‘Archú and Muadnat, please come and stand before me.’
A young man rose hastily. He was no more than seventeen years old, his expression eager, like a dog seeking a favour from a master, mused Fidelma as she watched him hurry forward. The second man was in his middle years, old enough to be the youth’s father. He was a sombre faced man, almost dour in his expression. There was little humour in his countenance.
‘I have listened to the evidence presented in this case,’ Fidelmabegan, glancing from one to another. ‘Let me see if I can put the facts fairly. You, Archú, have just reached the age of seniority, the age of choice. Is this so?’
The youth nodded. Seventeen years was the age, according to the law, when a boy became a man and able to make his own decisions.
‘And you are the only child of Suanach, who died a year ago? Suanach, who was daughter to Muadnat’s uncle?’
‘She was the only daughter of my father’s brother,’ affirmed Muadnat in a gruff unemotional tone.
‘Indeed. So you are cousins to each other?’
There was no answer. Obviously there was no love lost between these two whatever their relationship.
‘Such close relatives should not need recourse to law to settle their differences,’ admonished Fidelma. ‘Do you still insist upon the arbitration of this court?’
Muadnat sniffed sourly.
‘I have no wish to be here.’
The youth flushed angrily.
‘Nor I. Far better it would have been for my cousin to do what was right and moral before it reached this pass.’
‘I am in the right,’ snapped Muadnat. ‘You have no claim on the land.’
Sister Fidelma raised her eyebrow ironically.
‘It seems that is now a matter for the law to decide as neither of you appear to agree. And you have brought the matter before the court so that it may make that decision. And the decision that this court makes on the matter is binding on you both.’
She sat back, folded her hands in her lap and examined each of them carefully in turn. There was anger in both of their storm-ridden faces.
‘Very well,’ she said, at last. ‘Suanach, as I understand it, inherited lands from her father. Correct me if I am wrong. She later married a man from beyond the seas, a Briton called Artgalwho, being a stranger in this land, had no property to bring into the marriage.’
‘An impecunious foreigner!’ grunted Muadnat.
Fidelma ignored him.
‘Artgal, who was Archú’s father, died some years ago. Am I correct?’
‘My father died fighting the Ui Fidgente in the service of the king of Cashel.’ It was Archú who interrupted and the boy spoke proudly.
‘A mercenary soldier,’ sneered Muadnat.
‘This court was not asked to make a judgment on the personality of Artgal,’ Sister Fidelma observed waspishly. ‘It is asked to adjudicate on law. Now, Artgal and Suanach were married …’
‘Against the wishes of her family,’ interposed Muadnat again.
‘I have already discerned that much,’ Fidelma agreed blandly. ‘But married they were. On the death of Artgal, Suanach continued to work her land and raise her son, Archú. A year ago, Suanach died.’
‘Then my so-called cousin came and claimed that all the land was his.’ Archú’s voice was bitter.
‘It is the law.’ Muadnat was smug. ‘The land belonged to Suanach. Her husband being a foreigner held no land. When Suanach died, then her land reverted to her family and in that family I stand as her next of kin. That is the law.’
‘He took everything,’ the youth complained bitterly.
‘It was mine to take. And you were not of the age of choice anyway.’
‘That is so,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘For this last year, under the law, as senior member of your family, Muadnat has been your guardian, Archú.’
‘Guardian? Slave master, you mean,’ scowled the youth. ‘I was forced to work on my own land for nothing more than my keep; I was treated worse than a hired worker and forced to eat and sleep in the cattle-pens. My mother’s family do not even accordme the treatment they give to those they hire to work the land.’
‘I have already noted these facts,’ Fidelma sighed patiently.
‘We have no legal obligation to the boy,’ grunted Muadnat. ‘We gave him his keep. He should be grateful for that.’
‘I will not comment on that,’ Fidelma replied coldly. ‘The sum of Archú’s case against you, Muadnat, is that he should inherit some of the land which belonged to his mother. Is this not so?’
‘His mother’s land returns to her family. He can only inherit that which belonged to his father and his father, being a foreigner, had no land in this country to leave him. Let him go to his father’s country if he wants land.’
Fidelma continued to sit back in her chair, hands before her, her gaze now concentrated on Muadnat. Her fiery eyes had become slightly hooded and her expression seemed purposely bland.
‘When a person who is an ocáire, that is a small farmer, dies, then one seventh of the land is subjected to tax and paid to the chieftain for the upkeep of the clan territory. Has this been done?’
‘It has,’ interrupted the scriptor, looking up from making his record. ‘There is a disposition to that effect from the chieftain, Eber of Araglin, sister.’
‘Good. So the decision that this court has to make is now a straightforward one.’
Fidelma turned slowly to Archú.
‘Your mother was the daughter and only child of a small farmer, an ocáire. On his death she stood as female heir and is entitled to a life interest in her father’s land. Normally, she cannot pass this land on to her husband or sons and on her death it reverts to the next of kin within her own family.’
Muadnat drew himself up and for the first time his disgruntled features loosened in a satisfied expression. His eyes darted triumphantly at the younger man.
‘However,’ Fidelma’s voice suddenly took on an icy note which cut through the hall of the abbey, ‘if her husband was a foreigner, and in this case he was a Briton, he would have no land withinthe clan territory. He can therefore leave nothing to his son. In these circumstances, the law is clear and it was our great judge, Brig Briugaid, who set the judgment which became the law on this matter. That is, in such circumstances, the mother is entitled to pass on the land to her son but with qualification. Of her lands, she can only bequeath land to the value of seven cumals which is the minimal property qualification for an ocáire or small farmer.’
There was a silence as both plaintiff and defendant tried to understand the judgment. Sister Fidelma took pity on their puzzled expressions.
‘The judgment is in your favour, Archú,’ she smiled at the young man. ‘Your cousin occupies the land unlawfully now that you are of age. He must relinquish to you an amount of land to the extent of seven cumals.’
Muadnat’s jaw dropped.
‘But … but the land scarcely extends seven cumals as it is. If he has seven cumals there will be nothing of it left for me.’
Fidelma’s voice took on the manner of a master lecturing a pupil.
‘According to the Crith Gablach, the ancient law, seven cumals is the property qualification of an ocáire which is the right of Archú to receive,’ she intoned. ‘Further, for acting in violation of the law to the extent that Archú had no recourse but to come before me with this claim against you, you must pay a fine of one cumal to this court.’
Muadnat’s face was white. His expression had become a mask of rage.
‘This is an injustice!’ he growled.
Fidelma met his fury calmly.