The Dove of Death sf-20

by Peter Tremayne

  Bleidbara, at a quick trot, swung his group of riders around the mob — who started to yowl with derision when they saw them. The warriors dismounted swiftly, one grabbing the horses and leading them to a secure place at a rail by the side of the chapel before rejoining his companions. They reinforced the line of stoic men facing the crowd. Bleidbara led Trifina, Fidelma and Eadulf behind to where an anxious Brother Metellus was standing.

  ‘There will be no reasoning with this crowd much longer,’ the Brother said.

  ‘Tell us the story as quickly as you can,’ Fidelma said. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Macliau came running into the community. He was in a bad condition — bleeding from some wounds, his clothes dishevelled. On his heels came some of these people.’ He jerked his head towards the mob. ‘They wanted to kill him. They accused him of being a murderer and thief, saying he is the leader of raiders who have been attacking their settlements for the last week. Macliau demanded sanctuary in our chapel and I took the decision to give it to him, now that the Abbot no longer lives.’

  ‘Where is my brother?’ Trifina demanded.

  ‘In the chapel behind us,’ replied Brother Metellus.

  Without another word, Trifina turned and went inside.

  Fidelma frowned as she surveyed the angry crowd.

  ‘From half a dozen men, over the last few hours, the mob has grown,’ Brother Metellus told her. ‘Any moment, they will have gathered enough courage to brush us aside.’

  ‘I am told someone called Barbatil leads this crowd. Who is he?’

  Brother Metellus cast an eye towards the front of the mob.

  ‘That man there.’ He pointed to a middle-aged, stocky and muscular-looking man, with greying hair. He was weather-beaten, though his cheeks showed a ruddy complexion. His garb and appearance clearly revealed him to be a farmer.

  ‘I need you to come with me as interpreter,’ said Fidelma. She glanced at Eadulf. ‘Stay here. Only Brother Metellus and I will go forward.’

  Then, without another word, Fidelma went down the few steps to the front of the crowd. Brother Metellus was clearly not happy, but dutifully followed at her shoulder.

  The crowd grew silent and even fell back a little as she came forward with apparent confidence. Fidelma went straight to the man Brother Metellus had pointed out.

  ‘I am told that your name is Barbatil and that you accused Macliau, the son of the mac’htiern of Brilhag, of murder,’ she said without preamble.

  Brother Metellus duly translated this.

  The stocky farmer’s eyes narrowed. There was anger in every fibre of his body.

  ‘I am Barbatil, and I accuse him. We will have vengeance!’

  ‘If your accusation is proved, then you shall have justice,’ replied Fidelma. ‘But this is not the way to secure it.’

  ‘What do foreigners know about the injustices that are happening here?’ replied the farmer. He pointed to Brother Metellus. ‘He is from Rome and God alone knows where you are from!’

  Fidelma advised him that she was a lawyer in her own country of Hibernia and went on: ‘It is the custom among all civilised countries to state your evidence when you accuse somebody.’

  ‘You should know that during the last two weeks, warriors have been raiding our farms and settlements. They sail in a ship bearing the flag of the mac’htiern above it — the flag of our lord of Brilhag, who is supposed to be our protector — not our persecutor!’

  ‘Anyone can raise a flag,’ pointed out Fidelma. ‘Is that your only evidence?’

  The farmer seemed to grow even angrier.

  ‘It is not. The young lord, Macliau,’ he almost spat the name, ‘has a reputation here. No man’s daughter is safe. He takes his pleasures and we have to pay for them.’

  Fidelma remembered Trifina’s estimation of her brother. Then she recalled that Trifina had identified Barbatil as the father of Argantken, Macliau’s companion at the fortress.

  ‘A man’s character as a womaniser does not make him a murderer,’ she replied.

  ‘No woman is safe from his lechery — and even the Church,’ Barbatil gestured towards Brother Metellus, ‘does not chide him for his debauchery — just because he is the son of the mac’htiern whose flag now inspires terror throughout this peninsula.’

  ‘You say that men bearing the emblem of Brilhag made these raids. Did you ever go to demand an explanation from Brilhag?’

  ‘At first we did,’ blustered Barbatil. ‘We saw the lady Trifina. She spoke in the absence of her father, Lord Canao. Macliau was not there. She claimed that no warriors of Brilhag were involved. She promised that she would take up our cause and find out who these people were. Nothing has been done.’

  ‘I ask, yet again, where is your evidence that Macliau is responsible?’ Fidelma demanded doggedly.

  ‘Evidence? You ask for evidence?’ Spittle edged the farmer’s mouth. ‘Did not this immoral libertine debauch my own daughter, Argantken! I accuse him of murder in her name!’

  There was an angry murmur when the girl’s name was pronounced.

  ‘If Argantken is accusing him of murder, let her come forward and do so,’ Fidelma said stubbornly.

  The anger of the crowd seemed to increase.

  ‘She cannot!’ replied the farmer, barely keeping his temper. ‘For she was his victim!’

  Fidelma stared at Barbatil for a moment, taking in his words.

  ‘Argantken, your daughter, has been murdered?’

  ‘Have I not said as much?’

  Fidelma’s mind raced for a moment or two and then she faced the man with a softened expression.

  ‘I am sorry for your trouble, my friend. But we must have some facts to work on, to resolve this matter. Rest assured, justice will be yours. But, I say again, it will be justice — and not revenge. Tell me the facts as you know them.’

  The shoulders of the farmer, Barbatil, slumped a little as if there were a heavy weight on them.

  ‘It was not long ago that Macliau turned his lustful attention on my daughter. She is…she was…attractive — the apple of her mother’s eye and of mine too. She was a good daughter until he rode by our farmhouse one morning and coaxed her with honeyed words to ride away with him. She believed his promises of marriage and riches — as if the daughter of a poor farmer could ever become wife to the lord of Brilhag. She was too naïve and too trusting.’

  ‘Go on,’ coaxed Fidelma.

  ‘I pleaded with her to return to the farm, but she would have none of it. She believed that scoundrel’s lies and promises. Yesterday morning, word came to me that Argantken and Macliau had been seen riding along the coast at Kerignard, which is not far from my farm. I decided to make one last attempt to persuade my daughter to come back to her mother’s home. But knowing that Macliau had some warriors with him, I asked some of my neighbours to go with me.’

  ‘How many?’ Fidelma interrupted.

  ‘Two or three of those who are here with me now.’ Barbatil gestured to those around him, who muttered in agreement.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We went to Kerignard. I knew the little ruined oratory where Macliau had camped on other hunting trips. I suspected he would be there.’

  ‘A ruined oratory?’

  ‘It is an old stone oratory along that coast by Kerignard. There are cliffs all along that coast, and on the top of them is the oratory, which was built and deserted many years ago.’

  ‘And was he there?’

  ‘When we arrived we saw no sign of his warriors or huntsmen. I was not even going to look in the oratory until I realised that there was a loose horse wandering behind it. I went to the oratory — there was no door, it had rotted away years before, so the place was open — and the first thing I saw was Macliau, lying on the floor in a drunken stupor.’

  ‘How did you know that he was drunk?’

  ‘The smell of intoxicating liquor was strong. Macliau smelled as if he had just crawled out of a cider vat.’

  ‘So he was lyin
g there drunk. What then?’ continued Fidelma, trying to keep the man calm.

  ‘Beside him on the ground was…was my daughter! Argantken.’ His voice caught. ‘She was dead. There was blood all over the place. A dagger, Macliau’s dagger, was buried in her lifeless form.’

  ‘How do you know it was Macliau’s dagger?’

  ‘Everyone knows the emblem of the lords of Brilhag. It bore the emblem of the dove…the emblem of peace.’

  His voice ended in a cry of almost physical pain. The crowd growled ominously and seemed to surge forward.

  ‘Patience!’ cried Fidelma, through the translation of Brother Metellus. ‘I have promised this man justice but I need answers to more questions.’

  She turned back to Barbatil.

  ‘A few more questions,’ she repeated softly. ‘For your daughter will not rest quietly if the truth remains unknown.’

  ‘What more do you want?’ grunted the farmer, recovering his composure. ‘The evidence explains itself.’

  ‘Having come on this terrible scene, what did you do?’

  ‘One of my neighbours took the dagger from her breast and covered her body.’

  ‘Do you still have the dagger?’

  ‘Coric, do you still have the dagger?’ asked the farmer, turning to one of his companions.

  A small man, whose short stature belied his thick, muscular body, came forward and held up a knife. Fidelma took it: it was exactly the same design as the one she had found in the body of Abbot Maelcar. The same emblem of a dove was engraved on it.

  ‘I will keep this as evidence,’ she said. ‘And then…what of Macliau? What did you do then?’

  The farmer scowled. ‘He was drunk. We tried to rouse him. We hit him across the cheeks, but he was too far gone to respond. So we carried him outside and threw him in a stream. Even then it took us time to make the swine come to and comprehend his surroundings. Finally we told him that we were going to hang him for what he had done.’

  The little man, the one who had been addressed as Coric, spoke for the first time.

  ‘He started weeping like a child, pleading with us for his life, even claiming that he was not responsible and knew nothing of the killing. The lies that poured from his cowardly mouth made us sick.’

  ‘We took Argantken’s body back to my farm,’ continued Barbatil, ‘so that my wife and family could mourn her in the proper manner. And we took Macliau to my pigpen and locked him in. We decided that we would hang him after we had interred my daughter’s body. That was to be midday today.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘We buried my daughter. All these good folks came,’ he encompassed his companions with a motion of his arm. ‘Then we went to the pigpen. We found Macliau had managed to break free. We soon picked up his trail and it led us here. The coward has taken refuge in the chapel but we will drag him out like the animal he is and-’

  ‘You will do no such thing. I have promised you justice and we,’ Fidelma threw an arm towards the religious and the warriors, ‘will not countenance vengeance. Vengeance only breeds more vengeance. Do you know what sanctuary is?’

  Barbatil snorted derisively, replying, ‘Just a cunning means to prevent the guilty from punishment.’

  ‘No, my friend, it is a means to prevent injustice. The Church recognises the right of giving protection to all peoples. Asylum is recognised by all civilised people, and rules and laws are devised to govern it. For a person to qualify for the protection of the Church there are rules, my friend. Rules not only for them to qualify, but rules as to how long that protection may be extended. So I tell you this: I must now hear what the accused has to say in his defence. When the evidence is heard, then — and only then — can a judgement be made.’

  There was a muttering of discontent among the crowd.

  Fidelma continued to speak directly to Barbatil through Brother Metellus.

  ‘You hold the decision, my friend. You lead these people. Your word may stop your friends from pursuing a misguided course. Your word may even stop them squandering their blood needlessly for, make no mistake, the warriors you see before you will defend this right of sanctuary. Not to defend Macliau, but to defend a higher principle — the right of the Church to offer sanctuary. They will sell their lives dearly in this cause. Are you prepared for this unnecessary effusion of blood? Death of many for the pursuit of vengeance? Do you believe your daughter would rest happy in the knowledge that such injustice was carried out in her name?’

  She saw the man wavering and she prayed that Brother Metellus was translating her words with the same eloquence as she was trying to give them.

  ‘Send your friends away, so that they may not die this day. Remain here with me and hear the words of Macliau. Then you may see that I am not merely defending him for the sake of who he is, but rather to search for the truth. Out of this truth, justice will come to you.’

  The farmer stood hesitantly. Then he sighed deeply and turned, handing his weapon to his companion Coric.

  ‘I will go with the foreigner from Hibernia,’ he said slowly. ‘Wait for me here, Coric.’ Then he turned to the rest and raised his voice. ‘Friends, I thank you for what you have done. I am a man who believes in the Church and in the law. And I believe the law is for everyone, not only for our lords. I am going to give this foreign Sister of the Faith a chance to demonstrate that her words are not mere sounds that vanish on the air. I will go with her to see and hear what she intends, and how she will conjure this justice for my family and me. Indeed, justice for all of us who have suffered from the raids of this Dove of Death.’

  ‘What do you want us to do, Barbatil?’ cried a voice from the crowd.

  ‘For the moment, disperse to your homes. Disperse, but hold yourselves ready, for if lies are being told here, then these lies must be met by a force that is born of our truth.’

  There was a muttering among the crowd but then they slowly turned, in ones and twos, and began to remove from the buildings of the abbey, taking their weapons with them.

  Brother Metellus had been sweating in his anxiety and now he almost physically collapsed.

  Bleidbara moved in an aggressive manner towards Barbatil. Fidelma saw what was passing in his mind and spoke sharply.

  ‘Bleidbara, I was not amusing myself with false words. Barbatil is under my protection and will not be harmed, for no one can condemn his actions entirely, given what he has suffered. He will come into the chapel and sit unharmed while we question Macliau. Do I make myself clear?’

  Bleidbara reddened a little and then he bowed his head stiffly.

  ‘You have made yourself clear, lady.’

  Brother Metellus turned to her; the sweat stood out on his forehead and the relief was plain on his features.

  ‘I can only commend your action, for I have never seen a woman stand up to an angry mob and turn their anger to a peaceful solution before. I was afraid for all of us.’

  ‘Yet not so afraid that you were prevented from giving Macliau sanctuary and were prepared to defend your decision with your life,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘From time immemorial the right of protection on a holy spot has been inviolable. Of course I could not contemplate giving in before an armed mob,’ replied Brother Metellus.

  Fidelma glanced to where Coric had gone to sit on a stone wall nearby, still holding the weapons he and Barbatil had brought with them.

  ‘There seem to be some essential witnesses missing,’ she said, after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Essential witnesses?’ queried Bleidbara, puzzled.

  ‘Where are the companions of Macliau? He left Brilhag not only with Argantken but with two huntsmen and two warriors. Where are they?’ She turned to Barbatil. ‘Did you see any sign of the rest of Macliau’s hunting-party when you found him?’

  When Brother Metellus had translated this, the farmer shook his head.

  ‘There was no sign of anyone else but the body of my daughter and her murderer.’

/>   ‘That is a cause of worry,’ Fidelma observed. ‘Bleidbara, I suggest that you send out a couple of your men in search of these lost souls. You can spare them now. It is of concern that they have deserted Macliau.’

  Bleidbara turned to his warriors and relayed the orders to two men, who immediately left on horseback. Meanwhile, Fidelma led her companions into the chapel, leaving the guards and most of the religious outside.

  Macliau was slumped on the floor against the altar. He was in a pitiful condition. The stench of stale drink and the excrement of pigs was nauseous. There was blood on his face and clothing, and he was shivering as if with some ague. Trifina was standing over him and her angry voice faded as they entered.

  Brother Metellus, hearing Fidelma’s sharp intake of breath and the disgust on her face as she viewed Macliau, whispered: ‘We have had no time to cleanse him or give him clean clothes.’

  ‘At least give him a chair to sit on,’ she instructed. ‘By the altar, if he prefers not to leave it,’ she added, for she knew that it was in the area of the altar that most churches placed their zone of sanctuary.

  Trifina had turned as they approached. Her expression was anxious, but Bleidbara quickly told her what Fidelma had done. Fidelma, by unspoken agreement, took total charge of the situation.

  ‘Barbatil shall sit there where he may observe,’ she instructed. ‘Brother Metellus, you will have to act as his interpreter for I shall speak to Macliau in Latin. Before you do so, Brother Metellus, send one of your brethren to bring water for Macliau to drink and a cloth to wipe the blood from his face. Bleidbara, help him into that chair.’

  Someone had already brought a chair for the dishevelled young man and another for Fidelma. She seated herself opposite to him.

  When Macliau, who had remained silent so far, had wiped his face and taken some water, he looked at her with a tearful expression, almost like a little boy lost.

  ‘Why did they have to kill Albiorix, lady?’ The words came out as a sob.

  She stared, not understanding for a moment, and then she remembered his little terrier.