The Spider's Web Read Free Page B

swallowed hard.
    ‘I will appeal to my chieftain, Eber of Araglin, against this ruling. The land is mine! You have not heard the last of me.’
    ‘Any appeals can only be directed to the chief judge of the king of Cashel,’ interrupted the scriptor dryly, as he finished writing the judgment. He laid down his stylus and endeavoured to explain to the disgruntled litigant. ‘Once a Brehon makes a judgment, it is not up to you to rail against the Brehon. If you want to object, then you must do so in the proper manner. In the meantime, Muadnat of the Black Marsh, you must obey the judgment and withdraw from the land leaving your cousin Archú to occupy it. If you do not, within nine days from now, you may be physically evicted. Is that understood? And your cumal fine must be paid by the rising of the next full moon.’
    Without a word, Muadnat turned and strode silently and swiftly from the chapel. A short man, with a small, wiry frame and a shock of chestnut hair, rose and joined him sheepishly in the exodus.
    Archú, his expression showing that he was scarcely able to believe the ruling, leaned forward across the table and held out his hand, grabbing Fidelma’s own and pumping it rapidly.
    ‘Bless you, sister. You have saved my life.’
    Fidelma smiled thinly at the enthusiastic young man.
    ‘I have merely given judgment according to the law. Had the law been otherwise, I would have had to give judgment against you. It is the law which speaks in this court, not I.’
    She disengaged her hand. The young man seemed hardly to have heard her but, still grinning, turned and hurried to the back of the chapel where a young girl rose and almost ran into his arms. Fidelma
smiled wistfully as she observed the way the two youngsters clutched at each other’s hands and gazed upon one another.
    Then she turned quickly to her scriptor .
    ‘I believe that was the last case we had to deal with, was it not, Brother Donnan?’
    ‘It was. I shall record the judgments later today and ensure that they are announced in the appropriate manner.’ The scriptor paused, coughed slightly and lowered his voice a little. ‘It seems that the abbot is standing by the door waiting to speak to you.’
    He indicated with a nervous gesture of his head towards the doors of the chapel. Fidelma turned. Indeed, the broad shouldered figure of Abbot Cathal was standing at the door. Fidelma immediately rose and made her way to him. She noted that the abbot seemed somewhat preoccupied.
    ‘Are you looking for me, Father Abbot?’
    Abbot Cathal was a well-built, muscular man of middle age; a man who carried himself with a military stamp for, as a youth, he had trained as a warrior. He was a local man who had left the military life to be taught under the guidance of the blessed Cathach at Lios Mhór and risen to be accepted as a most accomplished teacher and abbot. The son of a great war chieftain, Cathal had distributed all his wealth to the poor of his clan and lived in the simple poverty of his order. His simplicity and directness caused him enemies. Once a local chieftain, Maelochtrid, had him imprisoned on a trumped up charge of practising magic. Yet on his release Cathal had forgiven him. That was the nature of the man.
    Fidelma liked Cathal’s gentleness and lack of vanity. It contrasted pleasantly to the arrogance of office which she so often encountered. Cathal was one of the few men of the church whom she would unhesitatingly call a ‘holy man’.
    ‘Indeed, I was looking for you, Sister Fidelma,’ the abbot replied with a swift but warm smile. ‘Has the court finished its deliberations?’

    His voice was softly modulated, almost bland, yet Fidelma detected that something unusual had happened to bring him in search of her.
    ‘We have finished pronouncing judgment on the last case, Father Abbot. Is there a problem?’
    Abbot Cathal hesitated.
    ‘Two riders have arrived here at the abbey. One of them is a foreigner. They have come from Cashel in