“You called, my dear?” he asked mildly. Then he saw Abbot Laisran, whom he obviously recognized, and bobbed servilely before him, rubbing his hands together. “You are welcome, noble Laisran,” before turning to Fidelma and adding, “You are welcome, also, Sister. You bless our house by your presence. . ”
“Peace, man!” snapped his burly wife. “The dálaigh wants to ask you some questions.”
The little man’s eyes widened.
“Dálaigh?”
“I am Fidelma of Cashel.” Fidelma’s gaze fell on his twisted hands.
“I see that you have blue dye on your hands, Echen.”
The man looked at his hands in bewilderment.
“I have just been mixing some dyes, Sister. I am trying to perfect a certain shade of blue from glaisin and dubh-poill. . there is a sediment of intense blackness which is found in the bottom of pools in bogs which I mix with the glaisin to produce a dark blue. .”
“Quiet! The sister does not want to listen to your prattling!” admonished Corbnait.
“On the contrary,” snapped Fidelma, irritated by the bullying woman, “I would like to know if Echen was at his dye work when the young woman was here the other night.”
Echen frowned.
“The young woman who stayed only for a meal and to fodder her horse,” explained his wife. “The black mare.”
The man’s face cleared.
“I only started this work today. I remember the girl. She was anxious to press on to her destination.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“Only to exchange words about her instructions for her horse, and then she went into the inn for a meal. She was there an hour or so, isn’t that correct, dearest? Then she rode on.”
“She rode away alone,” added Corbnait, “just as I have told you.”
Echen opened his mouth, caught his wife’s eye, and then snapped it shut again.
Fidelma did not miss the action.
“Did you want to add something, Echen?” she prompted.
Echen hesitated.
“Come, if you have something to add, you must speak up!” Fidelma said sharply.
“It’s just. . well, the girl did not ride away entirely alone.”
His wife turned with a scowl.
“There was no one else at the inn that night. What do you mean, man?”
“I helped her onto her horse and she left the inn but as she rode toward the south I saw someone driving a small donkey cart join her on the brow of the hill.”
“Someone joined her? Male or female?” demanded Fidelma. “Did you see?”
“Male.”
Abbot Laisran spoke for the first time.
“That must be our murderer then,” he said with a sigh.
“A highway robber, after all. Now we shall never know who the culprit was.”
“Highway robbers do not drive donkey carts,” Fidelma pointed out.
“It was no highway robber,” confirmed Echen.
They swung ’round on the little man in surprise.
“Then tell them who it was, you stupid man!” yelled Corbnait at her unfortunate spouse.
“It was young Finn,” explained Echen, hurt by the rebuke he had received. “He herds sheep on Slieve Nuada, just a mile from here.”
“Ah, a strange one that!” Corbnait said, as if all was explained to her satisfaction. “Both his parents died three years ago. He’s been a recluse ever since. Unnatural, I call it.”
Fidelma looked from Corbnait to Echen and then said, “I want one of you to ride to the abbey and look at the corpse so we can be absolutely sure that this was the girl who visited here. It is important that we are sure of her identity.”
“Echen can do it. I am busy,” grumbled Corbnait.
“Then I want directions to where this shepherd Finn dwells.”
“Slieve Nuada is that large hill you can see from here,” Abbot Laisran intervened. “I know the place, and I know the boy.”
It was not long before they arrived at the shepherd’s dwelling next to a traditional lias cairach or sheep’s hut. The sheep milled about over the hill indifferent to the arrival of strangers. Fidelma noticed that their white fleeces were marked with the blue dyed circle that identified the flock and prevented them from mixing into neighboring flocks during common grazing.
Finn was weathered and bronzed-a handsome youth with a shock of red hair. He was kneeling on the grass astride a sheep whose stomach seemed vastly extended, almost as if it were pregnant but unnaturally so. As they rode up they saw the youth jab a long, thin, needle-like biorracha into the sheep’s belly. There was a curious hiss of air and the swelling seemed to go down without harm to the sheep which, when released, staggered away, bleating in irritation.
The youth look up and recognized Abbot Laisran. He put the biorracha aside and came forward with a smile of welcome.
“Abbot Laisran. I have not seen you since my father’s funeral.”
They dismounted and tethered their horses.
“You seem to have a problem on your hands,” Abbot Laisran said, indicating the now transformed sheep.
“Some of them get to eating plants that they should not. It causes gas and makes the belly swell like a bag filled with air. You prick them with the needle and the gas escapes. It is simple and does not hurt the creature. Have you come to buy sheep for the abbey?”
“I am afraid we are here on sad business,” Laisran said. “This is Sister Fidelma. She is a dálaigh.”
The youth frowned.
“I do not understand.”
“Two days ago you met a girl on the road from the inn at Ballacolla.”
Finn nodded immediately.
“That is true.”
“What made you accost her?”
“Accost? I do not understand.”
“You were driving in a donkey cart?”
“I was.”
“She was on horseback?”
“She was. A black mare.”
“So what made you speak to her?”
“It was Segnat from Tir Bui. I used to go to her father’s fortress with my father, peace on his soul. I knew her.”
Fidelma concealed her surprise.
“You knew her?”
“Her father was chieftain of Tir Bui.”
“What was your father’s business in Tir Bui? It is a long journey from here.”
“My father used to raise the old horned variety of sheep which is now a dying breed. He was a treudaighe and proud of it. He kept a fine stock.”
The treudaighe was a shepherd of rank.
“I see. So you knew Segnat?”
“I was surprised to see her on the road. She told me she was on her way to join her husband, Conri, the new lord of Ballyconra.”
Finn’s voice betrayed a curious emotion which Fidelma picked up on.
“You do not like Conri?”
“I do not have the right to like or dislike such as he,” admitted Finn.
“I was merely surprised to hear that Segnat had married him when he is living with a woman already.”
“That is a choice for the individual,” Fidelma reproved. “The New Faith has not entirely driven the old forms of polygyny from our people. A man can have more than one wife just as a woman can have more than one husband.”
Abbot Laisran shook his head in annoyance.
“The Church opposes polygyny.”
“True,” agreed Fidelma. “But the judge who wrote the law tract of the Bretha Croilge said there is justification for the practice even in the ancient books of the faith for it is argued that even the chosen people of God lived in a plurality of unions so that it is no easier to condemn it than to praise it.”
She paused for a moment.
“That you disapproved of this meant you must have liked Segnat. Did you?”
“Why these questions?” countered the shepherd.
“Segnat has been murdered.”
Finn stared at her for some time, then his face hardened.
“Conri did it! Segnat’s husband. He only wanted her for the dowry she could bring into the marriage. Segnat could also bring more than that.”