‘Well, I admit that I heard nothing.’ Bardan was dismissive. Fidelma thanked them both and left them at the abbey gates, followed by Eadulf. After a short distance, crossing the square towards the township, she glanced quickly back over her shoulder. She was intrigued to see Brother Bardan, standing where they had left him, apparently arguing with the younger monk. It seemed that Bardan was telling the youth off in no uncertain terms.
‘Well,’ said Eadulf, unaware of the argument as he strode on, ‘doesn’t that prove your point? There was no struggle in Brother Mochta’s room.’
Fidelma turned back to catch up with Eadulf.
‘But where does that take us?’ mused Fidelma as she continued to walk with him, passing the great yew-tree in the square.
‘I don’t understand,’ Eadulf responded.
‘It would only take us somewhere if we knew for certain that Brother Mochta was the same man who was killed in Cashel. But, according to Madagan and the others here, we are describing exactly the same man, yet there is one point of difference that cannot possibly be reconciled.’
Eadulf made a groaning sound and spread his hands eloquently. ‘I know. The tonsure. I have tried many times to see if I can come up with a reasonable explanation for it. I cannot. Brother Mochta was last seen here less than forty-eight hours ago with his head shaved in the manner of the tonsure of St John. The man we thought was Mochta was found in Cashel twenty-four hours ago with the signs of a tonsure of St Peter on his head but with his hair also showing signs of a few weeks of growth on his pate. How can these things be squared?’
‘You have overlooked another point,’ Fidelma observed.
‘What is that?’
‘Aona saw this same man with the same tonsure a week ago at the Well of Ara. Segdae told us that Mochta hardly ever left the abbey. That is another point against the body of the man at Cashel being Mochta.’
Eadulf shook his head in annoyance.
‘I cannot fathom any reasonable explanation for it.’
‘Now do you see that it is a fruitless exercise to tell Abbot Ségdae of our suspicions? Until we have some answers they must remain suspicions and not conclusions.’
Eadulf was contrite.
They crossed the square to the beginning of the group of houses, barns and other buildings which comprised the township of Imleach. The urban complex had grown up during the last century in the shadow of the abbey and its cathedral seat. Before then it had simply been the gathering place around the sacred tree of the Eóghanacht where kings came to take their oath and be installed in office. The abbey had attracted tradesmen, builders and others so that a township of several hundred people had grown up opposite the abbey walls.
Fidelma paused at the edge of the buildings and gazed round.
‘Where are we going now?’ Eadulf asked.
‘To find a blacksmith, of course,’ she replied shortly. ‘Where else?’
Chapter Ten
There was no need to ask directions to the smithy’s forge for the heavy breath of the bellows and the ring of iron on iron could clearly be heard as Fidelma and Eadulf came to the group of houses which were spaced along a main street within sight of the abbey gates. The forge was stone built with the furnace constructed on large flags. In one of the flagstones there was a small hole through which a pipe directed the air-current from the bellows into the fire.
The wheezy breath of the smith’s apparatus was supplied by an impressive four chamber air pump. Eadulf had heard that such a large bellows existed but had never seen one. He had also heard that it gave a more uniform blast to the furnace than the normal two chamber device. It was obviously much harder to work for they saw the smith, sweating at the fire, assisted by a sturdy bellows blower whose job was to raise and depress end chambers by standing on two short boards and raising one foot at a time in the manner of someone walking slowly and deliberately. The faster he walked the quicker the bellows worked.
The smith was a well built, muscular man in his thirties, wearing leather trousers but no shirt with only a buckskin apron to protect him from the sparks. He was holding a red-hot piece of iron in a tennchair, a pair of tongs. In the other hand he wielded his hammer and turning to a large anvil he smote the iron with a thunderous noise before turning to a water trough called a telchuma and plunging the iron in.
The smith saw them approaching and paused, spitting into the hot coals of his forge so that there was a momentary sizzling sound.
‘Suibne, get me more wood charcoal,’ he ordered his assistant without taking his eyes off them.
The bellows pumper jumped down from the boards and disappeared into a shed.
The smith drew the back of his hand across his face, wiping away the sweat, as they halted before him.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, examining them each in turn. ‘Do you seek me out as a smith or do you seek me out as bó-aire of this community?’
The bó-aire was a local magistrate, a chieftain without land whose wealth had been initially judged by the number of cows he owned, hence he was called a ‘cow chief. Small communities, such as a township, were usually ruled by a bó-aire who owed his allegiance to a greater chieftain.
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel,’ Fidelma introduced herself. She was more formal with the man once she heard that he held rank. ‘What is your name?’
The smith straightened perceptibly. Who had not heard of the King’s sister? The chieftain to whom he owed allegiance was Fidelma’s own cousin, Finguine of Cnoc Aine.
‘I am called Nion, lady.’
Fidelma drew out the arrows from her marsupium. The one from the assassin’s quiver and the other, broken one she had taken from Mochta’s chamber.
‘Tell me what you make of these, Nion,’ she asked without explanation.
The smith wiped his hands on his apron and took the arrows from her hands and, holding them up, examined them carefully.
‘I am no fletcher, although I have made arrow heads before now. These are of competent workmanship. The head on this one is made of bronze and constructed, as you see, with a hollow cro …’
‘A what?’ demanded Eadulf, leaning forward.
‘A socket. See there where the wood of the shaft is inserted? These are especially fine for you see that the head is fixed by a tiny metal rivet.’
‘And where would you guess they were made?’ pressed Fidelma.
‘No need to guess,’ replied the smith with a smile. ‘See the flight? That bears the symbol of a fletcher of Cnoc Aine and you are in that territory, as you must know, lady.’
Fidelma smiled thinly. ‘And would you be able to point to such a craftsman, Nion?’
The smith gave an unexpected roar of laughter. ‘See my neighbour there …’ he said, pointing to a carpentry shop nearby. ‘He makes the shafts and constructs the flights, while I make the heads and fix them in place. This arrow is one of a batch I made not above a week ago. I recognise the metalworking. Why do you ask, lady?’ he added, returning the arrows to her.
His assistant returned and emptied a bag of charcoal on the furnace fire, poking it with an iron rod.
‘I would like to know something about the man to whom you sold these arrows.’
At once the smith’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘If you have nothing to hide, Nion, you will tell me. Remember that you are answering the questions of a dálaigh and I hold you to your position as magistrate of this town.’
Nion stared at her as if trying to gauge her intentions and then shrugged. ‘Then as bó-aire to dálaigh, I will answer. I do not know the man. I merely called him the Saigteóir because he looked and acted like a professional archer. He came to my forge more than a week ago and wanted me to produce two dozen arrows. He paid me well for the task. He collected them a few days later and that is all I know.’