‘I understand you, Goll,’ she said quietly.
She rose from her seat and the others followed her example.
‘Thank you for your hospitality.’ Fidelma smiled at Fínmed. ‘I am hoping that we will soon clear up this mystery and end the misery that you and your family must be suffering from the stories that Lesren has spread.’
The woman returned her smile sadly, ‘I am afraid my son has suffered much for my first mistake.’
‘Your first mistake?’ Fidelma frowned.
‘The mistake was that I ever married Lesren. My excuse was that I was young and innocent and did not realise that youthful handsomeness could disguise a personality that was selfish and brutal. I feel sorrow — not so much for myself, for I have discovered a loving husband now and have a loving son — but for Bébháil. She has to suffer marriage to Lesren and, as an additional curse, she now has to bear the loss of her only child, her daughter Beccnat.’
Fidelma laid a hand on the woman’s arm in a gesture of sympathy. ‘You have a great heart, Fínmed, that you are able to allow a corner of it to feel sympathy for the suffering of Bébháil. But remember that if life was unbearable for her, she could have done as you did. Divorce is within her power also. So perhaps she is content with her lot with Lesren, for they have been seventeen or eighteen years as man and wife. But, truly, the loss of a child is a great tragedy for any mother, and in feeling sorrow for her on that account I would join you.’
They were riding away, down the slopes of the Hill of Crows, when Eadulf, who had been silent with his thoughts awhile, finally spoke.
‘Whom did Goll mean, Fidelma, when you asked about the person he suspected?’
‘I have to respect his wishes, Eadulf. He did not wish to name names. But it is a name that has crossed my thoughts and one that I shall keep to myself. For in naming names, you have a power to destroy if it is done in injustice.’
She noticed that a sulky look of irritation crossed Accobrán’s features for a moment. Then he asked: ‘Where do we ride to now, lady?’
For the first time in the many investigations that she had undertaken, Fidelma realised, with some surprise, that she did not know what her next move was going to be. She had pursued all the obvious avenues and each had led to a dead end. Goll had prompted her about one person she had a passing suspicion of, but it would not do well to approach that person with as little knowledge as she currently possessed. She needed more information first. One thing Fidelma had learned was that alerting someone to your suspicions when suspicion was all you had to offer was to provide them with time and opportunity to lay in alibis and defence. No; she was not going to go down that path yet.
‘Lady?’ Accobrán was prompting, thinking that she had not heard his question. He was looking sharply at her and in that moment she suddenly realised that she was neglecting to clarify a point that had previously worried her.
‘You do not have a friend in young Gabrán,’ she observed to the tanist. ‘Why is that?’
Accobrán flushed at the unexpected question. ‘That is a personal matter.’
Fidelma pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘I must be the judge of that, Accobrán.’
‘I can assure you-’
‘As a tanist,’ Fidelma cut in, ‘you should know something of the law and the powers of a dálaigh.’
Accobrán exhaled swiftly. ‘Very well. Gabrán suspected that I was seeing Beccnat behind his back.’
Fidelma raised her brow in momentary surprise. ‘And were you?’ she said calmly.
The tanist flushed and shook his head. ‘Beccnat was an attractive young girl. I believe we danced once or twice at some féis, a feasting, but nothing more. I think young Gabrán was jealous, that is all. I have also danced with Escrach and even Ballgel, come to that.’
‘And that is all there is to it?’ asked Fidelma.
‘That is all,’
‘You should have told me of your relationship with Beccnat before,’ she rebuked him.
‘There was no relationship.’
‘Except that you knew and danced with her. And Gabrán believes that there was more to it.’
Accobrán gave a snort of indignation. ‘There was no more to it.’
‘We have already discovered, Accobrán, that more often than not suspicion is a stronger provocation to action than the truth.’
The tanist looked at her with surprise mingled with uncertainty. ‘Do you mean…?’
‘When I speak I try to make my meaning clear,’ she snapped.
There had been silence for a few moments when Fidelma decided that she wanted to speak with Brother Dangila again.
Chapter Nine
Fidelma left Eadulf and Accobrán on the road to Rath Raithlen and in spite of their strenuous protests she proceeded by herself the short distance to the abbey of the Blessed Finnbarr.
‘It is midday,’ she had pointed out to a perturbed Eadulf. ‘What harm can come to me at midday when we are looking for a killer who strikes at the full of the moon and the next such moon is not for some weeks yet?’
Accobrán had agreed with Eadulf’s protest.
‘I am responsible for your safety while you are in the territory of the Cineél na Áeda, lady,’ the young tanist had argued. ‘I should stay with you at least.’
‘There is nothing for either you or Eadulf to do,’ she replied. ‘I shall go to the abbey alone and shall return to the fortress thereafter. And, if it mattered, I shall be back well before sunset.’
It was only after some more cajoling of Eadulf and then using her authority over Accobrán that Fidelma found herself alone on the track to the abbey of Finnbarr again. In fact, as soon as Eadulf and Accobrán were out of sight, Fidelma gave her horse its head and nudged the animal into a canter, feeling the cool wind on her face. She smiled in genuine pleasure. She had learnt to ride almost as soon as she could walk and, unlike Eadulf who was still a nervous rider, enjoyed the synchronisation of rider with the muscular and powerful beast. For Fidelma, there was little to match the thrill of a gallop or a canter. She had been so long cooped up in Cashel, confined with her child, that she rejoiced to be out in the open again and feeling free. Fidelma had always been a lover of solitude. Not all the time, of course, but now and then she needed to be alone with her thoughts.
She felt a sudden sense of guilt.
During the last few days she had not thought once of little Alchú. Did that mean that she was a bad mother? She halted her horse and sat frowning as she considered the matter. She remembered something that her mentor, the Brehon Morann, had once said when judging the case of a neglectful father. ‘For a woman, giving birth to a child is the path to omniscience.’ Ever since the birth of Alchú she had been having disturbing thoughts, thoughts which troubled her because she found she did not agree with her teacher. Fidelma had not felt her wisdom increase nor felt any of the joys that she had been told by her female relatives and friends should have been forthcoming. She felt vexed. It was as if she saw Alchú almost as a bond that ensnared her — a curtailment of her freedom rather than something which enriched her. Did she really desire the sort of freedom that she was now experiencing?
What was it Euripides had said? Lucky the parents whose child makes their happiness in life and not their grief, as the anguished disappointment of their hopes. Why didn’t she feel those emotions for little Alchú that she had been told to expect? It was not that she did not care about the child, nor feel anything at all, but she had been told that the birth of her child would be an earth-shattering event, one which would change her. It had not. Maybe it was this lack of the fulfilment of the expectation that was the problem and not the relationship with her baby.