Dancing With Demons

CHAPTER TWO

The journey to the fortress of Cashel passed swiftly. As soon as they arrived, Fidelma left Caol to take care of the horses while she made her way to the chambers that she and Eadulf shared. Muirgen, the nurse, had been alerted to her arrival and was already waiting to greet her, holding young Alchú by the hand. Fidelma paused on the threshold, her eyes anxiously on the child. A moment’s examination to ensure that he was well and then she crouched down with her arms held out. Muirgen let go of the boy’s hand and he came stumbling into his mother’s embrace. They clung together, making those strange, inarticulate sounds that only a mother and child can exchange.

Finally, Fidelma glanced up at the old nurse with a smile. ‘Has all been well, Muirgen?’

‘Yes, lady,’ the nurse replied. ‘Brother Eadulf returned yesterday and he is in good spirits.’

‘He has returned already?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘Where is he?’

‘He is with Bishop Ségdae discussing his findings at Ros Ailithir. Now — shall I prepare a bath or would you prefer refreshments first?’

Fidelma stood up and threw off her badger-fur riding cloak. ‘We halted at Ferloga’s inn to break our fast this morning, so a bath would not come amiss,’ she replied, before turning to her son. ‘Come, my little hound. We’ll sit for a while until Muirgen has prepared my bath. Your mother is dusty after such a long ride this morning.’

As Muirgen headed for the door, it opened suddenly and Eadulf came hurrying in, his face expectant.

‘I heard that-’ He stopped when he saw Fidelma and made straight for her. Wisely, Muirgen left them together, closing the door quietly behind her.

After a while, Eadulf was anxiously plying Fidelma with questions.Little Alchú had wandered to a corner to play with his toys. Fidelma assured Eadulf that her time at Lios Mhór had been a tedious one with nothing exciting about the charges brought by the plaintiffs. Eadulf told her that his trip to Ros Ailithir had been equally boring, the return journey even more so. Then his eyes fell on the staff that Fidelma had brought with her. He picked it up and examined the curious mountings.

‘This is a strange object for you to be presented with.’

‘I was not presented with it,’ said Fidelma. Briefly, she recounted the events at Ferloga’s inn. ‘I thought that I would show it to old Brother Conchobhar as he knows much about such things. As soon as I have bathed and rested, I’ll go and have a word with him.’

She showed Eadulf the other items that she had brought from Ferloga’s inn.

‘So there is no indication of the old man’s identity among his possessions? ’ asked Eadulf,

Fidelma shook her head. ‘It would be sad for him to be buried without a name, for he must have been someone of consequence to have such belongings.’

‘And the coins,’ added Eadulf, as he inspected them. ‘These coins are valuable. I wonder what manner of man he was?’

‘It is a waste of time to speculate without facts,’ Fidelma admonished, but with a mischievous smile for it was a saying of which she was particularly fond. ‘We’ll wait to hear what old Conchobhar has to say.’

It was late afternoon before Fidelma made her way down to Brother Conchobhar’s apothecary shop, tucked away in the shadow of the chapel within the fortress complex. Eadulf had been summoned back to Bishop Ségdae for further discussions and so she had gone alone.

As she entered the gloomy interior, the musky smell of the dried herbs and potions caused her to halt momentarily and catch her breath. The odours were not unpleasant but merely heavy. At the far end of the shop, bent over a table with pestle and mortar and various bowls and vessels, beneath a hanging oil lamp, was an old man in worn and stained brown robes.

He glanced up and, seeing her there, he rose from his stool, coming forward with a smile and outstretched hands to greet her. Brother Conchobhar had known Fidelma since childhood for he had served her father, the King Failbe Flann, and, indeed, other kings of Cashel before and since. For many it seemed impossible to imagine the great capital ofMuman without the aged figure of Conchobhar, the apothecary, physician and astrologer. He had taught his skills to many, including a young Fidelma who had been anxious to be proficient in as many of the arts as possible.

In spite of their long relationship, Brother Conchobhar was always punctilious in addressing her as ‘lady’, although he had nursed her through childhood ailments, had taught her and advised her. She had only once disagreed with his advice and that had been when he had suggested that she was ill-suited to life as a religieuse at the abbey of Cill Dara. In fact, old Conchobhar knew her character so well that he had disagreed with her entering the religious life at all. That she had left Cill Dara soon after entering it was never mentioned. While she was entitled to be called ‘Sister’, he reminded her that she was the daughter of a king, the sister of a king and of the line of the Eóghanacht. ‘Lady’ was the more respectful form of address in old Conchobhar’s eyes.

‘Is all well, lady?’ he asked now. ‘You and yours are not ailing and need my potions?’

Fidelma smiled pleasantly. ‘Thanks be, no, we stand in no need of cures or restoratives, my old friend. But I do stand in need of your knowledge and advice.’

‘How can I be of service, lady?’ He suddenly realised she was holding a staff in her hand and peered at it.

‘Can you identify this?’ she asked, allowing him to take it and move to the better light provided by his lantern.

He stood turning it over, examining it carefully. ‘I have not seen anything like this since I was a child,’ he observed at last. ‘It is very old and beautiful. Where did you get it?’

‘So you have seen something like it before?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘Tell me about it first.’

Brother Conchobhar shrugged. ‘It is an old staff that symbolised one of the wise teachers of the times before the New Faith was brought to this land.’

‘The Druids?’

Brother Conchobhar nodded absently. ‘The Druids — and that should be a term of respect, for the word “vid” means “knowledge” and the prefix “dru” means “an immersion”. The Druids were considered as people who were immersed in knowledge. There were none wiser nor better informed.’

Fidelma could not hide her impatience. ‘I have heard all about them and, indeed, I have met some who still claim to be so. Yet they are people who cling on to the old beliefs and ideas.’

‘This symbol speaks of a teacher of some importance. Where did you get it?’ he asked again.

Fidelma told him what had happened at Ferloga’s inn.

Brother Conchobhar was thoughtful. ‘Did he carry anything else with him? Anything other than the staff?’

Fidelma reached into the bag she carried and brought out the gorget, its polished crescent shape sparkling with its curious designs and symbols beaten onto the panel. Brother Conchobhar took it and, unexpectedly and uncharacteristically, a soft whistle broke from his lips.

‘I did not think that anything like this would have survived the zeal of those who spread the New Faith in this land. I have seen something similar only once before in my life, and it was on the body of a dead man. They said he was a great teacher, a mystic but withal a pagan. The object was taken from him by a warrior and, at the direction of a priest, was cast into the sea with the body of the man, with many prayers and cries to Christ to protect the pious.’

‘Superstition and fear is no way forward,’ Fidelma said.

‘Any faith is spread by a certain degree of fear, lady,’ the old man replied philosophically. ‘Faith is not logic otherwise it would not be Faith. In those times it came down to those whose magic was the more powerful. That is why the stories of the miracles had to be told so that people would know what power the early fathers of the Faith had over their pagan enemies. Hence the Blessed Patrick could walk into fires or the Blessed Ailbe could restore to life the son of Mac Dara after he had drowned in the river. Look how it is told that Patrick smashed the skull of the Druid Lochru on a rock, using, as we are told, his magical powers to do so. This was to demonstrate that his magic was more powerful than their magic. In fear, they turned to the Faith that he brought as being more advantageous to their well-being. This fear spreads the Faith.’

Fidelma was slightly disapproving of the argument but she knew the stories well enough. For herself, she did not believe in miracles of any sort.

‘So this is a symbol of the old beliefs?’ she said quickly as she saw the old man about to extend his argument.

‘It may well be the only surviving symbol of a great Druid.’ Brother Conchobhar nodded slowly.

‘You think the old man who died in Ferloga’s inn was such an important member of the Old Faith?’

‘It is impossible to say with certainty, but it is rare to come upon suchaccoutrements. Do you know anything else about him? Was it known where he came from or where he was going?’

‘Apparently, he was from the north. He asked Ferloga the innkeeper, what road he should take for Cnánmhchailli. But there are no dwellings around there. It is an empty and desolate place.’

Brother Conchobhar’s eyes had widened. ‘Except for the ancient pillar stone,’ he pointed out.

‘So Ferloga said,’ Fidelma grimaced. ‘Why go to an old, decaying pillar stone? I have passed it a hundred times. It is of no significance.’

‘To you, perhaps. But if this man were truly one of those who clung to the pagan ways, then it might make sense that he would be going there.’

‘How so?’

Brother Conchobhar leaned forward, confidentially. ‘Have you heard of the legends of Mug Ruith?’

‘The sun god of the pagans?’

‘Yes. He became known as mac seanfhesa, the son of ancient wisdom, chief of all the Druids in the five kingdoms. He rode a great chariot, which at night shone as bright as daylight. In the days before the Blessed Ailbe of Imleach brought the teachings of Christ to this corner of the world, it was said that the pillar stone was a fragment of the wheel of Mug Ruith’s great chariot that had become petrified.’

When Fidelma smiled cynically, Brother Conchobhar told her: ‘It is not wise to dismiss other beliefs without understanding them. Among those who cling to the Old Faith it is said that Mug Ruith is their great champion against Christianity and that his Roth Fáil, his wheel of light, will one day be an engine of destruction that will sweep the teachings of Christ out of the five kingdoms; that we will once again encompass the old way. I believe that many of the Old Faith still search in the hope of finding the Roth Fáil.’

‘An old pillar stone is hardly the Roth Fáil.’ Fidelma was dismissive.

‘The Druids spoke in symbols. Who knows what they meant? Tell me, did this man carry anything else with him?’

Fidelma brought forth the bag of coins. ‘He carried these.’

Brother Conchobhar emptied the coins on his table and peered at them. ‘Roman coins?’ he asked.

‘Look closer. They are ancient coins of the type the Britons and Gauls used to cast before the coming of the Romans, centuries before the birth of Christ. I have seen them before in my journeys. And here are also somemarked with the name of Tasciovanus, who ruled in Britain two generations before the Romans invaded. Do you see the letters CAM on this gold stater? That signified his capital of Camulodunum. Not one of these coins is later than the time that Rome moved into these territories. They are the most ancient coins of our western world.’

‘Why would this old man be carrying such coins with him?’ frowned the apothecary as he sifted through the coins. ‘This is proof of wealth indeed.’

‘I was hoping that you would have some arcane knowledge that might explain it,’ Fidelma told him.

‘Alas, lady, I have not.’

‘Well, I will leave these items with you, my friend, in case you can discover anything else. If the old man was one of those ancient ones, a man who does not recognise the New Faith, it would be interesting to know what he intended. Do you really think he was searching for the Roth Fáil?’

Brother Conchobhar glanced at her with a worried expression. ‘Perhaps. And there might be something else.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have heard that there is a new and growing activity from those who adhere to the Old Faith.’

‘Growing activity?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘I haven’t heard this.’ Brother Conchobhar inclined his head seriously. ‘Some travellers from Inis Celtra in the Red Lake told me that they had heard stories.’

‘That is the school which the Blessed Caiman set up. I well remember him from when I was a child. A kindly old man who died when I was away at Brehon Moran’s school.’

‘Indeed. The travellers from Inis Celtra said that they had been hearing stories from some of the remoter regions of Connacht that Christian pilgrims have been attacked by bands who proclaim themselves to be of the Old Faith and who carry a totem with a wolf’s head affixed to it.’

‘A wolf’s head?’

‘Yes. In the old days, among Corco Baiscinn, the people who dwell near the Red Lake, there was a band of those who followed the old religion and they called themselves the Fellowship of the Wolf.’

‘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 itstrange 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 dateto 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 …’