Eadulf sat back and drummed his fingers on the table top.
‘Is this helpful?’ inquired Rudgal after a moment or two when Eadulf did not make any further comment.
Eadulf brought his gaze back to the man absently.
‘What? Helpful? Yes … perhaps. I don’t know. I must think on this.’
Rudgal coughed nervously.
‘Then shall I return to Murgal? If so, what answer shall I give him?’
Eadulf hesitated a moment and then broke out into a broad smile.
‘Tell Murgal that I am now prepared. I shall pursue my arguments on procedure and stand by them. Take these books and tell him so.’
‘I thought that you wanted them for another hour or two?’
‘No longer. I think I now know the path to follow.’
‘And you agree that you will be able to present your case to Murgal this afternoon?’
‘I do agree,’ Eadulf said emphatically.
Rudgal collected the books and Eadulf accompanied him to the door.
‘Once I have told Murgal,’ Rudgal said, ‘I will take this news to Sister Fidelma. I wish you luck, Brother, in your effort to free her.’
Eadulf raised a hand in brief acknowledgment but it was plain that his mind was elsewhere. After a while he turned his gaze to the notes that he had been making from the law texts. Then he sat down again with a frown on his features as he drifted into deep thought.
Chapter Thirteen
Eadulf was plainly nervous as he took his stand before Murgal the Brehon who sat in his traditional place at the left-hand side of Laisre. The chieftain himself looked far from happy as he slumped silently in his chair allowing Murgal to conduct the entire proceedings. Fidelma had been brought from her place of confinement by Rudgal who stood just behind her chair which was placed in front of Laisre and Murgal.
It seemed that the entire inhabitants of the ráth had turned out to witness the event. Eadulf was aware of the presence of the tanist, Colla, and his wife, Orla, on the right-hand side of the chieftain. There was the scowling youthful Brother Dianach. Esnad sat next to him. Artgal stood at the back, his features still fixed in a derisive grin. There was the attractive apothecary, Marga, and the handsome young horse trader, Ibor of Muirthemne, was seated by her side. Even Cruinn lurked in the background with her large girth. The atmosphere was one of tense expectancy.
Murgal had called for silence but there was almost no need. A hush had already descended from the moment Fidelma had been brought in and told to be seated.
The clan of Gleann Geis had never witnessed such an entertainment, as Colla admitted afterwards.
Having established order, Murgal formally opened the proceedings.
‘It is my understanding that Fidelma of Cashel wishes to make a plea to be released on her own recognisances and to remain at liberty until such time as she appears before this court after the nine days prescribed by law when she may answer as to her culpability in the murder of Solin of Armagh? Is that so?’
‘It is so,’ Eadulf responded. ‘And I speak for her in this place.’
Laisre was unhappy.
‘Does the Saxon have that right, Murgal?’ the chieftain demanded.
‘He does, lord.’ Murgal sounded almost apologetic.
Laisre’s mouth was set in a straight, thin line but he indicated that the proceedings should continue.
‘Forgive me, Laisre of Gleann Geis,’ Eadulf began hesitantly, stepping out of procedure to address the chieftain directly. ‘Perhaps I might set your mind at rest as to my position. You rightly call me Saxon; it is true that I am not born in this land. I was a hereditary gerefa in my own land which is a magistrate similar to a Brehon, giving judgments under the law of my own people. I was converted to the path of Christ by a man called Fursa; a man of this land, who came to preach the new religion in my own land of the South Folk. He persuaded me to come and seek education in this land and I did so, studying at Durrow and Tuam Brecain, although my knowledge of your tongue and your laws is still imperfect.’
Murgal answered for the scowling chieftain.
‘Your speech demonstrates that your judgment of yourself is harsh, Saxon. You are a tribute to Fursa’s faith in you. You have but to ask of this court and we will be indulgent in guiding you through our laws. On what grounds do you bring us hither to judge whether Fidelma of Cashel shall be released pending trial?’
Eadulf glanced at Fidelma and smiled swift encouragement for she sat pale and stiff, unused to being in the position of the accused before a Brehon. She remained with an expressionless face gazing into the middle distance. Eadulf continued.
‘I am here to offer a plea for the release of Fidelma of Cashel by virtue of her rank.’
Laisre shook his head and leaned towards Murgal.
‘Does he plead law?’
Murgal ignored his chieftain’s question. He was, after all, a Brehon sitting in judgment.
‘This is an unusual step, Saxon. The charge against Fidelma of Cashel is one of murder. Even rank does not automatically grant rights in that respect.’
‘I would argue against that. The Berrad Airechta, if I have understood the text, says that even with a charge of murder, if the suspect is of princely rank and of good character and the evidence is unclear, then they may be released on the decision of the Brehon until nine days expire when the trial must be held.’
Fidelma had turned to study Eadulf, her expression one of approval at his acquired knowledge. He had spent his time among Murgal’s books well. She vaguely recalled this law but she doubted that it would work to gain her freedom for the next nine days in these hostile circumstances.
‘You have studied well.’ Murgal echoed her thoughts and even he spoke approvingly. ‘That is, indeed, the law. Let me hear how you think it should apply in these circumstances.’
Eadulf gave a nervous jerk of his head.
‘You will correct me if I am in error?’ he asked.
‘Be assured of that,’ Murgal affirmed with grim humour.
‘The legal commentaries, as I understand them, say that the status and character of a suspect must be taken into account in this decision. Will anyone in this court deny that Sister Fidelma is of noble status and degree not only in her birthright but in her legal qualification as a dálaigh?’
There was a stirring among the people in the chamber.
‘We have never denied this,’ Murgal replied with a tired voice.
‘Is there anyone in this court that challenges the fact that Sister Fidelma is of unblemished character and her name is spoken of with affection not only in Cashel but in Tara’s halls?’
Again his voice rang through the chamber in challenge and there was silence.
‘No one denies this,’ affirmed Murgal.
‘Then you must accept that, according to law, if Sister Fidelma takes oath, the fír testa, as you call it, then you must accept her word until proof is sworn against her. Sister Fidelma can leave this court on her own recognisances.’
Laisre looked at Murgal sharply, an eyebrow raised in question, but Murgal shook his head and spoke directly to Eadulf.
‘That is the law. As you say, we can accept her oath until proof is sworn against her. But we have a witness whose testimony cancels out her oath.’
Fidelma had seen this coming. She had seen enough cases being tried before competent Brehons to know that Murgal would know that a witness to the murder, making a statement to that effect, would cancel out the oath Eadulf had alluded to. The fact that the witness was only relating what he or she thought they saw did not invalidate the statement until disproved at the trial.
Eadulf’s eyes had sought out Artgal who stood grinning at the back of the chamber.
‘Bring forward your witness,’ Eadulf instructed coldly. ‘Let him testify.’
‘He will testify at the trial in nine days’ time,’ Murgal replied sharply. ‘This is not the time for his testimony.’
‘He must testify now!’ insisted Eadulf ra
ising his voice above the murmur from the people. ‘It is today that we are dealing with the competence of Fidelma’s oath and if his testimony cancels out that oath then he must testify now.’
Murgal swallowed hard. He stared at the Saxon with a mixture of surprise and growing admiration. He had brought forth a legal stratagem to examine Artgal’s testimony without waiting for the trial.
Artgal came swaggering forward even before Murgal had instructed him to do so.
‘I am here, Saxon,’ he announced boastfully, ‘and I am not changing my testimony in spite of your strutting and pretence at being a dálaigh.’
Murgal stirred uncomfortably at the hostility of the witness.
‘Artgal,’ he warned sharply, ‘the Saxon is a stranger in our land. Let us show him that we respect our laws of hospitality by giving him respect.’
Artgal drew himself up but the sneer did not leave his face. He remained silent.
Eadulf glanced towards the Brehon and imperceptibly grimaced his thanks before he turned to the warrior.
‘I have no wish to make you change your testimony, Artgal,’ he began quietly. ‘I accept that you have related what you thought you saw.’
There was an intake of breath from several people and even Fidelma turned with a puzzled stare wondering where Eadulf was heading with his strategy.
‘Then why do you wish to question him?’ demanded Murgal, somewhat perplexed, putting the question that had sprung into her mind.
‘Forgive me, Murgal,’ Eadulf almost looked as if he were pleading, ‘I merely need advice on the law at this point.’
Fidelma was not the only one who wondered if Eadulf had realised the advantage that he was throwing away by not pursuing Artgal’s evidence and seeking to destroy it. For Fidelma it seemed the only logical route that he could take.
Murgal cleared his throat noisily.
‘Well, my advice is that if you have no wish to interrogate Artgal to make him change his testimony against Fidelma, then he need not be summoned and his testimony against Fidelma stands. That being so, your argument for her release falls.’
Artgal gave a bark of sardonic laughter and started to move back to his former position.
‘Stay where you are!’
The sharpness in Eadulf’s voice was so unexpected that it rooted Artgal to the spot in astonishment. Eyes turned to Eadulf as if they could not believe that the mild supplicant of a second ago had spoken so harshly. Even Fidelma was momentarily shaken by the stern manner of his command.
Eadulf had turned back to Murgal and resumed in a quieter tone.
‘I have yet to put my question,’ he protested mildly, though it seemed that there was a tone of rebuke in his voice.
Murgal blinked a little in wonder.
‘Then proceed,’ he invited after a moment or two.
‘I know little of the procedure of the court but I have consulted the text called “the five paths to judgment”. Artgal is called as a witness which you call fiadú – one who sees.’
‘That is correct,’ affirmed Murgal.
‘The text says that such a one, in giving testimony, must be sensible, honest, conscientious and of good memory.’
‘I am all that, Saxon,’ intervened Artgal, relaxing with a smile again. ‘So what?’
‘Tell me, learned judge,’ went on Eadulf, ignoring him, ‘what does the legal maxim given in the text mean when it says – foben inracus accobar?’
The question was asked innocently enough but there was a sudden silence in the chamber, an instant tension.
‘It means that “greed detracts from honesty”,’ Murgal interpreted, though everyone felt that Eadulf already knew the meaning well enough.
‘It means that a man cannot give evidence if it brings advantage to himself, doesn’t it? His evidence is thus excluded from the hearing and justified by that legal maxim.’
If a grain of sand had fallen in that chamber, the silence had grown such that Fidelma felt it might well have been heard striking the floor. She wondered to what position Eadulf was proceeding with his arguments.
He had turned to face Artgal whose expression was no longer contemptuous. His features had grown grave, the face slightly ashen.
‘Artgal, do you stand to profit by your evidence against Fidelma of Cashel?’
Artgal made no reply. He seemed to have difficulty speaking.
After several long moments, Murgal spoke slowly and clearly: ‘Witness, you must answer – and, remember, you stand on your oath not only as a clansman but as a privileged warrior-bodyguard of our chieftain.’
Artgal realised the bad impression he was making by his hesitation and tried to recover his poise.
‘Why would I profit?’
‘A question is no answer to the question that I asked you,’ snapped Eadulf. ‘Do you stand to profit from your evidence?’
‘No.’
‘No? You have sworn an oath.’
‘No.’
‘No, again? Do I need to remind you of a certain sum of two séds that has already exchanged hands and a further séd which will pass into your possession when Fidelma’s trial is over? Each séd representing one milch cow?’
There was a gasp through the chamber.
‘You will need to prove this accusation, Saxon,’ Murgal called sharply.
‘Oh, I shall prove it, never fear,’ Eadulf smiled grimly. ‘Do you wish me to name the person from whom this largesse came, Artgal?’
The warrior seemed to deflate before Eadulf s confident stand. He shook his head.
‘Then tell us why you were to receive this money?’
‘It was no bribe,’ Artgal began to protest.
‘No bribe?’ It was Eadulf s turn to sneer. ‘Then why should you be paid for your testimony if it was not a bribe?’
‘I did see Fidelma in the stable. I did see her bending over the man, Solin. She must have killed him.’
‘Must? This is a change from saying you actually witnessed her do so,’ interposed Murgal gravely.
‘One thing must follow from another,’ protested the warrior-blacksmith.
‘Much play on this word “must”,’ Eadulf observed. ‘Must is merely saying “should” or “ought” but not that something actually was.’
‘This court is well aware of the meaning of the word,’ interposed Murgal testily. ‘And we take notice of Artgal’s change of testimony. But, Artgal, do you admit that you were paid to tell that story?’
‘Not to tell it,’ protested Artgal. ‘To ensure I did not change the story.’
Eadulf let out a low breath and only now did he give a triumphal glance towards Fidelma. She was staring at the floor, her shoulders bent in tension.
‘I am at a loss to understand this,’ Murgal was saying. ‘Why would you be likely to change your story?’
‘I would not. It is the truth. However, I was approached a few hours after Fidelma had been incarcerated, by a man who offered me two séds, for sticking to my story. He would pay me immediately and promised a further séd once Fidelma of Cashel’s trial was over. Money has little value in Gleann Geis and so I agreed that this was the value of three milch cows. I accepted such a payment. With such a sum I could be assured of security for the rest of my life.’
‘Who was this man who gave you this money?’ Laisre asked heavily, intervening now for the first time since the revelation was made.
‘I know not, my lord. It was dark and I did not see him. I heard only his voice.’
‘How did he sound?’ demanded Murgal.
Artgal raised a hand helplessly.
Something prompted Eadulf to gamble.
‘You heard his voice clearly enough, Artgal,’ he pressed. ‘Did he have a northern accent?’
Artgal’s expression was pitiful now. The bombast had disappeared entirely.
‘Did he speak with the accent of a man of Ulaidh?’ insisted Eadulf.
Artgal nodded miserably.
All eyes turned to the seated figure of Ibor of Muirthemne wh
ose face had coloured but he kept staring stonily in front of him.
‘What did this voice tell you?’ Murgal asked grimly.
‘The man told me that if I went forth this morning I would find the two milch cows tethered near my farmstead. In nine days’ time I would find a third, that was if I did not change my testimony against Fidelma. I swear I had no choice but to accept. He stood in the darkness by my bed. He could as easily have pressed a dagger’s point into my throat as offer me money.’
‘And did you go forth in the morning, this very morning, and find the milch cows?’ asked Murgal.
‘I did.’
‘And so, in short, your testimony was bought,’ Eadulf summed up triumphantly.
‘I made clear my testimony before I received the cows,’ protested Artgal.
Laisre spoke to Murgal almost with an eager tone.
‘He has a point there. Surely this cannot be considered a bribe to give evidence?’
Eadulf was about to protest but Murgal rubbed his chin thoughtfully before replying to the chieftain.
‘It means that, according to the law, we cannot use Artgal’s evidence against Fidelma. He has rendered himself without honour and cannot be believed. There is no evidence other than his against Fidelma of Cashel.’
Laisre turned to Artgal with scarcely suppressed fury.
‘This man who offered you the cows spoke with the accent of the northern kingdom, you say?’
‘He did, my lord.’
‘Are you sure he spoke with a northern accent? Could it not be a Saxon accent for example?’
There was a loud gasp as all those gathered were amazed at the chieftain’s overt accusation.
‘My lord,’ Murgal urged anxiously, ‘it cannot be suggested that the Saxon trapped Artgal to discredit him in order to bring this decision about.’
Laisre glowered at Eadulf.
‘Why not? One explanation is as good as another.’
‘My lord, reconsider your hasty words. The evidence is clear. Artgal would know a northern accent from a Saxon one and would have said so. For you to argue this would be to bring your office into disrepute.’
Laisre looked as if he wanted to prolong the argument but with Murgal’s discouragement he could not.
‘Very well. We must question all those with northern accents, I suppose.’
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