‘If the Saxon is guilty, is there talk about his punishment? What would be the honour price? What compensation is demanded from the Saxon?’
Under the law, anyone judged guilty of the crime of homicide, as with all other crimes, had to pay compensation. It was called the eric fine. Each person in the community had an honour price according to their rank and station. The perpetrator had to pay the compensation to the victim or, in the case of homicide, to the relatives of the victim. In addition there were the court costs. Sometimes, depending on the seriousness of the crime, the culprit lost all their civil rights and had to work within the community to rehabilitate themselves. If they did not, they could be reduced to the rank of little more than itinerant workers, scarcely better than a slave. They were called daer-fudir. However, the law wisely said that ‘every dead man kills his liabilities’. Children of the culprits were placed back into society at the same honour price which their father or their mother had enjoyed prior to being found guilty of the crime.
The shepherd was staring at Fidelma as if the question surprised him.
‘There is no eric fine asked for,’ he said finally.
Fidelma did not understand and said so.
‘Then what punishment is being talked of?’
The shepherd put down his empty mug and stood up, preparing to leave, wiping the back of his mouth on his sleeve.
‘The King has declared that the judgment should be made under the new Christian Penitentials, this new system of laws they say comes from Rome. The Saxon has been sentenced to death. I think he has already been hanged.’
Chapter Two
The slow procession of religious emerged from the brass-studded oak doors of the chapel and into the cold, grey light of the central courtyard of the abbey. It was a large courtyard, flagged in dark granite stone, yet on all four sides there towered the cheerless stone walls of the abbey buildings, giving the illusion that the central space was smaller than it actually was.
The line of cowled monks, preceded by a single Brother of the community bearing an ornate metal cross, moved slowly, sedately, heads bowed, hands hidden in the folds of their robes, chanting a psalm in Latin. Behind them, at a short distance, came a similar number of cowled nuns, also with heads bowed and joining in the chant though accompanying the male voices on a higher note and harmonising with the air so as to make a descant. The effect was an eerie echoing in the confined space.
They moved to take positions on either side of the courtyard, standing facing a wooden platform on which stood a strange construction of three upright poles supporting a triangle of beams. A single rope hung from one of the beams, knotted into a noose. Just below the noose, a three-legged stool had been placed. Next to this grim apparatus, feet splayed apart, stood a tall man. He was stripped to the waist, his heavy, muscular arms folded across a broad, hairy chest. He stared without emotion at the religious procession; unmoved and unashamed of the task he was to perform on that macabre platform.
From the chapel doors came two more religious, a man and a woman, moving with easy strides towards the platform. The woman’s lean form gave the impression of height which, close up, proved illusory, for she was only of medium stature, although her dark, slightly arrogant features gave her a commanding presence. Her habit and ornate crucifix, which was suspended from a chain around her neck, proclaimed her a religieuse of rank. By her side was a short man, with grim and grey visage. He, too, was dressed in a manner which proclaimed him to be of rank within the Faith.
They halted between the two rows of religious, just in front of the platform. The chanting died away at the imperceptible lift of the woman’s hand.
One of the Sisters came hurrying forward and halted before her, inclining her head in respect.
‘Are we ready to proceed, Sister?’ asked the richly dressed religieuse.
‘Everything is arranged, Mother Abbess.’
‘Then let us proceed with God’s grace.’
The Sister glanced towards an open door on the far side of the courtyard and raised a hand.
Almost at once it was opened and two stocky men, religieux by their robes, came forward dragging a young man between them. He was also wearing a religious habit, but this was torn and stained. His face was white and his lips trembled in fear. Sobs racked his frame as he was dragged across the flagstones of the courtyard towards the waiting group. The trio came to a halt before the abbess and her companion.
There was a silence for a moment which only the young man’s distressed sobbing disturbed.
‘Well, Brother Ibar,’ the woman’s voice was harsh and unforgiving, ‘will you now confess your guilt since you stand on the threshold of your journey into the Otherworld?’
The young man began to make sounds, but they did not mean anything. He was too frightened to issue anything more articulate.
The abbess’s male companion leaned forward.
‘Confess, Brother Ibar.’ His voice was sibilant and persuasive. ‘Confess and avoid the pain of suffering in purgatory. Go to your God with the guilt removed from your soul and He will welcome you with joy.’
At last some recognisable words began to issue from the young man’s throat.
‘Father Abbot … Mother Abbess … I am innocent. As God is my witness, I am innocent.’
The woman’s expression deepened into lines of disapproval.
‘Do you know the words of Deuteronomy? Listen to them, Brother Ibar: “ … after careful examination by the judges, if he be proved to be a false witness giving false evidence … you shall show no mercy; life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot”. That is the word of the law of the Faith. Abhor your sins even now, Brother. Go to God cleansed of your sins.’
‘I have not sinned, Mother Abbess,’ cried the young man desperately. ‘I cannot recant what I have not done.’
‘Then know the inevitable outcome of your folly, for it is written: “I could see the dead, great and small, standing before the throne; and the books were opened. Then another book was opened, the roll of the living. From what was written in these books, the dead were judged upon the record of their deeds. The sea gave up its dead, and Death and Hades gave up the dead in their keeping; they were judged, each man on the record of his deeds. Then Death and Hades were flung into the lake of fire. This lake of fire is the second death; and into it were flung any whose names were not to be found in the roll of the living”.’
She paused for breath and glanced at her male companion as if seeking approval. The man bowed his head and remained stony-faced.
‘Let God’s will be done, then,’ he said without emotion.
The woman nodded to the two brawny monks who held the young man.
‘So be it,’ she intoned.
They spun their captive round to face the platform, pushing him forward in spite of his resistance; he would have fallen onto the structure had they not been holding him up. Even before he had fully recovered his balance they had twisted his arms behind his back and one of them had expertly secured them with a short length of rope.
‘I am not guilty! Not guilty!’ the young man was crying as he tried vainly to struggle with them. ‘Ask about the manacles! The manacles! Ask!’
The burly man awaiting them on the platform, now moved forward and lifted the captive up as if he had been no more than a child. He placed him on the stool and pulled the noose around his neck, stifling his cries, while one of the escorts secured a rope around his feet.
Then the two escorts backed off the platform, leaving the executioner standing next to the young man, now precariously balanced on the stool, his neck in the noose.
The religious started their Latin chant again, their voices taking on a swifter, harsher note and, catching the grim eye of the executioner, the abbess nodded swiftly.
The muscular man simply kicked the stool from under the feet of the young man who gave one last, strangled cry before the noose tightened irrevocably. Then he swung to and fro, his legs kicking
as he was slowly throttled to death by the rope.
Above the courtyard, staring down at the proceedings through a small iron grilled window, Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham shuddered, genuflected and muttered a swift prayer for the soul of the dead. He turned away from the window back into the gloomy cell.
Seated on the only stool in the cell, watching him with dark eyes sparkling with a frightening anticipation, was a thin-faced, cadaverous-looking man. He wore the robes of a religious and an ornate gold crucifix around his neck.
‘So now, Saxon,’ the man’s voice was brittle and hectoring, ‘perhaps you will give some thought to your own future.’
Brother Eadulf allowed a grim smile to mould his features in spite of what he had witnessed below.
‘I did not think my future needed much thought. I believe that it is a very finite one so far as this world is concerned.’
The seated man’s lips twisted in a sneer at the other’s attempted humour.
‘All the more reason to pay it some heed, Saxon. How we fulfil our last hours in this world impinges on our eternity in the Otherworld.’
Eadulf took a seat on the wooden cot. ‘I will not quarrel with your knowledge of law, Bishop Forbassach, yet I am truly perplexed,’ he said lightly. ‘I have studied some years in this country but never once did I see an execution. Surely, your laws, the Senchus Mór, state that no one should be executed for any crime in the five kingdoms of Éireann if the eric fine or compensation is paid. What was the purpose of killing that young man down there?’
Bishop Forbassach, Chief Judge to King Fianamail of Laigin, therefore a Brehon as well as a bishop of the kingdom, pursed his lips in a cynical smile.
‘Times change, Saxon. Times change. Our young King has decreed that Christian laws and punishments – what we called the Penitentials – must supersede the old ways of this land. What is good for the Faith throughout all other lands using Christ’s laws must also be good enough for us.’
‘Yet you are a Brehon, a judge, sworn to uphold the laws of the five kingdoms. How can you accept that Fianamail has the legal authority to change your ancient laws? That can only be done every three years at the great Festival of Tara by agreement with all the kings, Brehons, lawyers and laymen.’
‘You seem to know a lot for a stranger in our land, Saxon. I will tell you. We are of the Faith before all other considerations. I swore not only to uphold the law but also to uphold the Faith. We should all accept the divine laws of the Church and reject the darkness of our pagan ways. But this is beside the point. I did not come to argue law with you, Saxon. You have been found guilty and have been sentenced. All that is now required of you is your admission of guilt so that you may make your peace with God.’
Eadulf folded his arms with a shake of his head.
‘So that is why I was made to witness the execution of that poor young man? Well, Bishop Forbassach, I have already made my peace with God. You seek an admission of guilt from me merely to absolve yourself of your own guilt in giving a false judgment. I am innocent and will declare it as that poor young man did. May God greet young Brother Ibar kindly in the Otherworld.’
Bishop Forbassach rose to his feet. The smile had not left his thin features but it was more strained and more false than before. Eadulf sensed a simmering violence in the man, born of his frustration.
‘Brother Ibar was foolish to cling to his plea of innocence as, indeed, are you.’ He moved across to the cell window and stared down into the courtyard below for a moment or so. The body of the young man still swung from the gibbet, twitching now and again to display the gruesome fact that death was a long time claiming the unfortunate victim. Everyone apart from the patient executioner had disappeared.
‘Interesting … that last cry of his,’ Eadulf reflected aloud. ‘Has anyone asked about the manacles?’
Bishop Forbassach did not reply. After a moment or two he turned and walked to the door. He hesitated a moment, hand on the latch, then turned to regard Eadulf with cold, angry eyes.
‘You have until noon tomorrow to make up your mind whether you will die with a lie on your lips, Saxon, or having cleansed your soul of your guilt over this foul crime.’
‘It seems,’ Brother Eadulf replied softly, as Forbassach banged on the door to attract the attention of the guard, ‘that you are very anxious for me to admit to something of which I am innocent. I wonder why?’
For a moment Bishop Forbassach’s mask slipped and, if looks could kill, Eadulf knew that he would have been dead at that moment.
‘After midday tomorrow, Saxon, you will not have the luxury of being able to wonder.’ The cell door opened and Bishop Forbassach left. Eadulf rose and moved rapidly to the door as it swung shut behind him and called loudly through the small grille: ‘Then I shall have until noon tomorrow to meditate on your motivations. Maybe that will give me time enough to discover what dark evil is stirring here, Forbassach! What about the manacles?’
There was no answer. Eadulf listened for a moment to the receding sound of leather slapping on the granite flags of the corridor, the noise of the slamming of a distant door and the rasping of iron bolts.
Eadulf stood back. Alone again, he felt black despair descend on him. For all his attempts to hide his feelings from Forbassach, he could not hide them from himself. He walked over to the window and stared down at the gibbet below. The body of Brother Ibar swung slightly from the rope now. There was no longer any twitching in the limbs. Life had departed. Eadulf tried to force a prayer from his lips but no sounds would come. His mouth was dry, his tongue swollen. Tomorrow at midday he would be swinging down there on that gibbet. There was nothing to prevent it.
Fearna, the great place of the alder trees, was the principal settlement of the Uí Cheinnselaigh, the royal dynasty of the kingdom of Laigin. The town stood on the side of a hill at a point where two valleys, through which large rivers flowed, connected with each other like the two arms of a great ‘Y’ and formed a single broad valley where the same rivers now flowed as one southwards and then eastwards towards the sea.
Fidelma and her companions, having spent the night at Morca’s inn, had taken the ford across the broad River Slaney, then the road which ran between the Slaney and the River Bann, on whose hills the capital of the Laigin kings stood. Their arrival among the sprawl of timber and stone buildings went unnoticed and unremarked as many travellers, merchants and traders, as well as emissaries from other kingdoms, came and went regularly. Strangers were so frequent in the township as to excite no comment.
Fearna was dominated by its two complex buildings. On a small promontory of the hill rose the fortress which was the stronghold of the Laigin kings. It was large but unspectacular, the type of circular citadel which arose in many parts of the five kingdoms of Éireann. Curiously, it was the Abbey of Máedóc that most dominated the countryside; a grey, granite complex, it towered close by the banks of the River Bann. Indeed, it had its own little quay at which boats from the settlements along the river moored to trade goods. Fearna had grown to importance as a centre of the river trade.
One might be forgiven, on a first visit to Fearna, for believing that it was the abbey which was the citadel of the Laigin kings. Although scarcely fifty years old, it already looked as if it had stood for centuries, for there was a strange atmosphere of gloom and decay about it. It looked more like a fortress than an abbey. The impression one had was of chill foreboding.
When King Brandubh had decided to build the abbey for his Christian mentor and his followers, the old King decreed that it was to be the most imposing building in his kingdom. Yet instead of a place of worship and joy, which should have been the purpose of such a building, it rose overwhelming and aggressive, like an sinister sore in the countryside.
It was scarcely fifty years ago that the Laigin kings had been converted to the Faith of Christ when Brandubh had accepted baptism from the Blessed Aidan, a man of Breifne, who had settled at Fearna. The Laigin people had called Aidan by the name of Má
edóc, a pet form of his name which meant ‘little fire’. The Blessed Máedóc had died forty years before; it was known that the brethren of the abbey jealously guarded his relics there.
Fidelma examined the building critically as they rode to the centre of the township: it was so unlike the habitations of the religious communities that she knew. She felt rather guilty at her thoughts for she knew the Blessed Máedóc was loved and respected throughout the land. Yet she remained firm in her belief that religion should be a matter of joy and not of oppression.
Dego pointed the way to Fianamail’s fortress for he had been at Fearna before. The young warrior confidently led the way up the hill towards the fortress and, at the gates, halted to demand that the bemused guard summon his commander. Almost at once a soldier came forward, frowning as he recognised Dego and his companions as men in the service of the King of Cashel. As he hesitated, undecided what to do, Fidelma edged her horse forward.
‘Find your steward,’ she advised. ‘Tell the rechtaire that it is Fidelma of Cashel who requires an audience with Fianamail.’
The guard commander, recognising the rank of the young religieuse who demanded entrance, was startled. Then he gave a stiff little bow before turning abruptly to send one of his men off to find the rechtaire, the steward, of the King’s household. He politely enquired whether Fidelma and her companions would care to alight from their horses and enter the shelter of the guardroom. At a sharp snap of his fingers, stable boys came running out to take charge of the horses while Fidelma and her companions entered a room with a crackling fire. Their reception had not been overly enthusiastic but everything was done with the minimum amount of courtesy needed to obey the laws of hospitality.
It was only a few moments before the steward of the King’s household came hurrying in.
‘Fidelma of Cashel?’ He was an elderly man with carefully brushed silver hair and his appearance and clothing spoke of someone who was fastidious in personal dress as he was punctilious in court protocol. He wore a silver chain of office. ‘I am told that you the require an audience with the King?’
Our Lady of Darkness Page 2
