Whispers of the Dead

“Brother Eolang brought the boat to the end of the pier. He climbed onto the pier and started to head to the abbey. He forgot something in the boat. His marsupium to be exact. This was found by Brother Petrán later. So, halfway along the pier, he turned back for it. This much did our friend, Ferchar, observe from the far shore.”

There was a murmur of agreement from Ferchar.

“Now, look at the condition of the planks on the pier. Some are rotten, some are not nailed down. He stepped sharply towards the boat and. .”

Fidelma turned, examined the planking critically for a moment, stepped sharply on one. The far end rose with a cracking noise and she had to step swiftly aside to avoid being hit by it as it flew up into the air. She turned back triumphantly to the onlookers.

“Brother Eolang was hit by the end of the plank between the eyes, causing the wounds found by the apothecary. It also knocked him unconscious and he fell back into the water. Drowning does not have to be a long process. By the time he was hauled out of the water he was dead.”

“Then the prediction. .?” began the bewildered Brehon.

“Was false. It was an accident. It was nobody’s fault.”

Sometime later as Ferchar, Conchobar and Fidelma were being rowed back to the mainland, the old astrologer turned to Fidelma with a lopsided smile.

“I can’t help thinking that had Brother Eolang been a better astrologer, he would have made a correct prediction. It was all there, danger of death from water and he was accurate as to the day such danger would occur.”

Fidelma nodded thoughtfully.

“The fault was that Brother Eolang, like our friend, Brehon Gormán, believed that the patterns of the stars absolved man from using his free will; that man no longer had choice and that everything was predestined. That is not how the ancients taught the art of nemgnacht.”

Brother Conchobar nodded approvingly.

“So you do remember what I taught you?”

“You taught that there are signs that serve as warnings and give us information from which the wise can make decisions. They are options, possibilities from which we may select choices. The new learning from the east seems more fatalistic. Even the Christian teachings of Augustine of Hippo would have it that everything is predestined. That is why I am more happy with the teachings of Pelagius.”

“Even though Augustine’s supporters have sneered at Pelagius as being ‘full of Irish porridge’?”

“Better Irish porridge than blind prejudice.”

Brother Conchobar chuckled.

“Have a care, Fidelma, lest you be accused of a pagan heresy!”

THE BLEMISH

Fidelma!”

The young monk nearly collided with a tall girl as she came around the corner of the building with such speed and force that he barely had time to flatten himself against the wall to avoid her.

“Can’t stop,” she flung breathlessly at him as she hurried on with her hair and robes flying with the speed of her progress.

“Brehon Morann is looking for you,” the religieux shouted after her retreating form.

“I know,” her voice flung back. “I’m on my way.”

“You’re late for your examination,” the young monk added before realizing that she could no longer hear him. He stood for a moment, looking disapprovingly after her as she disappeared toward a gray stone building that was the center of the college, then he shrugged and continued on his way.

Fidelma did not need to be reminded that she was late for her examination with Brehon Morann of Tara. The examination was one of several she was taking which, she hoped, would result in her achieving the degree of Dos and thus ending her fourth year of study at the college of which Morann was Principal. The degree of Dos, so called because the student was regarded as a young tree ready to develop-for such was the literal meaning of the word-marked the start of her graduation from the school of law studies. It was the lowest rung of the graduate ladder. With such a degree one could go forth and practice as a minor magistrate or legal advisor. Fidelma had a higher ambition than that. But if she did not present herself within the appointed hour she would not be graduating at all.

The Brehon Morann sat at his desk, alone in his study, as Fidelma obeyed his gruff instruction to enter after she had timidly tapped upon his door. He was an elderly man with a kindly face but whose features could mold into a look of stern disapproval within a moment. He wore such an expression now.

“Well, Fidelma,” he said softly, as she came breathlessly to stand before him, “is it not said that judges begin to count the faults of those who keep them waiting?”

Fidelma colored in annoyance.

“Fer-leginn,” she addressed him by his official title of “Principal,” “It is not my fault that I. .”

She saw him begin to scowl and her mouth snapped shut.

“They are truly good who are faultless,” sighed Brehon Morann. His face was still somber but his twinkling bright eyes regarded her for a moment. She swore that he was laughing at her. “What were you saying, Fidelma?”

She shook her head.

“I am sorry for my lateness.” She tried to sound contrite. It was no use explaining that for some inexplicable reason the key had been turned in the lock of her door from the outside and it had taken her some time to attract attention and extricate herself from her room. She realized that it was no use explaining her lateness for this examination. She harbored ill thoughts against the student who would have played such a silly and petty trick on her. That they did it this morning of all mornings, when she was due for her examination, increased her thoughts of vengeance on the perpetrator. Morann had doubtless heard many excuses from students over the years and, even though her excuse was, in fact, a reason, any attempted explanation would not enhance her image in the eyes of her venerable examiner.

“Then I accept your contrition,” replied the Brehon solemnly, sitting back and placing his fingertips against one another, hand to hand, so that the tips of the thumbs touched just under his chin. “Sit down.”

Fidelma sat down, feeling hard done by.

“Tell me what you know of The Blemish?”

Brehon Morann asked the question without preamble and for a second Fidelma had to compose her thoughts.

“The Blemish? You mean, what is a blemish in legal terms?” she countered, playing for time.

Again, the frown of annoyance crossed Brehon Morann’s brow.

“You are in a college for the study of law,” he pointed out dryly, leaving her to make her own deduction.

Fidelma began to speak, hoping as she did so that the information would come to her mind.

“The law text Uraicecht Becc opens with the sentence that our system of law is founded on truth, right and nature. A judge must give a surety of five ounces of silver that the judgment they give is truthful to the best of the knowledge provided to them. They forfeit that sum if an appeal against their judgment is upheld. If it is found that they have made an erroneous judgment when the facts presented to them are clear then they are fined one cumal.”

“Are you saying that honest error is not allowed in law?” snapped Morann.

“It is allowed for-isn’t there a saying which is ‘to every judge an error’? But a judge must pay for his errors if that error is obvious, and if the error arises from bias then it is said that a blemish will raise itself on his face. A serious false judgment will result in the judge being deprived of his office and his honor.”

Brehon Morann nodded slowly. He ignored the expression of triumph that crossed Fidelma’s face as she