Brehon Aillín was about to dismiss the man when Fidelma turned to the guard with a thoughtful expression.
‘One moment, Luan. Why did you say that you should have been suspicious? What gave you such a thought?’
The guard looked unhappy, licking his dry lips for a moment.
‘Lady, it is a long way to come on foot from Mungairit in the land of the Uí Fidgente, yet this man strolled up to the gates here as if he had barely walked from the centre of the town, let alone from Mungairit. There was no sign of his having been on the road for any time. His clothes were not creased or dusty, and he did not even carry a walking staff.’
‘He could have travelled by horse or some other means, and also stopped along the way,’ Brehon Aillín commented. ‘That is what taverns and hostels are for.’
‘He did say that he had walked,’ Luan repeated. ‘I suppose that he could have changed his clothes and footwear before arriving at our gates. That would make sense.’
‘It is a good point,’ Fidelma said. ‘But not necessarily something to be suspicious about. You should not rebuke yourself, Luan. Even if you had voiced your concern, it would not have stopped the inevitability of what has taken place.’
‘There is something more …’ began Luan.
‘Which is?’ asked Brehon Aillín, sounding impatient.
‘Just before the feast started there was a downpour of icy rain. It did not last very long but it was heavy. Feel my tunic. I was on guard and could not find shelter in time.’
He held out an arm and Fidelma reached forward and touched it. It was still damp.
Luan continued: ‘The Brother arrived in dry clothes, within a short time of the heavy shower ending. So he could not have come far.’
‘You point is well taken, Luan,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘But even so, there could have been a logical explanation. I repeat: do not blame yourself. You may return to your duties.’
As soon as Luan had left the feasting hall, Fidelma turned to where the body of the assassin was still sprawled on the floor where it had fallen. Nearby was the body of Brehon Áedo.
‘I think we can have poor Áedo’s body removed to the chapel while we see if the murderer’s body can tell us something as to his identity,’ she suggested.
Brehon Aillín relayed the order to Caol, who summoned two attendants and instructed them to remove the body of the slain Chief Brehon of Muman. Aillín stood with Fidelma as she stared down at the body of the assassin before her. Then she knelt at his feet and, without touching anything, gazed at the man’s shoes. They were of the type called cuarán, shoes of leather with seven folds or layers to make the sole, which gave them the necessary thickness for hard wear. Unusually, the leather was stitched to cover a piece of wood to support the heel.
‘One thing is certain,’ she said. ‘Luan is correct. This man has not walked far in these shoes. They are fairly new and the leather on the soles has hardly been marked. They are of good craftsmanship, too. In no circumstances are they the footwear of a poor religieux. Oh, and can you see those score-marks on the leather on the inside parts of the sandals? What might that mean?’
Brehon Aillín pursed his lips. ‘That this fellow had some impediment in walking, one foot scraping the other?’
Fidelma shook her head. ‘We saw no such impediment when he walked into the feasting hall. There is another explanation — that the score-marks were made by stirrups when the man was mounted.’
Brehon Aillín looked a little embarrassed at this obvious deduction. ‘It is possible,’ he conceded.
Fidelma continued her examination. ‘The robes are ordinary religieux robes without adornment. They are of good quality wool and woven well, but nothing remarkable.’
‘Except that the robes are dry,’ muttered Brother Aillín, ‘as Luan duly noted.’
‘He wears a criss, a belt of cordage,’ Fidelma continued, ‘but nothing else. One might expect a purse to be attached, such as that worn by a religieux who is travelling. Now let us turn him over on his back and see what else we can find.’
They carefully turned the body onto its back.
Fidelma allowed Brother Aillín to make a quick search of the clothing but he moved back and sighed, ‘There is nothing hidden other than what you see, but I will observe that his undershirt is unusual.’
Fidelma leaned forward, and even before she felt the texture she could recognise the material. ‘Sróll?’ She did not hide her surprise.
‘Satin, indeed. A shirt of satin, not of flax or wool which most religieux would wear,’ confirmed the Brehon.
‘The clothing must be examined carefully to see if there are any marks of embroidery which might identify its origin,’ Fidelma told him. ‘It is strange that this man carries neither purse nor anything else that one would expect on a journey. So let us see what we can tell by his appearance.’
She gazed down at the face of her brother’s attacker. It was only now on close examination that she realised the dead man was only in his mid-twenties or so. His gaunt, sallow face had, at first glance, made him appear far older. The cheeks and upper lip were cleanshaven, but with that telltale bluish quality which indicated that he had to shave more frequently than most. The hair around his tonsure was thick and almost blue-black, as were his eyebrows. The eyes, vacantly staring upwards, were dark as well. Having observed their colour, Fidelma bent forward and closed them, trying to disguise her distaste for the task as the body had now begun to grow cold. Then she forced herself to touch the skin where the tonsure of St John had been shaved, after the manner of the Five Kingdoms rather than that of St Peter of Rome.
‘You note how his pate is pale — a white circle of skin that is at odds with the sallow and weather-tanned skin of his face and arms? I think this tonsure was but recently cut.’
‘You doubt that he was a religieux?’ asked Brehon Aillín.
‘You must admit, he has proved to be an unusual religieux,’ replied Fidelma dryly. ‘But we can make no such deduction as yet. We only remark that the tonsure is but recent. Now let us remove and examine his clothing and see what we can make of his body.’
‘His body?’ frowned Brehon Aillín.
‘The man can change his clothing, the cut of his hair — even his features to some extent — but he cannot disguise his body.’
‘Perhaps I should examine the body, lady,’ muttered Brehon Aillín uncomfortably.
‘I have seen and examined enough corpses in my time, Aillín, as you well know. I do not need anyone to spare my modesty.’
At that moment, Eadulf re-entered.
‘The King still lives,’ he announced, before anyone could ask the question. ‘The wound went deep but it is clean and there appears to be no infection. The bleeding has been halted and Brother Conchobhar is in constant attention. However, the King is still unconscious and perhaps that is a good thing, for sleep will help to heal the wound.’
Fidelma compressed her lips for a moment. The only question in her mind that Eadulf had not answered was one that no one could answer at that time: would Colgú live? She took in some deep breaths before she indicated the corpse.
‘You come at an opportune time, Eadulf, for we need your skills. We were just about to examine the body of the assassin.’
‘What of his words before he struck? Has anyone recognised them?’
They stared at him blankly for a moment.
‘Remember Liamuin!’ Eadulf reminded them. ‘Who is, or was, Liamuin? What does the name mean?’
‘It is not a common name,’ replied Fidelma, disconcerted that she had forgotten all about what the assassin had called out as he struck with his dagger.
‘It is a female name,’ replied Finguine. ‘Doesn’t it mean “the comely one”?’