Peter Tremayne - Badger's Moon

Fidelma did not say anything for a moment. Then she said softly: ‘Let us hope that if Accobrán and the boy meet up on the road, they may come back to us living and not as corpses.’

There was no further news of the tanist and his pursuit by the time they retired for the night.

The next day, as the early grey October light filtered through the windows, Fidelma was already at her morning ablutions. In the distance she could hear the tolling of a bell, presumably from the abbey of the Blessed Finnbarr. She found Eadulf waiting for her in the kitchen of Becc’s great hall where they normally broke their fast. He had been up and washed before her.

Becc came in while they were finishing their meal and looked uneasy.

‘Accobrán came back in the middle of the night,’ he announced without preamble. ‘He overtook Gabrán.’

Fidelma was immediately concerned.

‘I asked you to inform me immediately Accobrán returned,’ she replied sharply. ‘Is the boy alive?’

Becc blinked in surprise at the abruptness of her tone.

‘Accobrán brought him back for trial, cousin. Not for execution,’ he said defensively.

‘So the boy is in good health?’ she insisted.

‘He may be bruised a little but he should not have resisted his capture.’

Fidelma’s features were immobile. ‘No, he should not — especially when he is innocent of the murder of Lesren.’

Becc showed his irritability. ‘You will have to present the evidence to prove it then.’

‘That I shall do,’ Fidelma replied. She made to rise, and paused. The distant bell from the abbey was still tolling. ‘What is that bell sounding for?’

The chieftain looked surprised, as if hearing the bell for the first time. ‘It will be for Lesren’s funeral.’

Fidelma sprang to her feet with an exclamation. ‘I had forgotten the funeral in all that has transpired. Eadulf, come. We must attend it.’

Eadulf grabbed a piece of cold meat and some bread and went quickly after her as she headed for the door. On the threshold she halted with such abruptness that Eadulf bumped into her. She was looking back at Becc.

‘Are you not coming?’ she demanded.

The chieftain had seated himself at the vacated table.

‘I was never a friend of Lesren or of his family. He was a good tanner, that is all. Accobrán has gone there to ensure all is as it should be. But it would be insincere should I attend.’

Fidelma had not waited for the chieftain to finish. She was through the door and instructing their horses be saddled and brought without delay.

‘I don’t understand why you want to attend this funeral,’ Eadulf protested, trying to finish his bread and meat.

‘At funerals one may gather information,’ she replied mysteriously.

It did not take them long to reach the abbey. A few other stragglers were hurrying in answer to the bell’s summons and it was still tolling as the gatekeeper admitted them and pointed to the chapel.

Lesren’s body had been taken to the abbey chapel and it was here that the funeral obsequies were to take place. As Fidelma and Eadulf entered the chapel, they found it surprisingly crowded with many from Rath Raithlen. They immediately saw Accobrán, and by his side Adag the steward. Fidelma nudged Eadulf and indicated that Gobnuid the smith was also there. There were many others who had probably traded with the tanner or were relatives of Lesren and Bébháil. Bébháil herself sat at the front of the chapel with a woman who looked remarkably like her. Fidelma remembered that the widow of Lesren had a sister who was to have been summoned to look after matters. There was Tómma close by. Even a frightened-looking Creoda was standing just behind Tómma. Among the religious, however, the three strangers were not present. There was no reason why they should be and, indeed, Abbot Brogán told Fidelma afterwards that he had thought it wise that they should not attend in case of trouble.

The congregation was subdued by the ominous tones of a new bell. The solemn baritone of the clog-estechtae , or death bell, which was always rung to mark the death of a Christian, replaced the tenor of the summoning bell. The religious who were gathered began to sing their requiem, the écnairc , an intercession for the soul’s repose. Members of Bébháil’s household had probably watched over Lesren’s body for the entire night. Eadulf knew all about the custom. In some cases, he knew, the relatives and their guests indulged in the cluiche cainrech or funeral games that preceded the fled cro-lige , the feast of the deathbed.

The body had been wrapped in a recholl , a winding sheet, and placed on a guat or wooden bier. Eadulf wondered whether the body had been accompanied to the chapel by the wailing cries of the relatives, and hired mourners who wept aloud in a strange fashion called the caoidneadh accompanied by the slow clapping of hands, said to emphasise despair.

When the prayers and psalms were over, the bier was lifted by four men and carried out of the chapel. Fidelma and Eadulf followed the mourners as they moved behind the bier. Outside, a grave had been dug and the body was gently lowered into it while the women set up cries that, although Eadulf had heard them before, made his blood run cold.

Then, to Eadulf’s surprise, a man came forward with an axe, and broke up the bier. The pieces were thrown into the grave. Seeing his puzzled look, Fidelma leant close and whispered: ‘It is the custom to destroy the bier, for if it is left whole then the evil demons, the fairy folk, might use it to carry off the corpse on their nightly excursions. The bier is destroyed so that the corpse might obtain peace.’

Eadulf thought it not the time or place to comment disapprovingly on the continuance of a pagan ritual as part of a Christian ceremony. Then he saw that everyone was lining up before a Brother of the Faith who stood next to a great pile of broom. Each person was handed a branch of broom and took it to the grave and dropped it in.

‘This is just to protect the body from the clay,’ explained Fidelma. ‘But each person who drops the broom in does so as a sign of respect.’

When this was done, the grave was closed. Bébháil’s sister held up her hands and the lamentations stilled.

‘The Amra — the elegy — will be spoken by my husband.’

A man, looking every inch a farmer, came forward. He appeared very uncomfortable. It was clear that he was unhappy at the task he had been asked to perform. He spoke in a swift, mumbling tone.

‘We have interred the body of Lesren who was married to my wife’s sister.’ He hesitated and coughed. ‘Lesren was a tanner. He was a súdaire , a craftsman, whose worth was well known to all who are here today. He now lies beside his daughter, Beccnat.’ He paused again and sniffed. ‘Beccnat was killed, even as he was, and so this is the second time in as many months that the laithi na canti — the days of lamentation — have been visited on us who were related to Lesren. Sorrow is the load we must bear.’

Yet again he paused and looked across to Bébháil who stood, dry-eyed and stony-faced, supported by her sister on one side and Tómma on the other. He set his jaw as though he had made up his mind to follow through an unpleasant task.

‘There is little I can say. I cannot pretend I liked Lesren or made him welcome at my threshold. But I suffered him for the sake of my sister-in-law. He was not a good father; he was not a good husband. But they are truly good who are faultless. I will not call praise on him, for that would be insincere, false and pretending. I will say only this — he was my wife’s sister’s husband and I am sorry that his passing has made her a widow.’