The main township was set at a river bend where the river of the plain, Maigue, and the little crooked river, Camoge, intersected at a spot called Cromadh, or the crooked ford. At this juncture stood the Wood of Eóghan, rising on a hill surmounted by the ancient fortress of the chief, Díomsach the Proud. Fidelma had discovered that the man’s name had not been given lightly for he was, indeed, a proud man and conscious of his lineage from the ruling family of the kingdom, albeit a branch that had long separated from the Eóghanacht of Cashel. The Eóghanacht Áine were one of the seven main branches of the family establishing their rule over Muman. The Áine claimed precedence as second to the senior branch at Cashel. They were proud and arrogant.
But the area in which Díomsach claimed his power spread into this fertile valley which the Uí Fidgente also claimed as their territory. The Uí Fidgente were just as stubborn and proud. Many times had they risen up in rebellion against Cashel itself, even asserting a claim to the kingship. The continuing dispute as to who should rule in Cromadh made the presence of any dálaigh, let alone the sister of the king of Cashel, a subject of great tension. At all such courts held at Cromadh, the local chief of the Uí Fidgente claimed it was his right to attend and sit with the chief of the Tuatha Cromadh. It was a demand that was reluctantly agreed upon.
Fidelma now glanced at the haughty face of Díomsach as he sat on her right-hand side in his great hall. She had heard a number of complaints that morning, none of them major. Then she turned to the equally stony face of Conrí, local chieftain of the Uí Fidgente. Both kept silent.
“Is that all the submissions and statements?” she asked again, more sharply.
“I see no more supplicants,” replied Conrí of the Uí Fidgente in a bored voice.
Brother Colla, the scriptor who was taking a record of the proceedings, coughed nervously, looking toward Fidelma.
“You have something to say, Brother Colla?” she inquired.
“There is one other person who demands a hearing,” he said quietly. Then he hesitated.
Sister Fidelma looked at him with curiosity.
“Then why isn’t this person brought before me?”
The scriptor shuffled his feet awkwardly.
“He has been detained outside by Fallach, the. .”
Díomsach’s brows came together sharply.
“Fallach will doubtless have a good reason,” he snapped, adding quickly to Fidelma, “he is my chief of warriors. Who is this man apprehended by Fallach?”
“Lord, it is the farmer Febrat.”
To Sister Fidelma’s surprise, Díomsach burst out chuckling.
“Febrat? That half-wit? Then there is no more to be said. Our hearing is ended and we may retire for the feasting and entertainment.”
He made to rise but Sister Fidelma said quietly, “I am afraid that it is I who must say when my court may disperse, Díomsach. I would know more about this man Febrat and why you would exclude him from the right of petition to the courts of this land.”
Díomsach reseated himself and looked momentarily uncomfortable.
“The man is mad, Fidelma of Cashel.”
Sister Fidelma smiled cynically.
“Are you saying that he is adjudged insane and without responsibility in law?”
The chief shook his head but was silent.
“I am still, then, awaiting an answer.”
“I am also intrigued,” Conrí of the Uí Fidgente added, not disguising his delight at Díomsach’s discomfort.
Díomsach sighed softly.
“Febrat may not be legally insane but I think we are approaching a point where he must be adjudged as such. Febrat is a farmer. His farmstead is across the river, in the valley. It is the farthest farmstead in my territory bordering on the lands of my good friend, Conrí.” Díomsach inclined the upper half of his body toward the Uí Fidgente chief. It was an ironic gesture of deference, which was returned in kind by Conrí.
“I know the area,” Conrí confirmed with a polite smile.
“Then know this,” went on Díomsach. “Twice in the last two weeks he has come to my fortress claiming that the Uí Fidgente were raiding his farmstead.”
The smile vanished from Conrí’s lips.
“That is a lie!” he snapped. “There have been no such raids.”
“Nevertheless, we were not initially surprised when Febrat came here with this story,” Díomsach went on grimly. “It cannot be said that the Uí Fidgente are the most trustworthy neighbors. .”
Fidelma raised a hand as Conrí clapped a hand to his empty sword sheath, half rising from his seat. It was a firm rule that no weapons could be carried into a feasting hall or into a Brehon’s court.
“Sit down, Conrí, and calm yourself,” she admonished sharply. “Let us hear out this story. Did you investigate Febrat’s complaint?” she turned back to ask of Díomsach.
The chief nodded swiftly.
“Of course. Fallach and some of our warriors rode out and found nothing. Not broken blades of grass, a missing sheep, nor dog in frenzied mood. There was no sign of any movement of horses having ridden around the farmstead. Fallach questioned one or two people, including Febrat’s own wife, Cara, and she dismissed the idea as a figment of his imagination. Not being able to discover anything, Fallach returned.”
“Then there had been no raid?” asked Fidelma.
“Of course, there had not,” snapped Conrí. “My men would not raid a farmstead without my knowing of it, and they would know their punishment would be that much more harsh should I have discovered it. This man Febrat was indulging in liquor or was a liar.”
Díomsach nodded slowly.
“In this we find agreement, my friend. But then, two days afterwards, Febrat came to me with the same tale. He had the same sincerity and anguish as he had the first time he reported such an event. He named his neighbor, claiming this farmer was the man leading the raid. We had to take him seriously and so I accompanied Fallach and some warriors to investigate again only to find that once more there was nothing to justify his complaint.”
Sister Fidelma sat with raised eyebrows.
“He came twice to you claiming that his farmstead was being raided and each time you found nothing? Did you question his wife and did you also question the man whom he charged led the raid?”
Díomsach nodded quickly.
“We did. The man that he claimed led the raid was a farmer named Faramund. He was aghast at the accusation, and as we found nothing, nothing further was done.”
“And what did Febrat’s wife say? What did you say her name was? Cara?”
“Cara said that she thought her husband was imagining such things for she knew nothing.”
“What did Febrat say to this?”
“He was trying to persuade his wife that it had happened.”
“But if she was there, and if it happened, she would know,” Fidelma pointed out. “How could he persuade her otherwise?”
“’That’s just it. On both occasions Febrat’s wife was away that night. I think she was staying with her mother.”
“On both occasions?” pressed Fidelma.
Díomsach nodded: “That is the sum total of it, Fidelma of Cashel.”
“Has the man a history of instability?”
“I do not know,” Díomsach replied.
“And what does his wife say about this imagining?”
The chief shrugged.
“Only that perhaps her husband was working too hard or drinking too much.”
Conrí nodded in grim satisfaction.
“So long as the good name of the Uí Fidgente has been cleared on this matter, I care not about the man.”
“But he is here and wishes to make another supplication,” Fidelma pointed out.
“Why?”
There was a silence.
“Maybe he wishes to test our wits again,” Díomsach replied. “Or he is truly mad and we must bring in a physician to judge him.”
“Brother Colla,” Siste
r Fidelma instructed the scriptor quietly, “ask Fallach the warrior to come before us. . but without his prisoner.”
Fallach was a lean but muscular, dark-haired man. He came to stand before them with an expression of detached disdain.
“Fallach, I understand that a farmer called Febrat came to make supplication before this court,” Fidelma said. “You hold him prisoner. Tell me why and what you know of this man.”
Fallach frowned for a moment, glancing swiftly toward his chief, Díomsach.
“Lady,” he began, addressing her as such for he knew her to be sister to the King of Muman and not merely a religieuse or simple dálaigh. “I did not want you to be bothered by the fantasies of this man, Febrat. That is why I detained him before he could enter this court.”
“What do you know of these fantasies?”
Fallach shifted his weight for a moment.
“Lady, twice he has come to my chief, Díomsach, claiming that the Uí Fidgente were raiding his land and harming his livestock. Twice have these claims proven to be untrue. On both occasions we have gone to his farm and found it to be in perfect peace. No harm has come to his farm or to his livestock. His wife, Cara, cannot explain her husband’s attitude. She has told us that nothing has ever happened to make her husband behave in this manner.”
Sister Fidelma nodded thoughtfully.
“Yet I am told that Febrat has been specific in his charge?”
Fallach frowned.
“Specific? Ah, you mean on the second occasion when he laid a claim against Faramund, a neighboring farmer? We went to see him. .”
Conrí’s eyes narrowed.
“I have just realized that to speak with Faramund, you went into Uí Fidgente territory. That is an act of aggression. Compensation must be. .”
Sister Fidelma cut in sharply.
“The territory is part of the kingdom of Muman and I am sitting in judgment on a matter pertaining to the kingdom. We will hear no more about disputed boundaries. Díomsach and Fallach were quite right to pursue an investigation relating to a potential criminal raid against a peaceful farmstead. That is the law.” She turned to the warrior. “And what did Faramund say?”
“He assured us that he was nowhere near the farmstead of Fallach and with the testimony of Cara and the lack of evidence of a raid, there was only one conclusion. To be honest, Faramund, while an Uí Fidgente, is trustworthy. He even studied law at one time.”
“Then is your opinion that the man, Febrat, is either lying for some reason or that he has become deranged?”
Fallach shrugged expressively.
“I would say that the man is deranged. He has dwelt within this community for as long as I can recall, though I scarcely know him well. He was merely a daer-fuidhir, one of the itinerant laboring classes. Then he was able to buy a little unfertile land and afterwards. .”
Díomsach interrupted with a smile.
“Well, I think that decides the matter. Dispatch him back to his farm. There is little we can do until his wife, who is his next of kin, declares him incapable and has him examined by the physicians. Then it will be a decision for the law as to whether he should be declared as a dásachtach.”
Fallach made to turn but Sister Fidelma stayed him.
“Since the man is here, we might as well examine him. You, Díomsach, have reminded me of the law Do Brethaib Gaire that is concerned with protecting society from the insane. If the man is truly displaying manic symptoms then we should not let him wander back to his farmstead. He is married and thereby his wife may have to become the conn, the guardian, who will be responsible for his behavior.”
Conrí shrugged with studied disinterest while Díomsach frowned with displeasure. He was looking forward to the feasting and did not want to delay any longer. He had ordered a boar to be roasted and had bought red Gaulish wine from a merchant. Nevertheless, the court could only be brought to a close by the presiding lawyer and he had to defer to Fidelma.
“Bring Febrat before us,” instructed Fidelma and Fallach inclined his head in acknowledgement and left them.
When Febrat stood before Sister Fidelma she almost smiled. He reminded her of a pine-martin, the slopping forehead, pointed features, dark restless eyes seemingly without pupils, and graying hair. He stood stock-still, erect, hands twisting together in front of his stomach. The only movement was his head, looking from side to side as if seeking for an enemy, while it seemed his neck and body stayed still.
“Well, Febrat,” Sister Fidelma began, speaking softly to put the man at his ease. “I understand that you have come to make a supplication to this court. Is this correct?”
“Indeed, indeed, indeed.” The rapidity of the repeated word made her blink.
“What is the plea?”
“My wife, my wife, Cara, Cara. She has disappeared, disappeared. Carried off in an Uí Fidgente raid, a raid.”
Sister Fidelma felt Conrí stir and glanced quickly at him to still any outburst.
“And when was this raid?”
“Last night, maybe this morning. Yes, this morning.”
“I see. And they carried off your wife?”
“They did, they did.”
“Tell us about it, in your own words.”
Febrat glanced to his left and then his right in quick nervous motions and then his dark black eyes focused on Fidelma. He spoke rapidly and with many repetitions.
He and his wife, Cara, had gone to bed at the usual hour. Around dawn they had been awoken by the noise of horses and men riding about the farmstead. He had taken his billhook, his only weapon, and gone out to see what was happening. In the yard, he recognized men of the Uí Fidgente apparently trying to steal his livestock. He was aware that his wife was behind him for he heard her cry out. That was the last thing that he had heard for something must have hit him. He awoke on the floor beside his bed and all was quiet. His wife had disappeared.
He ended his swift recital of the facts and stood looking at Sister Fidelma, waiting for her reaction.
Díomsach stifled a yawn at her side.
“Febrat, this is the third time you have come before me with tales of raids by the Uí Fidgente. .”
“False tales,” interrupted Conrí in annoyance.
“In the other two instances,” went on the chief of the Tuatha Cromadh, “we have investigated and found your stories to be untrue. Do you expect us to believe you now?”
Febrat glanced quickly at him and then back to Fidelma.
“All true, all true,” he replied. “I never told a lie, a lie. Not before and not now. My wife has been taken by the raiders, by the raiders. True, I swear it.”
“As you have sworn before and found to be a liar!” snapped Díomsach.
“Come here, Febrat,” Sister Fidelma instructed quietly.
The man hesitated.
“Come and stand before me here!” she repeated more sharply.
He did so.
“Now kneel down.”
Her eyes glinted as he hesitated for a fraction, and then he dropped to one knee.
“Bow your head.”
He did so. She peered into the gray tousled mess of hair, much to the surprise of Díomsach and Conrí.
“Stand back,” she instructed after a moment or two, and when he had resumed his place, Fidelma pursed her lips. “This blow that knocked you unconscious, it was on the head?”
“It was, it was.”
“There is an abrasion on the side of your head,” she confirmed.
“The story is false, Fidelma,” Díomsach said. “Let him return to his farmstead and we will discuss what is to be done later.”
Fidelma compressed her lips for a moment, and then said to the warrior, Fallach, “Take Febrat outside for a moment.”
When they had gone, Fidelma turned to her companions.
“This case intrigues me.”
The chief of the Tuatha Cromadh made a sound like a cynical chuckle.
“You surely don’t believe the man, do you? Because he
has an abrasion on the side of his head does not prove his ridiculous story.”
“Did I say that it did prove his story? What I believe is not relevant to the matter. I know that this matter cannot be left as it is. Either there is something that motivates this man to come with his stories to you, something which is substantial, or it is something that is due to a dementia. Either way, one should investigate so that the good of the people may be safeguarded. I would like you, Díomsach, to keep Febrat in your custody while I will ride out to Febrat’s farm-stead and speak to his wife, Cara. And I shall take your chief warrior, Fallach, as escort in case of trouble.”
“I can tell you this, Fidelma of Cashel, there has been no Uí Fidgente raid,” Conrí announced belligerently.
Fidelma returned his sour look with a bright smile.
“I am sure that had such a raid taken place you, as an Uí Fidgente chieftain, would have the honesty to admit it,” she said softly.
Conrí’s jaws snapped shut for a moment.
“I can give you this assurance, lady, that if there had been a raid, word of it would have come to my ear,” he said stiffly.
“Excellent.” Fidelma rose and looked across to where Brother Colla, the scriptor, was still working away.
“You may say that this court has ceased its hearing sine die while I investigate the matter of Febrat.”
“You are not going before the feasting?” demanded Díomsach in dismay.
“I think this matter demands my immediate attention. But I shall return, hopefully before evening, to enjoy your feasting.”
Díomsach’s face fell for he had been expecting to start the feasting and entertainment within that very hour and now the laws of hospitality would prevent him starting before his chief guest, the sister of the king, was ready to join him.
Febrat’s farmstead stood in lush fields by the river of the plain, the Maigue, about an hour’s ride from Díomsach’s fortress. The nearest hills were a mile or two to the south and east.
Fallach, riding at Fidelma’s side, stretched out a hand to indicate the group of buildings sheltering behind a small copse of oaks and yew.
“There is Febrat’s farm, lady.”
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as they rode nearer. There came to her ears the sound of some cows in distress, a bellowing which she was able to interpret immediately.
Whispers of the Dead sf-15 Page 21
