Our Lady of Darkness sf-10

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘I withdraw those words. From the outset, however, I find a judge judging himself … unusual, that is all. I would like to know, apart from the unwillingness of a judge to admit to any mistake that he might have made, what other grounds there are for dismissing this appeal?’

  Bishop Forbassach leaned forward.

  ‘I would dismiss it because you have no facts. You have merely asked a lot of clever questions.’

  ‘Questions that cannot be answered at this time,’ snapped Fidelma. ‘That is the basis of my plea, a plea to stop the sentence until those questions can be answered.’

  ‘Unanswerable questions do not bear on the original decisions of the trial. You say this Saxon was a messenger. Where was his white wand of office? You now produce it like a conjurer and your only witness cannot swear that she saw you take it from the spot from which you claimed you took it.’

  ‘I can produce-’

  ‘Anything that you can produce,’ interrupted Bishop Forbassach, ‘is invalid as evidence, for who knows but that you brought it to this place yourself. It is not evidence, for we do not know that the Saxon carried it. As to the witnesses, you impute both their knowledge and integrity.’

  ‘I do not do so!’ protested Fidelma.

  ‘Ah.’ Bishop Forbassach smiled triumphantly. ‘Are you withdrawing the remarks which you made about them?’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘I do not do so.’

  ‘Then you must impute their testimony.’

  ‘I do not. I have put forward a number of questions that they should have been asked at the trial.’

  ‘We heard their testimony at the original trial and saw no reason to cross-examine them,’ Forbassach said decisively. ‘They are all of upstanding character and, in our judgment, have told the truth. The witness, Sister Fial, clearly saw the Saxon. She was an eye-witness tohis heinous crime. You would dare to impute the credibility of a thirteen-year-old child who has just witnessed the rape and murder of her even younger friend? What justice is that, Fidelma of Cashel? We obviously have different values here, in Laigin, to your courts of Cashel where it is said you entertain the crowds with sharp wit and legal niceties. Here we consider that truth is not games of legal fidchell.’

  Fidchell was a wooden board game, a game of intellectual skill, on which Fidelma prided her proficiency.

  Fianamail laid a hand on Bishop Forbassach’s arm and whispered urgently into his ear. The Brehon grimaced sourly and nodded. The young King abruptly stood up.

  ‘This hearing is now ended. In fairness, my Brehon, Bishop Forbassach, has asked to discuss the case with me so that any judgment we may make may be seen to be completely fair. He will announce our adjudication on this appeal at dawn tomorrow. These deliberations are now ended.’

  Fidelma felt a moment of black despair as she dropped back into her chair.

  ‘The courts of Laigin have descended into darkness!’ cried a strident male voice. She barely noticed that it was the elderly bó-aire, Coba, who rose and stormed from the room.

  Fianamail hesitated, angered at the demonstration and then, with a scowl on his face, he swept from the chamber. Bishop Forbassach stood, undecided for a moment, and then the abbess went to join him. His features broke into a look of triumph as he turned to her and they left together. As the others began to disperse Dego rose and came forward and placed a hand awkwardly on Fidelma’s shoulder in an effort to comfort her.

  ‘You did your best, lady,’ he muttered. ‘They are determined to see Brother Eadulf die.’

  Fidelma raised her head, aware that there were tears glistening in her eyes, and unashamed of them.

  ‘Dego, I do not know what else I can do now legally to save him. There is no time.’

  ‘But they will not give judgment until tomorrow. There is still hope that they will find for your appeal.’ There was no conviction in his voice.

  ‘You heard how the Brehon Forbassach hectored me. No; he will uphold the sentence he has passed.’

  Dego agreed reluctantly. ‘You’re right, lady. That Bishop Forbassach has demonstrated his bias. Did you see the way he went off with Abbess Fainder and both of them smiling and his hand on hers? There is some collusion in this matter.’

  ‘The only hope left is if the Chief Brehon of Ireland, Barrán himself, arrives and orders a halt to this foul injustice,’ Fidelma said.

  Dego shook his head sadly. ‘Then there is no hope, lady. It would take at least three more days before young Aidan could find Barrán and bring him here; probably a full week and that if luck were on our side.’

  Fidelma rose, trying to regain her composure.

  ‘I must go back to the abbey and tell Eadulf to prepare for the worst.’

  ‘Would it not be better to wait until the decision is formerly announced in the morning?’

  ‘I cannot fool myself, Dego, nor can I fool Eadulf.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘Thank you, but no, Dego. This is something I’d best do alone. I think Eadulf will wish to see some friendly faces tomorrow when this terrible thing is done. At least he can die in the company of friends as well as enemies. I will seek permission to attend as soon as the judgment is given. Will you and Enda join me?’

  Dego did not hesitate.

  ‘We will. God forgive them if they do ignore your plea, lady. It is many a brave man that I have seen die in battle: I have killed many myself. But in the fury of the battle, in hot blood, men who were free, with a sword or spear in hand to defend themselves; a fight that was man to man, equal to equal. But this … this is a foul thing, reducing men to the dignity of a poor calf at the slaughterhouse. It leaves one with a sense of shame.’

  ‘It is not our way of punishment,’ Fidelma conceded. Then she sighed deeply. ‘I suppose one can argue that the person who does murder, who inflicts suffering and death on another, does not need our sympathy, but …’

  ‘No reason why we should descend to the level of a murderer and enact cold-blooded rituals to disguise our murder,’ Dego interrupted. ‘And, surely, you are not saying that you now accept Brother Eadulf is guilty of this crime?’

  Fidelma was trying hard to fight back the emotion she felt and shook her head rapidly. She hoped that her eyes were not too bright.

  ‘I do not know at this time whether Eadulf is guilty or not. I believehe is innocent. I accept his word. But words are not enough in law. All I say from knowledge is that there are too many questions that should have been answered and now … now it seems too late. Go back to the inn, Dego. I will join you and Enda there soon.’

  She walked slowly across the township towards the abbey, her mind oppressed by gloomy thoughts. She did not know what to say to Eadulf, She could only tell him the truth. She felt that she had utterly failed him. She had no doubt in her mind that, in spite of Fianamail’s attempt to play at diplomacy, Bishop Forbassach would deny the appeal. The belligerent way he had countered all her questions indicated that he was intent on carrying through the demands of Abbess Fainder to enact these cruel new punishments.

  If only she had more time! There were too many implausible aspects to the evidence. Yet Bishop Forbassach did not seem to care about pursuing them. Time! It all came down to time. And tomorrow, when the sun was at its zenith, her good friend and companion would have his life extinguished because she had not succeeded.

  As she approached the gates of the abbey she determined not to let anyone see that she had lost confidence; after all, it only needed something, some little thing, to cause a delay. Her chin came up in a defensive posture.

  When Sister Étromma came to the gate, she was looking strangely anxious. She had left the King’s hall and hastened back to the abbey as soon as Bishop Forbassach had announced his opinion.

  ‘I am sorry, Sister. I could only answer the truth. You did have your back to me when you found those items and I could not truly swear I saw you take them from their hiding place. Bishop Forbassach was so fierce in his questioning that I …’

&
nbsp; Fidelma held up a hand to placate the anxious stewardess. She did not blame her. Had she supported Fidelma, Bishop Forbassach would doubtless have found some other means of questioning the evidence.

  ‘It is not your fault, Sister. Anyway, no decision has been announced as yet,’ Fidelma replied, trying to make her voice as indifferent as possible.

  Sister Étromma continued to look distraught.

  ‘But you must know that it is a foregone conclusion?’ she pressed. ‘Bishop Forbassach has said as much.’

  Fidelma tried to appear confident.

  ‘It is in the hands of the King and his advisers. In spite of Forbassach,I still say that there are questions that should be addressed, and any impartial judge would know that a life could not be taken until those questions are answered.’

  Sister Étromma lowered her head. ‘I suppose so. Do you really believe that there might be a delay in the execution of the Saxon?’

  Fidelma’s voice was tight. She chose her words carefully.

  ‘I hope there will be. Yet it is not up to me to predict a judge’s decision.’

  ‘Just so,’ muttered the rechtaire of the abbey. ‘This is not a happy place now. I look forward to the coming day when I shall go to the Isle of Mannanán Mac Lir and retire from the anxieties of this abbey. But I expect that you will wish to see the Saxon?’

  ‘I do.’

  She turned and let the way through the abbey again and into the main courtyard. The sun was well down now and darkness enshrouded the abbey. However, the courtyard was lit by numerous torches. Two men, watched by two others, one of them a religieux, were cutting down the body of Brother Ibar from the wooden gibbet. They looked up from their gruesome task and one of them grinned at her.

  ‘Making room for tomorrow,’ he called; a coarse-faced man in working clothing. Nearby was some sacking laid out on the flagstones of the courtyard ready to receive the body. No wooden coffin for Brother Ibar, observed Fidelma, but a sackcloth and probably a swiftly dug hole in the marshland along the riverbank. The two black-clad workmen reminded her of ravens picking over the bones of their victim rather than morticians preparing a corpse for a funeral.

  Fidelma hesitated in mid-stride and her gaze fell on the face of the religieux who was acting as an overseer. It was the burly, pugnacious figure of Brother Cett. He stared lopsidedly at her, displaying a row of cracked and blackened teeth. She had rarely seen a man so resembling a brute before. She shivered. Next to him was a small, wiry-framed man whose clothing proclaimed him to be a boatman. His leather trouser and jerkin and linen scarf were commonly worn among the river boatmen. This man did not bother to look up as they crossed the courtyard.

  ‘We are going to the Saxon’s cell, Cett,’ called Sister Étromma as they passed.

  The big man grunted, perhaps signifying agreement but the sound could have meant anything. It seemed that the rechtaire took it forassent for she passed on with Fidelma following swiftly.

  She led the way up the stairs to the cell, outside which another religieux was seated on a wooden stool under a flickering brand torch, engaged in contemplation of his crucifix, which he held in both hands before him in his lap. He sprang up as they approached and recognised Sister Étromma immediately. Without a word, he drew back the bolts on the cell door.

  Sister Étromma turned to Fidelma. ‘Call when you wish to leave. I have other business to attend to so cannot remain.’

  Fidelma passed into the cell. Eadulf rose to greet her. His face was grim.

  ‘Eadulf …’ she began.

  He shook his head swiftly. ‘You do not have to tell me, Fidelma. I saw you and the other Sister crossing the courtyard from the window here and I can guess the outcome. Had the appeal been allowed I would imagine Bishop Forbassach would have come with you and not sent you ahead with such a dismal look on your face.’

  ‘It is not certain,’ Fidelma said weakly. ‘The result of the appeal will be announced by Forbassach tomorrow morning. There is still some hope.’

  Eadulf turned to the window. ‘I doubt it. I told you all along, there is some evil in this place which determines my end.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ snapped Fidelma. ‘You must not give up.’

  Eadulf glanced over his shoulder and smiled bleakly.

  ‘I think that I have known you too long, Fidelma, for you to keep secrets from me. I can tell it from your eyes. You are already mourning my death.’

  She quickly reached out a hand and touched his. ‘Don’t say that!’

  For the first time he heard the brittleness in her voice and knew she was close to tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, feeling awkward. ‘A stupid thing to say.’ He realised she needed as much support as he did to face the coming ordeal. Eadulf was not an emotionally selfish man. ‘So, Bishop Forbassach will pronounce on your appeal tomorrow morning?’

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘Good. Then we will take it as it comes. In the meanwhile, could you ask Sister Étromma to ensure that I have soap and water? I would like to look my best for whatever the morning brings.’

  Fidelma felt the tears stinging her eyes. Suddenly Eadulf reachedforward and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing hard and then thrusting her away almost brutally.

  ‘There! Off you go, Fidelma. Leave me to my meditations. I will see you in the morning.’

  She took the cue; there was too much between them for her to remain. Another few seconds and they both would be without any control of their emotions. She turned and called harshly for the Brother. A moment later the bolts rasped and the door swung open. She did not look back into the cell as she left.

  ‘Until tomorrow, Eadulf,’ she muttered.

  Brother Eadulf made no reply as the cell door slammed shut behind her.

  Fidelma did not return to the inn immediately but went for a walk along the riverside, finding a deserted corner at the end of the quays and a log to sit on in the gloom. The moon was brilliant white, casting its eerie dancing lights on the waters. She sat quietly, her cheeks wet with hot tears. She had not cried since she was a young girl. She did not even attempt the meditation technique of the dercad to quell the raging emotion within her. She had tried to keep her emotions in check ever since she had learnt of Eadulf’s peril. She could not help him by giving way to sentiment. She had to be strong; divorced from emotion so that she could see logically.

  Yet she felt torn between a terrible sense of despair and an explosive feeling of outrage. Since she had known Eadulf she had tried to keep her feelings hidden, even from herself. She had been oppressed by a sense of duty; duty to the Faith, to the law, to the five kingdoms and her own brother. Now, just as she had finally ceased to deny her feelings and had begun to admit just how much Eadulf meant to her, he stood in danger of being taken away from her for ever. It was … so unfair. She realise how banal the phrase was, but could think of no other expression for all her reading of the ancient philosophers. The old philosophers would excuse such outrageous fortune by saying that the gods willed otherwise. She could not accept that. Virgil wrote: Fata viam invenient — the gods will find a way. She had to find a way. She had to.

  Chapter Nine

  Fidelma stirred in her uneasy sleep.

  She was dreaming; dreaming of the corpse of the religieux swinging at the end of the taut rope from the wooden gibbet. Behind the corpse were gathered a group of cowled figures, laughing and jeering at the dead man. She was trying to reach forward, hands outstretched, towards the hanging form, but something was pressing her back. Hands were holding her. She turned to see who it was and the face of her old mentor and tutor — the Brehon Morann — appeared behind her.

  ‘Why?’ she screamed at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘The eye hides what it does not wish to see,’ the old man smiled enigmatically.

  She pulled away and turned back to the hanging male form.

  There was a crashing noise. At first she thought that it was the gibbet breaking up, the wood splintering
and scattering.

  Then she realised that she had been awakened and the crashing noise was a reality outside her room; heavy footsteps were pounding up the stairs of the Inn of the Yellow Mountain. She had barely time to sit up in the bed before the door was smashed open without any further warning.

  Bishop Forbassach pushed through the door, a lantern in his hand. Behind him, with drawn swords, came half a dozen men, among them a large, burly figure which was familiar to her. It was Brother Cett.

  Before she could fully recover her wits, Bishop Forbassach, holding the lantern high, had begun to search her small room, dropping to his knees and peering under her bed.

  One of the men stood with a drawn sword pointing at her chest in silent menace.

  Fidelma was shocked. She gazed at them firstly in bewilderment and then with a sense of growing outrage.

  ‘What does this mean?’ she began.

  There came another interruption, the sound of a scuffle beyond the door. Some of the men turned to help their comrades behind them andthen Dego and Enda were dragged into the room, arms pinioned behind them. They had apparently come running, swords in hand, at the sound of the disturbance. They were overwhelmed by numbers and disarmed, their arms twisted unmercifully high behind their backs so that they were almost bent double between Forbassach’s men.

  ‘What is the meaning of this outrage, Forbassach?’ Fidelma demanded coldly, the icy tone disguising her seething fury. She ignored the menacing sword that was held against her. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’

  The bishop, having examined the corners of the room, turned back to her, lantern still in hand. His face was a mask of threatening animosity.

  ‘Where is he?’ he snarled.

  Fidelma stared back at him with equal dislike.

  ‘Where is who? You have much to explain for this unwarranted intrusion, Brehon of Laigin. Do you know what you are doing? You have transgressed all laws of-’

  ‘Silence, woman!’ muttered the man who held the sword at her chest, giving it a jab to emphasise his order.