She glared up at him. ‘You wouldn’t dare use force!’ she said. But there was no conviction in her voice.
‘Oh, but I would,’ he replied grimly. ‘And don’t try to use your knife again, because this time you will get hurt.’
They stared at each other for a moment before the girl recognised the determination in his fierce gaze and then tried to feign indifference. She fell in step beside Gormán, who kept his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
Eadulf and Fidelma picked up the saddle-bag and the horse’s equipment and led the way back towards Della’s cabin. Della had seen them advancing across the paddock and came to open the gate for them. She seemed surprised to see the young woman.
‘We need to request your hospitality for a short while, Della,’ explained Fidelma.
‘Come in and be welcome, lady,’ she replied.
‘This is Aibell,’ Fidelma added, as they entered.
Eadulf left the saddle and bridle on the porch outside. They all went into the large room where crackling logs produced a fierce heat. A cauldron of aromatic-smelling stew was simmering above the fire. The morning’s autumnal sunlight shone through the southern-facing windows so that the room was bright in spite of the weakness of the pale yellow orb.
Della bade them be seated and asked if she could provide refreshment. Fidelma had spotted the girl’s eyes lingering on the cauldron and saw the quick, nervous movement of her tongue over her dry lips.
‘I should imagine that Aibell has not yet broken her fast. I am sure she would like something to drink and eat, if you can manage it.’
‘Of course!’ At once Della became almost a mothering figure, making sure the girl was comfortably seated at one end of the table and fetching a small mug of ale and a wooden platter containing some cold meat and cheese with a hunk of freshly baked bread. The girl hesitated at first, but as Della turned to enquire if anyone else wanted refreshment, she immediately began to tackle the food. Although Fidelma appeared to be ignoring her, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aibell was consuming the food as if she had not eaten for many days. She hoped that none of her companions were watching the girl so as not to embarrass her.
‘First we need to examine the contents of this saddle-bag,’ Fidelma announced as a way of distracting them.
Eadulf opened it and took out the garments inside, placing them one by one on the table for everyone to see.
There was a bratt, a cloak of a striking blue colour that would stretch to the knees of an average-sized person. It was loosely shaped and had a fringe of beaver fur around the neck and down both edges in front. There was an over-garment, a coat without a collar, ending about the middle of the thighs, and a pair of triubhas, sometimes called ochrath – tight-fitting breeches made of thin, soft leather, which were drawn on over the feet. The criss or leather belt had a purse attached to it, containing some silver.
Eadulf examined the bag and the clothing to make sure there was nothing hidden inside. Having satisfied himself, he turned to Fidelma and said, ‘There is nothing here that would give us a clue to the assassin’s identity.’
‘What of the clothes themselves?’
Eadulf lifted them each in turn. ‘They are not the kind of clothing worn by a noble; that is for sure. But then neither are they the apparel of a poor man or a labourer.’
‘That is true.’ Fidelma was approving. ‘However, these must be the clothes that our assassin changed out of when he put on religieux robes.’
‘That would be supported by the fact that there are no shoes here – but our assassin was wearing the sort of footwear that could go with such clothing. There is no underwear here either, but our assassin was wearing a shirt of sróll or satin which is more likely to go with these clothes than those of a poor religieux.’
‘You seem certain then that the clothes are those of the assassin?’ Gormán asked.
‘The clothes fit the pattern,’ said Eadulf. ‘He’s not a noble or a warrior, nor one pursuing a physical trade or an artisan … They confirm what I said when I examined the corpse.’
‘What about the tonsure?’ demanded Gormán.
‘As Fidelma observed, the assassin seemed to have shaved his tonsure recently,’ Eadulf said. ‘He disguised himself as a religieux deliberately. I stick to my opinion that he was a poet, a copyist or illustrator.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Fidelma asked.
‘Last night, we saw that the assassin’s hands showed that he did not do physical work. The fingernails were well cared for. However, his right-hand thumb and forefinger were stained.’