Peter Tremayne - The Spider's Web

The two farm hands had stood hesitantly, allowing Crítán to be their spokesman. Now the one with the ladder, realising that the young warrior might have gone a little too far with his threats, put down his burden and came forward.

‘It is true that you are not wanted here, sister,’ he said, with slightly more respect in his voice. ‘Our kinsman,’ he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the high cross, ‘has been slain and we know who must pay for it. You should be about your own business.’

‘You appear to have made your mind up about the identity ofthe person who you want to punish for Muadnat’s death whether they are guilty or not,’ observed Eadulf dryly. ‘Is it not better to wait until you find the real culprit?’

‘No one asked for your interference, Saxon,’ snapped Crítán. ‘Now be gone, the both of you. It is a fair warning that I give you.’

Fidelma’s mouth turned down almost in a wistful expression. It was always a dangerous sign with her but only Eadulf realised that fact. She had noticed that the youth’s words were studied, the face flushed, eyes bright and gestures exaggerated. It was obvious, now that she had a chance to observe him more closely, that the young man had taken drink to bolster his courage that morning.

‘I will overlook your ill-manners, Crítán, for this time I shall take into account your youth and inexperience. Now I mean to examine Muadnat’s body and I do so by the authority I hold.’

Crítán, having used verbal force and found it not intimidating, was somewhat taken aback. He glanced at the two farm hands for support. They were looking embarrassed. Now Crítán saw that he was being humiliated again in front of others.

‘These are kinsmen of Muadnat,’ he said stubbornly. ‘We will not allow you to bend the law to allow Archú to escape our justice.’

‘And are they your witness to this murder?’ Fidelma demanded, turning to the two men. ‘You,’ she suddenly pointed to the one who had adopted a more reasonable tone with her, ‘did you see Archú kill Muadnat?’

The man flushed.

‘No, of course not, but …’

‘And you?’ Fidelma wheeled sharply to the second man.

‘Who else but Archú would do this?’ replied the man resolutely.

‘Who else? Isn’t that a matter to be considered by the law before you exact vengeance on someone who may be innocent?’

Crítán intervened with a sneering laugh.

‘You are good at playing with words, woman. But we have hadenough of words. Be gone from this spot before I force you to leave.’ His hand fell on his sword. The gesture needed no interpretation.

Eadulf came forward, his movements purposeful, but Fidelma reached out and held his arm firmly. Even so, Eadulf was flushed with anger.

‘Would you dare threaten a woman?’ he growled ominously. ‘A woman of the cloth?’

In fact, Crítán had drawn his sword as soon as Eadulf had moved towards him. The youth’s face was red, his eyes bright.

‘Stand back, Eadulf,’ cautioned Fidelma.

One of the farm hands, the one who had tried to appear reasonable, was regarding Crítán somewhat nervously. A verbal threat was one thing but to physically threaten a female religieuse, and an advocate of the courts at that, was something beyond him.

‘Perhaps we had better let her examine the body,’ he suggested anxiously.

The idea of losing face before this woman made the arrogant youth even more stubborn.

‘I will say what is to be done,’ he insisted almost petulantly.

‘Crítán,’ the other rejoined, uncertainly, ‘she is not only a religieuse but …’

‘She is the one whose pretty serpent tongue allowed Archú to usurp that which belonged to Muadnat. She is also responsible for his death!’

‘Crítán!’ It was Fidelma who addressed the youth in a voice that was soft but clear. ‘Put up your sword and return to the rath and sleep off the effects of the alcohol you have consumed. I will forget the discourtesy you have shown me.’

The youth’s rage only seemed to increase. He almost shook with his rage.

‘If you were a warrior …’ he scowled.

Fidelma’s eyes became slits.

‘If you are prepared to threaten me with physical violence, I should not let that fact hinder you.’

‘Crítán!’ protested the man who had been carrying the ladder as the young man raised his sword and took a threatening step forward.

Fidelma held up her hand to silence him and gestured for everyone to stay back. Eadulf could see the anger on her brow. He noted the way that she planted her feet apart and let her arms hang relaxed at her side. Her voice had become soft and sibilant.

‘Boy! You have now overstepped the mark. Youth and drink are no longer an excuse. If you wish to use your sword, do so. Even a woman bowed down with years could best a little child such as yourself.’

The words were coldly spoken and were designed for an effect. They succeeded.

Crítán gave a howl of rage. He ran forward, sword upraised. Fidelma just seemed to stand there awaiting his onslaught. Eadulf was torn between leaping in front of her to defend her and staying where he was for he had a suspicion of what was about to happen. He had seen Fidelma display her unusual talent once before in Rome. Fidelma was an adept at an art which she described to him as troid-sciathagid, battle through defence. She had told him that when the Irish religious journeyed far and wide, travelling to preach the word of the New Faith, they did so often alone and unarmed. Believing it wrong to carry weapons, they developed a form of self-defence against robbers and bandits without the use of weapons.

The combat, if such it could be called, was over within a matter of seconds.

The boy was rushing forward with raised sword upon Fidelma one moment and the next he was sprawled on his back on the ground with Fidelma standing one foot firmly on the wrist of the hand which had grasped the sword. She had barely moved, swaying back, and seeming to throw him over her shoulder. Eadulf knewthat there was a science to it. The momentum of the youth himself had propelled his body forward. He lay stunned and gasping for breath.

The two farm hands were staring at the fallen youth in amazement.

Eadulf moved forward, bent and picked up the boy’s sword. He gazed down at Crítán’s recumbent form. He could smell the intoxicating fumes and shook his head sorrowfully.

‘Plures crapula quam gladius,’ he rebuked. ‘As you have no understanding of Latin, boy, it means that “drunkenness kills more than the sword”.’

Fidelma had turned to the farm hands.

‘I require one of you to take this boy back to the rath of your tanist and ensure that he sleeps off the effects of the drink. When he sobers, you may inform him that his pretensions to be a warrior are over. Tell Crón, the tanist, that I have said this. He should find work tending herds or tilling the soil. He will not bear arms in the kingdom of Muman again. It is only because of his youth and intoxication that I shall overlook his assault on me.’

One of the men moved forward and hauled the still befuddled youth to his feet. He held out his hand to Eadulf for the boy’s sword but Fidelma intervened.

‘Sharp knives are not for children to play with,’ she said decisively. ‘Keep a hold on that toy, Eadulf.’

The man who had been carrying the ladder muttered: ‘Do not associate me with the folly of that boy, sister. I seek only the truth.’

Fidelma said nothing but stood watching as the other man half carried, half hauled the boy back along the road towards the rath of Araglin.

Eadulf grimaced sourly after them.

‘At least Crítán will be sober by the time he gets to the rath.’