Chalice of Blood

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘They won’t,’ her brother assured her.

  ‘Excellent.’ She glanced across the quadrangle. ‘Ah, the first service has ended and here come the dour-looking steward, Brother Lugna, and an anxious-looking Abbot Iarnla. They will be worried by your presence, particularly that of Abbot Ségdae.’

  Colgú chuckled. ‘Then we better put them out of their anxiety.’

  Eadulf noticed that Fidelma was now walking with a lighter step and he actually heard her singing a snatch of song beneath her breath.

  Diesque mirabilium

  Tonitruorum forium

  Dies quoque angustiae

  Maetoris ae trititae

  Thunder shall rend the day apart

  Wonder amazes each fearful heart

  Anguish and pain, deep distress

  Shall mark the day of bitterness

  The refectorium was so crowded that many of the brethren were forced to stand. The table at which the abbot and his senior advisers usually had their meals was occupied by Colgú, with Brehon Aillín on his right and Abbot Ségdae on his left. Behind Abbot Ségdae, who was there in his role as Chief Bishop of the kingdom, sat his steward, Brother Madagan. Caol, as commander of the Nasc Niadh, stood directly behind Colgú, with the King’s standard bearer. Facing them, but in the main body of the hall, were Abbot Iarnla and his steward, Brother Lugna. Lady Eithne, who had arrived with three of her bodyguards, sat to their left. Clustered behind the abbot were all the senior members of the abbey. The two rival chieftains, Cumscrad, with his son Cunám, and Uallachán, with Brother Temnen of Ard Mór, plus their two bodyguards apiece, had taken seats on opposite sides of the hall. Standing where they could were Saor and his group of builders, with the young boy, Gúasach. The rest of the hall was filled with as many members of the community who could squeeze in. Gormán and the two remaining warriors of the Nasc Niadh had positioned themselves at the door.

  Fidelma had taken her position at a small table to the right of the raised platform. Eadulf sat with her, with notes and papers, to aid her if needed. But the arguments before Brehon Aillín had to be made by a qualified dálaigh and so Eadulf could be of no assistance to her in the direct presentation of the case.

  Brehon Aillín glanced at Fidelma and then stood up. He raised his staff of office and banged it on the floor three times.

  ‘At this court we are here primarily to attempt to discover cause and responsibility for the death of Brother Donnchad. However, there are other matters that we must consider. The raids on the Fir Maige Féne and death of Dubhagan of the tech-screptra at Fhear Maighe. We shall also attempt to discover cause and responsibility for the death of the master builder Glassán.’

  There was a ripple of subdued but surprised voices. Most knew only that Brother Donnchad’s death had been under investigation, while Glassán’s death had been thought an accident. As for raids and the death of Dubhagan, little gossip had infiltrated the abbey.

  Brother Lugna immediately rose, protesting. ‘Are these not separate matters? How are they to be heard all at once? Sister Fidelma’s only responsibility is to tell us who killed Brother Donnchad.’

  Brehon Aillín regarded him with disapproval. ‘This is now a court of law and I have proclaimed the matters it will consider. Fidelma of Cashel, will you proceed?’ he added solemnly.

  ‘I shall.’ Fidelma bowed her head towards the Brehon, as protocol demanded, before turning to face the assembly.

  ‘We shall deal first with the murder of Glassán. For that is a separate matter.’

  When the astonished murmur died down, Fidelma raised her voice a little. ‘Yes, it was murder even though it was made to look like an accident. Glassán was bludgeoned from behind with a blackthorn stick, dragged to the wall and the scene made to look as if one of the stones from the wall had become loose and fallen on him. This murder had long been in the planning.’

  She held the audience’s attention completely now.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she continued, ‘when one has been so long investigating murders, one becomes too used to looking for the complicated and the unexpected. With the killing of Glassán we were, in fact, dealing with the obvious but thought we were looking for something deeper, more complicated and not so obvious; something that we thought would link up with the murder of Brother Donnchad. We nearly missed what was staring us in the face.’

  ‘And that was?’ prompted Brother Lugna, unable to restrain himself.

  Brehon Aillín rapped on the table and snapped, ‘There are to be no interruptions. I have already pointed out that this is now a court of law and protocol is to be followed.’

  ‘I shall respond to the steward, with your approval,’ Fidelma replied mildly. ‘This was an act of vengeance, part of a blood feud.’

  Fidelma waited for the hall to grow silent again before continuing.

  ‘The most serious offence in any society is for one person to deprive another of their life. I have travelled in many lands and found that the laws governing what punishment should be given varies.’

  Once again, Brother Lugna was on his feet.

  ‘In Rome it is considered that the execution of the offender is the only just punishment. Among many members of our Faith beyond the seas, this punishment is supported because this is the justice that Faith proclaims. Is it not written in the ancient texts that life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth shall be the punishment? Even if death is caused by negligence, death must be returned as retribution.’

  Brehon Aillín had reached for his staff of office, anger on his brow, but Fidelma held up her hand.

  ‘I will respond, with your permission. Let us make allowance for the fact that Brother Lugna has been so long in Rome that he has forgotten how our courts of law are conducted. We do not believe that the teaching that you have cited is compatible with the Faith, for did not Christ tell us to ignore it? Perhaps, Brehon Aillín, you would allow Brother Eadulf, who has also studied in Rome, to remind us of Christ’s teaching?’

  At a nod from the Brehon, Eadulf rose. ‘It is to be found in the Gospel according to Matthew: audistis quia dictum est oculum pro oculo et dentem pro dente … ego autem dico vobis non resistere malo sed si te percusserit in dextera maxilla tua praebe illi et alteram.’

  ‘You have heard that it has been said, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. But I say to you …’ She stopped translating. ‘I am sure that Brother Lugna knows the passage, as do we all. I rejoice that we live under more enlightened laws, though some would have us adopt the Penitentials of Rome where we must cut off the hand that steals, blind the eye that is covetous, kill the person who is responsible for the death of another directly or indirectly.’

  Brother Lugna was looking outraged. He exchanged a glance with the grim-faced Lady Eithne.

  ‘The basis of our law,’ went on Fidelma, unperturbed, ‘is that we allow someone who has transgressed to atone for his crime, even if they have caused the death of another. Moreover, our law says that as well as being given the opportunity for rehabilitation in our society, compensation must be given to the victim or the relatives of the victim. What use is the dead body of the killer to a wife left without a husband, a child left without a mother or a father? Vengeance has but momentary satisfaction. Only in extreme circumstances, where a killer is shown to be incorrigible, unrepentant and unwilling to provide the compensation and pay the fines required by law, do we say they should be placed in the arms of fate, that they should be cast adrift in a boat without sail or oar and with food or water for one day. Their fate is left up to the winds and the waves.

  ‘Perhaps some of you have heard the story of Mac Cuill, the son of the hazel, who was a thief and killer in the Kingdom of Ulaidh. His crimes were so heinous and he was so unrepentant of them that he was cast adrift on the sea from the coast of Ulaidh in an open boat. After drifting for some time, he was washed close to the shore on the island that is named for the god of the oceans, Mannanán Mac Lir. There were only two members of the Faith on the island at that tim
e but they took him from the sea. He realised that Fate had saved him for a more useful life. He travelled the island with them, preaching the Faith and founding an abbey now named after him, for he is known by the Latin from of his name – the Blessed Maccaldus. He ended his life as abbot and bishop on that island. Is that not a better contribution to life than having his dead, rotting body forgotten?’

  She paused and Brehon Aillín took the opportunity to intervene in a mild tone. ‘I am sure that those gathered here do not need to be reminded of the basis of the Law of the Fénechus, Fidelma.’

  She turned to him with a quick smile. ‘With due respect, I believe that you will find some who do need reminding. We believe that our native law has more in keeping with Christ’s teaching than those who support the Penitentials from Rome. However, I shall come to that later. I do need to outline the law a little more before I come to the main point. I would like to remind people of the Cáin Sóerraith, that is the law pertaining to all those who have a duty to the ruler of their clan.’

  Colgú raised his head in surprise and glanced at Brehon Aillín before asking. ‘What has that to do with the matter in hand?’

  ‘This law, as some may know, states that a sóerchéile, a free clansman, has a duty to assist the lord of his clan. Whatever art or profession he follows, when his lord calls for help, he must obey on penalty of fines. If his lord wants him to help hunt down horse thieves or wolves, or protect the clan’s territories, the sóerchéile must obey and answer his call. He even has a duty to assist his lord in the prosecution of a blood feud. Is that not so, Saor?’

  The assistant master builder jerked nervously and he licked his suddenly dry lips.

  ‘Do you recognise the law, Saor?’ she pressed.

  ‘I do,’ he answered after some hesitation.

  ‘And you thought you were obeying the law?’

  Saor was looking confused.

  ‘Are you saying that it was Saor who killed Glassán?’ intervened Abbot Iarnla nervously. ‘But he worked for Glassán. Technically, that made Glassán his lord.’

  ‘Not so,’ Fidelma replied before Brehon Aillín could rebuke the abbot’s intervention. ‘Glassán was not the lord of Saor’s clan. Saor was the sóerchéile, the clansman, called on to prosecute a blood feud. He did help his lord to kill Glassán as he was bound to do by his interpretation of the law. Therefore I have to say that Saor is exonerated from bearing the full blame for this crime of murder.’

  Brehon Aillín made to intervene but Fidelma held up her hand. ‘Better if I came to the truth in my own way.’ The Brehon conceded and gestured for her to continue.

  ‘Glassán, as you know, was a master builder. What some of you may not have known was that he was master builder to the King of Laighin until ten years ago. Ten years ago he undertook to build a hall in stone for one of the King’s relatives in the south of the kingdom. However, he was a vain man who undertook many tasks at once. He did not fulfil his obligation and duty to the King to act as overseer on the building. Mistakes were made. The building collapsed, killing relatives of the King.’

  ‘Then why wasn’t he brought before the King of Laighin and his Brehon for this act?’ demanded Brehon Aillín.

  ‘He was,’ Fidelma replied calmly. ‘He argued that it was his assistant at the site who was to blame and not himself. This was technically true and the assistant had to pay the honour price of those who died to the families of the victims. But because Glassán tried to shift the blame for his own responsibility, the King and his Brehon dismissed him from the King’s service and ordered him to pay the court fines. Glassán went into exile in the kingdom of Connachta where he settled down among the Uí Briuin Sinna. He began to build up a reputation again as a builder.’

  ‘The Uí Briuin Sinna?’ Abbot Iarnla intervened. ‘But that’s where—’

  ‘Where your steward, Brother Lugna, comes from, yes,’ Fidelma said. ‘Brother Lugna knew of Glassán and his work before he went to Rome. When Brother Lugna returned from Rome and was given permission to rebuild this abbey in stone, he naturally called for someone he knew – he brought Glassán here as his master builder.’

  ‘No crime in that,’ snapped the sullen steward.

  ‘Of course not,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘But in bringing Glassán here as your master builder it did open the path that was eventually to lead to his death.’

  ‘How so?’ demanded Brother Lugna.

  ‘We are not far from the borders with Laighin and eventually Glassán’s presence here was noted. Brother Echen, for example, is from Laighin.’

  Heads turned towards the stableman who stood frowning.

  ‘Am I being accused of involvement in killing Glassán? I am innocent. Was it not I that actually told you about his background? ’

  ‘Indeed it was,’ replied Fidelma calmly. ‘Brother Echen had a cousin who was in charge of the stables of the King of Laighin. He knew the story of Glassán and when his presence here was mentioned in conversation, that knowledge spread to certain people. Sit down, Brother Echen, you are not to blame, although, like Brother Lugna, you also prepared the path to his death.’

  ‘But you have said that Glassán paid his fines to the King of Laighin and exonerated himself before the law,’ pointed out Brehon Aillín.

  ‘It is true that he paid fines to the King but there were members of the families of those who perished who felt that Glassán had not answered to them for the deed. He was the person who designed the building and should have overseen the work. The relatives of the dead received no compensation from him and did not believe he had repented. Eventually, the word came to the son of the chieftain who had perished in that building. As a young man he had sworn that his role would be the díglaid – the person who would take vengeance on behalf of his clan. He came to this abbey, ascertained that it was, indeed, Glassán who was working here and then sent for one of his clansmen to help him. That clansman was Saor.’

  She paused and looked at Saor.

  ‘I was told that it was not long after Saor arrived that several accidents began to happen on the building site. No one was badly injured until Eadulf went to look at the site because of something that had occurred to him. Thankfully, he had a lantern with him. As he came under a half-finished doorway, he heard a lintel being pushed. It would have fallen on his head had he not raised his lantern to discover the source of the noise. The light on his features showed he was not the intended victim. One of the two would-be vengeance-seekers recognised him in time and gave him a hard shove in the back, just as the lintel fell. The lintel missed him but Eadulf smashed his head on a wooden support which knocked him out.’

  Saor was looking at the ground.

  ‘Am I not right, Saor? You were the person who pushed the lintel.’

  The assistant master builder shrugged but said nothing.

  ‘I accept that you felt duty bound, under law, to assist your chieftain in pursuing this blood feud,’ went on Fidelma. ‘You told young Gúasach that you were from a clan called the Uí Bairrche in southern Laighin. That was where the building collapsed, wasn’t it? Your chieftain demanded your help in pursuing vengeance against Glassán. Since that is the reason for your actions, you will not feel the full weight of the law.’

  Saor looked up with a resigned expression. ‘It was not only that I obeyed the call of my chieftain,’ he said slowly. ‘My brother was the carpenter working on the building that fell. He was killed. I was willing and pleased to help against Glassán.’

  ‘So when you were called by your chieftain, you came willingly?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you for confirming that your chieftain is here with us. Was it him or was it you who paid Gealbháin, the previous carpenter and assistant master builder on this job, to leave the site so that you could present yourself to Glassán as his replacement?’

  Saor’s lips compressed and he shook his head. ‘I will say no more.’

  ‘No matter.’ Fidelma swung round and looked at the physician,
Brother Seachlann. ‘Your chieftain can speak for himself.’

  The physician stood up and gave her a curious half bow.

  ‘I am Seachlann of the Uí Bairrche,’ he said quietly.

  There were several gasps round the hall.

  ‘Do you deny these charges that are levelled against you?’ demanded Brehon Aillín.

  Seachlann stood erect, his head held high.

  ‘There is no need to deny them. I am the díglaid and, as such, I claim that the law supports me. When the perpetrator does not compensate the victims and their families, the Críth Gabhlach says that the díglaid can pursue a blood feud even into other territories where the perpetrator might seek refuge. I have done so and I rejoice that I have fulfilled an obligation to my family and clan.’

  ‘Are you, in truth, chief of the Uí Bairrche and therefore related to King Fáelán of Laighin?’ queried Colgú in surprise.

  ‘I am. Both my parents perished in the building that Glassán was supposed to construct. My brother, who was heir to my father, also perished, along with fifteen others of my people, including Saor’s brother. I was a young man and had newly entered the religious. I was just finishing my studies in the healing arts at the abbey at Sléibhte.

  ‘Glassán showed no remorse for his negligence. He claimed he should not be held responsible in any way. He complained when the King imposed the fines and exiled him, although we whose family members perished felt it was a mild punishment. Glassán was clever and he disappeared quickly and for years we could not discover where he had fled. I had been inaugurated chieftain. My tanist, my heir, was chosen, and so I left the affairs of my people to him while I continued in the practice of medicine. Then I heard from Brother Echen’s relative at the palace of my kinsman, King Fáelán, that Glassán was here. As you rightly deduced, Fidelma of Cashel, that is why I came.’

  ‘And is everything else correct as Fidelma has charged?’ demanded Brehon Aillín.

  ‘Everything else is correct. But, as the Críth Gabhlach states, I acted as the díglaid. I acted under the law and therefore no charge can be brought against me.’