The body had been wrapped in a recholl, a winding sheet, and placed on a guat or wooden bier. Eadulf wondered whether the body had been accompanied to the chapel by the wailing cries of the relatives, and hired mourners who wept aloud in a strange fashion called the caoidneadh accompanied by the slow clapping of hands, said to emphasise despair.
When the prayers and psalms were over, the bier was lifted by four men and carried out of the chapel. Fidelma and Eadulf followed the mourners as they moved behind the bier. Outside, a grave had been dug and the body was gently lowered into it while the women set up cries that, although Eadulf had heard them before, made his blood run cold.
Then, to Eadulf’s surprise, a man came forward with an axe, and broke up the bier. The pieces were thrown into the grave. Seeing his puzzled look, Fidelma leant close and whispered: ‘It is the custom to destroy the bier, for if it is left whole then the evil demons, the fairy folk, might use it to carry off the corpse on their nightly excursions. The bier is destroyed so that the corpse might obtain peace.’
Eadulf thought it not the time or place to comment disapprovingly on the continuance of a pagan ritual as part of a Christian ceremony. Then he saw that everyone was lining up before a Brother of the Faith who stood next to a great pile of broom. Each person was handed a branch of broom and took it to the grave and dropped it in.
‘This is just to protect the body from the clay,’ explained Fidelma. ‘But each person who drops the broom in does so as a sign of respect.’
When this was done, the grave was closed. Bébháil’s sister held up her hands and the lamentations stilled.
‘The Amra — the elegy — will be spoken by my husband.’
A man, looking every inch a farmer, came forward. He appeared very uncomfortable. It was clear that he was unhappy at the task he had been asked to perform. He spoke in a swift, mumbling tone.
‘We have interred the body of Lesren who was married to my wife’s sister.’ He hesitated and coughed. ‘Lesren was a tanner. He was a súdaire, a craftsman, whose worth was well known to all who are here today. He now lies beside his daughter, Beccnat.’ He paused again and sniffed. ‘Beccnat was killed, even as he was, and so this is the second time in as many months that the laithi na canti — the days of lamentation — have been visited on us who were related to Lesren. Sorrow is the load we must bear.’
Yet again he paused and looked across to Bébháil who stood, dry-eyed and stony-faced, supported by her sister on one side and Tómma on the other. He set his jaw as though he had made up his mind to follow through an unpleasant task.
‘There is little I can say. I cannot pretend I liked Lesren or made him welcome at my threshold. But I suffered him for the sake of my sister-in-law. He was not a good father; he was not a good husband. But they are truly good who are faultless. I will not call praise on him, for that would be insincere, false and pretending. I will say only this — he was my wife’s sister’s husband and I am sorry that his passing has made her a widow.’
Eadulf studied the faces of those around him with surprise, expecting some to react at this curious elegy. It seemed that no one wanted to articulate any criticism for what had been said. More important, Bébháil was standing with her face devoid of emotion. Eadulf realised that few people could have liked Lesren in the community. That fact caused him some consternation. He wondered how many had a motive to kill Lesren. He realised that it was not just Goll and his son. Lesren had made enemies of many people. He wondered if Fidelma was relying on this fact to defend Gabrán.
The people had begun dispersing from the graveside. Accobrán was approaching them with a smile of satisfaction.
‘Have you heard the news, lady?’ he began, seeming pleased with himself. ‘The news about my capture of Gabrán?’
Fidelma did not match his smile.
‘I shall go to see him shortly,’ she said. ‘While the boy was stupid to run away, I do not believe he was guilty of Lesren’s murder.’
Accobran’s jaw dropped in surprise.
‘Not guilty…?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Well, I think he was, and guilty of Beccnat’s murder as well.’
‘Yet you were the one who found the evidence to prove otherwise,’ pointed out Eadulf quickly.
Accobrán flushed. ‘Perhaps he fooled me. Perhaps he was not at the house of Molaga on that night of the full moon.’
‘I spoke to Brother Túan from the house of Molaga.’ Fidelma cut him short. ‘You were not mistaken. He was there at the night of the full moon.’
The young tanist looked glum. ‘Well, at least he showed his guilt of Lesren’s death by running away.’
‘He showed his fear of being blamed for it,’ Fidelma pointed out. She turned and made her way across to where Bébháil was standing with her sister and Tómma.
Tómma greeted her with a grim smile. ‘The tanist has told us that young Gabrán has been caught and imprisoned for Lesren’s death.’
Fidelma examined the downcast features of Bébháil for a moment before replying.
‘He has been captured because he was running away. If he were guilty, it would be stupid to run away and draw attention to himself. There has been too much innocent blood shed in this place for another innocent to have his life destroyed.’
Tómma frowned and cast a nervous glance at Bébháil. ‘But the tanist said…’
‘I am returning to the fortress to question Gabrán. I am hoping that the innocent will go free and that the guilty may come forward.’
She returned to Eadulf, aware that Bébháil had taken an involuntary step after her and that Tómma had reached out a hand to stay her.
Accobrán accompanied them as they rode back to the fortress. Fidelma and Eadulf went immediately to the place where Gabrán had been confined. Fidelma gently declined the tanist’s offer to attend the questioning of the youth. She wanted to speak with Gabrán without Accobrán there.
The young woodcutter rose as they entered the dark stone cell in which he had been confined. He had a cut across one eye and a bruise on his cheek.
‘You have done a stupid thing,’ Fidelma told him after a moment or two.
The boy shrugged, trying to be indifferent. It was clear that he was nervous.
‘I did not kill Lesren,’ he said quietly.
‘Is running away designed to make us believe that?’ she asked, motioning Eadulf to shut the door so that they would not be overheard. He did so.
‘What else could I do? No one here appeared to believe that I did not exact revenge for what Lesren was saying about me.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Why, Creoda said-’
‘Creoda? And he said — what?’
‘That everyone believed that I had killed Lesren because he accused me of murdering Beccnat. I knew I had to leave.’
‘You should place your trust in the law.’
‘Law and injustice are often the same thing,’ the boy replied quickly. ‘I often heard old Aolú say as much before he died.’
‘That may be true, but it is the interpretation of the law which balances the account.’ Fidelma indicated that the boy should reseat himself on the wooden bench that served as a bed. Then she took a chair while Eadulf stood by the door. ‘When did you first hear of Lesren’s death?’