‘Oh, I believe they are marks of ropes that were used when the workers were hauling material. They were repairing the wall here, but that was some time ago now when Lúach was away.’
Fidelma turned back into the room and gazed around.
‘It looks so neat and tidy now. Was this as you found it on the morning she disappeared?’
‘I tidied it a little that morning. Usually Lúach would make her own bed and leave her room tidy.’
Fidelma knew well that Brehon Morann’s students were expected to make their own beds and keep their personal areas tidy.
‘Usually?’ she suddenly picked up the word. ‘But she did not on that morning?’
‘Well, it looked as though an attempt had been made to tidy the bed but the clothes and pillow were hurriedly arranged. It showed that she must have been in a hurry. And a few items were out of place and water for the night … she liked to have a jug of water in case she woke … the water was spilt and not cleaned up.’
Fidelma crossed to the cupboard. There were several dresses there and other items of clothing. A chest at the end of the bed revealed footwear and a rug.
Muirenn looked over her shoulder as she rummaged through the clothing. ‘The only thing that I noticed missing was a woollen robe which Lúach sometime wears at night. But apart from that, everything is as it should be.’
‘All her clothes are here except her night robe?’
‘Nothing is missing.’
Fidelma stared at her curiously. ‘If that is so, what was she wearing when she left the fortress?’
Muirenn opened her mouth for a moment then snapped it shut. Finally she repeated in a worried tone: ‘I could not find anything else missing.’
There were some hooks to one side of the room on which a few tiag liubhair, or book satchels, hung. Fidelma checked through the material and found they were related to law studies. On a small side table was a taibhli filidh, on it a pallere, a wooden board with a raised edging which was filled with wax. This was to make notes on by means of a graibh, a sharp-pointed stylus that was also on the table. Fidelma examined the items before picking up the pallere and gazing at its surface. It was fairly smooth. The wax in the edging could be warmed so that the notes could be deleted and the wax used again. She noticed there was a roughness to one side of the wax. The smoothing had been hurriedly done so that there were a series of lines drawn in a column. It was only when she had been staring at them for a few moments that she realised the lines could be Ogham, the ancient form of writing. If so, the surviving letters would be F, I, D … the rest had been wiped,
Of course, it could have been merely a coincidence but had Lúach been writing some message for her? If so, why in Ogham, the ancient form? Both girls not only knew the old alphabet but the berla filidh, the classical form of the language in which most Ogham texts were usually made. Perhaps she was beginning to imagine things? She turned back to the book satchels, taking out the contents and checking through them before thrusting her hand into the bottom of the leather bags. Her fingers felt something and she extracted a small piece of pratainn, a form of parchment. It had been crunched into a ball. She opened it out. It was inscribed in Latin.
‘Caritas patiens est benigna est caritas non acmulatur non agit perperam non inflator …’ Fidelma began to read. ‘Love is patient and kind; love does not answer back; it is not arrogant or rude; it does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong doing but rejoices with the truth; love become all things, believes all things, hopes for all things and endures all things.’
‘What is that?’ Muirenn demanded curiously.
‘It is some lines from a letter that Paul of Tarsus wrote to the Christian community in Corinth. As to its meaning here, I am not sure. I know Lúach’s hand but this does not seem to be written by her.’
She was remembering what Brother Máranáin had said about Lúach’s strange visit to him on the night before she disappeared and her question about obedience to one’s parents and the nature of love. Was there a connection? Was she so concerned about the matter of being unwilling to marry the person her father and stepmother wanted her to that she was seeking advice from Brother Máranáin? It seemed confusing. In the time she had known Lúach the girl had appeared totally unmoved by the New Faith or even the Old Faith. She exhaled slowly. It was not getting her anywhere in resolving the mystery of the girl’s disappearance. She could not explain her feeling that something was not right. Was it just that she was unable to accept the fact that Lúach had merely ridden off, had an accident and perished?
She made a final examination of the room, dismissed Muirenn and went down to the great hall. She was the only person there apart from a female attendant, a girl she recognised as serving her on the previous evening. In answer to her inquiry she was told the Prince and his wife always rose late in the morning. Dergnat and Sranacháin had already eaten a hurried breakfast while Brother Máranáin often catered for himself as recently he spent much of his time in his riverside retreat. In a way, Fidelma was thankful that she could eat alone. The attendant poured her some apple juice at her request and then pointed to a dish.
‘May I suggest you try some samit, lady? It is freshly made.’
‘What is that?’ Fidelma frowned.
‘It is a slightly savoury dish made by our cheesemaker. I overheard the mention of cheesemaking last night and we pride ourselves on this. It is a collation of curds, butter and milk seasoned with wild garlic, thick enough to put on pieces of barley bread. It has become a summer dainty for, of course, the wild garlic grows in abundance here during the summer.’
Fidelma ate sparingly of it although it met with her entire approval. ‘I must visit your cook house and speak to the cheesemaker. It is something I have not encountered before.’
‘I will tell him. His name is Artrí but you will find him working in the storeroom next to the cook house. It is then easy to take the new made cheeses down to the talam below the storeroom.’
Fidelma ate sparingly of some fruit and drank more of the apple juice. When she had finished, she went out into the courtyard and found the day to be bright, with few clouds in the sky, though there seemed to be a wind gusting from the sea. The high stone walls of Dún Dealgan acted as a shield against their sad whispering. While she heard the wind murmuring around the circular contours she had no physical experience of the cold air they brought.
She paused thoughtfully in the courtyard and then walked across to the stable area. A tousle-headed man was sitting on a bench outside the stable building polishing a harness.
‘Where can I find the stable master?’ she asked.
The man set aside his task and rose respectfully. ‘You have found him, lady. My name is Eochaidh. I am the echaire.’
‘You know that I am a friend of the lady Lúach? I am also a dálaigh and am investigating her disappearance?’
‘The steward has told me. How may I help you?’
‘I wanted to ask you, what sort of horse does the lady Lúach ride?’
The man turned and pointed to a stall that could be seen from their position at the entrance. There was a white pony in it. ‘That is her horse. She called it Snechtaide, snow-white.’
Fidelma regarded the animal appreciatively for a moment but then returned her gaze to the stableman.
‘I actually meant what type of horse was she riding on the morning she left the fortress; the morning on which she disappeared.’
The man stared in bewilderment for a moment and then seemed to understand with a sigh. ‘That was the curiosity of it. If she had left on horseback then she would have ridden Snechtaide. She did not.’
Fidelma controlled her impatience. ‘I can see that she didn’t ride her own horse. So what horse did she ride out on?’
‘I am telling you, as I told the young dálaigh, no horses were missing from the stables that morning.’
Fidelma was quiet for a moment as she considered the response.
‘I am confu
sed. I was told that lady Lúach left the fortress and later a tracker was sent out to find where she had ridden off to.’
‘Whichever way she left, it was not by her own horse nor is there a horse missing that we cannot account for. So if she rode off, someone must have brought a horse for her.’
‘Who saw her leave? Someone must have seen her leave, especially if she did not leave on her own horse or on one of the horses from this fortress.’
The man shrugged. ‘Perhaps one of the warriors on guard that night saw her. I do not know. Apparently she left before first light. I tend to the horses and do not speak much with the warriors.’
‘Is it not the custom here to shut the gates at night?’
The tradition was that the gates of a fortress were closed at nightfall and only opened at first light as a protection against marauding animals, such as wolves. It was how the ancient hero Sétanta won his nickname Cúchulainn – the hound of Culann. It was told that Sétanta arrived late at the fortress of Culann after the gates were shut and Culann’s hound had been loosed to guard the gates. Sétanta was attacked and had to slay the hound which, being a favourite of Culann, Sétanta offered to guard the gates himself, becoming Culann’s hound as compensation, until a new whelp was raised. Thereafter the nickname stuck.
The stable keeper looked worried. ‘It is the custom to shut the gates at night, lady.’
Fidelma felt impatient but tried to stop herself showing it. ‘Then who was the person who opened the gates at first light or the names of the guards on duty then?’
‘You would have to speak to the steward or Ibor, who commands the guards. I know only what I have been told…’ the stableman began.
A loud clearing of someone’s throat caused the stable keeper to start nervously and glance up behind Fidelma.
‘Is there anything I can help you with, lady?’ came the soft-sounding voice of Sranacháin.
Fidelma swung round. ‘It seems that there is. There appears to be a mystery here.’
‘A mystery?’
‘As you know from last night, I have taken it upon myself to investigate the disappearance of the lady Lúach.’
‘As I recall, it was against the wishes of the lady Orla.’
‘It is not the lady Orla’s wish that dictates the law,’ Fidelma retorted. ‘I am qualified in law to the position where I can assume this responsibility. So even if Prince Ossen raised an objection to my making inquiries, it is not relevant. Is that clear?’
The fleshy face of the steward seemed to crinkle in sadness.
‘I mean no disrespect. And I understand perfectly. I shall answer any question you wish to put to me.’
‘Everyone has told me that Lúach left the fortress and no one knew where she was going.’
‘True, lady.’
‘I was told she must have left the fortress at first light. I was told it was reported someone saw her riding eastward. But no tracks were found.’
Sranacháin waited for a moment and when she continued looking at him as if expecting an answer he nodded as if in agreement. ‘That is a correct summation.’
‘From such remarks I presumed that she had ridden off from the fortress at first light. Why was I not told that her own horse was still in its stable? Why was I not told that no other horse is missing and that no one actually saw her leave?’
Sranacháin actually smiled. ‘It seems that you made an error in your presumption, lady. You were surely told the simple facts but you neglected to ask the details.’
Fidelma regarded the complacent steward with anger flashing in her eyes. He might be stating what was true but it was a presumption that no one thought to correct.
‘Do you confirm that she left on foot?’
‘You would have to ask Dergnat. He did the investigation. I don’t think anyone actually saw her leave, lady.’
‘How was that when I am told that the fortress gates were closed? Do you not have a watchman at the gates?’
‘We do, lady. That would be Ibor. I am sure that Dergnat questioned him.’
‘Then I shall speak with Dergnat first,’ she replied. ‘Where will I find him at this time?’
The steward pointed across the courtyard. ‘He will be in his chamber on the floor above the bath house there.’
Fidelma did not bother to thank the man. She was angry. Angry that no one had explained such an important fact about Lúach’s disappearance from the fortress. Now she knew there was something definitely wrong. The facts were evolving, changing in detail. Now she was being told that Lúach had gone to bed, perhaps pondering on obedience to her parents and the nature of love, and then had vanished at first light. She had not left on her own horse or, indeed, on anyone else’s horse. The stable keeper had assured her all the horses of the fortress were accounted for. So she had left on foot. That did not seem possible. The important witness must be the guard at the gates who must have opened them for her if she had left before first light when they were officially opened.
She entered the building and ascended the stone steps to the first floor and entered the passage. There were several doors along the polished yew-panelled passage. As she did so she called ‘Dergnat!’ By the time she was halfway along, the young dálaigh was standing in the open door of his chamber. His look was hardly welcoming.
‘I wanted to ask you some questions about your investigation,’ she explained brusquely.
He did not answer but stepped aside to indicate that she should enter. He followed her in and gestured to a chair before seating himself on the edge of a cot which was evidently his bed. She glanced round quickly observing his book satchels, writing equipment and beautiful red wood taibhli filidh, a table adapted especially for writing. She noticed he had goose quill pens and a bottle of thick dub or black ink. It seemed the young man worked and lived in this room, which was not overly large.
She could not help but glance at the manuscripts and the wax writing tablet.
‘I see you are competent in writing the old Ogham form and in Latin,’ she observed, impressed in spite of herself.
‘I try my best but I am no calligrapher. I am competent to tackle the ancient texts.’
She glanced about the confines of his room. ‘This is a small space for you to work in, Dergnat. I am surprised that you have not been accorded larger quarters that give you room to pursue your tasks in more comfort.’
‘As a matter of fact, the lady Orla did offer me a place that is her own, down by the river. It used to be a watchtower but it is in a state of disrepair. I had not the means to renovate it. As Brother Máranáin likes to get out of the fortress as much as possible, I suggested that he ask the lady Orla if he could use it. I am content with this chamber.’ He paused and added: ‘Anyway, as I mentioned, I have decided to return to my home soon and to renew my studies at Beannchar.’
Fidelma stood gazing round the room until Dergnat coughed nervously.
‘You have a question for me, lady?’
Fidelma turned and gave him an apologetic smile before coming back to the present. ‘I feel that I have not been told the full facts about the lady Lúach’s disappearance,’ she began. ‘You have made an investigation. So now I require you to tell me all you know.’
Dergnat shifted his position as if it were uncomfortable.
‘I realise that you have a higher qualification in law than I do. But is it ethical for one dálaigh to take over the case of another in this fashion?’
Fidelma was surprised at the young man’s protest for a moment.
‘The law allows an appeal in certain circumstances,’ she explained. ‘In this matter you have doubtless given your pledge to the judgment of this matter and are prepared for the fo-gella, an appeal to judgment …?’ She saw the growing bewilderment on his face and paused, feeling slightly guilty at using her greater knowledge to confuse him. ‘Do I take it you have followed the legal procedures? No? Well, let us say you neglected to do so because you were simply making inquiries and have not come to any lega
l conclusions with your investigation. In that case, I shall take over the investigation and you will assist me.’
The young man, red faced, simply nodded wordlessly.
‘By the way, where did you study your law? You mentioned Beannchar.’
‘I am from the peninsula of An Aird. Therefore I studied in the foundation of the Blessed Comall at Beannchar.’
‘I have heard it is an ecclesiastical centre of learning? And that your degree was actually the Sruth do Aill.’
‘It is the equivalent of the secular college’s Cana degree,’ the young man replied almost defensively.
‘Of course. How did you come to join Prince Ossen’s household?’
‘I … I met with the lady Lúach while travelling through Fochard,’ the young man actually blushed. ‘She was visiting her uncle. When I found out who her father was, where she lived, I came here and enquired if he needed a legal advisor.’
Fidelma’s eyes widened. ‘You mean you came here because of the lady Lúach?’
‘She barely noticed me,’ Dergnat confirmed sadly. ‘But I could not help myself.’
‘So you came here?’
‘It was the lady Orla who saw me. It seemed that the Prince’s Brehon had recently died and, to be honest, she felt it was a stigma not to have a personal legal advisor. So it was she immediately hired my services. That was about a year ago.’
‘What did the lady Lúach say when she found that you were employed by her stepmother.’
‘She was not pleased.’
‘Was she was aware of your feelings? That you had followed her to her father’s home because you were attracted by her?’
‘She treated me with pity. I could not believe she could be so hard. I hardly saw her during the year for, as you know, she was mainly at Brehon Morann’s law school in Tara. Having agreed to serve here, I only saw her during the few times when she returned. Each time I hoped that her attitude towards me would change. I hoped she would see me as loyal.’
‘You still love her?’ Dergnat’s blush deepened so Fidelma said: ‘Don’t bother to answer that. When she returned this last time, did you speak to her about your relationship?’
The Lair of the White Fox (e-novella) (Kindle Single) Page 5