F
idelma came awake with someone shaking her shoulder. She was sitting up in a moment, ready to defend herself. However, it was only Muirgen, the nurse. The sky was light but grey, and it must be well after dawn. She had slept long and deeply. She was about to apologise when it became obvious that Muirgen was waking her for a purpose.
‘What is it?’ Her first thought was of her husband. ‘Is Eadulf back?’
Muirgen shook her head. ‘No, lady, it is Enda who asks you to go to the gates immediately.’
‘Immediately? I am not up yet, not washed or dressed.’
‘He said it is most urgent, lady. Another body has been found.’
It took a second for the news to register before Fidelma swung quickly out of bed and was frantically seeking her clothes. She began hurriedly dressing with the aid of Muirgen.
‘It is not Deogaire who has been found?’ It was the first thought that came to her.
‘He did not say, lady.’ Muirgen pushed Fidelma onto a stool and began to tidy her hair with the means of a comb. Fidelma fretted, moving impatiently while the old nurse attended to her toilette. Finally free, she raced out of the chamber, across the courtyard and towards the gates, where Enda and another warrior stood with a man who looked familiar: it was the stonemason she had spoken with earlier. Fidelma gave an inward groan. She had meant to ask her brother to place a guard on the scaffolding, but had forgotten all about it.
‘What is it?’ she asked breathlessly, glancing from Enda to the stonemason.
The warrior indicated that the stonemason should speak first.
‘Me and my lads were coming to start this morning’s work, lady,’ the man began nervously. ‘It was just getting light. We found a body at the base of the scaffolding. It was obvious from the way it lay that the man had fallen from the top to the bottom. He was quite dead.’
Fidelma’s mouth felt dry with fear. ‘You didn’t by any chance recognise him?’
‘Sadly, we did.’
‘Why sadly?’
‘Sadly, because he was the man who employed us to do the building work.’
‘I don’t understand. The work is done on behalf of my brother . . .’
‘His steward, lady. Beccan. He was the man we dealt with.’
She stared at him, so intensely that he dropped his gaze and shuffled unhappily before her.
‘You mean that the body is that of Beccan?’ she repeated, as though she had not understood the first time.
‘That is so, lady. It was the body of Beccan the steward.’
Several thoughts were going round in her mind, most of them spurred by guilt. Having found out that Beccan had lied about the woman who was supposed to be ill in the hut in the woods, his story contradicted by Deogaire, she had been determined to confront him. But she had decided to let a night pass; lull Beccan into a false sense of security before tackling him head on. If she was right, and Beccan
was
involved, then this death could be blamed on her inaction. She had even hoped that Eadulf might have returned with further information by now, because the key to the whole series of deaths, she now saw clearly, lay with what had happened on the River Siúr. Eadulf’s brother Egric was an important link to that.
Enda asked respectfully: ‘Shall I order the body to be brought around to Brother Conchobhar’s apothecary, lady?’
But the stonemason was talking. ‘It is hard to see how anyone could fall accidentally,’ he told Fidelma. ‘As you well know, there are plenty of ladders and platforms. To miss the ladders or fall off a platform . . . well, it doesn’t seem likely. Me and my men have been working on such scaffolding for years without a single mishap.’
‘So you think he was helped to fall?’ she asked. ‘Or jumped?’
The man shrugged. ‘It is not my place to say. I am responsible for the scaffolding, and if any accident happens, I would have to pay compensation. My opinion therefore must be biased, lady.’
Fidelma turned to Enda. ‘Is Deogaire still safe in the
Laochtech
?’
‘As you instructed, lady. He has been guarded night and day.’
‘Then let us look at this scaffolding first before we remove the body,’ Fidelma said. She led the way up the steps onto the wall which surrounded the palace complex. It was a short walk to the south-west corner of the ramparts. She was still silently cursing herself that she had not carried out her intention to have her brother post a sentinel by the scaffold. The stonemason and Enda watched her as she made a quick examination of the wall and the scaffolding. Her eye caught a large piece of dressed stone, not quite fitting correctly on the wall. As the wall was being rebuilt, that would not have been a matter of particular interest. What caused her to prise it loose and examine the underside of it was the sight of dark staining on the bottom. She placed the stone to one side on the top of the wall before leaning forward and peering downwards across the parapet.
‘I presume that you found the body just to the side of the scaffolding?’ she asked the stonemason.
The man gave a nod. ‘Aye, lady.’
‘There was blood on the head?’
‘Of course, lady. After such a fall . . .’
‘Blood on the
back
of the head?’
‘He must have hit the back of his head hard. I noticed a great wound on that part of the skull.’
Fidelma turned to the others with a grim face. ‘Beccan was murdered: he did not fall from the scaffolding by accident.’
The stonemason’s mouth gaped stupidly. Enda whistled softly. ‘How can you tell, lady?’ he asked.
Fidelma lifted the piece of masonry she had taken from the wall and showed them the blood. ‘Beccan had injuries to the back of the head. I take the stonemason’s word for it, although we shall shortly confirm it when I view the body. It seems that this rock was used to inflict those injuries by his killer. The blood is still fresh on the underside.’
‘How can we be sure that it was no accident?’ Enda pressed.
‘It seems unlikely that Beccan hit himself on the head, replaced the stone in this wall, then started to climb down the scaffolding, slipped and fell,’ she replied. Her sarcasm was a disguise for her own self-blame. She turned and pointed across the parapet. ‘Had he fallen from the scaffolding, he would not have fallen to the side where our stonemason friend here says that he was found. The position he was found in meant that he fell straight down from this spot. Someone knocked him on the head and pushed him over.’
There was a silence as they considered what she had said. The stonemason, with justification, was looking relieved at her conclusion that his equipment was not at fault.
‘Now, am I right that you believe your scaffolding is still safe?’
‘I say it is, since you agree that the steward did not fall from it,’ the stonemason said stoutly.
‘I only ask,’ she told him, ‘because we shall use it to climb down and view the body, rather than go all the way round through to the gate.’
Before the men could protest, she had climbed over the parapet and begun the descent. Having done it before, she found it quite easy. As she climbed down, she was thinking furiously.
She had been coming to the conclusion that Beccan was the culprit. Now he was dead. It was true that she had not entirely worked out his motive. He had been near the chapel when the body of Brother Cerdic was found; he could have easily had access to the barn where Rudgal was being held; he had lied about Deogaire and about going to see a woman called Maon at the woodman’s hut; he could have returned unseen to the guest chambers that night to push the statue off the roof in an attempt to kill them. He must have used the scaffolding for access and exit without being seen; in the same way, he could have met Sister Dianaimh in the darkness and killed her. And although it could be argued as prejudice, he was of the Déisi and of the same area where Rudgal and his robber band had come from. It had all seemed to fit although she had been unable to collect the strands into one final knot. It was the motive that eluded and frustrated her.
There was more to this matter than she had thought. She must be missing something – something that would tie it all together. But what?
When Eadulf awoke he was aware of a strong, flickering light. It was the sun shining through the rustling leaves of the trees above. Then he became aware of the cacophony of birdsong. It was well past dawn. He was lying near the fire outside the wooden hut. Someone must have covered him against the cold of the night for there was a heavy blanket over him. Just then, a dark shadow intervened between him and the sun. He looked up into the smiling face of Gormán.
‘Rest, friend Eadulf. All is well.’ He held out a beaker of water.
Eadulf rubbed his head and tried to collect his thoughts. ‘What happened?’ he asked, realising that his throat was very dry. He took the beaker and sipped at the water; it was fresh and cold from the stream.
‘You were exhausted,’ Gormán said simply. ‘You had a long ride here and then the task you had to perform at the end of it . . . well, I could not have done it. So, when you had finished, you fell into a deep sleep, which is natural.’
‘Did Dego . . . has he . . .?’ Eadulf began uncertainly.
‘Dego lives. According to Brother Berrihert, he went into a natural sleep and slept for most of the night.’
Eadulf breathed a sigh of relief and swallowed the rest of the water in large mouthfuls.
‘Sleep is the great healer,’ he said. ‘He should sleep as much as he can for the next few days to regain his strength.’ He rose and handed the beaker back to Gormán. ‘I’ll go and check the wound.’
Dego was lying still on the cot. Eadulf was amazed to see that his eyes were open, although he seemed very drowsy. He even forced a faint smile as Eadulf bent over him.
‘How are you feeling?’ Eadulf asked.
‘I’ve been better,’ replied the warrior with a touch of humour.
Eadulf nodded sympathetically and gently unwrapped the arm. There was no foul odour and the wound was clean. Unless there were any mishaps, the stump should heal nicely without further infection. He glanced up to Brother Pecanum, who was standing by.
‘The wound must be regularly washed and bathed. I shall leave some of the herbal infusion to pour onto it from time to time. It is important that it is freshly dressed to keep infection at bay. But in a few days . . . he should be healing well.’
He turned back to Dego. ‘We’ll soon have you up and active again.’
A dark cloud crossed the young warrior’s face. His voice was bitter.
‘I’ve been a warrior all my life. I’ve known nothing else but service in the Nasc Niadh. With my right arm gone, what is left for me now?’
‘Come, my friend. Wasn’t I told by your bards that Elatha had one hand and one eye, yet he was able to seduce the Goddess Ériu?’
‘Ancient legends,’ grunted the young warrior. ‘He was King of the Fomorii – the undersea dwellers – who were all disfigured.’
‘Well, there’s many a truth in legend. Anyway, what’s your left hand for? I’ve seen warriors fighting with their sword in their left hand.’ While he was speaking, Eadulf was redressing the wound. ‘We are going to leave you in the care of Berrihert and his brothers while we go in search of Egric and whoever did this to you.’
‘I am sorry that I was unable to protect him. We were fishing and I heard nothing before I was knocked unconscious, although I seem to recall the movement of horses as I lay, so I must have had moments of consciousness.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Eadulf assured him. ‘Concentrate on getting well.’
Dego gave a slight movement of his head in acknowledgement but did not reply. It was clear that he was suddenly contemplating the enormity of this change in his circumstances and what it meant for his future. Outside, Eadulf had a quick exchange with Berrihert and Naovan.
‘Look after him, my friends. But as well as keeping watch on that wound, keep a watch on his spirits. He is young; a warrior. So now he is thinking of what his life will become with only one hand – and his left hand at that. He may become morose, and those feelings are not conducive to heal the body.’
Brother Berrihert reached forward and took Eadulf’s hand in his.
‘Don’t worry. We shall take especial care of him. You are truly a physician of renown, Brother Eadulf. I have never seen such work.’
‘Thanks be that God guided my fingers,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘Thanks be that everyone was here to help. But it is early days yet. So be vigilant.’
‘We understand,’ replied Brother Naovan. ‘He must rest as much as possible and we must keep a sharp eye on the wound lest infection occurs.’
‘I shall now take you to the spot where I found Dego,’ said Brother Berrihert. ‘It would be difficult to find it without guidance. My brothers will look after Dego until I return.’
‘Then we welcome your company, Berrihert.’ Eadulf went to his bag and took from it three baked clay
lestar
sealed with
farcan
or cork imported from Iberia, reinforced with
cáir
, a malleable wax-like substance. These he showed to Pecanum and Naovan, explaining the purposes of the mixtures. ‘I need you to remember the mark I have put on each container. This one is a distillation of the stalk, leaves and flowers of goldenrod,
stat óir
. It is an antiseptic and astringent that usually prevents infection, and arrests bleeding. Should you see any infection in the wound, bathe it in this.’
The two brothers nodded.
‘This other one is a strong sedative which can be given as a drink. It’s made from what they call
goimín serraigh
, a wild pansy. The third is a similar sedative, inducing sleep and easing headache; it’s a distillation of cinquefoil, what is called here
tor cúigmhéarach
. Is that clear?’
‘It is clear, Brother Eadulf. We will keep vigil over Dego and pray he grows stronger.’
Eadulf turned back to Gormán. ‘Now . . . let us try to find my brother.’
Within a short time, Brother Berrihert was leading Eadulf and his companions up the mountainside. He remained on foot, while the others walked their horses. The elevation of the hill path made it difficult to ride up the slopes but Brother Berrihert had assured them that they would be needing a horse once they passed through the high valleys. It seemed that they would not be ascending any of the higher peaks of the mountains. They began to climb beyond the treelines and crossed the hill called the Pointed Peak before dropping southwards along a track that led through a valley, with one peak rising to the west and another to the east. Here they began to descend more rapidly as the path followed what was, at first, a gushing stream. It grew in strength and pace, rushing towards the plains below.