Night of the Lightbringer

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘About being cautious with regard to his drink consumption; he put no constraints on it last night. It did not impress the Princess Gelgéis of the Eile. Does my brother think that he is ever going to get a wife if he behaves in such a fashion?’

  As Colgú’s face began to crimson in anger, she set off towards the stable with Eadulf moving quickly after her. There came a verbal burst of outrage from the King behind them. To Eadulf it was almost inarticulate and if Fidelma understood the words, she paid no heed.

  In the stables, she paused to watch Aidan finish saddling his horse.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Eadulf?’ she asked him suddenly. ‘I noticed that ever since we left Gormán, you have been thinking about something. Best express it than brood over it.’

  Eadulf pulled a face. ‘I thought you were too preoccupied with your own thoughts to notice. You were certainly quiet enough on the return.’

  ‘Not so quiet that I cannot see your mind working,’ smiled Fidelma.

  ‘I have been thinking about what Gormán said,’ Eadulf admitted.

  ‘As have I,’ she responded. ‘Let’s share our thoughts.’

  ‘You said that you liked to know the meaning of names. Gormán told us that Brancheó had said that the name of the man she spoke to in the courtyard last night meant “lightbringer”.’

  ‘We have already discussed this. The three religieux are called Sionnach, Duibhinn and Gíolla Rua … none of these names could be construed in such a fashion. It doesn’t help.’

  ‘Not unless one of them was using a false name and Brancheó recognised their real one,’ Eadulf observed.

  ‘It is a good point, except it does not allow us to go further, does it?’

  ‘It might. What does the Latin name Lucidus mean?’

  ‘But they are not called …’ Fidelma started to object, but then her eyes widened as she stared at Eadulf. Finally, she let out a long, low breath. ‘I had forgotten all about that message from the Venerable Gelasius. A Brother Lucidus would contact me about some important matter. Is he a member of this council, here under a disguised name? Is he the Brother Lucidus that Gelasius has referred to? Then, if so, why has he not contacted me? Why is he in disguise? What can it all mean?’

  THIRTEEN

  Cnocgorm was not a high mountain; it was more a large sprawling hill rising little more than some 240 metres and lying almost due east of Cashel. The name had arisen as a compromise by local people in an argument with members of the New Faith. The latter wanted to claim it was called Hill of Churches – Cnoc na Cille. But there were no churches there and the locals maintained the name was, and always had been, Cnoc na Coille – Hill of the Woods. This was more appropriate, for in spring and summer it was covered in the native rowan or mountain ash with its dusky green-blue leaves. So it was now called Cnocgorm, the Blue Mountain.

  Summer was over, however, and as they approached the hill, they could see that the rowans had succumbed to their autumnal colours of yellow with their bright scarlet berries, and already Eadulf could hear the curious chirping of the smólach mór, the mistle thrush, who would make a fierce defence of its chosen berry patch against all comers.

  When Fidelma and Eadulf arrived at the small deserted cabin at the foot of the hill, Fidelma decided that Aidan should remain to look after the horses while she and Eadulf would climb the hill to where she knew the old hermit’s cave was. Although it had been many years since Fidelma had visited the hill and the old hermit, she seemed to have a sure and certain memory of the path through the trees and rocks. Eadulf was surprised at how rocky the hill was under its canopy of rowan but then he remembered that rowan loved stony soil, so he should not expect the terrain to be any different.

  ‘Why couldn’t this man live in a more accessible place?’ he puffed as he stumbled after Fidelma, who was ascending the steep mountain path swiftly.

  Fidelma paused to allow him to catch up with her and stood shaking her head in mock admonition.

  ‘Erca is a hermit,’ she replied with feigned patience. ‘Where would you expect him to live? In the middle of a township?’

  She turned back to survey the path in front of her. A wave of nostalgia washed over her as she recalled the last time she was here on the slopes of Cnocgorm. She had not long left Brehon Morann’s law school when she received a commission to defend Brother Fergal, who had been charged with the murder of a local woman called Barrdub. The defence of Brother Fergal had been handed her by his abbey, not because of her ability in law but for the reason that everyone thought he was guilty. The loss of such a case might have harmed the reputation of the abbey’s more senior advocate. The abbot had thought it was an open and shut case. Brother Fergal had been found in a cabin on the slopes of this very mountain. He was asleep. By his side was the body of the girl, Barrdub. She had been stabbed to death. There was blood on Fergal’s hands and on his robes. When he was awakened, he claimed that he had no knowledge of anything. He had no defence at all.

  At that time in her life, Fidelma had not been so cynical about the religious and so she did her utmost in the belief that no one who professed the Faith could be guilty of such an act as murder. In the instance of Brother Fergal, she had been right. She was able to demonstrate that he was innocent – but her naive notions of the religious were quickly dispelled by her subsequent career, leading her to quit her abbey and eventually leave the religious altogether. But Brother Fergal’s case was many years before that time, and Fidelma had afterwards referred to the case as the ‘Murder in Repose’.

  It was, however, at that time she discovered there were still many who lived in the mountains or in remote fastnesses who continued to practise the old ways; many who had not been won over by the teachings from the east; many areas where the ancient gods and goddesses of the Five Kingdoms still reigned supreme. Cnocgorm was one such place and her brother had been right to remind her that if Brancheó was known anywhere, it would be the hermit Erca who might provide some clues. His arcane knowledge had helped Fidelma resolve the mystery of who had really killed Barrdub and to prove Fergal innocent.

  ‘How much further?’ complained Eadulf as he scrambled after her.

  ‘Not far,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘His cave is just around those rocks on the ridge up there.’

  Eadulf stifled a groan. If Fidelma heard him, she did not answer but continued to ascend towards the ridge that she had indicated.

  Erca was a thin, dirty-looking individual; he had wild, matted hair and staring eyes. His garments were torn and ragged and he wore a single threadbare woollen cloak around his bent shoulders. When they found him, he was seated before a smoking fire at the entrance to a large cave. An iron tripod had been erected over the smouldering wood from which a small iron pot hung with a fragrant aroma emanating from its bubbling water. He had obviously not heard their approach, so intent had he been in mixing his herbal brew. He glanced up, startled, as they emerged into his line of vision. He sprang up with surprising agility.

  ‘Peace, peace, Erca. Do you not remember me?’ Fidelma greeted the man in a calming tone.

  The little man looked at her and then at Eadulf. His face was a mask of hatred and his voice cracked as he spoke.

  ‘All I see is a man clad in the robes of a servant of the foreign god and wearing the tonsure of the foreigners. May the gods and goddesses of the Sidhe rise up and drive them all from the land.’

  ‘Eadulf is my husband.’ Fidelma tried to pacify the irate old man in a soothing tone. ‘We mean you no harm.’

  ‘He’s one of those arrogant foreigners who grovels to Rome,’ Erca returned angrily. ‘In that alone there is much harm.’

  ‘I don’t grovel to anyone,’ Eadulf replied, resentment rising in him.

  The old man was not to be silenced. ‘The crow’s curse on you, foreigner. May you leave without returning.’

  Fidelma shot a warning glance to Eadulf, hoping that he would ignore the ancient insults because she needed information from Erca and arguing with the herm
it would not be the way to get it. So she continued to smile at the old man. ‘Come, Erca, we will not trouble you for long. You do not recall me?’

  ‘I remember you well enough,’ Erca replied grumpily. ‘You came to seek my advice on the herbs that grew around here. It was a knowledge that even a child could learn before your religion restricted what they should and should not know. Oh yes, I remember you well enough.’ He frowned as his memory stirred. ‘Yet you are no longer wearing the robes of your New Faith. Before, you called yourself Sister something or other.’

  ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

  The old man gave a bark of sarcastic laughter. ‘An Eóghanacht? I should have known. Betrayers of the Old Faith. Why have you come to pollute my hill, descendant of Óengus son of Nad Fríoch, the Great Betrayer of the Old Faith?’

  Fidelma regarded him with disapproval but she knew that she had to persevere in order to gain the old man’s confidence.

  ‘Seeing that you set such great store by the old religion, the old ways and culture, I would have thought you might have retained the same respect for the old customs.’

  Erca hesitated with one eyebrow slightly raised in query.

  ‘The custom of hospitality was not invented by the New Faith,’ Fidelma said. ‘Or do you approve of old customs being discarded?’

  Spots of red appeared on Erca’s pale, shrunken cheeks. He pointed to a few nearby boulders.

  ‘I have no use for chairs, so you may be seated there. There is a jug of cider here and I will offer a small mug apiece.’

  ‘You are most hospitable, Erca,’ Fidelma replied gravely. Only Eadulf heard the sarcasm in her voice.

  Once the ritual of seating and accepting drinks had been made, Fidelma asked: ‘Have you heard of a woman called Brancheó?’

  The old man’s eyes narrowed, showing that the name had immediately registered.

  ‘The raven-caller? Why do you wish to speak of her?’

  There was a note in his voice which made Fidelma ask a further question. ‘Do you know her?’

  Erca made a gesture with a skinny arm. Almost a half-wave. ‘Who does not know of her among the followers of the old ways?’

  ‘Then indulge me, Erca, for I had never heard of her and would know something more of her.’

  ‘Why would a daughter of the Eóghanacht be interested in Brancheó?’ he countered suspiciously.

  ‘Perhaps it is because this daughter of the Eóghanacht is a dálaigh as well as being sister to the King of Muman,’ Eadulf intervened with a heavy tone.

  Erca did not even glance at him but continued to look curiously at Fidelma.

  ‘On this mountain I do not concern myself with things of this world but I suppose that a dálaigh is deserving of some respect. Were not those who were immersed in knowledge, those called Druids, the original speakers of the law? Did they not stand at the Dál and give their judgements? Even before the children of the Gael came to this land, did not Partholon bring the first Druids to the Five Kingdoms? Aye, I remember their names well. Fios, whose name was “intelligence”; Eólas, whose name was “knowledge” and Fochmarc, whose name was “inquiry”. By their names, they were the three foundations of our Faith, our law and society.’

  Eadulf was looking a little helpless as the old man delivered his words with vehemence. Even after all the years that he had spent in this land, there was much about this country that he did not know. Fidelma took pity on Eadulf and she turned to explain.

  ‘Partholon was, according to the ancient chronicle, the leader of the second settlement in this land. He and his people were survivors of a great flood, the Churning of the Waters. He had murdered his mother and father out of envy and greed to be a king. People rose up and he lost his left eye and thereby the kingship. That was the evil curse on him and, although he had been hailed as “chief of all the crafts”, he was forced to wander seven years before he came to this island where he and his people settled and, as Erca says, brought the first Druids and lawgivers to the land.’

  The old man was nodding slightly, his eyes unfocused as if he were dreaming of ancient times; ‘the time before time’ as people referred to them. ‘Aye, I remember their names well,’ he echoed. ‘Partholon’s years were not long, for he did not elude the curse entirely.’

  ‘It is an ancient legend,’ Fidelma said.

  ‘If the curse followed him, what happened?’ Eadulf wanted to know.

  ‘He perished, of course,’ Fidelma replied shortly. ‘And his people also perished of a great plague. They were all buried at a place called Tamhlacht in the kingdom of Laighin, which is why it bears its name.’

  ‘That means the plague burial place?’ translated Eadulf.

  Erca smiled thinly. ‘You have a good knowledge of our language, stranger.’

  ‘We are deviating from the purpose of my coming,’ Fidelma said sharply. ‘I was asking about Brancheó.’

  Erca stared reflectively into the fire. ‘Ah, yes. Brancheó.’

  He stared for so long that Fidelma began to think that he was merely ignoring the question. She was about to chide him when he sighed and said, ‘You were going to tell me why a dálaigh would be interested in the raven-caller. There is no law of the Brehons that forbids the practice.’

  Fidelma decided that the only way to progress her inquiry was to be open.

  ‘There is no law about being a raven-caller, certainly, but there is a law about killing one.’

  Erca’s head jerked up so suddenly that he nearly fell off his seat.

  ‘Who has been killed?’ Erca’s voice caught with a curious emotion.

  ‘The woman Brancheó was killed in Cashel.’

  A long, low sigh escaped the old man’s mouth, like the whispering sound of a wind. Then Erca seemed to grow suddenly older and thinner. There was a long silence before he licked his dry lips and coughed a moment. ‘She was killed? By whom? Was it …?’ He suddenly caught himself.

  ‘We are trying to find out who killed her, Erca. That is why we need to know more about her. The poor woman was a victim of the threefold death.’

  For a long while Erca sat immobile, staring into the fire.

  Fidelma broke the silence: ‘Erca, you were about to ask, was it … what name did you intend to say?’

  ‘No one,’ the old man replied immediately. ‘But Brancheó was my daughter.’ His voice was hollow.

  Once again there was a silence as they digested this news. For some moments the old man continued to gaze into the flickering flames of his fire.

  ‘How did you say that she died?’ he asked eventually. ‘Did you say that she was killed …’ he passed a hand over his face … ‘by the ritual of the threefold death?’

  ‘It was by the ritual that is described in the old stories as the threefold death,’ confirmed Fidelma.

  The old man nodded slowly. ‘So that is the way of it,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Those who do not know, betray themselves with a lack of knowledge.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fidelma was puzzled. ‘I have heard of this tripalism from the ancient texts, but have no understanding of its mysticism and significance.’

  ‘You must know that three is the perfect number of our philosophy. Do not the ancient gods always come in threes – the three goddesses of sovereignty, the three gods of arts and crafts … yes, even the three goddesses of death. All are triune deities.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Eadulf said.

  Erca looked at him sadly. ‘Even in your distorted belief you have to admit there is a beginning, a middle and an ending to life; there is a past, a present and a future; there is a before, a behind, and there is a here and now. In the time beyond time, the belief was that the perfect death came in the ritual form known as the threefold death. The philosophy was perverted by the non-believers so that murder was conceived as having to be done in three ways in order to escape the vengeance of the gods.’

  ‘Are you saying that genuine followers of the Old Faith would not use the threefold death?’ queried Fi
delma. ‘That it is, in fact, a perversion?’

  Erca’s bloodless lips formed a grimace. ‘That is precisely what I am saying.’

  Eadulf was now following the argument. ‘Was the perpetrator’s intent that we should think this was a pagan ritual when it is not?’

  ‘The death that you have described is a perversion of our ancient philosophy. Therefore, whoever killed my daughter was not one of the true keepers of the Old Faith.’

  ‘As this method was employed,’ Eadulf went on, considering the matter, ‘someone intended us to believe that she was being executed by her own Faith. But could it not also be that they might have shared the Faith but had a different interpretation of it?’

  ‘In the very same way that many Christians do?’ Erca sneered. ‘I have heard so many different accounts of your own Faith that you never will agree on one interpretation.’

  It was a point Eadulf felt he had to concede, especially in view of the recent discussions on heresy.

  ‘Tell me,’ he asked, trying a different aspect, ‘does the perfume of lavender play a part in your beliefs?’

  Erca was bewildered by the question. ‘Lavender? No, it plays no part in any of our rituals, although I have heard it is used by the Greeks and Romans who trade it for enormous sums. Why, Roman merchants at Port Lairge expect the equivalent of a month’s labour in return for a single bag of the dried flowers.’

  ‘But it does grow here?’

  Erca shrugged. ‘Some have tried to grow it. It has little use although I have heard herbalists say it prevents the bite of midges. Others maintain it is a stimulant. But it has no ritual significance for us. It is grown in Gaul and the southern lands inhabited by the Romans.’

  ‘Let us return to your daughter, Erca,’ Fidelma said gently. ‘I presume she dwelled here with you?’

  ‘No, she dwelled up by the icy lakes in Na Comeraigh.’

  Eadulf knew these were the twelve tall peaks that lay to the south across the great Plain of Femen. The name seemed to have an effect on Fidelma.