Whispers of the Dead (11 page)

She motioned to Ferchar.

Brehon Gormán examined the young warrior.

“State your name and position.”

“I am Ferchar of the bodyguard of King Colgú and act as his messenger.”

“What is your evidence in the matter of the murder of Brother Eolang?”

Ferchar looked puzzled and Fidelma intervened.

“He means the death of Brother Eolang, the brother found by the pier.”

Brehon Gormán scowled in annoyance at her correction.

“That is what I meant,” he said tightly.

“I was riding along the shore on my way to Cashel,” began Ferchar. “Across, on the island, I saw a religieux mooring his boat at the end of one of the side piers of the abbey.”

“I do not think we need bring forward evidence that this was Brother Eolang bringing the boat to the herb garden pier where he was found,” intervened Fidelma.

Brehon Gormán motioned Ferchar to continue with an impatient gesture.

“The religieux had moored the boat and was walking along the pier when it seemed that he stopped abruptly and turned back to the boat. This meant that he was facing toward me. Then, curiously, he started back as if something had stopped him. I heard a crack. He staggered back and fell off the edge of the pier. I started shouting to
attract attention. I shouted for some minutes and then I saw another religieux exit from a gate. He heard my voice but I doubt if he heard my words. I gestured to where the religieux had fallen in. He must have seen him for he waved acknowledgment and jumped in and started to haul the body to the shore. Seeing that another religieux had arrived, and that there was nothing else I could do, I continued on my journey, not realizing that in that short time, the first religieux had met his death.”

“Are you sure there was no one else around at the time the religieux fell into the water? The religieux was by himself on the pier?”

“No one else was there,” affirmed Ferchar.

“But you heard a crack?” intervened Brehon Gormán.

“I did. Like a branch breaking.”

“Perhaps someone had cast a spear at him to make him fall back or… yes, a slingshot perhaps?” suggested the Brehon.

“He was facing towards me on the shore. The distance was too far to cast a slingshot or any other weapon. No, there was no one around when the man fell into the lake.”

“Are you claiming that this was the act of some supernatural force?” demanded the Brehon turning to Fidelma. “What of the prediction? You cannot explain away the accuracy of the prediction.”

Fidelma smiled at Ferchar.

“Wait outside and ask Brother Conchobar to enter.”

A moment later the old man did so and Fidelma asked the Brehon to spread the astrological chart before him.

“Conchobar will you examine this chart and give me your advice?” she invited.

The old man nodded and took the chart from her hands. He spent some time poring over it and then he looked up.

“It is a good chart. A professional one.”

Brehon Gormán smiled approvingly.

“You agree, then, learned Conchobar with the conclusions of Eolang?”

“Most things are correct…” agreed the old man.

Fidelma could see the Brehon’s smile broaden but Brother Conchobar was continuing.

“ . . . except one important point. Brother Eolang appears to have predicted that within a week following his drawing and judging his horary question that he would die. It would happen on the day that Mercury and Jupiter perfected conjunction.”

“Exactly. The first day of the month of Aibreán. And that was the very day that he was killed, exactly as he predicted,” the Brehon confirmed. “You cannot deny that.”

The old man tapped on the chart with his finger, shaking his head.

“The error, however, is that he failed to note that Mercury turned direct a few hours later and never perfected the conjunction. Brehon, as you have some knowledge of the art, you should know that we call this phenomenon refranation. Alas, I have seen this carelessness, this overlooking of such an important fact, among many astrologers. To give Brother Eolang his due, perhaps he was too confused and worried to sit and spend time calculating the planetary movements accurately.”

“But he was accurate. He did indeed die on the predicted day. How do you explain it?” protested Brehon Gormán.

“But he was not murdered,” insisted Brother Conchobar. “The chart does not show it.”

“Then how can it be explained?” demanded the Brehon in bewilderment. “How did he die?”

Fidelma intervened with a smile.

“If you come with me, I will show you what happened.”

At the end of the old pier, Fidelma paused.

“Brother Eolang brought the boat to the end of the pier. He climbed onto the pier and started to head to the abbey. He forgot something in the boat. His
marsupium
to be exact. This was found by Brother Petrán later. So, halfway along the pier, he turned back for it. This much did our friend, Ferchar, observe from the far shore.”

There was a murmur of agreement from Ferchar.

“Now, look at the condition of the planks on the pier. Some are rotten, some are not nailed down. He stepped sharply towards the boat and…”

Fidelma turned, examined the planking critically for a moment, stepped sharply on one. The far end rose with a cracking noise and she had to step swiftly aside to avoid being hit by it as it flew up into the air. She turned back triumphantly to the onlookers.

“Brother Eolang was hit by the end of the plank between the eyes, causing the wounds found by the apothecary. It also knocked him unconscious and he fell back into the water. Drowning does not have to be a long process. By the time he was hauled out of the water he was dead.”

“Then the prediction… .?” began the bewildered Brehon.

“Was false. It was an accident. It was nobody’s fault.”

Sometime later as Ferchar, Conchobar and Fidelma were being rowed back to the mainland, the old astrologer turned to Fidelma with a lopsided smile.

“I can’t help thinking that had Brother Eolang been a better astrologer, he would have made a correct prediction. It was all there, danger of death from water and he was accurate as to the day such danger would occur.”

Fidelma nodded thoughtfully.

“The fault was that Brother Eolang, like our friend, Brehon Gormán, believed that the patterns of the stars absolved man from using his free will; that man no longer had choice and that everything was predestined. That is not how the ancients taught the art of
nemgnacht.
”

Brother Conchobar nodded approvingly.

“So you do remember what I taught you?”

“You taught that there are signs that serve as warnings and give us information from which the wise can make decisions. They are options, possibilities from which we may select choices. The new
learning from the east seems more fatalistic. Even the Christian teachings of Augustine of Hippo would have it that everything is predestined. That is why I am more happy with the teachings of Pelagius.”

“Even though Augustine’s supporters have sneered at Pelagius as being ‘full of Irish porridge’ ?”

“Better Irish porridge than blind prejudice.”

Brother Conchobar chuckled.

“Have a care, Fidelma, lest you be accused of a pagan heresy!”

F
idelma!”

The young monk nearly collided with a tall girl as she came around the corner of the building with such speed and force that he barely had time to flatten himself against the wall to avoid her.

“Can’t stop,” she flung breathlessly at him as she hurried on with her hair and robes flying with the speed of her progress.

“Brehon Morann is looking for you,” the religieux shouted after her retreating form.

“I know,” her voice flung back. “I’m on my way.”

“You’re late for your examination,” the young monk added before realizing that she could no longer hear him. He stood for a moment, looking disapprovingly after her as she disappeared toward a
gray stone building that was the center of the college, then he shrugged and continued on his way.

Fidelma did not need to be reminded that she was late for her examination with Brehon Morann of Tara. The examination was one of several she was taking which, she hoped, would result in her achieving the degree of
Dos
and thus ending her fourth year of study at the college of which Morann was Principal. The degree of
Dos,
so called because the student was regarded as a young tree ready to develop—for such was the literal meaning of the word—marked the start of her graduation from the school of law studies. It was the lowest rung of the graduate ladder. With such a degree one could go forth and practice as a minor magistrate or legal advisor. Fidelma had a higher ambition than that. But if she did not present herself within the appointed hour she would not be graduating at all.

The Brehon Morann sat at his desk, alone in his study, as Fidelma obeyed his gruff instruction to enter after she had timidly tapped upon his door. He was an elderly man with a kindly face but whose features could mold into a look of stern disapproval within a moment. He wore such an expression now.

“Well, Fidelma,” he said softly, as she came breathlessly to stand before him, “is it not said that judges begin to count the faults of those who keep them waiting?”

Fidelma colored in annoyance.

“Fer-leginn,”
she addressed him by his official title of “Principal,” “It is not my fault that I…”

She saw him begin to scowl and her mouth snapped shut.

“They are truly good who are faultless,” sighed Brehon Morann. His face was still somber but his twinkling bright eyes regarded her for a moment. She swore that he was laughing at her. “What were you saying, Fidelma?”

She shook her head.

“I am sorry for my lateness.” She tried to sound contrite. It was no use explaining that for some inexplicable reason the key had been
turned in the lock of her door from the outside and it had taken her some time to attract attention and extricate herself from her room. She realized that it was no use explaining her lateness for this examination. She harbored ill thoughts against the student who would have played such a silly and petty trick on her. That they did it this morning of all mornings, when she was due for her examination, increased her thoughts of vengeance on the perpetrator. Morann had doubtless heard many excuses from students over the years and, even though her excuse was, in fact, a reason, any attempted explanation would not enhance her image in the eyes of her venerable examiner.

“Then I accept your contrition,” replied the Brehon solemnly, sitting back and placing his fingertips against one another, hand to hand, so that the tips of the thumbs touched just under his chin. “Sit down.”

Fidelma sat down, feeling hard done by.

“Tell me what you know of The Blemish?”

Brehon Morann asked the question without preamble and for a second Fidelma had to compose her thoughts.

“The Blemish? You mean, what is a blemish in legal terms?” she countered, playing for time.

Again, the frown of annoyance crossed Brehon Morann’s brow.

“You are in a college for the study of law,” he pointed out dryly, leaving her to make her own deduction.

Fidelma began to speak, hoping as she did so that the information would come to her mind.

“The law text
Uraicecht Becc
opens with the sentence that our system of law is founded on truth, right and nature. A judge must give a surety of five ounces of silver that the judgment they give is truthful to the best of the knowledge provided to them. They forfeit that sum if an appeal against their judgment is upheld. If it is found that they have made an erroneous judgment when the facts presented to them are clear then they are fined one
cumal.
”

“Are you saying that honest error is not allowed in law?” snapped Morann.

“It is allowed for—isn’t there a saying which is ‘to every judge an error’? But a judge must pay for his errors if that error is obvious, and if the error arises from bias then it is said that a blemish will raise itself on his face. A serious false judgment will result in the judge being deprived of his office and his honor.”