Fidelma was examining the young man while he was speaking. He appeared to speak with straightforward conviction and honesty but was intelligent enough to lead Adnár out of a dangerous path whereby he could stand answerable before the law for spreading dangerous stories about the abbess. Brother Febal did not appear to concern himself with the matter, continuing to pick at the food on the table. Olcán seemed merely anxious that she should know the full extent of the situation.
She sighed deeply.
‘Very well. This conversation will not go beyond these walls,’ she agreed at last. ‘In return, I will undertake to investigate closely any information that may lead to the culprit, however unpalatable it is for anyone of position and rank.’
Olcan sat back in relief.
‘That is all Adnár is concerned with, is that not so?’
The chieftain gestured affirmatively.
‘I am sure that you will find many people hereabouts to support our views of the Abbess Draigen. Brother Febal speaks as a churchman. He is extremely concerned at the stories which he hears about the abbess and is jealous for the good reputation of the Faith.’
Fidelma looked sharply at the religieux.
‘There are many stories?’
‘Several,’ agreed Brother Febal.
‘And have any of them been proved?’
Brother Febal shrugged indifferently.
‘There are several stories,’ he repeated. ‘Valeat quatum valere potest.’
He added the standard phrase when a person passes on information which has not been proved, meaning ‘take it for what it’s worth’.
Fidelma sniffed suspiciously.
‘Very well. But, if your accusation is correct, you would have to accept that many people in the abbey are in collusion with the abbess. To take this to a logical conclusion, someone else would have known if the abbess was having an affair with the murdered girl. If the corpse was a member of the abbey community, surely someone would know and, if so, there is the collusion. If not, the girl would either have been a local, in which case why has her disappearance not been reported to you, Adnár, as bó-aire? Or, she must have been a stranger, presumably staying at the abbey. Again, the community at the abbey would have known this.’
Brother Febal’s eyes darted quickly to Fidelma.
‘We see a sample of your deductive powers, sister,’ he said in a warm tone. ‘All my lords ask is that you use your talent fairly in finding the culprit. Res in cardine est.’
Fidelma had begun to feel very irritated at what she saw was the patronising tone of the brother. She was also irked by his questionable Latin tags. To say that ‘the matter is on a door hinge’ was to imply that Fidelma would work out the truth soon enough. But he had prefaced his remark with a deliberate insult and she decided to take issue with Brother Febal’s suggestion that she would not undertake the investigation fairly.
‘The validity of my oath as an advocate of the courts of the five kingdoms has never been questioned before,’ she replied waspishly.
Olcán immediately reached forward and laid a consoling hand on her arm.
‘My dear sister, I think Brother Febal badly phrased his words. I believe that he merely wishes to express concern at this matter. Indeed, Adnár and I are very concerned. After all, the murder happened in the territory of Adnár, so you will agree that it is right for him, as magistrate, to show disquietude. Adnár’s allegiance is to my father, Gulban, whose interests I am forced to represent. Therefore, I also share his apprehension.’
Fidelma sighed inwardly. She knew that sometimes she could give way too easily to her prickly ire.
‘Of course,’ she responded, forcing herself to smile briefly. ‘Yet I am merely jealous of my reputation when it comes to judgments and the law.’
‘We are happy to leave the matter in your capable hands,’ Olcán agreed. ‘I am sure Brother Febal regrets if his words were ill-chosen …?’
Brother Febal smiled ingratiatingly.
‘Peccavi,’ he said, placing his hand on his heart, expressing in Latin that he had sinned. Fidelma did not bother to answer him.
Olcán glossed the awkward moment.
‘Now, let us to other matters. Is this your first visit to this land of Beara?’
Fidelma confessed it was, for she had never been to the peninsula before.
‘It is a beautiful place, even in the throes of winter. It is a land of the primal beginnings of our people,’ enthused Olcan. ‘Did you know that this is the shore where the sons of Mil, the first of the Gaels, landed? Where Amairgen the Druid promised the three goddesses of the Dé Danaan, Banba, Fodhla and Eire, that the country would forever bear their names?’
Fidelma was suddenly amused at the young man’s enthusiasm for his native territory.
‘Perhaps when I am finished here I shall be able to see something more of this land of yours,’ she replied solemnly.
‘Then I will be delighted to accompany you,’ offered Olcán. ‘Why, from the side of the mountain behind us, I can point out the distant island where the god of death, Donn, gathered the souls of the departed to transport them in his great black ship to the west, to the Otherworld. Adnár also has much knowledge of the local history. Isn’t that so, Adnár?’
The chieftain bowed his head in stiff acknowledgment.
‘As Olcán says, should you wish to see the ancient sites of this land, we would be pleased to offer you our company as guides.’
‘I shall look forward to that,’ agreed Fidelma, for she did have a great fascination for the ancient legends of her land. ‘But now I should be returning to the abbey to continue my investigation.’
She rose from the table and they reluctantly rose with her.
Olcán placed his hand familiarly under Fidelma’s elbow and guided her from the feasting hall. Brother Febal seemed content to reseat himself and continue his meal without a gesture of farewell while Adnár quickly followed them.
‘It has been good to meet with you, Fidelma,’ Olcán said, as they came out on to the steps, pausing for a moment. ‘It is sad, however, that this meeting has been precipitated by such a terrible event.’ The view of the inlet was lit by the pale light of the sun. Olcán glanced across to where the Gaulish merchant vessel was anchored, the solitary ship in the bay. ‘Is that the ship in which you came from Ros Ailithir?’ he asked, regarding its alien lines with sudden interest.
Fidelma quickly sketched the mystery.
Then Adnár broke in.
‘I shall be sending my men aboard the Gaulish ship this afternoon,’ he said decisively.
Fidelma turned to him in some astonishment.
‘For what purpose?’
Adnár gave a complacent smile.
‘Surely you are acquainted with the salvage laws?’
His tone immediately drew Fidelma’s indignation.
‘If your purpose is sarcasm, Adnár, I would advise against it. It never wins an argument against logic,’ she replied coldly. ‘I know the salvage laws and still ask you on what grounds you plan to send your men to claim the Gaulish ship?’
Olcán smiled wryly at Adnár’s red-cheeked mortification.
Resentfully the bó-aire’s mouth narrowed.
‘I am advised on the texts of the Mur-Bretha, sister. I have to know such things as I am magistrate of a stretch of this shoreline. Any salvage thrown up on this sea shore belongs to me …’
Olcan turned to Fidelma with an apologetic smile.
‘Surely, he is right, sister? But in so far as the object of salvage is valued to five séts or cows. If it is worth more, then the excess has to be divided, one third to the bó-aire, a third to the ruler of this territory, my father, and a third to the heads of the major clans in this area.’
Fidelma regarded the triumphant features of Adnár and turned back to Olcán with a grave expression.