‘But the flock would not have been his to sell,’ pointed out Fidelma. ‘If he was a stranger from another clan, even a marriage does not automatically imply ownership of goods belonging to a wife unless some agreement is made with the wife’s kin. Who were they, do you know?’
Torcán and Éimhín exchanged a quick glance. ‘She had no immediate kin,’ Éimhín said. ‘I counted her a friend before Spelán arrived here.’
‘Then you will be able to help me with what I need to know,’ pressed Fidelma. ‘Can you describe her?’
The plump woman inclined her head thoughtfully. ‘She was a moody sort of person and did not mix well with local people.’
‘But you indicated that Curnan had prospects of marriage with her at one time?’
Torcán frowned in annoyance. ‘That was a long time ago and nothing came of it,’ he said quickly. ‘The fact is, she was not interested in him.’
‘But she fell for this stranger, Spelán. That must have made your brother bitter?’
‘My brother is not the kind of man to harbour bitterness,’ protested Torcán. ‘Nor was she the sort who would have made a suitable wife for a woodsman. She was too frail.’
Fidelma turned to Éimhin. ‘Anything else?’
‘There is little to tell,’ replied Éimhín hurriedly, perhaps regretting that she had incurred the disapproval of her husband. ‘She was the daughter of Boirche. He is now dead, of course. He was a bóchaill, a keeper of cows, along the great river banks.’
‘Cows? Not sheep?’ interrupted Eadulf.
‘A bóchaill, not an aedhaire, a shepherd,’ said the woman. ‘He was a man of substance but the family were wiped out by the terrible Yellow Plague some years ago. Only his daughter, Caoimhe, survived. She had no immediate kin and so the chieftain of our clan stepped forward to administrate what was left for her.’
‘What was the social status of Caoimhe’s father?’ Fidelma asked.
‘A saerchéile – a free man of the clan,’ Torcán replied proudly. ‘As am I.’
‘And the chieftain being …?’ queried Eadulf.
‘At that time? It was Tanaide.’
‘And where is Tanaide’s dwelling?’
‘He is now many years dead,’ Torcán said. ‘Our chieftains are also the Abbots of Ráth Cuáin. The chieftain is now his son, Abbot Síoda.’
Fidelma was surprised. ‘So the current abbot, Abbot Síoda, is also your chieftain?’
‘That is so.’
‘It is strange that I have never heard of him and know little about this abbey and its community, yet both are so close to Cashel,’ Fidelma mused and not for the first time.
‘Ráth Cuáin has always been the fortress of our chieftains, even after it became an abbey. I remember the stories of how my grandfather’s father was said to have helped repair it and cut the timbers for it,’ replied Torcán.
‘And what manner of man is this abbot who is your chieftain?’ Fidelma asked. ‘You mentioned that he sends mercenary warriors to collect tribute from you.’
‘I have never seen him. Even when I take a cartload of wood up to the abbey gates, the only person I see is the aistreóir, the gatekeeper, Brother Tadhg. Tadhg is a surly, taciturn man. If Abbot Síoda is anything like the gatekeeper, then I do not wish to know him. Oh, I have sometimes seen the new herbalist, Sister Fioniúr, when I deliver logs to the abbey. At least she is pleasant and friendly. Usually, it is the chieftain’s warriors who come demanding tribute.’
‘You appear to be resentful?’
Torcán shrugged. ‘Abbot Síoda expects the tributes and homage due to him. That is his right. But in return he does not take on the responsibilities and duties that are the mark of such an office.’
‘Why haven’t you made representations to the Chief Brehon if you believe he is not fulfilling the duties of a chieftain according to the law? Cashel is less than a morning’s ride away – indeed, within a comfortable day’s walking distance if you have no horse. Your brother Curnan appears to be in the township frequently. You could bring complaints before the King’s Brehon there.’
‘And what would they do? Síoda, as I say, is not only chieftain but Abbot of Ráth Cuáin. He claims the protection of the Faith as well as of his mercenary warriors. The abbey is like a fortress.’
Fidelma regarded the woodsman seriously for a moment. ‘Do you mean to say that these mercenaries are permanently quartered in the abbey?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Abbey or fortress, it is the same thing. He has a score of riders, professional warriors. They live in the abbey and ride out to collect tribute for him. They serve Síoda alone, and have no commitment to local people.’
‘I see. It seems we will have to have a word with Abbot Síoda on two accounts,’ Fidelma said. ‘Firstly, about Caoimhe and Spelán. Secondly, about his conduct as chieftain of the Sítae. As chieftain he has the right to maintain a band of warriors, nor is it unusual for a chieftain to employ mercenaries. Yet, as you say, Torcán, with rights come obligations of office.’
But Torcán was shaking his head. ‘Lady, I think you will find it hard even to see him. He went on a pilgrimage to Rome during the summer. We hear he has returned, but apparently has now incarcerated himself behind the high walls of the abbey; invisible to us all. When he wants his presence felt among the clan, he just sends out his warriors.’
‘It sounds more like a fortress under siege than a house of religion,’ muttered Eadulf.
‘That is exactly what it is,’ agreed Éimhin. ‘Many of the brethren and sisters there are not local folk either. Remember that strange religieux who came wandering through here a few days ago?’ Éimhín turned to her husband. ‘I didn’t like him. He was demanding and rude.’
Fidelma addressed her. ‘Was he from this Abbey of Ráth Cuáin?’
Torcán addressed. ‘No, he was from some Abbey in the south and on his way to Cashel. But I was sure he came from the direction of our abbey, although he claimed that he had missed the main track. I don’t suppose he meant to be rude; it was just because he was in a dishevelled state.’
‘Having to spend a night or two in the open is no excuse for discourtesy, especially from one who claims to be a scholar of the Faith,’ Éimhín said in a brittle tone.
‘He told you he was a scholar?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What made you think that he was?’ queried Fidelma with interest.
‘Because he carried one of those taig liubhair, you know – a leather book satchel. Only scholars walk around with books. He asked Torcán here the best route to Cashel.’
Fidelma realised that the wanderer had probably been one of those scholars her brother had mentioned, who had come to attend the small council in Cashel.
‘I just want to clarify some matters relating to Caoimhe,’ Eadulf said to Éimhin, returning to the subject of their inquiry. ‘You say her father and his family were wiped out by the Yellow Plague, leaving only the chieftain to administer things for her.’
‘That is so. The land she grazed her flock on was under the control of the abbey, of course.’
‘So what was her portion of the property?’
‘Precious little. Síoda, as chieftain, claimed it all.’
‘How did Spelán come to marry her? You say that she had absolutely no family to support her.’
‘After the devastation of the Yellow Plague, and being left without kin, I would say Caoimhe was very vulnerable to anyone who showed her kindness. She needed help with her flock and Curnan was no shepherd but a woodsman. At that time Spelán came wandering through this territory. He saw his opportunity and somehow persuaded Caoimhe to take him as her partner …’
Torcán carried on: ‘He was an unscrupulous man who saw her situation and decided to grab what he could. I tell it as I see it, lady. I did not like the man.’
‘No one did, lady,’ Éimhín added. ‘We all came to believe that he was a deorid cóid … an exile of cup and pillow.’
‘A man on the run,
wanted for crimes,’ Fidelma explained when Eadulf seemed puzzled by the meaning of the colloquial term. Then she turned back to the couple. ‘What made you think that?’
‘It was the way he kept himself to himself, never mixed with or befriended those in this community. He even walked over the hills into Cashel whenever he felt the urge to get drunk, which was often, rather than risk letting something slip to local people when drink might make him let down his guard.’
‘You said that he persuaded Caoimhe to take him as her partner. Does that imply that they were not married?’
‘I could not vouch for it. Of course, in the early stage they could have simply declared the trial of a year and a day …’
Eadulf stirred uneasily for he knew the custom and it was precisely what he and Fidelma had done.
‘I saw Caoimhe rarely after Spelán moved in with her,’ Éimhin said. ‘When I did, I asked her why there had been no celebration locally and she told me that they had been married in the abbey – but I think she lied.’ Éimhín looked sad. ‘I saw Spelán drunk; I saw Caoimhe with bruises and working harder than she should. I think she was intimidated by him.’
‘So Spelán either married or became partner with Caoimhe and ran the flock on the slopes of these hills. They lived always in the cabin there?’
‘In the little copse,’ Éimhin nodded. ‘Caoimhe ceased to mix with her former friends and neighbours.’
‘Are you sure that Caoimhe never complained?’
‘My wife has told you,’ Torcán said. ‘Those who did see her noticed that she was unhappy. I believe it was when she realised that Spelán was over-indulgent in drink. Yet she continued to provide him with the means to indulge, and so the flock gradually diminished through lack of care.’
‘Separation and divorce are allowed in our laws,’ Fidelma said in a flat tone. She was tired of those who entered marriage without knowing the matrimonial laws. ‘There are seven causes for separation. For example, did he denigrate her to people around here, did he strike her, or indeed, if she did not receive what she desired from her husband, all such things may rightfully be given as grounds for separation or divorce. Similarly, there are the same number of reasons for immediate divorce. Why didn’t she rid herself of the man if he was proving such a disappointment and making her morose and isolated in this manner?’
‘I say again,’ Éimhin intervened, ‘I am sure he bullied her to the point of making her afraid of him.’
‘So that was why she stayed.’
‘Who knows what was in her mind! She was not a young woman and had never been married before, having stayed at home to look after her father when he was widowed. She only had his example to guide her in dealings with men.’
‘Did Spelán ever express any religious thoughts?’ Eadulf suddenly asked. ‘Any views either of the Faith or, indeed, of the old ways and beliefs.’
Éimhín and Torcán stared at him curiously.
‘Spelán?’ Torcán snorted. ‘His only faith was in the juice of the barley. That’s a strange question to ask, Brother Eadulf.’
‘I doubt that he had any interest in such matters, Brother Eadulf,’ Éimhin said more respectfully. ‘Spelán had no faith save in what he could lay his hands on.’
‘In that case, you have given us a sad picture of a couple with no friends,’ Fidelma observed. ‘A stranger, without means or profession, who arrived in this territory and probably tricked a decent woman into taking him in because she desperately needed a bit of kindness and support.’
‘A fair assessment,’ Torcán nodded. ‘But with the addition that he was a drunk who, by all accounts, beat his wife, exploited her by stealing what few possessions she had, and was not beyond engaging in anything illegal to make money.’
Fidelma regarded him with interest. ‘In what way? Was it robbery?’
Torcán chuckled dryly. ‘I can believe many things about him, but Spelán had no appetite for anything that might lead him to confrontation. As I said before, the man was a coward. He was more likely to be a sneak thief – the sort to steal a sheep in the dead of night when no one was about.’
Éimhín suddenly rose, pointing to the sky through the entwined branches of the surrounding trees. ‘It is well beyond the sun’s zenith, so we are approaching the third cadar of the day. We would take it as an honour if you would accept our hospitality. Our meal is frugal, a stew of rabbit and the vegetables offered by the forest.’
Eadulf had followed the woman’s pointing hand, and now stared upwards through the forest canopy. Even if it had not obscured the sky, he knew the dark clouds of late autumn made it almost impossible to see the sun’s position.
Torcán saw his confusion and chuckled. ‘When you are born and live within the great forests, my friend, you have an instinctive communion with nature and the elements. You know the position of the sun, the moon and the great stars without having to actually see them. You know by the shadows, the soft winds, the rising or lowering of temperature. That is essential to our way of life.’
‘My companions and I will be delighted to join you,’ Fidelma acknowledged to the waiting woman.
When Éimhín and her husband had moved off to make preparations, Eadulf turned to say: ‘I know these rules of hospitality,’ he spoke softly, so as not to offend their hosts, ‘but may I remind you that the day grows old. By the time we have eaten and taken our leave, there will just be enough time to get back to Cashel, let alone carry on with our investigation. I thought that we were to go to this Abbey of Ráth Cuáin?’
‘You are right, Eadulf,’ she replied solemnly. ‘However, these kind folk are the only ones who have so far been able to give us good information. We may need their help and goodwill again. We will not insult their hospitality, so let us visit Ráth Cuáin tomorrow. After we have seen the abbot, there will still be time to resolve the matter before the Samhain feast. When we leave here, we shall return to Cashel.’
SEVEN
The sky was darkening and there was a chill in the air as they rode up to the gates of Colgú’s fortress. The reassuring figure of Gormán, commander of the King’s bodyguard, stood by the gates, waiting to welcome them.
‘Brother Conchobhar wanted to see you as soon as you came back, lady,’ he announced as the three travellers swung off their horses and the stable lads came forward to take them.
‘Thank you, Gormán,’ Fidelma said. ‘We may as well go to him immediately.’
She and Eadulf passed across the courtyard and went around the side of the chapel to Brother Conchobhar’s apothecary. As always, they found themselves halting a moment on the threshold before entering, in order to adjust to the pungent aromas of the herbs and spices that assailed their nostrils in the first tiny room. It was here the old man mixed and sold his potions. Beyond were the living quarters, then a storeroom and the area where the old apothecary examined corpses – if there were questions to be answered about uncertain causes of death – before the bodies were washed and dressed for burial.
‘So you have returned with more questions about the burial of the murdered man?’ Brother Conchobhar’s querulous voice came from the back room. ‘I told you …’ Then he entered, recognised them and smiled apologetically.
‘Who were you expecting, to sound so irritated?’ Fidelma greeted him. ‘Not us, surely?’
Brother Conchobhar shook his head. ‘One of the members of that silly little council of scholars has been in here asking questions about the body you discovered. He was demanding that it be handed to the religious and ritually purged of all pagan contamination so that it could be interred in the proper place and not affront the souls of the righteous.’
Fidelma’s eyes widened. ‘Who was he?’
‘Someone from Ros Ailithir, I think.’ Brother Conchobhar sniffed in disgust. ‘I am not familiar with him. However, from my brief encounter I have learned that he is an impatient man with a foul temper.’
‘A fanatic to be avoided then,’ Fidelma sighed. ‘But what was it that you wan
ted to see us about?’
‘I have been examining the corpse. Most things are obvious and I am sure friend Eadulf will have alerted you to them … so far as it goes.’
‘What do you mean – so far as it goes?’ Eadulf frowned.
‘We know that the body was not that of a religieux. The head had been shaven and a robe put on the fellow just to make it seem so. A clumsy disguise.’
Fidelma told him: ‘We have spent the day finding out who he was, and we have discovered how and where he was killed.’
‘So you are aware that the man was still alive when he was tied hand and foot?’ queried Brother Cochobhar. ‘The binding marks on the wrist and ankles told me that he struggled, and the fashion of the binding revealed that he was tied face downwards.’
‘Face downwards?’ This fact surprised Fidelma as she could not think how the apothecary could have discerned this new fact.
‘When I removed his robe to examine the body, I found that something had been carved on his skin whilst he was still alive. It could only be done when the body was face downwards. Would you like to see it?’
Fidelma and Eadulf allowed themselves to be led to the chamber where the corpse of Spelán lay on a long trestle table, covered with a linen shroud. Brother Conchobhar removed it and then, asking Eadulf to help, he turned the body over on its face to expose the back. Marks had been incised on the soft flesh of the buttocks, no doubt with the point of a sharp knife or graif – a metal stylus used for writing on wax tablets. Fidelma regarded the marks with some surprise. It was Eadulf who made the first attempt at recognition.
‘That looks like the Chi-Rho symbol of the New Faith,’ he said, for the Greek letters, looking like X and P, when placed on one another, stood for the first letters of the Greek name ‘Christos’.
Brother Conchobhar shook his head in disagreement. ‘Almost, friend Eadulf. But this symbol goes back further than the use of the Chi-Rho. It is what we call a staurograme. Similar to the Chi-Rho, it is composed of two Greek letters – the P is superimposed on the T. The latter is tau and P is rho. Ephrem of Syria once explained it to his followers, saying that it signified the term Tau-Rho: “the Cross saves”. It was used in the early years, when followers of the New Faith needed a secret sign to identify themselves.’
Night of the Lightbringer Page 10
