Everyone at the table that evening had cause to hate Nechtan.
Sister Fidelma was not one to use words lightly for, as an advocate of the law courts of the five kingdoms as well as a reli-gieuse, she used language carefully, sparingly and with as much precision in meaning as she could. But she could think of no other description for the emotion which Nechtan aroused other than an intense dislike.
Like the others seated around the table, Fidelma had good cause to feel great animosity toward the chieftain of the Mús-craige.
Why, then, had she accepted the invitation to this bizarre feast with Nechtan? Why had her fellow guests also agreed to attend this gathering?
Fidelma could only account for her own acceptance. In truth, she would have refused the invitation had Nechtan’s plea for her attendance not found her passing, albeit unwillingly, through his territory on a mission to Sliabh Luachra, whose chieftain had sent for her to come and judge a case of theft. As one qualified in the laws of the Brehons to the level of Anruth, only one degree below the highest grade obtainable, Fidelma was well able to act as judge when the occasion necessitated it.
As it turned out, Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra, who also had cause to dislike Nechtan, had similarly received an invitation to the meal and so they had both decided to accompany one another to the fortress of Nechtan.
Yet perhaps there was another reason behind Fidelma’s halfhearted acceptance of the invitation, a more pertinent reason; it was that Nechtan’s invitation had been couched in very persuasive language. He begged her forgiveness for the harm that he had done her in the past. Nechtan claimed that he sought absolution for his misdeeds and, hearing that she was passing through his territory, he had chosen this opportune moment to invite her, as well as several of those whom he had injured, to make reparation to them by asking them to feast with him so that, before all, he could make public and contrite apology. The handsomeness of the language was such that Fidelma had felt unable to refuse. Indeed, to refuse an enemy who makes such an apology would have been against the very teachings of the Christ. Had not the Apostle Luke reported that the Christ had instructed: “Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other…?”
Where would Fidelma stand with the Faith if she refused to obey its cardinal rule; that of forgiveness of those who had wronged her?
Now, as she sat at Nechtan’s feasting table, she observed that her dislike of Nechtan was shared by all her fellow guests. At least she had made a Christian effort to accommodate Nechtan’s desire to be forgiven but, from the looks and glances of those around her, from the stilted and awkward conversation, and from the chilly atmosphere and tension, the idea of forgiveness was not the burning desire in the hearts of those who sat there. A different desire seemed to consume their thoughts.
The meal was drawing to a close when Nechtan rose to his feet. He was a middle-aged man. At first glance one might have been forgiven for thinking of him as a jolly and kindly man. He was short and plump, his skin shone with a childlike pinkness, though his fleshy face sagged a little around the jowls. His hair was long, and silver in color, but combed meticulously back from his face. His lips were thin and ruddy. Generally, the features were pleasant enough but hid the cruel strength of character which had marked his leadership of the Múscraige. It was when one stared directly into his ice-blue eyes that one realized the cold ruthlessness of the man. They were pale, dead eyes. The eyes of a man without feeling.
Nechtan motioned to the solitary attendant, who had been serving wine to the company, to refill his goblet from the pitcher which stood on a side table. The young man filled his vessel and then said quietly: “The wine is nearly gone. Shall I have the pitcher refilled?” But Nechtan shook his head and dismissed him with a curt gesture so that he was alone with his guests.
Fidelma inwardly groaned again. The meal had been embarrassing enough without the added awkwardness of a speech from Nechtan.
“My friends,” Nechtan began. His voice was soft, almost cajoling, as he gazed without warmth around him. “I hope I may now call you thus, for it has long been in my heart to seek you all out and make reparation to each of you for the wrong which you have suffered at my hands.”
He paused, looking expectantly around, but met only with embarrassed silence. Indeed, Fidelma seemed to be the only one to raise her head to meet his dead eyes. The others stared awkwardly at the remains of the meal on their plates before them.
“I am in your hands tonight,” went on Nechtan, as if oblivious to the tension around the table. “I have wronged you all…”
He turned to the silent, elderly, nervous-looking man who was seated immediately to his left. The man had a habit of restively chewing his nails, a habit which Fidelma thought disgusting. It was a fact that, among the professional classes of society, well-formed hands and slender tapering fingers were considered a mark of beauty. Fingernails were usually carefully cut and rounded and most women put crimson stain on them. It was also considered shameful for a professional man to have unkempt nails.
Fidelma knew that the elderly man was Nechtan’s own physician which made his untidy and neglected hands twice as outrageous and offensive in her eyes.
Nechtan smiled at the man. It was a smile, Fidelma thought, which was merely the rearrangement of facial muscles and had nothing to do with feeling.
“I have wronged you, Gerróc, my physician. I have regularly cheated you of your fees and taken advantage of your services.”
The elderly man stirred uncomfortably in his seat but then shrugged indifferently.
“You are my chieftain,” he replied stiffly.
Nechtan grimaced, as if amused by the response, and turned to the fleshly but still handsome middle-aged woman who sat next to Gerróc. She was the only other female at the table.
“And you, Ess, you were my first wife. I divorced you and drove you from my house by false claims of infidelity when all I sought was the arms of another younger and more attractive woman who took my fancy. By seeking to convict you of adultery I unlawfully stole your dowry and inheritance. In this, I wronged you before our people.”
Ess sat stony-faced; only a casual blink of her eyes denoted that she had even heard Nechtan’s remark.
“And seated next to you,” Nechtan went on, still turning sunwise around the circle of the table, “is my son, our son, Dathó. Through injustice to your mother, Dathó, I have also wronged you, my son. I have denied you your rightful place in this territory of the Múscraige.”
Dathó was a slim young man of twenty; his face was graven but his eyes-he had his mother’s eyes and not the grey, cold eyes of his father-flashed with hatred at Nechtan. He opened his mouth as though to speak harsh words but Fidelma saw that his mother, Ess, laid a restraining hand on his arm and so he simply sniffed, thrust out his jaw pugnaciously but made no reply. It was clear that Nechtan would receive no forgiveness from his son nor his former wife.
Yet Nechtan appeared unperturbed at the reactions. He seemed to take some form of satisfaction in them.
Another of the guests, who was seated opposite Ess-Fidelma knew him as a young artist named Cuill-nervously rose from his seat and walked round the table, behind Nechtan, to where the pitcher of wine stood and filled his goblet, apparently emptying the jug, before returning to his seat.
Nechtan did not seem to notice him. Fidelma only half-registered the action. She continued to meet Nechtan’s cold eyes steadily with her stormy green ones, and raised a hand to thrust back the rebellious strands of red hair which fell from under her head-dress.
“And you, Fidelma of Cashel, sister of our king Colgú…” Nechtan spread his hands in a gesture which seemed designed to extend his remorse. “You were a young novice when you came to this territory as one of the retinue of the great Brehon Morann, chief of the judges of the five kingdoms. I was enamored by your youth and beauty; what man would no
t be? I sought you out in our chamber at night, abusing all laws of hospitality, and tried to seduce you…”
Fidelma raised her jaw; a tinge of red showed on her cheeks as she recalled the incident vividly.
“Seduce?” Her voice was icy. The term which Nechtan had used was a legal one-sleth-which denoted an attempted intercourse by stealth. “Your unsuccessful attempt was more one of forcor.”
Nechtan blinked rapidly and for a moment his face dissolved into a mask of irritation before reassuming its pale, placid expression. Forcor was a forcible rape, a crime of a violent nature, and had Fidelma not, even at that early age, been accomplished in the art of the troid-sciathagid, the ancient form of unarmed combat, then rape might well have resulted from Nechtan’s unwelcome attention. As it was, Nechtan was forced to lie indisposed for three days after his nocturnal visit and bearing the bruises of Fidelma’s defensive measures.
Nechtan bowed his head, as if contritely.
“It was a wrong, good Sister,” he acknowledged, “and I can only admit my actions and plead for your forgiveness.”
Fidelma, in spite of her internal struggle, reflecting on the teachings of the Faith, could not bring herself to indicate any forgiveness on her part. She remained silent, staring at Nechtan in ill-concealed disgust. A firm suspicion was now entering her mind that Nechtan, this evening, was performing some drama for his own end. Yet for what purpose?
Nechtan’s mouth quirked in a fleeting gesture of amusement, as if he knew her angry silence would be all the response that he would receive from her.
He paused a moment before turning to the fiery, red-haired man seated on her left. Daolgar, as Fidelma knew, was a man of fierce temper, given to action rather than reflection. He was quick to take offense but equally quick to forgive. Fidelma knew him as a warm-hearted, generous man.
“Daolgar, chieftain of Sliabh Luachra and my good neighbor,” Nechtan greeted him, but there seemed irony in his tone. “I have wronged you by encouraging the young men of my clan to constantly raid your territory, to harass your people in order to increase our lands and to steal your cattle herds.”
Daolgar gave a long, inward sniff through his nostrils. It was an angry sound. His muscular body was poised as if he were about to spring forward.
“That you admit this thing, a matter known to my people, is a step in the right direction toward reconciliation, Nechtan. I will not let personal enmity stand in the way of a truce between us. All I ask is that such a truce should be supervised by an impartial Brehon. Needless to say, on behalf of my people, compensation for the lost cattle, the deaths in combat, must also be agreed-”
“Just so,” Nechtan interrupted curtly.
Nechtan now ignored Daolgar, turning to the young man who, having filled his goblet, had resumed his place.
“And now to you, Cuill, I have also made grievous injury, for our entire clan knows that I have seduced your wife and taken her to live in my house to the shame of your family before our people.”
The young, handsome man was sitting stiffly on the other side of Daolgar. He tried to keep his composure but his face was red with a mixture of mortification and a liberal amount of wine. Cuill was already known to Fidelma by reputation as a promising decorative artist whose talents had been sought by many a chieftain, bishop and abbot in order to create monuments of lasting beauty for them.
“She allowed herself to be seduced,” Cuill replied sullenly. “Only in seeking to keep me ignorant of the affair was harm done to me. That matter was remedied when she left me and went to dwell in your house, forsaking her children. Infatuation is a terrible thing.”
“You do not say ‘love’?” queried Nechtan sharply. “Then you do not concede that she loves me?”
“She was inspired with a foolish passion which deprived her of sound judgment. No. I do not call it love. I call it infatuation.”
“Yet you love her still.” Nechtan smiled thinly, as if purposely mocking Cuill. “Even though she dwells in my house. Ah well, have no fear. After tonight I shall suggest that she return to your house. I think my… infatuation … with her is ended.”
Nechtan seemed to take amusement from the young man’s controlled anger. Cuill’s knuckles showed white where he gripped the sides of his chair. But Nechtan seemed to tire of his ill-concealed enjoyment and now he turned to the last of the guests-the slim, dark-haired warrior at his right side.
“So to you, Marbán.”
Marbán was Tanist, heir-elect to Nechtan’s chieftaincy. The warrior stirred uncomfortably.
“You have done me no wrong,” he interrupted with a tight sullen voice.
Nechtan’s plump face assumed a woebegone look.
“Yet I have. You are my Tanist, my heir apparent. When I am gone, you will be chieftain in my stead.”
“A long time before that,” Marbán said, evasively. “And no wrong done.”
“Yet I have wronged you,” insisted Nechtan. “Ten years ago, when we both came together before the clan assembly so that the assembly could choose which of us was to be chief and which was to be Tanist, it was you who the assembly favored. You were the clear choice to be chieftain. I discovered this before the assembly met and so I paid bribes to many in order that I might be elected chieftain. So I came to office while you, by default, became the second choice. For ten years I have kept you at my side when you should have ruled in my place.”
Fidelma saw Marbán’s face whiten but there was no registration of surprise on his features. Clearly the Tanist already knew of Nechtan’s wrongdoing. She saw the anger and hatred pass across his features even though he sought to control the emotions.
Fidelma felt that she had no option but to speak up and she broke the silence by clearing her throat. When all eyes were turned on her she said in a quiet, authoritative tone:
“Nechtan of the Múscraige, you have asked us here to forgive you certain wrongs which you have done to each of us. Some are a matter for simple Christian forgiveness. However, as a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts of this land, I have to point out to you that not all your misdeeds, which you have admitted freely at this table, can be dealt with that simply. You have confessed that you should not legally be chieftain of the Múscraige. You have confessed that, even if you were legally chieftain, you have indulged in activities which did not promote the commonwealth of your people, such as encouraging illegal cattle raids into the territory of Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra. This in itself is a serious crime for which you may have to appear before the assembly and my brother, Colgú, King of Cashel, and you could be dismissed from your office-”
Nechtan held up his plump hand and stayed her.
“You had ever the legal mind, Fidelma. And it is right that you should point out this aspect of the law to me. I accept your knowledge. But before the ramifications of this feast of forgiveness are felt, my main aim was to recognize before you all what I have done. Come what may, I concede this. And now I will raise my goblet to each and every one of you, acknowledging what I have done to you all. After that, your law may take its course and I will rest content in that knowledge.”
He reached forward, picked up his goblet and raised it in salutation to them.
“I drink to you all. I do so contritely and then you may have joy of your law.”
No one spoke. Sister Fidelma raised a cynical eyebrow at Nechtan’s dramatic gesture. It was as if they were watching a bad play.
The chieftain swallowed loudly. Almost immediately the goblet fell from his hand and his pale eyes were suddenly wide and staring, his mouth was open and he was making a terrible gasping sound, one hand going up to his throat. Then, as if a violent seizure racked his body, he fell backward, sending his chair flying as he crashed to the floor.
For a moment there was a deadly stillness in the feasting hall.
It was Gerróc, the chieftain’s physician, who seemed to recover his wits first. He was on his knees by Nechtan in a moment. Yet it didn’t need a physician’s training to know that Nechtan w
as dead. The contorted features, staring dead eyes, and twisted limbs showed that death had claimed him.
Daolgar, next to Fidelma, grunted in satisfaction.
“God is just, after all,” he remarked evenly. “If ever a man needed to be helped into the Otherworld, it was this man.” He glanced quickly at Fidelma and half-shrugged as he saw her look of reproach. “You’ll pardon me if I speak my mind, Sister? I am not truly a believer in the concept of forgiveness of sins. It depends much on the sins and the perpetrator of them.”
Fidelma’s attention had been distracted by Daolgar but, as she was turning back towards Gerróc, she noticed that young Dathó was whispering anxiously to his mother Ess, who was shaking her head. Her hand seemed to be closed around a small shape hidden in her pocket.
Gerróc had risen to his feet and was glaring suspiciously at Daolgar.
“What do you mean ‘helped into the Otherworld,’ Daolgar?” he demanded, his tone tight with some suppressed emotion.
Daolgar gestured dispassionately.
“A figure of speech, physician. God has punished Nechtan in his own way with some seizure. A heart attack, or so it appears. That was help enough. And as for whether Nechtan deserved to be so stricken-why, who around this table would doubt it? He has wronged us all.”
Gerróc shook his head slowly.
“It was no seizure brought on by the whim of God,” he said quietly. Then he added: “No one should touch any more of the wine.”
They were all regarding the physician with confusion, trying to comprehend his meaning.
Gerróc responded to their unarticulated question.
“Nechtan’s cup was poisoned,” he said. “He has been murdered.”
After a moment’s silence, Fidelma rose slowly from her place and went to where Nechtan lay. There was a blue tinge to his lips, which were drawn back, revealing discolored gums and teeth. The twisted features of his once cherubic face were enough for her to realize that his brief death agony had been induced in a violent form. She reached toward the fallen goblet. A little wine still lay in its bowl. She dipped her finger in it and sniffed at it suspiciously. There was a bitter-sweet fragrance which she could not identify.
Hemlock at Vespers sf-9 Page 41