‘That would be supported by the fact that there are no shoes here — but our assassin was wearing the sort of footwear that could go with such clothing. There is no underwear here either, but our assassin was wearing a shirt of sróll or satin which is more likely to go with these clothes than those of a poor religieux.’
‘You seem certain then that the clothes are those of the assassin?’ Gormán asked.
‘The clothes fit the pattern,’ said Eadulf. ‘He’s not a noble or a warrior, nor one pursuing a physical trade or an artisan … They confirm what I said when I examined the corpse.’
‘What about the tonsure?’ demanded Gormán.
‘As Fidelma observed, the assassin seemed to have shaved his tonsure recently,’ Eadulf said. ‘He disguised himself as a religieux deliberately. I stick to my opinion that he was a poet, a copyist or illustrator.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Fidelma asked.
‘Last night, we saw that the assassin’s hands showed that he did not do physical work. The fingernails were well cared for. However, his right-hand thumb and forefinger were stained.’
‘And that indicated?’
‘They were stained by ink, which meant that he often had a quill in his right hand. Who works with a quill and ink if they are not scholars? He could have come from an ecclesiastical college or even from one of the secular schools, but I believe he was not a religieux.’
Gormán was staring at the clothing moodily as if he were trying to gather more evidence from them. Then he suddenly gave a soft exclamation and picked up the saddle-bag, turning the leather over to examine it more closely.
‘It’s just a plain leather saddle-bag, Gormán, my friend,’ Eadulf commented. ‘Good quality and well-stitched, but-’
He was interrupted by a grunt of satisfaction from the young warrior, who had turned over one of the flaps and pointed to something underneath.
‘The leather has been marked — seared by a hot needle. See.’ He held it out for inspection.
Fidelma took the bag from him and peered closely. ‘A serpent entwined around a sword. Why, that is the mark of …’
‘… the Uí Fidgente’s princes,’ Gormán finished with emphasis.
Fidelma turned to where Aibell was finishing her meal.
‘When did you leave Dún Eochair Mháigh?’
‘I told you, as soon as I reached the age of choice. Four years ago.’
‘So you are now eighteen? And where have you been since then?’
Once again, the girl showed reluctance in answering, but seeing the frown gathering on Fidelma’s brow, she changed her mind.
‘I was a long time in the country of the Luachra.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I served in the household of Fidaig.’
Fidelma was surprised. ‘Fidaig, the lord of the Luachra?’
‘Yes. I worked in the kitchens of his household.’
‘And why did you leave?’
‘If you must know, I ran away,’ the girl replied defiantly. ‘I was sold to him as a bondservant and I ran away.’
Fidelma’s brows rose in astonishment. ‘You said you were born and raised at the capital of the Uí Fidgente. Who was your father?’
‘He was a fisherman, an iascaire, on the River Mháigh.’
‘Of what class was he?’
‘He was a saer-céile, a free-tenant, who rented his cabin and stretch of the river from a prince of the Uí Fidgente.’
‘So what do you mean when you say that you were sold to the Luachra? Why would a free man of the Uí Fidgente allow his daughter to be sold to a neighbouring tribe?’
‘My father declared me to be a daer-fudir and sold me.’
Fidelma breathed out sharply. Daer-fudirs were the lowest members of society, mainly criminals who had refused to meet their fines and pay compensation, or captives taken in battle. In other words, they were slaves — often foreign — people who had fallen foul of the law and were unable to extricate themselves. However, the fate of these slaves was not hopeless, for the law favoured their emancipation — and with diligence and perseverance they could raise their status and even come to be a free person in the clan.
‘How would you become a daer-fudir?’
‘My father sold me, to pay his debts.’
‘But that is illegal!’ exclaimed Fidelma.
‘My father was a beast.’
‘And your father’s name was …?’
‘Escmug.’
‘A name well-suited for a fisherman,’ muttered Gormán. The name meant ‘eel’.
‘He was a beast,’ repeated the girl. She looked directly at Fidelma and said: ‘At first I was not sorry to escape from my father. If you are as knowledgeable as you seem, then he was similar to Oengus Tuirbech in the stories told about him around the winter fireside.’
Eadulf noticed that this meant as much to Gormán as it did to himself, because the young warrior was also looking puzzled. However, Fidelma appeared shocked by what she had heard.
‘Then you have led a sorrowful life, Aibell,’ she said. ‘Now I begin to understand your bitterness.’
‘Never!’ The word came out like the crack of a whip. ‘No one will ever be able to understand me, to understand what I have had to endure. But I will do so no more. If you try to send me back, I shall resist.’
‘You shall not be sent back. If you were at the age of choice when you were sold, then your father was contravening the law in selling you as much as Fidaig was in buying you. Both will answer to the law. I promise this.’
The girl sniffed; scepticism was clearly on her features.
‘My father is dead and who is going to punish Fidaig? He is powerful and rules the mountains of Sliabh Luachra.’
It was Della who intervened. ‘Young girl, I do not know your troubles but I will tell you this — when the lady Fidelma says that something will be done, then it will be done.’ Her voice was vehement and, for a moment, seemed to impress Aibell. Then the girl turned away with a defensive movement of her shoulders.
Fidelma glanced at Gormán. ‘Keep an eye on our young friend here,’ she said quietly before turning to Eadulf. ‘Eadulf, come with me to the paddock. I want your advice.’
Eadulf was about to comment when he saw her expression and so followed her without demur. They walked slowly down to the paddock gate.
‘What is it?’ he asked, when they stopped. They both leaned on the wooden bar of the gate watching the two horses that still stood grazing contentedly in the field.
‘This is perplexing,’ she sighed.
Eadulf grinned. ‘It is not often that you admit to being perplexed about anything.’
Fidelma said, ‘Well, I am now. When we found this girl, I thought we would be reaching a rapid conclusion in this matter.’
‘I am not so sure that we have not,’ replied Eadulf. ‘We know the assassin came here on horseback. He arrived, put some narcotic on the meat for Della’s dog so it wouldn’t cause an alarm, and thus was able to place his horse in Della’s paddock. Then he changed into the guise of a religieux from Mungairit, leaving his clothes in the woodman’s shed, and came to the palace. His saddle-bag is branded with the symbol of the Uí Fidgente, not just any of that clan but the mark of the princely family itself. The Eóghanacht and Uí Fidgente have been blood enemies for generations … you know well enough that if there is any rebellion in the kingdom, the Uí Fidgente are usually behind it.’
‘Not always,’ objected Fidelma. ‘Not since my brother defeated them at Cnoc Áine.’
Years before, Colgú had crushed a rebellion mounted by Eoghanán, the prince of the Uí Fidgente, on the slopes of Cnoc Áine. Eoghanán’s warlike sons, Torcán and Lorcán, also met their death during the same conspiracy. And when the princedom of the Uí Fidgente passed to Donennach, son of Oengus, he had agreed a peace with Cashel; since when an unsettled calm had been maintained over the kingdom.