She saw that there were candle-holders in the sepulchre and in curiosity she went to examine them. The grease was not cold although it was not pliable. The candles had certainly been in use and quite recently.
In one corner she suddenly realised that there was a pile of clothes. She went to examine them and also found a bundle of blankets, as if someone was sleeping in the vault. There was also a pitcher of water and a bowl of fruit. On one of the beds her eye caught a piece of vellum.
It took a moment for her to find the missing items from her marsupium: Dacán’s draft letter to his brother; the burnt Ogham stick and some other items from the library which related to the family of Illan. They were just lying as if discarded.
She smiled grimly.
At last everything was coming together; all the little items of information were beginning to fit and form a pattern. It was a pity that Cass was not here to appreciate the fulfilment of her exhortation to make sure all the fragments were gathered and stored until such time as a pattern emerged.
A noise above her made her start.
Someone was at the High Altar in the church above. They were standing by the open tomb.
She realised that her way back up into the church was now blocked off if she wished to avoid discovery. Whoever it was, they were beginning to descend the stairs into the tomb. She moved quickly towards the sarcophagus, thinking to conceal herself.
Now she could hear voices above her.
‘Look at this,’ she heard a familiar voice say. ‘I thought that I had told you to close the slab when we left?’
A younger voice, she recognised it as Cétach’s, answered: ‘I thought I had, brother. I was sure I had not left it as wide open as this.’
‘No matter. Go down. I shall come and let you out at the usual time. But be absolutely quiet tomorrow for the court will be meeting above you. Not a sound. Remember, you nearly gave the game away during the service last week. One cry and they will find the way down to you. If they do then we shall all rue the day.’
Another child’s voice began to sniffle in protest.
The voice of Cétach admonished the whining one, who was surely Cosrach.
‘It will not be for long,’ Fidelma heard the first voice say in a more cajoling tone. ‘Father and I will be able to get you away from this place within the next day or so.’
‘Will Father be coming with us?’ asked Cétach’s voice.
‘Yes. We will soon all be home in Osraige.’
Fidelma moved behind the sarcophagus as she heard soft steps begin to descend into the vault. It was pointless confronting the sons of Illan at this time. There were some final links to be put into place before the mystery was completely resolved.
Behind the sarcophagus she was surprised to see a dark opening and instead of dousing her candle, as she had been poised to do, she moved into the darkness. It was a passageway which twisted and turned a few times until it came to a flight of stone steps. They led sharply upwards.
Curiosity led her up until the steps ended about four feet from a rocky ceiling. She thought for a moment that she had come to a dead end but she became aware of a small aperture, two feet in width and three feet high. A faint flickering light came through it. This time she did douse her candle and she saw a pale moonlight. Carefully she leaned through the aperture.
She caught her breath in surprise as she observed what was beyond it.
She was leaning out into a circular well some ten feet below its opening to the sky. She turned her head and saw nearby, in the gloomy light, iron rungs running close by the aperture; close enough for her to reach out and swing herself up onto them. In a few minutes she was clambering over the lip of the well up into the moonlit herb garden behind the back of the abbey’s church.
She sat for a moment or two on the edge of the well’s circular stone wall, smiling with a genuine satisfaction.
She had all the main pieces now. It was a question of sorting them and fitting them into place.
Time enough to reveal the tangled skein at the assembly in the morning.
Chapter Nineteen
The abbey church itself had been turned into the Dál, or court, for the purpose of the High King’s great assembly. The building was bursting with people, both religious and others, who spilled through the doors. The occasion was regarded as momentous, for never in the memory of the people had a High King held an assembly outside his personal territory of royal Meath. On a specially constructed dais before the High Altar sat the Chief Brehon of the five kingdoms of Éireann. He was the one person who was so influential that even the High King was not allowed to speak at the great assemblies until he had spoken. Fidelma had never seen Barrán before and she tried to gauge his personality in spite of his ceremonial robes of office which disguised his features. All she could make out were bright, unblinking eyes, a stern, thin-lipped mouth and a prominent nose. He could have been any age at all.
Next to him on the dais, at his left hand, sat his personal ollamh, a learned advocate to consult with him on matters of law, then sat a scriptor and an assistant to keep the record. On the Chief Brehon’s right hand sat the High King himself – Sechnassach, lord of Meath and High King of Ireland. He was a thin man, in his mid-thirties, with scowling features and dark hair. Fidelma knew from her own experience at Tara that Sechnassach was not the stern, authoritarian ruler that he appeared to be. He was a thoughtful man, possessed of a dry sense of humour. She wondered whether he would recall that without her aid, in solving the mystery of the theft of the High King’s ceremonial sword, Sechnassach might never have sat on the throne. Then she felt guilty for allowing such a thought to come to her mind as if some personal bias would influence the High King in her favour.
Next to the High King sat Ultan, Archbishop of Armagh, Chief Apostle of the Faith of the five kingdoms. He was a dour, elderly man, with white, untidy hair. Fidelma knew that Ultan had the reputation of being supportive to the Roman faction and had often favoured the idea that the ecclesiastical laws should displace the civil laws of the five kingdoms.
Directly in front of this impressive gathering of judges was a small lectern which had been set up in the manner of the cos-na-dála, the tribune from which each dálaigh, or advocate, would plead their case.
On the right-hand side of the High Altar, in the transept, the benches were occupied by the representatives of Laigin with their fiery young king, Fianamail, and his advisors. Fidelma had already picked out the grim, grey-visaged Abbot Noé of Fearna. And she saw that in front, seated next to his king, was the thin, cadaverous Forbassach, who would be presenting the claims of Laigin.
Fidelma’s brother Colgú and his advisors filled the benches in the transept on the left-hand side of the High Altar. Fidelma, as their dálaigh, sat alongside her brother, awaiting her turn to be called before the cos-na-dála to state the case for the kingdom of Cashel.
The rest of the church, along the broad nave, was packed with spectators of every degree and station, filling it with a stuffy, airless atmosphere in spite of the grandeur and sweep of the tall building. Fidelma had noticed several warriors bearing the insignia of the High King; these were his fianna or bodyguard. They were stationed at strategic points around the church and were the only armed warriors allowed at the assembly. The warriors of Colgú and Fianamail were confirmed to quarters outside the abbey walls.
The proceedings opened abruptly with Barrán, the Chief Brehon, rapping on the wooden table before him with his staff of office and calling for silence.
The hubbub of the assembly slowly died away and an expectant quiet emerged.
‘Be it known that there are three ways to destroy wisdom in a court of law,’ intoned the Chief Brehon with the words of the ritual opening. His voice was deep and rich in tone, resounding through the church. His light-coloured eyes glinted as he glared around. ‘The first way is a judge without knowledge, the second way is a pleading without understanding and the third way is a talkative court.’
Arch
bishop Ultan then rose slowly and asked a blessing on the court and its proceedings in his thin, reed-like monotone.
After Ultan had reseated himself, the Chief Brehon called on the advocates of either side to stand and identify themselves. Once they had done so he reminded them of the procedures of the court and of the sixteen signs of bad advocacy. For any one of the sixteen prohibitive aspects, an advocate could be fined one séd, a gold coin which was the value of one milch cow. The fine, Barrán reminded them, would be imposed if the advocates abused each other, incited those attending the court to violence, indulged in self-praise, spoke too harshly, refused to obey the orders of the court or shifted the grounds of their pleas without reason. Having accepted that they understood, Barrán indicated that the hearing could begin.
‘Remember that there are three doors through which the truth may be recognised in this court: a patient counter-pleading; a firm case; and reliance on witnesses,’ Barrán gave the ritual warning to the advocates.
Forbassach moved forward to the cos-na-dála, for as Laigin was demanding compensation for a death, it was his right to present the arguments first. He did so simply and without theatrics, merely stating that the Venerable Dacán, a man of Laigin, had been given hospitality by the king of Muman, in that he had been allowed into the kingdom to both study and teach at the abbey of Ros Ailithir. It was the abbot’s immediate responsibility to provide for the safety of those he took into his house.
Nonetheless, Dacan had been murdered in a most horrible fashion at Ros Ailithir. No murderer had been found and so the responsibility lay with the abbot and ultimately with the king of Muman. The king was responsible for the safety of Dacán firstly because he had been welcomed into the kingdom and secondly because the abbot was a kinsman and the king was head of his family and responsible for all fines made against that family. That was the law. And that law was specific in terms of culpability. For every death the fine was seven cumals, the worth of twenty-one milch cows. That was the basic fine. But what of Dacán’s honour price? He was a cousin to the king of Laigin. He was a man of the Faith, whose benevolence and scholarship were known throughout the five kingdoms of Éireann.
When, several centuries before, the High King, Edirsceal of Muman, had been assassinated, the Chief Brehon and his assembly had determined that the honour price of Edirsceal was such that they ordered that the kingdom of Osraige should be handed over to Muman. Now Laigin demanded that Osraige should be handed back to them as the honour price for Dacán.
Fidelma sat through Forbassach’s plea with bowed head. There was nothing new in his statement and he had delivered it in a moderate, unemotional and clear fashion which the court could follow with ease.
With a glance of complacent satisfaction in Fidelma’s direction, Forbassach returned to his seat. Fidelma saw the young king, Fianamail, leaning forward and smilingly patting his advocate on the shoulder in approval.
‘Fidelma of Kildare,’ Barrán turned to the Muman benches, ‘will you now plead for Muman?’
‘No,’ she said in a clear voice, causing a ripple of astonishment from the court. ‘I am here to plead for truth.’
There was an angry murmuring, especially from the Laigin benches, as Fidelma rose and made her way to the tribune before the Chief Brehon. Barrán was frowning in annoyance at her dramatic opening.
‘I trust that you do not imply that we have heard wilful lies before this court?’ There was a dangerous coldness in his voice.
‘No,’ replied Fidelma calmly. ‘Nor have we heard the whole truth but only so small an amount that no judgment can be safely made upon its evidence.’
‘What is the substance of your counter-plea?’
‘It is of two elements, Barrán. Firstly, that the Venerable Dacan was not honest about his activities when he came to Muman. That lack of honesty exonerates both the king and the abbot from their responsibilities under the law of hospitality.’
There was a gasp of indignation from the Laigin benches and she could see, from the corner of her eye, that the Abbot Noé was leaning forward in his seat, white-faced in scarcely controlled anger as he stared at her.
‘Secondly,’ went on Fidelma unperturbed, ‘that if the identity of Dacán’s murderer was revealed, and it was found that the murderer was not of the family of the king of Cashel, nor holding allegiance to him, then the advocate of Laigin would have no claim to make against Cashel. That is the substance of my plea.’
Forbassach had stood up.
‘I challenge this plea. The first argument is an insult to a compassionate and pious scholar. It accuses a devout man, now unable to defend himself, of lying. The second argument is mere contention and not supported by evidence.’
Barrán’s expression was serious.
‘You are experienced in the ways of the courts, Sister Fidelma. Therefore I would presume that you do not make these statements without some substantiation?’
‘I do not. But I will ask your indulgence as this is a long and complicated story and I will need a little time to unravel it to the court.’
She paused, her expression asking a question of the Chief Brehon. Barrán indicated that she should continue.
‘When I was asked to investigate the death of Dacan by my brother, Colgú, I did not realise what a long, tortuous path I had to tread. Not only had Dacan been killed but many others had to perish before I neared the end of that path. Cass, of the king of Cashel’s bodyguard, sent by my brother as my companion in this quest; Sister Eisten; many other religious of the house of Molua; and twenty innocent little children. And there were others at Rae na Scríne who have not been accounted.’
Forbassach was on his feet, protesting once again.
‘We are here to speak of the murder of Dacán and no others,’ he angrily pointed out. ‘To raise the matter of other deaths is merely some screen by which Fidelma is attempting to obscure Laigin’s case.’
Barrán frowned at Laigin’s advocate.
‘You will reseat yourself, Forbassach, and with a warning. Did I not recite the sixteen signs of bad advocacy? Wait until the dálaigh of Cashel has made her submission and then argue your case. I must point out that she did not interrupt your plea once.’
Forbassach slumped back with annoyance on his features.
‘I will continue,’ Fidelma went on quietly. ‘Truly, this was a complex affair. It has its roots centuries ago in the conflict over the kingdom of Osraige. During the last centuries Laigin have argued many times that Osraige should be returned to its jurisdiction and each time, at their assemblies, the Brehons of the five kingdoms have upheld the initial decision to cede it to Muman.
‘At the same time, for the last two hundred years, the people of Osraige have been ruled by kings from the Corco Loígde. This was because the Blessed Ciaran of Saighir, the son of an Osraige father and a mother from the Corco Loígde, imposed his own family as kings there after he had begun to convert the people of Osraige to the Faith. Since then the descendants of the native chieftains have lived under this injustice. Several Osraige kings from the Corco Loígde have been slain in quarrels in that troubled land.
‘It is obvious that Laigin, whose admitted ambition all these years has been to have Osraige returned to it, have watched and perhaps even encouraged the unrest there.’
There was a chorus of angry shouts from the benches on which Laigin’s representatives sat. Many even stood up and shook their fists at Fidelma.
The Chief Brehon rapped his staff upon the table for order.
Forbassach had sprung to his feet again but Barrán turned and stared at him in such a way that he sank back without speaking.
‘I must warn the representatives of Laigin that it will do their case little good to demonstrate in such a manner.’ He turned, his eyes glinting, to Fidelma. ‘And must I remind you, Sister Fidelma, that a fine of one séd is payable if an advocate incites a court to violence?’
Fidelma bowed her head.
‘I am contrite, Barrán. I had not thought my
words would provoke anger nor, in fact, did I think that they would be contested. What I have said is simply a matter of common knowledge.’
At this point the High King leant towards his Chief Brehon and whispered something. The Chief Brehon nodded swiftly and instructed Fidelma to continue her plea.
‘The struggle for the kingship of Osraige developed last year into a struggle between Scandlán, the cousin of Salbach of the Corco Loígde, and Illan, a descendant of the line of native kings. Illan was killed by Scandlán over a year ago.’
There was a sound of disturbance, this time from the benches of Muman. A stocky, florid-faced man had risen with anger on his features. He had a mass of sandy hair and a bushy beard, standing like a bear at bay.
‘I demand to speak!’ he cried. ‘I am Scandlán, king of Osraige.’
‘Sit down!’ The Chief Brehon’s heavy bass voice quelled the whispering that was echoing through the church. ‘As king you surely know the rules of procedure of this assembly?’
‘My name is being sullied!’ protested the muscular chieftain. ‘Do I not have a chance to answer my accuser?’
‘There is no accusation at the moment,’ Fidelma said. ‘What then is in error?’
The High King was again whispering to the Chief Brehon. Fidelma saw a smile hovering on the High King’s lips.
‘Very well,’ agreed the Chief Brehon. ‘There is one question that I will ask of Scandlán now. King of Osraige, did you kill Illan?’
‘Of course I did,’ snapped the sandy-haired man. ‘It is my right as king to protect myself and Illan was in insurrection against me and …’
Suffer Little Children Page 28