‘I know the dissensions between the Uí Néill and the Eóghanacht over the symbolism of the High Kingship,’ she affirmed cautiously. ‘There are few living in the five kingdoms who do not know that. The Uí Néill have been claiming for many years that the kingship of Tara should have power over all five kingdoms. When the kings of Ireland first met and decreed that they should elect a High King from among them, it was never meant as an autocratic office but one of a “precedence of honour”. Each High King was to be elected by and from the ranks of each royal dynasty in turn. It was an honour, a token of respect, not a giving of power. Look in the laws of the five kingdoms and turn to the laws of kingship. Show me a law that even admits there is an office in the five kingdoms greater than that of the provincial king?’
Brother Solin sat back with a derisory grin.
‘I expected that an Eóghanacht princess would be able to quote me the law when it favours Cashel.’
‘I speak as a dálaigh,’ returned Fidelma firmly. ‘If I spoke as an Eóghanacht princess I would quote the law of the Uraiccecht Bec – “greatest over kings is the king of Muman”.’
‘The Uí Néill do not agree.’
‘Naturally.’ Fidelma could not keep the sneer out of her voice.
‘Yet you have in the past acknowledged Sechnassuch as High King. You have been to Tara and served at his court? You have even acknowledged Ultan as archbishop.’
‘I was summoned to Tara to help solve the mystery of the theft of the High King’s sword. I recognise the High Kingship out of courtesy for the sacredotal honour as envisaged by the kings. But no Eóghanacht would admit that the king who sits in Tara has supreme authority over these southern dominions. Nor did I, in calling Ultan by the Greek title of archiepiskopos, do anything more than attempt to translate our Irish title of Comarb of Patrick. For an archbishop superintends the bishops of his province, just as the Comarb of Ailbe of Imleach does here in Muman.’
Brother Solin shook his head slowly.
‘There is a time coming, Fidelma, when the High Kingship will not be just an empty title. The only way to make this land great, not just a land with quibbling provincial kingdoms, is through a strong High King who unites all the kingdoms within his grasp.’
Fidelma’s eyes flashed dangerously.
‘And that High King would be one of the Uí Néill, of course?’
‘Who better to lead than the descendants of Niall of the Nine Hostages? Last night you claimed Eóghanacht descended from Eber, son of Milesius. But do not the Uí Néill have a similar claim from Eremon, who was the elder son of Milesius, who ruled the north? Did not Eremon slay Eber when he tried to usurp that power?’
Fidelma’s voice had not raised during this exchange in spite of the agitation of Brother Solin. She still kept it low and even.
‘I have met with Sechnassuch, son of Blathmaic, who sits on the throne at Tara. He is a man of principle and would not hunger for power in the way you described. He claims Tara in accordance with the custom of precedence. He obeys the laws of the five kingdoms.’
‘Sechnassuch? The whelp of Blathmaic mac Aedo Slaine!’ It was a derisory, automatic ejaculation. Then a strange look came across Brother Solin’s face. It was as if he had regretted the outburst. His attitude changed abruptly.
‘You are right, Fidelma.’ His voice was suddenly ingratiating. ‘Sometimes I let my dreams for a better system of kingship of this land stand in the way of reality. You are right, of course. Absolutely right. Sechnassuch would not subvert his office.’
Fidelma knew Brother Solin had realised that he had said too much. Yet it was not enough to allow her to glimpse a reason why the cleric was in Gleann Geis.
‘You have still not explained why Ultan should send a representative to this lonely outpost of Christendom?’ she pressed. ‘He could find out the standing of the Faith by a far more simple means.’
Brother Solin shrugged eloquently.
‘Perhaps, he had heard of the difficulties that Imleach had in converting this area to the True Faith and asked me to bring a mission here to see what might be accomplished? Perhaps it is a coincidence that I have arrived just when you are negotiating a means whereby Imleach might bring lightness to this black valley.’
‘Three false statements,’ snapped Fidelma, quoting the triads of Eireann. ‘“Perhaps”, “may be” and “I dare say”!’
Brother Solin chuckled in appreciation at her erudition.
‘Well, Sister, if there is anything further that I may advise you on … ?’
Eadulf was bending forward to witness the exchange when he heard a hollow cough behind him.
‘Are you unwell, Brother?’
Eadulf straightened up with a red face and found the young Brother Dianach regarding him curiously. He had entirely forgotten that Dianach had gone to his bedchamber.
‘I felt a little dizzy,’ he muttered, trying to think of some excuse for his position. ‘Putting your head between your knees is good for the condition.’
‘So that is what you were attempting?’ Eadulf could not tell whether Brother Dianach was being sarcastic or not. ‘A dangerous thing to do on the stairs. Still, I trust you will be better but I fear you have the wrong philosophy towards maintaining a healthy body. Excuse me, Brother Eadulf.’
The young man passed down the stair before Eadulf could think of a suitable reply. He felt annoyed with himself. Brother Dianach was surely suspicious now as to why Eadulf was crouching at the head of the stairs. It must have been obvious that Eadulf was listening to the conversation below.
Brother Solin looked up as his scribe came down into the room and smiled briefly.
‘Good morning, Brother Dianach. Do you have your stylus and clay tablets ready?’
‘I do,’ the young man replied.
Brother Solin returned his gaze to Fidelma.
‘I do not think we need say more on this subject now that we are clear about it?’ he asked, a slight emphasis in his voice.
Fidelma returned his gaze evenly.
‘I agree,’ she said. ‘For the time being.’
Brother Solin stood up and wiped the residue of food from the corners of his mouth.
‘Come with me, Brother Dianach,’ he instructed, moving to the door. ‘We must prepare ourselves for this morning’s council.’ He cast a glance at Fidelma which she could not interpret.
As soon as the door had closed behind them Eadulf came stumbling down the stairs.
‘Dianach caught me listening at the top of the stairs …’ he began.
‘Did you hear what passed between us then?’ interrupted Fidelma sharply.
‘I did. I thought …’
‘Brother Solin is obviously concealing something,’ Fidelma interrupted. ‘Ultan of Armagh would have no concern about this backwater. There is something else going on here. But what? I am most frustrated. What is Solin really up to?’
‘There is a philosophy that if you have to lie then you should incorporate as much of the truth in the lie as permissible,’ Eadulf volunteered.
Fidelma stared at Eadulf for a moment and then smiled broadly.
‘Sometimes you remind me of the obvious, Eadulf,’ she said. She paused reflectively. ‘He was certainly lying about where he has been during the night. Yet when I asked him where he had walked this morning, he was able to describe exactly where without hesitation. Perhaps that was where he actually was? I think, after this morning’s negotiation is over, we might restore ourselves by going for a walk in that direction and seeing what we can discover.’
She glanced through the window. The hour was growing late.
‘We do not have long before the council is in session. I think we should have a brief walk now, if only to clear our heads.’
Brother Eadulf looked pained.
‘I fear it will take more than a walk to clear my head, Fidelma. That bad wine even now permeates my body from head to toe. I feel I need more than fresh air to sustain myself for the morning.’
As
ailing as he felt, Eadulf, nevertheless, allowed Fidelma to cajole him into accompanying her. He would have rather flopped back on his bed and gone to sleep again. He felt nauseous and faint. His skin was sweaty and irritating and his mouth was dry.
Outside in the ráth, several people were abroad and hurrying about their day’s tasks in spite of the fact that the feast had not ended until dawn for many of them. Eadulf and Fidelma were greeted without any sign of animosity and, indeed, a few were most friendly. All, however, seemed curious as they examined Fidelma. Her reply to Murgal’s song seemed to be a topic of gossip.
As they were crossing the courtyard of the ráth towards the gates, Fidelma halted and indicated a cart being dragged through the gates by a small, sturdy ass. It appeared loaded with plants of many sorts. Urging on the ass to greater exertion as it struggled to pull its load was a tall, slender woman.
Fidelma nudged Eadulf.
‘Isn’t that Murgal’s erstwhile companion at last night’s feast?’ she whispered. Eadulf raised his bleary eyes and recognised the woman immediately, in spite of the cloak and hood wrapped around her. She wore a dress which was more drab than the one she had worn on the previous evening.
Fidelma moved immediately towards her and Eadulf followed.
‘Marga, is it not?’
The woman swung round to face her. Fidelma found herself looking into pale blue eyes, so pale that they reminded her of ice. There seemed no expression in the pallid features on which she looked. The long tresses were the colour of harvest corn. Fidelma had been right in her assessment on the previous evening. The woman was attractive. She did not alter that appraisal. Marga was tall and in spite of the long flowing black cloak, which seemed to enhance her pallidness and fair hair, Fidelma knew that her body was supple and well shaped, from the previous evening, and she appeared to move with a lithe, cat-like agility.
Her voice, when she spoke, was no more than a sibilant whisper.
‘I do not know you, Fidelma of Cashel. How come you make so free with my name?’
‘Your name was told me just as someone has told you my name and so I greet you. Am I incorrect that you are Marga the apothecary?’
‘I am Marga and I heal in the name of Airmid, the goddess who guards Dian Cécht’s secret Well of Healing.’
Her statement was issued as a challenge but Fidelma did not rise to it.
Airmid was one of the old goddesses. Fidelma knew the story well. She was daughter of the god of medicine, Dian Cécht, and sister of Miach, who was also a physician-god. When Miach proved to be a better physician than his father, the angry god slew his son. Out of his grave there grew three hundred and sixty-five herbs of healing. Airmid was said to have gathered the herbs from her brother’s grave and laid them out on her cloak in order of their various healing properties. Dian Cécht, still jealous of Miach, overturned the cloak in a rage and hopelessly confused the herbs so that no human would ever learn the secret of immortality by their use.
‘May health be your portion, Marga the Healer,’ replied Fidelma gravely. ‘I hope that you have learnt some of the secrets that your god, Dian Cécht, would have kept from us.’
Marga’s eyes narrowed fractionally.
‘Do you challenge my knowledge, Fidelma of Cashel?’ she whispered threateningly.
‘Why would I do that?’ Fidelma asked innocently, realising that the girl was of a tempestuous nature. ‘My knowledge of the ancient tales is a poor one. But everyone knows what Dian Cécht did in anger in order to prevent the knowledge of healing being fully learnt by mortals. I thought …’
‘I know what you thought,’ snapped Marga, bending to the ass’s harness. ‘By your leave, I have much to attend to.’
‘As do we all, each in his or her own way. But there are some questions I would like to put to you.’
Marga bridled immediately.
‘But I do not wish to answer them. Now …’
She made to move but Fidelma, smilingly, put out a hand to stay her. Fidelma had a powerful grip and Marga actually winced.
‘I have no other time to put them.’ Fidelma examined the cart closely. ‘You appear to have been gathering herbs and plants for remedies?’
Marga was unbending.
‘As you can plainly see,’ she replied stiffly.
‘And you practise your apothecary within the ráth?’
‘I do.’
Her eyes flickered momentarily to a corner of some buildings across the courtyard, focussing on a tall building of three storeys with a curious squat tower at one end. Fidelma followed the involuntary movement and saw a mart at one corner. Outside the door, bundles of dried herbs were hanging.
‘So that is your apothecary shop?’
Marga shrugged almost insolently but Fidelma did not appear to mind.
‘I cannot see the purpose of these questions,’ the pale-faced herbalist said impatiently.
‘Forgive me,’ replied Fidelma contritely. ‘It is my friend here …’
Eadulf was momentarily startled and then tried to compose his features.
The pale blue eyes flickered over him without changing expression.
‘You see,’ Fidelma went on confidentially, ‘my friend imbibed too much of the juice of the vine last night.’
‘Gaulish wine!’ sniffed Marga. ‘It rots in the transport unless it is good. But Laisre is unable to afford better except for himself and his family. Well, there were plenty of others who took more of it than was good for them.’
‘You mean Murgal?’ Fidelma asked quickly.
There was a pause.
‘You have sharp eyes, Christian. Yes, I mean Murgal. But that is none of your business …’
‘Of course not,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘But my friend here is in need of a herbal remedy for his distemper. He thought that he might be able to purchase something from you.’
Eadulf was surprised at the lie for he knew as much about herbal remedies as most, having studied the subject. Marga eyed him sourly. Eadulf flushed before her withering gaze.
‘I suppose you have a headache and feel uncomfortable in the stomach?’
Eadulf nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
The apothecary turned and rummaged in her cart. She drew forth some root leaves eight inches in length, tapering below into a winged stalk, with veins on it. Eadulf recognised them at once. The thimble shape of the foxglove was a common enough plant in the hedges, ditches and wooded slopes.
‘Use the leaves only, boiled in water. You drink the infusion. It will taste bitter but you will eventually feel its advantageous effects. Do you understand, Saxon?’
‘I do,’ responded Eadulf quietly.
He took the leaves from her and reached into his purse.
‘A screpall is the smallest coin I have,’ he muttered, handing it to her, but Marga shook her head.
‘We have no use for coins in our valley, Saxon. We rely mainly on barter even if we deal with the outside world. Keep your coin and take the leaves as the charity of a pagan to a Christian.’
Eadulf began to thank her gravely but Fidelma interrupted with a smile.
‘I suppose a number of people have been struck with the effect of bad wine?’
‘Not many. Those who drink wine in preference to mead have developed the capacity to accept its potency.’
‘Were there any affected last night, though?’
Marga shrugged.
‘A few. Most of the pigs prefer to lay about and sleep it off.’
‘Does Murgal usually consume so much?’
Marga’s eyes narrowed in temper and then she seemed to change her mind and relax.
‘Well, he has not sought my aid nor would I have given it to him. I’ll applaud you for this, Fidelma of Cashel: last night you answered the pig well.’
‘You do not like him?’
‘Hadn’t you noticed?’ Marga jeered.
‘I had.’
‘Murgal thinks that he can take what he wants in life. He dared lay his sweaty paws on
me. Now he has reason to know that he should not take such liberties.’
‘I see,’ Fidelma said gravely.
Marga glared at her in suspicion.
‘Is that what you wanted to know?’ she demanded with some petulance.
‘Not all,’ Fidelma smiled. ‘Eadulf here truly did want something to purge him of his feelings of discomfiture.’
Marga examined them suspiciously for a moment before going to the ass’s head and beginning to lead it away across the courtyard. Then she halted abruptly and turned back to Eadulf.
‘Have a care with that infusion of those leaves, Saxon,’ she called. ‘Unless taken correctly the plant has a poisonous property. The correct dosage varies in each person. For you, I would say no more than a sip or two.’
Then she turned again, dragging the ass after her in the direction of her apothecary.
Eadulf let out a sigh of relief and wiped his brow.
‘I am glad she finally said as much,’ he observed quietly, staring in disgust at the leaves.
‘Why so?’ Fidelma queried with interest.
‘Because, knowing herbs as I do, I thought she was doing her best to poison me. Had she not warned me, and had I known nothing about these leaves, I might be dead soon after drinking the brew. A sip is one thing but drinking the entire concoction is something else.’
Fidelma turned her head and glanced after the disappearing figure of the apothecary with interest.
‘Maybe she didn’t like you at first, Eadulf,’ she smiled thinly.
‘As a stranger, as a Christian or as a man?’ mused the Saxon.
Fidelma chuckled.
‘Well, at least she now likes you well enough to advise against your premature death.’
Chapter Eight
A horn blast shattered the air.
‘That is the signal for the start of the council,’ Fidelma advised Eadulf. ‘Put those leaves away and let us make our attendance.’
Eadulf groaned loudly.
‘I do not think I can last out such a meeting,’ he protested. ‘I swear I feel like death.’
‘You may die after the council,’ she replied cheerfully. Unwillingly, Eadulf followed her towards the chieftain’s building in the ráth.
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