The Spider's Web

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘I am in the right,’ snapped Muadnat. ‘You have no claim on the land.’

  Sister Fidelma raised her eyebrow ironically.

  ‘It seems that is now a matter for the law to decide as neither of you appear to agree. And you have brought the matter before the court so that it may make that decision. And the decision that this court makes on the matter is binding on you both.’

  She sat back, folded her hands in her lap and examined each of them carefully in turn. There was anger in both of their storm-ridden faces.

  ‘Very well,’ she said, at last. ‘Suanach, as I understand it, inherited lands from her father. Correct me if I am wrong. She later married a man from beyond the seas, a Briton called Artgal who, being a stranger in this land, had no property to bring into the marriage.’

  ‘An impecunious foreigner!’ grunted Muadnat.

  Fidelma ignored him.

  ‘Artgal, who was Archú’s father, died some years ago. Am I correct?’

  ‘My father died fighting the Ui Fidgente in the service of the king of Cashel.’ It was Archú who interrupted and the boy spoke proudly.

  ‘A mercenary soldier,’ sneered Muadnat.

  ‘This court was not asked to make a judgment on the personality of Artgal,’ Sister Fidelma observed waspishly. ‘It is asked to adjudicate on law. Now, Artgal and Suanach were married …’

  ‘Against the wishes of her family,’ interposed Muadnat again.

  ‘I have already discerned that much,’ Fidelma agreed blandly. ‘But married they were. On the death of Artgal, Suanach continued to work her land and raise her son, Archú. A year ago, Suanach died.’

  ‘Then my so-called cousin came and claimed that all the land was his.’ Archú’s voice was bitter.

  ‘It is the law.’ Muadnat was smug. ‘The land belonged to Suanach. Her husband being a foreigner held no land. When Suanach died, then her land reverted to her family and in that family I stand as her next of kin. That is the law.’

  ‘He took everything,’ the youth complained bitterly.

  ‘It was mine to take. And you were not of the age of choice anyway.’

  ‘That is so,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘For this last year, under the law, as senior member of your family, Muadnat has been your guardian, Archú.’

  ‘Guardian? Slave master, you mean,’ scowled the youth. ‘I was forced to work on my own land for nothing more than my keep; I was treated worse than a hired worker and forced to eat and sleep in the cattle-pens. My mother’s family do not even accord me the treatment they give to those they hire to work the land.’

  ‘I have already noted these facts,’ Fidelma sighed patiently.

  ‘We have no legal obligation to the boy,’ grunted Muadnat. ‘We gave him his keep. He should be grateful for that.’

  ‘I will not comment on that,’ Fidelma replied coldly. ‘The sum of Archú’s case against you, Muadnat, is that he should inherit some of the land which belonged to his mother. Is this not so?’

  ‘His mother’s land returns to her family. He can only inherit that which belonged to his father and his father, being a foreigner, had no land in this country to leave him. Let him go to his father’s country if he wants land.’

  Fidelma continued to sit back in her chair, hands before her, her gaze now concentrated on Muadnat. Her fiery eyes had become slightly hooded and her expression seemed purposely bland.

  ‘When a person who is an ocáire, that is a small farmer, dies, then one seventh of the land is subjected to tax and paid to the chieftain for the upkeep of the clan territory. Has this been done?’

  ‘It has,’ interrupted the scriptor, looking up from making his record. ‘There is a disposition to that effect from the chieftain, Eber of Araglin, sister.’

  ‘Good. So the decision that this court has to make is now a straightforward one.’

  Fidelma turned slowly to Archú.

  ‘Your mother was the daughter and only child of a small farmer, an ocáire. On his death she stood as female heir and is entitled to a life interest in her father’s land. Normally, she cannot pass this land on to her husband or sons and on her death it reverts to the next of kin within her own family.’

  Muadnat drew himself up and for the first time his disgruntled features loosened in a satisfied expression. His eyes darted triumphantly at the younger man.

  ‘However,’ Fidelma’s voice suddenly took on an icy note which cut through the hall of the abbey, ‘if her husband was a foreigner, and in this case he was a Briton, he would have no land within the clan territory. He can therefore leave nothing to his son. In these circumstances, the law is clear and it was our great judge, Brig Briugaid, who set the judgment which became the law on this matter. That is, in such circumstances, the mother is entitled to pass on the land to her son but with qualification. Of her lands, she can only bequeath land to the value of seven cumals which is the minimal property qualification for an ocáire or small farmer.’

  There was a silence as both plaintiff and defendant tried to understand the judgment. Sister Fidelma took pity on their puzzled expressions.

  ‘The judgment is in your favour, Archú,’ she smiled at the young man. ‘Your cousin occupies the land unlawfully now that you are of age. He must relinquish to you an amount of land to the extent of seven cumals.’

  Muadnat’s jaw dropped.

  ‘But … but the land scarcely extends seven cumals as it is. If he has seven cumals there will be nothing of it left for me.’

  Fidelma’s voice took on the manner of a master lecturing a pupil.

  ‘According to the Crith Gablach, the ancient law, seven cumals is the property qualification of an ocáire which is the right of Archú to receive,’ she intoned. ‘Further, for acting in violation of the law to the extent that Archú had no recourse but to come before me with this claim against you, you must pay a fine of one cumal to this court.’

  Muadnat’s face was white. His expression had become a mask of rage.

  ‘This is an injustice!’ he growled.

  Fidelma met his fury calmly.

  ‘Speak not of injustice to me, Muadnat. You are kin to this youth. When his mother died, it was your duty to nurture and protect him. Yet you sought to deprive him of his lawful dues, sought to make him work for you without payment, forcing him to live in worse conditions than a slave. I doubt whether you have an understanding of justice. It would be justice if I made you pay further compensation to him for what you have done. As it is, I am tempering justice with mercy.’

  The words came coldly from Fidelma, causing the dour faced man to blink as if physically assaulted by the flood of her contempt.

  He swallowed hard.

  ‘I will appeal to my chieftain, Eber of Araglin, against this ruling. The land is mine! You have not heard the last of me.’

  ‘Any appeals can only be directed to the chief judge of the king of Cashel,’ interrupted the scriptor dryly, as he finished writing the judgment. He laid down his stylus and endeavoured to explain to the disgruntled litigant. ‘Once a Brehon makes a judgment, it is not up to you to rail against the Brehon. If you want to object, then you must do so in the proper manner. In the meantime, Muadnat of the Black Marsh, you must obey the judgment and withdraw from the land leaving your cousin Archú to occupy it. If you do not, within nine days from now, you may be physically evicted. Is that understood? And your cumal fine must be paid by the rising of the next full moon.’

  Without a word, Muadnat turned and strode silently and swiftly from the chapel. A short man, with a small, wiry frame and a shock of chestnut hair, rose and joined him sheepishly in the exodus.

  Archú, his expression showing that he was scarcely able to believe the ruling, leaned forward across the table and held out his hand, grabbing Fidelma’s own and pumping it rapidly.

  ‘Bless you, sister. You have saved my life.’

  Fidelma smiled thinly at the enthusiastic young man.

  ‘I have merely given judgment according to the law. Had the law been oth
erwise, I would have had to give judgment against you. It is the law which speaks in this court, not I.’

  She disengaged her hand. The young man seemed hardly to have heard her but, still grinning, turned and hurried to the back of the chapel where a young girl rose and almost ran into his arms. Fidelma smiled wistfully as she observed the way the two youngsters clutched at each other’s hands and gazed upon one another.

  Then she turned quickly to her scriptor.

  ‘I believe that was the last case we had to deal with, was it not, Brother Donnan?’

  ‘It was. I shall record the judgments later today and ensure that they are announced in the appropriate manner.’ The scriptor paused, coughed slightly and lowered his voice a little. ‘It seems that the abbot is standing by the door waiting to speak to you.’

  He indicated with a nervous gesture of his head towards the doors of the chapel. Fidelma turned. Indeed, the broad shouldered figure of Abbot Cathal was standing at the door. Fidelma immediately rose and made her way to him. She noted that the abbot seemed somewhat preoccupied.

  ‘Are you looking for me, Father Abbot?’

  Abbot Cathal was a well-built, muscular man of middle age; a man who carried himself with a military stamp for, as a youth, he had trained as a warrior. He was a local man who had left the military life to be taught under the guidance of the blessed Cathach at Lios Mhór and risen to be accepted as a most accomplished teacher and abbot. The son of a great war chieftain, Cathal had distributed all his wealth to the poor of his clan and lived in the simple poverty of his order. His simplicity and directness caused him enemies. Once a local chieftain, Maelochtrid, had him imprisoned on a trumped up charge of practising magic. Yet on his release Cathal had forgiven him. That was the nature of the man.

  Fidelma liked Cathal’s gentleness and lack of vanity. It contrasted pleasantly to the arrogance of office which she so often encountered. Cathal was one of the few men of the church whom she would unhesitatingly call a ‘holy man’.

  ‘Indeed, I was looking for you, Sister Fidelma,’ the abbot replied with a swift but warm smile. ‘Has the court finished its deliberations?’

  His voice was softly modulated, almost bland, yet Fidelma detected that something unusual had happened to bring him in search of her.

  ‘We have finished pronouncing judgment on the last case, Father Abbot. Is there a problem?’

  Abbot Cathal hesitated.

  ‘Two riders have arrived here at the abbey. One of them is a foreigner. They have come from Cashel in search of you.’

  ‘Has anything happened to my brother?’ demanded Fidelma sharply in response to the first thought which crossed her mind, sending icy fingers of fear clutching at her. Had something happened to her brother, Colgú, the newly installed king of Muman, the largest of the five kingdoms of Éireann?

  At once Abbot Cathal looked contrite.

  ‘No, no. Your brother, the king, is safe and well,’ he reassured her. ‘Forgive my clumsiness of expression. Come, follow me to my chamber where you are awaited.’

  Her curiosity aroused, Fidelma hurried as sedately as she could along the corridors of the great abbey beside the taller figure of the abbot.

  From a small slumbering backwater, Lios Mhór, the great house as it was called, had risen into prominence when Cathach of blessed name moved from Rathan to establish a new community of religious only a generation before. Within a short time, Lios Mhór had become one of the foremost ecclesiastical teaching centres to which flocked students from many lands. Like most of the great abbeys of Ireland, it was a mixed house, a conhospitae, in which religious of both sexes lived, worked and raised their children in the service of Christ.

  As they made their way through the cloisters of the abbey, the students and religious respectfully stood aside to allow the abbot’s passage, heads bowed in deference. The students were young men and women from many nations who came to the five kingdoms to receive their education. At the door of the abbot’s chambers, Cathal halted and opened it, ushering Fidelma inside.

  A large, elderly man of imposing appearance was standing beside the abbot’s table. He turned with a broad smile on his face as Fidelma entered. He was still handsome and energetic looking in spite of his silver hair and obvious advanced years. He wore a gold chain of office over his cloak. Had not his physical appearance distinguished him, his chain of office proclaimed him as a man of rank.

  Fidelma recognised him at once.

  ‘Beccan! It is good to see you again.’

  The Chief Brehon returned her smile. He came forward and took both her hands in his.

  ‘To meet with one who is the subject of affection as well as professional esteem is always a matter of joy for me, Fidelma.’

  His expression and warmth of his greeting were not matters of protocol but of genuine emotion.

  Fidelma was aware of a hollow cough behind her and she turned with a look of inquiry. The figure of a brother of the cloth stood with hands folded into his homespun brown woollen robes. His tonsure was different from the tonsure of the blessed John, as worn by the religious of the five kingdoms of Eireann. It was a Roman tonsure. His face was solemn but his dark brown eyes contained a twinkling mirth as he bowed his head in greeting to her.

  ‘Brother Eadulf!’ breathed Fidelma quickly. ‘I thought you were in attendance on my brother in Cashel?’

  ‘That I was. Yet there was little to do at Cashel and when I heard that Beccan was coming here in search of you, I offered to accompany him.’

  ‘Coming to find me?’ Fidelma suddenly remembered the words of the abbot. ‘What is amiss?’

  She swung round to the elderly Brehon. Abbot Cathal went to seat himself behind his desk while the Chief Brehon addressed Fidelma.

  ‘There is some disturbing news, sister,’ Beccan began solemnly. Then he shrugged and smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive me, first I should say that your brother rests well in his capital of Cashel. He sends his warmest greetings to you.’

  Fidelma did not bother to explain that Abbot Cathal had already assured her of her brother’s safety.

  ‘Then what is the disturbing news … ?’

  Beccan paused a moment as if to gather his thoughts.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon there came to Cashel a messenger from the clan of Eber of Araglin.’

  The name was immediately familiar to Fidelma and it took her a moment to register that the name had occurred in the very last case which she had judged that afternoon. Eber was chieftain of the area from which Archú and his compassionless cousin had come to plead before her.

  ‘Go on,’ she prompted guiltily for Beccan had paused again when he observed that her thoughts were wandering.

  ‘The messenger reported that Eber had been murdered along with one of his relatives. Someone was caught at the scene of the crime.’

  ‘What has this to do with me?’ Fidelma asked.

  Beccan made a gesture with his hand as if to express apology.

  ‘I am on my way to Ros Ailithir, on your brother’s business. It is urgent business and I cannot afford the time to journey to Araglin and conduct a proper investigation. Your brother, the king, was concerned that this matter should immediately be investigated and that justice be dispensed. Eber of Araglin has been a good friend to Cashel and your brother thought it fitting that you …’

  Fidelma could guess the rest.

  ‘That I go to Araglin,’ she ended with a sigh. ‘Well, the business here is concluded and I was planning to join my brother in Cashel tomorrow. I suppose that it matters little if I arrive a day or so later than I expected to. Yet, I do not fully understand, what is there to investigate in Araglin if the culprit is already caught, as you say? Is there some doubt as to his guilt?’

  Beccan shook his head firmly.

  ‘None that I know,’ he assured her. ‘I am told that the murderer was caught with a dagger in his hand and blood on his clothes as he stood over the body of Eber. Your brother, however …’

  Fidelma grimaced w
ryly.

  ‘I know. Eber was a friend to Cashel and justice must be seen to be done and done fairly.’

  ‘There is no Brehon in Araglin,’ interposed Abbot Cathal, in order to explain the position. ‘It is more a matter of ensuring that justice is properly conducted.’

  ‘Is there any reason to suspect it might be otherwise?’

  Abbot Cathal spread his hands as if to imply the question was not so clear cut.

  ‘Eber was, by all accounts, a very popular chieftain with a reputation for kindliness and generosity. He was apparently well liked by his people. There might be a tendency to punish the culprit without recourse to justice and the strict letter of the law.’

  Fidelma gazed into his troubled eyes for a few moments. Cathal knew the mountain people around Lios Mhór better than most for he was one of them. She nodded briefly in acknowledgment of his concern.

  ‘I have had an example in my court of how at least one man of the clan of Araglin has little respect for the law,’ she mused. ‘Tell me more about the people of Araglin, Father Abbot.’

  ‘Little to tell. They are a close-knit people who are usually resentful of outsiders. Eber’s clan lives mainly in the mountains around a settlement which is called the rath of the chieftain of Araglin. The lands stretch to the east along the Araglin river which flows through the glen. It is rich farmland. Eber’s clan keep themselves to themselves and distrust strangers. It will not be an easy task that you undertake.’

  ‘You say that they have no Brehon? Have they a priest?’

  ‘Yes; Father Gormán is to be found at the rath. There is a chapel there which is called Cill Uird, the church of ritual. He has lived twenty years among the people of Araglin. He was trained here, at Lios Mhór. You will doubtless find him of valuable assistance to you although he has certain dogmatic views on the propagation of the Faith which you might find yourself in conflict with.’

  ‘How so?’ inquired Fidelma with interest.

  Cathal smiled disarmingly.

  ‘I think it better if you discover for yourself so that I do not bias you one way or another.’

  ‘I suppose he is an advocate of Roman custom,’ Fidelma sighed.