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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Principal Characters

  Map

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Also by Peter Tremayne and featuring Sister Fidelma

  Copyright

  For Tanya and Marianne in memory of the good guidance of Cyrille (1899–1970) and Odeyne (1907–66)

  Remember the days of our youth

  And with fondness recall

  Lemon teas in the garden

  Those long summers of yore.

  Anon

  Quia anima carnis in sanguine est et ego dedi illum vobis ut super altare in eo expietis pro animabus vestris et sanguis pro animae piaculo sit.

  For the life of the flesh is in the blood; and I have given it to you upon the altar to make an atonement for your souls, for it is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul.

  Leviticus 17:11

  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, heir apparent to Colgú

  Beccan, steward of the palace

  Áedo, Chief Brehon of Muman

  Aillín, Deputy Chief Brehon

  Caol, Commander of the Nasc Niadh, bodyguards to the King

  Gormán, a warrior of the Nasc Niadh

  Enda, a warrior of the Nasc Niadh

  Dar Luga, airnbertach or housekeeper of the palace

  Brother Conchobhar, the apothecary

  Muirgen, Fidelma’s nurse

  Nessán, her husband

  Aibell, an escaped bondservant

  Ordan of Rathordan, a merchant

  Spelán, a shepherd

  Rumann, inn-keeper

  At Ara’s Well

  Aona, the tavern-keeper

  Adag, his grandson

  At the Abbey of Mungairit

  Abbot Nannid

  Brother Cuineáin, the steward

  Brother Cú-Mara, of Árd Fearta

  Brother Lugna, the abbey’s horse-master

  Brother Ledbán, an elderly groom

  Maolán, a copyist

  By the River An Mháigh

  Temnén, a farmer and former warrior

  At the Ford of Oaks

  Conrí, warlord of the Uí Fidgente

  Socht, a warrior

  Adamrae (Gláed)

  Brother Cronan

  Sitae the inn-keeper

  At Dún Eochair Mháigh

  Cúana, steward of the fortress

  Ciarnat, a servant

  At the mill of Marban

  Marban, a millwright

  Near Rath Menma

  Cadan, a farmer

  Flannait, his wife

  Suanach, an old woman

  By the River Ealla

  Fidaig of Sliabh Luachra, chief of the Luachair Deaghaidh

  Artgal, his son

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The events in this story follow in chronological sequence those related in The Seventh Trumpet. They are set during the month called Cet Gaimrid, the start of winter, on the feast day of the Blessed Colmán mac Lénine of Cluain Uamha (Cloyne, County Cork), which in modern calendars is 24 November.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Eadulf was staring moodily out of the window at the darkening sky above the fortress of Cashel, the stronghold of Colgú, King of Muman. The Kingdom of Muman was the largest and most south-westerly of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann. The air was chill, and all day grey stormclouds had raced across the sky; low and intense, driven by strong and angry winds.

  ‘It will snow before long,’ he observed, turning to where his companion was seated before a mirror, putting the final touches to the position of a silver circlet which crowned her red-gold hair.

  ‘Rain is more likely,’ Fidelma replied, continuing to concentrate on her reflection. ‘It is not quite cold enough for snow.’

  ‘It’s cold enough for me,’ Eadulf muttered with a shiver as he left the window and crossed to where a wood fire was crackling in the hearth. ‘At least, whatever arrives, it should come and go quickly, for the clouds are moving fast with this westerly wind.’

  ‘It is the month of Cet Gaimrid, the start of winter,’ Fidelma pointed out, rising from her seat. ‘What do you expect but cold weather?’ She turned again to regard herself critically in the mirror. ‘Now, tell me truthfully, how do I look?’ She moved her head from side to side in order for him to inspect her.

  Eadulf smiled softly. ‘Even more beautiful than the first time I saw you.’

  Fidelma pulled a face at him in mock disapproval but she was not displeased with his response. Having finally left the religious, casting aside the robes of brown woollen homespun, she had now donned the clothes that revealed her as a Princess of the Eóghanacht. Eadulf knew that she only put on such fine clothes when there was an important occasion to be observed; this night was such an occasion.

  There was a gentle tap on the door, and in response to Fidelma’s invitation it opened to admit a middle-aged woman of ample proportions with greying, untidy hair. Judging from her weathered skin, she was more used to the open air than the enclosure of the palace. She was dressed in comfortable homespun. Clutching her hand was a young child, about three years of age, with a mop of bright red hair and features that resembled Fidelma’s.

  ‘I thought you would like to say good night to your little one before you go to the feast, lady,’ the nurse, Muirgen, announced.

  Fidelma immediately dropped into a crouch and held out her arms.

  The boy ran forward to hug his mother. Then he pulled away from her with an anxious frown. ‘Muimme says you are going to a feast. Are you going away for a long time? When will you come back?’

  Fidelma laughed easily and hugged her son again. ‘We are only going down into the great hall, Alchú. You know where that is. We shall be back after our meal.’

  Eadulf tried to conceal the emotion he felt. During the first three years of little Alchú’s life it seemed that they had barely spent any time with the boy. They were always travelling on some errand, either on behalf of Fidelma’s brother, the King, or on behalf of the clergy. Eadulf had seen what effect it had on the child, and he felt that it was time they settled into a more stable way of life. Their son was always nervous when there was any hint of them leaving. Eadulf’s one abiding image of Alchú was of the boy, standing in the cobbled courtyard, clutching at his nurse’s hand and trying not to give way to tears as he watched them ride out from Cashel.

  ‘We are not going anywhere, Alchú,’ he declared firmly, scooping the little lad in his arms and giving him a mock throw into the air.

  The boy chuckled as he came down and clung to his father’s shoulder, his blue-green eyes gleaming.

  ‘Take me riding tomorrow, athair?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll take you, little hound,’ said Fidelma, giving the literal meaning of his name.

  ‘We’ll both take you,’ Eadulf promised, and set him down. Fidelma raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly, for she knew that Eadulf was not a natural horseman like she was and preferred to walk rather than ride. ‘Now you run off to bed like a good boy. We’ll look in on our way back from the feast and we’ll expect you to be asleep.’

  ‘Goodnight, mathair, goodnight, athair,’ the boy said solemnly. Then he turned to his nurse with a skip. ‘I am going riding tomorrow, muimme!’ he shouted.

  The elderly woman reached out a hand to take his. She acknowledged Fidelma and Eadulf with a quick nod before leading the boy from the room.

  For a moment or two, Eadulf stared at the closed door. One thing he could never get used to in this adopted language of his was the fact that he and Fidelma were addressed by the formal athair and mathair, Mother and Father, while the intimate forms of muimme and aite, Mummy and Daddy, were reserved for foster-parents. He had heard the explanation many times but could never really understand it.

  The clan society of the Five Kingdoms was also based on a fosterage system. When boys and girls reached the age of seven years old, they were sent away for their education in what was known as fosterage. It was practised by persons of all classes, but especially by nobles. Nobles fostered other nobles’ children; kings fostered other kings’ and nobles’ children. There were two kinds of fosterage – for affection or for payment. Among the nobles it was
usually for affection. In this manner, the closest of ties were developed between the ruling families and the relationship was regarded as a sacred bond, as if it was a blood tie. In such a deeply based kin-society it was a sure way of preventing conflict and warfare.

  In many ways, Eadulf felt it was a laudable system. It was just that the closeness of the fosterage system seemed to have caused a change in language whereby the blood parents were addressed in formal terms while the foster-parents were addressed in intimate terms.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Fidelma’s voice cut into his thoughts.

  Eadulf turned and gave her a quick smile. ‘I was wondering what the reason was for this special feast that your brother has called for this evening?’

  ‘It is held in memory of a great poet and churchman of our people who died seventy years ago,’ she replied. ‘His name was Colmán mac Lénine.’

  ‘And are his poems worthy of such a celebration?’

  ‘Some would appear to think so,’ she said. ‘He was acclaimed as the royal poet of Muman. However, it is his services to the Faith that the abbots and bishops of Muman feel should be celebrated. He left the service of the King of Cashel and decided to travel through the kingdom preaching the New Faith. He finally established his own abbey at Cluain Uamha.’

  ‘The meadow of the cave?’ translated Eadulf. ‘Isn’t that an abbey to the south-west of here?’

  ‘Your knowledge is very good.’

  ‘So I suppose Abbot Ségdae of Imleach will be attending this feast?’

  ‘No. The Feast of Colmán keeps him in Imleach. One of Colmán’s achievements was to find the lost shrine of the Blessed Ailbe of Imleach, who brought the Faith to our kingdom. The ancients who buried Ailbe had kept his shrine a secret for fear it would be molested. The time came when no one left alive knew the secret. It was Colmán who solved the mystery and so he is blessed at Imleach and remembered there each year accordingly.’

  Eadulf wondered aloud, ‘So does tonight’s feast commemorate the religieux or the poet?’

  ‘This feast celebrates the whole man,’ Fidelma replied.

  The chamber was suddenly lit by a flash of white light, followed within a split second by a crash of thunder. The echo rumbled in the distance, then died away. There was a moment of silence, then a sound like pebbles being scattered on stone. They could see the urgent flurry of lumps of water-ice landing on the window-ledge. Eadulf peered out, through the hailstones, to the dim outline of the town below. A moment later, the hail gave way to heavy rain.

  ‘You are right, Fidelma. Rain, it is. But let us hope that I am also right and this is no more than a passing rainstorm.’

  A short while later, the couple made their way towards the great hall where the young warrior Gormán, of King Colgú’s élite bodyguard, the Nasc Niadh, stood sentinel at the doors. He grinned as they approached, for he had shared many adventures with them.

  ‘Are you not joining the feast tonight?’ Eadulf greeted him as they came up.

  The young man shook his head. ‘Tonight I have drawn the short straw for guard duty here. No matter.’ He opened the doors of the feasting hall to allow them to pass inside.

  The great hall was a long, narrow room. Along each wall were the tables, leading to another placed broadside on at the head of the chamber and raised on a dais. This was where the King and his personal retinue would sit. On the walls behind the benches were hooks from which shields or pennants, depending on the rank of the guests, were hung. Seated at the tables were some of the lords of the territories of the kingdom, each attended by their shield-bearers. With them were their wives. No one sat opposite one another; only one side of the table was occupied, that being the side next to the wall. Fidelma did not need to examine their shields or pennants to recognise them all. She also knew that each guest had been seated by the steward of the household according to a known priority, thus avoiding any unseemly dispute.

  On the dais, Fidelma’s cousin Finguine, the young heir apparent to the kingdom, was already in his position to the right of the empty chair designated for the King. To the right of Finguine were the Chief Brehon, Áedo, and his deputy, Aillín. The commander of the King’s bodyguard, Caol, the only man allowed to carry his sword into the feasting hall, stood behind the empty chair. To the left were others of the King’s household and their ladies. Acknowledging greetings, Fidelma and Eadulf made their way to their appointed seats on the left. In all, it seemed that there were about forty people gathered for the feast.

  In one corner, behind the top table, stood a fear-stuic, a trumpeter who, at some secret signal, raised this instrument to his lips and let forth three short blasts.

  There was a movement of the curtain behind the King’s chair and through this hidden entrance came the rotund figure of Beccan, King Colgú’s newly appointed rechtaire, the steward of the palace, with his staff of office. He took his position at the side of Caol and thumped the end of his staff three times on the floor. The assembly rose to their feet. There was a moment of silence before Beccan cleared his throat and announced the presence of the King.

  Colgú came pushing through the curtain behind his chair, seemingly embarrassed by the official attention. With his red hair and features, there was no mistaking him for other than brother to Fidelma. Beccan was banging his staff again and starting to intone in a loud voice: ‘Give welcome to Colgú, son of Failbhe Flann son of Áedo Dubh…’

  Colgú slumped in his chair and raised a hand as if to silence his steward.

  ‘Thank you, Beccan,’ he said gruffly. ‘I am sure that all here will know my ancestry.’

  Beccan blinked and a hurt look came over his features.

  ‘But protocol dictates…’ he began to protest.

  ‘We are among friends tonight, Beccan,’ smiled Colgú. ‘We may dispense with the protocol. There are times to stand on ceremony and times when we can relax among those who know us well.’ He motioned to one of the attendants who was waiting patiently with a pitcher of wine. The young man came forward dutifully and poured the liquid into the King’s goblet. Then Colgú rose and raised his goblet to the assembly.

  ‘My friends, it is I who bid you welcome this night. Health to the men and may the women live forever!’

  It was an ancient toast and the assembly rose and responded in kind.

  As the guests settled back, the side doors opened and a line of attendants came forward bringing in the freshly cooked dishes of roasted boar, venison and even mutton. Each dish was attended by the dáilemain, the carver, whose job it was to carve the meat for the guests, and the deoghbhaire or cupbearer, whose task was to keep the guests supplied with drink. In addition, there were platters of goose eggs and of sausages, various cabbages spiced with wild garlic, and leeks and onions cooked in butter. And this was just the first course!

  ‘I wonder who will get the hero’s morsel this evening?’ whispered Eadulf with a smile. He had come to know that at major feasts the person who had performed an outstanding act of bravery was symbolically rewarded with the curath-mir, which was a choice cut of the main meat dish.

  ‘I expect Beccan will announce it shortly,’ Fidelma whispered, ‘if he can overcome his dismay at my brother interrupting his attempt to bestow etiquette on these proceedings.’

  There was a movement at the doors of the feasting hall and the young warrior, Gormán, entered and stood for a moment frowning uncertainly. Beccan, with a glance at Colgú, now busily engaged in conversation with Chief Brehon Áedo, went scurrying down the hall towards him. Fidelma watched as the two engaged in a swift and animated exchange. Then Beccan hurried back to Colgú’s side and bent to whisper in his ear. They seemed for a moment to be disagreeing about something and then Beccan appeared to shrug before he rose and signalled to Gormán. The warrior turned and left the hall.

  ‘I wonder what that is all about,’ muttered Fidelma to Eadulf, who had been hungrily sizing up the joint of venison, which was waiting to be carved. He turned absently, having missed the incident.

  But the door was opening again and Gormán was ushering into the feasting hall a nondescript-looking man clad in religious robes. The religieux stood for a moment as if examining his surroundings, unsure of himself. The guests fell silent, their eyes resting on the unknown guest.

  ‘Come forward, Brother Lennán, and join us,’ Colgú called. ‘I am told that you have journeyed from Mungairit with an important message for me? Come – you have had a tiring journey, so share our feast and we will speak of this matter as you refresh yourself.’