Colgú glanced at Capa. ‘Sárait was sister to your wife, Capa. What would you add to this?’
The commander of the warriors pushed back his fair hair with a slightly vain gesture and leant back in his chair. His blue eyes were penetrating and serious. He looked sombre now.
‘Sárait was a handsome woman, a mature woman,’ he said slowly, clearly thinking about his choice of words. ‘She was neither frivolous nor thoughtless and took her responsibilities seriously. She was a widow. Her husband Callada had been a warrior who gave his life defending this kingdom against the Uí Fidgente in the battle at Cnoc Áine. I can vouch for Sárait’s probity. She had one relative and that was a sister called Gobnat, who, as everyone here knows, is my wife. We dwell in the township below the Rock. Sárait served at the palace, as Brother Eadulf has said. Her own baby had died and so the lady Fidelma took her to be wet nurse to their child.’
Colgú glanced round the table. ‘When the news of the finding of Sárait’s body was brought to me, I asked for the facts. I gathered that a child had come to the fortress with a message for Sárait. The message purported to come from her sister, Gobnat, asking Sárait to go to her immediately.’
‘Was any reason given as to why Gobnat wanted to see her sister so urgently?’ intervened Brehon Dathal. The old judge had a pedantic manner and took his position very seriously.
‘The reason is not known,’ replied Colgú. ‘We presume that, not finding anyone to look after her charge, Sárait had no other course but to take the baby with her when she left the fortress. We also presume that she intended to go down to the township to see Gobnat in response to that message. An hour or so later, a woodsman, Conchoille, on his way home, discovered the body of Sárait in the woods outside the township. There was no sign of the baby.’
No one spoke. They had heard these facts before.
‘And, for the record, Capa, what had your wife to say about this summons to Sárait?’ prompted Brehon Dathal.
‘That she did not send any summons at all to her sister. She and I knew nothing until we were told of Sárait’s death,’ answered Capa immediately.
‘Which was how?’ the old judge demanded.
‘The first Gobnat and I knew that anything was amiss was when Conchoille, the woodsman, knocked on our door close on midnight and told us that he had found Sárait’s body. I went back with him, but not before sending a message to the fortress to alert the guards. It was only later that we discovered that Sárait had left the palace with the baby.’
‘And what of the child who came to the fortress with the message that purported to come from your wife?’ queried Brehon Dathal.
Capa raised his arms in a gesture that indicated a lack of knowledge.
‘The child has not been identified and enquiries in the township or immediate countryside have failed to find any such child.’
‘Surely the guard who passed the child through…?’ Eadulf began.
Capa was shaking his head.
‘All that is remembered is that a small child, in a grey woollen robe on which the cowl had been drawn up, almost in the manner of a religious, came to the gates. The child appeared to be a mute for a piece of bark was handed to the guard on which was written “I am sent to see Sárait”. The guard could not swear to any distinguishing features save that it was a thickset child who walked with a curious gait.’
‘Such a child is surely not hard to find,’ muttered Brethon Dathal.
‘Nevertheless,’ repeated Capa, ‘the child has not been found.’
‘And the piece of bark?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘Was that retained?’
‘It was not.’
Eadulf shook his head with a sigh. All this was merely confirming what he already knew.
‘All this happened in the evening…?’ queried Cerball, who was keeping the record.
‘It was already dark, for the sun sets early now that the feast of Samhain has passed,’ replied Capa.
‘Blame may be ascribed to Sárait for the lack of thought she displayed in taking the baby from the protection of the palace out into the winter evening.’
It was Brehon Dathal, the old judge, who made the comment. He was punctilious when it came to law and sometimes, it was said, he allowed for no human frailty.
Bishop Ségdae, the senior bishop and abbot of the kingdom, made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an ironic snort.
‘In this situation, where she receives an urgent message from her sister, or is led to believe that she has, and can find no other to take care of the child, it would be natural for Sárait to take the baby with her,’ he pointed out.
There was, as Eadulf had already picked up, a hint of rivalry between the two elderly men. Both were not averse to trying to score points against each other.
‘Very well,’ broke in Colgú. ‘You are both right, but Sárait paid with her life for her mistake.’
‘What of the woodsman who found the body?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Conchoille? He is known as a loyal man of Cashel,’ Capa said immediately. ‘He also fought against the Uí Fidgente at Cnoc Áine.’
‘We should question him, though,’ Bishop Ségdae said.
‘Brehon Dathal has already done so,’ Colgú replied. Indeed, Dathal, as Chief Brehon, had questioned everyone involved, from the guard who admitted the child messenger to the fortress to Gobnat, Sárait’s sister.
‘Even so, and with due respect to Brehon Dathal,’ replied Bishop Ségdae in a pointed fashion, ‘this council needs to make sure of its facts. So I have actually sent for Capa’s wife, Gobnat, and for Conchoille and the guard who, I suspect, cannot add more to what has been said. But they all wait outside. I think we should all hear their stories in their own words.’
The Brehon Dathal was clearly irritated.
‘A waste of time. I can tell you exactly what their evidence is.’
‘It’s not like hearing it for ourselves,’ Bishop Ségdae replied. ‘Then we can be sure it is not distorted.’
The Brehon Dathal’s brows drew together.
‘Are you suggesting…?’ he began menacingly.
‘There was a recent hearing at Lios Mhór,’ broke in Bishop Ségdae softly, staring towards the ceiling as if in reflection, ‘where the judge misunderstood some evidence and gave an erroneous judgement. The judgement was appealed and the judge had to pay compensation…’
Eadulf knew that Brehons could have their decisions appealed. If the judge was shown to have been biased, been bribed or issued a false judgement, as opposed to made a genuine error, then that judge could be deprived of his office and his honour-price. In other cases, fines were levied according to the extent of the error and its nature.
Brehon Dathal had grown crimson and he was making angry noises as he tried to find words to respond.
‘At some stage we would have had to place this evidence on record,’ Colgú said, trying to pacify the Brehon’s wounded ego. ‘So perhaps it is best if we hear all the witnesses now. Cerball will take down a record of their statements.’
‘I have come prepared with my materials, lord,’ the bard agreed, drawing from his leather satchel some writing tablets, wooden frames in which there was soft clay, and a stylus.
Brehon Dathal glared at Bishop Ségdae with a look of hatred. Then he said: ‘By all means, let us have the witnesses in one by one. Let us start with the guard.’
Capa glanced towards Colgú for confirmation of the procedure and the king nodded slightly. There was no need to upset the old judge further.
A moment later Capa had ushered in a warrior of medium height and sandy-coloured hair. He came to stand facing them at the table with an impassive expression.
‘Your name, warrior?’ demanded the Brehon Dathal.
