‘Speak not of injustice to me, Muadnat. You are kin to this youth. When his mother died, it was your duty to nurture and protect him. Yet you sought to deprive him of his lawful dues, sought to make him work for you without payment, forcing him to live in worse conditions than a slave. I doubt whether you havean understanding of justice. It would be justice if I made you pay further compensation to him for what you have done. As it is, I am tempering justice with mercy.’
The words came coldly from Fidelma, causing the dour faced man to blink as if physically assaulted by the flood of her contempt.
He swallowed hard.
‘I will appeal to my chieftain, Eber of Araglin, against this ruling. The land is mine! You have not heard the last of me.’
‘Any appeals can only be directed to the chief judge of the king of Cashel,’ interrupted the scriptor dryly, as he finished writing the judgment. He laid down his stylus and endeavoured to explain to the disgruntled litigant. ‘Once a Brehon makes a judgment, it is not up to you to rail against the Brehon. If you want to object, then you must do so in the proper manner. In the meantime, Muadnat of the Black Marsh, you must obey the judgment and withdraw from the land leaving your cousin Archú to occupy it. If you do not, within nine days from now, you may be physically evicted. Is that understood? And your cumal fine must be paid by the rising of the next full moon.’
Without a word, Muadnat turned and strode silently and swiftly from the chapel. A short man, with a small, wiry frame and a shock of chestnut hair, rose and joined him sheepishly in the exodus.
Archú, his expression showing that he was scarcely able to believe the ruling, leaned forward across the table and held out his hand, grabbing Fidelma’s own and pumping it rapidly.
‘Bless you, sister. You have saved my life.’
Fidelma smiled thinly at the enthusiastic young man.
‘I have merely given judgment according to the law. Had the law been otherwise, I would have had to give judgment against you. It is the law which speaks in this court, not I.’
She disengaged her hand. The young man seemed hardly to have heard her but, still grinning, turned and hurried to the back of the chapel where a young girl rose and almost ran into his arms. Fidelmasmiled wistfully as she observed the way the two youngsters clutched at each other’s hands and gazed upon one another.
Then she turned quickly to her scriptor.
‘I believe that was the last case we had to deal with, was it not, Brother Donnan?’
‘It was. I shall record the judgments later today and ensure that they are announced in the appropriate manner.’ The scriptor paused, coughed slightly and lowered his voice a little. ‘It seems that the abbot is standing by the door waiting to speak to you.’
He indicated with a nervous gesture of his head towards the doors of the chapel. Fidelma turned. Indeed, the broad shouldered figure of Abbot Cathal was standing at the door. Fidelma immediately rose and made her way to him. She noted that the abbot seemed somewhat preoccupied.
‘Are you looking for me, Father Abbot?’
Abbot Cathal was a well-built, muscular man of middle age; a man who carried himself with a military stamp for, as a youth, he had trained as a warrior. He was a local man who had left the military life to be taught under the guidance of the blessed Cathach at Lios Mhór and risen to be accepted as a most accomplished teacher and abbot. The son of a great war chieftain, Cathal had distributed all his wealth to the poor of his clan and lived in the simple poverty of his order. His simplicity and directness caused him enemies. Once a local chieftain, Maelochtrid, had him imprisoned on a trumped up charge of practising magic. Yet on his release Cathal had forgiven him. That was the nature of the man.
Fidelma liked Cathal’s gentleness and lack of vanity. It contrasted pleasantly to the arrogance of office which she so often encountered. Cathal was one of the few men of the church whom she would unhesitatingly call a ‘holy man’.
‘Indeed, I was looking for you, Sister Fidelma,’ the abbot replied with a swift but warm smile. ‘Has the court finished its deliberations?’
His voice was softly modulated, almost bland, yet Fidelma detected that something unusual had happened to bring him in search of her.
‘We have finished pronouncing judgment on the last case, Father Abbot. Is there a problem?’
Abbot Cathal hesitated.
‘Two riders have arrived here at the abbey. One of them is a foreigner. They have come from Cashel in search of you.’
‘Has anything happened to my brother?’ demanded Fidelma sharply in response to the first thought which crossed her mind, sending icy fingers of fear clutching at her. Had something happened to her brother, Colgú, the newly installed king of Muman, the largest of the five kingdoms of Éireann?
At once Abbot Cathal looked contrite.
‘No, no. Your brother, the king, is safe and well,’ he reassured her. ‘Forgive my clumsiness of expression. Come, follow me to my chamber where you are awaited.’
Her curiosity aroused, Fidelma hurried as sedately as she could along the corridors of the great abbey beside the taller figure of the abbot.
From a small slumbering backwater, Lios Mhór, the great house as it was called, had risen into prominence when Cathach of blessed name moved from Rathan to establish a new community of religious only a generation before. Within a short time, Lios Mhór had become one of the foremost ecclesiastical teaching centres to which flocked students from many lands. Like most of the great abbeys of Ireland, it was a mixed house, a conhospitae, in which religious of both sexes lived, worked and raised their children in the service of Christ.
As they made their way through the cloisters of the abbey, the students and religious respectfully stood aside to allow the abbot’s passage, heads bowed in deference. The students were young men and women from many nations who came to the five kingdoms to receive their education. At the door of the abbot’s chambers,Cathal halted and opened it, ushering Fidelma inside.
A large, elderly man of imposing appearance was standing beside the abbot’s table. He turned with a broad smile on his face as Fidelma entered. He was still handsome and energetic looking in spite of his silver hair and obvious advanced years. He wore a gold chain of office over his cloak. Had not his physical appearance distinguished him, his chain of office proclaimed him as a man of rank.
Fidelma recognised him at once.
‘Beccan! It is good to see you again.’
The Chief Brehon returned her smile. He came forward and took both her hands in his.
‘To meet with one who is the subject of affection as well as professional esteem is always a matter of joy for me, Fidelma.’
His expression and warmth of his greeting were not matters of protocol but of genuine emotion.
Fidelma was aware of a hollow cough behind her and she turned with a look of inquiry. The figure of a brother of the cloth stood with hands folded into his homespun brown woollen robes. His tonsure was different from the tonsure of the blessed John, as worn by the religious of the five kingdoms of Eireann. It was a Roman tonsure. His face was solemn but his dark brown eyes contained a twinkling mirth as he bowed his head in greeting to her.
‘Brother Eadulf!’ breathed Fidelma quickly. ‘I thought you were in attendance on my brother in Cashel?’
‘That I was. Yet there was little to do at Cashel and when I heard that Beccan was coming here in search of you, I offered to accompany him.’
‘Coming to find me?’ Fidelma suddenly remembered the words of the abbot. ‘What is amiss?’
She swung round to the elderly Brehon. Abbot Cathal went to seat himself behind his desk while the Chief Brehon addressed Fidelma.
‘There is some disturbing news, sister,’ Beccan began solemnly. Then he shrugged and smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive me, first I should say that your brother rests well in his capital of Cashel. He sends his warmest greetings to you.’