“Light it,” instructed Fidelma.
The monk did so.
Fidelma took it from his hand with a nod of thanks.
“Wait outside and let no one into the room until I say so.”
Holding the lamp, she stepped forward into the curious chamber of death.
Wulfstan’s throat had been slashed with a knife or sword and there were several great stab wounds in his chest around the heart. His night attire was torn by the weapon and bloodied, as were the sheets around him.
On the floor beside the bed was a piece of fine cloth which was bloodstained. The blood had dried. She picked it up and examined it. It was an elegantly woven piece of linen which was embroidered. It carried a Latin motto. She examined the bloodstains on it. It appeared as if whoever had killed Wulfstan had taken the kerchief from his pocket and wiped his weapon clean, letting the kerchief drop to the floor beside the body in a fit of absentmindedness. Sister Fidelma placed the kerchief in the pocket within the folds of her robe.
She examined the window next. Although it was too high to reach up to it, the bars seemed secure enough. Then she gazed up at the heavy wooden planking and beams which formed the ceiling. It was a high chamber, some eleven feet from floor to ceiling. The floor too, seemed solid enough.
Near the bed she suddenly noticed a pile of ashes. She dropped to one knee beside the ashes and examined them, trying not to disperse them with her breath, for they appeared to be the remnants of some piece of paper, or vellum, perhaps. Not a very big piece either, but it was burnt beyond recognition.
She rose and examined the door next.
There were two wooden bars which had secured it. Each bar, when in place, slotted into iron rests. The first was at a height of three feet from the bottom of the door while the second was five feet from the bottom. She saw that one of the iron rests had been splintered from the wooden doorjamb, obviously when Ultan had broken in. The pressure against the bar had wrenched the rest from its fastenings. But the bottom set of rests were in place and there was no sign of damage to the second bar, which was lying just behind the door. Both bars were solid enough. The ends were wrapped with twine, she presumed to stop the wood wearing against the iron rests in which they lodged. On one of the bars the pieces of twine had become unwound, blackened and frayed at the end.
Sister Fidelma gave a deep sigh.
Here, indeed, was a problem to be solved, unless the owner of the kerchief could supply an answer.
She moved to the door and suddenly found herself slipping. She reached out a hand to steady herself. There was a small pool of blackened grease just inside the door. Her sharp eyes caught sight of a similar pool on the other side of the door. Bending to examine them, she frowned as she noticed two nails attached on the door frame, on either side of the door. A short length of twine, blackened and frayed at the end, was attached to each nail.
Sister Fidelma compressed her lips thoughtfully and stood staring at the door for a long while before turning to leave the death chamber.
In Abbot Laisran’s chamber, Sister Fidelma seated herself at the long table. She had arranged with the Abbot to interview any she felt able to hel
p her in arriving at a solution to the problem. Laisran himself offered to sit in on her encounters but she had felt it unnecessary. Laisran had taken himself to a side room, having presented her with a bell to summon him if she needed any help.
Brother Ultan was recruited to fetch those whom she wanted to see and was straightaway dispatched to bring Wulfstan’s fellow Saxon prince, Eadred, who had helped Ultan discover the body, as well as his cousin Raedwald.
Eadred was a haughty youth with flaxen hair and cold blue eyes that seemed to have little expression. His features seemed fixed with a mixture of disdain and boredom. He entered the chamber, eyes narrowing as he beheld Sister Fidelma. A tall, muscular young man in his late twenties accompanied Eadred. Although he carried no arms, he acted as if he were the prince’s bodyguard.
“Are you Eadred?” Fidelma asked the youth.
The young man scowled.
“I do not answer questions from a woman.” His voice was harsh, and that combined with his guttural accent made his stilted Irish sound raucous.
Sister Fidelma sighed. She had heard that Saxons could be arrogant and that they treated their womenfolk more as chattels than as human beings.
“I am investigating the death of your countryman, Wulfstan. I need my questions to be answered,” she replied firmly.
Eadred merely ignored her.
“Lady.” It was the tall muscular Saxon who spoke and his knowledge of Irish was better than that of his prince. “I am Raed-wald, thane of Staeningum, cousin to the thane of Andredswald. It is not the custom of princes of our race to discourse with women if they be not of equal royal rank.”
“Then I am obliged for your courtesy in explaining your customs, Raedwald. Eadred, your cousin, seems to lack a knowledge of the law and customs of the country in which he is now a guest.”
Ignoring the angry frown on Eadred’s features, she reached forward and rang the silver bell on the table before her. The Abbot Laisran entered from a side room.
“As you warned me, your Grace, the Saxons seem to think that they are above the law of this land. Perhaps they will accept the explanation from your lips.”
Laisran nodded and turned to the young men. He bluntly told them of Fldelma’s rank and position in law, that even the High King had to take note of her wisdom and learning. Eadred continued to scowl but he inclined his head stiffly when I Laisran told him that he was under legal obligation to answer Fidelma’s questions. Raedwald seemed to accept the explanation as a matter of course.
“As your countryman considers you of royal rank, I will deign to answer your questions,” Eadred said, moving forward and seating himself without waiting for Fidelma’s permission. Raedwald continued to stand.
Fidelma exchanged a glance with Laisran, who shrugged.
“The customs of the Saxons are not our customs, Sister Fi-delma,” Laisran said apologetically. “You will ignore their tendency to boorish behavior.”
Eadred flushed angrily.
“I am a prince of the blood royal of the South Saxons, descended through the blood of Aelle from the great god Woden!”
Raedwald, who stood silently with arms folded behind him, looking unhappy, opened his mouth and then closed it firmly.
Abbot Laisran genuflected. Sister Fidelma merely stared at the young man in amusement.
“So you are not yet truly Christian, believing only in the One True God?”
Eadred bit his lip.
“All Saxon royal houses trace their bloodline to Woden, whether god, man or hero,” he responded, with a slightly defensive tone.
“Tell me something of yourself then. I understand that you were cousin to Wulfstan? If you find speaking in our language difficult, you may speak in Latin or Greek. I am fluent in their usage.”
“I am not,” rasped Eadred. “I speak your language from my study here but I speak no other tongue fluently, though I have some knowledge of Latin.”
Sister Fidelma hid her surprise and gestured for him to continue. Most Irish princes and chieftains she knew spoke several languages fluently besides their own, especially Latin and some Greek.
“Very well. Wulfstan was your cousin, wasn’t he?”
“Wulfstan’s father Cissa, king of the South Saxons, was brother to my father, Cymen. I am thane of Andredswald, as my father was before me.”
“Tell me how Wulfstan and yourself came to be here, in Dur-row.”
Eadred sniffed. “Some years ago, one of your race, a man called Diciul, arrived in our country and began to preach of his god, a god with no name who had a son named Christ. Cissa, the king, was converted to this new
