The Spider's Web (24 page)

Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Fiction, #tpl, #_NB_Fixed, #Mystery, #Historical, #Clerical Sleuth, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: The Spider's Web

13.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

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 knew
that 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.’

Fidelma gave a brief sigh and turned back to the body hanging on the high cross.

‘I shall need your ladder for a moment,’ she told the remaining farm hand.

The man helped her place it against the high cross and she climbed up while Eadulf assisted him holding it in place.

She could see, in spite of the congealed blood and rope, that the throat of Muadnat had been cut with one quick professional cut, almost severing the head from the neck. It was not a pretty sight. It reminded her of the slaughtered carcass of some animal. The effusion of blood indicated that his throat had been cut before the rope had been fixed around his neck and then the body had been hauled up on the cross. Why had the dead man been hanged afterwards? It struck her that it was almost as if some dark ritual had been enacted. She looked carefully at the body but could see nothing that presented any other information. The rope itself was unremarkable, an ordinary strong fibre rope. One thing she did notice, there was no sign of the knife which had inflicted the first fatal wound. After some moments she climbed down.

‘You may take down the body,’ she told the farm hand.

Eadulf helped him lower the body of the thickset Muadnat to the ground.

While this was being done, Fidelma wandered around the cross in ever widening circles, her eyes fixed upon the ground as if searching for something. After a while she suddenly halted and drew a breath.

‘Eadulf!’

Eadulf went immediately across to where she stood.

She pointed downwards. Eadulf stared at the grass, unsure what he was meant to see. There were flecks upon the blades.

‘Blood splatters?’ he hazarded.

She nodded.

‘Observe them carefully.’

Eadulf knelt down and saw that the blood had dried on the leaves of the grass and on a broad leafed plant.

‘Do you think his throat was cut here?’

‘It seems a reasonable assumption,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Anything else?’

Eadulf had been about to rise to his feet when he paused and looked, then he uttered a short exclamation and reached forward.

‘What do you make of it?’ Fidelma prompted.

‘It is a tuft of hair.’ Eadulf rose holding it in the open palm of his hand.

‘Coarse red hair,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘Human hair.’

‘Do you think it has any connection with the murder.’

‘It looks as if it was dragged out by the roots. See the ends of the hair?’ she answered without replying to his question.

After he had examined it, she took the hair carefully and placed it in her
marsupium,
the leather pouch she always carried at her waist.

‘Now I think that we’d best get back to the
rath,
Eadulf. There is little to do here. I want to question Agdae.’ She suddenly pressed her lips together in irritation. ‘Agdae! Why isn’t he here?’

She turned to where the farm hand was securing the body of Muadnat across the back of the patiently waiting ass.

‘Did Agdae return here after he had sought help at the
rath
?’

‘No, sister,’ the man replied immediately. ‘He left Crítán and my friend and me to take down the body and transport it back to Muadnat’s farm. But I think he rode off directly in search of Archú.’

Fidelma groaned a little.

‘Did you say that you were also a kinsman of Muadnat?’ she asked, recovering her poise.

The man nodded.

‘I am. But then so are most of the people in this valley, including the tanist.’

‘If Muadnat has so many cousins, why does he hold one cousin, young Archú, in such low esteem?’

The reply was without hesitation.

‘He hated Archú’s father, a foreigner. Muadnat felt that
Artgal, Archú’s father, had no right to steal the affections of his kinswoman, Suanach.’

‘Steal the affections?’ Fidelma pulled a face. ‘That is an interesting turn of phrase. From whom were Suanach’s affections supposed to have been stolen? It implies that the woman was an unwilling partner in the relationship. Was she so unwilling?’

The man looked uncomfortable.

‘Muadnat had arranged a marriage to Agdae. But Suanach did not want to marry him. No, in fact Suanach was very much in love with Archu’s father Artgal.’

‘So the fault of the dispute lay with Muadnat’s own distorted view of the relationship?’

‘I suppose so.’ The man was reluctant to go further. ‘It is best not to speak ill of the dead.’

‘Then let us speak of the living. Let us speak of Archú and Agdae. Let us help to prevent injustice to the living,’ replied Fidelma.

‘Has the dislike of the father been passed on to the son?’ Eadulf asked curiously. ‘Is that it? Is Archú suffering for Muadnat’s dislike of his father? If so, that is an unjust attitude.’

The farm hand looked uncomfortable.

‘There is probably a great injustice here but no reason for Archú to kill Muadnat,’ the man replied stubbornly.

‘Are you so sure that he did so?’

‘Agdae said as much.’

‘Does that make Agdae’s story true? Agdae, you have just told us, has as much cause to hate Archú, if not more cause, than Muadnat.’

‘Agdae is also the adopted son of Muadnat, not just his nephew. Should he not know the truth?’

‘The adopted son?’ Fidelma was intrigued. ‘So Muadnat has no wife or children of his own?’

‘None. None that I know of. Agdae was a nephew. But Muadnat raised him from childhood.’

‘Agdae stands to inherit Muadnat’s farmstead?’

‘I suppose so.’

Fidelma turned towards her horse, calling over her shoulder as she went.

‘You may take the body back to Muadnat’s farm. I have done now. If you see Agdae before I do, warn him against any action which will bring down the displeasure of the law upon him. You and he will know what I mean.’

Eadulf followed her into the saddle and did not speak until they began to move down the hill.

‘Where now?’

‘To Archú’s farmstead, of course.’

‘But do you think that this death is connected with those of Eber and Teafa?’

‘It seems extraordinary that this pleasant valley of Araglin, which appears not to have boasted a suspicious death within years, in just a matter of days witnesses several such violent deaths. We have raids on farmsteads that were previously safe and well protected. We have cattle run off, though, curiously, only a few cattle at a time. But, above all, the deaths of Eber, Teafa, Muadnat and a strange man whom we cannot identify, cannot all be merely coincidence. I confess, Eadulf, I am no great believer in coincidence. I prefer to examine the facts and only if it is proved to be coincidence beyond any shadow of doubt will I believe it as such.’

She paused and then kicked her horse into a canter.

‘We need to get to Archú’s quickly in case Agdae is really intent on seeking vengeance on the boy.’

Eadulf had difficulty keeping up with Fidelma for she was an excellent horsewoman. Fidelma had a good memory for places and there was no hesitation as she led the way along the river, passing the cabin of the prostitute, Clídna, and began to climb along the snaking track through the rounded hills towards the unusual L-shaped valley of the Black Marsh which Muadnat had dominated for so long.

Fidelma had been riding since she could remember. When she rode it was as if the horse became a mere appendage of her body and will, moving to her orders almost as the thought originated, responding to her slightest pressure. Fidelma loved the freedom that it brought her. Leaning slightly forward in the saddle, the breeze tugging at her hair, the road rising with her, the country unrolling with speed that sent a thrill through her. The sound of the horse’s pounding hooves echoed the rhythms in her body, lulling her into a gentle meditative state.

For a while it was as if she had become divorced from the world of petty human vindictiveness; as if she had become part of nature, breathing the warmth of the spring air, scenting the smells of the woods and fields, feeling the gentle heat of the sun. She almost closed her eyes in the sheer pleasure of sensual relish.

Then she roused herself almost with a sense of guilt.

People were dead and she had a duty to discover why they were so and who was responsible.

Her eyes flicked open. She became aware of two riders on the road ahead of them. She immediately recognised Dubán and one of his men.

She drew rein and awaited them. Eadulf halted by her side. She was about to speak when Dubán cut her short.

‘I have already heard the news, sister. Crón sent me word. I have left a couple of my men with Archú and Scoth. They refuse to leave their farmstead. But they are in safe hands.’

‘You have not seen Agdae then? I was told that he was riding this way.’

Dubán shook his head.

‘I doubt whether he will try to harm Archú knowing that my men are with him. It is probably a passion which will eventually ebb. He will come to his senses and realise that Archú is not responsible for the death of Muadnat.’

Fidelma looked slightly puzzled.

‘You seem so sure? I am only prepared to say that I think it unlikely that Archú killed Muadnat.’

‘I know he did not,’ replied Dubán solemnly.

Fidelma’s eyebrow involuntarily arched.

‘You
know
?’

‘Surely. That is easy. Last night I left two of my men with Archú and Scoth. They are witnesses to the fact that neither left the farm at all.’