‘What is it?’ Fidelma demanded, going towards him.

  ‘It appears to be a small sack of oats. That would be worth a miach in anyone’s money.’

  Eadulf was surprised, as he had become familiar with the coinage of this land. A miach was one of the smallest values of coins, a twelfth of a silver screpall, but was still worth having.

  Fethmac was smiling with satisfaction. ‘How would itinerants be able to afford this sack?’

  Fidelma examined it but couldn’t see what the fuss was about. ‘There is nothing to suggest that they could not, is there?’

  ‘Look at it, lady – that is a fresh sack. The man Celgaire arrives at the farm looking for work. He is sent away – but just happens to have a sack of fresh oats in his wagon. I will lay a wager that he stole this, and after the murders, which means …’

  ‘Which still means supposition rather than fact,’ pointed out Fidelma dryly. ‘We have yet to question the man. Now let us carry on with our search.’

  Half-heartedly Fethmac and Eadulf returned to the search. It was under some woollen blankets that Eadulf came across an aging flat leather bolg, or bag. He peered inside and was surprised to find several sheets of parchment. He immediately called Fidelma’s attention to it.

  ‘Why would an illiterate stranger have need of this?’ he demanded.

  Fidelma glanced through it and her eyes widened. ‘Two of them are written in Latin – I think in quite an ancient form. The third is in my language but in the form of the bérla na filed.’ Observing Eadulf’s incomprehension, she added, ‘It is the esoteric speech of the poets, another ancient form which some bards preferred to use, when recording important matters. I know something of it but it will take a little time to decipher. We will take the parchments and I will look at them later. Meanwhile, this is not what we are looking for.’

  The interior revealed nothing further. As they climbed down from the back of the wagon, however, Eadulf nearly caught himself on some hooks at the back from which a wooden bucket was suspended. In trying to avoid it, he scratched himself on the rough wood. He turned, and was holding the back of his hand to his mouth and sucking to ease the wound when his eyes spotted another hook, from which a sack of apples hung. Stains on the sacking showed that a lot of them were rotting into pulp. There was nothing unusual in such items being carried in that fashion. However, as he was looking at it, he became aware of a sort of shelf just under the tailboard of the wagon, a deep recess that was almost hidden by the hooks and their contents.

  Pushing the sack out of the way, he peered inside.

  Fidelma caught the movement and teased him: ‘Don’t tell me that itinerants could not acquire a sack of apples unless they stole them from the farm?’

  ‘No,’ returned Eadulf dryly. ‘There are plenty of places where one can pick up windfalls along these highways.’

  ‘Well, let us now go and have a word with this woman, Fial.’

  However, Eadulf ignored her. He was intent on stretching and reaching into the dark recess. Then he stiffened and let out a muffled exclamation. A moment later, he withdrew his arm and stood up. He had an object in his hand and silently he held it out towards them.

  It was a heavy-bladed meat cleaver, a typical uircenn, with a strong oak handle. The blade had been honed to a sharp edge, and there were stains on it.

  Fethmac, the young magistrate, gave a long low whistle of satisfaction.

  FIVE

  Had Fial taken a little more care with her personal cleanliness she would have been as attractive as any of the women of higher social status. She was of medium height and well proportioned, with a mass of black curly hair that tumbled in disarray over creamy white skin and a sprinkling of freckles. Her eyes were a deep shade of green. However, at the moment, lack of a recent wash marred her beauty and the full lips had flecks of blood around them where she had been chewing them in agitation. She was dressed in garments that would have been better for a little attention from a needle and thread and a good laundering. She held the small bundle which was her baby son close to her breast, protectively. The child was fast asleep, fortunately, and oblivious to the tension of his surroundings.

  Fial stood glowering at them in the airide or kitchen and living part of the cottage belonging to Fethmac, the magistrate, where she had been brought from Gobánguss’ house. Ballgel had vacated the room to allow Fidelma a private space in which to interrogate the wife of the vagrant. It was clear that Fial had slept little during the night. She stood, eyes fixed on Fidelma, and barely glanced at Eadulf and Fethmac.

  Fidelma was saddened as she observed the baby and its age.

  ‘I was not told that your son was so young,’ she began. ‘I was merely told you had a baby about one year old named Ennec. How old is he?’

  ‘Seven months,’ the young woman replied shortly.

  ‘Do you want me to get someone to take care of him while we speak?’

  The woman drew the child closer to her, and glared back. ‘I will not be parted from him. Do not try to take him.’

  Fidelma smiled reassuringly. ‘No one will try,’ she said. Then she turned to Fethmac. ‘A chair for Fial.’ She waited for the woman to be seated with her child, then she said more earnestly. ‘You realise, Fial, that I am a dálaigh and that you must answer all my questions truthfully. I ask you now to swear to the truth of your answers.’

  ‘There are dálaighs in the kingdom of Ulaidh as well as in Muman,’ Fial snapped. Her origin was made clear by her accent.

  The mention of an oath made Fethmac cough nervously. ‘Lady, I am told the old bannoill, the female oath, is now considered invalid by the amended laws discussed by the Council of Brehons.’

  Fidelma glanced at him in annoyance. ‘That retrograde step suggested by our reforming Christian brethren has been discussed but not enacted. Who told you about it?’

  ‘Brother Gadra. He says that the New Faith argued that the testimony of women should not be accepted any more because it was rejected by the apostles when the women claimed they had witnessed the resurrection of Christ. He says that only men may testify – and that this has been accepted by the Canon Law.’

  ‘That is the most ridiculous and illogical thing I have ever heard.’ Fidelma was aghast. ‘If this were the basis, then the apostles should be apologising in shame that they had not believed the women. According to the Faith, the women were proved true in what they had said. In this kingdom, the Din Techtugad decrees that the oath and the validity of a woman’s testimony are accepted. If not, how could I then be a dálaigh and offer judgements in the courts of the Five Kingdoms?’

  The magistrate was embarrassed. ‘I was only repeating what Brother Gadra said,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I will deal with Brother Gadra when I have time,’ shot back Fidelma. She turned to Fial. ‘Are you willing to swear to tell the truth?’

  ‘I am,’ the young woman said. ‘I am of Leth Cathail and was born within sight of Rath Celtair, which is now being called Dún Pádraig, where, it is said, the Blessed Patrick was buried. Therefore the Faith has been with us two centuries and we practise it as it originally came to us and not with the many changes we have heard of over the years.’

  ‘You are very well informed for a saer-fuidir,’ Fethmac said sarcastically.

  ‘Is it forbidden that a saer-fuidir should be possessed of knowledge?’ the woman snapped back.

  ‘Not at all,’ Fidelma cut in with a frown of annoyance at the young magistrate. ‘So you are now under oath. Let us talk awhile.’ Fidelma seated herself before Fial.

  ‘The only thing I need to state is that we are innocent of these accusations,’ Fial said firmly.

  ‘Well, there is a little more I need to ask,’ Fidelma said coaxingly. ‘You have told me where you come from. So let me start with how you became married to the stranger, Celgaire.’

  ‘My husband is neither a stranger to me nor to the people of Leth Cathail,’ Fial said proudly. ‘He served in the household of the Prince of Dál Fiatach, which is a territory of Ulaidh.’

  ‘How long did he serve him?’ asked Fidelma, concealing her surprise. A sen-cléithe was of the non-freeman class who were not allowed to leave the territory of the clan in which they were born and served, except by special permission. They were, however, allowed to travel in the clan territory without restrictions. They had rights within the clan, but could not have a voice in clan councils or stand for any office.

  ‘I was told your husband was a doir-fuidir, a man without rights,’ she said.

  ‘He was the third generation of his family to be a sen-cléithe before he decided to lay down his weapons and refused further service. For that act of rebellion he was reduced in social class from sen-cléithe to doir-fuidir.’

  ‘I see. And where did Celgaire come from?’

  ‘We are both from Leth Cathail.’

  ‘And how long have you been saer-fuidir?’

  Fial grimaced as if the subject was distasteful. ‘I have always been so, serving in the household of Blathmac, the lord of the Dál Fiatach. It was in that household I met Celgaire and so we were given permission to marry … that was just before he was proclaimed and exiled.’

  ‘Proclaimed?’ Eadulf queried.

  It was Fidelma who explained. ‘Celgaire would have to be proclaimed to the people, announcing his loss of rights and reduction in status according to law, before he was sent into exile.’ She glanced at the still sleeping baby. ‘It could be that your son’s son, when he becomes of age at seventeen, could automatically be accepted back with full rights in his clan. The law says that the third generation is free of all debts and encumbrances.’

  The woman still glowered. ‘That does not help us. Being falsely accused of this murder will ensure that we are condemned forever.’

  Fidelma sat back and regarded the woman thoughtfully for a few moments.

  ‘Well, I am here to assess whether your husband has been falsely accused or not. So let us start with some facts. What brought you and your husband southwards from the Kingdom of Ulaidh?’

  ‘In search of work, of course. The condition of exile allowed us to travel to seek employment. So we are within our rights to be here. Labour is scarce for the likes of us in the winter.’

  ‘So, you came south seeking work and arrived at the farmstead of Adnán. What made you go there?’

  ‘We went first to the farmstead of a man called Tadgán – a fellow without grace or charity who threatened to set his dogs on us.’

  Fidelma glanced at the magistrate, who seemed to agree that it fitted with the man’s character. ‘Tadgán can certainly be abrasive and he also has hunting dogs that I would not like to meet on a dark night.’

  Fidelma turned back to Fial. ‘Go on,’ she instructed.

  ‘When we left Tadgán’s farmstead one of his herdsmen, a kindly man, directed us to another farmstead – the one belonging to this man called Adnán. The herdsman told us that we were more likely to be greeted with sympathy there than anywhere else. We were grateful for it was cold and the daylight was fast merging into night. I remember we turned west and crossed an old bridge across a river and then came to the farmstead.’

  ‘And your husband went to see the farmer, the man called Adnán whom he is now accused of killing, together with Adnán’s wife and children?’ intervened the magistrate.

  Fidelma made clear her displeasure. ‘It is better if I conduct this inquiry, Fethmac,’ she said coldly before turning to Fial again. ‘Did your husband go to speak with Adnán, the farmer?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Was anyone else there during that time?’

  ‘Just the farmer’s wife. I think there was also another man about the place; perhaps a worker on the farm but I can’t remember much about him.’

  ‘Relate to me what took place.’

  ‘Simple,’ replied the woman. ‘We drew up in our wagon next to the farmhouse. Celgaire climbed down as the farmer and his wife came out. The farmer asked what we wanted and Celgaire told him who we were, and that he was looking for some work as we had no means of surviving the rest of the winter without it.’

  ‘So what answer did you receive?’

  ‘The farmer regretted that it was winter, the month when the earth was dead and people were at rest. There was nothing he could offer my husband. As night was almost upon us, the farmer pointed to a track which led up the hill to a copse. He said it was a good spot to place our wagon for the night as there was a brook close by and we could light a fire and be warm, for there was plenty of dry wood lying around up there.’

  ‘And did you follow his advice?’ pressed Fidelma.

  ‘About placing our wagon at that spot? Of course. The track was easy, and firm enough to take our wagon, and we soon found a good berth by the brook.’

  ‘What made you head northwards early the next morning?’

  ‘The farmer had told us that there might be work to the north along a river called the Tonnóg. It was, he said, an area of marshland and some of the farmers there needed help during the wet months to maintain dykes or search for livestock that had wandered into the marshes and streams. So, at first light, we set out and while we were on our journey, he and his horsemen …’

  ‘He?’ Eadulf interrupted for the first time. ‘Who do you mean?’

  Fial pointed to the magistrate. ‘He claimed that we had killed the farmer and his family and would be taken back to the settlement for punishment.’

  Fidelma turned a disapproving eye on the young man.

  ‘Is that what you said?’ she asked.

  Fethmac looked sheepish. ‘Perhaps in essence,’ he admitted.

  Fidelma swung back to the woman. ‘And did you kill the farmer and his family?’ Her voice was a sudden whip-crack.

  However, the woman’s chin came up immediately and she almost shouted her denial.

  ‘So you had no more dealings with the farmer and his wife? You accepted there was no work and went off to stay where he told you to spend the night. Didn’t you find that hard? A rich farm like that and no work?’

  ‘We did not notice that it was a rich farm. We saw only a farm and hoped there was work available.’

  ‘Weren’t you angry when the farmer told you there was none?’ It was Fethmac who posed the question.

  ‘Why should we be angry?’

  ‘Were you not told there was no work for the likes of you?’ the magistrate probed.

  ‘The “likes of us”? You mean because we were seen as vagrants? Those words were not used by the farmer called Adnán but were used by the first man we went to – Tadgán. However, in recent months we have become used to the insult.’

  ‘So, let us get this clear,’ Fidelma said. ‘You are saying that Adnán, while telling you there was no work, suggested that you stay overnight then move the next morning to seek work north along the River Tonnóg. Having said that, you parted company on good terms and did not see them again. All this, in spite of the fact that you were desperate?’

  ‘The farmer and his wife were kind,’ Fial insisted. ‘The woman, his wife, brought to me a pitcher of milk, fresh from the morning’s milking, for little Ennec. She also gave us two bannocks and a piece of cheese for our supper, along with a sack of oats to sustain us which is still in our wagon. We were saving it for the future journey.’

  The young woman looked at them and said passionately, ‘I have told you the truth. We were very grateful to them. Why should Celgaire then kill the man, let alone his entire family, when all we received was kindness and generosity?’

  ‘You say that you spent the night on the hillside overlooking the farmhouse. I presume you were asleep throughout the night?’

  ‘Not all the time.’ Fial looked down at the babe in her arms, still sleeping soundly. ‘Babies are fractious creatures. They cry and need attention at the most awkward times.’

  ‘So you were awoken now and then by the baby?’

  ‘That is what I said.’

  ‘And your husband, was he asleep the whole time?’

  ‘Whenever I awoke to tend to Ennec, Celgaire was asleep at my side. Only once did we rouse him. Driving our wagon over the mountains was an exhausting journey and my husband needed the sleep.’

  ‘You were only disturbed by the baby? You heard no other noises?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘You did not hear anyone approach your wagon, for example?’

  ‘Why would they do that? We have nothing that anyone would want to steal.’

  ‘I see. And so you, who were awake on and off during the night, are certain you heard and saw nothing untoward. And Celgaire did not get up for any period during the night?’

  ‘I am certain of it.’

  ‘And your ox – it remained undisturbed? Sometimes wolves or other animals can attack or disturb oxen.’

  ‘For the last time, lady, there was absolutely no disturbance during the night.’

  ‘Very well.’ Fidelma addressed Fethmac. ‘Take Fial and her baby back to Gobánguss’ wife.’

  ‘Can I see my husband?’ the young woman asked.

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘I need to question him before you speak together.’

  ‘To ensure we do not contradict one another?’ the woman asked cynically.

  ‘I am sure you understand,’ Fidelma replied without emotion. ‘I have a job to do. There is no trick in it if you have told us the truth. And if you have done so, then Celgaire will tell us the same truth.’

  Fethmac moved forward to take her arm. Reluctantly, Fial rose and accompanied him. The baby in her arms was still sleeping. They were at the door when Fidelma said, as if in afterthought: ‘By the way, did your husband or you own a cleaver for meat or wood?’

  Fial actually gave a dry laugh. ‘If we had, we could have sold it for food.’

  After she had left, Fidelma stretched back in her chair with a deep sigh.

  ‘She told a good story,’ Eadulf offered.

  ‘You doubt its validity?’

  ‘Oh, I am sure there is a lot of truth in it – but there is one thing that destroys it.’

  ‘Which is?’