Dancing With Demons

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Separately, yes,’ confirmed the abbot. ‘They live in Tech Laoghaire, a short distance to the south.’

  Eadulf was about to comment when he caught Fidelma’s eye and he said nothing.

  ‘Then you lead the way, Abbot Colmán,’ Fidelma said. ‘Let us see if we can find the lady Muirgel.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  There were two things that Eadulf noticed about Muirgel, daughter of the late High King. The first was that she was a very attractive girl. She had fair skin with a hint of freckles, black hair and dark eyes. The aimsir togú, or ‘age of choice’ in the five kingdoms was fourteen years old, when girls became women. Muirgel was seventeen and therefore of marriageable age. Eadulf imagined that she would have many suitors. However, the second thing he noticed about her was her arrogance. It was there in the way she held her head, the disdainful curve of her lip.

  She reclined in her chair among an array of cushions as they entered and regarded them with an expression that made it clear that she did not welcome their presence. The young servant girl who had opened the chamber door to them and conducted them to her mistress hesitated as if waiting for further instructions before being dismissed with a haughty wave of her employer’s hand.

  Muirgel looked at the elderly abbot with disdain. She did not even bother to look at Fidelma or Eadulf.

  ‘Well, Abbot Colmán, why is it that you must disturb my peace this afternoon? I have a headache and would prefer to rest alone, and yet I am told you must bring a dálaigh to plague me with questions.’ The girl’s voice was a low, drawling tone that seemed to express total boredom.

  There was something apologetic in the manner in which Abbot Colmán stepped forward and began to clear his throat. Eadulf saw the look of annoyance on Fidelma’s face and she interrupted.

  ‘Your servant is not trained well, Muirgel,’ she snapped.

  The girl stared at her in surprise at the unexpected interjection. ‘What?’ The word seemed reluctantly jerked from her.

  ‘At the door, we told the girl who we were. Are you saying that she did not tell you?’

  Muirgel swallowed and tried to regain her composure as she heard the sarcasm in Fidelma’s voice.

  ‘She told me,’ she snapped back. ‘And one would expect those in the company of Abbot Colmán to know some court etiquette. You are addressing the daughter of the High King … ’

  Fidelma made a slight cutting motion of her hand as if to silence her.

  ‘I know well whom I address. Just as your servant should have given you my name and, knowing it, there should be no excuse not to know who I am and my reason for coming here!’

  The girl blinked at the sharpness in her tone. ‘She told me that a Sister Fidelma …’

  ‘I am here as a dálaigh qualified to the role of anruth. I presume that you are acquainted with this rank?’

  ‘Of course,’ Muirgel answered through a tight mouth, sitting up on her couch in a straighter position.

  ‘And then you know well that it is I, Fidelma of Cashel, who comes to question you over the death of your father,’ went on Fidelma with a hard and remorseless tone. ‘So let us have no more acting the mórluachach.’

  It was a word that Eadulf had seldom heard before, but he guessed that it meant someone who pretended to be high and mighty, who put on airs and graces. He knew that one thing Fidelma detested was arrogance in others – and it was only when such false pride was displayed that she reminded people of her own royal birth as one of the princely family of the Eóghanacht of Muman who once contended for the High Kingship itself.

  Muirgel had turned pale and Abbot Colmán, in contrast, was red with embarrassment. In the silence Fidelma added an old axiom: ‘Nobility has no pride.’ She glanced around the room and pointed to some chairs. ‘Eadulf, as no one has offered, will you bring chairs that we may sit and discuss our business in comfort.’

  Smiling to himself, Eadulf moved quickly to bring the chairs while Muirgel sat in a stunned silence. Her expression became malignant as she fixed her eyes on Fidelma. Unconcerned, Fidelma stretched back in a relaxed attitude and then turned to Abbot Colmán.

  ‘You are not sitting, Colmán,’ she reproved.

  ‘I have not the need, lady,’ the abbot muttered, still embarrassed, for it was protocol for him to wait to be invited to sit by Muirgel.

  ‘No matter,’ Fidelma replied, turning her attention to Muirgel.

  The girl had now gathered herself together.

  ‘I am told the Eóghanacht of Cashel are ill-mannered,’ she hissed.

  Fidelma was not put out. ‘It is a sign of nobility to be courteous to guests whatever their rank,’ she admonished.

  ‘The Uí Néill are to be treated with respect for we are a great house,’ the girl said petulantly.

  ‘And is it not said that the doorstep of a great house is often slippery?’ replied Fidelma. ‘Respect is something that is earned and not given by right of birth. I knew your father, Sechnussach, and he earned my respect. That is why I have travelled from Cashel to discover the reasons for his death.’

  The girl’s chin jutted as if she would argue further but Fidelma moved on quickly.

  ‘Where were you on the night of your father’s assassination?’

  Muirgel did not answer.

  ‘Remember,’ Fidelma warned her, ‘rank bears no privileges against the interrogation of the dálaigh of the rank of anruth. You are bound by honour to answer my questions or be fined accordingly.’

  The girl swallowed, then muttered, ‘You have doubtless been told where I was, so there is no need to ask.’

  ‘I have been told only that some believed that you were here in Tara.’

  ‘Then that is where I was.’

  Fidelma exhaled irritably. ‘All we know is that you did not attend the abbey Cluain Ioraird with your mother and sisters Mumain and Be Bhail. Why not? I am told that they had gone there to offer prayers on the death of your grandmother.’

  ‘My grandmother died some time ago and I was not close to her.’

  ‘It was a matter of respect, lady,’ muttered Abbot Colmán, feeling he should say something.

  ‘Are you telling me what I should do?’ Muirgel turned flashing angry eyes on him.

  Fidelma and Eadulf glanced at one another. Here was certainly an unpleasant and self-willed young girl. At another time, Fidelma would have intervened for her ill manners to the abbot but she wanted information.

  ‘When and where did the news of your father’s death reach you?’

  ‘I spent the evening with a … some friends. Then I came here as the girl,’ she gestured towards the door to indicated her departed servant, ‘as the girl will tell you. In the morning, I had decided to go to my father’s house and break my fast with him. But a servant arrived here as I was making ready and told me the news.’

  Fidelma could not sense any emotion in the girl’s matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘Did you like your father?’ The question was swift and unexpected.

  Muirgel blinked. ‘Of course,’ she said, tossing her head.

  ‘That is good to hear,’ Fidelma replied. ‘It does not always follow that a daughter likes a father. She can love her father but that is not what I asked.’

  Muirgel did not respond to this, merely looked at her nails.

  ‘So what were your feelings when you heard of his death?’ Fidelma tried again.

  ‘I wanted those involved to pay for this outrage. Naturally.’

  ‘Those involved? You think there was more than the assassin who struck him down?’

  Muirgel pouted again. It seemed a favourite habit. ‘I have no knowledge of such things,’ she said, and yawned. ‘I was using an expression, that is all.’

  ‘But you did know the assassin,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘When did you first meet Dubh Duin?’

  The girl’s eyes widened at her knowledge and she said nothing for a moment, trying to read what lay behind Fidelma’s question.

  ‘Dubh Duin was a distant relation, a
chief of the Cairpre,’ she said finally.

  ‘We all know who he was,’ Fidelma said. ‘Come on – when did you first get to know him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Muirgel hesitated a moment more. ‘He used to attend my father’s Great Assembly. Perhaps it was then that I met him.’

  ‘He came often to the Great Assembly?’

  Muirgel indicated Abbot Colmán. ‘The abbot here would be better able to answer you for he is adviser and steward to the Assembly.’

  ‘I suppose what I really want to ask is what relationship you had with Dubh Duin during these last few weeks?’

  The girl suddenly turned bright scarlet and half-rose from her couch.

  ‘Relationship?’ she screeched. ‘What? How dare you! What are you implying?’

  ‘I was not aware that I was implying anything.’ Fidelma remained relaxed. ‘I was merely asking a question that needs an answer. I want to know why you gave authority to the guards to pass Dubh Duin through the gates of the royal enclosure after midnight on more than one occasion in the days leading up to your father’s assassination.’

  There was total silence in the room. If a needle had fallen, Eadulf believed he would have been able to hear it in the stillness.

  ‘Who said … ?’ began the girl.

  Fidelma made an impatient gesture. ‘Come, Muirgel, you do not think that such a thing could go unrecorded or unnoticed? Isn’t it time that you spoke honestly about this matter?’

  For a moment or two the girl relapsed into silence. Then she spoke slowly, as if measuring her words.

  ‘I did not know Dubh Duin other than having seen him among those attending the Great Assembly and perhaps once or twice at my father’s feastings. It was not my desire to have further acquaintance with him. It is the truth that I speak.’

  ‘Then why—?’

  This time it was the girl who held up her hand for silence.

  ‘On the occasions when I brought him into the royal enclosure after the gates had been secured at nightfall, it was not my desire to do so, nor was it for myself. I was asked to do so. My role in this matter was to use my authority to pass him through the guards at the gate, and then to escort him to the royal enclosure. That was all.’

  Fidelma examined the girl impassively.

  ‘All?’ she queried sardonically. ‘Surely not! You took it on yourself to let this man into the royal enclosure on several occasions after nightfall, to escort him in, and then you say it was not your will nor desire to do so? Come, lady, there is much more you need to tell us. You must have known what reason brought the man hither?’

  ‘I swear it was not any reason of mine,’ rapped out Muirgel, with a return of her old spirit. ‘I had no liking for Dubh Duin.’

  ‘Then, why? What reason did he have for coming here?’

  ‘I do not know,’ she replied stubbornly.

  ‘For the sake of all that is holy, that is not good enough!’ Fidelma snapped in frustration. ‘If you were told to use your authority to pass this man – the man who assassinated your own father for goodness sake! – into the royal enclosure, who told you to do so?’

  The girl fell silent, dropping her gaze to the floor.

  Abbot Colmán coughed uncomfortably. ‘Come, lady,’ he said gently. ‘You must tell us all you know. If it wasn’t you that wished Dubh Duin to gain entrance into the royal enclosure, who told you to use your authority to allow that to happen? And why would you do so? What hold would they have over you, to make such a request and know that you would obey it?’

  Muirgel was hanging her head, her shoulders were hunched and shaking, and Eadulf suddenly realised that she was crying.

  ‘Come, Muirgel,’ Fidelma insisted, unmoved. ‘We have little time to play games. Who ordered you to admit Dubh Duin on these occasions – and why would you obey?’

  The girl raised a tearstained face to Fidelma.

  ‘It was my mother,’ she said simply.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The only sound that followed the girl’s statement was Abbot Colmán’s sharp exhalation of breath and her continued sobbing.

  Fidelma remained impassive.

  ‘Are you saying that it was your mother, Gormflaith, Sechnussach’s own wife, who used to meet with his assassin at nights in the royal enclosure? ’ she asked slowly.

  Muirgal tried to gather herself together. Then, as if she realised that, having admitted thus much, she had to confirm her statement, she replied between sniffs, ‘I have said as much.’

  ‘And when you took Dubh Duin to your mother, where did she receive him at such an hour?’

  ‘In this house, in her own chambers,’ the girl said. ‘Since the birth of my baby sister, Be Bhail, three years ago, my mother has had her own residence here. What better than this house, which was built by the great High King Laoghaire? We all live here.’

  ‘And you say that your only connection with Dubh Duin was to pass him through the gates to bring him to your mother?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘The reason being so that no one would associate his coming with your mother?’ Eadulf queried.

  ‘Yes. No one was to know that it was my mother that Dubh Duin had come to see,’ agreed Muirgel quietly, wiping her eyes.

  ‘Why was that?’ asked Eadulf.

  The girl turned on him with a pitying look. ‘Why do you think?’ she countered.

  ‘Is that speculation or are you stating that you knew positively that your mother was having an affair with Dubh Duin?’ Fidelma asked.

  Muirgel turned back to her and shrugged. ‘I am old enough to make my own deductions. However, my role was simply to escort him to my mother’s chamber and there I left them together. You must ask my mother, should you want to know the details of the matter.’

  ‘Lady Muirgel, you continued as an intermediary, having guessed the purpose of Dubh Duin’s visits to your mother’s chambers. Surely you did not approve of this?’ Abbot Colmán said nervously. ‘How could she and you betray your father into cuckoldry?’

  ‘It was no business of mine,’ the girl said sulkily. ‘My mother made that clear to me. You must have known that she and my father had been estranged these last three years and that he had taken a dormun for his needs.’

  The old abbot winced slightly. ‘I knew of no such thing,’ he protested.

  Fidelma looked from the abbot to the girl and back again.

  ‘This is important information, Colmán,’ she said quietly. ‘If Sechnussach had taken a dormun, a second wife, then I should have been informed.’

  ‘I had no knowledge of it,’ the abbot insisted. ‘I am sure the Brehon Barrán had no knowledge of it either. If anyone would know about such a thing, it would have been him.’

  ‘You say that it is so?’ Fidelma looked the girl in the eye.

  ‘I do not know it for a fact,’ she said reluctantly. ‘No one admits to it, and no one has identified any particular woman. All I know is that when my mother was pregnant with my baby sister, she claimed that she had discovered that my father had taken another woman to share his bed. That was when she insisted on her own apartments.’

  ‘You speak of a dormun as a second wife,’ Eadulf said. ‘I am not sure that I understand this. I thought the word meant a mistress or a concubine.’

  It was Abbot Colmán who enlightened him.

  ‘Under our old law system, men could take a second wife who had fewer rights than the cétmuintir or first wife. The second wife was called a dormun. The custom is dying out, although some of our powerful kings and nobles insist on continuing the practice.’

  Eadulf had heard of polygamy among other peoples.

  ‘Such practices are condemned by Rome,’ he commented piously.

  ‘Rome’s judgements on this matter are offered as a counsel of perfection and not a rule,’ the abbot stated. ‘Second marriages are still accepted under our law system.’

  ‘There is currently a controversy among the Brehons on this matter,’ Fidelma informed them. ‘It is often arg
ued whether monogamy or polygamy is the more proper form of marriage. At the moment, the judgement is that those who wish to take a second wife do not trespass against the teaching of the New Faith. The Bretha Crólige points out that God’s chosen people lived in a plurality of marriages – Solomon, David and Jacob had many wives – therefore it is not more difficult to condemn polygamy than it is to praise it. Even if Sechnussach had taken a second wife, he stands within the law.’

  ‘Monogamy is a counsel of perfection,’ muttered Abbot Colmán again.

  ‘However, unless there is evidence that Sechnussach took a dormun, according to law, then this remains speculation,’ added Fidelma.

  ‘My mother believed it,’ growled Muirgel.

  ‘Then we will question your mother,’ Fidelma assured her, rising from her chair. ‘For the moment, that will be all, Muirgel. However, I will want to talk with you again. I advise you to say nothing of this matter for the time being.’

  The girl simply stared indifferently as they left her.

  Outside, Fidelma turned to Abbot Colmán and said, ‘Surely there must have been some indication of what the girl has told us? An estrangement between Sechnussach and his wife – rumours of his taking a second wife? The royal enclosure of Tara is not so big that such matters would go unnoticed and unremarked.’

  Abbot Colmán met her gaze with a serious expression.

  ‘Of the estrangement, perhaps we should have guessed,’ he said. ‘We knew that since the birth of little Be Bhail, the lady Gormflaith has kept to herself and only appeared at her husband’s side on those occasions where it was deemed necessary. Sometimes, though, after the birth of a child, a woman can take curious fancies into her mind. Be despondent and depressed. We merely thought that Gormflaith might have been experiencing such feelings.’

  Fidelma coloured slightly for she knew exactly what Colmán meant. It had been her own experience after the birth of her son, Alchú.

  ‘But after three years … ?’ she pressed.

  ‘Well, all I can say is that during these past three years, if Sechnussach did take a second wife, it was a secret so well-kept that no one knew of her existence.’