Whispers of the Dead

bloodstained robes.

Abbot Laisran stood nodding his head thoughtfully as he considered the matter. Then he suddenly looked at her in bewilderment. “But the fish? Who stole the fish?”

Sister Fidelma moved across to the kitchen door and pointed down to the empty tin dish by the door.

“I noticed this earlier. It looks as though it is used to contain milk. Therefore, would I be correct in presuming that there is a cat who frequents the kitchen area?”

Brother Dian gave a gasp which was enough acknowledgment of this surmise.

Fidelma grinned. “I suggest that a search of the garden will probably disclose the remains of the fish and your cat curled up nearby having had one of the best meals of its life. It was the cat who stole the fish.”

CRY “WOLF!”

Is that all the petitions and statements?” asked Sister Fidelma with a sigh of relief.

It had been a long morning and Sister Fidelma had been fulfilling the job that she liked least as a dálaigh or an advocate of the courts of the five kingdoms of Éireann. Having qualified to the level of anruth, only one level below the highest degree accorded by the ecclesiastical and secular colleges of Ireland, she would often be asked by the Chief Brehon, the senior judge, of the kingdom of Muman, which her brother, Colgú, ruled from Cashel, to hear minor cases. This usually meant visiting outlying corners of the kingdom where there was no permanent Brehon. She would judge minor cases, or study submissions from plaintiffs to see whether there was some case of civil or criminal law that had to be heard by a more senior Brehon.

She had spent the night in her least favorite part of her brother’s kingdom. It was a disputed territory claimed by the princes of the Uí Fidgente and those of the Eóghanacht Áine. The Eóghanacht Áine were related to her own family and there had been many conflicts between them and the Uí Fidgente. Yet, these conflicts apart, she admitted that the area was a beautiful country. It was a large, fertile valley; a lush green plain which was sheltered by surrounding hills and stretched north to a great sea inlet.

The main township was set at a river bend where the river of the plain, Maigue, and the little crooked river, Camoge, intersected at a spot called Cromadh, or the crooked ford. At this juncture stood the Wood of Eóghan, rising on a hill surmounted by the ancient fortress of the chief, Díomsach the Proud. Fidelma had discovered that the man’s name had not been given lightly for he was, indeed, a proud man and conscious of his lineage from the ruling family of the kingdom, albeit a branch that had long separated from the Eóghanacht of Cashel. The Eóghanacht Áine were one of the seven main branches of the family establishing their rule over Muman. The Áine claimed precedence as second to the senior branch at Cashel. They were proud and arrogant.

But the area in which Díomsach claimed his power spread into this fertile valley which the Uí Fidgente also claimed as their territory. The Uí Fidgente were just as stubborn and proud. Many times had they risen up in rebellion against Cashel itself, even asserting a claim to the kingship. The continuing dispute as to who should rule in Cromadh made the presence of any dálaigh, let alone the sister of the king of Cashel, a subject of great tension. At all such courts held at Cromadh, the local chief of the Uí Fidgente claimed it was his right to attend and sit with the chief of the Tuatha Cromadh. It was a demand that was reluctantly agreed upon.

Fidelma now glanced at the haughty face of Díomsach as he sat on her right-hand side in his great hall. She had heard a number of complaints that morning, none of them major. Then she turned to the equally stony face of Conrí, local chieftain of the Uí Fidgente. Both kept silent.

“Is that all the submissions and statements?” she asked again, more sharply.

“I see no more supplicants,” replied Conrí of the Uí Fidgente in a bored voice.

Brother Colla, the scriptor who was taking a record of the proceedings, coughed nervously, looking toward Fidelma.

“You have something to say, Brother Colla?” she inquired.

“There is one other person who demands a hearing,” he said quietly. Then he hesitated.

Sister Fidelma looked at him with curiosity.

“Then why isn’t this person brought before me?”

The scriptor shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“He has been detained outside by Fallach, the. .”

Díomsach’s brows came together sharply.

“Fallach will doubtless have a good reason,” he snapped, adding quickly to Fidelma, “he is my chief of warriors. Who is this man apprehended by Fallach?”

“Lord, it is the farmer Febrat.”

To Sister Fidelma’s surprise, Díomsach burst out chuckling.

“Febrat? That half-wit? Then there is no more to be said. Our hearing is ended and we may retire for the feasting and entertainment.”

He made to rise but Sister Fidelma said quietly, “I am afraid that it is I who must say when my court may disperse, Díomsach. I would know more about this man Febrat and why you would exclude him from the right of petition to the courts of this land.”

Díomsach reseated himself and looked momentarily uncomfortable.

“The man is mad, Fidelma of Cashel.”

Sister Fidelma smiled cynically.

“Are you saying that he is adjudged insane and without responsibility in law?”

The chief shook his head but was silent.

“I am still, then, awaiting an answer.”

“I am also intrigued,” Conrí of the Uí Fidgente added, not disguising his delight at Díomsach’s discomfort.

Díomsach sighed softly.

“Febrat may not be legally insane but I think we are approaching a point where he must be adjudged as such. Febrat is a farmer. His farmstead is across the river, in the valley. It is the farthest farmstead in my territory bordering on the lands of my good friend, Conrí.” Díomsach inclined the upper half of his body toward the Uí Fidgente chief. It was an ironic gesture of deference, which was returned in kind by Conrí.

“I know the area,” Conrí confirmed with a polite smile.

“Then know this,” went on Díomsach. “Twice in the last two weeks he has come to my fortress claiming that the Uí Fidgente were raiding his farmstead.”

The smile vanished from Conrí’s lips.

“That is a lie!” he snapped. “There have been no such raids.”

“Nevertheless, we were not initially surprised when Febrat came here with this story,” Díomsach went on grimly. “It cannot be said that the Uí Fidgente are the most trustworthy neighbors. .”

Fidelma raised a hand as Conrí clapped a hand to his empty sword sheath, half rising from his seat. It was a firm rule that no weapons could be carried into a feasting hall or into a Brehon’s court.

“Sit down, Conrí, and calm yourself,” she admonished sharply. “Let us hear out this story. Did you investigate Febrat’s complaint?” she turned back to ask of Díomsach.

The chief nodded swiftly.

“Of course. Fallach and some of our warriors rode out and found nothing. Not broken blades of grass, a missing sheep, nor dog in frenzied mood. There was no sign of any movement of horses having ridden around the farmstead. Fallach questioned one or two people, including Febrat’s own wife, Cara, and she dismissed the idea as a figment of his imagination. Not being able to discover anything, Fallach returned.”

“Then there had been no raid?” asked Fidelma.

“Of course, there had not,” snapped Conrí. “My men would not raid a farmstead without my knowing