The Spider's Web

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.’

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?’