Peter Tremayne - Badger's Moon

Goll snorted in derision. ‘Words will not release him. I am prepared-’

‘To go without food and water until he is released,’ supplied Fidelma. She knew the troscud well for less than a year ago she had been forced to face a difficult situation in which a chieftain threatened the troscud against a people who had no idea of the significance and symbolism of the act. She gave a hiss of breath denoting her irritation.

‘Listen to me, Goll. Listen well, woodsman. The troscud is a course of last resort. To starve to the point of death and to death itself is a weapon not to be used as a mere whim. Do you think if your son were guilty that it would be moral to secure his release by such a means? The consequence of the action would fall on you.’

Goll’s jaw came up aggressively. ‘I know my son to be innocent and I will not be swayed from my intention.’

Fidelma shook her head sadly. ‘Fínmed, I will address myself to you. You are more sensible than your husband and your son; indeed, more sensible than many here. Take your husband and take your son, Gabrán, and go home. There is hot blood in your men, Fínmed. Too much reaction and too little thought.’

Fínmed and Goll stood staring at her as if they had not understood what she had said.

‘Did I not make myself clear?’ Fidelma demanded. ‘Take Gabrán and go home. He has not been accused of any crime except the mistake of not believing the inevitability of justice.’

She turned and quickly left the Great Hall before realisation hit them.

Eadulf easily found Mochta’s shop not only from Accobrán’s directions but also from the pungent odours of the dyes.

What was the flower he wanted called in Irish? He thought it was bruchlais something or other. In his own Saxon it was called a wort — those of the New Faith called it the wort of John the Baptist because it was said to bloom on that day in June which was celebrated as the Baptist’s birthday. It was the flower that the old apothecaries of Tuam Brecain had said was good for the condition he suspected Fidelma was suffering from. The trouble was that it only appeared in the summer months, otherwise he would have gone looking for it in the abundantly endowed countryside. He knew that there was only one place in which he might find some stored for the winter months, apart from an apothecary’s shop. The plant was used to dye cloth.

Mochta, the dye-master, greeted him warmly.

‘Greetings, Brother Saxon. I know who you are and why you are come to this place. I saw you and the king’s sister the other day. What can I do for you?’

Eadulf told him.

‘St John’s Wort?’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I use it. Most certainly I use it. I take a purple dye from the flower heads and extract a yellow dye from the plant tops. A useful plant for a dathatóir . But why would you have need of it?’

Eadulf leant forward eagerly. ‘Accept that I have a use for it also, my friend. If you would sell me some of the plants, what price would you put on them?’

Mochta rubbed his chin.

‘What use would you have for such a plant?’ he demanded again. ‘I swear that you are not going to indulge in the business of mixing dye.’

Eadulf laughed quickly. ‘That I am not, dathatóir . But plants are useful for other things apart from mixing dyes.’

‘Ah, I see. Are you by way of being an apothecary, eh?’

‘I have studied the art but am merely a herbalist rather than one who pretends to the medical skills.’

Mochta stroked his nose with a forefinger as he considered the proposition. ‘I can sell you a bunch for a screpall but certainly no more, for I have need for these colours soon.’

‘A bunch will do well enough,’ Eadulf agreed.

The Angelus bell had tolled its last chimes that evening when people began to gather in Becc’s great hall. Eadulf, taking an unobtrusive seat at the back of the hall, observed that most of the people were those who had been in attendance at the funeral that morning. There were also several of the religious from the abbey.

Bébháil and Tómma had been brought in to sit in front of those attending, facing the chieftain’s chair. Immediately behind them was a group of people whom Eadulf recognised as relatives of Bébháil come to support her. At either side of the chieftain’s chair of office were several other seats.

Accobrán entered bearing a staff of office which he thumped on the ground three times calling for quiet. Then Becc entered, followed by Fidelma and Abbot Brogán. The chieftain took his seat with Fidelma on his right hand side and the abbot on his left, with Accobrán seated on the abbot’s left.

Becc turned to Fidelma and motioned for her to proceed.

‘This is a sad matter,’ Fidelma began softly. ‘Thankfully, it is a simple one. Bébháil has confessed to the unlawful killing of her husband, Lesren the tanner. The obstruction of justice by giving false testimony has been confessed to by Tómma. Bébháil and Tómma have described the circumstances of this crime from their view. Your chieftain and I have discussed these circumstances in the presence of the abbot and the tanist. We are all agreed on a resolution to this matter.’

She paused and glanced down to where Bébháil and Tómma were seated with pale faces and eyes downcast.

‘The crimes being confessed, all that now remains is the announcement of the penalties. Does either of you have anything to say as to why we may not now impose such penalties upon you?’

The widow of Lesren shook her head quickly while Tómma looked up. He seemed about to open his mouth to say something but his companion laid her hand on his arm and he dropped his gaze again.

‘Very well. To the crime of fingal as charged against Bébháil, we have taken into account the circumstances of this act. The Cairde text, as I have already indicated to those who have confessed, takes into account that it is permitted to kill in self-defence and the text is clear — every counter-wounding is free from liability. We have fully taken into account that Bébháil was driven to a point where she was not in control of her actions and, in this condition, she killed Lesren. So she leaves this court without penalty as to that killing. However’ — Fidelma said the word quickly as the audible murmur began to gather throughout the hall — ‘we must impose a small fine for the delay before which she confessed the matter to me, which wasted time and could have led to a potentially harmful situation. For that Bébháil must pay her chieftain two screpalls .’

Bébháil was in tears now but smiling through them. It was a small sum for a tanner’s widow to pay. Members of her family were gathering round and patting her on the back.

Fidelma turned to Tómma, who had clearly been surprised and happy about the lightness of his companion’s punishment, and called for silence.

‘Tómma, I am afraid it is you who have committed the more serious of the offences that has to be judged this day. I have told you that a false witness is deemed beyond God’s forgiveness. If we do not have truth, then we have nothing. For this false testimony you must pay the consequences.’

Bébháil was clutching her companion’s hand now and she raised her tear-stained face to Fidelma. ‘But he did it for my sake, to protect me, lady. He was willing to perjure his soul to protect me. Can you not find mercy…can you…’

Fidelma regarded her coldly, causing her to hesitate and fall silent.

‘The law cannot admit to justification for lies,’ she replied firmly. ‘But as judges and interpreters of the law, we have taken into account the circumstances as, indeed, we must. But still the law demands its price for lies.’