He paused with a thoughtful frown.
‘You saw … what?’ prompted Eadulf.
‘Probably nothing. There was the young brother, what is his name – Dianach? Yes, I saw him walking in the other direction with Esnad and, of course, Artgal was walking nearby with Laisre, who was talking with him. Perhaps they saw something, though I do not think so otherwise they would have come to see what was wrong. No one else had apparently heard your cry of alarm.’
Eadulf shook his head firmly.
‘I do not think that will get us very far,’ he reflected, taking the books from Rudgal’s hands. ‘Artgal is the chief witness against Fidelma and young Brother Dianach made his dislike of me very clear this morning. No. We will not say any more about this.’
He left Rudgal and continued back to the hostel. Inside, he put the books carefully on the table and sat before them. He yawned and wished that he had had even more sleep. Then he thought of Fidelma in her cell and felt suddenly penitent for there would certainly be no sleep for her alone in that unfriendly place. But even the hostel was deserted. Neither Cruinn nor Brother Dianach had returned to the hostel. It was plain that they were avoiding him.
Slowly he began to turn the pages of the law texts.
Time passed, the characters on the pages began to take on a life of their own, twisting and swimming before his eyes. He seemed unable to take in the easiest of concepts. His eyelids felt heavier and heavier and his head began to droop.
He must have fallen asleep.
There was a sound at the door.
Eadulf jerked his head up from the manuscript, blinking rapidly and uncertain of where he was for the moment.
It was Rudgal who stood on the threshold.
‘What is it?’ Eadulf asked, yawning and feeling ashamed that he had dropped asleep. He pushed the law book away from him and turned to Rudgal.
‘I come with a message from Murgal, Brother. It is about the hearing which you requested.’
‘And?’ Eadulf was fully awake now and he rose to his feet. ‘Will he grant me a hearing tomorrow?’
‘Murgal says that you are within your rights to demand such a hearing before him as Brehon of Gleann Geis. I am to return the books to him – he said you would know which ones he wants. And, further, if you can assure him, through me, that you can cite procedure under law, he will accede to such a hearing. But the hearing must be held in the chieftain’s council chamber this afternoon before the evening meal.’
Eadulf was startled.
‘What hour is it now?’ Eadulf demanded, feeling that Murgal was playing cat and mouse with him.
‘Nearly an hour after the noon meal.’
‘That means I have only a few hours to prepare.’
Eadulf tried to quell his sudden panic. Rudgal’s face was expressionless as he watched him.
‘Murgal says that if you are unable to make your plea by this afternoon, then you have not comprehended the necessary law.’
Eadulf ran a hand distractedly through his hair.
‘At least Murgal is prepared to hold the hearing,’ he admitted. ‘You will have to tell him that I shall need another hour or so with these books. I shall return them later.’
He looked down at the open law book on the table in apprehension.
‘It seems my only hope is that he will accept the oath of Sister Fidelma, take into account her rank and her position as an Eóghanacht princess to free her until the hearing in nine days’ time.’
Rudgal smiled warmly.
‘It will be good for the Sister Fidelma to be released from the Chamber of Isolation, Brother. It is not fitting for one such as she to be incarcerated there.’
‘I wish I were optimistic about the outcome.’
Rudgal’s eyes narrowed.
‘You do not think that you are knowledgeable enough to secure freedom for Sister Fidelma?’ he demanded. He gestured to the books on the table. ‘What do these books tell you to do?’
Eadulf gave a painful laugh.
‘They tell me that my knowledge of law is poor and that the little that I do possess is not sufficient to ensure her release.’
‘Surely there is something you can do?’
‘There is only one thing other than Murgal’s acceptance of the oath of Fidelma as sister of the king of Cashel as guarantee for her appearing before him at the time of the trial.’
‘What is that?’ demanded Rudgal.
‘The other thing would be if I could show that Artgal is not a reliable witness.’
Rudgal rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘He is an ambitious man. A first-class blacksmith and a good warrior, I know that.’
‘Perhaps he has some secret. Maybe he betrayed a colleague in battle?’
Rudgal chuckled.
‘Look somewhere else, Brother. We fought together, side by side, at Hill of Aine against the Arada Cliach last year. He showed himself courageous in battle.’
Eadulf was staring at the man in surprise.
‘You fought there against the Arada Cliach? But that means that you fought against the army of the king of Cashel?’
Rudgal dismissed the matter with a grim smile.
‘We answered the call of our chieftain, Laisre, who in turn served Eoganán of the Uí Fidgente. But now Eoganán is dead and there is peace between the Uí Fidgente and Cashel again. So there is peace between Laisre and Cashel, too. But Artgal’s ambition lay not in wars. I know this, for he said his ambition was soon to be fulfilled in peace.’
‘I swear I do not understand your internal politics,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘Even if I did it still would not help me. Apart from Artgal’s prowess as a blacksmith and a warrior, is there nothing you can tell me about him? What is this you say about Artgal’s ambition?’
‘Ambition is no crime.’
‘But you said that he indicated that his ambition might be fulfilled.’
‘In fact, he swore as much this morning.’
‘What ambition?’ insisted Eadulf.
‘To expand his small farmstead and smithy and employ an apprentice, to be able to afford to have a wife. You’ll find nothing sinister in that.’
‘Indeed. Innocent enough. Why did it become an ambition?’
‘He had not been able to save enough to buy milch cows to form the basis of his stock. His smithy is inactive because Goban is the chief smith here. Most people go to him for more crafted work. Artgal’s farmstead is poor and he is always looking for work. He mainly ekes out an existence on the largesse he receives from Laisre as his bodyguard. But now he has been able to purchase two milch cows.’
‘Well, there is nothing in that which I can use to show that his word is not to be trusted.’
Rudgal agreed.
‘True enough. Though I don’t think he actually saved to buy the cows. Two days ago he was without money. We were gambling at Ronan’s farm and Artgal was losing heavily. At one point, he even offered to put up his farmstead and smithy shop as surety for his bet.’
Eadulf was not particularly interested.
‘So he won the cows or the money for them by gambling. That, too, is not to be condemned.’
Rudgal shook his head.
‘But he didn’t. He won sparingly enough to ensure that he did not lose his farmstead. He did not make any money. He left the game as broke as he had entered it. He took out only what he had put in.’
Eadulf felt a flicker of interest.
‘So where did he get the two cows from and how do you know about this?’
‘Only a short while ago I heard him talking to Ronan about nearly losing his farmstead in the game that night. He said, and I overheard this clearly, that fortune had smiled on him because he had just been given two milch cows as a reward for telling the truth.’
Eadulf looked up sharply.
‘He used those very words?’
‘The very words. He also said that in nine days’ time he would have a further milch cow to make three. With three milch cows he would be secure.’
Eadulf was staring hard at the fair-haired warrior who did not seem concerned at the effect that his words had.
‘Just repeat this – you said that you heard Artgal say that he had been given two cows as a reward for telling the truth and that in nine days’ time he would receive a further cow? Are those the exact words?’
Rudgal scratched his head as if this helped him to concentrate.
‘Indeed. Those are the words he said.’
‘But are you sure that he particularly used the expression “in nine days’ time” he would receive another cow? That is what he said?’
‘Oh yes. Nine days were mentioned.’
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.
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 raising 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.