The Second Death

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  For Vick and Stef Van Leeuwen and certainly not forgetting Harry, Callum and Ella

  Et infernus et mors missi sunt in stagnum ignis haec mors secunda est stagnum ignis.

  This is the second death, the lake of fire.

  Revelation 20:14

  Vulgate Latin translation of Jerome 4th century

  PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

  Sister Fidelma of Cashel, a dálaigh or advocate of the law courts of seventh-century Ireland

  Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the land of the South Folk, her companion

  At Cashel

  Colgú, King of Muman and brother to Fidelma

  Finguine, tánaiste or heir apparent to the kingship

  Alchú, son of Fidelma and Eadulf

  Muirgen, nurse to Alchú

  Dar Luga, airnbertach or housekeeper to the palace

  Brother Conchobhar, an apothecary

  Ferloga, visiting tavern-keeper from Rath na Drinne

  Ségdae, Abbot of Imleach and Chief Bishop of Muman

  Fíthel, Chief Brehon of Muman

  Warriors of the King’s Bodyguard

  Aidan, Acting Commander

  Enda

  Luan

  In Cashel township

  Rumann, tavern-keeper

  Cerball, Lord of Cairpre Gabra

  Among Cleasamnaig Baodain (Baodain’s Performers)

  Baodain, leader of the Performers

  Escrach, his wife

  Echdae, a bareback rider

  Echna, his partner

  Tóla, horse trainer

  Ronchú, a conjuror

  Comal, his wife

  On the marshes in Osraige

  Rechtabra, a farmer

  Ríonach, his wife

  Duach, Rechtabra’s friend

  Cellaig, Rechtabra’s friend

  On the Mountains of the High Fields

  Brother Finnsnechta, a hermit

  At Cill Cainnech

  Feradach, cenn-feadh, Commander of the township guard

  Abbot Saran

  Brother Failge, his steward

  Ruán, Brehon to Coileach, Lord of the Marshes

  Dar Badh, a servant

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The events of this story follow in chronological sequence those related in The Devil’s Seal. The year is AD 671, in the last days of the month once called Giblean, now April, during the approach of the Bealtaine Fair at Cashel, held on the first day of Cetsoman, which is explained in Cormac’s ninth-century Glossary (Sanas Chormaic) as cét-sam-sín, the first weather of summer, which we now call May.

  It might add to the reader’s appreciation to know that the annals and chronicles of Ireland record, in the period leading up to these events, the burning and destruction of three great Irish abbeys; these were Armagh, Bangor and the ‘House of St Telle’, the latter being located on the Westmeath border. Although there is a slight variation of dates between the annals, I have accepted the dating wisdom of Annála Ríoghachta Éireann (Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland) more popularly known as ‘The Annals of the Four Masters’.

  It might also interest readers that Clochar (today anglicised as Clogher in Co. Tyrone), the ‘place of the stone’, was the site of an abbey and later cathedral founded by St Macartan (Aedh Mac Cairthinn), the disciple and friend of St Patrick. The modern church is only a small one. The ninth-century Félire Óengusso records that a stone stood on the right hand of the porch of the cathedral. Once covered in gold and silver, it was called the Cermand Cestach and had been worshipped by pre-Christians. Cermand was thought to be a local idol, but Cestach means ‘dark riddles’. The stone was also referred to as the Cloch Ór (Golden Stone), said to be a great icon of the Druids, and was noted in the medieval Vita S. Maccarthinni Episcopi Clocharensus. The existence of the stone was also mentioned in commentaries even down to the eighteenth century. Today, however, it no longer seems to exist.

  And for those who like to know locations, Durlus Éile is Thurles, Co. Tipperary; Cill Cainnech (modern Irish – Cill Chainnigh) is, of course, Kilkenny; Sliabh Ard Achaigh (in modern Irish, shortened to Sliabh Ardagh) are the Slieveardagh Hills – the Mountains of the High Fields. Nearby, you may still find where Brehon Ruán dwelled at Tulach Ruán, which is anglicised as Tullaroan, and Osraige is, of course, Ŏssory.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The line of half a dozen or so gaudily painted wagons, some pulled by patient mules and others by oxen, wound its way along the Slíge Dála, the main highway which ran from Tara in the north-east, all the way to Cashel, capital of Muman, the most south-westerly of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann. On a small rise overlooking the ‘Way of the Blind’ – a road so-called because it was said that it was so well built, even the blind could travel it in safety – two figures on horseback watched the wagons moving slowly along its broad stretch.

  ‘Where are they off to?’ demanded Brother Eadulf, surprise in his voice for he and his fellow traveller had only just breasted the rise and spotted the procession.

  The young warrior at his side, Aidan, a member of the King of Muman’s élite bodyguard, the Warriors of the Golden Collar, replied indifferently, ‘To Cashel, I dare say, friend Eadulf. Where else would they be going at this time of year?’

  ‘But for what purpose?’ Eadulf was irritated for he knew well where the Slíge Dála ended. Had he not ridden its entire length from Cashel to Tara and back again only a few years before? Yet Aidan’s answer implied that he should know something more.

  ‘Have you forgotten that in a few days it will be Bealtaine, the Feast of the Fires of Bel?’

  Eadulf frowned, still trying to make a connection. ‘Therefore?’ he prompted.

  ‘Why, it is the day of the Oenach, the Great Fair of Cashel, to mark the start of the pastoral summer season.’

  A memory stirred. ‘I had forgotten,’ Eadulf admitted. ‘You see, I have never been in Cashel during the festival time. The Fates have always placed Fidelma and me in many other parts of the world when the fair has been held.’

  ‘Then you will enjoy it for the first time,’ Aidan said warmly. ‘The fair lasts nine days in which there are athletic sporting contests of all sorts, such as archery, and demonstrations of prowess with arms, horse racing, feats of skill from professional entertainers, feasting, assemblies presided over by the King and his Chief Brehon … why, even the great fairs of Taillteann, Tlachtga and Carman pale into insignificance compared with our fair.’

  Eadulf smiled at the young man’s boastful enthusiasm and turned his attention back to the line of wagons moving steadily south-west along the great road of timber planking, placed directly over the low-lying and boggy marshlands. On firmer terrain, roads were built differently. They were formed of impacted earth and stone, but through bogland the ingenuity and sophistication of the road-builders was apparent. The road was laid with birch runners traversed by large oak planks, the latters’ weight keeping the runners in place and providing a broad and level surface – to the extent that two wagons could pass each other at speed. The road could cross waterlogged areas in the manner of a pontoon, or cross streams and rivers by means of wooden or stone bridges. As Eadulf had discovered, their building and maintenance were strictly governed by law, and the responsibility for the upkeep of the roads lay with the local chieftain.

  Eadulf knew that from this spot where he and Aidan had halted, the road ran on for another twenty or so kilometres to the great Rock of Cashel, which reared above the plains and on which the fortress of Colgú the King dominated the surrounding countryside. As the road moved through this marshland, here and there little hillocks rose out of the bog, like islands rising from the sea. And the bogland could be just as treacherous and unforgiving as the sea to those who missed their way and were sucked into its greedy maws. And even if he had forgotten that it was soon to be the feast day of the Fires of Bel, the ancient God of Light, he should have been reminded by the mass of yellow flowers, symbolic of ‘fire’, that were now bursting into life across the countryside: broom, bog myrtle, marsh-marigolds, even hawksweed appeared here and there.

  On the far side of the highway stood a bog island that he recognised because it seemed to be a mass of impenetrable oak trees made even darker by the overgrowth of ivy that clung everywhere. It was called Daire Eidnech – the Ivied Oak Grove. He knew that among those oaks was a small religious community which had been established a hundred years before by the Blessed Ruadhán of Lothra.

  A series of short sharp bird-calls caused him to glance up at the pale late-spring sun. He saw the small, hovering bird with its familiar grey and russet feathers, as the kestrel began dropping down on its prey. A hare was leaping away at that moment, and even if the kestrel had been large eno
ugh to deal with the mammal, its element of surprise was gone. Eadulf noted the animal’s escape with a certain amount of satisfaction. He briefly wondered why local hares did not dig burrows as they did in his own land. The hares here made their form, or lair, in an oval-shaped hollow within a moss hummock. Even as he formed the question, the obvious answer came to him: it was impossible to dig a dry burrow in the wet bogland.

  ‘We should join the main highway, friend Eadulf, if we wish to get to Cashel before dark,’ Aidan said, interrupting his thoughts, gesturing towards the position of the sun.

  Eadulf acknowledged this with a nod of his head and nudged his placid grey-white cob, with its black patch on the forehead, down the rise, keeping to the small dry track that they had been following through the marsh in order to join up with the larger highway. It was not difficult to follow the path which wound its way across the hummocks, but one had to be extra careful in places, since it would be dangerous to miss one’s footing, with the marshland clawing on either side. Even a path such as this, only big enough for one horse to move in single file, was listed in law, and neighbouring chieftains were deemed responsible for seeing to its maintenance.

  It took the two men some time to negotiate their way onto the main highway, where they paused for a moment.

  ‘We should be home well before sundown,’ Aidan said confidently. ‘The way is easy from here so we can increase the pace, if you wish. The horses won’t tire on this firm surface, and it’s not far now.’

  Eadulf replied with an immediate shake of his head. It was only with extreme reluctance that he made any journeys at all on horseback, even when the mount was placid of temper, like his cob.

  ‘We’ll keep to a steady pace,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

  They set off, relaxing in the afternoon light for, weak as it was, the sun was still warming to the body. They had soon covered a few kilometres, with the ground rising gradually away from the marshland and the more dominant hills now appearing to the south and west. It was as they were coming through an area of sparse woodland that they saw the pall of smoke ahead and smelled the bitter odour of burning on the faint breeze that wafted in their direction. As they followed the roadway, curving through the wood, they came across a long stretch of the highway. Ahead of them, the line of wagons which they had seen previously was halted to one side of the road.

  It was obvious what had caused the pall of smoke. The last wagon in the line was still wreathed in it, although there was no fire. A group of men and women surrounded it; many of them were still carrying buckets, others holding brooms of bound twigs or blankets. The pair of oxen that had been hauling the burned wagon had been unharnessed and led some distance along the road to safety. Now it seemed an argument was ensuing among those who had been putting out the fire. There was shouting and fierce gesticulating.

  Aidan increased his horse’s pace to a trot to bring him swiftly to the scene. The sound of the approaching horses made the band of people turn and those arguing to fall silent as they watched Aidan and Eadulf come nearer.

  ‘Is anyone hurt?’ Aidan called as he halted his mount. The actual fire did not appear to have been a bad one, fortunately.

  No one replied for the moment but several people glanced to one of their number, a tall, broad-shouldered man, who was obviously their leader. He looked like a blacksmith, with bare forearms and a leather jerkin which did little to disguise his muscular arms. His pale blue eyes contrasted with his dark, curly hair.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded rudely. Then his eyes fell on the golden torc around Aidan’s neck. ‘I am sorry, Warrior,’ he muttered, obviously recognising the emblem of the Nasc Niadh, the Bodyguard of the Muman King.

  ‘And you are?’ Aidan asked equally curtly.

  ‘I am Baodain, the leader of the Cleasamnaig Baodain. You may have heard of us?’

  ‘Baodain’s Performers?’ Aidan echoed.

  ‘We are entertainers going to Cashel for the great festival.’

  ‘That much I have guessed.’ Aidan gestured at the burned wagon. ‘I ask again, is anyone hurt? Can we be of help?’

  Baodain looked nervously at his companions before replying, ‘The driver of the wagon has been overcome by the fumes.’

  Eadulf had been gazing at the wagon with interest, since it was an unusual type for the country. It was a four-wheeled, enclosed vehicle with a curving wooden roof of the type he had seen in Gaul. In Rome these wagons, still called by their Gaulish name of rheda, were often adapted for carrying entire families to their summer villas outside the city. They could hold six people seated, with luggage. The wagon was not badly burned and, in fact, it seemed that the burn-marks were restricted to the area where the driver sat. The back of the wagon was like a wooden hut on wheels and it appeared to be untouched.

  Eadulf turned with a frown to the man who called himself Baodain.

  ‘How badly is the driver injured?’

  Baodain shrugged indifferently.

  ‘The driver is dead!’ a woman’s voice called, and the crowd all turned in that direction. She was standing at the rear of the next wagon, and Eadulf could see that she was young and attractive.

  He swung off his horse. ‘I will examine his body.’

  Baodain immediately blocked his way. ‘We want no interference from a foreign religieux,’ he grunted, having identified Eadulf’s accent as not of the country. ‘We will take care of this matter ourselves.’

  Aidan leaned forward on his horse, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword and easing it in the scabbard in an unmistakable gesture. ‘This is Eadulf, husband to the lady Fidelma, sister to King Colgú of Cashel. You will accept his authority, and if you do not, then you will be answerable to mine. I am Aidan, Acting Commander of the King’s Bodyguard.’

  Baodain hesitated a moment as if he would contest the order and then, with a sigh, he stepped backwards. At this gesture, the others moved back too, forming a pathway to where Eadulf could see a body stretched out beside the next wagon further down the line. Eadulf walked quickly over to where it lay face down on the muddy path. It was clear that the flames had caught the left side of the body. Trying to hide his distaste at the injuries and the curious smell like roasting pork, he knelt down beside the corpse, which was that of a boy, clad in a rough homespun cloak now partially burned away. The feet seemed quite small, for one leather sandal had come off his foot and now lay by it. The woollen hood was intact and covered most of his head.

  Eadulf gently pushed the body over on its back. The hood fell away, and as it did so, he gasped aloud in surprise. The side of the face undamaged by the flames was clearly that of a young woman. Even in death, she was pretty; her face was heart-shaped, the skin pale – but there seemed a faint animation remaining to it as if, at any moment, the dead girl would open her eyes and smile at him.

  Eadulf’s lips compressed as he sought to control his emotion. That violent death should come to a young girl with such beauty was always harder to take than death in the elderly and ugly. One immediate thing puzzled him. The burn-marks on her left side were not sufficiently bad, in his judgement, to cause death. Pain and shock, yes – perhaps it was shock that had killed her? His keen eyes now examined the body for any other obvious wounds. There were none. Death had certainly occurred very recently yet the lips had already gone purple and the facial muscles exhibited some degree of rigidity. He swiftly checked to see if there were any means of identification on her person. There did not seem to be anything. The clothes told him little, but he did notice something tucked into one of the sandals. It was a small piece of folded vellum, no bigger than one’s palm.

  Surreptitiously, he unfolded and glanced at it – and immediately felt frustrated. The writing was in the ancient calligraphy called Ogham, consisting of short lines drawn to or crossing, a base line. He had never bothered to learn it as it had long fallen out of general use, and even the language was an archaic one called bérla na filed, ‘the language of the poets’. He could make nothing from the collection of lines, so refolded the vellum and placed it in the small leather pouch he always carried attached to his belt. Finally he stood up and looked towards Baodain and the others who had gathered around.