“She must have been disappointed when Congal refused Rimid’s offer of marriage.”
“This was so. I thought she might wait until she reached the aimsir togu, the age of consent, when she would be a woman and with full right of choice. Then I thought she would marry with Rimid. When she reached the age where she could decide, there would be no question of Congal being able to demand a bride-price. I think Rimid shared that belief. He was bitter when he learnt that Barrdub was throwing herself at Brother Fergal.”
“Was he now?” mused Fidelma. “Well, let us go and speak with this Rimid. You say he might be at his work? Where would that be?”
The Brehon sighed.
“He might be at the bothán of Iland, the herbalist.”
Fidelma halted and stared at the Brehon in astonishment.
“Is Rimid a herbalist?”
The Brehon shook his head.
“No, no. He is not a professional man. He is employed by the herbalist to go abroad each day and gather the herbs and flowers wanted for the preparations.”
Rimid’s face was full of bitter hatred. He was a flushed-faced, excitable youth, scarcely beyond the age of choice.
“Yes. I loved Barrdub. I loved her and she betrayed me. I might have won her back, but for this man, Fergal. I will kill him.”
The Brehon sniffed disdainfully.
“It is not your right, Rimid. The law will punish and seek compensation.”
“Yet if I meet him on the highway, I will slay him with as little compunction as I will a vermin.”
“Your hatred is great, Rimid, because you feel that he stole Barr-dub from you,” interposed Fidelma. “That is understandable. Did you also hate Barrdub?”
Rimid’s eyes widened.
“Hate? No! I loved her.”
“Yet you say that she betrayed you, deserted your love for Brother Fergal. You must have been angry with her… angry enough…”
Fidelma let her voice trail off purposely.
Rimid blinked.
“Never! I would never harm her.”
“In spite of your hate? And did you also hate Congal?”
“Why hate Congal?” Rimid seemed puzzled.
“But he also denied you Barrdub by refusing your offer of a tinnscra which he thought was not sufficient.”
Rimid shrugged.
“I disliked Congal, yes. But Barrdub was only six months away from the aimsir togu, the age of choice, and she promised that when that time came we would marry without her brother’s approval.”
“Did Congal know this?”
Rimid shrugged. “I do not know. It is likely that Barrdub told him.”
“How did he accept it?”
“There was nothing he could do… but then Brother Fergal came along.”
“But Fergal did not have a tinnscra to offer. He is one of our order and took a vow of poverty.”
“Congal says there was no question of marriage. Fergal just mesmerized and played with the affections of Barrdub until she became too troublesome to him.”
“Mesmerized?” Fidelma frowned. “An interesting choice of word, Rimid.”
“It is true.”
“Did you rebuke Barrdub about her relationship?”
Rimid hesitated and shook his head.
“I was blind. I did not know what was going on behind my back until the day before the murder.”
“How did you find out?”
“Congal told me. I met him on the road that evening with anger in his face. Barrdub had told him that day.”
“And when did you know about her death?”
“I was going to Fergal’s bothán that morning to have it out with him when I met the Brehon and Congal on the path and they told me of Barrdub’s death. Two men were carrying Barrdub’s body on a litter and Fergal had been arrested for the crime.”
Fidelma glanced quickly to the Brehon for confirmation and he nodded.
“How long have you been a herb gatherer, Rimid?” Fidelma suddenly asked.
“Since I was a boy,” the man replied, hestitating slightly at her abrupt turn of tack.
“Did you, or Iland the herbalist, supply herbs to Brother Fer-gal?”
“I did not, but I knew that Iland did. I gather herbs for Iland. Fergal suffered from want of breath and took herbs for the condition.”
“Was that well known?”
“Many knew,” replied Rimid.
“Barrdub knew?”
“Yes. She mentioned it to me once when we were at religious service.”
“Congal? Did he know?”
Rimid shrugged. “Many knew. I do not know who specifically did or who did not.”
Fidelma paused and then smiled.
“I am finished.” She turned to the Brehon. “I am now prepared to plead before the court tomorrow.”
Most of the clan of the Eóghanacht of Cashel were assembled in the great hall of the chieftain. The chieftain, Eóghan himself, sat on the right-hand side of the Brehon, who would sit in judgment. It was law and courtesy to consult with the chieftain of the clan when judgment was made.
Brother Fergal stood before the Brehon and the chieftain, a thickset and muscular clansman at his shoulder, with sword and shield, to keep order. Fergal was placed before a small waist-high wooden bar which was known as the cos-na-dála, the foot of the court, from which all accused before the Dál, or court, had to plead.
To the right of this was a small platform which had been erected for the prosecution’s advocate or dálaigh; a thin, sharp-faced man. To the left, on a similar platform, sat Sister Fidelma, hands demurely folded in her lap, yet her clear green eyes missing nothing. The witnesses had been summoned and the Dál was crowded with the men and women of the clan, for never in the memory of the village had a member of the religieux been charged with the heinous crime of murder.
The Brehon, calling for silence, asked Brother Fergal if he accepted Sister Fidelma as his advocate for it was, according to ancient law, Fergal’s right to conduct his own defense. Brother Fergal shook his head and indicated that Sister Fidelma would speak for him.
The prosecution then delivered his case in the manner which the Brehon had already advised Sister Fidelma.
There was a murmur of expectation as Sister Fidelma finally rose to address the Brehon.
“Brother Fergal is innocent of this crime,” she began in a loud compelling tone.
There was silence among the people.
“Do you dispute the evidence?” asked the Brehon, smiling slightly now. “Remember, I went with Congal and discovered Barr-dub’s body lying in Brother Fergal’s bothán with Fergal asleep on his bed. I saw the blood on his clothes.”
“I do not dispute that,” Fidelma assured him. “But that in itself is no proof of the act of murder. The events as the prosecution describes them are not in contention, only the manner of their interpretation.”
Rimid let out an angry protest from the well of the court.
“Fergal is a murderer! She only seeks to protect one of her own!”
The Brehon gestured him to silence.
“Continue with your defense, Sister Fidelma.”
“Brother Fergal suffers from asthma. He is known to take herbal remedies to relieve his condition. This was known to several people. That night he returned to his bothan exhausted. He usually lit a fire of stramóiniam leaves and inhaled them before bed. But sometimes, when he was too exhausted, took a drink of an infusion of similar herbs.”
Brother Fergal was staring at her.
“Fergal, did you inhale or drink the herbs that night?”
“I was too tired to sit up and prepare the inhalation. I always kept a kettle with an infusion of herbs ready. So I merely heated and drank a measure.”
“And you knew no more until the morning?”
“Nothing until I was awakened by the Brehon and Congal,” agreed the monk.
“You slept soundly. Is that usual?”
Brother Fergal hesitated, frowning as if he had not co
nsidered the matter before.
“Unusual. My chest often troubles me so that I wake in the early hours and must ease it with more of the infusion.”
“Quite so. You slept unusually soundly. So soundly that someone could enter your bothán without disturbing you? As, indeed, did the Brehon and Congal. You had to be shaken awake by both of them or you would not have known of their presence.”
The court was quiet and the Brehon was looking at her with curiosity.
“What are you suggesting, Sister Fidelma?”
“I suggest nothing. I present evidence. I took a wooden vessel from Brother Fergal’s bothan in your presence and gave it to you as evidence.”
The Brehon nodded and indicated the wooden vessel on the table before him.
“This is so. There is the bowl.”
“Is this the vessel from which you drank, Fergal?”
The monk examined the vessel and nodded.
“It is mine. There is my name scratched on its surface. It is the vessel from which I drank.”
“There remains some liquid at the bottom of the vessel and I tasted it. It was not an infusion of stramóiniam.”
“What then?” demanded the Brehon.
“To please the court, we could call Hand, the herbalist, to examine it and give his opinion. But the court knows that I am an Anruth and qualified in the knowledge of herbs.”
“The court accepts your knowledge, Sister Fidelma,” replied the Brehon impatiently.
Fidelma bowed her head.
“It contains the remains of an infusion of lus mor na coille together with muing.”
“For those not acquainted with herbs, explain what these are,” instructed the Brehon, frowning.
“Certainly. The lus mór na coille, which we call deadly nightshade, is a powerful sedative inducing sleep, while muing, or poison hemlock, if taken in large doses can produce paralysis. Any person knowledgeable about herbs will tell you this. By drinking this infusion, Brother Fergal was effectively drugged. He slept the sleep of one dead and was oblivious to everything. It was lucky that he was aroused at all. It may well be that whoever provided him with the potion did not expect him to ever awake. Brother Fergal would simply have been found dead, next to Barrdub. The conclusion would have been that he killed her and then took this poisonous mixture in an act of remorse.”
She paused at the disturbance which her words provoked. Brother Fergal stood staring at her with a shocked, pale face.
The Brehon, calling for silence, then addressed himself to Fidelma.
“Are you saying that Barrdub was killed in Fergal’s bothán while he slept and he did not know it?”
“No. I am saying that the person who drugged Fergal killed Barrdub elsewhere and carried her body to the bothán, leaving it inside. That person then rubbed some of her blood on Fergal’s hands and clothes while he lay in his drugged slumber. Having created the scene, that person then departed. The murderer made several errors. He left the tell-tale evidence of the drinking vessel in which were the remains of the drugs. And he left Barrdub’s blood smeared on the side of the door when he carried her body into the bothán.”
“I recall you showing me that stain,” the Brehon intervened. “At the time I pointed out that it was probably caused when we removed the body.”
“Not so. The stain was at shoulder height. When you removed the body, it is reported that your men placed it on a litter. Two men would have carried the litter.”
The Brehon nodded confirmation.
“The highest the litter, with the body, could be carried in comfort would be at waist height. But the stain was at shoulder height. Therefore, the stain was not caused when the body was removed from the bothán but when it was carried in. The murderer, being one person, had to carry the body on his own. The easiest method to carry such a dead weight is on the shoulders. The stain was made at shoulder height when the body was carried inside by the murderer.”
“Your argument is plausible,” conceded the Brehon. “But not conclusive.”
“Then let me put this before the court. Your argument is that Brother Fergal stabbed Barrdub to death in a mad frenzy. Then, exhausted, too exhausted to take the body out of his bothán to conceal the murder, he fell asleep on his bed and was found the next morning.”
“That is as the prosecution contends.”
“Where then is the weapon?”
“What?” The word came slowly from the mouth of the Brehon, a growing doubt appearing in his eyes.
“You made no mention of a weapon, the knife by which Barrdub was stabbed to death. If you did not take it when you found Fergal that morning, it must have still been there. I searched the bothán. I found no weapon. Brother Fergal carries no such knife.”
The Brehon bit his lip.
“It is true, no weapon was found.”
“Yet a weapon must exist with Barrdub’s blood upon it.”
“Fergal could have hidden it,” countered the Brehon, realizing his fault for not instigating the search before.
“Why? Why hide the weapon when he was too exhausted to hide the body?”
“Your arguments are possible explanations. Yet if Fergal did not murder Barrdub, who did?” Before she could answer, the Bre-hon’s eyes lit up. “Ah, so that is why you were interested in the hermit Erca’s herbs? Do you contend that he did this? That he did it to harm Fergal? We all know that he hates every Christian.”
Fidelma shook her head emphatically.
“Erca hates all Christians, but he did not do this. He simply confirmed my suspicion that I had tasted two powerful drugs which could be easily obtained in the vicinity. A deeper motive lies behind this murder than simply a hatred of Christians.”
She turned and caught Rimid’s pale face. The man’s lips were trembling.
“She is trying to lay the blame on me!” he cried.
The Brehon also was looking at Rimid with deep suspicion. He demanded: “Was not your hatred of Fergal great? You said as much to us yesterday.”
“I did not do it. I loved Barrdub … I…” Rimid sprang to his feet and began to fight his way out of the great hall.
“Seize him!” cried the Brehon. Two clansmen moved forward.
But Fidelma had turned to the Brehon with shaking head.
“No, let him go. It was not Rimid.”
The Brehon frowned. Rimid, caught between the two clansmen, halted his struggles and glanced back in bewilderment.
“Who then?” the Brehon demanded in exasperation.
“Barrdub was murdered by Congal.”
There was a gasp.
“A lie! The bitch lies!” Congal had leapt to his feet in the great hall, his face pale, his hands clasped into fists.
“Congal murdered his own sister?” The Brehon was incredulous. “But why?”
“For one of the oldest motives of all. For gain.”
“But, Barrdub had no property. What gain is in this deed?”
Sister Fidelma sighed sadly.
“Congal was an impecunious man. His father had held a good position within the clan and Congal, if all went well, could have expected no less. But things were never well for Congal. He was capricious, undependable. He preferred to dream and make great plans which always went awry. He was reduced, with his sister, to living in a poor wood and mud bothán, hiring out his labor to his neighbors who were better off than he was. They pitied him. That made him bitter. All this was common knowledge. You, Bre-hon, told me as much.
“Rimid and Barrdub were in love with each other. Rimid was not possessed of great wealth. He survived as most of us do, content to earn his living. But when Rimid went to ask Congal’s ap-proval to marry Barrdub, who was not yet at the age of consent, Congal refused. Why? Because Congal did not care for his sister’s happiness. He cared for wealth. He demanded the full bride-price or tinnscra due for the daughter of a free hostel keeper of the tribe, even though both his sister and he had long fallen from that social position.”
“Yet that was his r
ight in law,” interposed the Brehon.
“A right, truly. But sometimes rights can be a form of injustice,” replied Fidelma.
“Carry on.”
“Rimid could not afford the full tinnscra. Barrdub was indignant and made it clear to her brother that when she reached the age of consent, when she had free and equal choice, she would go with Rimid anyway. Her brother would not profit from any tinns-cra then.”
Sister Fidelma paused a moment to gather her thoughts.
“Congal had conceived the idea that his only hope to alleviate his poverty and become respectable in the tribe was to get his hands on twenty milk cows which a prospective husband would pay for the full tinnscra or bride-price. Then a new idea came into his mind. A fantastic idea. Why settle for twenty milk cows for the bride-price? If his sister was slain, the murderer or his family would have to pay compensation and that compensation was set in law at no less than forty-five milk cows, the foundation of a respectable herd and one which would make him a person of position in the tribe. But he would have to ensure that the person charged with the crime could pay such a sum.
“Then Brother Fergal appears. It is true that an individual monk is not wealthy. However, it is the law that members of the fine or family of a person unable to pay the eric or compensation become responsible for the payment to the victim’s family. It is well known that the Abbey stands in place of a family. If a member of the Abbey is found guilty of a crime, then the Abbey would be expected to pay the eric. Congal reasoned that the Abbey could well afford the forty-five milk cows that would be the compensation. Poor Barrdub’s fate was then sealed.
“Congal knew of Fergal’s ailment and means of medication. He prepared the potion, threw out Fergal’s usual mixture and substituted his own drugged brew. He reasoned that Fergal would not check the contents of his kettle before he heated the herbal drink. Then Congal saw Rimid and prepared the way further by telling him that Barrdub was smitten by Fergal, that they were in love. Finally, Congal went to find Barrdub and the rest we already know.
“He killed her, carried her into Fergal’s bothán as soon as the monk had dropped into his deep sleep, and left her there, smearing Fergal’s hands and clothes with her blood. His two major mistakes were not leaving the murder weapon at the scene and not destroying the traces of the herbs in Fergal’s bowl.”
Hemlock at Vespers sf-9 Page 3