Whispers of the Dead

by Peter Tremayne

  “What is your evidence in the matter of the murder of Brother Eolang?”

  Ferchar looked puzzled and Fidelma intervened.

  “He means the death of Brother Eolang, the brother found by the pier.”

  Brehon Gormán scowled in annoyance at her correction.

  “That is what I meant,” he said tightly.

  “I was riding along the shore on my way to Cashel,” began Ferchar. “Across, on the island, I saw a religieux mooring his boat at the end of one of the side piers of the abbey.”

  “I do not think we need bring forward evidence that this was Brother Eolang bringing the boat to the herb garden pier where he was found,” intervened Fidelma.

  Brehon Gormán motioned Ferchar to continue with an impatient gesture.

  “The religieux had moored the boat and was walking along the pier when it seemed that he stopped abruptly and turned back to the boat. This meant that he was facing toward me. Then, curiously, he started back as if something had stopped him. I heard a crack. He staggered back and fell off the edge of the pier. I started shouting to attract attention. I shouted for some minutes and then I saw another religieux exit from a gate. He heard my voice but I doubt if he heard my words. I gestured to where the religieux had fallen in. He must have seen him for he waved acknowledgment and jumped in and started to haul the body to the shore. Seeing that another religieux had arrived, and that there was nothing else I could do, I continued on my journey, not realizing that in that short time, the first religieux had met his death.”

  “Are you sure there was no one else around at the time the religieux fell into the water? The religieux was by himself on the pier?”

  “No one else was there,” affirmed Ferchar.

  “But you heard a crack?” intervened Brehon Gormán.

  “I did. Like a branch breaking.”

  “Perhaps someone had cast a spear at him to make him fall back or . . . yes, a slingshot perhaps?” suggested the Brehon.

  “He was facing towards me on the shore. The distance was too far to cast a slingshot or any other weapon. No, there was no one around when the man fell into the lake.”

  “Are you claiming that this was the act of some supernatural force?” demanded the Brehon turning to Fidelma. “What of the prediction? You cannot explain away the accuracy of the prediction.”

  Fidelma smiled at Ferchar.

  “Wait outside and ask Brother Conchobar to enter.”

  A moment later the old man did so and Fidelma asked the Brehon to spread the astrological chart before him.

  “Conchobar will you examine this chart and give me your advice?” she invited.

  The old man nodded and took the chart from her hands. He spent some time poring over it and then he looked up.

  “It is a good chart. A professional one.”

  Brehon Gormán smiled approvingly.

  “You agree, then, learned Conchobar with the conclusions of Eolang?”

  “Most things are correct . . .” agreed the old man.

  Fidelma could see the Brehon’s smile broaden but Brother Conchobar was continuing.

  “ . . . except one important point. Brother Eolang appears to have predicted that within a week following his drawing and judging his horary question that he would die. It would happen on the day that Mercury and Jupiter perfected conjunction.”

  “Exactly. The first day of the month of Aibreán. And that was the very day that he was killed, exactly as he predicted,” the Brehon confirmed. “You cannot deny that.”

  The old man tapped on the chart with his finger, shaking his head.

  “The error, however, is that he failed to note that Mercury turned direct a few hours later and never perfected the conjunction. Brehon, as you have some knowledge of the art, you should know that we call this phenomenon refranation. Alas, I have seen this carelessness, this overlooking of such an important fact, among many astrologers. To give Brother Eolang his due, perhaps he was too confused and worried to sit and spend time calculating the planetary movements accurately.”

  “But he was accurate. He did indeed die on the predicted day. How do you explain it?” protested Brehon Gormán.

  “But he was not murdered,” insisted Brother Conchobar. “The chart does not show it.”

  “Then how can it be explained?” demanded the Brehon in bewilderment. “How did he die?”

  Fidelma intervened with a smile.

  “If you come with me, I will show you what happened.”

  At the end of the old pier, Fidelma paused.

  “Brother Eolang brought the boat to the end of the pier. He climbed onto the pier and started to head to the abbey. He forgot something in the boat. His marsupium to be exact. This was found by Brother Petrán later. So, halfway along the pier, he turned back for it. This much did our friend, Ferchar, observe from the far shore.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from Ferchar.

  “Now, look at the condition of the planks on the pier. Some are rotten, some are not nailed down. He stepped sharply towards the boat and . . .”

  Fidelma turned, examined the planking critically for a moment, stepped sharply on one. The far end rose with a cracking noise and she had to step swiftly aside to avoid being hit by it as it flew up into the air. She turned back triumphantly to the onlookers.

  “Brother Eolang was hit by the end of the plank between the eyes, causing the wounds found by the apothecary. It also knocked him unconscious and he fell back into the water. Drowning does not have to be a long process. By the time he was hauled out of the water he was dead.”

  “Then the prediction. . . .?” began the bewildered Brehon.

  “Was false. It was an accident. It was nobody’s fault.”

  Sometime later as Ferchar, Conchobar and Fidelma were being rowed back to the mainland, the old astrologer turned to Fidelma with a lopsided smile.

  “I can’t help thinking that had Brother Eolang been a better astrologer, he would have made a correct prediction. It was all there, danger of death from water and he was accurate as to the day such danger would occur.”

  Fidelma nodded thoughtfully.

  “The fault was that Brother Eolang, like our friend, Brehon Gormán, believed that the patterns of the stars absolved man from using his free will; that man no longer had choice and that everything was predestined. That is not how the ancients taught the art of nemgnacht.”

  Brother Conchobar nodded approvingly.

  “So you do remember what I taught you?”

  “You taught that there are signs that serve as warnings and give us information from which the wise can make decisions. They are options, possibilities from which we may select choices. The new learning from the east seems more fatalistic. Even the Christian teachings of Augustine of Hippo would have it that everything is predestined. That is why I am more happy with the teachings of Pelagius.”

  “Even though Augustine’s supporters have sneered at Pelagius as being ‘full of Irish porridge’ ?”

  “Better Irish porridge than blind prejudice.”

  Brother Conchobar chuckled.

  “Have a care, Fidelma, lest you be accused of a pagan heresy!”

  THE BLEMISH

  Fidelma!”

  The young monk nearly collided with a tall girl as she came around the corner of the building with such speed and force that he barely had time to flatten himself against the wall to avoid her.

  “Can’t stop,” she flung breathlessly at him as she hurried on with her hair and robes flying with the speed of her progress.

  “Brehon Morann is looking for you,” the religieux shouted after her retreating form.

  “I know,” her voice flung back. “I’m on my way.”

  “You’re late for your examination,” the young monk added before realizing that she could no longer hear him. He stood for a moment, looking disapprovingly after her as she disappeared toward a gray stone building that was the center of the college, then he shrugged and continued on his way.


  Fidelma did not need to be reminded that she was late for her examination with Brehon Morann of Tara. The examination was one of several she was taking which, she hoped, would result in her achieving the degree of Dos and thus ending her fourth year of study at the college of which Morann was Principal. The degree of Dos, so called because the student was regarded as a young tree ready to develop—for such was the literal meaning of the word—marked the start of her graduation from the school of law studies. It was the lowest rung of the graduate ladder. With such a degree one could go forth and practice as a minor magistrate or legal advisor. Fidelma had a higher ambition than that. But if she did not present herself within the appointed hour she would not be graduating at all.

  The Brehon Morann sat at his desk, alone in his study, as Fidelma obeyed his gruff instruction to enter after she had timidly tapped upon his door. He was an elderly man with a kindly face but whose features could mold into a look of stern disapproval within a moment. He wore such an expression now.

  “Well, Fidelma,” he said softly, as she came breathlessly to stand before him, “is it not said that judges begin to count the faults of those who keep them waiting?”

  Fidelma colored in annoyance.

  “Fer-leginn,” she addressed him by his official title of “Principal,” “It is not my fault that I . . .”

  She saw him begin to scowl and her mouth snapped shut.

  “They are truly good who are faultless,” sighed Brehon Morann. His face was still somber but his twinkling bright eyes regarded her for a moment. She swore that he was laughing at her. “What were you saying, Fidelma?”

  She shook her head.

  “I am sorry for my lateness.” She tried to sound contrite. It was no use explaining that for some inexplicable reason the key had been turned in the lock of her door from the outside and it had taken her some time to attract attention and extricate herself from her room. She realized that it was no use explaining her lateness for this examination. She harbored ill thoughts against the student who would have played such a silly and petty trick on her. That they did it this morning of all mornings, when she was due for her examination, increased her thoughts of vengeance on the perpetrator. Morann had doubtless heard many excuses from students over the years and, even though her excuse was, in fact, a reason, any attempted explanation would not enhance her image in the eyes of her venerable examiner.

  “Then I accept your contrition,” replied the Brehon solemnly, sitting back and placing his fingertips against one another, hand to hand, so that the tips of the thumbs touched just under his chin. “Sit down.”

  Fidelma sat down, feeling hard done by.

  “Tell me what you know of The Blemish?”

  Brehon Morann asked the question without preamble and for a second Fidelma had to compose her thoughts.

  “The Blemish? You mean, what is a blemish in legal terms?” she countered, playing for time.

  Again, the frown of annoyance crossed Brehon Morann’s brow.

  “You are in a college for the study of law,” he pointed out dryly, leaving her to make her own deduction.

  Fidelma began to speak, hoping as she did so that the information would come to her mind.

  “The law text Uraicecht Becc opens with the sentence that our system of law is founded on truth, right and nature. A judge must give a surety of five ounces of silver that the judgment they give is truthful to the best of the knowledge provided to them. They forfeit that sum if an appeal against their judgment is upheld. If it is found that they have made an erroneous judgment when the facts presented to them are clear then they are fined one cumal.”

  “Are you saying that honest error is not allowed in law?” snapped Morann.

  “It is allowed for—isn’t there a saying which is ‘to every judge an error’? But a judge must pay for his errors if that error is obvious, and if the error arises from bias then it is said that a blemish will raise itself on his face. A serious false judgment will result in the judge being deprived of his office and his honor.”

  Brehon Morann nodded slowly. He ignored the expression of triumph that crossed Fidelma’s face as she finally arrived at the answer to his initial question on “The Blemish.”

  “And this blemish—how would you describe its physical manifestation?” He smiled softly.

  Fidelma hesitated for a moment and then decided that she would put forward her own concept.

  “When the ancients talked about a blemish being raised, I do not think that they meant it to be taken literally.”

  Brehon Morann’s brows drew together sternly.

  “Ah, so you are an interpreter of the meaning of the ancient texts?”

  Fidelma’s chin came up at his tone of mockery.

  “I make no such pretension although, surely, it is the task of the Brehon to elucidate the texts? I believe that what is meant by this reference to a blemish is that the loss of a judge’s honor and the fact that he becomes known in public as someone who has delivered a false judgment puts a blemish on his character in the minds of the people; the blemish is in the mind, not physically on the skin.”

  “Indeed?” Brehon Morann’s voice was dry and non-committal.

  Brehon Morann leant forward and picked up a small silver handbell. As its tinkling tones died away the door opened and a short, wiry man with an abundance of white curly hair entered. He closed the door behind him and made his way to a chair at the side of Morann’s table facing Fidelma. His face bore no expression at all. His features were bland.

  “This is the Druimcli Firbis of Ardagh. He will set a case before you and you will tell me if and why a blemish should have been raised on the judge involved in the case.”

  Fidelma stirred nervously in her chair. A Druimcli was a person who had mastered the entire course of learning, and was not merely a Brehon but could be appointed to the most important legal positions. She turned slightly to face him.

  Firbis’s tone was high-pitched and querulous and he had a habit of sniffing every so often as if in disapproval.

  “Pay attention and do not make any notes. I do not approve of the writing of notes as a means to aid the memory. In the old days, before the coming of the New Faith, the writing of our wealth of knowledge was not allowed. The old religion forbade us to commit our teachings to writing and it is a good rule for pupils who rely on the written word and neglect to train their memories. When pupils have the help of notes, they are less diligent in learning by heart and so their memories rust. Is that not so, young woman?”

  The abruptness of the question startled Fidelma for a moment.

  “It is an argument that I have heard, Druimcli, ” she acknowledged, solemnly.

  The corners of Firbis’s mouth turned down.

  “But you do not agree?” He spoke sharply, his eyes perceptive.

  “Our ancestors failed to record many essential matters before the coming of the New Faith and the result is that much has been lost to posterity. Philosophy, religion, history, poetry . . . these things went unrecorded. Because of this refusal to set forth all knowledge in writing, have we not lost much that would be most valuable to our civilization?”

  Firbis stared at her in disapproval and sniffed.

  “I suppose that you are one of the young generation who applauds the work of those scribes in the foundations of the New Faith who spend their time setting forth such matters in the new Latin alphabet?”

  Fidelma inclined her head.

  “Of course. How will future generations know the poetry, the law, the ancient stories and the course of our history unless it is set forth? I would only make this criticism, that such scribes feel constrained to dress many of the ancient stories of the old gods and goddesses in the images of the New Faith.” Fidelma suddenly felt herself warming to the theme. “Why, I have even seen one text in which the scribe tells how the hero Cú Chulainn is conjured out of Hell by the Blessed Patrick to help him convert the High King Laoghaire to the New Faith and when Laoghaire becomes a Christian C
ú Chulainn is released from Hell to go to Heaven.”

  Brehon Morann leant forward.

  “You disapprove?”

  Fidelma nodded.

  “We are told, in the New Faith, that God is good, loving and forgiving. Cú Chulainn was a great champion whose life was devoted to aiding the weak against the strong. He would surely not have been consigned to Hell by such a God and . . .”

  Firbis cleared his throat noisily.

  “You seem to have radical ideas, young woman. But in reply to your question, future generations should learn by adhering to the old ways, learning by heart, passing on the knowledge one voice to another voice down the ages. Our tradition is that knowledge must be passed on and preserved in oral tradition so that outsiders do not steal it from us.”

  “It cannot be. The old ways are gone. We must progress. But, hopefully, not by distorting the images of our past.”

  Brehon Morann interrupted impatiently.

  “You say, we must progress. Agreed. Progress in the matter we are dealing with today,” he said heavily. “The day grows short and there are other students to be tested before sundown.”

  Inwardly, Fidelma groaned. She had obviously alienated Druimcli Firbis by her attitude and annoyed Brehon Morann by her lateness and her inability to keep her views to herself.

  Firbis sniffed rapidly.

  “Very well. Pay attention. I will not repeat myself and, whatever happens outside these walls, I will tolerate no writing of notes.”

  He stared sharply in challenge at her but she did not demur.

  After a moment’s silence, he began.

  “This case involved a Brehon. We will not name him. A case came before him in which he found a woman not guilty of theft. Let us call the woman Sochla.”

  He paused as if he expected a challenge to his opening statement.

  “The circumstances were as follows: Sochla worked in the hall of the King of Tethbae. Do you know where that is?”

  Fidelma nodded automatically.

  “It is a petty kingdom bordering on the west of Midhe, not far from here,” she answered. Fidelma prided herself on her geographical knowledge.