Fidelma sighed.
“Well, your honesty does you credit in the circumstances. Tell me, in your own words, what happened when you discovered the body of Muirenn, the wife of the smith.”
Caisín spread his arms in a sort of helpless gesture.
“There is nothing complicated about it. My abbot told me that some time ago he had commissioned a new silver cross for our high altar from Findach the Smith. I was instructed to come to Droim Sorn to collect it.”
“How was payment to be made to Findach?” asked Fidelma.
Caisín looked bewildered.
“The abbot made no reference to payment. He simply asked me to come and collect the cross. As it was for the high altar, I understood it to be heavy, and so I asked permission to take one of the mules from the abbey. I had been to Droim Sorn before and so I knew where to find Findach’s forge.”
Fidelma glanced quickly at him.
“You went to the forge directly?”
“Oh yes. Where else would I go to collect the cross?”
“Where, indeed? What then?”
“Findach was at the forge, and when I arrived he told me that the cross was at his house and I should precede him there. He would join me once he had doused his furnace.”
“Was anyone else at the forge when you arrived?”
“No. . well, I did see a man riding away.”
“I don’t suppose you knew who it was?”
Brother Caisín surprised her by an affirmative nod.
“I recognized him later as Odar, the chieftain. He had his hunting dogs with him. I left Findach and went to the house. I arrived at the door. It was slightly ajar. I caught sight of clothing on the floor. I pushed the door open and then I realized the clothing was a body. It was a woman. I was standing there when I heard a noise beyond an interior door. I opened it and found the youth, Braon, hiding there. He had blood on his clothes and instinct made me grasp hold of him. A moment later, Findach, who followed me from the forge, entered and cried out when he recognized the body of his wife. His cry brought someone else who ran to fetch Brehon Tuama. That is all I know.”
Outside, Brehon Tuama looked worried.
“Do you think he is being honest? Once a thief. .? Isn’t it said that opportunity makes the thief, and this man had opportunity.”
“Publilius Syrus once wrote that the stolen ox sometimes puts his head out of the stall,” smiled Fidelma, mysteriously.
Brehon Tuama looked bewildered. Fidelma went on without enlightening him: “I am going to ride to Cluain to see the abbot. When I return I hope to have resolved this mystery.”
Brehon Tuama’s eyes lightened.
“Then you think that Caisín is responsible?”
“I did not say that.”
Cluain, the meadow, was the site of an abbey and community founded by Colmán Mac Léníne some sixty years before. It was evening when she reached the abbey and demanded to be announced to the abbot immediately. The abbot received her without demur for he knew that Fidelma was also the sister of the young king of Cashel.
“You have come from Droim Sorn, lady?” asked the elderly abbot when they were seated. “I suppose that you wish to speak with me of Brother Caisín?”
“Why do you suppose that?”
“His background and the circumstances make him suspect in the murder and theft there. I have had word of the event from Brehon Tuama. Caisín is a good man in spite of his history. He came to this abbey ten years ago as a penitent thief. Like the penitent thief of the Bible, he was received with rejoicing and forgiveness and never once has he given us cause to question his redemption.”
“You trusted him to go to Droim Sorn to bring back a valuable cross of silver.”
“It was the new cross for our high altar.”
“But you did not trust him with the money to pay for it, I understand.”
The old man blinked rapidly.
“There was no payment to be made.”
“You mean that Findach undertook to make this cross out of charity for the abbey?” Fidelma was puzzled.
The old abbot laughed, a slightly high-pitched laugh.
“Findach never gave anything out of charity. I should know for I was uncle to his wife Muirenn. He is an impecunious man. He made the cross for us in repayment for this indebtedness to the abbey.”
Fidelma raised an eyebrow in query.
“Findach spent money like water. His wife owned the house in which he dwells and kept her own money as the law allows. In fact, all Findach owns is his forge and tools.”
Fidelma leant forward quickly.
“You mean that Findach will benefit from his wife’s wealth now that she is dead?”
The abbot smiled sadly and shook his head.
“He does not benefit at all. Half of her money is returned to her own family in accordance with the law. She was an aire-echta in her own right.”
Fidelma was surprised, for it was not often that a smith’s wife held an equal honor price to that of her husband.
The abbot continued: “She has bequeathed the residue of her property to this abbey in my name, for she knew how I had helped her husband over the years.”
Fidelma hid her disappointment at being first presented and then deprived of another motive for the murder of Muirenn.
“Findach had been asked to make some artifact for Imleach; and rather than admit to the abbot of Imleach that he had no money to purchase the silver needed to make it, he asked me for a loan. When he later confessed he could not repay it, I offered to provide him with enough silver so that he could construct a cross for our high altar. His craftsmanship was to be the repayment.”
“I am beginning to understand. I am told that Caisín had been to Droim Sorn before?”
“I sent him myself,” agreed the abbot.
“Last month I sent him to see Findach to remind him that the time to deliver the cross was approaching. He returned and told me that Findach had assured him that the cross would be ready at the appropriate time.”
Fidelma, fretting at the delay, had to spend the night at Cluain, and rode back to Droim Sorn the following morning.
She was met by Brehon Tuama, whose face mirrored some degree of excitement.
“It seems that we were both wrong, Sister. The boy, Braon, announced his guilt by attempting to escape.”
Fidelma exhaled sharply in her annoyance.
“The stupid boy! What happened?”
“He climbed out of a window and fled into the forest. He was recaptured early this morning. Odar let loose his hunting dogs after him and it was a wonder that the boy was not ripped apart. We caught him just in time. Odar has now demanded the imprisonment of his father as an accomplice.”
Fidelma stared at the Brehon.
“And you have agreed to this?”
Brehon Tuama spread his hands in resignation.
“What is there to be done? Whatever doubts I had before are now dispelled by the boy’s own admission of guilt. . his attempt to escape.”
“Does it not occur to you that the boy attempted to escape out of fear rather than out of guilt?”
“Fear? What had he to fear if he was innocent?”
“He and his father seemed to fear that, as they are of the class of bothach, looked down on and despised by many of the free clansmen of this place, they would not be treated fairly,” she snapped.
“The law is there so that no one should fear any unjust action. I regret that Odar does not appreciate that fact.”
Brehon Tuama sighed.
“Sadly, the law is merely that which is written on paper. It is human beings who interpret and govern the law, and often human beings are frail creatures full of the seven deadly sins that govern their little lives.”
“Are you telling me the boy is again imprisoned at Odar’s rath and is unhurt?”
“Bruised a little, but unhurt.”
“Deo gratias! And the father?”
“He has been imprisoned in the barn behind t
he chief’s house.”
“Then let us go to the chief’s house and have all those involved in this matter summoned. If, after hearing what I have to say you feel that there is a necessity for a formal trial, so be it. But the boy is not guilty.”
Half an hour later they were gathered in Odar’s hall. Along with Odar and his tanist were Brehon Tuama, the boy, Braon, and his father, Brocc, with Findach and Brother Caisín.
Fidelma turned to Brocc first. Her voice was brusque.
“Although you are a bothach, you have worked hard and gathered enough valuables to soon be able to purchase your place as a full and free clansman here. Is that correct?”
Brocc was bewildered by her question, but gave an affirmative jerk of his head.
“You would be able to pay the honor price for the death of Muirenn, the compensation due for her unlawful killing?”
“If my son were judged guilty, yes.”
“Indeed. For everyone knows that your son is under age. The payment of compensation and fines incurred by his action, if found guilty, falls to you.”
“I understand that.”
“Indeed you do. The law is well known.” Fidelma turned to Find-ach. “Am I right in believing that your wife Muirenn was of the social rank of aire-echta, and her honor price was ten séds-that is the worth of ten milch cows?”
“That is no secret,” snapped Findach belligerently.
Fidelma swung ’round to Odar.
“And isn’t that the very sum of money that Findach owed you?”
Odar colored a little.
“What of it? I can lend money to my own kinsman if I wish to.”
“You know that Findach is penniless. If Braon was found guilty, Findach would receive the very sum of money in compensation that he owed to you, perhaps more if the claim of theft to the value of twenty-one séds is proved as well. Would that have any influence on your insisting on the boy’s prosecution?”
Odar rose to his feet, opening his mouth to protest, but Fidelma silenced him before he could speak.
“Sit down!” Fidelma’s voice was sharp. “I speak here as dálaigh and will not be interrupted.”
There was tense silence before she continued.
“This is a sad case. There never was a cross of silver that was stolen, was there, Findach?”
The smith turned abruptly white.
“You are known to be a gambler, often in debt to people such as Odar. . and to your wife’s uncle, the abbot of Cluain. You are also lazy. Instead of pursuing the work you have a talent for, you prefer to borrow or steal so that you may gamble. You were in debt to your wife’s uncle, and when he gave you silver to fashion a cross as a means of repaying him you doubtless sold that silver.
“Having sold the silver, you had no cross to give to the abbey of Cluain. You have not used your forge in days, perhaps weeks. Your furnace was as cold as the grave. And speaking of coldness. . when Braon touched the body of Muirenn to see if he could help, he remarked the body was cold. Muirenn could not have been killed that morning after you left. She had been dead many hours.”
Findach collapsed suddenly on his chair. He slumped forward, head held in his hands.
“Muirenn. .” The word was a piteous groan.
“Why did you kill Muirenn?” pressed Fidelma. “Did she try to stop you from faking the theft of the cross?”
Findach raised his eyes. His expression was pathetic.
“I did not mean to kill her, just silence her nagging. Faking the theft was the only way I could avoid the debts. . I hit her. I sat in the kitchen all night by her body wondering what I should do.”
“And the idea came that you could claim that the silver cross, which you had never made, was stolen by the same person who murdered your wife? You knew that Braon was coming that morning and he was a suitable scapegoat.” She turned to Brehon Tuama. “Res ipsa loquitur,” she muttered, using the Latin to indicate that the facts spoke for themselves.
When Findach had been taken away and Braon and his father released, Brehon Tuama accompanied Fidelma as she led her horse to the start of the Cashel road.
“A bad business,” muttered the Brehon. “We are all at fault here.”
“I think that Odar’s chiefship is worthy of challenge,” agreed Fidelma. “He is not fit to hold that office.”
“Was it luck that made you suspicious of Findach?” queried Tuama, nodding absently.
Sister Fidelma swung up into the saddle of her horse and glanced down at the Brehon with a smile.
“A good judge must never rely on luck in deduction. Findach tried to scatter thorns across the path of our investigation, hoping that the boy or Caisín would pierce their feet on them and be adjudged guilty. He should have remembered the old proverb: He that scatters thorns must not go barefooted.”
GOLD AT NIGHT
By this time tomorrow, thanks be to God, it will be all over for another three years. I have to admit that I am quite exhausted.”
Sister Fidelma smiled at her companion as they walked along the banks of the broad river of Bearbha. Abbot Laisran of Durrow was a portly man, short of stature, with silver hair and a permanent air of jollity about him. He had been born with a rare gift of humor and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it. In this he was in contrast with many of his calling. In spite of his statement, he looked far from fatigued.
Fidelma and Laisran paused a while to watch some boys fishing in the river, the abbot watching their casts with a critical eye.
“Was it worth your coming?” he suddenly asked.
Fidelma considered the question before answering. She did not like to give glib answers for the sake of politeness.
“The great Fair of Carman is an experience not to be missed,” she replied with studied reflection.
The Aenach, or Fair of Carman, was held once every three years over the days of the Feast of Lugnasadh, the first days of what the Romans called the month of Augustus, and it was one of the two major fairs held within the kingdom of Laighin. It was attended in person by Fáelán of the Uí Dúnláinge, King of Laighin, and no less than forty-seven of his leading nobles. During the period of the fair, there were games, contests in sports and the arts. Poets would declaim their verses and strong men would contest with one another in all manner of feats of skill as well as strength. So would women, because there were special times set aside for contests between women. In addition to the entertainment, there were markets for all manner of livestock, produce and goods.
In fact, Laisran had been telling Fidelma how he had to chase a stall keeper from the fairground because the man had been selling potions for destroying pests such as foxes and wolves. But the very noxious brews that would kill a fox or a wolf could kill other animals and, as such, were prohibited from sale at the Fair. Yet it was true that many wonderful and curious things were to be found on sale in the stalls of the Aenach Carman.
But there was also a serious side to the Aenach Carman, unlike the Aenach Lifé, which was Laighin’s other great fair and devoted to horse racing.
During the days of the Aenach Carman, the assembly of the kingdom met. All the nobles, the chiefs of clans, the Brehons and lawyers, the professional men and women gathered to discuss the laws. On the first day, the men and women of the kingdom held separate councils at which the other sex was not allowed to enter. The women’s council admitted no man and the men’s council admitted no woman. Each council met and decided matters pertaining to their sex and elected representatives to go forward to attend the formal meetings of the Great Assembly of Laighin. Both sexes attended this and matters pertaining to all the people were discussed and decided upon. The King, his Brehons, or judges, and representatives of all the people would discuss any necessary amendment to the laws and agree on the fiscal policies of the kingdom for the next three years.
While Fidelma was from the neighboring kingdom of Muman, and therefore not qualified to voice any opinion in the councils nor Assembly, she had been
invited by the women’s council to attend and speak to them as their guest. She was asked to advise them on certain laws in her own kingdom and how they might be applicable to Laighin. For while the great law system applied equally in all five kingdoms, there was a section of laws called the Urrdas Law, which were the minor variations that applied from kingdom to kingdom. But now such serious matters were over and one more day of festivity would end the fair.
Fidelma had been delighted, although not surprised, to find her distant cousin and friend, Laisran, Abbot of Durrow, the great teaching college, attending the fair. Not only attending it, but being present as advisor to the Great Assembly. It had been Laisran who had persuaded her to join the nearby Abbey of Brigid at the Church of the Oaks, not far from the plain by the river Bearbha on which the Aenach Carman was held. But Fidelma had long since left the Abbey of Brigid to return to her own land.
“What did you think of the competence of our law-makers?” Laisran was asking. “Do we pass good laws and have good government?”
Fidelma chuckled.
“Did not Aristotle say that good laws, if they are not obeyed, do not constitute good government?”
Laisran answered his young cousin’s infectious humor.
“I might have expected that from a lawyer,” he said. “Seriously, have you enjoyed the Aenach Carman?”
Fidelma agreed but added: “Although I have often wondered why it is so called. Wasn’t Carman a malevolent female figure who had three sons, and didn’t they blight all the crops in Éireann until the children of Danu defeated them and drove them into exile? How, then, does it come about that the people of Laighin do honor to her by naming their principal festival after her?”
Laisran’s eyes had a twinkle.
“Well, if I were to tell you. .”
“My lord!”
A man who came running toward them cut the abbot’s words short. He was well dressed and wore a chain of office.
“Lígach, chieftain of the Laisig,” whispered Laisran in quick explanation. “The Laisig are the hereditary organizers and stewards of the fair.”
The man halted somewhat breathlessly before the abbot. He was clearly disturbed about something.
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