For a moment it seemed that Febal was about to refuse to reply – and then he shrugged.
‘A merchant from the township of Tuam an Dá Ghualainn, which is in my clan’s territory, was passing through Cashel during the summer months. He was staying in the tavern there when he overheard a drunken shepherd speaking with the tavern-keeper. He listened to the conversation and realised that this man was speaking about Fursaintid – not by name, of course, but by his description of him. This same merchant pretended to question the shepherd about the price of sheep and managed to ask a few questions.’
‘This drunken shepherd … his name was not Spelán, by chance?’ Eadulf asked.
‘I am not sure. The merchant returned to bring this news to my uncle. As I had inherited the task of seeking blood vengeance, I am here now to find Brother Fursaintid and fulfil the vow my family have taken. I will let no dálaigh stop me, for I have the right as proclaimed in the Críth Gabhlach.’ Febal ended by thrusting out his jaw challengingly to Fidelma. ‘Perhaps I should seek this shepherd or ride on to Ráth Cuáin.’
‘Spelán is dead,’ she said flatly.
Febal stared at her, his head to one side as if he had not heard properly. When he did not answer Fidelma continued: ‘The shepherd was found early this morning. He had suffered what in the old days was called “the three deaths”.
‘I don’t understand. Was he executed?’
‘He was murdered,’ Eadulf said.
‘Well, I did not kill him,’ the young man protested. ‘I regret to hear of his death, if only for the information he could have given me. But I did not know him, nor did I bear him a grudge. In fact, I should be thankful to him in that he unwittingly revealed where Fursaintid was in hiding.’
‘You have sought hospitality here and it is granted. In the time that you are with us, I hope that logic and good sense will convince you to abandon your plan,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘I would ask you to remain here until I have finished my investigation into the murder of the shepherd.’
The young man began to object but Fidelma spoke over him in a firm voice: ‘Until I am satisfied, I speak as a dálaigh. You will remain with us albeit you will be received in honour as a noble of your people and a guest of my brother, the King.’
‘I trust you appreciate who the Uí Briúin Seóla are and the rights of nobles?’ the young man said tightly.
‘I am acquainted with the Crith Gablach.’ Fidelma smiled faintly when referring to the laws relating to the rights. ‘Moreover, I know the fir flathemon – the King’s justice.’
Febal shook his head in disbelief. ‘So I am under suspicion of the death of a shepherd because I came to take the life of a rapist? Suspicion requires a denial by oath – the law states dligid doig dlithach. I did not kill him and so I may swear, even as the Cáin Domnaig says: I swear ó cath anma – for the battle of my soul.’
Fidelma regarded him seriously. ‘That is a warrior’s oath. You appear to have come armed with law for the purpose of your vengeance, teacher of poetry.’
‘It was felt necessary, pursuing my quest in a strange kingdom. In Connacht, the law is deemed the principal concern.’
‘As it is here,’ Fidelma responded in annoyance. ‘You may swear your oath as you wish, Febal, yet it does not put you above suspicion. Many oath swearers have been known to commit éthech or perjury.’
‘You will not accept my oath?’
‘Oath or not, you will stay with us while we carry out our investigation,’ Fidelma repeated. ‘I will send another person to you who is qualified in law; they will hear and record your oath, and you may choose your witness to it.’
‘The oath was only to put your mind at ease that I was not involved,’ Febal explained, suddenly submitting to the circumstances. ‘I am prepared to be your … your brother’s guest. However, if I find that news of my arrival is sent to Ráth Cuáin and that this Brother Fursaintid thereby escapes justice, then you may expect this matter to be pursued by the King of Connacht.’
‘Then it is agreed.’ Fidelma dismissed the matter as if the young man had made no threat at all. ‘Aidan will accompany you to Dar Luga, the ainberrtach of the King’s household and keeper of the guest-house. She will accommodate you and arrange an audience with King Colgú as soon as it is possible.’
Aidan, a witness to the conversation and who took the threat of force seriously, could not resist the temptation of saying: ‘Remember, lest you have other ideas, that this palace is guarded by warriors of the Nasc Niadh, the warriors of the Golden Collar, who do not wear their weapons as mere ornaments.’
‘Neither do the Gamanride, the bodyguard to the Kings of Connacht,’ retorted the young man.
Fidelma had been turning away, but now she swung back. ‘What is meant by that remark? You speak of the Gamanride.’
‘I was not always simply a poet,’ Febal said. ‘As you have rightly observed, I have rank among my people. I will brook no threats to my person.’
‘So you claim you are a member of the Gamanride?’ Fidelma asked sharply. ‘Yet you arrive without sword and weaponry, claiming to be an éces.’
The young man laughed without humour. ‘One does not exclude the other. Anyway, a true warrior,’ he glanced disdainfully at Aidan who now had his hand hovering over his weapon, ‘does not rely on weapons to accomplish his purpose. In that manner I shall give Brother Fursaintid a chance to defend himself when he and I meet up. What I once was, is irrelevant. I am now merely a poet.’
‘You will be treated with all due deference and will, to all outward signs, be a guest in my brother’s hostel and presented to the King as protocol dictates,’ Fidelma replied with emphasis. ‘But remember that you will be confined within the walls of this palace until I say otherwise.’
Febal smiled tightly. ‘I hope that will not take long, lady.’
Outside the guest chambers, Eadulf was filled with questions.
‘Aren’t the Gamanride the élite bodyguards to the kings of Connacht?’ he asked. Receiving a nod, he went on: ‘I can’t quite see this man as the killer of a poor shepherd – and in such a gruesome manner.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Fidelma replied. ‘It is just that I do not like coincidences.’
She led the way into her brother’s council chamber. Colgú was alone, seated before the fire, wearing a moody expression and nibbling on an apple.
‘You have just missed Princess Gelgéis,’ he greeted his sister. ‘She has retired to her rooms to bathe before the evening fasting.’
Fidelma was glad the princess was absent because she needed to bring her brother fully into the picture before he received Febal. However, his mood worsened as she recounted the events of the day.
‘I don’t like it, sister.’
‘No more do I,’ Eadulf found himself intervening. ‘The young man turns up here on the morning after this Spelán is murdered, claims he is in pursuit of someone Spelán knew and declares that his purpose is blood vengeance. I have to say, I agree with Fidelma. There is something about this man Febal that I don’t trust.’
‘Well, until we are sure, I suppose I am to treat him as courtesy and hospitality dictates?’ the King asked.
‘For the time being and within the confines of the palace,’ Fidelma nodded.
Her brother sighed deeply. ‘Unfortunately, the news of the killing has spread like a fire throughout the town. Everyone now talks about the curse of the old gods. Tell me more about this woman, this raven-caller. After all, it appears that I have been personally singled out for the vengeance of the old gods.’
‘You should not take such curses to heart,’ Fidelma admonished. ‘What king or chieftain has not been cursed simply because of his position?’ However, she was well aware that her brother had a weakness for taking auguries and superstitions to heart, although he tried his best not to show it.
‘A curse once unleashed into the air can never be retrieved,’ Colgú said heavily.
‘At the moment, we are considering the death of Spelán,
’ Eadulf reminded them. ‘The woman curses only those who killed him.’
Colgú was obviously still brooding on the ancient curse.
‘Are you telling me that there are no real suspects in this matter? We have until tomorrow night before the Samhain feast, and the township people are terrified. It does not matter whether this shepherd was a religieux or not … they see his ritual threefold death as having all the hallmarks of a sacrifice to the gods and goddesses. We have enough fanatics, both as adherents of the New Faith and extremists of the Old Faith, to create a dangerous situation in this kingdom. We have been Christian little more than two centuries. The Faith is held only tenuously in some places and the flames which could be ignited to drive out these new ways might quickly consume us.’
‘I would have thought that the Faith, brought to us by the Blessed Ailbe, Declan, Ciarán and Abbán, was safe enough,’ said Fidelma.
‘Safe? Why, it is not even safe from our fellow Christians!’ Colgú observed bitterly. Seeing Eadulf’s frown he added: ‘The Abbot and Bishop of Ard Magh in the northern kingdom are trying to claim jurisdiction over all the churches in the Five Kingdoms. They claim their authority from Rome, saying that there was no Christianity in the Five Kingdoms before Patrick brought the Faith from Rome and set up his first church there.’
‘Well,’ grimaced Fidelma, ‘we know just how weak that argument is. Even in their own accounts, it is written that Celestine of Campania, the Bishop of Rome, sent a Bishop Palladius to the Irish believers in Christ a year or more before Patrick. So we know there were Christians here before, and our own records show that Ailbe, Declan, Ciarán and Abbán all taught in our own kingdom before Patrick arrived in the north.’
Colgú’s mouth tightened. ‘This is not the right time for an historical argument, Fidelma. If you must debate, then an old acquaintance of yours arrived this afternoon from the Abbey of Imleach. Argue with him if you wish.’
Fidelma raised an interrogative brow.
‘Brother Mac Raith, the new rechtaire, the steward of Imleach.’ Colgú supplied the answer to the implied question.
‘Of course! He has come to take part in this curious council about heresies of the Faith.’
‘You’ll probably see him later,’ agreed her brother. ‘But let us return to the main point. It is bad enough that this woman – this raven-caller …’
‘Brancheó,’ supplied Eadulf patiently.
‘That this woman is going about spreading alarm and despondency.’
‘Do we know that she is doing exactly that?’ Fidelma demanded.
‘The very fact of the manner of her dress is enough. It is the same as trying to ignore a man’s beliefs if he comes into the town dressed as an abbot. No – I am alarmed enough.’
‘But one can dress as one wishes. No crime in that. Has she made real threats or anything approximating a real threat other than superstitious curses? Eadulf and I thought she was rather a sad woman, out of touch with reality.’
‘Threats? What about this curse – is that not a threat?’
Fidelma sighed. ‘I don’t see it as being so – unless one believes in such things.’
Colgú’s jaw tightened. He knew that his sister understood his weakness and tried to defend himself. ‘I am not interested in intellectual exchanges, Fidelma. I want the culprit or culprits involved in the death of the shepherd or whoever he was. I want all the gossip about gods and goblins and so on put out of people’s minds. There is enough to contend with in this kingdom without stoking the fires of religious fear and hatred.’
‘We can only report progress when we have some developments, brother,’ Fidelma said, rising from her chair.
‘And when will you have “some developments”?’ her brother asked pointedly.
‘Soon, I hope,’ Fidelma replied, ignoring her brother’s challenge. ‘I am now going to pay my respects to Brother Mac Raith and find out what this council is all about.’
Colgú’s shoulders dropped in an expression of resignation. ‘I’ll be glad when this Samhain is over,’ he said to himself, and was unable to suppress a shiver.
EIGHT
They left Colgú in his uncharacteristic low mood and crossed the main courtyard, turning towards the back of the chapel and the small courtyard there. Brother Conchobhar had his apothecary opposite the entrance to the quarters for accommodating visiting clerics. They were approaching the entrance when the sturdy figure of a religieux came hurrying out, so quickly that he knocked into Eadulf, who staggered and would have fallen had he not been able to reach out and steady himself against the wall. It was hard to identify the man in the dusk, for the lantern hanging in the courtyards was scarcely bright enough to illuminate him. The religieux did not stop to apologise but, to their surprise, hastened on with a muttered curse and vanished into the gloom beyond.
‘Who was that?’ Eadulf demanded, rubbing his bruised arm which had come into contact with the stone wall.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Certainly he was not a member of the chapel here. It must be one of the visiting religieux but a rude fellow by any account.’
The couple were moving towards the door again when it opened and another figure emerged. It was that of a man about average height, thin and dressed in the robes of a religieux. This time the figure halted as the lantern caught his features.
‘Brother Mac Raith!’ Eadulf was the first to recognise him.
The young steward of the Abbey of Imleach peered into the darkness and his sharp features broke into a smile that changed his whole face. They could just about distinguish his straw-coloured hair, but not his deepset blue eyes, which they knew from the past. His features loomed pale, the skin taut as if indicating that the young man did not eat well. Brother Mac Raith had been a highly regarded illustrator and cartographer before he became the steward or rechtaire at the great Abbey of Imleach.
‘We are well met, lady. I was looking for you but was told you were absent from the palace,’ he announced after he had greeted them both. He began to fumble in the leather satchel at his belt.
‘You were looking for me? That is strange. I was about to say that I was looking for you.’ Fidelma was amused.
‘Indeed? Well, my task is easy. A member of the brethren at Imleach has recently returned from a pilgrimage to the Holy City. One of the items that he brought back was a message for you from a member of the household of the Bishop of Rome. Someone called Gelasius.’
Fidelma was surprised. ‘The Venerable Gelasius? The Nomenclator of the Bishop of Rome’s household?’
Brother Mac Raith shrugged. ‘I have no knowledge of his position, lady, although I believe he is a senior member at the Holy Father’s Lateran Palace.’ He succeeded in extracting a piece of square-shaped sewn leather and handing it to her. She took it and moved to stand underneath the lantern, turning the item over in her hands with curiosity. She realised she would need a knife or scissors before she could open it and read the message, so she put it safely away in her marsupium.
‘You remember the Venerable Gelasius, Eadulf?’ she asked, turning to him. ‘When Wighard, the Archbishop designate of Canterbury, was murdered in the Lateran Palace, he was grateful for our assistance in resolving the crime.’
As Eadulf recalled, Fidelma had done far more than just assist in identifying the murderer, but he merely nodded.
‘So now,’ Fidelma turned back to Brother Mac Raith, ‘let me tell you why I was seeking you, Brother.’
‘By all means.’
‘I was wondering what the purpose was of this council that you and your comrades are holding here?’
Brother Mac Raith’s expression indicated a degree of resignation. ‘I am afraid Abbot Cuán has appointed me to be his chief spokesman on a delicate mission. We are to discuss a matter of theology as there seems to be one community which pays little respect to the jurisdiction of the Abbey of Imleach and Chief Bishop of the kingdom.’
Fidelma smiled wryly. ‘I could name you a dozen such comm
unities that are not noted for respecting Imleach,’ she responded. ‘It is in the nature of our people to be independent and not feel they have to obey rules made by others. There are enough arguments among those professing the New Faith to ever be in common accord on everything. Why, there are even enough interpretations of the Faith to make each community entirely different from its neighbours.’
Brother Mac Raith replied sorrowfully, ‘That is true. In fact, that is precisely why we are here. Each abbey in a clan territory becomes a law unto itself. But there are limitations beyond which the Chief Bishop of each of the Five Kingdoms should not allow individual communities to trespass. As well you know, Abbot Cuán has only recently become Chief Bishop and …’ He paused, embarrassed, for without the efforts of Fidelma and Eadulf in resolving the mystery of the murder of Ségdae, the previous abbot, Cuán would not have succeeded to the office. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘when he started to read the reports of the theological activities of a particular community that had been submitted to Abbot Ségdae before his death, Abbot Cuán could not understand them.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he felt that this particular community should have been suppressed many years ago when the first reports came to light about its teaching.’
‘Suppressed?’ Eadulf was astonished. ‘That is a bit extreme, isn’t it? As Fidelma says, there are plenty of communities who worship the New Faith in different ways. Trying to impose one set of beliefs on all members of the New Faith has been the purpose of many different councils over the years.’
‘And as a result, such decisions created further confusion about interpreting what beliefs we should have,’ Fidelma complained.
‘What you say is true,’ Brother Mac Raith sighed. ‘We have indeed seen the rise and fall of many ideas adopted as the principles of the Faith that have since been declared heresies by other councils. Arianism, Docetism, Nestorianism, Sabellianism …’
‘We know them well enough,’ Fidelma intervened swiftly, in case the steward was prepared to enumerate every type of movement within the New Faith that had been condemned by subsequent councils.
Night of the Lightbringer Page 12