The Leper's Bell (3 page)

Brother Eadulf felt a surge of guilt. For two days he had been trying to persuade Fidelma to pause and take stock. It was true, as Colgú said, that she was in a state of frenzy. However, he said defensively: ‘Fidelma is a trained and qualified
dálaigh
, Colgú. You know her reputation. If Fidelma cannot solve this conundrum, who can?’

The king gestured with his hand, half in defence, half in acknowledgement of what Eadulf said.

‘My sister’s reputation has spread through the five kingdoms of Éireann for the mastery of her investigations into mysteries and puzzles that no other minds can solve. And your own name, Eadulf, is firmly associated with that reputation. But this is her child of whom we speak.’

‘And mine,’ put in Brother Eadulf with quiet emphasis.

‘Of course. But a mother - any mother - has emotions that sometimes prevent cold logic when it comes to a discussion of her baby. In sending men out to search, I had to rely on you to try to describe what baby clothes were missing, so that we might get an idea of what Sárait had dressed the child in before she took him out that night. Fidelma could not bring herself to examine his clothing to see what was missing.’

Eadulf silently agreed that it was true. He had had to search through the little chest wherein they kept Alchú’s baby clothes, trying to remember what had been there in order to recall what he might have been dressed in. Fidelma was too upset to do so.

‘Well, Eadulf,’ Colgú continued, ‘you are the father of the child. That is true. But a man is more phlegmatic than a woman, and you especially, Eadulf, since I have known you, have been like a rock in a turbulent sea. Equable and self-controlled.’

Brother Eadulf sighed deeply. He did not feel cool-headed and balanced but he was inclined to agree with the young king that these last two days Fidelma had let her anxieties overwhelm her training as a clinical investigator of mysteries. However, his own emotional attachment to Fidelma made him feel as if he were betraying her by agreeing with Colgú.

‘What are you proposing?’ he asked quietly.

‘That my council meet and we all - my advisers, you and I - sit down and discuss what we know of this matter. The facts first. Then what possibilities there are of discovering who might be responsible for the crime. The others stand ready outside. Do you agree on this course, Eadulf?’

Brother Eadulf thought for a moment more and then shrugged.

‘We cannot continue without a plan,’ he agreed. ‘Nor should we do nothing at all. So the idea is acceptable to me.’

Colgú, without a further word, turned and reached for a small silver hand bell. Almost before its jangle had ceased, the door was thrown open and in came several men. Eadulf rose to his feet for, although he was the husband of Colgú’s sister, his status in the kingdom of Muman was that of a stranger; a distinguished stranger, but still a foreigner to the kingdom, a visitor from the land of the South Folk, among the kingdoms of the Angles and Saxons.

They entered in order of precedence. The handsome young prince, Finguine, cousin to Colgú, was tanist or heir apparent to the kingship. Then came the elderly Brehon Dathal, chief legal adviser to the king, and with him was Cerball the Bard, the repository of all the genealogies and history of the kingdom, carrying a leather satchel. Ségdae came next, bishop of Imleach,
comarb
or successor of the Blessed Ailbe, who first brought Christianity to Muman. Behind them came Capa, chief warrior of Cashel as well as commander of the King’s élite corps of bodyguards, each of whom was distinguished by the golden torque or collar that he wore round his neck. Moreover, Capa had been brother-in-law to the
murdered nurse, Sárait. These were Colgú’s closest advisers in the governing of the biggest of the five kingdoms of Éireann.

Colgú made his way to a round oak table on the far side of the room and sat down.

There will be no ceremony. Seat yourselves and we will talk as equals, for in this council we are all equal. Eadulf - you will be seated next to me, here on my left.’

Eadulf hid his surprise at this intimate gesture before the members of the king’s council. Yet no one seemed either shocked or put out by this honour shown to someone who was a stranger. If the truth were known, it was Eadulf’s own insecurity that kept his status in the forefront of his mind. After all, although the father of Fidelma’s son, he was only her
fer comtha
, not a ‘full-husband’. The marriage laws of the five kingdoms were complicated and there were several definitions of what constituted proper wedlock. There were, in fact, nine different types of union, and while the status and rights of husband and wife between Eadulf and Fidelma were recognised under the law of the
Cáin Lánamnus
, it was still a trial marriage, lasting a year and a day. After that time, if unsuccessful, both sides could go their separate ways without incurring penalties or blame. Eadulf was well aware of the temporary nature of his position.

The members of the council took their seats round the table and there was an uncomfortable silence before Colgú, looking round to make sure they were all settled, spoke.

‘You all know why you are summoned. Let us start off by recording the facts as we know them.’

Cerball, as bard and recorder, cleared his throat at once. The facts are simple. Sárait, a nurse, was slain and the child in her care was abducted. The child was the baby Alchú, son of Fidelma of Cashel and Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, a stranger to this kingdom. And this terrible event occurred four nights ago.’

There was a pause.

‘Now let us add to those facts,’ said Colgú. ‘Sárait had served as a nurse in this palace of Cashel for nearly six months. My sister had chosen her when she needed a wet nurse on the birth of her child. Is this not so, Eadulf?’

Eadulf glanced up in surprise at being addressed in council by the king. Colgú smiled encouragingly as he correctly guessed the reason for the Saxon’s hesitation.

‘You have permission to speak freely at any time during these proceedings,’ he added.

Eadulf inclined his head. ‘It is true. Sárait was well regarded by both Fidelma and me. Fidelma trusted her to the extent that she made her wet nurse to our baby. When we were asked to journey to Rath Raithlen, we entrusted Alchú without qualms into her care.’

Colgú glanced at Capa. ‘Sárait was sister to your wife, Capa. What would you add to this?’

The commander of the warriors pushed back his fair hair with a slightly vain gesture and leant back in his chair. His blue eyes were penetrating and serious. He looked sombre now.

‘Sárait was a handsome woman, a mature woman,’ he said slowly, clearly thinking about his choice of words. ‘She was neither frivolous nor thoughtless and took her responsibilities seriously. She was a widow. Her husband Callada had been a warrior who gave his life defending this kingdom against the Uí Fidgente in the battle at Cnoc Áine. I can vouch for Sárait’s probity. She had one relative and that was a sister called Gobnat, who, as everyone here knows, is my wife. We dwell in the township below the Rock. Sárait served at the palace, as Brother Eadulf has said. Her own baby had died and so the lady Fidelma took her to be wet nurse to their child.’

Colgú glanced round the table. ‘When the news of the finding of Sárait’s body was brought to me, I asked for the facts. I gathered that a child had come to the fortress with a message for Sárait. The message purported to come from her sister, Gobnat, asking Sárait to go to her immediately.’

‘Was any reason given as to why Gobnat wanted to see her sister so urgently?’ intervened Brehon Dathal. The old judge had a pedantic manner and took his position very seriously.

‘The reason is not known,’ replied Colgú. ‘We presume that, not finding anyone to look after her charge, Sárait had no other course but to take the baby with her when she left the fortress. We also presume that she intended to go down to the township to see Gobnat in response to that message. An hour or so later, a woodsman, Conchoille, on his way home, discovered the body of Sárait in the woods outside the township. There was no sign of the baby.’

No one spoke. They had heard these facts before.

‘And, for the record, Capa, what had your wife to say about this summons to Sárait?’ prompted Brehon Dathal.

‘That she did not send any summons at all to her sister. She and I knew nothing until we were told of Sárait’s death,’ answered Capa immediately.

‘Which was how?’ the old judge demanded.

‘The first Gobnat and I knew that anything was amiss was when Conchoille, the woodsman, knocked on our door close on midnight and told us that he had found Sárait’s body. I went back with him, but not before sending a message to the fortress to alert the guards. It was only later that we discovered that Sárait had left the palace with the baby.’

‘And what of the child who came to the fortress with the message that purported to come from your wife?’ queried Brehon Dathal.

Capa raised his arms in a gesture that indicated a lack of knowledge.

‘The child has not been identified and enquiries in the township or immediate countryside have failed to find any such child.’

‘Surely the guard who passed the child through…?’ Eadulf began.

Capa was shaking his head.

‘All that is remembered is that a small child, in a grey woollen robe on which the cowl had been drawn up, almost in the manner of a religious, came to the gates. The child appeared to be a mute for a piece of bark was handed to the guard on which was written “I am sent to see Sárait”. The guard could not swear to any distinguishing features save that it was a thickset child who walked with a curious gait.’

‘Such a child is surely not hard to find,’ muttered Brethon Dathal.

‘Nevertheless,’ repeated Capa, ‘the child has not been found.’

‘And the piece of bark?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘Was that retained?’

‘It was not.’

Eadulf shook his head with a sigh. All this was merely confirming what he already knew.

‘All this happened in the evening…?’ queried Cerball, who was keeping the record.

‘It was already dark, for the sun sets early now that the feast of Samhain has passed,’ replied Capa.

‘Blame may be ascribed to Sárait for the lack of thought she displayed in taking the baby from the protection of the palace out into the winter evening.’

It was Brehon Dathal, the old judge, who made the comment. He was punctilious when it came to law and sometimes, it was said, he allowed for no human frailty.

Bishop Ségdae, the senior bishop and abbot of the kingdom, made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an ironic snort.

‘In this situation, where she receives an urgent message from her sister, or is led to believe that she has, and can find no other to take care of the child, it would be natural for Sárait to take the baby with her,’ he pointed out.

There was, as Eadulf had already picked up, a hint of rivalry between the two elderly men. Both were not averse to trying to score points against each other.

‘Very well,’ broke in Colgú. ‘You are both right, but Sárait paid with her life for her mistake.’

‘What of the woodsman who found the body?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Conchoille? He is known as a loyal man of Cashel,’ Capa said immediately. ‘He also fought against the Uí Fidgente at Cnoc Áine.’

‘We should question him, though,’ Bishop Ségdae said.

‘Brehon Dathal has already done so,’ Colgú replied. Indeed, Dathal, as Chief Brehon, had questioned everyone involved, from the guard who admitted the child messenger to the fortress to Gobnat, Sárait’s sister.

‘Even so, and with due respect to Brehon Dathal,’ replied Bishop Ségdae in a pointed fashion, ‘this council needs to make sure of its facts. So I have actually sent for Capa’s wife, Gobnat, and for Conchoille and the guard who, I suspect, cannot add more to what has been said. But they all wait outside. I think we should all hear their stories in their own words.’

The Brehon Dathal was clearly irritated.

‘A waste of time. I can tell you exactly what their evidence is.’

‘It’s not like hearing it for ourselves,’ Bishop Ségdae replied. ‘Then we can be sure it is not distorted.’

The Brehon Dathal’s brows drew together.

‘Are you suggesting…?’ he began menacingly.

‘There was a recent hearing at Lios Mhór,’ broke in Bishop Ségdae softly, staring towards the ceiling as if in reflection, ‘where the judge misunderstood some evidence and gave an erroneous judgement. The judgement was appealed and the judge had to pay compensation…’

Eadulf knew that Brehons could have their decisions appealed. If the judge was shown to have been biased, been bribed or issued a false judgement, as opposed to made a genuine error, then that judge could be
deprived of his office and his honour-price. In other cases, fines were levied according to the extent of the error and its nature.

Brehon Dathal had grown crimson and he was making angry noises as he tried to find words to respond.

‘At some stage we would have had to place this evidence on record,’ Colgú said, trying to pacify the Brehon’s wounded ego. ‘So perhaps it is best if we hear all the witnesses now. Cerball will take down a record of their statements.’

‘I have come prepared with my materials, lord,’ the bard agreed, drawing from his leather satchel some writing tablets, wooden frames in which there was soft clay, and a stylus.

Brehon Dathal glared at Bishop Ségdae with a look of hatred. Then he said: ‘By all means, let us have the witnesses in one by one. Let us start with the guard.’

Capa glanced towards Colgú for confirmation of the procedure and the king nodded slightly. There was no need to upset the old judge further.

A moment later Capa had ushered in a warrior of medium height and sandy-coloured hair. He came to stand facing them at the table with an impassive expression.

‘Your name, warrior?’ demanded the Brehon Dathal.

‘Caol, my lord. Fifteen years in the service of the kings of Muman.’

‘I see, Caol, that you wear the golden necklet of the élite bodyguard of Cashel,’ Colgú said.

The warrior was not sure if this was a question or simply a statement of fact, as his emblem was obvious.