could you tell that our son’ — he emphasised the pronoun softly as an intended rebuke to Fidelma’s brother — ‘would be abducted?’

Colgú was not dissuaded from his personal anguish. He did not even respond to the subtle censure for ignoring Eadulf’s position as father of Alchú.

‘You say that Fidelma is now sleeping?’

Brother Eadulf made an affirmative gesture. ‘With the help of a little sedative that I prepared — an infusion of heartsease, skullcap and lily-of-the-valley.’

‘I know nothing of such apothecary’s arts, Eadulf.’

Eadulf grimaced. ‘What small healing art I have learnt is thanks to my study at Tuaim Drecain, in the kingdom of Breifne.’

Colgú forced a sad smile. ‘Ah yes; I forget that you have spent time in our greatest medical school. So my sister sleeps? How is her state of mind?’

‘As to be expected, she is in great agitation and anguish. At first she couldn’t take in what had happened, but for the last two days she has been scouring the countryside questioning all in the vicinity of the place where Sárait was slain and the baby taken. Questioning but learning nothing. It is as if the earth has swallowed the child along with the person who committed this evil act.’

‘Evil, indeed,’ agreed Colgú in a soft voice.

He stood up abruptly and returned to stand before the fire in the same pose he had been in when Brother Eadulf entered, back to the fire, feet apart, hands clasped behind him.

‘Eadulf,’ he said after a moment, as if he had been contemplating what he should say. ‘I have sent for you because I have summoned my inner council, my closest advisers, to discuss this matter. I have seized this opportune time because I felt it wise to discuss this matter without my sister’s presence.’ He hesitated. ‘My sister is too emotionally involved. During these last two days I have watched her wander in distraction, rushing hither and thither asking questions but not stopping to reflect on matters because her heart is in panic for her child.’

Brother Eadulf felt a surge of guilt. For two days he had been trying to persuade Fidelma to pause and take stock. It was true, as Colgú said, that she was in a state of frenzy. However, he said defensively: ‘Fidelma is a trained and qualified dálaigh, Colgú. You know her reputation. If Fidelma cannot solve this conundrum, who can?’

The king gestured with his hand, half in defence, half in acknowledgement of what Eadulf said.

‘My sister’s reputation has spread through the five kingdoms of Éireann for the mastery of her investigations into mysteries and puzzles that no other minds can solve. And your own name, Eadulf, is firmly associated with that reputation. But this is her child of whom we speak.’

‘And mine,’ put in Brother Eadulf with quiet emphasis.

‘Of course. But a mother — any mother — has emotions that sometimes prevent cold logic when it comes to a discussion of her baby. In sending men out to search, I had to rely on you to try to describe what baby clothes were missing, so that we might get an idea of what Sárait had dressed the child in before she took him out that night. Fidelma could not bring herself to examine his clothing to see what was missing.’

Eadulf silently agreed that it was true. He had had to search through the little chest wherein they kept Alchú’s baby clothes, trying to remember what had been there in order to recall what he might have been dressed in. Fidelma was too upset to do so.

‘Well, Eadulf,’ Colgú continued, ‘you are the father of the child. That is true. But a man is more phlegmatic than a woman, and you especially, Eadulf, since I have known you, have been like a rock in a turbulent sea. Equable and self-controlled.’

Brother Eadulf sighed deeply. He did not feel cool-headed and balanced but he was inclined to agree with the young king that these last two days Fidelma had let her anxieties overwhelm her training as a clinical investigator of mysteries. However, his own emotional attachment to Fidelma made him feel as if he were betraying her by agreeing with Colgú.

‘What are you proposing?’ he asked quietly.

‘That my council meet and we all — my advisers, you and I — sit down and discuss what we know of this matter. The facts first. Then what possibilities there are of discovering who might be responsible for the crime. The others stand ready outside. Do you agree on this course, Eadulf?’

Brother Eadulf thought for a moment more and then shrugged.

‘We cannot continue without a plan,’ he agreed. ‘Nor should we do nothing at all. So the idea is acceptable to me.’

Colgú, without a further word, turned and reached for a small silver hand bell. Almost before its jangle had ceased, the door was thrown open and in came several men. Eadulf rose to his feet for, although he was the husband of Colgú’s sister, his status in the kingdom of Muman was that of a stranger; a distinguished stranger, but still a foreigner to the kingdom, a visitor from the land of the South Folk, among the kingdoms of the Angles and Saxons.

They entered in order of precedence. The handsome young prince, Finguine, cousin to Colgú, was tanist or heir apparent to the kingship. Then came the elderly Brehon Dathal, chief legal adviser to the king, and with him was Cerball the Bard, the repository of all the genealogies and history of the kingdom, carrying a leather satchel. Ségdae came next, bishop of Imleach, comarb or successor of the Blessed Ailbe, who first brought Christianity to Muman. Behind them came Capa, chief warrior of Cashel as well as commander of the King’s élite corps of bodyguards, each of whom was distinguished by the golden torque or collar that he wore round his neck. Moreover, Capa had been brother-in-law to the murdered nurse, Sárait. These were Colgú’s closest advisers in the governing of the biggest of the five kingdoms of Éireann.

Colgú made his way to a round oak table on the far side of the room and sat down.

There will be no ceremony. Seat yourselves and we will talk as equals, for in this council we are all equal. Eadulf — you will be seated next to me, here on my left.’

Eadulf hid his surprise at this intimate gesture before the members of the king’s council. Yet no one seemed either shocked or put out by this honour shown to someone who was a stranger. If the truth were known, it was Eadulf’s own insecurity that kept his status in the forefront of his mind. After all, although the father of Fidelma’s son, he was only her fer comtha, not a ‘full-husband’. The marriage laws of the five kingdoms were complicated and there were several definitions of what constituted proper wedlock. There were, in fact, nine different types of union, and while the status and rights of husband and wife between Eadulf and Fidelma were recognised under the law of the Cáin Lánamnus, it was still a trial marriage, lasting a year and a day. After that time, if unsuccessful, both sides could go their separate ways without incurring penalties or blame. Eadulf was well aware of the temporary nature of his position.

The members of the council took their seats round the table and there was an uncomfortable silence before Colgú, looking round to make sure they were all settled, spoke.

‘You all know why you are summoned. Let us start off by recording the facts as we know them.’

Cerball, as bard and recorder, cleared his throat at once. The facts are simple. Sárait, a nurse, was slain and the child in her care was abducted. The child was the baby Alchú, son of Fidelma of Cashel and Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, a stranger to this kingdom. And this terrible event occurred four nights ago.’

There was a pause.

‘Now let us add to those facts,’ said Colgú. ‘Sárait had served as a nurse in this palace of Cashel for nearly six months. My sister had chosen her when she needed a wet nurse on the birth of her child. Is this not so, Eadulf?’

Eadulf glanced up in surprise at being addressed in council by the king. Colgú smiled encouragingly as he correctly guessed the reason for the Saxon’s hesitation.

‘You have permission to speak freely at any time during these proceedings,’ he added.

Eadulf inclined his head. ‘It is true. Sárait was well regarded by both Fidelma and me. Fidelma trusted her to the extent that she made her wet nurse to our baby. When we were asked to journey to Rath Raithlen, we entrusted Alchú without qualms into her care.’

Colgú glanced at Capa. ‘Sárait was sister to your wife, Capa. What would you add to this?’

The commander of the warriors pushed back his fair hair with a slightly vain gesture and leant back in his chair. His blue eyes were penetrating and serious. He looked sombre now.

‘Sárait was a handsome woman, a mature woman,’ he said slowly, clearly thinking about his choice of words. ‘She was neither frivolous nor thoughtless and took her responsibilities seriously. She was a widow. Her husband Callada had been a warrior who gave his life defending this kingdom against the Uí Fidgente in the battle at Cnoc Áine. I can vouch for Sárait’s probity. She had one relative and that was a sister called Gobnat, who, as everyone here knows, is my wife. We dwell in the township below the Rock. Sárait served at the palace, as Brother Eadulf has said. Her own baby had died and so the lady Fidelma took her to be wet nurse to their child.’

Colgú glanced round the table. ‘When the news of the finding of Sárait’s body was brought to me, I asked for the facts. I gathered that a child had come to the fortress with a message for Sárait. The message purported to come from her sister, Gobnat, asking Sárait to go to her immediately.’

‘Was any reason given as to why Gobnat wanted to see her sister so urgently?’ intervened Brehon Dathal. The old judge had a pedantic manner and took his position very seriously.

‘The reason is not known,’ replied Colgú. ‘We presume that, not finding anyone to look after her charge, Sárait had no other course but to take the baby with her when she left the fortress. We also presume that she intended to go down to the township to see Gobnat in response to that message. An hour or so later, a woodsman, Conchoille, on his way home, discovered the body of Sárait in the woods outside the township. There was no sign of the baby.’

No one spoke. They had heard these facts before.

‘And, for the record, Capa, what had your wife to say about this summons to Sárait?’ prompted Brehon Dathal.

‘That she did not send any summons at all to her sister. She and I knew nothing until we were told of Sárait’s death,’ answered Capa immediately.

‘Which was how?’ the old judge demanded.

‘The first Gobnat and I knew that anything was amiss was when Conchoille, the woodsman, knocked on our door close on midnight and told us that he had found Sárait’s body. I went back with him, but not before sending a message to the fortress to alert the guards. It was only later that we discovered that Sárait had left the palace with the baby.’

‘And what of the child who came to the fortress with the message that purported to come from your wife?’ queried Brehon Dathal.

Capa raised his arms in a gesture that indicated a lack of knowledge.

‘The child has not been identified and enquiries in the township or immediate countryside have failed to find any such child.’

‘Surely the guard who passed the child through…?’ Eadulf began.

Capa was shaking his head.

‘All that is remembered is that a small child, in a grey woollen robe on which the cowl had been drawn up, almost in the manner of a religious, came to the gates. The child appeared to be a mute for a piece of bark was handed to the guard on which was written “I am sent to see Sárait”. The guard could not swear to any distinguishing features save that it was a thickset child who walked with a curious gait.’

‘Such a child is surely not hard to find,’ muttered Brethon Dathal.

‘Nevertheless,’ repeated Capa, ‘the child has not been found.’

‘And the piece of bark?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘Was that retained?’

‘It was not.’

Eadulf shook his head with a sigh. All this was merely confirming what he already knew.

‘All this happened in the evening…?’ queried Cerball, who was keeping the record.

‘It was already dark, for the sun sets early now that the feast of Samhain has passed,’ replied Capa.

‘Blame may be ascribed to Sárait for the lack of thought she displayed in taking the baby from the protection of the palace out into the winter evening.’

It was Brehon Dathal, the old judge, who made the comment. He was punctilious when it came to law and sometimes, it was said, he allowed for no human frailty.

Bishop Ségdae, the senior bishop and abbot of the kingdom, made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an ironic snort.

‘In this situation, where she receives an urgent message from her sister, or is led to believe that she has, and can find no other to take care of the child, it would be natural for Sárait to take the baby with her,’ he pointed out.

There was, as Eadulf had already picked up, a hint of rivalry between the two elderly men. Both were not averse to trying to score points against each other.

‘Very well,’ broke in Colgú. ‘You are both right, but Sárait paid with her life for her mistake.’

‘What of the woodsman who found the body?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Conchoille? He is known as a loyal man of Cashel,’ Capa said immediately. ‘He also fought against the Uí Fidgente at Cnoc Áine.’

‘We should question him, though,’ Bishop Ségdae said.

‘Brehon Dathal has already done so,’ Colgú replied. Indeed, Dathal, as Chief Brehon, had questioned everyone involved, from the guard who admitted the child messenger to the fortress to Gobnat, Sárait’s sister.

‘Even so, and with due respect to Brehon Dathal,’ replied Bishop Ségdae in a pointed fashion, ‘this council needs to make sure of its facts. So I have actually sent for Capa’s wife, Gobnat, and for Conchoille and the guard who, I suspect, cannot add more to what has been said. But they all wait outside. I think we should all hear their stories in their own words.’

The Brehon Dathal was clearly irritated.

‘A waste of time. I can tell you exactly what their evidence is.’

‘It’s not like hearing it for ourselves,’ Bishop Ségdae replied. ‘Then we can be sure it is not distorted.’

The Brehon Dathal’s brows drew together.

‘Are you suggesting…?’ he began menacingly.

‘There was a recent hearing at Lios Mhór,’ broke in Bishop Ségdae softly, staring towards the ceiling as if in reflection, ‘where the judge misunderstood some evidence and gave an erroneous judgement. The judgement was appealed and the judge had to pay compensation…’

Eadulf knew that Brehons could have their decisions appealed. If the judge was shown to have been biased, been bribed or issued a false judgement, as opposed to made a genuine error, then that judge could be deprived of his office and his honour-price. In other cases, fines were levied according to the extent of the error and its nature.

Brehon Dathal had grown crimson and he was making angry noises as he tried to find words to respond.

‘At some stage we would have had to place this evidence on record,’ Colgú said, trying to pacify the Brehon’s wounded ego. ‘So perhaps it is best if we hear all the witnesses now. Cerball will take down a record of their statements.’

‘I have come prepared with my materials, lord,’ the bard agreed, drawing from his leather satchel some writing tablets, wooden frames in which there was soft clay, and a stylus.

Brehon Dathal glared at Bishop Ségdae with a look of hatred. Then he said: ‘By all means, let us have the witnesses in one by one. Let us start with the guard.’

Capa glanced towards Colgú for confirmation of the procedure and the king nodded slightly. There was no need to upset the old judge further.

A moment later Capa had ushered in a warrior of medium height and sandy-coloured hair. He came to stand facing them at the table with an impassive expression.

‘Your name, warrior?’ demanded the Brehon Dathal.

‘Caol, my lord. Fifteen years in the service of the kings of Muman.’

‘I see, Caol, that you wear the golden necklet of the élite bodyguard of Cashel,’ Colgú said.

The warrior was not sure if this was a question or simply a statement of fact, as his emblem was obvious.

‘I do, lord,’ he responded.

‘We have heard, Caol, that you were on guard on the day Sárait was killed,’ Colgú went on.

‘I was on guard at the main gate of the palace, lord.’

‘Tell us, in your own words, what happened.’

‘It was just after darkness fell, late in the afternoon, that a child approached the gates. I did not recognise him for it was dark and even by the torchlight at the gates the manner of his clothing hid his features. But I doubt whether I have seen him before.’

Eadulf frowned. ‘You say “him”. Are you certain of the child’s sex? In which case, presumably, you could see enough to tell whether the child was girl or boy?’

The warrior glanced at him and hesitated before replying.

‘Speak up, man!’ snapped Brehon Dathal.

The child was clad in a robe from poll to ankle, a cowl being around its head. Yet I would say that it was male.’

‘Why so? And why, not being able to perceive the features, did you also say that you doubt whether you had seen the child before?’ Brehon Dathal said pointedly.

‘The same answer applies to both questions. The child, in spite of the robes, seemed thickset in appearance and walked with a curious waddling gait. I believe that no girl would be so thickset, and that figure and gait would have been known to me if it were a child I had seen in the township or the palace. So I therefore concluded it was a stranger.’

Brehon Dathal sniffed irritably.

‘It behoves you only to tell us the facts,’ he rebuked the warrior. ‘This is speculation.’

‘Nevertheless,’ intervened Bishop Ségdae with a smile, ‘it is a logical conclusion to have drawn.’

‘You told Capa that the child was mute,’ went on Brehon Dathal, a tone of sarcasm entering his voice. ‘How did you conclude that? Speculation again?’

‘That is simple, learned Brehon. The child did not talk but handed me a piece of birch bark on which was written “I am sent to see Sárait”. By signs and grunting noises the child indicated that he could not speak. I told him how to find her chamber.’

‘And you didn’t retain this piece of bark?’ asked Eadulf.

The warrior shook his head. ‘There was no reason for me to do so.’

‘In what form was the writing?’

The warrior looked perplexed.

‘Was it in the old form that you call ogham script or in the new script?’ Eadulf explained.

‘I cannot read the ogham,’ replied the warrior. ‘But I have been taught to read by the monks of Lios Mhór. The message was written in the new script that we now learn, and in bold letters.’

‘Then what happened?’ asked Brehon Dathal.

‘A short while later, the child returned through the gate and did not respond to my salutation, from which I felt that he was not only dumb but hard of hearing. He disappeared into the night and I presumed at the time he was heading down the hill to the township. A short time elapsed and then Sárait came hurrying through the gates with a baby in her arms and told me that she had been called urgently to see her sister and would return shortly should anyone enquire after her or the child. She told me there was no one with whom she could safely leave the baby so she was taking it with her. That is all I know of these matters until someone came from the village on the orders of Capa to say Sárait’s body had been discovered.’

‘Which was when?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Towards the end of my period of duty, just before midnight.’

‘Yet Sárait had told you that she would return shortly and she had not returned by midnight. Were you not worried for her?’

Caol shook his head. ‘She had told me that she was visiting her sister. Everyone knows Gobnat. Her husband stands before you, the commander of the king’s guards. Capa would have seen her safely back to the palace.’

There was a silence. Then Colgú dismissed the warrior and turned to Capa.

‘You may bring in your wife.’

The woman who entered looked slightly awed by the company. She was an attractive woman, although no beauty. Her features were perhaps a little too sharp and angular for that. Eadulf could recognise something of Sárait in her sister. Gobnat had a certain amount of strength in her features, almost a defiance, that was not possessed by the dead nurse. Sárait was softer, Eadulf thought, while Gobnat’s mouth was firmly set. She exchanged a quick glance with her husband, as if seeking reassurance, then came to stand somewhat stiffly before the king.

‘Do not be nervous, Gobnat.’ Colgú smiled quickly. ‘You know all of us and we have spoken with you severally during these last few days. You also know that we share your sorrow over the death of your sister.’

The woman bobbed as if performing a curtsey.

‘I do, my lord. Thank you.’

The Brehon Dathal was sterner than the king.

‘We want you to place in evidence your knowledge of the events of Sárait’s death. We are told that she received a message telling her that you wanted to see her urgently. Not finding anyone to take care of the baby, she took him with her and went to see you.’

Gobnat shook her head. ‘Not so, lord. All I know is that Conchoille, the woodsman, came to my door and told me that he had found my sister’s body,’ she said in a broken voice. ‘I could not believe it as she lived and worked here, in the safety of the palace. Conchoille said that she was in the woods outside the village. My husband sent a message to the palace and went with Conchoille to recover the body. Between them they brought it to my house.’

‘And you had not sent your sister a message that evening asking her to come to see you as a matter of urgency?’ asked Bishop Ségdae in a more kindly voice than Brehon Dathal had employed.

‘I had not.’

‘You did not send a message by a child?’ pressed Brehon Dathal, determined not to be left out.

‘I have told you. I did not.’ Gobnat stood twisting her hands together, clearly upset by the elderly judge’s tone.

‘You do not know any such child as is said to have delivered the message to Sárait?’ Brehon Dathal seemed to wish to labour the matter.

‘An improper question,’ snapped Bishop Ségdae. ‘The witness was not here when the description was given by Caol.’

Brehon Dathal flushed and Colgú hurriedly intervened again to keep the peace.

‘This is not a court of law, so we do not have to be so formal. However, I think that we may accept Gobnat’s word that she did not send any message to her sister at that time.’

‘What time did the news come to you of the discovery of Sárait’s body?’ asked Eadulf.

‘My husband and I were about to retire for the night. That was just before midnight.’

‘And your husband had been with you since when?’ asked Brehon Dathal.

Gobnat frowned quickly before answering.

‘He had returned from the palace for the evening meal. That was a few hours after dusk had fallen. We had eaten, talked a little and were preparing for bed, as I have said.’

Bishop Ségdae was nodding sympathetically.

‘It is as Capa says,’ he said heavily for Brehon Dathal’s benefit. Then he turned to the warrior. ‘I suppose that you have asked throughout the township and surrounding countryside whether anyone recognised the description of the child given by Caol?’

‘It was my first thought to make such enquiries, lord,’ replied Capa.

‘In that case,’ Colgú intervened ‘that is all, Gobnat. Thank you for attending.’ He glanced at Capa. ‘Would you bring in Conchoille?’

The woodsman who came to stand before them was of an indiscernible age, neither young nor elderly. He was muscular beneath his leather jerkin and his clear nut-brown skin demonstrated that he pursued an outdoor life. He displayed no awe at being confronted by the most prominent men of the kingdom.

‘We just want to record the circumstances in which you found the body of Sárait,’ Colgú said.

The man folded his arms across a broad chest and gazed thoughtfully at them.

‘I have told the story several times.’

Brehon Dathal’s brows gathered in an angry frown and he opened his mouth to speak but Bishop Ségdae, turning a broad smile on the man, spoke first.

‘Indulge us by telling it one more time and we will try to make this the last.’

Conchoille shrugged indifferently. ‘There is little to tell. I had been cutting wood by the place known as the rath of quarrels, south of here-’

‘We know the place, Conchoille,’ snapped Brehon Dathal testily. ‘It is not much more than a mile south from here.’

‘I had finished my day’s work,’ went on the woodsman, unperturbed. ‘By the time I finished clearing up it was dark and so I set off for the township.’

Brehon Dathal leant forward quickly. ‘It is dark in the late afternoon at this time of year. We have heard that it was shortly before midnight that you knocked on the door of Capa and Gobnat’s cabin with news of your discovery. Now, estimating the time you finished work and set off for the township, and the time you spent presumably at the place where you found the body, even a slow walker would have been knocking at Capa’s cabin many hours before you did so. Explain this anomaly?’

Conchoille looked in bemusement at the elderly judge. ‘I do not understand such big words. Should I not be allowed to tell the tale in my own way?’

Brehon Dathal looked scandalised at the retort. Once more Colgú decided to intervene.

‘We are interested in the truth but I can understand Brehon Dathal’s question,’ he said. ‘Why did you take so long to get from your place of work, find the body and arrive at Capa’s house?’

‘Along the path before you enter the dark patch of woods is the inn of Ferloga. I no longer have a wife. It is my custom, therefore, at the end of my day’s work to have my evening meal and a drink in Ferloga’s inn if I am in that vicinity. So there I ate, and after I had exchanged a story or two with Ferloga I continued my journey to the village. I have told this story before.’ He glanced with meaning at the elderly Brehon Dathal.

‘Continue,’ prompted Colgú.

‘The path beyond the lantern that lights the sign of Ferloga’s inn is dark, especially where it winds into the woods.’

‘Did you not have a lantern?’ queried Brehon Dathal pedantically.

The woodsman looked pained. ‘Only a fool would not carry a lantern through the woods at that time. Remember that we have plenty of wolves roaming those woodlands.’

‘I just want it made clear in the record,’ snapped Brehon Dathal defensively.

‘I had a lantern and it was lit,’ returned Conchoille solemnly. ‘I was coming to the outskirts of the township when I tripped over something on the path. I raised my lantern and saw that it was a shawl. A shawl of good quality, so I bent to pick it up. The first thing I realised was that it was bloodstained. Then the edge of the circle of light from the lantern caught something white on the ground. It was an arm. Then, as I moved nearer, I saw the body … it was Sárait. She was dead.’

‘And you knew it was Sárait?’ queried Bishop Ségdae.

Conchoille sighed deeply. ‘Everyone in the village knew Sárait. She was a fine, comely woman and a widow. Many men would start counting how much they could afford by way of a coibche when their eyes fell on her.’

A coibche was the principal dowry paid by the prospective husband to the bride’s family. After a year, the bride’s father had to give one third to the girl who retained this as her personal property.

‘Were you able to see how she had died?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Not then. Only that there was blood about the head.’

‘What did you do then?’ demanded Brehon Dathal.

‘I ran to raise the alarm. I went directly to the house of Capa. I knew he was husband to Gobnat, Sárait’s sister. Capa ordered his wife to remain in the cabin while he came with me, and along the way we saw someone making their way to the palace so Capa told him to raise the guard there. Capa and I carried the body back to his cabin. It was in the light of the cabin that we saw that the head had been battered and there were some stab wounds in the chest. Later, when Caol and his guards arrived, we heard that Sárait had left the fortress with the baby, Alchú. We returned to the woods and searched but there was no sign of the child.’

Capa was nodding slowly in agreement.

This is true,’ he intervened. ‘I had no idea about the missing baby until Caol told me. Some neighbours, who had heard the commotion, joined us. It was clear that Sárait had not been killed by wild woodland animals, which is what we first thought when Conchoille told us that he had found her body. As he said, we went back to the spot and searched by lantern light but there was no sign of the baby. We searched again at first light but once more there was nothing to be found. Men were despatched the next day to spread the word, riding east to Gabrán, south to Lios Mhór, west to Cnoc Loinge and north to Durlas.’

Brother Eadulf had been sitting, head forward, listening to the evidence that he had already heard in emotional exchanges with Fidelma during the last two days. But now he felt more detached, as if he were hearing the facts for the first time. A thought occurred to him.

‘Conchoille, you have said that you were working to the south of the township?’

‘I did.’

‘And you came across Sárait’s body towards the edge of the woods, south of the township as you were returning to it?’

‘That is what I said.’

Brother Eadulf rubbed his chin reflectively.

‘What is it, Eadulf?’ queried Colgú.

‘I can confirm that Conchoille led us to a spot on the track south of the township,’ Capa put in, looking curiously at the Saxon.

‘We seem to be overlooking a curious puzzle here,’ Eadulf said slowly.

‘I don’t see-’ began Brehon Dathal officiously.

‘This fortress stands to the north of the township, correct? You leave the gateway, as Sárait did with the baby, and walk down along the track which leads to the township, and she was found south of the township on the track beyond?’

Brehon Dathal exhaled impatiently. ‘What is your point?’

It was Finguine, the tanist, who had said nothing so far in the council, who spoke. His voice was tinged with bewilderment.

‘I understand the point. Sárait had been summoned urgently to her sister, Gobnat. Gobnat lives in the township.’

‘But Gobnat said she had not summoned her,’ Brehon Dathal pointed out.

True. But Sárait did not know that. Why, then, did she go through the township to be found murdered beyond it in the woods? Why take the child so far? What persuaded her to go past her sister’s house?’

There was a silence. Then Brehon Dathal smiled as if explaining to an idiot.

‘She must either have been forced to do so or she knew the message did not come from her sister.’

Eadulf leant forward quickly. ‘Are we saying that Sárait told a lie to the guard? That she was really going to some other assignation?’

‘Summon the woman Gobnat again,’ ordered Brehon Dathal while they were considering the point.

‘Have you done with me, my lords?’ queried Conchoille. He had been waiting patiently during this discussion.

‘You may wait outside,’ Colgú told him absently.

Gobnat was ushered back into the chamber.

‘We have a puzzle that you may help us with,’ Brehon Dathal began. ‘You say that you did not summon your sister to your house?’

‘That is so, lord.’ She nodded quickly.

‘And did you see her at all that evening, any time after dusk in the afternoon, that is?’

‘I did not summon her.’

‘That is not what I said. Did you see her?’

‘I did not. My sister and I are not very close and I cannot say that she is a frequent visitor to my house.’

Capa was frowning at her, and now he interrupted.

‘My lords, we have already established that my wife did not send for her sister. I can confirm it.’

‘But if Sárait believed that Gobnat had summoned her, she would have made her way directly to your house?’ Finguine asked.

Gobnat shrugged indifferently.

‘Where is your house situated?’ pressed the tanist.

‘Everyone knows that,’ the woman replied. ‘It is in the square near the smith’s forge.’

‘And to get to the path that leads south to Ferloga’s inn and Rath na Drínne, one would have to pass through the township?’

‘Of course, and-’

‘And that is where your sister was found slaughtered,’ Bishop Ségdae said softly, a frown crossing his face. It was not a question.

‘And are you sure that your sister did not come to your house that evening before passing to the track beyond?’ demanded Brehon Dathal. ‘Is there a chance she might have come there and neither you nor Capa, if he was there at the time, heard her?’

‘She did not. Capa and I heard nothing until Conchoille arrived.’

Capa was frowning.

‘I do not understand this questioning of my wife, my lords. Do you doubt the truth of what she and I-’

It was Brother Eadulf who replied.

‘A learned dálaigh once told me that a great legal philosopher, the Brehon Morann, said that thought is a human weapon by which reality is captured. During these last few days we have been endeavouring to find facts and we heard those facts but we did not think about them. We have been manacled by activity, but now our thoughts must set us free to find reality.’

While the others stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language, Colgú grimaced ironically.

‘I swear, Eadulf, that you are beginning to sound like my sister.’

Eadulf smiled wanly. ‘That is a great compliment, Colgú, because she is the dálaigh that I am quoting.’

‘I still do not understand what you mean, Brother Eadulf,’ Capa said.

Eadulf leant back, his hands palm downward on the table before him.

‘We should be trying to let our thoughts run with the facts we have. By thinking about them, ideas might come. Some we can dismiss, others might lead us to new paths. For example, if Sárait left the fortress, carrying the baby Alchú, in the belief that it was in answer to a summons from her sister, Gobnat, why did she not go to see Gobnat … make her way to Gobnat’s house? Instead, she appears to skirt around the village and head away from her sister’s home.’

‘But, as we have been told, Gobnat never sent the message,’ the Brehon Dathal pointed out irritably.

‘So what caused Sárait to go in the opposite direction unless she knew that her sister had not sent the message and she lied to Caol? If so, who was she going to see and why take the child?’

‘She could have been forced,’ Capa pointed out.

‘At what stage?’ replied Eadulf. ‘The child who had delivered the message had left the palace before her. Caol saw no one forcing her when she went.’

‘She could have been forced once she came into the township and before she could reach our house,’ Capa said. ‘That is the simple explanation.’

‘True enough,’ agreed Eadulf. ‘Although at that hour, even in the dark, there would still be people about in the main square. The occasional lantern or light would provide illumination. So whoever forced her, if she was so forced, would be taking a risk of being seen.’

‘Such risk-taking is not unknown,’ commented Bishop Ségdae.

‘I point this out as something we should think about,’ Eadulf replied. ‘We have heard the facts and now, in thinking about them, we should be able to see before us a path of questions along which we must progress to the truth.’

Brehon Dathal’s tone was disparaging as he looked at Eadulf.

‘And do you feel that you are chosen to lead us along that path, Saxon?’

‘That is unfair,’ snapped Bishop Ségdae. ‘Eadulf has a right to say what he feels as father of the missing child.’

‘That is just my point,’ returned Brehon Dathal with a sneer. ‘Because he is the father, he is too emotionally blinded. He will see what he wants to see and it is no use quoting Brehon Morann’s philosophies to justify himself. The same goes for Fidelma. She may be a dálaigh but any attempt by her to lead an inquiry into her own baby’s kidnapping is doomed to failure. I will take charge of this case.’

‘You will not.’

The words were spoken softly. A tall, red-haired woman in her late twenties had slipped into the chamber unnoticed and stood regarding Brehon Dathal with her green eyes flashing with a curious fire.

Eadulf rose hurriedly and in concern.

‘Fidelma!’