Peter Tremayne - Valley of the Shadow

‘But what has this to do with us? Why do you ask if I had been at the stable …? Oh!’ Her eyes grew rounded as she stared at Fidelma. ‘I had told you that I would kill that pig! You think that … but it was just a figure of speech. I did not do so.’

Laisre intervened diplomatically.

‘Someone thought that they had seen you there.’

‘Well, it was not I,’ replied Orla firmly.

‘And I can vouch for that,’ added Colla.

Murgal glanced at Fidelma.

‘I do not think there is anything to be gained in pursuing this matter, Fidelma. Do you?’

However, Fidelma turned to Orla.

‘Yet you do remember telling me that if you met Brother Solin again you would kill him? That was yesterday afternoon?’

Orla flushed.

‘Yes, but, as I said, I did not mean …’

‘You said that you would kill him,’ repeated Fidelma firmly. ‘Why was that?’

Orla bit her lip, glancing at Colla under lowered eyebrows.

‘He insulted me.’

‘In what way?’ Fidelma pressed.

‘He … he made a lewd suggestion.’

Colla started angrily at his wife’s confession.

‘What? You did not tell me this.’

Orla was dismissive.

‘I was able to deal with the lascivious pig. I slapped him hard. When I said that I would kill him if I saw him again …’

‘You did not mean it?’ intervened Laisre. ‘Of course, we understand.’ He looked at Fidelma. ‘The fact is, my sister’s movements are now accounted for whatever opinions she held of Brother Solin.’

Fidelma opened her mouth to protest but then shrugged her shoulders in silent acquiescence.

The testimony of Colla and the apparently genuine look of astonishment on Orla’s face told her that no amount of questioningwould change their story. Fidelma was a pragmatist. She knew that it was no use pounding away at an immovable object even if she had irresistible force on her side and that she had not. Only she knew what she had seen at the stable door had been a reality.

‘I will not pursue the matter for the moment. Let Orla and her husband return to their disturbed slumber.’

Colla hesitated. He looked to Murgal and to Laisre in curiosity. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with a belligerence.

‘Just what is going on here? Why does Fidelma of Cashel accuse my wife of this deed apart from those hasty words which she uttered?’

Murgal held up a hand in pacification.

‘As to who killed Solin, we have yet to be certain, Colla. And it seems that it was only a mistake of identity by someone passing in the darkness that involved Orla. Best go to bed now and we will discuss this in the morning.’

Reluctantly, Colla escorted his wife from the chamber.

Artgal was still standing, with folded arms, grinning smugly at Fidelma.

‘I was right all along, eh?’ he sneered at her. ‘Your ruse did not work.’

Murgal appeared annoyed at the warrior’s attitude.

‘I would return to your tasks, Artgal. You may leave Fidelma of Cashel with us and remember this, she is still the sister of the king at Cashel. Respect is her due, whatever she has done.’

Artgal ground his teeth in anger at this rebuke but turned on his heel and left.

Murgal returned a troubled look to Fidelma.

‘Artgal is in many ways primitive to the extent that he has little respect for anything which cannot hurt him. Cashel and the reach of its king is too abstract a thought to him. He cannot give you respect unless he experiences the power your brother represents.’

Fidelma shrugged indifferently.

‘If you have shame, forebear to pluck the beard of a dead lion.’

‘An interesting thought,’ Murgal mused. ‘Is that your own epigram?’

‘Martial. A Latin poet. But I do not want respect for who my ancestors or relatives are. Only for what I am.’

‘That is an argument that might not count with Artgal,’ interposed Laisre. ‘At the moment you are someone accused of murder.’

Fidelma felt that they had fenced enough.

‘The one thing that I am sure of is that I saw Orla at the stable.’

‘It cannot be so,’ Laisre rebuked her. ‘Unless you now accuse both Orla and Colla of lying.’

‘I can only say what I saw,’ Fidelma insisted.

‘Orla is my sister.’ Laisre was unhappy. ‘I can assure you that she is not one to lie. Colla is my tanist, my heir-elect. You accuse him of lying to protect his wife? If that is the sum total of your defence then you would do well to reflect on matters.’

‘So you have both decided that I am as guilty as Artgal claims that I am?’

Murgal’s expression was dour.

‘You are a dálaigh, Fidelma. You know the procedure that must now be undertaken. Tell me, what else am I to conclude from what I have heard? We have a witness in Artgal. In counter claim, you have accused the sister of our chieftain. Her husband is a witness to the fact that she was not where you claim she was. And your only argument is to call her and her husband liars.’

Laisre was flushed. It appeared that the offence of Fidelma’s charge had finally sunk into him. He was unable to restrain the anger from his voice.

‘I have to warn you, Fidelma of Cashel, and with all respect to your rank, when you accuse my sister of murder and then lying, you go too far.’

‘I saw what I saw,’ replied Fidelma stubbornly.

‘Fidelma of Cashel, I am chieftain of my people. We do not share a religion but we share a common law, a law far older than the time when Patrick the Briton was allowed to sit on Laoghaire’s council to study and revise it. The law guides me, as chieftain, to the path that I must take. You know that path as well as I. The matter is now entirely in the hands of Murgal, my Brehon.’

Laisre rose abruptly and left the chamber.

Fidelma had also risen from her chair to face Murgal.

‘I did not kill Brother Solin,’ she insisted.

‘Then you must prove that. As the law prescribes, we will meet in this place nine days from now at which time you will have to answer this charge. In the meantime, you will be placed under guard in our Chamber of Isolation.’

‘Nine days?’ Fidelma gasped in astonishment. ‘What can I do while I am incarcerated?’

‘It is a matter prescribed by law, as well you know it,’ confirmed Murgal. ‘For the crime of murder, I can do no less.’

Fidelma felt a sudden cold foreboding.

‘How can I prove my innocence if I am not even allowed movement within this ráth?’ she demanded.

‘Then you must find a Brehon to act for you as anyone else must do in your place. We cannot make special allowances to rank and privilege.’

‘A Brehon?’ Fidelma was cynical. ‘I do not suppose there is an abundance of lawyers in Gleann Geis?’

Murgal chose not to answer her. He signalled to Rudgal who still stood behind her chair.

‘Take Fidelma of Cashel to the Chamber of Isolation. Make sure you treat her with respect and obey her wishes as regards comfort and access to anything which may help her defence … within reason, that is.’

Rudgal moved forward to touch her elbow. He gazed compassionately at her for a moment before averting his eyes to focus just above her head.

‘Come with me, Sister Fidelma,’ he said softly, his voice a monotone.

Fidelma glanced again at Murgal but the austere Druid had turned away, hands behind his back, and seemed intent on examining the flames of the iron brazier which heated the chamber. There would be no sympathy forthcoming from any pleading with Murgal, the Brehon of Gleann Geis.

Rudgal led the way from the chamber and Fidelma followed without another word. There was nothing more that could be said. For the first time in her life, in spite of all the occasions when her life was under threat, Fidelma had a feeling which she could only describe as coming close to panic. Nine days incarcerated in a cell with the accusation of murder hanging over her and being unable to question anyone or gather evidence in her own defence was an appalling prospect.