The Spider's Web

hills? The people ofthe sídh; the little folk in search of souls to carry below into their dark caverns?

There came a sudden shriek, not loud but sharp enough to make Menma start, his heart increasing its beat for several seconds. Then the low moaning came again. This time it was a little stronger and more sustained.

Menma looked around him. Nothing stirred among the dark shadows of the buildings. No one else seemed to have heard the noise. He tried to locate its origin. It came from the direction of the apartments of Eber himself. In spite of its ethereal quality, Menma could now identify it as human in origin. He sighed in relief for, as brutal in his views of the world as he was, nevertheless, it did not bode well to go up against the folk of the sídh if they were intent on soul-stealing. He glanced quickly about. The building appeared dark and tranquil. Was Eber ill? He frowned, undecided what to do. Eber was his chieftain, come what may, and Menma had a duty to his chieftain. A duty which not even his bitterness could cause him to neglect.

He cautiously made his way to the door of Eber’s apartments and tapped softly.

‘Eber? Are you ill? Do you require assistance?’ he called gently.

There was no reply. He tapped again, a little louder. When there was still no response, he summoned courage and lifted the latch. The door was not secured, not that he expected it to be. No one secured their doors in the rath of the chieftain of Araglin. He moved inside. He had no trouble adjusting his eyes to the darkness. The room which he had entered was empty. He knew from previous experience that Eber’s apartments consisted of two rooms. The first room, in which he stood, was called ‘the place of conversation’, which was a private reception room for the chieftain, where he discreetly entertained special guests, away from the public gaze of the hall of assembly. Beyond this room was the chieftain’s bed chamber.

Menma, having ascertained the first room to be empty, turned towards it.

The first thing he noticed was a glow of light from beneath the door. The second thing that registered with him was the rising sound of the moaning beyond the door.

‘Eber!’ he called sharply. ‘Is there anything wrong? It is I, Menma the stableman.’

There was no reply and the moaning sound did not diminish.

He moved across to the door and rapped sharply.

Hesitating only for a moment, he entered.

A lamp was lit on a small table. Menma blinked rapidly to adjust his vision. He was aware of someone kneeling by the bed, someone in a hunched posture, rocking back and forth and whimpering. They were the source of the low moaning sound that he had been hearing. He was aware of the dark stains on the clothes of the figure. Then his eyes widened a fraction. They were blood stains and there was something flashing and glinting in the lamplight, something that the person was clutching in their hands. It was a long bladed dagger.

For a moment, Menma stood immobile, fascinated by the spectacle.

Then he realised that there was a second person in the room. Someone was lying in the bed beside which the moaning figure was kneeling.

Menma stood a pace forward.

Sprawled on the bed, naked except for the coverlets twisted around him, was the blood-smeared body of Eber the chieftain. One hand was thrown casually back behind his head. The eyes were wide and staring and seemed alive in the flickering of the lamplight. The chest was a mess of bloody wounds. Menma had seen enough animals slaughtered not to recognise the jagged tearing of injuries caused by a knife. The knife must have been frenziedly plunged, again and again, into the chest of the chieftain of Araglin.

Menma half raised his hand to genuflect but then dropped it.

‘Is he dead?’ he demanded hollowly.

The figure beside the bed continued to rock back and forth moaning. It did not look up.

Menma took another step forward and gazed dispassionately downwards. Then he moved closer, dropping to one knee and reaching towards the pulse in the chieftain’s neck. The body already felt cool and clammy. Now that he looked more closely into the eyes, and the lamplight played no tricks with them, he could see that they were set and glazed.

Menma drew himself up and stared down in distaste. He hesitated, feeling that in spite of the evidence of his eyes, he had to make sure that Eber was dead. He raised a foot to nudge at the body with the toe of his boot. There was no response. Then he raised his foot and lashed viciously out at the side of the body. No, he was not mistaken. Eber, the chieftain, was dead.

Menma turned his gaze to the still moaning figure, which was still clutching the knife. He began to laugh harshly. He suddenly realised that he, Menma the stableman, was going to be rich and powerful just like the cousins he had envied all his life.

He was still chuckling when he left the chieftain’s apartments and set off in search of Duban, the commander of Eber’s bodyguard.

Chapter Two

The tolling of the deep baritone bell of the abbey signalled the reconvening of the court. It was early afternoon but the atmosphere was not warm. The cool grey granite walls of the building protected the interior from the sun. The small side chapel of the abbey, which had been given over to the legal hearings, was almost empty. Only a few people had taken their seats on the wooden benches there. Yet until the previous day the chapel had been filled to bursting point with supplicants, with the accused and their witnesses. But this afternoon, the last of the cases to be heard before the court was scheduled for judgment. Justice had already been dispensed in the numerous matters that had been previously heard.

The half a dozen or so participants in this final affair of the court rose respectfully as the Brehon, the judge, entered and took a seat at the head of the hall. The judge was female, in her mid-to late-twenties, and she wore the robes of a sister of the religious. She was tall, with attractive features, red hair tumbling from beneath her headdress. The colour of her eyes was difficult to identify exactly for they appeared ice blue on occasions or, at times, held a strange green fire depending on her moods. Her youthful appearance did not accord with the general idea of an experienced wise and learned judge but, over the last few days, as she had examined and shifted evidence in the various legal claims, this youthful looking woman had impressed those appearing before her with her knowledge, logic and compassion.

Sister Fidelma was, in fact, a qualified dálaigh, an advocate of the law courts of the five kingdoms of Éireann. She wasproficient to the degree of anruth which meant that she could not only plead cases before judges but, when nominated, she could sit to hear and adjudicate in her own court on a range of applications that did not require the presence of a judge of higher rank. It was as a judge that Fidelma had been chosen to preside over the court at the abbey of Lios Mhór. The abbey lay outside ‘the great fortification’ after which it took its name. Lios Mhór stood on the banks of the impressive river simply known as Abhainn Mór, ‘the great river’, south of Cashel, in the kingdom of Muman.

The scriptor of the abbey, who acted as the clerk of the court and kept a record of all its transactions, remained on his feet while Fidelma and the others seated themselves. He had a melancholy voice which caused Fidelma to think he would do well as a professional mourner.

‘This court is now in session. The claim of Archú, son of Suanach, against Muadnat of the Black Marsh continues.’

As he sat down, he cast an expectant glance towards Fidelma and raised his stylus, for the record of the proceedings was made on wet clay inset in wooden frames and at the end of the sessions these records would then be transcribed to more permanent form in vellum books.

Fidelma was seated behind a large ornately carved oak table, her hands placed palm downward before her. She leant back in her chair and looked steadily round at those who sat on the benches in front of her.

‘Archú and Muadnat, please come and stand before me.’

A young man rose hastily. He was no more than seventeen years old, his expression eager, like a dog seeking a favour from a master, mused Fidelma as she watched him hurry forward. The second man was in his middle years, old enough to be the youth’s father. He was a sombre faced man, almost dour in his expression.