Accobrán snorted indignantly. ‘The law is the law.’
Fidelma ignored him and smiled in gentle reassurance at the woman. ‘All things will be taken into account, Bébháil. You and Tómma must be in the Great Hall this evening and you must be judged accordingly. But remember, Tómma, that there is always a consequence to our actions. The Gospel of the Blessed James says “How great a matter a little fire kindles.” A word spoken in innocence can do great harm. Remember that.’
The assistant tanner nodded and, taking Bébháil by the arm, left the room.
Accobrán was angry at their departure. ‘They should be imprisoned. You are too lenient, lady. I do not understand. You are a dálaigh but do not follow the law as it is laid down.’
Fidelma regarded him coolly. ‘Sometimes it is better to follow the spirit of the law than the syntax of the law. What do you wish, tanist? An eye for an eye?’
‘The woman confessed to the murder, the man to being her accomplice — yet you have allowed them to go free!’
‘Hardly free. They must return here for judgement.’
Accobrán laughed scornfully. ‘Do you expect them to do so? What Gabrán did, so can they.’
Fidelma was serious, ‘Gabrán fled from fear. These two do not fear the consequences of what they have done. Why would you expect them to flee? It is our law and custom that truth is more important than action. Our laws were written for the obedience of fools and the guidance of the wise.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘That is why I am the dálaigh and you are the tanist. You have much to learn before you take the chieftain’s oath.’
Accobrán glowered. His pride stung. ‘I accept that I am no lawyer. One thing I do not understand was why you seemed more concerned with the man’s lying to you than with the woman’s crime of murder.’
‘The woman killed from fear. I think it is obvious that she was telling the truth about her crime. The law makes allowances for that and though she will be judged to owe compensation and fine for the crime they will probably be cancelled out by the hurt committed by her husband Lesren upon her. But giving false evidence, telling a lie, is something that is abhorred by the law. Is there not an ancient saying that the gods love not a lying tongue? While truth may be bitter, nevertheless truth is great and must prevail.’
‘You seem concerned that Tómma misled you with this name Biobhal. Why would such a name mislead you?’
‘We thought Biobhal…’ began Eadulf, caught Fidelma’s eye, swallowed, and managed to regain his composure before the tanist turned to regard him questioningly. ‘We thought Biobhal was the name of the murderer,’ he ended lamely.
‘Well, it’s not a Cinél na Áeda name,’ replied Accobrán.
‘Probably not,’ Fidelma agreed, dismissing the subject. ‘Didn’t you say that Goll and his wife were also waiting to see me?’
The tanist gave a nod of assent and moved off to summon them. Eadulf waited until he had left.
‘I presume that you did not want him to know about your idea that there is some connection about gold?’
‘You presumed correctly,’ she replied quietly.
‘But with Tómma’s confession that he spoke the first name that came to mind which sounded like Bébháil, you must surely have to change your mind about any such connection?’
Fidelma was serious. ‘The more I think about it, the more I am not so sure. Let us keep this matter of the gold to ourselves for the moment, Eadulf. There are some things here that I find intriguing.’
‘You were not surprised that Lesren was killed by his wife.’
‘I suspected it. I suspected that it was a matter entirely unrelated to the deaths of the three young girls.’
Eadulf grimaced. ‘I don’t see how.’
‘I felt instinctively that young Gabrán could not have had anything to do with Lesren’s death. It was obvious from the day we met Lesren and Bébháil that there was tension between them. But Liag’s chance appearance and the use of the name Biobhal distracted me. Those matters threw a doubt in my mind.’
‘You are too hard on yourself.’
‘I know when I am at fault.’
‘Having seen and recognised your fault, do you not always advise that one must move on without dwelling on it?’
Fidelma smiled benevolently at him, ‘That is true. Sometimes, Eadulf, you know when to say the right thing to help me.’
‘Then what is our next move?’ he replied brusquely.
‘As I planned before. I want to see this Thicket of Pigs before I do anything else.’
‘You can’t really think that there is some connection to the murders of the young girls other than the fact that the place provided the location where they were attacked?’
‘I can’t think so logically,’ replied Fidelma shortly. ‘But I will be honest and say that I have some instinct. It is like an itch and I fear that I must scratch it or go mad. Remember how we saw one of the strangers and the smith, Gobnuid, on the hill? I would like to speak more to Gobnuid but I do not think that he will be in much of a mind to reply to my questions until I have some information to give weight to my interrogation.’
Eadulf suppressed a sigh. He had seen Fidelma presented with many difficult cases but he had never seen her attempting to show confidence while being so ill at ease. He was reminded once again that Fidelma seemed to have become a different person from the self-assured, confident dálaigh he had fallen in love with. It had all changed with the birth of little Alchú. There was no denying that, even though he felt guilty in returning to those thoughts he had been turning over in his mind in recent days.
He had heard stories of women who had given birth to babies and then, by all accounts, seemingly altered their very personalities, becoming victims of moods of black despair or varying temperament. The apothecaries at Tuam Brecain, the great medical school he had attended, said it was one of those mysterious feminine conditions that was released by childbirth. He racked his memory to recall what else they had said.
The idea was that the condition was induced by a state of blood deficiency. The heart, according to the apothecaries, was the powerhouse of the mind and the heart governed the blood. When the heart’s blood became deficient then the mind had no sustenance and became anxious and depressed. This caused the woman’s mind to become filled with negative thoughts, so that she felt anxiety, depression and fatigue, and was unable to cope and mentally restless and agitated.
Eadulf compressed his lips tightly.
There was a treatment they prescribed. He wished that he could remember it. Even if he did recall it, he realised it would be difficult to get Fidelma to take any medication. His eyes brightened suddenly when he remembered what the treatment was.
At that moment, Accobrán came through the door with Goll the woodcutter and his tearful wife, Fínmed. Eadulf turned quickly with a muttered apology to Fidelma, begging to be excused, and made for the door, taking Accobrán by the arm.
‘Tell me, tanist, do you have a dyer in the fortress?’
Accobrán looked astonished.
‘A dathatóir?’ he murmured.
‘Indeed,’ snapped Eadulf. ‘There is surely a dathatóirecht in the fortress, a place where fabrics are dyed?’
‘Well, if you can find the smith’s forge on the east side of the fortress, within the walls, you will see the shop of Mochta nearby. He not only tends to the clothes of the chieftain, but also…’
Eadulf did not wait to hear any more but was already hurrying away. Accobrán stood shaking his head as he looked after the Saxon. Then he turned back to where Fidelma was greeting Goll and his wife. The woodcutter’s face was grim.
‘I have come to tell you that my son is innocent,’ he said belligerently. ‘Furthermore, I am here to declare that I shall undertake the troscud until my son has been released without blemish on his character.’
Fidelma tried to hide the smile that rose unbidden to her lips and she drew her brows together as she tried t
o concentrate. It made her features express harsh resolve.
Fínmed moved forward, her hands imploring. ‘My husband is indeed resolved, lady. I have argued with him. But we both know that Gabrán is not guilty of that with which he is charged. He tried to run away in a moment of weakness, of fear, because-’
Goll snorted in derision. ‘Words will not release him. I am prepared-’
‘To go without food and water until he is released,’ supplied Fidelma. She knew the troscud well for less than a year ago she had been forced to face a difficult situation in which a chieftain threatened the troscud against a people who had no idea of the significance and symbolism of the act. She gave a hiss of breath denoting her irritation.
‘Listen to me, Goll. Listen well, woodsman. The troscud is a course of last resort. To starve to the point of death and to death itself is a weapon not to be used as a mere whim. Do you think if your son were guilty that it would be moral to secure his release by such a means? The consequence of the action would fall on you.’
Goll’s jaw came up aggressively. ‘I know my son to be innocent and I will not be swayed from my intention.’
Fidelma shook her head sadly. ‘Fínmed, I will address myself to you. You are more sensible than your husband and your son; indeed, more sensible than many here. Take your husband and take your son, Gabrán, and go home. There is hot blood in your men, Fínmed. Too much reaction and too little thought.’
Fínmed and Goll stood staring at her as if they had not understood what she had said.
‘Did I not make myself clear?’ Fidelma demanded. ‘Take Gabrán and go home. He has not been accused of any crime except the mistake of not believing the inevitability of justice.’
She turned and quickly left the Great Hall before realisation hit them.
Chapter Thirteen
Eadulf easily found Mochta’s shop not only from Accobrán’s directions but also from the pungent odours of the dyes.
What was the flower he wanted called in Irish? He thought it was bruchlais something or other. In his own Saxon it was called a wort — those of the New Faith called it the wort of John the Baptist because it was said to bloom on that day in June which was celebrated as the Baptist’s birthday. It was the flower that the old apothecaries of Tuam Brecain had said was good for the condition he suspected Fidelma was suffering from. The trouble was that it only appeared in the summer months, otherwise he would have gone looking for it in the abundantly endowed countryside. He knew that there was only one place in which he might find some stored for the winter months, apart from an apothecary’s shop. The plant was used to dye cloth.
Mochta, the dye-master, greeted him warmly.
‘Greetings, Brother Saxon. I know who you are and why you are come to this place. I saw you and the king’s sister the other day. What can I do for you?’
Eadulf told him.
‘St John’s Wort?’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I use it. Most certainly I use it. I take a purple dye from the flower heads and extract a yellow dye from the plant tops. A useful plant for a dathatóir. But why would you have need of it?’
Eadulf leant forward eagerly. ‘Accept that I have a use for it also, my friend. If you would sell me some of the plants, what price would you put on them?’
Mochta rubbed his chin.
‘What use would you have for such a plant?’ he demanded again. ‘I swear that you are not going to indulge in the business of mixing dye.’
Eadulf laughed quickly. ‘That I am not, dathatóir. But plants are useful for other things apart from mixing dyes.’
‘Ah, I see. Are you by way of being an apothecary, eh?’
‘I have studied the art but am merely a herbalist rather than one who pretends to the medical skills.’
Mochta stroked his nose with a forefinger as he considered the proposition. ‘I can sell you a bunch for a screpall but certainly no more, for I have need for these colours soon.’
‘A bunch will do well enough,’ Eadulf agreed.
The Angelus bell had tolled its last chimes that evening when people began to gather in Becc’s great hall. Eadulf, taking an unobtrusive seat at the back of the hall, observed that most of the people were those who had been in attendance at the funeral that morning. There were also several of the religious from the abbey.
Bébháil and Tómma had been brought in to sit in front of those attending, facing the chieftain’s chair. Immediately behind them was a group of people whom Eadulf recognised as relatives of Bébháil come to support her. At either side of the chieftain’s chair of office were several other seats.
Accobrán entered bearing a staff of office which he thumped on the ground three times calling for quiet. Then Becc entered, followed by Fidelma and Abbot Brogán. The chieftain took his seat with Fidelma on his right hand side and the abbot on his left, with Accobrán seated on the abbot’s left.
Becc turned to Fidelma and motioned for her to proceed.
‘This is a sad matter,’ Fidelma began softly. ‘Thankfully, it is a simple one. Bébháil has confessed to the unlawful killing of her husband, Lesren the tanner. The obstruction of justice by giving false testimony has been confessed to by Tómma. Bébháil and Tómma have described the circumstances of this crime from their view. Your chieftain and I have discussed these circumstances in the presence of the abbot and the tanist. We are all agreed on a resolution to this matter.’
She paused and glanced down to where Bébháil and Tómma were seated with pale faces and eyes downcast.
‘The crimes being confessed, all that now remains is the announcement of the penalties. Does either of you have anything to say as to why we may not now impose such penalties upon you?’
The widow of Lesren shook her head quickly while Tómma looked up. He seemed about to open his mouth to say something but his companion laid her hand on his arm and he dropped his gaze again.
‘Very well. To the crime of fingal as charged against Bébháil, we have taken into account the circumstances of this act. The Cairde text, as I have already indicated to those who have confessed, takes into account that it is permitted to kill in self-defence and the text is clear — every counter-wounding is free from liability. We have fully taken into account that Bébháil was driven to a point where she was not in control of her actions and, in this condition, she killed Lesren. So she leaves this court without penalty as to that killing. However’ — Fidelma said the word quickly as the audible murmur began to gather throughout the hall — ‘we must impose a small fine for the delay before which she confessed the matter to me, which wasted time and could have led to a potentially harmful situation. For that Bébháil must pay her chieftain two screpalls.’
Bébháil was in tears now but smiling through them. It was a small sum for a tanner’s widow to pay. Members of her family were gathering round and patting her on the back.
Fidelma turned to Tómma, who had clearly been surprised and happy about the lightness of his companion’s punishment, and called for silence.
‘Tómma, I am afraid it is you who have committed the more serious of the offences that has to be judged this day. I have told you that a false witness is deemed beyond God’s forgiveness. If we do not have truth, then we have nothing. For this false testimony you must pay the consequences.’
Bébháil was clutching her companion’s hand now and she raised her tear-stained face to Fidelma. ‘But he did it for my sake, to protect me, lady. He was willing to perjure his soul to protect me. Can you not find mercy…can you…’
Fidelma regarded her coldly, causing her to hesitate and fall silent.
‘The law cannot admit to justification for lies,’ she replied firmly. ‘But as judges and interpreters of the law, we have taken into account the circumstances as, indeed, we must. But still the law demands its price for lies.’
Tómma patted Bébháil’s hand in pacification.
‘I am ready to answer to justice, lady.’
‘You will lose your honour price for a year and a day. In toke
n of which you will pay a fine of that honour price.’
There was quiet in the hall as people tried to reckon up how much this would mean. Fidelma smiled grimly at their puzzled expressions.
‘Tómma, I believe that you are of the class that is not yet possessed of any land handed down from your father or family. You are of the Fer Midbad.’
The tanner nodded slowly.
‘You have been in this position for fourteen years?’
‘I have.’
‘Then your honour price in accordance with law is the value of a heifer cow of one year in age, which is four screpalls. Can you pay that sum?’
Tómma swallowed as he felt the relief surge through him. ‘That I can, lady.’
‘A year and a day from now, providing you give no further cause for legal action, your honour price will be returned to you.’
There came some muted cheering in the hall among those who had nursed a dislike for Lesren and had been sympathetic to Bébháil. The relatives were now leaning forward and congratulating both of them. No one argued that the judgement was harsh. No one took any notice of Accobrán’s stern remonstrance to be silent. Becc glanced at Fidelma, smiled and shrugged.
‘Let us leave them all to their moment of relief,’ Fidelma said, rising from her seat. ‘In their joy they have failed to remember that we still have a murderer to find.’
Fidelma and Eadulf paused to rest their horses on the brow of the hill and looked down the road along which the bothán of Menma the hunter lay.
Eadulf was irritable since his attempts to make Fidelma swallow a draught of the potion he had prepared from an infusion of St John’s Wort had come to nothing. She had instructed him to throw it away and no amount of cajoling could make her even taste it.
‘This is a waste of time,’ he said crossly.
‘I have never known you to have a feeling about an investigation that is not based on logical deduction from tested information,’ he replied moodily. ‘Usually, it is information that I have neglected to assess.’
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