Whispers of the Dead

by Peter Tremayne

  Fidelma stared at Declan’s animated features for a moment as he finished his vehement declaration.

  “So you also have a vote in the derbfine?”

  He shrugged and suddenly smiled.

  “I beg your pardon, Fidelma. In expressing my prejudice I over-step the bounds of my calling, which is to be at my chief’s side and see that the proper forms are observed for the meeting of the derbfine of the chief, the electoral college to proclaim who is next heir-apparent. I am technically of the derbfine but, as Brehon, I shall abstain in the vote.”

  “Well, we cannot help being human, Declan. We cannot pretend that we do not have feelings. What is important is that we, as members of the legal profession, must subordinate our feelings so that the law is followed and the views of the derbfine are made plain and carried through.”

  Declan inclined his head.

  “Have no fear on that score. But I am sure that Augaire and his mother are up to something. And then there is Selbach.”

  Fidelma paused for a moment or two and then prompted: “Who is Selbach?”

  “My uncle. He is Cúan’s own younger brother but has disapproved of his brother for many years. He so disapproved of some of Cúan’s methods that he took ship ten years ago and went to rule the Uí Liatháin community that lives across the seas in the kingdom of Kernow. Now he has returned with the expectation that his supporters will name him as heir-apparent. He has made a fortune abroad and now struts about like a turkey-cock, all dressed up in those clothes rich and fashionable Britons wear with their newfangled Roman style pockets.”

  Fidelma’s eyes widened slightly at his ardor.

  “You say that he has expectations that his supporters will name him heir-apparent. How valid are such expectations?”

  “There are some cousins who would support him. Probably only a small group. But the majority are for Talamnach. But the trouble that will arise at the meeting, and the trouble that I fear, is the plotting and planning.”

  “You would say that Talamnach is a good choice as heir-apparent?”

  “Undoubtedly. He has all the qualities. He has even studied law . . .”

  “If that is a recommendation,” smiled Fidelma mischievously.

  Declan was serious.

  “He is temperate in all things. A good judge. A good negotiator and, above all, he keeps the interests of all the people in mind, not just certain influential sections of the people.”

  “He sounds a paragon,” observed Fidelma dryly.

  They had reached the great hall of Cúan and people, recognizing Declan in the glow from the torches that lit the entrance, began to greet him and Fidelma. They were all relatives of Cúan the chief, and formed the derbfine who were to elect from their number the heir-apparent to the chieftainship who would take over when Cúan resigned or died in office. Chiefs, provincial kings and even the high king might die after a lifetime in office. Many times, however, they simply retired. Sometimes, when they had not promoted the commonwealth of their people, the same derbfine who elected them to office would meet and strip them of their rank and confirm the heir-apparent as new chief, king or high king.

  Declan had guided her to a seat among the rows of witnesses. These were the religious, lawyers and historians who were not part of the derbfine but who were the observers of the event and bore witness to the legality of its proceedings. Declan left her, as he had to see about the preparations, exiting the hall through a side door.

  The great hall, lit by flickering torches and lamps, smoky and hot, seemed packed. There were at least three generations of Cúan’s family there, predominantly the male members. There were several women there, it was true, and prominent among them, seated to one side, was a tall, austere woman, with a sharp face and dark eyes. Fidelma had already met Berrach, who had come from the neighboring clan of the Déices. She was attending out of courtesy, but not because she had any public voice in the election of an heir to her husband, for a woman belonged to the derbfine of her father and not of her husband.

  It was rare that a woman was elected to chieftainship or king-ship. This was not because women were excluded from office because the law gave equal status to women. In fact, only one woman had ever become High “King” of the five kingdoms of Éireann. Fidelma learnt this from the ancient king lists. But there were several tribes who not only elected women as chieftains but as military leaders. The female heir-apparent, the banchomarba, appeared usually when there was no acceptable male heir. Because the social system was based on the clan, female succession might lead to the alienation of the title and lands of the clan by marriage with people from another clan.

  Fidelma knew that the Cáin Lánamna law text stipulated that the inheritance of a title or office, and especially inheritance of land, could only be used for the life of the female and then it had to revert to her father’s family. Any movable property could go to her husband and children even if outside the clan but land had to remain within the clan. This was so that the clan could protect its chieftain-ship and its territory. A female chief or king could not, therefore, nominate one of her own children as heir-apparent to her title as it had to remain with her father’s derbfine. It was not so long ago, Fidelma recalled, that the Brehon, Sencha mac Ailella, had given a wrongful judgment on female rights regarding this very matter and a female Brehon, Brígh Briugaid, had, on appeal, corrected it.

  Fidelma suddenly awoke from her reverie to find that Declan had entered the hall and made his way across to where a group of the more elderly of the derbfine was seated. He looked serious and paused before one man, who stood up to speak with him face-to-face. Even at the angle from which she was observing, Fidelma could see that he was remarkably like Cúan, except that he was younger and bore deep lines on his face and had a weather-beaten took. The exchange, which Fidelma could not hear, appeared to be curt and hardly one of friendship. Declan then turned, and seemed to trip and stumble, colliding with the man. He caught himself and obviously apologized, without enthusiasm, before leaving the hall again.

  A moment later Declan reappeared, leading into the hall Cúan, the chief of the Uí Liatháin. The stocky, red-bearded chieftain took his seat. At his right-hand side sat the handsome young man she knew to be Talamnach, smiling and looking confident. An attendant, following them, brought in two mugs of mead and placed them on a table standing between the chief and his nominee. Fidelma glanced to where Berrach was sitting. The woman was scowling but staring straight ahead. Nearby she noticed Berrach’s son Augaire was sprawled in his seat. He was about nineteen and Fidelma could see how Declan’s description of him as a weak, indolent youth seemed apt. He seemed totally uninterested in the proceedings.

  Declan, as Cúan’s Brehon and advisor, had taken his place, standing at the chief’s side, and began to call for order.

  “The matter that brings us here today is a simple one. It is to elect the heir-apparent to Cúan, chief of the Uí Liatháin.” He turned to Cúan. “Is there a nominee?”

  The chief rose from his seat.

  “I nominate, as my successor, Talamnach,” he announced and re-seated himself.

  “Does Talamnach accept this nomination?”

  The young man rose and smiled.

  “I do.”

  “Is there any here that will speak out against Talamnach?” intoned Declan in formal manner, still following the ancient ritual.

  “There is!”

  All eyes turned to the elderly man who had risen in the hall. Fidelma realized it was the man seated next to the one whom Declan had spoken to earlier. Fidelma suppressed a smile. Declan had obviously been making sure that there were no surprises by ensuring that he had foreknowledge of them. He had always been like that, even at the college run by the Brehon Morann where they had both studied for eight years. Indeed, some fellow students had whispered that Declan was too fond of making sure he knew the answers before the questions were asked. She shook her head and turned to listen to the man who had risen.

  “I am Illa
n of Cluain Mult, cousin to Cúan and to his brother Bressal—father of Talamnach—and to their brother Selbach. I claim, as member of the first generation of this derbfine the right of challenge.”

  There was no surprise expressed by either Cúan or Talamnach, who continued smiling though somewhat fixed in expression. Nor was there any consternation among those gathered. It was clear that this was the “trouble” that Brehon Declan had prophesied and which everyone was expecting.

  “State your challenge, Illan of Cluain Mult,” intoned Declan in almost a monotone.

  “My challenge is that there is one among us who is more fitted to be the heir-apparent, one who is filled with wisdom, who has traveled beyond our borders and seen the ways of other peoples. He has returned from his self-imposed exile among those of our people who migrated in recent centuries to the land called Kernow, settling there as our cousins, the Déices, did when they sailed to the kingdom of Dyfed. He brings temperance, knowledge and wisdom.”

  “And his name?”

  “His name is well known among us for it is my cousin, brother to Cúan—the man I nominate is Selbach. He sits at my side.”

  “Stand, Selbach, and say if you accept the nomination.”

  The elderly man Declan had earlier spoken to now stood.

  “I do.”

  Brehon Declan stood for a moment looking at the silent audience in the hall.

  “Are there any other challenges or nominations?”

  Fidelma saw that he was glancing toward the group surrounding Augaire. They were young men, arrogant, and whose glances showed that they were taking their cue from Augaire. Fidelma saw Augaire frown at his companions and shake his head quickly.

  “If none,” went on Declan,“than we must proceed with the debate on the rival nominees.”

  There was a silence.

  “It behooves each nominee to make statements on their merits and attitudes for being considered,” Declan announced. “We must start with the first nominee, Talamnach, for he has been chosen by Cúan, our chief.”

  Talamnach rose slowly. He still wore his smile of confidence.

  “You all know me and must judge of yourselves what my merits are. You know that they satisfy our great chief, Cúan. The test of a great leader, as Cúan undoubtedly is, is that he leaves behind him an heir who has the determination and ability to continue his achievements. I believe that I am such an heir. Cúan commanded wisely and was, therefore, obeyed cheerfully. He had no need to lead but was content to point the way—and in that fact lay the greatness of his leadership. But he always accepted the responsibility in all things—he would say ‘I am in error’; he would never say ‘my followers were in error’—that, again, is the mark of great leadership . . .”

  Fidelma listened to the young man with a certain degree of admiration for his oratory for not once had he, so far, sung his own praises as to his ability. Yet in praising the ability of the man who had nominated him, Talamnach was winning the hearts and minds of the derbfine.

  “I have watched Cúan deal with many difficult problems. That is the responsibility of being a chief for only difficult problems are laid before the chief. If problems were easy to resolve then someone else would have already resolved them.”

  Talamnach paused to cough, as it was clear his throat had become dry from the acrid atmosphere put out by the burning-brand torches that lit the great hall.

  He turned to pick up one of the small mugs of mead and sipped it before turning back to the derbfine.

  “I say this, that I would . . . I would . . .” He paused and coughed again. His smile became a frown and then an expression of agony. He took a sudden step forward, hand outstretched and, then, with a croaking sound in his throat, he pitched headlong onto the floor.

  Consternation arose suddenly among the people. Most were on their feet, shouting and moving about in agitation.

  Fidelma rose, too, hearing Declan calling for an apothecary. She began to push her way through the crowd, finally emerging to see Declan and another man bending over Talamnach. The second man was shaking his head. Declan glanced up and saw Fidelma and gave an angry grimace.

  “He is dead,” he said angrily. “Did I not warn that there would be trouble?”

  Fidelma pushed her way to the pottery mug, which Talamnach had just drunk from, and placed a fingertip in it; holding it to her nose, she sniffed. Then she repeated this action with the mug nearer to Cúan.

  She turned swiftly back to Declan.

  “No one must drink from these mugs. It is Tre luib eccineol,” she said sharply. “I recognize its odor. He has been poisoned.”

  Declan was looking shocked.

  “Are you sure?” he demanded. Tre luib eccineol was a deadly herb. It was said that the herb being introduced in his food had murdered the satirist Cridenbél. The look that she gave him was enough for him not to question her further.

  “Everyone, everyone return to your seats. No one is to leave the hall,” Declan was shouting. Warriors were called from outside the hall to stand guard at the doors and while people were still milling around looking bewildered, Declan had ordered the attendant who had brought in the mead to be seized and escorted back to the hall.

  Cúan was seated in his chair, looking stunned. Fidelma glanced quickly ’round. The crowd around Selbach was huddled together and talking animatedly among themselves. Augaire was sprawled in his seat, now wearing a supercilious smile as if something amusing had happened, although his companions looked shocked and nervous. Only Berrach, the wife of Cúan, had not changed her expression, which was one of total detachment and disinterest.

  Declan stepped forward, hand raised to still the muttering of the derbfine.

  The body of Talamnach lay sprawled before him.

  “Talamnach has been poisoned, murdered before our eyes,” he announced. “If we need look for a motive, we should remind ourselves as to why we are gathered here.”

  Several people now turned their suspicious gaze toward Selbach.

  The man rose from his seat.

  “I object!”

  “To what do you object, Selbach?” inquired Declan blandly.

  “Why . . . why, to your inference!” spluttered the man indignantly.

  “I have inferred nothing. I have indicated a motive, that is all. I have sent for the attendant who brought in the mead that has been poisoned. It is fortunate that we have among us Sister Fidelma, Fidelma of Cashel, who most of you know by reputation as a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts. That she is sister to our king, Colgú, makes her well placed to sit in judgment on the Uí Liatháin. I will ask her to assist me in resolving this crime.”

  He glanced toward Fidelma as if seeking her permission and she hesitated only for a moment before acknowledging her acceptance.

  “Is the attendant who brought in this poison apprehended?” demanded Declan from one of the warriors.

  “He is,” the man said.

  “Bring him forth.”

  The attendant was an elderly man, white-haired, and as he was pushed, none too gently, before the assembly, he looked understandably bewildered and frightened. He seemed to be shivering in fright.

  “Well, Muirecán, things look bad for you,” Declan declared, his tone threatening.

  Fidelma frowned in disapproval. It was not the way she would examine a suspect. She moved forward and touched Declan’s arm gently.

  “As you have invited me to assist you, perhaps I might question this man?”

  Declan glanced at her in surprise and then shrugged.

  “By all means.”

  Fidelma turned on the aged servant and smiled reassuringly.

  “Your name is Muirecán, I believe?”

  “It is.”

  “How long have you been in service to the chief?”

  “Ten years to Cúan, lady, and twenty-three years to his father, Cú Chongelt, who was chief before him.” The man was holding his shaking hands clasped tightly before him. He was glancing from side to side, like some animal
seeking a means of escape.

  “There is no need to worry, Muirecán, provided you tell us the truth,” Fidelma said gently.

  The man nodded quickly.

  “I swear it on the Holy Cross, lady. I will tell the truth.”

  “You brought in the mead to this hall. We all saw you do that.”

  “I did. I don’t deny that. But I did not know it was poisoned.”

  “So tell us how you came to bring in the mead. Did you draw the mead yourself?”

  “I did. From the large barrel in the kitchen.”

  “A new barrel?”

  He shook his head.

  “It is half full and many a drink has been served from it.”

  “Who instructed you to draw the mead and bring it into the hall?”

  The man looked blank and shook his head.

  “No one, lady. It is the custom of Cúan and his tánaiste to have a drink placed at their side during any official meeting in the great hall.”

  Fidelma glanced to the still shocked and numbed-looking chieftain and had to prompt him for confirmation. He eventually nodded in agreement.

  “It was the custom,” he echoed hollowly.

  “And everyone knew of this custom?” she asked, turning back to the attendant.

  “Everyone,” affirmed Muirecán.

  Fidelma was silent for a moment and then smiled encouragingly.

  “So let us continue. You drew the two mugs of mead and placed them on the tray. Did you come straight into the hall?”

  Muirecán shook his head.

  “I did not. I came straight from the kitchen to the antechamber outside and there I found that Cúan had not yet arrived. So I put down the mead on a table that is there . . .”

  “Was anyone in the antechamber?”

  “The Brehon,” he nodded to Declan; “my lady, Berrach, the wife of Cúan; the chief’s son, Augaire; and the chief’s brother, Selbach . . . oh, and Talamnach entered shortly afterwards.”

  “And so you stood by the tray awaiting the arrival of the chief?”

  Muirecán shook his head.

  “Talamnach asked me to go to Cúan’s quarters and warn him that everyone was waiting. The Brehon was with Talamnach at the time and had been speaking with him when Talamnach gave me the order.”