Brother Liag frowned, trying to recall, and then he slowly and reluctantly nodded.
“I seem to recollect that I did so.”
“This was before Tanaí had been caught. It was a short time after the community had heard Una’s last scream, and Tanaí was even then being chased across the gardens. How did you know so soon, all these details?”
Brother Liag stared at her, his face going suddenly pale.
Abbot Ogán exhaled loudly.
“Liag, did you. .?”
He left the question unfinished, for Liag was returning the abbot’s look in horror as a further recollection came to him.
Fidelma’s lips compressed for a moment in satisfaction as she turned to the abbot.
“You told Liag your version in the garden. You were heard to cry that Tanaí was the murderer. Your and Liag’s versions differ so much that one of you was lying.
“The truth, Ogán, was that you were in love with Una, not Liag. When you found that Una was going away with Duarcán, that love turned to hatred. Sometimes what is thought of as love is merely the desire to possess, and thus it and hate become two sides of the same coin. Was it here, in this chapel, that Una told you of her love and her decision to leave the abbey? Did you then strike her down in your jealous rage? Her scream of terror as you struck was heard by Tanaí, who came rushing into the chapel. . too late. He was not running to the abbot for sanctuary, but to tell the abbot what he had seen. You raised the alarm, denouncing Tanaí as the murderer, and the first person you told was Liag. The death of both Una and Tanaí are your responsibility, Ogán.”
The abbot stood, head bowed.
When he spoke it was in a dull, expressionless tone.
“Do you not think that I haven’t wished for this moment over the years? I loved Una. Truly loved her. I was overcome with a mad rage that I instantly regretted. Once Duarcán’s statuette had been placed here, I returned each night to seek her forgiveness. .”
“Your contrition could have been more readily believed had you made this confession twenty years ago. I would place yourself in the hands of Brother Liag; prepare to answer for your crimes.”
Brother Liag was regarding the abbot in disgust.
“Some of us knew that you were secretly flagellating yourself before her statuette. Little did we realize you were merely behaving as a dog-as the Book of Proverbs says-a dog returning to its own vomit. There is no pity for you.”
THE BANSHEE
For three days the Banshee had been heard wailing outside his door at night. It was no surprise when his body was discovered. His time had come.”
Sister Fidelma gazed at Brother Abán with surprise.
The elderly monk was sitting slightly forward on his chair, shivering a little although the day was not cold. His thin mouth trembled slightly; a fleck of spittle from one corner caught on the graying stubble of his unshaven chin. His pale eyes stood out in his bony, almost skeletal head over which the skin was stretched taut and parchment-like.
“He was fated to die,” repeated the old man, almost petulantly. “You cannot deny the summons of the death wail.”
Fidelma realized that the old man was troubled and he spoke with deadly seriousness.
“Who heard this wailing?” she asked, trying to hide her natural scepticism.
The old man shivered.
“Glass, the miller, whose house is not far away. And Bláth has confirmed that she was disturbed by the sounds.”
Fidelma pursed her lips and expelled a little air through them in an almost soundless whistle.
“I will speak with them later. Tell me what you know about this matter, Brother Abán. Just those facts that are known to you.”
The elderly religieux sighed as if suppressing irritation.
“I thought that you knew them. Surely my message was clear?”
“I was told that a man had been found dead in suspicious circumstances. The messenger requested that the Chief Brehon of Cashel send a dálaigh, an officer of the court, to come and ascertain those circumstances. That is all I know so far, except that this man was named Ernán, that he was a farmer, and that he was found dead on the doorstep of his house with a jagged wound in his throat.”
Fidelma spoke without irritation but in a precise manner.
“This is a peaceful spot.” Brother Abán was suddenly defensive. “We are just a small farming community here by the banks of the Siúr River. Even nature bestows her blessings on us and that is why we call this place ‘The Field of Honey.’ Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“It would help if I knew exactly what has happened,” murmured Fidelma. “So, tell me what you know.”
“I am the only religious in this community,” went on Brother Abán, as if ignoring her request. “I have been here forty years, tending to the spiritual needs of this little community. Never before. .”
He fell silent a moment and Fidelma was forced to control her impatience and wait until the old man was ready to begin.
“The facts?” he suddenly asked, his bright eyes upon her. “These are the facts. Yesterday morning I was at my morning prayers when Bláth came to my threshold, crying in a loud voice that Ernán had been found just outside the door of his house with his throat torn out. I went to his house and found this to be true. I then sent to Cashel for a dálaigh.”
“What was so suspicious about the circumstances that you needed to do so?”
Brother Abán nervously rubbed the stubble on his chin.
“Bláth told me. .”
Fidelma held up a hand.
“Firstly, tell me exactly who Ernán was?”
“Ernán was a young farmer who farmed the lower fields along the riverbank. A handsome young man, married and without an enemy in the world. I knew his parents before they died. Good Christians leading blameless lives.”
“And Bláth? Was she his wife?”
Brother Abán shook his head.
“Ernán’s wife was Blinne. Bláth was her sister. She lived with them. She helps about the farm. A good girl. She comes to sing the psalms in the chapel each week.”
“And where was Blinne at this time?”
“Distraught. Beside herself with grief. She loved her husband very much.”
“I see. And Bláth told you. . what?”
“Bláth said that she had been awoken on the last three nights hearing a terrible wailing outside the farmhouse.”
“Did she investigate the cause of this sound?”
The old monk laughed sarcastically.
“This is a rural community. We live close to nature here. You do not go to investigate the wailing of a Banshee.”
“Surely the New Faith has taught us not to be fearful of Other-world creatures? As a Christian, do you really accept that there is a woman of the hills, a wraith, who comes to the threshold of a person about to die and then wails and laments in the middle of the night?” demanded Fidelma.
“As a Christian, I must. Do not the Holy Scriptures talk of the spirits and ghosts who serve both God and Satan? Who knows which the woman of the hills serves? In the old days, it was said that the Banshee was a goddess who cared for a specific noble family and when their time came to be reborn in the Otherworld, the spirit would cry to announce their impending death in this world.”
“I know the folklore,” Fidelma said quietly.
“It is not to be dismissed,” Brother Abán assured her earnestly. “When I was a small boy I heard a story from a neighbor. It seems that the time had come for his father, an old man, to pass on. A plaintive wailing was heard within the vicinity of their dwelling. The son went out the next morning and found a strange comb, which he picked up and took into the house. The following night the wailing returned but this time the doors and windows rattled as if someone was trying to get in.
“Realizing it was the Banshee the man placed the comb in a pair of tongs and held the comb out of the window. Unseen hands seized the comb and the tongs were twisted and bent out of recognit
ion. Had he handed the comb out through the window, then his arm would have been wrenched off. That is the power of the Banshee.”
Fidelma dropped her gazed and tried to contain her smile. Obviously, Brother Abán was steeped in the old ways and superstitions.
“Let’s us return to the case of Ernán,” she suggested gently.
“Are you saying that his sister-in-law, Bláth, heard this wailing and did so on three consecutive nights?”
“The third night was when Ernán was found dead.”
“And Blinne had heard this wailing as well?”
“I only spoke to Glass the miller who confirmed that he had heard it also.”
“So you have not spoken to Blinne, Ernán’s wife?”
“She has not been well enough to speak with me, as you can imagine.”
“Very well. Who discovered the body?”
“Bláth was up in the morning to milk the goats and found Ernán outside the house. He had been dead some hours. Bláth believes that. .”
Fidelma held up her hand.
“I will see what she believes when I speak with her. At this point, she came to you?”
“That is right. I went to see the body while she went inside to comfort Blinne.”
“Where is the body now?”
“In the chapel. We shall bury it tonight.”
“I would like to examine this wound of which you speak.” Brother Abán stirred uncomfortably.
“Is that necessary? After all, you are. .”
“I am a dálaigh and used to such sights as the corpses of people who have died in violent ways.”
The old monk shrugged.
“It is not often that you would see the corpse of one who has been taken by the Banshee,” he muttered.
“Has there been much wolf activity in these parts recently?”
The question was innocent enough but Brother Abán realized what she was implying and he pulled a sour face.
“You will not be able to pass off this death as a wolf attack, Sister,” he said.
“I know the marks made by a wolf when it is driven to attack a human. A wolf rarely attacks a full-grown man, a strong and muscular man. And the wailing was certainly not that of a wolf. You will have to think again if you want to dismiss this death with a rational reason.”
“I want to find the truth, that is all,” Fidelma replied evenly. “Now let us inspect the corpse.”
The old monk had been right that Ernán had been young and handsome in life. He was obvious well-muscled and strong. The only disfigurement on his body was the jagged wound beneath his chin, which severed his windpipe and arteries. Fidelma bent forward and saw immediately that no teeth marks could have made the wound. It had been made by something sharp although it had been drawn across the throat, tearing the flesh rather than cutting cleanly.
She straightened up after her inspection.
“Well?” demanded the old man.
“Ernán was certainly attacked but not by some Otherworld entity,” she said softly.
She led the way out of the small chapel and stood in the sunshine looking down through the collection of buildings to where the broad expanse of river was pushing sedately along, glistening and flickering in the bright light. There were several dwellings clustered around, including a blacksmith’s forge and grain stores. The main part of the community dwelt in outlying farmsteads. There were very few people about; most people would probably be in the fields at this time. The blacksmith, however, stood deep in conversation with someone who stood with a thick-legged workhorse.
Fidelma saw the only other people were a couple at the far end of the square who had just emerged around the corner of a storehouse. One was an attractive woman with auburn hair, young and pretty and slim. Her companion was a young man, long-faced, intense.
Fidelma’s keen eyes deduced that neither was happy. The young man was stretching out a hand to the woman’s arm with an almost imploring gesture. The woman seemed irritable and knocked the hand away, turning swiftly and striding toward the chapel. The young man gazed after her for a moment, then seemed to catch Fidelma’s gaze. He suddenly walked rapidly away, disappearing behind the far building.
“Interesting,” muttered Fidelma. “Who are they? The woman seems to be coming here.”
Brother Abán, standing at her shoulder, whispered: “This is Blinne, the widow of Ernán.”
“And who was the young man with whom she seemed annoyed?”
“That was Tadhg. He is a. . he is a bard.”
Fidelma’s lower lip thrust out a moment in amusement at the disapproval in the old man’s voice.
“That is appropriate.”
The name Tadhg meant a poet.
Brother Abán was already moving to greet the woman called Blinne.
“How are you, my child?”
“Only as can be expected,” Blinne replied shortly. Fidelma noticed that her face seemed an expressionless mask. Her lips were thinned in the set of her jaw. She had a tight control of her emotions. Her hazel eyes caught those of Sister Fidelma and her chin came up defiantly. “I have come to see the body of Ernán one last time. And Bláth says that she will sing the caoine, the keening at the interment.”
“Of course, my child, of course,” muttered the old monk. Then he realized his manners. “This is Sister Fidelma from Cashel. She is. .”
“I know who she is,” replied the young woman, coldly. “She is sister to our king as well as being a dálaigh.”
“She has come to inquire into the death of your husband.”
Was there a slight blush on Blinne’s cheek?
“So I have heard. The news is all around the community.”
“I am sorry for your troubles. Blinne,” Fidelma greeted her softly. “When you have finished,” she nodded imperceptibly to the chapel, “I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“I understand.”
“I shall be at Brother Abán’s dwelling.”
It was not long before Blinne came to Brother Abán’s threshold.
Fidelma bade her be seated and turned to the old monk.
“I think that you said that you had something to attend to in the chapel?” she suggested pointedly.
“No, I. .” Brother Abán caught her gaze and then nodded swiftly.
“Of course. I shall be there if you need me.”
After he had left, Fidelma took her seat opposite the attractive young woman.
“This must be distasteful to you, but your husband has died in suspicious circumstances. The law dictates that I must ask you certain questions.”
Blinne raised her chin defiantly.
“People are saying that he was taken by a Banshee.”
Fidelma regarded her thoughtfully.
“You sound as if you give that story no credence?”
“I have heard no wailing messengers of death. Ernán was killed but not by a ghostly visitation.”
“Yet, as I understand it, the wailing on three separate nights thrice awakened your own sister, who dwells with you. This wailing was heard by one of your neighbors.”
“As I said, I did not hear it nor was I awakened. If wailing there was, it was that of a wolf. He was killed by a wolf, that is obvious.”
Fidelma regarded her thoughtfully, then she said: “If it was obvious, then there would be no need for this inquiry. Tell me about Ernán. He was a farmer, handsome, and I am told he was well liked. Is that true?”
“True enough.”
“I am told that he had no enemies?”
Blinne shook her head but responded too quickly, so Fidelma thought.
“Are you sure about that?” pressed Fidelma.
“If you are trying to tell me that you suspect that he was murdered then I. .”
“I am not trying, Blinne,” interrupted Fidelma firmly. “I tell you facts. A wolf did not create the wound that caused his death. Now, are you saying that he had no enemies that you know of? Think carefully, think hard, before you reply.”
Blinne’s face had become a tight mask.
“He had no enemies,” she said firmly.
Instinctively, Fidelma knew that she was lying.
“Did you love your husband?” she asked abruptly.
A red flush spread swiftly over Blinne’s features.
“I loved him very much!” came the emphatic response.
“You had no problems between you? Nothing Ernán said that might have led you to think that he nurtured some problem and tried to hide it from you?”
Blinne was frowning suspiciously.
“It is the truth that I tell you when I say that there were no problems between us and that I loved him very much. Are you accusing me of. . of murdering my own husband?”
Her voice rose sharply, vehemently.
Fidelma smiled disarmingly.
“Calm yourself. I am required to ask certain questions and must do so. It is facts that I am after not accusations.”
Blinne’s mouth formed a thin line and still stared belligerently at Fidelma.
“So,” Fidelma continued after a moment or two of silence, “you are telling me that he had no problems, no enemies, that your relationship was good.”
“I have said as much.”
“Tell me what happened on the night that he died.”
Blinne shrugged.
“We went to bed as usual. When I awoke it was dawn and I heard Bláth screaming outside the house. I think that was what actually awoke me. I rushed out and found Bláth crouching on the threshold with Ernán’s body. I cannot remember much after that. Bláth went for Brother Abán who is also the apothecary in the community. I know he came but could do nothing. It is all a blur.”
“Very well. Let me take you back to the time you went to bed. You say, ‘we went to bed’? Both of you at the same time?”
“Of course.”
“So, as far as you know, you both went to bed and fell asleep together?”
Whispers of the Dead sf-15 Page 14