The Leper's Bell

by Peter Tremayne

  He shrugged with a whimsical smile. ‘And that is my nature.’

  Fidelma was crossing the courtyard when she became aware of a disturbance at the gates. She crossed to them and found Caol with a man and a woman. The latter held a baby in her arms.

  ‘What is it?’ Fidelma demanded.

  Caol grimaced in annoyance. ‘An itinerant herbalist and his wife demanding entrance. I have told them to be on their way.’

  ‘But the Saxon brother—’ began the man.

  ‘Silence. You are speaking in the presence of the sister of the king,’ snapped Caol.

  ‘Wait!’ instructed Fidelma. ‘You are the herbalist Corb and you are his wife Corbnait?’

  ‘We are. Brother Eadulf told us to come here and we promised we would even though it might bring down punishment upon us. I am a man of my word. I was not always an itinerant.’

  Fidelma’s face softened. ‘You are most welcome. I do not blame either of you for the role you have played. Indeed, you were the means of saving my son’s life when he was abandoned in the forest. Come, we will take a drink together and over it you may tell me the story that you told to Brother Eadulf.’

  She was turning away when Caol called after her. She glanced back.

  ‘You asked me to tell you when Brother Conchobar returned to Cashel,’ the warrior reminded her. ‘He has done so.’

  The door of the cell opened and Brehon Dathal came in. He stood looking sourly at Eadulf.

  Eadulf sprang up from the single cot that furnished the cell.

  ‘What is this nonsense?’ he demanded.

  Brehon Dathal motioned to someone who stood outside the door and a warrior handed him a three-legged stool.

  ‘Sit down,’ the old man ordered sharply.

  Eadulf reluctantly obeyed. ‘I say again, what is this nonsense, Dathal? Who has made up this preposterous story that I killed Bishop Petrán?’

  ‘Do you deny that you have often argued with Bishop Petrán?’

  Eadulf almost laughed. ‘I do not. We disagreed fundamentally about matters relating to the conduct of the church. And most people in the five kingdoms would also disagree with his teachings. While I have supported the authority of Rome, for we are told it is where Peter, into whose hands the Christ gave the building of his church, began that task, I cannot support Petrán’s other more ascetic arguments.’

  ‘So you killed him?’

  Eadulf snorted in indignation.

  Brehon Dathal regarded him sourly.

  ‘You would do well to take me seriously, Saxon. Do you think that because I am old I cannot any longer judge the facts?’

  Eadulf stared at him for a moment or two.

  ‘I do not care whether you are young or old. When a false accusation is made, I do not take it kindly. I could similarly ask you whether it is because I am a stranger to this land that you think I must be guilty of murder?’

  ‘I abide by the law,’ snapped Brehon Dathal. ‘I am not prejudiced against you.’

  ‘I abide by facts.’

  ‘The facts are simple. Bishop Petrán was found dead in his chamber. He was poisoned. You fled from Cashel on that very day. On the previous evening you were seen to have had a violent row with the bishop. Do you deny these facts?’

  ‘I do not deny that I had a row with Petrán but I deny it was violent. I deny that I fled from Cashel. I left Cashel, leaving a note for Fidelma, after I had discovered something that led me to believe that I might find my son. And find him I did. I had no idea that Petrán was dead until Caol told me on my return.’

  ‘And you expect me to believe that?’

  ‘I do not expect anything except the courtesy of being heard without bias.’

  Brehon Dathal coloured. ‘You dare accuse me, the Chief Brehon of Muman, of being biased?’

  ‘I do not accuse you. I merely comment on what I see,’ snapped Eadulf.

  ‘Things will go badly for you, stranger, unless you confess your misdeed now.’

  ‘You threaten me?’ Eadulf sprang up.

  A warrior appeared in the doorway. He looked apologetic.

  ‘Brother Eadulf, it would be wise if you remained seated and answered the Brehon’s questions with respect,’ he said quietly.

  Eadulf realised that he was doing himself no good by giving vent to anger. He returned to his seat on the bed.

  ‘I refuse to answer any questions from someone who seems to have prejudged my guilt and does not offer me the slightest evidence to back his accusation apart from the fact that I was seen to have an argument with the bishop.’

  Brehon Dathal, the skin stretched tight around his mouth in anger, rose and strode from the room. The warrior picked up the abandoned stool. The cell door slammed shut.

  Eadulf began to feel rage overtaking his sense of despair and he fought to control it.

  Fidelma, having confirmed the story of Corb and Corbnait and ensured that they were receiving proper hospitality as witnesses, hurried to Brother Conchobar’s apothecary shop.

  ‘You should have warned me,’ she said immediately on entering, irritation and disapproval in her voice.

  The elderly apothecary glanced up in surprise from the herbs he was pounding in a pestle with a mortar.

  ‘Warned you, lady?’ he asked blankly.

  ‘About the results of your tests on Bishop Petrán,’ she snapped.

  The man’s face was blank. ‘Why would I warn you about that?’

  ‘Because Brehon Dathal has had Eadulf arrested and charged him with the killing. Eadulf is in serious trouble and I need to know from you how this poison was administered and anything you can tell me about its nature.’

  Brother Conchobar looked utterly confused.

  ‘Poison? Killing? What are you talking about, lady?’

  Fidelma tried to contain her impatience.

  ‘I am talking about Bishop Petrán. Eadulf is charged with administering the poison that killed him.’

  Brother Conchobar raised his arms helplessly.

  ‘Bishop Petrán was not poisoned.’

  It was now Fidelma’s turn to look utterly bewildered.

  ‘Then how was he killed?’

  The old apothecary ran a frail hand through his thinning grey hair.

  ‘I do not know how you came by this information, lady. Petrán was not killed. He died, true. He died of failure of his heart to continue to beat. It happens and no one is to blame. I have seen the signs before but I wanted to conduct a few tests to make sure. If death is ever deemed natural, he died a natural death. I told that old fool Dathal as much before I left for Lios Mhór. Didn’t he …?’

  Fidelma stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘Lady…?’ he prompted nervously.

  ‘Who told Brother Dathal that it was poison?’ she finally whispered. ‘Who said that it was murder?’

  ‘Not I,’ the apothecary replied firmly. ‘In fact, I explained clearly to Brehon Dathal that Petrán’s heart had simply failed. It was before I left for Lios Mhór, as I told you. I said that I would make a formal statement to that effect after my return but he has not sent for it.’

  ‘Not sent…?’ Fidelma was silent for a moment. ‘Thank you, old friend,’ she said softly. ‘Your statement may well be wanted soon.’

  Brother Conchobar shrugged. ‘I am getting used to Brehon Dathal’s not taking formal statements on matters relating to the cause of death,’ he said irritably.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fidelma enquired, turning back from the door.

  ‘Sárait’s manner of death, for example.’

  ‘You examined the body?’

  ‘I did, and should have been required to give evidence. No one asked me for a statement.’

  Fidelma stared at him in surprise. In the initial confusion about who was investigating the case, the fact that Conchoille and Capa had mentioned the blood about the head and the stab wounds, she had neglected to ask who had made a formal pronouncement of death.

  ‘What evidence would you have given?’
she asked softly. ‘That she died from a heavy blow to the head?’

  Brother Conchobar made a negative gesture.

  ‘That Sárait was already dead when the blow was struck. She had been the subject of a frenzied knife attack. There were five stab wounds in her chest and lacerations on her arms where she had tried to protect herself from the descending knife. She was facing her attacker when it happened. The blow to the head looks to me as if she fell during the attack and hit her head on something.’

  There was a silence. Then Fidelma nodded slowly. ‘You have been a great help this day, my old friend,’ she said in thoughtful satisfaction.

  A few minutes later she was in her brother’s reception chamber. The king’s conference had just broken up but he was still discussing what has been said with his tanist Finguine. They both glanced up in surprise as she entered without being announced.

  With a quick wave of her hand to still their questions, she told them what she had discovered about Brother Conchobar’s report on Bishop Petrán.

  Colgú sat in silence for a moment or two before turning to Finguine. ‘Go and release Brother Eadulf at once and bring him here.’ When he had gone, Colgú glanced uncomfortably towards his sister. ‘The duties of a king are arduous, Fidelma. Brehon Dathal is elderly.’

  ‘He is Chief Brehon of the kingdom. He cannot act like this.’

  ‘I agree. I do not mean to excuse him but I think age and pressure are telling on him. You know I have been trying to think of a way of asking him to stand down from his position. He is making increasingly erroneous judgements. Some time ago he made a really bad misjudgement at a hearing in Lios Mhór and it went to appeal. The appeal was successful and Dathal has had to pay several fines and compensation.’

  Fidelma regarded her brother silently for a moment.

  ‘I recall being told that it was Brehon Dathal who was asked to hear the claims that Sárait’s husband, Callada, was killed by one of his men at Cnoc Áine. He found no case to answer. I wonder…?’

  ‘Too much time has passed to speculate on that judgement, Fidelma. However, Dathal has recently been getting ideas which become fixed in his mind and he has often pursued them without sufficient reflection on the evidence. He no longer has the sharp mind that is needed to be a Brehon, let alone Chief Brehon. But I need to allow him to leave with some dignity, Fidelma. You will appreciate that.’

  Fidelma tried to put aside her personal feelings and view the matter objectively.

  ‘I can understand there are politics to be played here, but he must be made to stand aside and you have the responsibility for making him do so.’

  Colgú nodded unhappily. ‘I would rather persuade him than force him.’

  ‘You are the king,’ she said grimly.

  There was a knock on the door and Finguine came in. Eadulf was behind him.

  Fidelma hurried towards Eadulf, catching him by the hands. ‘Everything is all right. It was all a mistake on Brehon Dathal’s part.’

  Eadulf grimaced cynically. ‘I could have told you that,’ he said with an attempt at humour. ‘Finguine has just told me the news.’

  Colgú came forward and embraced him.

  ‘My friend, husband of my sister, you must forgive us. Brehon Dathal leapt to conclusions with an impatience he should not have indulged. You should never have been put through such an experience, coming so soon after your own travails. At least our family is once again united.’

  Eadulf felt awkward. He was embarrassed at the warmth exhibited by Fidelma’s brother and, in truth, a little unsure of the affection that Fidelma was displaying towards him.

  Then he found Finguine holding out his hand and grinning. ‘Am I forgiven as well?’

  Eadulf’s glance encompassed them all.

  ‘Well,’ he said, unable to banish all the sarcasm from his tone, ‘it is difficult to keep an equilibrium when first having one’s life threatened, then being incarcerated and finally being welcomed into a family again…’

  Fidelma squeezed his arm hard. ‘We have much to apologise to you for, Eadulf. We will try to compensate you for the way you have been treated.’

  Eadulf shrugged expressively. ‘You cannot say fairer than that,’ he sighed.

  Colgú clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Then we shall feast tonight, and—’

  Fidelma shook her head quickly. ‘Eadulf and I have a lot of work to do. There is still a mystery to be resolved and the killer of Sárait to be brought to justice. And you, my brother, have to deal with Brehon Dathal. When all this is done, then there shall be feasting.’

  Some time later, the Chief Brehon of Muman was ushered into the king’s chamber.

  Colgú motioned the old man to be seated. He had known Dathal since he was a boy. Indeed, Brehon Dathal had been a young judge at the court of his father, Failbe Flann, nearly thirty years ago now. Brehon Dathal looked grave. He had already been informed of Eadulf’s release on Brother Conchobar’s evidence. Colgú wondered how he should approach the delicate matter at hand.

  ‘Dathal, you have served this kingdom as Chief Brehon for a long time,’ he began gently.

  Brehon Dathal, with a quick frown, picked up on the nuance.

  ‘Do you imply that it is too long?’ he retorted sharply.

  ‘Everyone reaches a point where they are not as youthful, not as active, as they were. My day will also come. I hope that I may have the good sense to acknowledge it when it does so that I can abdicate into a comfortable restfulness.’

  ‘Restfulness is a quality that cows have, my prince. It is not for people.’

  Colgú smiled. ‘Didn’t Horace write that one should dismiss an old horse in good time lest it falter in the harness and become an object of pity or scorn to spectators?’

  Brehon Dathal sniffed in irritation.

  ‘I made a mistake, that is all. Is not a judge entitled to a mistake? There is no harm done and the Saxon is free.’

  ‘The Saxon is my sister’s husband, Brehon Dathal,’ Colgú pointed out. ‘And compensation must be paid to him.’

  ‘I know the laws of compensation.’

  ‘I do not doubt you do,’ Colgú returned. ‘Remember that Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham might be a stranger, but he had status in his own land. He was a hereditary gerefa, a sort of judge among his people.’

  ‘Hereditary!’ sneered Brehon Dathal. ‘How can one inherit the competence of a judge without learning?’

  ‘The ways of the Saxons are not our ways,’ murmured the young king. ‘However, the point I am making is that Eadulf is deserving of respect if not for his own sake, then for my sake and that of my sister.’

  Brehon Dathal said nothing.

  ‘Brehon Dathal, we have known each other a long time. Consider your position carefully now. You have made more than one error in recent times.’

  Brehon Dathal’s chin came up aggressively.

  ‘Are you suggesting that I am no longer capable?’

  ‘I am suggesting that it is now time to rest and watch others work. Stay in Cashel, if you will. Be an adviser to me. But now is the time to cease the arduous task of holding courts.’

  ‘Who will you promote in my place … your sister?’ The words were spoken challengingly.

  Colgú shook his head quickly. ‘Fidelma is not qualified for the position, nor would she want the task. She has studied only to the level of anruth, as well you know. To become a Brehon of standing she would need two - even four - more years of study to become a rosai or an ollamh.’ These were the highest qualifications anyone could aspire to. ‘You are a man of great experience and wisdom. In this appointment, friend Dathal, I would appreciate your advice. Who would you choose as my new Chief Brehon?’

  Brehon Dathal began to look slightly mollified. Colgú waited patiently while the old man sat hesitating. Then it seemed that the old judge became reconciled to the inevitability of the decision that had to be made.

  ‘Well, there is a rosai named Baithen whom I would think well qualified.’

 
Colgú smiled in satisfaction. He spared the old man’s feelings by neglecting to say that he had already sent for Brehon Baithen, who had been conducting hearings at Lios Mhór. It had been Baithen who had thrice heard appeals against Dathal’s judgements and overturned them.

  ‘I have heard of this Brehon. It is a good choice.’

  ‘He has a growing reputation,’ Brehon Dathal agreed reluctantly. ‘He is talented.’

  ‘Then he will be asked here to judge of the matter of Sárait’s death and apportion blame and compensation.’

  Brehon Dathal frowned slightly at this news.

  ‘So your sister believes that the Uí Fidgente are innocent of Sárait’s death and the abduction of the baby, does she?’

  ‘I believe that she has learnt new facts and prepared fresh arguments. Eadulf has brought us interesting evidence. But the case will be argued before Baithen.’

  The old man’s shoulders sagged slightly.

  ‘You sister does not take kindly to me over this matter of Bishop Petrán.’

  ‘I am sure that she will agree that you acted according to your conscience, my old friend. You were simply not in possession of the facts. That is all.’

  He knew he was bending the truth of Brother Conchobar’s evidence to save the old man’s dignity.

  There was another silence, and Colgú felt somewhat relieved when the old man rose slowly from his seat.

  ‘With your permission, my king, I shall retire to my chamber and rest.’

  Colgú gestured with his hand in agreement.

  The old judge, head bent to his shoulders, left the chamber, shutting the door behind him.

  For some time Colgú sat looking at the closed door and then he sighed sadly. It was no more than two years since he had been confirmed in the kingship and for several years before that he had been heir apparent to his cousin Cathal, who had died of the Yellow Fever. This was the first time that he had been forced to dismiss one of his closest advisers, one who had served his father and his cousin, and now … Colgú turned to a side table and poured himself a drink of corma. It was the duty of a king to realise that time had to move on. People had to move on. It was inevitable. With the office of a ruler came the duty. If a king did not act he would not be regarded; if he was too hard, he would be broken; if he was too feeble, he would be crushed. Above all, he had to move with wisdom and subtlety, for if he showed himself more wise than others too much would be expected of him, and if more foolish he would find people deceiving him. There was always a middle way. That was the nature of kingship.