“Connla was murdered,” Fidelma said. “But not by the itinerants. He was murdered by a member of this community.”
Father Máilín was pale and shocked.
“You cannot believe that I . . . I only meant to cover up his own suicide and hide the nature of his work. I did not kill him.”
“I realize that . . . now. The thing that had misled me was the fact that you and the real killer both shared a fear of the nature of Connla’s work. But you each took different ways of dealing with it. When the killer struck, he wanted to make it appear that Connla committed suicide and so discredit him. However, you, believing that Connla’s suicide was genuine and would bring discredit on the Faith, tried to disguise what you thought was a suicide and blamed itinerants for the murder.”
“Who killed the Venerable Connla, then?” demanded Father Máilín. “And how? There was only one key and you say that you found it in the room.”
“Let me first explain why I did not think Connla took his own life. The obvious point was that it was physically impossible for him to do so. He was old and frail. I stood on the bed and reached to the roof beam. I am tall and therefore could reach it. But for an elderly and frail man, and one of short stature, it was impossible for him to stand on the bed, tie the rope, and hang himself.
“Yet one of your brethren went to considerable lengths to draw attention to the nature of the work that Connla was doing, pretending to express approval for it but, at the same time, hinting that Connla was so overawed by his revelations that he could not face the fact of his complicity in the destruction of our ancient beliefs and rituals. He even said that Connla had approved of a quotation by Pliny which, cunningly, he left for me to find, having whetted my curiosity. It was the passage where Pliny wrote that, ‘amid the suffering of life, suicide is the gods’ best gift to men’. The murderer was Brother Ledbán.”
“Ledbán?” Father Máilín looked at her in amazement. “The Delbatóir? But he worked closely with the Venerable Connla . . .”
“And so knew all about his work. And one of the mistakes Ledbán made was in pretending he had no knowledge of Ogham when, as you yourself testify, he knew enough to accuse Connla of wrong interpretation.”
“But there is one thing you cannot explain,” Father Máilín pointed out, “and in this your whole argument falls apart. There was only one key and that you confess you found inside Connla’s room.”
Fidelma smiled knowingly.
“I think you will find a second key. What is the task of Brother Ledbán?”
“He’s the Delbatóir . . . why?”
“He makes the metal book plates and book shrines, casting them from molds in gold or silver. It is not beyond his capability to cast a second key, having made a mold from the first. You simply take the key and press it into wax to form the mold from which you will make your cast. You will note, as I did, the key I found—Connla’s own key—was covered in grease. A search of Ledbán’s chamber or his forge should bring the second key to light if he does not confess when faced with the rest of the evidence.”
“I see.”
“However, it was wrong of you, Father Máilín, to try to disguise the manner of Connla’s death.”
“You must understand my position. I did believe Connla had committed suicide. If so, the nature of his work would be revealed. Would you rather Christendom knew that one of its great theologians committed suicide in protest of being responsible for the destruction of a few pagan books?”
“I would rather Christendom might learn from such an act. However, it was a greater guilt to fabricate the false evidence.”
“My desire was to save Connla from condemnation,” protested Father Máilín.
“Had Connla resorted to suicide, then he would have been condemned for his action,” Fidelma said. “What was it that Martial wrote?
When all the flattery of life is gone
The fearful steal away to death, the brave live on.
“But, as you frequently remarked, the Venerable Connla was a brave man and would have lived to argue his case had he not been murdered. I will leave it to you to arrest Brother Ledbán and await instructions from the abbot.”
She smiled sadly and turned toward the door.
“Must everything come out?” called Father Máilín. “Must all be revealed?”
“That is up to the abbot,” replied Fidelma, glancing back. “Thankfully, in this case, it is not in my purview to make such moral judgments on what took place here. I only have to report the facts to the abbot.”
THE FOSTERER
Fidelma! I am glad that you have come.”
Brehon Spélan was looking somewhat harassed as Fidelma entered the old judge’s chamber. She had known Spélan for many years and had ridden to the fortress of Críonchoill, the place of the withered wood, in answer to his summons. He had sent her a message that he required some urgent assistance. Now his face was wreathed in a tired smile of relief as he came forward to welcome her.
“What ails you, Spélan?” Fidelma examined him with concern. He did not seem physically ill and a moment later he confirmed that fact to her.
“I did not mean to alarm you, Fidelma.” He was apologetic. “I was due to hear a case this morning; a case of death by neglect and now I have been called to hear a case of kin-slaying in the neighboring territory. The kin-slaying concerns a cleric of noble rank and, as you will know, takes precedence. I am afraid that I must leave at once and yet all the witnesses of the death by neglect case have already been summoned here. It is too late to cancel the hearing. I asked you here to beg a favor of you.”
Fidelma smiled wryly.
“You want me to hear this case of death by neglect?”
“You are qualified to do so,” pointed out the elderly Brehon, as if it might be a matter for dispute.
She nodded in agreement. Being qualified to the level of anruth, only one degree below the highest the law courts could bestow, she could sit in judgment on certain cases, but her main task as a dálaigh was to prosecute or defend and, more often than not, simply to gather information for presentation to the higher courts.
“Of course I will do so. A case of death by neglect? Do you have details?”
“A father whose son has died while in fosterage brings the charge. That is all I know, except such a case should be fairly simple. I have a copy of the Cáin Íarraith, the law on fosterage, should you need it.”
Fidelma inclined her head slightly.
“I would be grateful, Spélan. While I know generalities of the law pertaining to fosterage, I may need to refresh myself on the specifics.”
The old judge moved to his table, picked up a well-thumbed manuscript book and handed it to her. He seemed in a hurry to depart for he glanced at her in embarrassment.
“Thank you for standing in for me, Fidelma. I must be on my way now. My clerk is Brother Corbb. I am leaving him behind. He will guide and advise you.”
He raised his hand in a sort of salutation, picked up the leather satchel, which he had just finished packing as she entered, and left the room.
Fidelma stood for a moment regarding the closed door with a faint smile of amusement. Brehon Spélan had not really given her time to think and she hoped that she had not been pushed into a wrong choice. She dropped her eyes to the law text that the old judge had thrust into her hand and sighed deeply. What did she really know of fosterage? She seated herself at the desk vacated by Brehon Spélan and placed the book before her.
Altram—fosterage—was the keystone of society and practiced in the five kingdoms of Éireann since remote times and by all social ranks. Children were sent to be reared and educated, and those who undertook this responsibility became foster parents of the child. Usually children were sent to fosterage at the age of seven years. They remained in fosterage until the age of fourteen, for girls, and seventeen for boys, when they were deemed to have reached the “Age of Choice.”
There were two types of fosterage, fosterage for affection
and fosterage for payment. Kings sent their sons to other kings to be fostered. Had not Lugaid, son of the High King Conn Cétchathach of the Uí Néill, been sent to the Eóghanacht King of Muman, Ailill Olumm, to be raised and educated? From fosterage grew close ties between families. The relationship was regarded as something sacred and often the foster children became more attached to their foster parents than to members of their own family. Cases had occurred where a warrior had voluntarily laid down his own life to save that of his foster father or foster brother.
Fidelma had been told that in the year of her birth, at the great battle of Magh Roth, the High King, Domhnall mac Aedo had been concerned for the personal safety of his rebellious foster son, Congal Cáel, King of Ulaidh, against whom he was fighting. In spite of Congal’s attempt to oust his foster father from the kingship, both foster father and foster son regarded one another with affection, and when Congal was slain, Domhnall lamented as if he had lost the battle.
The law on fosterage was written down in minute detail.
For a while Fidelma thumbed through the text and then she suddenly realized the passage of time. She reached forward and picked up the small silver handbell and shook it. The door opened immediately to its summons and a thin-faced religieux with rounded shoulders scurried into the room to stand before her.
Brother Corbb had been Brehon Spélan’s clerk for many years. He did not look prepossessing but Fidelma knew that he understood his job thoroughly and was as well versed in law as many who had qualified.
“Has Brehon Spélan told you that he has asked me to hear this case of death by neglect in his absence?” she opened.
The thin-faced man inclined his head. It was a swift almost sparrow-like movement.
“He has, lady.” Brother Corbb preferred to ignore her religious office and address her as the sister to Colgú, King of Muman.
“I am told it concerns a death in fosterage. Who is the plaintiff?”
“Fécho is the father of the dead child. He is a smith.”
“And the defendant?”
“Colla, a wainwright, lady, a maker of wagons.”
“Are they both in attendance in the Hall of Hearings? And all who are witness to this matter also present?”
“They are. Shall I give you the details about them?”
Fidelma shook her head.
“I do not want to prejudge anything, Brother Corbb. I will hear from the witnesses themselves and make my own interpretations and judgments as we proceed.”
“Be it as you wish, lady.”
She rose from the desk and Brother Corbb moved to the door to hold it open for her to pass through. Then with nimble movements he contrived to close the door behind her and then move back into a position to lead her into the Hall of Hearings.
There were many people there, comprising of the two extended families involved—the families of both the plaintiff and those of the defendant. Young as well as old were included. As Brother Corbb led Fidelma into the hall and up to the raised platform on which she would sit as judge, a murmuring broke out which was quickly hushed by a movement from Brother Corbb, who banged a wooden staff on the floor to indicate the court was in session. Fidelma had put down the manuscript book and taken her seat. She examined the expectant upturned faces slowly before speaking.
“I am Fidelma of Cashel,” she announced.
“In the absence of Brehon Spélan it is I who will hear this case. Does anyone present object?”
There was a silence and she smiled dryly.
“Qui tacet consentit,” she intoned. Silence implies consent. “Let the plaintiff or the dálaigh for the plaintiff stand forward and state their case.”
A man with dark hair, short of stature but well muscled, with clothes that betrayed his calling—a leather jerkin and trousers—stood up hesitantly and coughed as if to clear his throat.
“We are poor folk in Críonchoill,” he began. “We can’t afford the ten séds that a lawyer would cost to represent us. I will speak for my family.”
Fidelma frowned.
“I presume that you are Fécho the smith?” On receiving a gesture of confirmation, she continued: “Before you commence, I would offer a word of advice. If you do not have funds to pay for legal representation, have you considered the possible outcome of legal action? If you cannot present a good case and I find it so then you have to pay the court fees, that is the aile déc, which is called the judge’s fee. And if your testimony is found false against him that you accuse, you may find yourself having to pay fines and compensation.”
Fécho compressed his lips and shuffled his feet as he stood before her.
“I have discussed the matter,” he waved his hand to encompass his entire family, “they have agreed that they will support me in this matter.”
“So long as you are aware of this fact,” Fidelma said. “I, myself, have to lodge five ounces of silver with this court to ensure that I carry out my duties as judge in an appropriate manner. If I do not, that is my loss. And if, on appeal, my decision is overturned because it is found in error, then I am fined one cumal—the value of three milch cows.”
She did not have to explain this but she saw the trusting and un-lettered people anxiously regarding her and felt that she had to make an effort to reassure them.
“Where is the defendant?”
The man who stood up was almost a replica of Fécho the smith, except his hair was a dirty, corn yellow. He, too, was tanned and muscular.
“I am Colla the wainwright,” he announced nervously.
“Understand, Colla, that what I have told Fécho also applies to you. If you are found guilty, you will have to pay the fines and the court costs. Do you understand?”
“I am not guilty and Fécho . . .”
“You will have an opportunity to speak later,” she interrupted him sharply. “I am telling you the course of the law. I presume that you have no legal representation?”
“I do not.”
“Then having warned you of the consequence, I presume your fine, your kindred, are prepared to pay if the case goes against you?”
“But it will not . . .” he began to protest.
A plump woman at his side tugged at his sleeve and said loudly: “The kindred are prepared to pay and will appeal if the judgment goes against us.”
“So long as you both understand. Colla the wainwright is classed, I see, as a chief expert wright, and his honor-price is adjudged in law as even greater than the highest grade of judge. Some twenty séds is the sum. Likewise, Fécho, the smith, is similarly classed as having an honor price of twenty séds.”
“We know this,” interrupted Colla brusquely. “The equality of our honor prices is why we exchanged the contract for this fosterage.”
Fidelma sighed softly and indicated that the wainwright should be reseated. It was little use explaining to him the etiquette of court procedure.
“Let us hear your case, Fécho. Keep only to the facts as you know them and do not indulge in any story that you have heard or cannot prove.”
The blacksmith ran a hand nervously through his hair.
“My son was called Enda and he was seven years old. I claim he was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Fidelma was startled. “I thought that this was a case of death by neglect?”
“So I thought at first until Tassach . . .”
Fidelma raised a hand to still him.
“Let’s us begin at the beginning. You may start by telling me how Enda came to be in fosterage with Colla.”
“As a wainwright Colla was well known to me for he often brought work to my forge. His workshop is on the far side of the hill from my forge. It occurred to me that Colla, who has several children and two apprentices whom he instructs in his art of wagon making, would be the ideal person to foster my son. One month ago we agreed on this course of action.”
“And was this fosterage done for affection or for fee?”
Fécho shrugged.
“As we have explained
, we are poor here, and so we agreed that I would supply my services without cost, if Colla fostered the child and taught him his arts.”
Fidelma nodded thoughtfully.
“And this, you say, was agreed just a month ago?”
“It was. A week ago, Colla came to me in his wagon. He told me that there had been an accident. That Enda, my son, had fallen into a pool near the house and drowned. That poor little Enda . . .”
There was a sudden catch in the man’s throat.
“Take your time,” Fidelma advised him gently.
“Tell me what created the suspicion in your mind that this was not an accident as Colla maintained?”
“Things were blurred for a while. I was so shocked, and so was my wife, who even now remains at home prostrate with grief, for little Enda was our only child. I recall that Colla had brought the body of little Enda in his wagon and I lifted it down and carried it into my bothán. We sat a long time before the body. Colla had left. Then it was that my cousin Tassach arrived and he said . . .”
“Just a moment. Who is Tassach, apart from being your cousin, and is he in this court?”
A stocky young man stood up.
“I am Tassach, learned Brehon. I am a physician as well as cousin to Fécho.”
“I see. In that case, we will interrupt Fécho’s testimony to hear what you said at this time.”
The young man gestured with his hand toward Fécho.
“I came to visit my cousin and found him and his wife kneeling before the body of little Enda, their only son. His little body was laid out on the table. They were upset; Fécho and his wife, that is. Fécho told me that the child had drowned while in the care of Colla. I was puzzled at this.”
“Puzzled? Why?”
“Because Enda swam like a fish. He was a strong little swimmer. I have seen him fight the torrents of the Siúr like a salmon racing upriver.”
“Even the strongest swimmers can sometimes have accidents and drown,” observed Fidelma.
“This is certainly true,” replied Tassach. “However, to drown in the pool by Colla’s house would take an accident of exceptional means.”
Whispers of the Dead Page 31
