Hemlock at Vespers

INIVITATION TO A POISONINIG

The meal had been eaten in an atmosphere of forced politeness. There was a strained, chilly mood among the diners. There were seven guests at the table of Nechtan, chieftain of the Múscraige. Sister Fidelma had noticed the unlucky number immediately when she had been ushered into the feasting hall for she had been the last to arrive and take her seat, having been delayed by the lure of a hot bath before the meal. She had inwardly groaned as she registered that seven guests plus Nechtan himself made the unfavorable number of eight seated at the circular table. Almost at once she had silently chided herself for clinging to old superstitions. Nevertheless she conceded that an oppressive atmosphere permeated the hall.

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 not 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 was 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.

She gazed up at the physician.

“Poison, you say?” She did not really need such confirmation.

He nodded quickly.

She drew herself up and gazed round at the disconcerted faces of her fellow guests. Bewildered though they were, not one did she see there whose face reflected grief or anguish for the death of the chieftain of the Múscraige.

Everyone had risen uncertainly to their feet now, not knowing what to do.

It was Fidelma who spoke first in her quiet, firm tone.

“As an advocate of the court, I will take charge here. A crime has been committed. Each one in this room has a motive to kill Nechtan.”

“Including yourself,” pointed out young Dathó immediately. “I object to being questioned by one who might well be the culprit. How do we know that you did not poison his cup?”

Fidelma raised her eyebrows in surprise at the young man’s accusation. Then she considered it slowly for a moment before nodding in acceptance of the logic.

“You are quite right, Dathó. I also had a motive. And until we can discover how the poison came to be in this cup, I cannot prove that I did not have the means. Neither, for that matter, can anyone else in this room. For over an hour we have been at this table, each having a clear sight of one another, each drinking the same wine. We should be able to reason out how Nechtan was poisoned.”

Marbán was nodding rapidly in agreement.

“I agree. We should heed Sister Fidelma. I am now chieftain of the Múscraige. So I say we should let Fidelma sort this matter out.”

“You are chieftain unless it can be proved that you killed Nech-tan,” interrupted Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra with scorn. “After all, you were seated next to him. You had motive and opportunity.”

Marbán retorted angrily: ‘I am now chieftain until the assembly says otherwise. And I say that Sister Fidelma also has authority until the assembly says otherwise. I suggest that we resume our places at the table and allow Fidelma to discover by what means Nechtan was poisoned.”

“I disagree,” snapped Dathó. “If she is the guilty one then she may well attempt to lay the blame on one of us.”

“Why blame anyone? Nechtan deserved to die!” It was Ess, the former wife of the dead chieftain, who spoke sharply. “Nechtan deserved to die,” she repeated emphatically. “He deserved to die a thousand times over. No one in this room would more gladly see him dispatched to the Otherworld than I. And I would joyfully accept responsibility for the deed if I had done it. Little blame to whoever did this deed. They have rid the world of a vermin, a parasite who has caused much suffering and anguish. We, in this room, should be their witnesses that no crime was committed here, only natural justice. Let the one who did this deed admit to it and we will all support their cause.”

They all stared cautiously at one another. Certainly none appeared to disagree with Ess’s emotional plea but none appeared willing to confess to the deed.

Fidelma pursed her lips as she considered the matter under law.

“In such a case, we would all need to testify to the wrongs enacted by Nechtan. Then the guilty one would go free simply on the payment of Nechtan’s honor price to his family. That would be the sum of fourteen cumal…”

Ess’s son, Dathó, interrupted with a bitter laugh.

“Perhaps some among us do not have a herd of forty-two milk cows to pay in compensation. What then? If compensation is not paid, the law exacts other punishment from the guilty.”

Marbán now smiled expansively.

“I would provide that much compensation merely to be rid of Nechtan,” he confessed without embarrassment. With Nechtan’s death, Fidelma noticed, the usually taciturn warrior was suddenly more decisive in manner.

“Then,” Cuill, the young artist who had so far been silent, leant forward eagerly, “then whoever did this deed, let them speak and admit it, and let us all contribute to exonerating them. I agree with Ess-Nechtan was an evil man who deserved to die.”

There was a silence while they examined each other’s faces, waiting for someone to admit their guilt.

“Well?” demanded Daolgar, impatiently, after a while. “Come forward whoever did this and let us resolve the matter and be away from this place.”

No one spoke.

It was Fidelma who broke the silence with a low sigh.

“Since no one will admit this deed…”

She did not finish for Marbán interrupted again.

“Better it was admitted.” His voice was almost cajoling. “Whoever it was, my offer to stand behind them holds. Indeed, I will pay the entire compensation fee.”

Sister Fidelma saw Ess compressing her lips; her hand slid to the bulge on her thigh, her slender fingers wrapping themselves around the curiously shaped lump which reposed in her pocket. She had began to open her mouth to speak when her son, Dathó, thrust forward.

“Very well,” he said harshly. “I will admit to the deed. I killed Nechtan, my father. I had more cause to hate him than any of you.”

There was a loud gasp of astonishment. It was from Ess. She was staring in surprise at her son. Fidelma saw that the others around the table had relaxed at his confession and seemed relieved.

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she gazed directly into the face of the young man.

“Tell me how you gave him the poison?” she invited in a conversational voice.

The young man frowned in bewilderment.

“What matters? I admit the deed.”

“Admission must be supported by evidence,” Fidelma countered softly. “Let us know how you did this.”

Dathó shrugged indifferently.

“I put poison into his cup of wine.”

“What type of poison?”

Dathó blinked rapidly. He hesitated a moment.

“Speak up!” prompted Pidelma irritably.

“Why… hemlock, of course.”

Sister Fidelma shifted her gaze to Ess. The woman’s eyes had not left her son since his confession. She had been staring at him with a strained, whitened face.

“And is that a vial of hemlock which you have in your thigh pocket, Ess?” Fidelma snapped.

Ess gave a gasp and her hand went immediately to her pocket. She hesitated and then shrugged as if in surrender.

“What use in denying it?” she asked. “How did you know I had the vial of hemlock?”

Dathó almost shouted: “No. I asked her to hide it after I had done the deed. It has nothing to do-”

Fidelma raised a hand and motioned him to silence.

“Let me see it,” she pressed.

Ess took a small glass vial from her pocket and placed it on the table. Fidelma reached forward and picked it up. She took out the stopper and sniffed gently at the receptacle.

“Indeed, it is hemlock,” she confirmed. “But the bottle is full.”

“My mother did not do this!” cried Dathó angrily. “I did! I admit as much! The guilt is mine!”

Fidelma shook her head sadly at him.

“Sit down, Dathó. You are seeking to take the blame on yourself because your mother had a vial of hemlock on her person and you suspect that she killed your father. Is this not so?”

Dathó’s face drained of color and his shoulders dropped as he slumped back into his seat.

“Your fidelity is laudable,” went on Fidelma compassionately. “However, I do not think that your mother, Ess, is the murderess. Especially since the vial is still full.”

Ess was staring blankly at Fidelma. Fidelma responded with a gentle smile.

“I believe that you came here tonight with the intention of trying to poison your former husband as a matter of vengeance. Dathó saw that you had the vial which you were attempting to hide after the deed was done. I saw the two of you arguing over it. However, you had no opportunity to place the hemlock in Nechtan’s goblet. Importantly, it was not hemlock that killed him.”

She turned, almost sharply. “Isn’t that so, Gerróc?”

The elderly physician started and glanced quickly at her before answering.

“Hemlock, however strong the dose, does not act instantaneously,” he agreed pedantically. “This poison was more virulent than hemlock.” He pointed to the goblet. “You have already noticed the little crystalline deposits, Sister? It is realgar, what is called the ‘powder of the caves,’ used by those creating works of art as a colorant but, taken internally, it is a quick-acting poison.”

Fidelma nodded slowly as if he were simply conftrming what she knew already and then she turned her gaze back to those around the table. However, their eyes were focused on the young artist, Cuill.

Cuill’s face was suddenly white and pinched.

“I hated him but I would never take a life,” he stammered. “I uphold the old ways, the sanctity of life, however evil it is.”

“Yet this poison is used as a tool by artists like yourself,” Mar-ban pointed out. “Who among us would know this other than Ger-róc and yourself? Why deny it if you did kill him? Have we not said that we would support one another in this? I have already promised to pay the compensation on behalf of the person who did the deed.”

“What opportunity had I to put it in Nechtan’s goblet?” demanded Cuill. “You had as much opportunity as I had.”

Fidelma raised a hand to quell the sudden hubbub of accusation and counter-accusation.

“Cuill has put his finger on the all-important question,” she said calmly but firmly enough to silence them. They had all risen again and so she instructed: “Be seated.”

Slowly, almost unwillingly, they obeyed.

Fidelma stood at the spot in which Nechtan had sat.

“Let us consider the facts,” she began. “The poison was in the wine goblet. Therefore, it is natural enough to assume that it was in the wine. The wine is contained in that pitcher there.”

She pointed to where the attendant had left the wine pitcher on a side table.

“Marbán, call in the attendant, for it was he who filled Nechtan’s goblet.”

Marbán did so.

The attendant was a young man named Ciar, a dark-haired and nervous young man. He seemed to have great trouble in speaking when he saw what had happened in the room and he kept clearing his throat nervously.

“You served the wine this evening, didn’t you, Ciar?” demanded Fidelma.

The young man nodded briefly. “You all saw me do so,” he confirmed, pointing out the obvious.

“Where did the wine come from? Was it a special wine?”

“No. It was bought a week ago from a Gaulish merchant.”

“And did Nechtan drink the same wine as was served to his guests?”

“Yes. Everyone drank the same wine.”

“From the same pitcher?”

“Yes. Everyone had wine from the same pitcher during the evening,” Ciar confirmed. “Nechtan was the last to ask for more wine from the pitcher and I noticed that it was nearly empty after I filled his goblet. I asked him if I should refill it but he sent me away.”

Marbán pursed his lips, reflectively.

“This is true, Fidelma. We were all a witness to that.”

“But Nechtan was not the last to drink wine from that pitcher,” replied Fidelma. “It was Cuill.”

Daolgar exclaimed and turned to Cuill.

“Fidelma is right. After Ciar filled Nechtan’s goblet and left, and while Nechtan was talking to Dathó, Cuill rose from his seat and walked around Nechtan to fill his goblet from the pitcher of wine. We were all concentrating on what Nechtan had to say; no one would have noticed if Cuill had slipped the poison into Nechtan’s goblet. Cuill not only had the motive, but the means and the opportunity.”

Cuill flushed. “It is a lie!” he responded.

But Marbán was nodding eagerly in agreement.

“We have heard that this poison is of the same material as used by artists for coloring their works. Isn’t Cuill an artist? And he hated Nechtan for running off with his wife. Isn’t that motive enough?”

“There is one flaw to the argument,” Sister Fidelma said quickly.

“Which is?” demanded Dathó.

“I was watching Nechtan as he made his curious speech asking forgiveness. But I observed Cuill pass behind Nechtan and he did not interfere with Nechtan’s goblet. He merely helped himself to what remained of the wine from the pitcher, which he then drank, thus cormrming, incidentally, that the poison was placed in Nechtan’s goblet and not the wine.”

Marbán was looking at her without conviction.

“Give me the pitcher and a new goblet,” instructed Fidelma, irritably.

When it was done she poured the dregs which remained in the bottom of the pitcher into the goblet and considered them a moment before dipping her finger in them and gently touching her finger with her tongue.

She smiled complacently at the company.

“As I have said, the poison is not in the wine,” she reiterated. “The poison was placed in the goblet itself.”

“Then how was it placed there?” demanded Gerróc in exasperation.

In the silence that followed, Fidelma turned to the attendant. “I do not think that we need trouble you further, Ciar, but wait outside. We will have need of you later. Do not mention anything of this matter to anyone yet. Is that understood?”

Ciar cleared his throat noisily.

“Yes, Sister.” He hesitated. “But what of the Brehon Olcán? He has just arrived. Should I not inform him?”

Fidelma frowned.

“Who is this judge?”

Marbán touched her sleeve.

“Olcán is a friend of Nechtan’s, a chief judge of the Múscraige. Perhaps we should invite him in? After all, it is his right to judge this matter.”

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.

“Was he invited here this night?” she demanded.

It was Ciar who answered her question.

“Only after the meal began. Nechtan requested me to have a messenger sent to Olcán. The message was to ask the judge to come here.”

Fidelma thought rapidly and then said: “Have him wait then but he is not to be told what has happened here until I say so.”

After Ciar had left she turned back to the expectant faces of her erstwhile meal guests.

“So we have learnt that the poison was not in the wine but in the goblet. This narrows the field of our suspects.”

Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“Simply that if the poison was placed in the goblet then it had to be placed there after the time that Nechtan drained one goblet of wine and when he called Ciar to refill his goblet. The poison had to be placed there after the goblet was refilled.”

Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra leant back in his chair and suddenly laughed hollowly.

“Then I have the solution. There are only two others in this room who had the opportunity to place the poison in Nechtan’s goblet,” he said smugly.

“And those are?” Fidelma prompted.

“Why, either Marbán or Gerróc. They were seated on either side of Nechtan. Easy for them to slip the poison into the goblet which stood before them while we were concentrating on what he had to say.”

Marbán had flushed angrily but it was the elderly physician, Gerróc, who suffered the strongest reaction.

“I can prove that it was not I!” he almost sobbed, his voice breaking almost pathetically in indignation.

Fidelma turned to regard him in curiosity.

“You can?”

“Yes, yes. You have said that we all had a reason to hate Nechtan and that implies that we would all therefore wish him dead. That gives every one of us a motive for his murder.”

“That is so,” agreed Fidelma.

“Well, I alone of all of you knew that it was a waste of time to kill Nechtan.”

There was a pause before Fidelma asked patiently: “Why would it be a waste of time, Gerróc?”

“Why kill a man who was already dying?”

“Already dying?” prompted Fldelma after the exclamations of surprise had died away.

“I was physician to Nechtan. It was true that I hated him. He cheated me of my fees but, nevertheless, as a physician here, I lived well. I did not complain. I am advancing in years now. I was not going to imperil my security by accusing my chieftain of wrongdoing. However, a month ago, Nechtan started to have terrible headaches, and once or twice the pain was so unbearable that I had to strap him to his bed. I examined him and found a growth at the back of the skull. It was a malignant tumor for within a week I could chart its expansion. If you do not believe me, you may examine him for yourselves. The tumor is easy to discern behind his left ear.”

Fidelma bent over the chief and examined the swelling behind the ear with repugnance.

“The swelling is there,” she confirmed.

“So, what are you saying, Gerróc?” Marbán demanded, seeking to bring the old physician to a logical conclusion.

“I am saying that a few days ago I had to tell Nechtan that it was unlikely he would see another new moon. He was going to die anyway. The growth of the tumor was continuing and causing him increased agony. I knew he was going to die soon. Why need I kill him? God had already chosen the time and method.”

Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra turned to Marbán with grim satisfaction on his face.

“Then it leaves only you, Tanist of the Múscraige. You clearly did not know that your chieftain was dying and so you had both the motive and the opportunity.”

Marbán had sprung to his feet, his hand at his waist where his sword would have hung had they not been in the feasting hall. It was a law that no weapons were ever carried into a feasting hall.

“You will apologize for that, chieftain of Sliabh Luachra!”

Cuill, however, was nodding rapidly in agreement with Daol-gar’s logic.

“You were very quick to offer your newfound wealth as chieftain to pay the compensation should anyone else confess. Had they done so, it would have solved a problem, wouldn’t it? You would emerge from this without a blemish. You would be confirmed as chieftain of the Múscraige. However, if you were guilty of causing Nechtan’s death then you would immediately be deposed from holding any office. That is why you were so eager to put the blame on to me.”

Marbán stood glowering at the assembly. It was clear that he now stood condemned in the eyes of them all. An angry muttering had arisen as they confronted him.

Sister Fidelma raised both her hands to implore silence.

“Let us not quarrel when there is no need. Marbán did not kill Nechtan.”

There was a brief moment of surprised silence.

“Then who did?” demanded Dathó angrily. “You seem to be playing cat and mouse with us, Sister. If you know so much, tell us who killed Nechtan.”

“Everyone at this table will concede that Nechtan was an evil, self-willed man who was at war with life. As much as we all had reason to hate him, he hated everyone around him with equal vehemence.”

“But who killed him?” repeated Daolgar.

Sister Fidelma grimaced sorrowfully.

“Why, he killed himself.”

The shock and disbelief registered on everyone’s faces.

“I had begun to suspect,” went on Fidelma, “but I could find no logical reason to support my suspicion until Gerróc gave it to me just now.”

“Explain, Sister,” demanded Marbán wearily, “for I cannot follow the same logic.”

“As I have said, as much as we hated Nechtan, Nechtan hated us. When he learnt that he was to die anyway, he decided that he would have one more great revenge on those people he disliked the most. He preferred to go quickly to the Otherworld than to die the lingering death which Gerróc doubtless had described to him. If it takes a brave man to set the boundaries to his own life, then Nechtan was brave enough. He chose a quick-acting poison, realgar, delighting in the fact that it was a substance that Cuill, the husband of his current mistress, often used.

“He devised a plan to invite us all here for a last meal, playing on our curiosity or our egos by saying that he wanted to make public reparation and apology for those wrongs that he had done to us. He planned the whole thing. He then recited his wrongdoing against us, not to seek forgiveness, but to ensure that we all knew that each had cause to hate him and seek his destruction. He wanted to plant seeds of suspicion in all our minds. He made his recitation of wrongdoing sound more like a boast than an apology. A boast and a warning.”

Ess was in agreement.

“I thought his last words were strange at the time,” she said, “but now they make sense.”

“They do so now,” Fidelma endorsed.

“What were the words again?” queried Daolgar.

“Nechtan said: “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 … I drink to you all… and then you may have joy of your law.”

It was Fidelma who was able to repeat the exact words.

“It certainly does not sound like an apology,” admitted Marbán. “What did he mean?”

It was Ess who answered.

“I see it all now. Do you not understand how evil this man was? He wanted one or all of us to be blamed for his death. That was his final act of spite and hatred against us.”

“But how?” asked Gerróc, confused. “I confess, I am at a loss to understand.”

“Knowing that he was dying, that he had only a few days or weeks at most, he set his own limits to his lifespan,” Fidelma explained patiently. “He was an evil, spiteful man, as Ess acknowledges. He invited us to this meal, knowing that, at its close, he would take poison. As the meal started, he asked Ciar, the attendant, to send for his own judge, Brehon Olcán, hoping that Olcán would find us in a state of confusion, each suspecting the other, and come to a wrong decision that one or all of us were concerned in his murder. Nechtan killed himself in the hope that we would be found culpable of his death. While he was talking to us he secreted the poison in his own goblet.”

Fidelma looked around the grim faces at the table. Her smile was strained.

“I think we can now speak with the Brehon Olcán and sort this matter out.”

She turned toward the door, paused and looked back at those in the room.

“I have encountered much wrongdoing in this world, some of it born of evil, some born of desperation. But I have to say that I have never truly encountered such malignancy as dwelt in the spirit of Nechtan, sometime chieftain of the Múscraige.”

It was the following morning as Fidelma was riding in the direction of Cashel that she encountered the old physician, Gerróc, at a crossroads below the fortress of Nechtan.

“Whither away, Gerróc?” she greeted with a smile.

“I am going to the monastery of Imleach,” replied the old man gravely. “I shall make confession and seek sanctuary for the rest of my days.”

Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully.

“I would not confess too much,” she said enigmatically.

The old physician gazed at her with a frown.

“You know?” he asked sharply.

“I know a boil which can be lanced from a tumor,” she replied.

The old man sighed softly.

“At first I only meant to put fear into Nechtan. To make him suffer a torment of the mind for a few weeks before I lanced his boil or it burst of its own accord. Boils against the back of the ear can be painful. He believed me when I pretended it was a tumor and he had not long to live. I did not know the extent of his evil mind nor that he would kill himself to spite us all.”

Fidelma nodded slowly.

“His blood is still on his own hands,” she said, seeing the old man’s troubled face.

“But the law is the law. I should make confession.”

“Sometimes justice takes precedence over the law,” Fidelma replied cheerfully. “Nechtan suffered justice. Forget the law, Ger-róc, and may God give you peace in your declining years.”

She raised a hand, almost in blessing, turned her horse and continued on her way toward Cashel.