Table of Contents
Title Page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
HISTORICAL NOTE
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
BOOKS BY PETER TREMAYNE IN THE SISTER FIDELMA OF CASHEL SERIES
Notes
Copyright Page
For those intrepid enthusiasts from ten countries
who gathered in Cashel, 8 10 September 2006,
to attend the first Féile Fidelma: Sister Fidelma’s World at Cashel,
and to the organisers and citizens of Cashel
in appreciation and thanks.
PROLOGUE
Erc the Speckled, the guard at the entrance of Ráth na Riogh, the royal enclosure of the great Palace of Tara, knew the man whom he had challenged in the darkness. He knew him and therefore he let him pass inside without any suspicion; pass freely into the fortified sanctuary of the High Kings of Éireann. Erc, while an imperturbable warrior in a crisis, was also unimaginative. It did not occur to him that even people who were known to the palace guards should be asked what had brought them hither when they sought to gain entrance to the royal enclosure in the early hours of the morning. That he recognised the man, who presented himself in the light of the burning torches that lit the main portals to the enclosure, was enough for Erc. He allowed him entrance without further thought and question as to his purpose. After all, this chieftain had often been admitted to the High King’s presence during daylight hours. At least, that’s what he would eventually tell the examining Brehon – but by then it was too late.
In his defence, one could argue that there was good reason to believe all was secure. It was well-known that no enemy could penetrate the large complex that made up the buildings of Tara. It was too large and well-defened, both in the number of guards and in the physical structure, to allow any serious threat. The hills over which the royal centre spread had been built upon for countless centuries, dominating the luscious valley whose great river was called after the ancient goddess, Bóinn. It was said that the palace complex itself had been called after Téa, the wife of Eremon who, with his brother Eber, had led the children of the Gael into this land and settled it at the dawn of time. But Erc the Speckled was not interested in ancient legends. He knew only that the royal enclosure was impossible for any enemy to attack and he added complacency to the folly of being unimaginative.
The celebrated High King, Cormac Mac Art, three centuries before, had ordered the construction of the interior royal enclosure with its large rectangular house still called Tech Cormaic, Cormac’s House, in which the High Kings dwelled. It was opposite the Forradh or Royal Seat, to its east, from where the High Kings dispensed the duties of governing the five kingdoms. Even the colossal Tech Miodhchuarta, the banqueting hall, owed its existence to Cormac. And he had built fortifications to protect this inner sanctum of the kings. High walls and ditches, great oval earth-works, protected the buildings, with guards at all the entrances.
Tara was impregnable and so Erc the Speckled was not one whit concerned when the noble, whom he recognised, came walking to the gate that he guarded, in the darkness before dawn. He merely raised his spear in salute and went down the wooden stairway to the immdorus, the small door set in the now closed and bolted great gate of the fortress, released the lock and swung it open. He then motioned the man to the royal enclosure. The man did so with a smile and brief nod to Erc.
Once beyond the gate, and across the bridge over the defensive ditch, in which three tall men could stand on each other’s shoulders from its bottom to its top, the man’s attitude seemed to tense. He began to hurry with long loping strides, his head bent forward, his shoulders hunched, keeping to the semi-gloom beyond the pathways. He made his way between the great banqueting hall, towering up in the darkness to his right, and the fortified building known as the Ráth of Synods, where the High Kings summoned their assemblies, to his left. He turned left at the end and moved quickly towards the burial mound, which had been old even before the coming of the children of the Gael to the land. Then he moved past the Forradh and turned to face the great building of Tech Cormaic, the residence of the High King.
He halted in the shadow of some trees and bushes, designed to give privacy to the building, and stood surveying it for a moment. It was mainly in darkness except for two burning brand torches, stuck out in their iron braziers, which protruded on each side of the central dark oak doors, causing a faint light and countless dancing shadows to obscure the portal.
A movement caught his eye and he drew back further into the shadows, his hand sliding to the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowing as if the action would help him see more clearly in the darkness.
A warrior with drawn sword, whose blade rested easily against his shoulder, moved with an almost lazy gait around the edge of the building and paused before the oak doors. A moment later, a second warrior joined him.
One spoke in a low voice, but on such a still night as this, the watcher could clearly make out what he said.
‘The night passes slowly, Cuan, my friend.’
‘Too slowly,’ the other replied with a yawn. ‘How long until dawn, Lugna?’
His companion glanced at the sky. It was almost cloudless but the clouds that were fleeting in the high winds were obscuring the pale gibbous moon. The man quickly assessed the position of the stars.
‘A while yet.’
‘Perhaps a small libation will keep the early-morning chill at bay until the sun rises? There is a jug in the kitchens.’
The second man seemed to hesitate. ‘It is wrong to leave the doors unguarded. What if Irél comes to inspect the guard?’
Cuan chuckled. ‘Our good commander has retired to his chamber. He will not come to inspect the guard until it is time to change it at dawn. Come, a drop of corma will keep out the night chill.’
The warrior addressed as Lugna made as if to protest. Then, in a tone of resignation, he said: ‘I cannot argue. Lead the way.’
The two guards moved off along the side of the High King’s house into the darkness towards the ircha, or kitchen, which was situated at the back of the building and entered by a separate door.
In the shadows, the waiting man smiled in satisfaction, glanced swiftly around and then, assuring himself that there was no one else in the vicinity, crossed quickly to the heavy doors. His hand did not tremble as he turned the iron handle. One of the double doors opened with ease and he passed into the hallway of the large building. With the two guards in the kitchen, he knew that there were no other guards inside the royal house. He eased the door quietly shut behind him. A few spluttering oil lamps caused shadows to dance over the wood-panelled walls of red yew. Thus far, thus good, he thought.
If his information was correct, the High King slept alone that night. His wife had gone, in the company of her daughters, to Finnian’s abbey at Cluain Ioraird to offer prayers for the repose of the soul of her mother, who had but recently succumbed to the Yellow Plague. In any case, the intruder also knew that the High King never slept with his wife, the lady
Gormflaith, these days. So now, unless the High King had invited someone else to his bed, he would be found alone.
The man knew his way to the High King’s bedchamber. With a calm deliberation, he moved up the single flight of broad wooden stairs and into the deserted upper corridor, where he halted, head to one side, listening. All was quiet. Now he just had to hope that the others had played their part. A few seconds passed before he heard the slight creak of a door swinging gently open to his right. He pressed back against the panelled wall, as a shadow appeared. It was the dark figure of a woman. He had been expecting her.
No greeting was exchanged between them. Instead, the woman held out a hand and his own closed on the cold bronze eochuir or key.
‘The lock is well-oiled,’ the woman whispered. ‘I saw to that.’
‘And he is alone?’
‘I am fairly certain of it,’ came the soft reply. ‘The Old One has been watching the steps leading to the privy door at the back and has seen no one go up since he retired for the night.’
‘That is good. Return to your chamber and if I am successful I shall call you. You know what it is you must look for?’
The woman’s voice was scornful. ‘Of course. Have I not waited a lifetime for this? Are you prepared?’
‘I know my part as you do your own. We must be away from here before daylight.’
‘The Old One knows the way. She will guide us. We must not be caught. If anything happens, you are aware of what must be done?’
‘I am,’ he replied grimly.
She disappeared whence she had come without a further word.
He trod noiselessly to the dark oak door at the far end of the corridor. Then he stretched out to insert the key … and turned it slowly. The lock was indeed well-oiled, and made not the slightest sound. A turn of the handle, a slight push and the door opened a fraction. The man felt a second of relief. He listened: in the darkness beyond, he could hear nothing. Stepping stealthily into the gloom, he slipped the key into the purse that he wore at his belt and stood for a moment, back against the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
The room was lit by moonlight. The clouds seemed to have moved on, leaving the pale glow to permeate through the window and spread itself over the bed on which the recumbent figure lay.
The High King appeared to be asleep, stretched on his back.
A look of satisfaction formed on the face of the man. In one quick motion, he drew his knife, its blade sharp like a razor, and moved rapidly across to the side of the bed. Barely pausing, he plunged the knife down towards the High King’s exposed throat. The severed jugular spurted a little blood as he moved the knife across the throat like a butcher slaughtering a lamb. It happened so fast that there was not even a movement of the features of his victim. The assassin doubted whether the sleeper even knew what had happened.
The killer stepped back, still holding the knife in his right hand, a thin smile of triumph on his lips.
He was just about to turn away when a high-pitched shriek of terror echoed through the chamber. His head jerked up. On the far side of the room, a door had opened and the figure of a young girl stood there. She was naked and held her hands to her cheeks in a stance of obvious shock and horror. She screamed again and ran out, slamming the door shut behind her.
For a second the assassin stood aghast. Should he pursue her, or turn for the door by which he had come? Almost immediately, he was aware of shouting and the sound of running feet. Her screams had aroused the servants and the guards. There would be no escape. He knew then what he had to do. There could be no surrender. He felt one moment of regret but there was a greater will than his which compelled him to obey his orders. Raising the hand with the dagger …
A few moments later, the door flew open and Lugna rushed in, his sword drawn. His companion, Cuan, followed, holding a lantern.
It was too late.
The assassin was slumped against the bed of the High King, blood spurting from his chest. He was still alive and but the light was dying in his eyes. Lugna bent down, restraining the urge to finish him off.
‘Why?’ he demanded sharply of the man.
The murderer stared at him with a dull gaze for a moment. Then the pale lips moved. A word was whispered which Lugna stretched forward to catch. There was a gasp and the assassin toppled sideways onto the floor, staining it with one last outpouring of blood.
Lugna rose to his feet, his face showing his disgust. He took the lantern from his companion and looked beyond the assassin’s body to the figure on the bed to assure himself that the victim was beyond help.
Cuan glanced curiously down at the body on the floor. ‘What did he say?’
Lugna shrugged. ‘Something about blame. I think he meant that he was accepting the blame for the crime.’
His companion laughed shortly. ‘That was stating the obvious.’
There was a continued shouting in the corridor and the noise of people running hither and thither, and some began crowding in. Lugna turned towards the door, telling them to stay back. As he did so, Cuan suddenly noticed a small bracelet by the side of the dead assassin; it was a chain from which silver coins hung. It looked valuable. He picked it up and turned to Lugna, but his comrade had not noticed for he was trying to prevent people entering. One or two of them held oil lamps in their hands. Someone was shouting for the High King’s physician. Cuan’s hand closed over the trinket.
‘Too late for that. The High King is dead,’ Lugna informed those at the door, as he sheathed his sword. ‘And the assassin is dead also, but not by my hand.’
Then Irél, the commander of the Fianna, the High King’s bodyguard, appeared, pushing through the alarmed servants.
Lugna stiffened as his superior’s gaze swept the scene with an aghast expression. The man’s eyes alighted on the body of the assassin, slumped on the floor by the bed, and he uttered an exclamation of surprise.
‘It is Dubh Duin, chief of the Cinél Cairpre!’
Lugna had not recognised the man but now he turned with curiosity, holding the lantern over the dead features. By its flickering light he saw that the assassin had been correctly identified, and he whistled softly in disbelief.
‘He was of the Uí Néill, of the same family as the High King,’ Lugna said nervously, turning to Irél. ‘Can this have been some family blood feud? Or does it signal insurrection?’
The commander of the Fianna was noncommittal but he was clearly worried by the same thoughts.
‘We must send for Abbot Colmán, the chief steward, also the High King’s brother, Cenn Faelad. He is heir apparent and will now succeed as lawful King. He must be informed. Meanwhile, I shall order the Fianna to stand to arms until we know what this means.’
Lugna glanced once more at the still form lying on the bed.
Sechnussach, son of Blathmac of Sil nÁedo Sláine, direct descent of the immortal Niall of the Nine Hostages, High King of the five kingdoms of Éireann, was dead. If this were a blood feud, then the five kingdoms would soon be threatened with civil war.
CHAPTER ONE
Ferloga had been an innkéeper most of his adult life and was in the habit of boasting that he had seen all manner of guests – rich and poor, the arrogant and the humble. He had had dealings with kings and chieftains, religious of all descriptions, rich merchants, travelling players, farmers passing on their way to market and even beggars desperate for shelter. Ferloga’s proud claim was that no guest had ever tried to cheat him of his fee, for there were few of them that he was unable to judge; after a glance, he could tell what calling in life they followed and whether they were trustworthy or not. But, as the elderly innkeeper sat talking with his wife while she finished cleaning the utensils after the morning meal, he freely confessed to confusion. The guest who had arrived not long after nightfall on the previous evening had been an utter mystery to him.
A tall, thin man, almost skeletal, the pale parchment-like skin had stretched tightly over his bony features. That he was elderly was ind
isputable, but whether sixty or eighty years of age was impossible to discern. He had curious eyes, the left one made sinister by the white film of a cataract. His unkempt white hair seemed to tumble in all directions, thick and curly, ending around his shoulders. His neck reminded Ferloga of a chicken’s scrawny folds with a prominent bobbing Adam’s apple. A dark grey woollen cloak, which had probably once been white, covered the man from neck to ankles. He carried a long wooden staff with curious carving on it, and a leather satchel was slung from his shoulder.
At first Ferloga had thought that he was a wandering religious, for he certainly looked like one of the hermits that one infrequently encountered on the road, and it was clear that he had arrived on foot. However, once he loosened his cloak, the stranger displayed none of the usual symbols of the New Faith but wore a curious necklet of gold and semi-precious stones which, Ferloga knew, no religious would ever wear.
The conversation had been unexpectedly short. Ferloga was used to some sociability from his guests but this elderly traveller merely demanded a bed. He even declined a traditional mug of corma to protect against the chill of the night. When Ferloga asked whither he had come, the man replied: ‘A long journey from the north,’ and nothing more. Ferloga took the view that the man was exhausted from his travels and, indeed, he noticed that the newcomer was swaying slightly and the dark skin under his eyes was a trifle puffy. So the innkeeper did not press the late arrival further but conducted him to a small room above the stairs, and withdrew.
Now, in the light of dawn, Ferloga was still wondering about his mysterious guest.
His plump wife sniffed in irritation as she gave the cauldron of porridge, still warming over the fire, a stir to stop it sticking.
‘Rather than sit there trying to make guesses, why don’t you go and rouse the man. It’s long past sun up. All the other guests have risen, broken their fasts and continued on their way. I do not plan to stay here all day making sure the porridge does not burn. I need to go berry picking.’
Ferloga sighed and slowly rose from his comfortable seat by the side of the fire. Lassar, was right, of course. The business of the inn could not wait for ever and it was unusual for guests to delay so long in the morning.
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