The chamber is silent. I feel my cheeks flush; I can’t look at Dau, though I want to. That this would be his first statement astonishes me. It humbles me. I turn my gaze down to the floor.
“My brother has been under this woman’s influence since long before she blinded him and called it an accident.” Seanan has his voice under control, but he’s riled by Dau’s words, there’s no doubt of that. “Every action he takes, every choice he makes is hers. It’s a weak man indeed who lets a woman rule him. That’s not going to change now he has his sight back. He sees only what she wants him to see.”
“Master Seanan.” Father Eláir speaks with quiet authority. “Please, no interruptions. You will be given your opportunity to respond. Master Dau, continue.”
“Later, I will wish to question Seanan’s man, Ultán, about his role in what occurred, and what orders he was directed to carry out. He may also wish to provide information about that outhouse with its squalid contents. We have not spoken much of that. But it seems to me strongly indicative of my brother’s violent and erratic tendencies.” Dau waits a little; it’s a studied pause. “I understand we have a record of statements from the other men who went to that place yesterday under Master Seanan’s leadership. Am I right in thinking those men will not appear for questioning in this hearing?”
I didn’t know this. If Dau’s been told, then Seanan must have been advised, too. Perhaps he didn’t understand what it might mean. He looks mightily displeased. “Correct,” says the prior. “I consulted Lord Scannal and was granted permission to obtain their evidence in that way, with each man questioned separately. Ultán’s case is different, as he is more directly implicated in Master Dau’s account of what happened. We have a written record of the statements, which can be read out later. Meanwhile, the men will remain in custody.”
I see Seanan open his mouth then close it again; seems he understands the wisdom of keeping things as simple as possible. But I understand something more: that if those men were questioned in here, with him watching on, they would say exactly what he wanted them to say. He has them well trained to obey.
Dau goes on. “I will mention, in passing, that the outhouse contained a significant stock of herbs and other components such as are kept in the stillroom of my father’s house, along with equipment for brewing drafts of one kind or another. Also many tools, which might be used for a variety of purposes. The condition of the creatures my brother held caged there made it absolutely clear that those tools had been used as instruments of torture. When Liobhan speaks, she can tell you more of this. Master Beanón and Brother Máedóc have seen that place. We left it more or less as it was. There were two more of the creatures there, in a sad condition but possibly still able to survive. We did not wish to leave them in the cages, so they were set free.”
“To fly out and wreak havoc on local farms and villages.” Seanan interrupts again. “Have you not heard of these creatures before, brother? You use such words as cruel and vile against me, your own kin. These things are pure evil! They are spawn of the devil, rending and tearing and menacing man and beast alike—”
Brother Máedóc lays a hand on Seanan’s arm. Seanan jerks away, then collects himself and falls silent.
“We know of them, yes.” Dau is calm. “No creature, however fierce and wild, deserves a lingering and painful death such as these endured. That is all I need say concerning the Crow Folk. To return to the matter of stillroom material found in the outhouse: one of the items was a fungus known as devil’s-foot. I’m advised that this is a particularly dangerous substance when ingested, though it is also highly effective in sleeping drafts. On the night after her abduction, Liobhan was forcibly dosed with a draft she believes contained a significant amount of devil’s-foot. She fought against it, but was obliged to swallow or die. The following day, after the fight, we used a similar mixture, with a far smaller amount of the fungus in it, to render our prisoners immobile while we made our way back to Lord Scannal’s house and fetched the help we desperately needed. I regret that this was necessary.”
Regret? Hardly. But the lie is smoothly told. I suppose he’s explaining this now so he can’t later be accused of trying to withhold the information.
“I remind you all that when Master Seanan and his five men-at-arms ambushed and attacked us, our own group consisted of a blind man, a woman who had endured a night of torture, a kitchen boy just fourteen years old, and a stable hand. Had not Master Brocc and Master Elouan happened to be passing, we would all have been killed. As it is, Corb lost his life. His death weighs heavily on me, as it should on Master Seanan and indeed on Lord Scannal.” For just a moment, he turns to meet his father’s eye. I see something pass over Lord Scannal’s features—a shadow, a memory.
“Corb came to Lord Scannal’s house to work in the kitchens, in order to assist his family on their nearby smallholding. Perhaps he told them, with pride, how he had been given the duty of helping look after the blind son of the household. Perhaps he said how hard it was at first, with no training and nobody to ask for help, and a patient who went crazy with pain. I hope he had the chance to tell them how he grew to perform the job with grace and strength and patience. How he proved what a fine young man he was. How he repaid my shortness of temper, my impatience, my frustration, with kindness and consideration. That such promise was lost to a pointless act of violence sickens me. It fills me with sorrow. That attack took place under Master Seanan’s direction. Yes, I was blind then. But I did not need to see Corb fall on the field to know what had been squandered there. Something precious. Something irreplaceable. A fine young life. A son. A brother. A comrade. Lost, not for a fine and noble cause, but to satisfy one man’s desire to watch others suffer. His will to dominate. His drive to quash all who would challenge him. There must be no more of it. It is time for my brother to pay the price for what he has done.” Dau inclines his head toward the prior and Lord Scannal, a gesture of respect, then sits down.
“If I may,” says Beanón before anyone else can speak, “I will suggest that we call our witnesses to testify briefly now rather than wait until Master Seanan has spoken. If Brother Máedóc and Master Seanan have questions, they might address them to the witnesses as we go along. I believe that will be more efficient.”
“Brother Máedóc?” asks the prior.
Máedóc and Seanan hold a murmured consultation that goes on for some time. Eventually the lawman straightens up and says, “We have no objection, Father.” Perhaps he thinks Seanan needs a little longer to compose himself.
“Thank you,” says Beanón smoothly. “Mistress Liobhan, will you step forward?”
I’m glad of the gray dress, the tidy plait, the shawl. But I can’t help walking like a warrior, shoulders square, head high, and no doubt the light of battle in my eyes. I move to stand in that empty space between the tables, unsure of which way to face, since inevitably I will have my back to someone. I do what seems most appropriate—I drop a small curtsy to Lord Scannal and the prior, then turn so I’m looking at Beanón and Dau, but on an angle so I can still see Seanan out of the corner of my eye. I don’t trust the man an inch.
“Shall I speak now, Master Beanón?”
“Please do. A brief version of events, starting when you were in the garden with the dog. Wherever you can verify the information that Master Dau has provided, please do so. We are particularly interested in hearing your account of those times when Master Dau and other members of his group were not present. I know this may be hard for you. Please take your time.”
It is hard. But I’ve been well trained and I get through it. I can’t tell them anything about how I was abducted, because I can’t remember that part at all. I start from when I came to in the outhouse, in the dark. I tell about the torture, the branding, the draft forced down my throat. I draw their attention to the bruising on my face. I roll up my sleeve, strip off Miach’s neat dressing, and show them the mark on my arm. I explain about
the wire door to the cage and how if I had fainted or lost consciousness for a moment, the thing would have fallen open and let the desperate birds out. I can’t tell them about the tiny messenger who flew in to help me. And nobody would believe I managed to stay awake all night after being drugged with devil’s-foot. Besides, Master Beanón has already said I was unconscious on the floor when Torcan found me. But I’ve had time to prepare a lie. “I was there for hours. The birds were pecking at the mesh, trying to escape. They broke some of the wires, and there were sharp ends sticking out. I rubbed my wrist bonds against those until the cloth came apart. But I couldn’t undo the gag or the leg ropes—I was near fainting from the devil’s-foot draft by then. I passed out as soon as I hit the floor. I knew nothing more until my rescuers brought me back to consciousness.”
“An unlikely story,” says Seanan, turning a particular look on me, the one that’s intended to make folk quake in their shoes. I stare right back at him. I will not let that man scare me.
I go straight on, filling in more detail about what was in the wretched outhouse, including the stillroom supplies and equipment, dropping in a comment about the meticulous record-keeping that is now done by the monks with regard to the removal of such materials from their place of work. I back up Dau’s account of the fight and its aftermath, adding things I saw that he couldn’t. I name Ultán as the man who killed Corb. I name him as the man who held me while Seanan poured that stuff down my throat. I name him as the man who restrained me when Seanan brandished his knife before my eyes. “But it was Master Seanan who ordered these things done,” I say. “It was plain to me at every point that he was the one giving the orders. He stood back from the fight until that moment when he taunted his brother and held his knife up to my face.”
“Amusing,” says Seanan. “You speak with disgust of a draft administered to you, yet you seem to have no trouble with a similar potion administered by your party to mine, of sufficient strength to render us unconscious for the best part of the day and leave us with splitting headaches. That is a curious way to look at guilt and innocence.”
“I am confident in my ability to judge quantities accurately and wisely, Master Seanan. If you doubt that, you might ask Brother Petrán for his opinion. Your skill in that area is less reliable, I fear. Were I not a person of robust build I could have died from the dose you gave me. I saw the condition of your captives in that place. I saw the decaying corpses left in cages still holding the living. I saw the wounds inflicted on them, the horrific burns. I deduce that your judgment is as flawed as your apothecary skills. I wonder at your choice of the family emblem as the brand you set upon your victims, myself included. Do you care so little for your position as Lord Scannal’s heir that you are prepared to spread that proof of your crimes abroad for all to see? But then, you weren’t planning to set me free after I’d had my punishment, were you? If Dau hadn’t come to rescue me, I’d have been finished off and dumped in a hole somewhere.”
“Keep to the facts, if you will, Mistress Liobhan.” Brother Máedóc is courtesy itself.
“My apologies, Brother Máedóc. I don’t have much more to tell. We found ourselves fighting for our lives. Dau fell heavily at one point; he told us later that his sight began to return at that moment. We were saved by the intervention of Master Brocc and Master Elouan, but it was too late for Corb. I prepared the draft for our prisoners while the men bound them. The draft was necessary so we could safely leave that place to seek help. Master Elouan had to move on. The rest of us made our way back to the gates, and the rest you know.”
“It is a strange story,” comments Brother Máedóc.
“Passing strange,” says Father Eláir. “Like something from an ancient tale of heroes and monsters.”
I decide to let this interesting remark rest in the silence that follows. It’s clear to me who the monster is in this story.
“Anything further, Mistress Liobhan?”
“I believe I’m finished, Father Eláir.”
Seanan has questions. Of course he does. He rattles them off at me, probing for anything he can think of that might paint me as unreliable. First it’s the drafts, not only the one we made him take, but every remedy I’ve prepared for Dau, every component I’ve taken from the stillroom. He brings Miach into it and she answers with remarkable poise, perhaps secure in the knowledge that she has adhered scrupulously to Brother Petrán’s rules. He goads me with salacious suggestions about my relationship with Dau. He doesn’t know I’ve endured hours of training for this kind of interrogation. Not that I enjoy it. But I stand tall, speak calmly, make sure I maintain concentration. I stick to facts, except when a lie is essential. When I think the question is irrelevant, I ask Master Beanón to rule on whether I should answer. What’s obvious but cannot be said aloud is that the whole performance has one purpose only: to make Dau lose his composure, to turn him into the crazy, frustrated individual he was at the peak of his illness, a poor soul who shouted and screamed and struck out at those who would help him. A man who would have leaped off a cliff or cut his own throat, if I had not extracted a promise that he would live. I breathe. I stay strong. And so does Dau.
It goes on awhile. It goes on too long, and eventually Father Eláir puts a stop to it and calls Torcan to make a statement. Torcan is nervous, but he does well, backing up my version of events and Dau’s. Father Eláir calls Brocc.
My brother strolls to the open area, the borrowed cloak flipped artfully back over one shoulder. His dark curls are glossy, his eyes bright. He looks less like the man who charged in to fight for us yesterday and more like the musician whose voice has charmed even a queen of the Fair Folk and whose deft fingers can draw magic from the harp. He’s both, of course; warrior and bard.
“Master Brocc,” says Father Eláir. “We are grateful that you could stay to assist us. Please give us your account of yesterday’s events.”
“We had been walking since early morning, my companion and I.” Brocc cannot give testimony without making it sound like a story. “Master Elouan is a musician, skilled on the Armorican small-pipes. He was heading for a family wedding; his talent as an entertainer is no doubt highly valued at such events. I am a storyteller. As you may imagine, we had a great deal in common. We met at a wayside inn and walked on together.”
His voice is so beguiling, his manner so engaging that nobody tells him to hurry up and get on with it. I’m back in my seat beside Miach. Despite my churning gut I’m enjoying every word.
“After a peaceful start to the day, we emerged from a tract of forest and saw before us a fierce and most uneven skirmish. It seemed that a body of well-armed men had set upon a group of innocent travelers, among them a woman and a young lad. The woman—Mistress Liobhan here—screamed, ‘Help!’ Then I saw this man”—he indicates Seanan with a dip of the head—“take out a knife and hold it to Mistress Liobhan’s face, while the largest of his underlings held her pinned against him. Truth to tell, I had no idea if Master Elouan was a fighter. But most of us who travel the roads alone know how to defend ourselves. And I would not stand back and see a woman hurt if I could help her. The two of us ran forward and entered the fray. Events then proceeded as both Master Dau and Mistress Liobhan have told you. We defeated the attackers. We subdued Master Seanan’s group without employing our knives. We helped to bind them. Later we assisted with administering the sleeping draft. And I helped release the captive birds. I have some knowledge of such creatures and was able to let them go without anyone being hurt.” He falls silent.
“Have you more to add, Master Brocc?” asks Father Eláir after a few moments.
“For now, no,” Brocc says. “Master Dau’s account of what happened after that was perfectly accurate. Master Elouan went on his way. We returned to Lord Scannal’s house. Master Dau sought out various people to advise them of what had occurred. I was offered excellent hospitality, thanks to Master Iarla and his assistants. And here we are.”
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br /> “Any questions, Brother Máedóc? Master Beanón?”
Beanón has none. I’m wondering if Seanan will mention Master Elouan’s unusual appearance. But Brother Máedóc, after a quick consultation, also says he has no questions. At this point I don’t see how Seanan can make a plausible argument in his own defense. But he will, no doubt. I glance at Lord Scannal, who hasn’t said a word since this began. No questions. No comments. Does he think it’s all a pack of lies, even after Brocc’s account? Or is he trying and failing to make the unsavory pieces of this puzzle fit together? His favorite son a murderer, a torturer, a liar. If he accepts that, he must accept that he has wronged Dau grievously. Lord Scannal’s a chieftain. Someone folk look up to. Someone they trust. Yes, he’s been weakened by the poison Seanan’s been feeding him. Not only the sleeping draft, but also the lies whispered in his ears, day after day, year after year, since Dau was a child. But much of the household remains loyal to its chieftain, I think. There are many honest faces around me. It seems to me there is a turning of the tide in this household, driven by Dau’s courage and the enormity of Seanan’s actions. But we haven’t heard Seanan’s statement yet. And the only person he has to convince is his father.
Behind me, one of the brethren is seized by a violent fit of coughing. I half rise, turning to see if I should offer help, but the man’s all right, Brother Martán is murmuring to him and someone is offering water in a cup. I turn back, making my expression calm. That’s not easy, because in that moment I spotted a monk sitting in the shadows at the back of the room, behind the benches. A tall, handsome monk with tonsured red hair. Brother Íobhar is here. He must have slipped in after the proceedings began, and done so very quietly. I may be the only one who knows he’s among us. My heart is thumping hard now.
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