‘And these stories, are they just stories or did these travellers know for certain such attacks had taken place?’
The old man shrugged. ‘They were repeating stories that they had been told.’
‘One can therefore place no reliance on such tales,’ Fidelma said briskly. ‘You know that. The Faith has only been spread for two centuries in this land and although you will find groups here and there who still believe in the old gods, they are usually elderly folk who cling to the traditions of our ancestors. Violence is not part of their character, nor did the old beliefs teach brutality or violence as a virtue. These people live in perfect amity with their Christian brethren. Indeed, there is something sad about them as they come to accept that the youth have eagerly devoured the New Faith and that the future of this land is inevitably linked with the teachings of Christ.’
Brother Conchobhar’s gloomy features did not lighten. ‘Even so, the story that the travellers recounted was told with such conviction that the Brehon Baithen has gone with some of your brother’s warriors to Inis Celtra to investigate.’
Fidelma was surprised but not concerned. ‘Well, there was no wolf’s head among the possessions of the old man who died at Ráth na Drínne. There seems no link that I can see and no need to bring the matter to the attention of my brother’s Brehon.’
She was about to leave the apothecary shop when Caol burst in. He seemed full of suppressed excitement.
‘Lady, your brother has sent me to bring you to him … immediately.’
‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Nothing, lady, but he asks you to join him at once.’
‘Why does he summon me thus?’ she demanded.
Caol made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘Lady, I am not permitted to say.’ He glanced at Brother Conchobhar and his eyes, still full of some excitement, came back to her. ‘All I can say is that half an hour ago, a messenger arrived from Tara, would not rest, bathe nor refresh himself until he saw the King. He is still with him.’
‘Do you know more?’
‘Lady, do not press me. I must take you to your brother now.’
A deep furrow of curiosity formed on her brow. Fidelma bade farewell to Brother Conchobhar, before turning to follow the commander of her brother’s guard. Caol was moving so quickly that she was forced almost to run to keep up with his strides. They crossed the courtyard in front of the chapel steps and went into the main dwellings. Two warriors, well-known to her, Enda and Gormán, stood outside the doors of her brother’s private chambers. They smiled at her and then Enda turned and struck the door twice before opening it so that she and Caol could pass inside. As Fidelma did so, she thought it
strange that her brother was meeting a messenger from Tara in his private chamber and not in the official reception hall, as was the custom.
Inside, her brother, Colgú, King of Muman, was standing in front of the fire, hands clasped behind his back. His handsome face wore a haggard expression. Before him stood a dishevelled young man, still with the dust of travel on his clothes and exhaustion chiselling his features. He bowed stiffly as Fidelma entered. She acknowledged him with a nod and then addressed her brother.
‘There is bad news from Tara?’ she asked.
‘Caol has not told you?’ demanded Colgú.
‘Caol has told me nothing except that this messenger is from Tara. The expression on your face tells me that he does not bring good news.’
Colgú’s mouth formed a thin line for a moment as though he was hesitant to tell her. Then he said simply: ‘The High King has been murdered.’
There was a pause and, shocked, she looked at the messenger. He seemed to feel the need to confirm Colgú’s statement.
‘It is true, lady. Sechnussach was murdered in his bed.’
Fidelma blinked slightly. The High King had been at her wedding scarcely a year before. She had met him a few times before that and, indeed, had solved a matter of the theft of the official sword of the High Kings of Éireann, without which he would have been prevented from holding office.
1
Fidelma had respected Sechnussach for, during the few years he had reigned from Tara over the five kingdoms, he had proved a just and bountiful monarch.
‘Is it known who did this?’ was her next question.
‘It is, lady,’ replied the messenger. ‘It was Dubh Duin of the Cinél Cairpre. He also killed himself when the High King’s guards rushed into the chamber.’
‘The Cinél Cairpre?’ Fidelma thought for a moment.
‘A northern tribe,’ Colgú explained. ‘They claim descent from Cairbre, one of the sons of Niall of the Nine Hostages. They dwell around Loch Gomhna, the Lake of the Calf, in the High King’s own territory of Midhe.’
‘They are Uí Néill, then?’
‘Distantly related to the High King’s own family who descend from another son of Niall. In fact, the Cinél Cairpre once provided a High King themselves – Tuathal Maelgarb. But that was well over a century ago.’
‘And what was the motive for the murder? A blood feud?’
The messenger sighed. ‘Alas, that is not known, lady.’
‘But some reason must be suspected?’
The young man glanced at Colgú as if asking him to respond.
‘This messenger has come here from the High King’s
tánaiste,
his heir apparent …’ Colgú paused and shrugged. ‘The next High King, Cenn Faelad.’
‘Sechnussach’s brother? I have met him.’
‘Cenn Faelad sends his messenger with a request: that you make the journey to Tara and undertake the enquiry into the causes of the murder of the High King.’
Fidelma looked astonished. ‘But what of the Chief Brehon, Barrán? Surely it is he who should conduct this enquiry?’
‘That is impossible, sister. You see, Barrán is of the Uí Néill, too. He is cousin of Sechnussach and Cenn Faelad. Apparently the Great Assembly, or those of it who were present in Tara, felt that someone from outside the Uí Néill should undertake this investigation, someone who is not seen as partisan to one branch of the Uí Néill or another. As both victim and assassin were members of different branches of the Uí Néill it is feared that, at best, a blood feud could arise or, at worst, a war that would have devastating effects on the unity of the five kingdoms. The investigation should be seen to be without bias.’
Fidelma thought for a moment. ‘And what if such an investigation found that it was an internal Uí Néill quarrel?’
Colgú shrugged eloquently. ‘The truth is the truth, Fidelma, and truth is often a bitter fruit.’
‘There is another aspect that you might have forgotten, brother,’ Fidelma said. ‘The motivation of the Eóghanacht for their intervention in this matter might also be questioned.’
Colgú looked perplexed, then replied, ‘The motivation is that you have been requested to investigate by the Great Assembly. Neither I, nor my
tánaiste,
Finguine, who have a right to sit in the Great Assembly, were privy to this decision. So what other motivation could be ascribed to the Eóghanacht?’
‘If there is strife between the septs of the Uí Néill, then the Eóghanacht might be suspected of taking advantage of the situation to reassert the old tradition of also providing High Kings.’
‘One needs a long memory to go back to the old days when the Uí Néill and the Eóghanacht contended with each other to elect one of their number to the role of High King!’ Colgú scoffed. ‘Why, according to our chroniclers, it is five centuries ago when the last Eóghanacht was High King.’
Fidelma smiled gently. ‘You see, brother? Even you can put a date
to it when our ancestor Duach Donn was High King. People do not forget.’
But Colgú was adamant. ‘No one could seriously bring forward the accusation that I, or any Eóghanacht, want to claim the High Kingship. The Uí Néill have maintained the office for too many centuries now. We are content with our own kingdom of Muman.’ He looked his sister in the face. ‘Are you saying that you do not want this mission?’
Fidelma grimaced. ‘I am saying that I will undertake it for the sake of the memory of Sechnussach. The truth about his assassination deserves to be known. Out of respect and my duty to the next High King, Cenn Faelad and the Great Assembly, I will go to Tara even though it grieves me to desert my son after returning here a short time. But it is fair to be aware of any pitfalls that lie ahead.’
Colgú seemed to relax and he smiled at his sister.
‘We are not always in control of our destinies, Fidelma. I will ensure the boy is well looked after. I presume that you will take Eadulf?’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Can I suggest that you also take Caol? It will take you several days to ride north to Tara and you do not know what dangers may be in wait. If a High King can be assassinated …’ He left the sentence unfinished.
‘I will be happy to accompany the lady Fidelma and her husband,’ Caol suddenly broke in. He had stood in silence during the whole of the exchange and now felt he should say something, since he had been referred to. ‘I would suggest one other warrior of the guard accompany me.’
‘Who did you have in mind?’ queried Colgú.
‘All my warriors are fine men but perhaps it would be best to take Gormán. He has accompanied the lady Fidelma before. He is not only adept with his weapons but has a good mind and is able to act on his own initiative.’
‘An excellent choice, Caol. Do you agree, Fidelma?’
She inclined her head. ‘I am happy with the choice. It is too late to begin the journey today, so I suggest we leave at first light tomorrow. If we make a steady pace and do not overtax the horses, we can be in Tara within five days. I will go and tell Eadulf.’ She turned towards the door.
‘Much hangs in the balance of this investigation, Fidelma,’ Colgú called after her. ‘Perhaps the peace of the five kingdoms itself …’
F
idelma was correct in that her party, consisting of four riders, reached the gates of the palace of the High King at Tara in the afternoon of the fifth day after leaving Cashel. The five kingdoms of Éireann were well provided with roads. There were six different types of road and each of them classified by a different name. They ranged from a small track called
lámrota
to the great highways called
slíge.
There were only five
slíge.
These were the main arteries of the five kingdoms, which all converged at Tara. The highway that ran from the kingdom of Muman to Tara was called the Slíge Dalla or the Way of the Blind. It carried its unusual name because it was said that it was such a good and well-kept highway that a blind person would have no problem traversing it. It spanned rivers with bridges of wood and stone called
droichet
and crossed marshes and bogs on causeways called
tóchar.
A
slíge
was constructed so that two large wagons had plenty of space to pass one another without having to slow down.
The laws on the repair and maintenance of the roads were strictly enforced. It was the responsibility of the local chieftain, in whose territory each section of the road lay, to maintain it. This was part of his duties to the provincial King, and part of the provincial King’s duty to the High King. The chieftain had to ensure the road was in good condition, clear of brushwood and weeds and drained of water. The laws stipulated that there were three times when the roads had to be inspected: at the beginning of every winter; at the time of horse racing when some roads were turned into racing tracks; and, of course, during time of war when the roads became the arteries along which bands of warriors had to pass. If any person caused damage to a road, they had to pay compensation to the chieftain in whose territory the road ran.
Fidelma and Eadulf, with Caol and Gormán, had set out along the Slíge
Dalla just after first light on the day after they had heard the news of the High King’s death at Tara. Fidelma was aware that this was the beginning of winter with the daylight period at its shortest so that they were restricted to travelling only during those hours. She made a mental calculation of the length of time it would take them to reach their destination. Fidelma was as much at home on horseback as on foot but decided on an easy pace, not merely because she knew that Eadulf was not the best of horsemen but because of her care for the horses themselves. They should maintain the horses at a fast walking pace for long periods but now and then allow them to canter. She dismissed trotting, as this was tiring not only to the horse but also to the rider, who had to rise up and down in the saddle on alternate beats.
In this fashion, the party made good progress and as dusk began to fall on the first day they had reached a little fortified church and hostel called Rath Domhnaigh. By the end of the second day, leaving the territory of Muman and entering the kingdom of Laigin, across more hilly country, their pace slowed but they had reached Dun Masc, a fortress rising on a rock nearly fifty metres high and dominating a flat plain in the land of the Uí Chremthainn Ain. The chieftain had heard the news of the High King’s death and shrewdly guessed why Fidelma was journeying to Tara. He welcomed the group with courtesy and offered lavish hospitality.
At the end of a third day’s easy ride, they came to the great abbey of the Blessed Brigid at Cill Dara, the church of the oaks. It was a
conhospitae
, a mixed religious house, where Fidelma had first entered the religious. Abbess Ita, whose behaviour had caused Fidelma to leave the abbey, was no longer there.
2
The new abbess was called Luan; she had been a contemporary of Fidelma’s and seemed pleased to see her, greeting her like an old friend and making them all welcome. Fortified once more by a good night’s sleep and food, and with their horses well cared for and rested, they set out again. On that fourth day, they were moving due north and crossing into the High King’s own territory of the ‘Middle Kingdom’ — Midhe.
Fidelma had made this journey to Tara many times and so she knew they were entering the Magh Nuada, the Plain of Nuada. The highway crossed the plain, passing through areas of woodland that were barely inhabited. There was a small church with its own hostel by the roadside in one stretch of woodland, and Fidelma had decided that they would spend their final night there before moving on to Tara. The plain was named after Nuada Necht, of whom there were many confusing legends.
Some claimed he was a powerful god of the ancients and husband to the goddess Bóinn, who gave her name to the great river that ran close by. Others dismissed him as merely a pagan king.
The sun was low in the sky when Caol called from behind them: ‘Smoke, lady! There’s smoke ahead.’
Fidelma drew rein, as did the rest of the band. Beyond the border of trees that lay ahead of them rose a dark column of smoke.
‘That’s no hearth fire,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘It is much larger. Can it be that the trees have caught alight?’
‘A winter fire among the forests is no natural phenomenon, Brother Eadulf,’ replied Gormán. ‘It looks more like—’
‘There is a church and a habitation in that direction,’ interrupted Fidelma. ‘I know it well, for I have stayed there many a time on this road. That is where I meant us to stay this night. Come!’ She dug her heels into her mount and sent it speeding down the road, heedless of danger.
Caol’s protest was lost but he paused only a second before racing after her, drawing his sword at the same time. Gormán was following and, with a groan, Eadulf also urged his own mount after them.
With Fidelma leading, the band of riders galloped swiftly along the road through the small skirting of woodland. They could smell the acrid stench of the smouldering wood before they came into the clearing, where the blackened remains of a small wooden church still poured smoke and ash into the air. Nearby, other outbuildings that Fidelma recalled as a cowshed and pigpen and a guesthouse were already so much charcoal. Remains of belongings – torn pages of books, clothing and domestic items lay in profusion around the clearing. Two figures lay outstretched on the ground before the buildings. Both wore the woollen habits of religieux; these were stained with blood.
Caol cried: ‘Wait, lady!’ as Fidelma made to dismount. He looked carefully around, head to one side, listening. Then he slid from his horse, sword still in his hand, explaining: ‘Whoever did this thing may still be lingering nearby.’
He walked across to one of the bodies but did not even bother to bend down to check the first, shook his head to indicate that the religieux was beyond hope. Then he moved on to the second. Here he bent down quickly and raised the man’s head.
‘This one lives!’ he called excitedly.
Eadulf, who knew something of medicine, dismounted and went to kneel at the side of the man. A brief glance, and he shook his head. The
man might still live, but not for long. Blood was pouring from a deep gash in his chest.
‘Pass me the water,’ he instructed Caol. ‘It will not harm him for he has not long.’
He allowed the dying religieux to swallow a gasping mouthful.
‘Who did this thing, my friend?’ he demanded.
The man’s eyes flickered open and stared up, dilating orbs of pain. He tried to form words but could not find breath to make the sound.
‘Who is responsible?’ insisted Eadulf, bending so that his ear almost touched the man’s lips. He caught a sound and then heard a rattle of breath. The man was dead. He laid him gently back on the ground and stood up.
‘Did he answer your question?’ Fidelma asked, still seated on horseback with Gormán, sword defensively drawn and on the alert, at her side.
Eadulf shrugged. ‘A single word … something about blame, I think. Perhaps he meant that he was to blame. I don’t understand.’
Caol looked around vigilantly. ‘We can do nothing here, lady, and this could be a dangerous place to linger in.’
‘This was where I meant us to stay this night.’ Fidelma glanced anxiously at the darkening sky. ‘It will be dusk before long.’
‘I would venture that this would not be the best place to spend a winter’s night, lady, for there is no shelter now.’ Caol looked at the smoking buildings. ‘And whoever did this might well return. I’d rather be in the open country than surrounded by woods.’
‘I remember that there is an inn further along the road,’ Fidelma said tiredly. ‘About half an hour’s ride from here. If it still stands, we can seek shelter there.’
Eadulf gestured at the two bodies. ‘Should we not bury them?’
‘It would be dark before we could do so, my friend,’ Caol replied practically. ‘It is my duty to protect my King’s sister and you, her husband. We must ride together now.’
As if joining in at an appropriate moment to remind them of the dangers, a wolf began to howl in the gathering dusk.
Caol frowned. ‘We will inform the innkeeper and ask him to request his chieftain to send men back here when it is daylight.’
‘There might not be much left to bury if we leave these poor souls exposed overnight,’ Eadulf commented.
‘The least we can do is remove the bodies to a more sheltered spot,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘There was an
uaimha,
as I recall, near that building
where they stored food.’ She indicated the smouldering ruins that had once been the guesthouse.
‘A cave?’ asked Eadulf, trying to translate the word
uaimha.
‘An artificially made underground chamber,’ explained Fidelma.
Caol walked across and peered among the debris. It took a few moments to locate the entrance into the souterrain, which was a common method of storing food and provisions in a cooler temperature. Eadulf and Gormán lent a hand to carrying the bodies of the slain religieux to the chamber and depositing them inside, securing it against the attentions of preying animals.
Fidelma drew a sigh and glanced apprehensively at the approaching dark. ‘At least they will be safe awhile,’ she said. ‘May God have mercy on their souls. Now, we must try to reach the inn before nightfall.’
They remounted and resumed their journey along the road. Fidelma led them in a canter, for the sooner they reached the warmth and safety of the inn the better. Across the plain, the howling of wolves echoed distantly in the gathering dusk.
By the time they saw the light of the inn, after rounding a bend as the road wound over the shoulder of a hill, night had already fallen. At least the light was welcoming. All inns and hostels had a lantern raised at night on a tall pole set on the
faithche,
the area just outside the entrance to the inn, to guide travellers to it from a distance. It was with some relief that they trotted into the yard, the sound of their arrival disturbing a sleepy cockerel that set up an indignant cry which seemed to agitate the brooding hens. The door opened and a thickset man emerged and surveyed the visitors with an appraising glance before turning and calling to someone inside the inn. Then he took a step forward.
‘Welcome, strangers. You are late abroad. Do you seek shelter for the night?’
Fidelma dismounted as two young men appeared at his side. ‘We do, indeed,’ she replied. ‘But first water to bathe after our travel and food to eat.’
‘Then enter and be comfortable.’
The others also slid wearily from their mounts and took their saddlebags, allowing the two young men to lead their horses to the stables.
‘Welcome, lady, welcome, my friends,’ the man said again. ‘I am the
brugh-fer.’
‘Ah, so this is a
brugaid
? A public hostel?’ asked Fidelma.
The man nodded. Hospitality was a virtue highly esteemed in the five kingdoms, and each clan made provision for lodging and entertaining
travellers and officials. The public hostels ran side by side with private inns, and strict laws applied to both establishments. The keepers of each were restricted in what they could and could not provide for their guests, and as guests were constantly arriving and departing, the furniture and other property in the hostels and inns was carefully protected by law from wanton or malicious damage and, as Fidelma knew, the laws went into detail about the compensation to be paid, and for any injuries sustained.
‘Are you travelling to Tara?’ the man asked, showing them into the main room where a fire was spreading a comfortable heat. A fire in a public hostel had to be kept constantly alight, according to law.
‘We are,’ affirmed Fidelma.
‘Ah, then you must travel on a sad business. I heard of the High King’s death. And you are from the south, if your accent is not false.’
‘This is Fidelma of Cashel,’ Caol interrupted, indicating Fidelma’s social rank with some pride.
The hostel-keeper’s eyes widened as he regarded her. ‘I have heard stories of Fidelma of Cashel – a famous
dálaigh.’
‘I am Fidelma,’ she said simply. ‘And a
dálaigh.’
‘You and your companions are most honoured guests, lady,’ the man said. ‘I will call my wife and there shall be drink and food upon the table shortly. Water will also be heated soon.’