‘Perhaps. I don’t know. We must have a further word with Samradan.’
Fidelma smiled. ‘On that point I agree with you.’
‘I still believe that we might be putting facts together which are unconnected,’ Eadulf persisted.
Fidelma restrained a chuckle. She enjoyed it when Eadulf summarised matters for it helped in her consideration of the facts. Often she used him as devil’s advocate to sort out her own ideas but she could not tell Eadulf that.
‘I think that we can be certain of one thing,’ Eadulf summed up. ‘That is I believe that Nion, the smith, is right. I know little of these people you call the Uí Fidgente but everyone seems agreed that their hand is behind this attack. They can’t all be wrong.’
‘Eadulf, if I did not have to present proof but only suspicion to a court, I do not doubt that we would have all the Uí Fidgente convicted within the hour. But that is not how our laws work. Proof is what is needed and proof we must obtain or declare the Uí Fidgente to be innocent.’
Brother Tomar was crossing through the courtyard at that moment.
‘Do you know where the merchant Samradan is?’ called Fidelma. Brother Tomar shook his head quickly. He was, so she had found out, the stableman at the abbey. He was a rough-mannered country youth who preferred the company of his animals than the company of people.
‘He has left the abbey.’
Brother Tomar was about to move on when Fidelma stayed him. ‘Left?’ she asked. ‘To go to the township?’
‘No. He left with his wagons.’
‘Did his drivers escape unhurt? I thought I saw Cred’s tavern burnt to the ground.’
Brother Tomar responded in a morose tone. ‘So I understand from one of the drivers. It seems that only two of the drivers escaped from that carnage for Samradán arrived here with three drivers and he has left with two of them. The two wagons came to the abbey, each driven by one man, and Samradan joined them. They set off on the road north.’
‘North,’ muttered Fidelma.
‘Samradán did tell you that he was going north,’ Eadulf reminded her.
‘So he did,’ Fidelma agreed slowly. ‘North.’
Brother Tomar waited hesitantly. ‘That is correct, Sister. I heard him instruct his drivers to head for the ford on the Dead River.’
Fidelma thanked the stableman and she and Eadulf continued their way in search of the apothecary.
It turned out that Brother Bardán was alone in the mortuary room of the abbey when they entered. The apothecary and mortician was putting the finishing touches to the winding sheet of his late friend, the young Brother Daig. His eyes were red and there were tearstains on his cheeks.
He glanced up with an angry look. ‘What do you seek here?’ he asked in an irritable tone.
‘Calm yourself, Brother.’ Fidelma spoke in a pacifying voice. ‘I realise that you were close to poor young Daig. We are not here to intrude on your grief but we must examine the body of the raider.’
Brother Bardan gestured in annoyance to the far side of the chamber.
‘The body lies on the table in that corner. I will not prepare it for burial. It deserves no decent Christian service.’
‘You are within your rights,’ Fidelma agreed, unruffled, for the apothecary was aggressive as if he expected her to argue. ‘Where is the body of Cred? Is it also here?’
‘Her body was already prepared and taken by her relatives to the cemetery of the township. I am told there are many people slain in the attack who must be buried this day.’
Fidelma turned to where the body of the dead warrior lay and motioned Eadulf to join her.
The arms and legs of the man had not even been unbound. His helmet still covered his head and the visor was still drawn over the upper features.
With a click of her tongue to indicate her displeasure, Fidelma reached forward and removed the helmet. The man was in his early thirties. His features were coarse and, in life, were doubtless made hard by the life he led. There was the pale mark of an old sword wound on his forehead. He had a bulbous nose and the grossness of his features inclined her to think that he had been given to an abundance of drink and food.
‘Untie his hands and feet, Eadulf.’
Eadulf did as she instructed while she stood staring down, hoping there was something that might identify the man. Now that she could view him in a more relaxed state, her first impression was confirmed that he had the appearance of a professional warrior. Yet his chainmail shirt was old and there were areas of rust eating into the links in patches.
She helped Eadulf remove the belt from which his weapons had hung. Then they removed his mail shirt and leather jerkin. Underneath it, he wore a black dyed linen shirt and kilt. There was nothing to identify who he was nor where he had come from.
She observed that whoever had killed him had slipped a dagger through a joint of the mail shirt and under the ribcage. It would have been a swift and instantaneous death. Eadulf, on her instructions, set to work to remove the shirt and undergarments.
There were no identifying marks on the body, just a number of old scars from wounds which confirmed that the man had spent his life as a professional warrior.
‘And not a good warrior at that,’ responded Fidelma when Eadulf commented on the fact.
‘How do you know?’
‘He has been wounded too many times. If you want the better warrior, look for the man who inflicted those wounds not the one who received them.’
Eadulf accepted this wisdom in silence.
‘Surely it is strange that he does not carry a purse?’ Fidelma pointed out after a while.
Eadulf drew his brows together as he tried to understand the point she was making.
‘Ah.’ His face lightened. ‘You mean that if he were a professional warrior, a mercenary, he would want payment for his services?’
‘Precisely. So where would he put his purse?’
‘He would leave it at home.’
‘And if he were far from home, what then?’
Eadulf shrugged, unable to answer.
‘He might leave it somewhere meaning to return and pick it up after the raid. That is a dangerous practice. No; most professionals tend to carry their wealth with them.’ Her face suddenly brightened. ‘Maybe he had saddle bags. I had almost forgotten that we have his horse here as well.’
She looked across to where Brother Bardán was finishing his task. ‘What do you mean to do with the body of this man?’
‘Let it rot, for all I care,’ returned the apothecary in an uncompromising tone.
‘It will rot, surely,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘But a decision has to be made whether you want to let it rot here or elsewhere.’
Brother Bardán sighed. ‘It will not be buried within the abbey grounds among our brethren, next to …’ He half gestured towards the body of Brother Daig. ‘I will send for Nion, the bó-aire, and ask him to remove the body to the town burial ground.’
‘Very well.’ Fidelma turned back to Eadulf and said quietly, ‘We will go to the stables and examine the warrior’s horse and harness.’
Eadulf picked up the man’s sword as they were about to leave.
‘Have you examined the sword?’ he asked.
She shook her head and reached for it. It was about thirty-five inches in length, the blade nearest the point splayed out in almost a leaf shape before narrowing down to the hilt. The hilt was riveted on. There were six rivets.
‘This is no poor man’s sword,’ Eadulf said, with a frown. ‘I am sure that I have seen a similar style of sword just recently.’
‘You have,’ she replied with irony. ‘It is the same style as the one carried by our assassin. Remember? This is a claideb dét.’
‘A sword of teeth?’ translated Eadulf literally. ‘I thought it was made of metal like any other.’
Fidelma smiled patiently and pointed to the handle. ‘The hilt is ornamented with the carved teeth of animals. As I recall, there is only one territory in Éireann’s five kingdoms where the smiths indulge in such embellishment. If only I could recall where. It is such a distinctive ornamentation.’