‘He keeps trying to seize our hands and making gestures with his hands as if to attract attention. But surely he knows only Teafa could understand him.’
‘Exactly,’ Fidelma said grimly. ‘Has it not occurred to you that Móen might think that Teafa is still alive and is trying to get someone to fetch her so that he can communicate?’
Dubán shook his head.
‘He killed Teafa, whatever you may claim, sister.’
‘Dubán, you are a stubborn man.’
‘And you appear to be equally as stubborn.’
‘Why don’t we see if we can communicate with this creature?’ Eadulf suggested as a compromise.
‘A good suggestion, Eadulf,’ agreed Fidelma, turning to lead the way from Teafa’s cabin.
Móen was still shackled in the stables but there was a distinct difference. One stall of the stable had been cleaned out. A straw palliasse was laid in a corner and nearby was a jug of water and a commode. Seated cross-legged on the palliasse, though still shackled by one ankle, was Móen.
Fidelma could see at once that her instructions had been carried out. He had been washed. His hair and beard had been cut and combed. Only his white staring eyes, the tilt of his head, marked him out as in any way exceptional from anyone else. In fact, Fidelma reflected sadly, the young man was quite handsome.
As they entered, his nostrils quivered slightly. He turned his head in their direction and it was almost impossible to believe that he could not see them.
‘Now,’ Dubán asked cynically, ‘how are you going to try to communicate with him, sister?’
Fidelma ignored him.
She motioned Eadulf to stay back and moved towards the young man and halted before him.
He started back nervously and once more raised a hand to protect his head.
Fidelma turned and scowled towards Dubán.
‘This tells me much about how this unfortunate has been treated.’
Dubán flushed.
‘Not by me!’ he replied. ‘But remember that this creature has killed — twice!’
‘There is still no excuse for beating him. Would you beat a dumb animal?’
She turned back to Móen and reached forward with her hand, taking the one he was holding above his head and gently pushing it to one side.
The effect was electric. An eager expression came on the creature’s face. His nostrils flared and he seemed to be catching Fidelma’s scent.
Fidelma carefully seated herself alongside Móen.
Dubán started forward, his hand on his sword.
‘I cannot allow this …’ he protested.
Eadulf reached forward and held Dubán back. He had a strong grip and it surprised Dubán.
‘Wait,’ Eadulf instructed gently.
Móen had reached forward with his hand and his fingertips touched Fidelma’s face inquiringly. Fidelma sat quietly and allowed Móen to trace her features. Then she held up her crucifix and placed it in his hand. He suddenly smiled eagerly and began to nod.
‘He understands,’ she explained to them. ‘He understands that I am a religieuse.’
Dubán snorted derisively.
‘Any animal can understand kindness.’
Móen had reached forward and taken Fidelma’s hands. She frowned.
‘What is he doing?’ asked Eadulf.
‘He seems to be tapping on my hand, or drawing some symbols …’ muttered Fidelma, frowning. ‘Strange, I think they must mean something. But what?’
With a quick sigh of exasperation, she took Móen’s hand and traced some words in bold Latin characters upon it.
‘I am Fidelma,’ she pronounced as she traced the characters.
Móen was frowning as he felt her touch.
He gave a grunt, shook his head, seized her hand again andcontinued his curious tapping, stroking motion.
‘This obviously means something,’ Fidelma said in frustration. ‘This must be the way Teafa communicated with him. But what does it mean?’
‘Maybe it is some code that only Teafa and Móen knew between them,’ Eadulf hazarded.
‘Perhaps.’
Fidelma halted the rapid movement of Móen’s fingers on her hand.
Móen seemed to understand that she could not fathom his means of communication and he dropped his hands to his lap and his face twisted into a mask of misery. He gave a long, deep sigh, almost of despair.
Fidelma felt suddenly overcome with sadness for him and reached out her hand and touched his cheek. It was wet. She realised that tears were coursing down by the sides of his nose.
‘I wish I could tell you how much I understand your disappointment, Móen,’ she said softly. ‘I wish we could speak so that I might learn what has happened here.’
She gripped his hand and pressed it.
Móen seemed to incline his head as if in acceptance of the communication of emotion.
Fidelma rose carefully and moved back to Eadulf and Dubán.
The middle-aged warrior was gazing in thoughtful wonder at the quietly seated figure of the unfortunate.
‘Well, I have seen Teafa calm him but never anyone else.’
Fidelma moved away from the stall, with Eadulf and Dubán following.
‘Perhaps that is because no one else treats him like a human being,’ she observed, fighting down her anger that a sentient being could be treated so badly.
At the door of the stables they encountered the young warrior, Critan.
The boastful youth with the dirty-coloured fair hair smirked at them.
‘You could present him at the palace of Cashel now, couldn’t you?’ he said, indicating Móen.
Fidelma eyed the young warrior disfavourably. She did not deign to reply.
As she left the stable the youth added derisively: ‘Well, at least the creature will look clean and nice when he is hanged.’
Fidelma wheeled round in fury.
‘Hanged? Who said, even if he were guilty, that he should be punished by hanging?’
‘Father Gormán, of course.’ The young man was unabashed. ‘He says we should take a life for a life.’
Fidelma looked grim.
‘Indeed, as Plautus told us, in his
Critan screwed up his face.
‘I have no Latin or Greek learning.’
‘Accepting your belief in the philosophy of mere vengeance, are you so sure that it is Móen’s life that should be forfeit?’
For a moment it appeared that Critan did not fully understand what she meant and then he smiled easily.
‘I know Móen was the killer, there is no doubt.’
‘No doubt? How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I saw him.’
Fidelma blinked, feeling as if someone had dealt her an unexpected blow. Eadulf leaned forward quickly.
‘Are you saying that you actually saw him kill Eber?’ he demanded.
Crítán grinned knowingly.
‘Not actually saw him,’ he confessed, tapping the side of his nose with a forefinger, ‘but as good as.’
