‘Lesren’s wife supported his version of events,’ murmured Eadulf.
‘The man is not merely a fool, he is a wicked one,’ replied Becc. ‘Why his wife continues to put up with his abuse, I do not know. As I have said, surely Lesren cannot accuse the boy after the evidence that was gathered by Accobrán? Then there are the other murders. Brocc has convinced everyone, except Lesren, that the strangers in the abbey are to blame for all of them.’
Fidelma sighed deeply. ‘There is much fear and distrust here, Becc. It is like peering into an impenetrable mist filled with swirling dark shadows. But it is early days yet. We still have many people to speak to and if Eadulf has finished eating, we should make another start.’
Eadulf hastily swallowed the remains of some fruit he was nibbling and sprang up. He did not notice that Fidelma was smiling at him.
‘That’s Seachlann’s mill, lady.’
Fidelma and Eadulf had been following the young tanist down a winding pathway towards the riverbank for the second time that day. This area was rather like the clearing in which the tanner’s buildings were placed except that the trees surrounding it were sparser than at Lesren’s place. Dominating the area was a round watermill with a series of large pedals powered into motion by the force of the river. A short distance from the mill, by the fast-flowing waters, they saw a man seated before a small open fire. He was middle-aged, thickset and muscular but rough-looking, with a shaggy black beard and woolly hair. He held a basket before him that he extended over the fire, turning it and tossing the contents with his two hands.
Fidelma caught Eadulf’s puzzled frown and smiled.
‘He is drying graddan, wholemeal, in the criather, that is the basket he holds over the fire,’ she explained. ‘The dry grain will then be taken to the miller to grind. Do they not process the grain in similar fashion in your own land?’
Eadulf shook his head. ‘Not exactly in the same way. Surely you can dry only a little grain in that fashion?’
‘Oh, we also have a large oven, a kiln’ — the term she used was sorn-na-hátha — ‘in which we roast larger amounts of grain. The method this man is using is only for small amounts.’
‘Why doesn’t that little wooden sieve catch fire?’ asked Eadulf.
‘The bottom is made of bone, the fabra of a míl-mór or whale,’ she said with a smile. ‘The bone can scorch but not burn.’
The man at the fire heard their approach and now set aside his basket and rose slowly to his feet, a scowl on his unpleasant features. It did not imply that they were welcome.
Accobrán turned his head towards Fidelma and said quietly: ‘The man is Brocc, the brother of the miller. This is our local troublemaker.’
‘What do you seek here, Accobrán?’ came Brocc’s gruff voice before they had closed the five-or six-yard distance between them. He took a few paces from the fire and they saw he had a pronounced limp. Fidelma recalled that this was the man whom Becc had shot in the thigh with his arrow. ‘You have no cause to pester me with your presence unless you wish to imprison me again.’
Unperturbed by the man’s surliness, the tanist laughed easily.
‘I shall not pester you, Brocc…just so long as you are not stirring up trouble. We are here only to see your brother, Seachlann the miller.’
At the sound of their voices another man had emerged from the mill and stood before the door with his leather miller’s apron covering his slightly corpulent figure. He stood, legs apart and hands on his hips. The resemblance between the newcomer and Brocc left one in no doubt that he was a brother. He was obviously older than Brocc and of a less muscular build.
‘What do you seek of me?’ he demanded, raising his voice without leaving the door of the mill. He was gazing at Fidelma and Eadulf as he spoke. ‘I have little need of visits by religious with my daughter’s murderers being harboured in the abbey.’
Accobrán introduced Fidelma and Eadulf. Brocc responded with a sarcastic chuckle.
‘So you are the dálaigh whom our chieftain went to Cashel to fetch?’ he demanded of Fidelma. ‘A religieuse! And you have come here to protect the abbey?’
Fidelma turned a brittle expression on him. ‘I am a dálaigh and uphold the law no matter who transgresses it. If you cannot remember that fact, Brocc, I suggest that you at least remember that I am sister to Colgú your king. I would also remind you that you have your freedom only on good behaviour.’
Brocc opened his mouth slightly as if to reply, saw the cold steel of her eyes, shrugged and remained silent.
‘What do you want of us, lady,’ the miller asked in a slightly more respectful tone.
‘To learn more about your daughter, Seachlann, and the circumstances of her death so that I can resolve the matter of her killers.’
The miller waved them forward towards the mill. ‘We can be seated more comfortably inside.’ He paused and glanced towards his brother. ‘That grain still needs to be prepared for the grinding,’ he added sharply.
Without demur, Brocc limped back to the fire and his unfinished task.
Seachlann stood aside as they entered the mill. It was surprisingly light inside, the sun streaming through the apertures which served as windows.
He motioned them to sit on sacks that were presumably filled with grain or flour and took a similar seat himself.
‘Careful, my friend,’ he said suddenly as Eadulf made to seat himself. ‘That sack is too near the shaft and I would not like you to have an accident.’ Eadulf moved away to another sack and the miller smiled towards Fidelma. ‘You see, lady, I know the “Rights of Water” from the Book of Acaill.’
‘I hear that your brother is not so aware of the law, Seachlann.’ replied Fidelma. Then she turned to Eadulf who had been puzzled by this exchange. ‘Seachlann refers to a law relating to the fines and compensation for accidental damage or injury to persons in a mill,’ she explained. ‘It is the section we call “Eight Parts of a Mill”, areas where accidents can happen and for which the miller is responsible in law. Each area is where the machinery of a watermill can damage the unwary.’ She glanced back to Seachlann. ‘It seems that you are a conscientious miller.’
In spite of being seated, Seachlann seemed to draw himself up with an air of momentary pride.
‘I am a saer-muilinn,’ he said.
Eadulf realised that a millwright was of higher professional status than a muilleóir or miller, which had been the title used by Fidelma. A millwright also designed and constructed the mill and did not simply operate it. Fidelma now inclined her head in acknowledgement.
‘So let us return to the reason why we have come to you, Seachlann.’
The millwright’s brows came together in a wary frown. ‘Are you really here to learn the truth or merely to protect those of the cloth which you share?’
Fidelma decided to make allowance for Seachlann as the father of one of the slaughtered victims.
‘My oath is to serve truth and justice, Seachlann. Truth must prevail though the sky falls on our heads or the oceans rise to engulf us.’
For a moment or two the millwright sat gazing at her as if measuring the value of the words in the expression of her face.
‘What do you want to know, lady?’
‘Tell me about Escrach and what happened on the night of her death,’ invited Fidelma.
There was a pause and then Seachlann sighed.
‘Escrach was the youngest of our children. She was only seventeen years of age. She was young and in the bloom of her youth. We knew how she would blossom for that is why we named her so.’
Fidelma knew that the name Escrach meant ‘blooming’ or ‘blossoming’ but made no comment.