The young man wheeled ’round; his hand went to the knife at his belt.
“Don’t make it worse for yourself than it already is,” snapped Fidelma.
Tadhg hesitated a fraction and let his hand drop, his shoulders slumping in resignation.
Blinne was gazing at them in bewilderment.
“I don’t understand this.”
Fidelma glanced at her sadly and then at Tadhg.
“Perhaps we can illuminate the situation?”
Blinne’s eyes suddenly widened.
“Tadhg claimed that he has always loved me. When he came back from Finnan’s Height he would waylay and annoy me like a sick dog, mooning after me. I told him that I didn’t love him. Is it. . it cannot be. . did he. . did he kill. .?”
Tadhg glanced at her his face in anguish.
“You cannot reject me so, Blinne. Don’t try to lay the blame for Ernán’s death on me. I know you pretended that you did not love me in public but I had your messages. I know the truth. I told you to elope with me.”
His voice rose like a wailing child.
Blinne turned to Fidelma.
“I have no idea what he is saying. Make him stop. I cannot stand it.”
Fidelma was looking at Tadhg.
“You say that you had messages from Blinne? Written messages?”
He shook his head.
“Verbal but from an unimpeachable source. They were genuine, right enough, and now she denies me and tries to blame me for what has happened. .”
Fidelma held up her hand to silence him.
“I think I know who gave you those messages,” she said quietly.
______
After the burial of Ernán, Fidelma sat on the opposite side of the fire to Brother Abán in the tiny stone house next to the chapel. They were sipping mulled wine.
“A sad story,” sighed Brother Abán. “When you have seen someone born and grow up, it is sad to see them take a human life for no better reason than greed and envy.”
“Yet greed and envy are two of the great motivations for murder, Brother.”
“What made you suspect Bláth?”
“Had she said that she heard this Banshee wail once, it might have been more credible because she had a witness in her uncle who heard the wail. All those with whom I spoke, who had claimed to have heard it, said they heard it once, like Glass did, on the morning of Ernán’s killing. The so-called Banshee only wailed once. It was an afterthought of Bláth, when she had killed her brother-in-law.”
“You mean that she was the one wailing?”
“I was sure of it when I heard that she had a good voice and, moreover, knew the caoine, the keening, the lament for the dead. I have heard the caoine and know it was a small step from producing that terrible sound to producing a wail associated with a Banshee.”
“But then she claimed she had done so to lay a false trail away from her sister. Why did you not believe that?”
“I had already been alerted that all was not well, for when I asked Blinne about her sleep, I found that she had not even awoken when Ernán had risen in the morning. She slept oblivious to the world and woke in a befuddled state. She was nauseous and had a headache. Blinne admitted that both she and Bláth knew all about herbal remedies and could mix a potion to ensure sleep. Bláth had given her sister a strong sleeping draught so that she would not wake up. Only on the third night did an opportunity present itself by which she killed Ernán.
“Her intention all along was to lay the blame at her sister’s door but she had to be very careful about it. She had been planning this for some time. She knew that Tadhg was besotted by Blinne. She began to tell Tadhg an invented story about how Blinne and Ernán did not get on. She told Tadhg that Blinne was really in love with him but could not admit it in public. She hoped that Tadhg would tell someone and thus sow the seeds about Blinne’s possible motive for murder.”
Brother Abán shook his head sadly.
“You are describing a devious mind.”
“To set out to paint another as guilty for one’s own acts requires a clever but warped mind. Bláth was certainly that.”
“But what I do not understand is why-why did she do this?”
“The oldest motives in the world-as we have said-greed and envy.”
“How so?”
“She knew that Ernán had no male heirs and so on his death his land, under the law of the banchomarba would go to Blinne. And Bláth stood as Blinne’s banchomarba. Once Blinne was convicted of her husband’s death then she would lose that right, and so the farm and land would come to Bláth, making her a rich woman.”
Fidelma put down her empty glass and rose.
“The moon is up. I shall use its light to return to Cashel.”
“You will not stay until dawn? Night is fraught with dangers.”
“Only of our own making. Night is when things come alive and is the mother of counsels. My mentor, Brehon Morann, says that the dead of night is when wisdom ascends with the stars to the zenith of thought and all things are seen. Night is the quiet time for contemplation.”
They stood on the threshold of Brother Abán’s house.
Fidelma’s horse had been brought to the door. Just as Fidelma was about to mount a strange, eerie wailing sound echoed out of the valley. It rose, shrill and clear against the night sky, rose and ended abruptly, rose again and this time died away. It was like the caoine, the keening sounds that accompanied the dead.
Brother Abán crossed himself quickly.
“The Banshee!” he whispered.
Fidelma smiled.
“To each their own interpretation. I hear only the lonely cry of a wolf searching for a mate. Yet I will concede that for each act there is a consequence. Bláth conjured the Banshee to mark her crime and perhaps the Banshee is having the last word.”
She mounted her horse, raised her hand in salute and turned along the moonlit road toward Cashel.
THE HEIR-APPARENT
There’s bound to be trouble. Mark my words!”
Brehon Declan was gloomy with pessimism as he and Sister Fidelma walked slowly across the main courtyard of the rath of Cúan, chieftain of the Uí Liatháin, toward the great feasting hall. Already many others were moving through the darkening twilight in the same direction.
“I don’t understand,” replied Fidelma. She had been on her way to the abbey at Ard Mór on the coast. Her route lay through the territory of the Uí Liatháin, one of the larger and more influential clans of the kingdom of Muman, and she had decided to visit her old colleague, Declan. He had been a fellow student at the law school of the Brehon Morann. On her arrival at the rath, or fortress of the Uí Liatháin, she found a state of great agitation and excitement. The heir-apparent of the chief had been injured and died in a stag hunt and, having mourned for the prescribed time, the clan was about to elect a new tanist, who would be successor to the chief. “I don’t understand,” repeated Fidelma. “Is it that the chief’s nominee for the office, Talamnach, is so unpopular that he will be opposed?”
Declan, a dark, saturnine man, eased his lean features into a thin smile and shook his head.
“You must know that the choosing of a tanist, an heir-apparent, to the chieftain, can be a problematic business. At least three generations of the ruling family must meet in conclave and cast their votes for who should be the successor. There are always going to be factions and what suits one group will not suit another, even though they are part of the same family.”
Fidelma sniffed in disapproval.
“Even Cicero, centuries ago, wrote of the bellum domesticum-the strife of families. It is nothing new.”
“That is certainly true,” admitted Declan, “but the strife within Cúan’s family is particularly vicious now that he has named his nephew Talamnach as his nominee for successor.”
“Why so?”
“Firstly, Cúan’s own son, Augaire, is unhappy, to say the least. He is nineteen years old but, with youthful arrogance, he was expec
ting to be nominated. So, too, was his mother, Berrach-I mean that she was expecting her son to be nominated and, so it is said, she has made her displeasure known to her husband.”
“It is not unusual for a mother to have ambition for her child.”
“Berrach is more than tenacious for her son’s future. She dotes on him and panders to his every wish. Now he has outgrown her and nothing will ever bring him to discipline.”
Fidelma smiled softly.
“Remember what Aristotle wrote? That the reason why mothers are more devoted to their children and have more ambition for them than their fathers is that they have suffered more in giving them birth and are more certain that they are their own.”
Declan pulled a face.
“It is true that Augaire is more akin to Berrach than Cúan and therein is the reason why Cúan has nominated Talamnach instead. Augaire lacks modesty, he is quick to anger and slow to forgive. A hint of any insult will have him reaching for his dagger. He is an immature youth, vain, pretentious and unable to withstand any hint of criticism. That is why he is unfit to be the heir-apparent to the chieftain of the Uí Liatháin. I can say that with authority as his cousin.”
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 Illan 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.”
Whispers of the Dead sf-15 Page 16
