The Dove of Death

give it to him, now that the Abbot no longer lives.’

‘Where is my brother?’ Trifina demanded.

‘In the chapel behind us,’ replied Brother Metellus.

Without another word, Trifina turned and went inside.

Fidelma frowned as she surveyed the angry crowd.

‘From half a dozen men, over the last few hours, the mob has grown,’ Brother Metellus told her. ‘Any moment, they will have gathered enough courage to brush us aside.’

‘I am told someone called Barbatil leads this crowd. Who is he?’

Brother Metellus cast an eye towards the front of the mob.

‘That man there.’ He pointed to a middle-aged, stocky and muscular-looking man, with greying hair. He was weather-beaten, though his cheeks showed a ruddy complexion. His garb and appearance clearly revealed him to be a farmer.

‘I need you to come with me as interpreter,’ said Fidelma. She glanced at Eadulf. ‘Stay here. Only Brother Metellus and I will go forward.’

Then, without another word, Fidelma went down the few steps to the front of the crowd. Brother Metellus was clearly not happy, but dutifully followed at her shoulder.

The crowd grew silent and even fell back a little as she came forward with apparent confidence. Fidelma went straight to the man Brother Metellus had pointed out.

‘I am told that your name is Barbatil and that you accused Macliau, the son of the mac’htiern of Brilhag, of murder,’ she said without preamble.

Brother Metellus duly translated this.

The stocky farmer’s eyes narrowed. There was anger in every fibre of his body.

‘I am Barbatil, and I accuse him. We will have vengeance!’

‘If your accusation is proved, then you shall have justice,’ replied Fidelma. ‘But this is not the way to secure it.’

‘What do foreigners know about the injustices that are happening here?’ replied the farmer. He pointed to Brother Metellus. ‘He is from Rome and God alone knows where you are from!’

Fidelma advised him that she was a lawyer in her own country of Hibernia and went on: ‘It is the custom among all civilised countries to state your evidence when you accuse somebody.’

‘You should know that during the last two weeks, warriors have been raiding our farms and settlements. They sail in a ship bearing the flag of the mac’htiern above it — the flag of our lord of Brilhag, who is supposed to be our protector — not our persecutor!’

‘Anyone can raise a flag,’ pointed out Fidelma. ‘Is that your only evidence?’

The farmer seemed to grow even angrier.

‘It is not. The young lord, Macliau,’ he almost spat the name, ‘has a reputation here. No man’s daughter is safe. He takes his pleasures and we have to pay for them.’

Fidelma remembered Trifina’s estimation of her brother. Then she recalled that Trifina had identified Barbatil as the father of Argantken, Macliau’s companion at the fortress.

‘A man’s character as a womaniser does not make him a murderer,’ she replied.

‘No woman is safe from his lechery — and even the Church,’ Barbatil gestured towards Brother Metellus, ‘does not chide him for his debauchery — just because he is the son of the mac’htiern whose flag now inspires terror throughout this peninsula.’

‘You say that men bearing the emblem of Brilhag made these raids. Did you ever go to demand an explanation from Brilhag?’

‘At first we did,’ blustered Barbatil. ‘We saw the lady Trifina. She spoke in the absence of her father, Lord Canao. Macliau was not there. She claimed that no warriors of Brilhag were involved. She promised that she would take up our cause and find out who these people were. Nothing has been done.’

‘I ask, yet again, where is your evidence that Macliau is responsible?’ Fidelma demanded doggedly.

‘Evidence? You ask for evidence?’ Spittle edged the farmer’s mouth. ‘Did not this immoral libertine debauch my own daughter, Argantken! I accuse him of murder in her name!’

There was an angry murmur when the girl’s name was pronounced.

‘If Argantken is accusing him of murder, let her come forward and do so,’ Fidelma said stubbornly.

The anger of the crowd seemed to increase.

‘She cannot!’ replied the farmer, barely keeping his temper. ‘For she was his victim!’

Fidelma stared at Barbatil for a moment, taking in his words.

‘Argantken, your daughter, has been murdered?’

‘Have I not said as much?’

Fidelma’s mind raced for a moment or two and then she faced the man with a softened expression.

‘I am sorry for your trouble, my friend. But we must have some facts to work on, to resolve this matter. Rest assured, justice will be yours. But, I say again, it will be justice — and not revenge. Tell me the facts as you know them.’

The shoulders of the farmer, Barbatil, slumped a little as if there were a heavy weight on them.

‘It was not long ago that Macliau turned his lustful attention on my daughter. She is…she was…attractive — the apple of her mother’s eye and of mine too. She was a good daughter until he rode by our farmhouse one morning and coaxed her with honeyed words to ride away with him. She believed his promises of marriage and riches — as if the daughter of a poor farmer could ever become wife to the lord of Brilhag. She was too naïve and too trusting.’

‘Go on,’ coaxed Fidelma.

‘I pleaded with her to return to the farm, but she would have none of it. She believed that scoundrel’s lies and promises. Yesterday morning, word came to me that Argantken and Macliau had been seen riding along the coast at Kerignard, which is not far from my farm. I decided to make one last attempt to persuade my daughter to come back to her mother’s home. But knowing that Macliau had some warriors with him, I asked some of my neighbours to go with me.’

‘How many?’ Fidelma interrupted.

‘Two or three of those who are here with me now.’ Barbatil gestured to those around him, who muttered in agreement.

‘And then?’

‘We went to Kerignard. I knew the little ruined oratory where Macliau had camped on other hunting trips. I suspected he would be there.’

‘A ruined oratory?’

‘It is an old stone oratory along that coast by Kerignard. There are cliffs all along that coast, and on the top of them is the oratory, which was built and deserted many years ago.’

‘And was he there?’

‘When we arrived we saw no sign of his warriors or huntsmen. I was not even going to look in the oratory until I realised that there was a loose horse wandering behind it. I went to the oratory — there was no door, it had rotted away years before, so the place was open — and the first thing I saw was Macliau, lying on the floor in a drunken stupor.’

‘How did you know that he was drunk?’

‘The smell of intoxicating liquor was strong. Macliau smelled as if he had just crawled out of a cider vat.’

‘So he was lying there drunk. What then?’ continued Fidelma, trying to keep the man calm.

‘Beside him on the ground was…was my daughter! Argantken.’ His voice caught. ‘She was dead. There was blood all over the place. A dagger, Macliau’s dagger, was buried in her lifeless form.’

‘How do you know it was Macliau’s dagger?’

‘Everyone knows the emblem of the lords of Brilhag. It bore the emblem of the dove…the emblem of peace.’

His voice ended in a cry of almost physical pain. The crowd growled ominously and seemed to surge forward.