‘Then what is our next move?’ he replied brusquely.
‘As I planned before. I want to see this Thicket of Pigs before I do anything else.’
‘You can’t really think that there is some connection to the murders of the young girls other than the fact that the place provided the location where they were attacked?’
‘I can’t think so logically,’ replied Fidelma shortly. ‘But I will be honest and say that I have some instinct. It is like an itch and I fear that I must scratch it or go mad. Remember how we saw one of the strangers and the smith, Gobnuid, on the hill? I would like to speak more to Gobnuid but I do not think that he will be in much of a mind to reply to my questions until I have some information to give weight to my interrogation.’
Eadulf suppressed a sigh. He had seen Fidelma presented with many difficult cases but he had never seen her attempting to show confidence while being so ill at ease. He was reminded once again that Fidelma seemed to have become a different person from the self-assured, confident dálaigh he had fallen in love with. It had all changed with the birth of little Alchú. There was no denying that, even though he felt guilty in returning to those thoughts he had been turning over in his mind in recent days.
He had heard stories of women who had given birth to babies and then, by all accounts, seemingly altered their very personalities, becoming victims of moods of black despair or varying temperament. The apothecaries at Tuam Brecain, the great medical school he had attended, said it was one of those mysterious feminine conditions that was released by childbirth. He racked his memory to recall what else they had said.
The idea was that the condition was induced by a state of blood deficiency. The heart, according to the apothecaries, was the powerhouse of the mind and the heart governed the blood. When the heart’s blood became deficient then the mind had no sustenance and became anxious and depressed. This caused the woman’s mind to become filled with negative thoughts, so that she felt anxiety, depression and fatigue, and was unable to cope and mentally restless and agitated.
Eadulf compressed his lips tightly.
There was a treatment they prescribed. He wished that he could remember it. Even if he did recall it, he realised it would be difficult to get Fidelma to take any medication. His eyes brightened suddenly when he remembered what the treatment was.
At that moment, Accobrán came through the door with Goll the woodcutter and his tearful wife, Fínmed. Eadulf turned quickly with a muttered apology to Fidelma, begging to be excused, and made for the door, taking Accobrán by the arm.
‘Tell me, tanist, do you have a dyer in the fortress?’
Accobrán looked astonished.
‘A dathatóir?’ he murmured.
‘Indeed,’ snapped Eadulf. ‘There is surely a dathatóirecht in the fortress, a place where fabrics are dyed?’
‘Well, if you can find the smith’s forge on the east side of the fortress, within the walls, you will see the shop of Mochta nearby. He not only tends to the clothes of the chieftain, but also…’
Eadulf did not wait to hear any more but was already hurrying away. Accobrán stood shaking his head as he looked after the Saxon. Then he turned back to where Fidelma was greeting Goll and his wife. The woodcutter’s face was grim.
‘I have come to tell you that my son is innocent,’ he said belligerently. ‘Furthermore, I am here to declare that I shall undertake the troscud until my son has been released without blemish on his character.’
Fidelma tried to hide the smile that rose unbidden to her lips and she drew her brows together as she tried to concentrate. It made her features express harsh resolve.
Fínmed moved forward, her hands imploring. ‘My husband is indeed resolved, lady. I have argued with him. But we both know that Gabrán is not guilty of that with which he is charged. He tried to run away in a moment of weakness, of fear, because-’
Goll snorted in derision. ‘Words will not release him. I am prepared-’
‘To go without food and water until he is released,’ supplied Fidelma. She knew the troscud well for less than a year ago she had been forced to face a difficult situation in which a chieftain threatened the troscud against a people who had no idea of the significance and symbolism of the act. She gave a hiss of breath denoting her irritation.
‘Listen to me, Goll. Listen well, woodsman. The troscud is a course of last resort. To starve to the point of death and to death itself is a weapon not to be used as a mere whim. Do you think if your son were guilty that it would be moral to secure his release by such a means? The consequence of the action would fall on you.’
Goll’s jaw came up aggressively. ‘I know my son to be innocent and I will not be swayed from my intention.’
Fidelma shook her head sadly. ‘Fínmed, I will address myself to you. You are more sensible than your husband and your son; indeed, more sensible than many here. Take your husband and take your son, Gabrán, and go home. There is hot blood in your men, Fínmed. Too much reaction and too little thought.’
Fínmed and Goll stood staring at her as if they had not understood what she had said.
‘Did I not make myself clear?’ Fidelma demanded. ‘Take Gabrán and go home. He has not been accused of any crime except the mistake of not believing the inevitability of justice.’
She turned and quickly left the Great Hall before realisation hit them.
Chapter Thirteen
Eadulf easily found Mochta’s shop not only from Accobrán’s directions but also from the pungent odours of the dyes.
What was the flower he wanted called in Irish? He thought it was bruchlais something or other. In his own Saxon it was called a wort — those of the New Faith called it the wort of John the Baptist because it was said to bloom on that day in June which was celebrated as the Baptist’s birthday. It was the flower that the old apothecaries of Tuam Brecain had said was good for the condition he suspected Fidelma was suffering from. The trouble was that it only appeared in the summer months, otherwise he would have gone looking for it in the abundantly endowed countryside. He knew that there was only one place in which he might find some stored for the winter months, apart from an apothecary’s shop. The plant was used to dye cloth.
Mochta, the dye-master, greeted him warmly.
‘Greetings, Brother Saxon. I know who you are and why you are come to this place. I saw you and the king’s sister the other day. What can I do for you?’
Eadulf told him.
‘St John’s Wort?’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I use it. Most certainly I use it. I take a purple dye from the flower heads and extract a yellow dye from the plant tops. A useful plant for a dathatóir. But why would you have need of it?’
Eadulf leant forward eagerly. ‘Accept that I have a use for it also, my friend. If you would sell me some of the plants, what price would you put on them?’
Mochta rubbed his chin.
‘What use would you have for such a plant?’ he demanded again. ‘I swear that you are not going to indulge in the business of mixing dye.’
Eadulf laughed quickly. ‘That I am not, dathatóir. But plants are useful for other things apart from mixing dyes.’
‘Ah, I see. Are you by way of being an apothecary, eh?’
‘I have studied the art but am merely a herbalist rather than one who pretends to the medical skills.’
Mochta stroked his nose with a forefinger as he considered the proposition. ‘I can sell you a bunch for a screpall but certainly no more, for I have need for these colours soon.’