Peter Tremayne - The Seventh Trumpet

‘I am just going to give some final instruction to Muirgen,’ Fidelma said, jumping to her feet. She always found it difficult to sit still, doing nothing, while waiting for him. If necessary, she could induce the meditation exercise called the dercad , but now was not the time. So she left Eadulf to finish packing his bag and went in search of the nurse.

She was hurrying across an interior courtyard when she became aware of two figures blocking her path.

‘You look absorbed with some weighty matter, lady.’ The speaker was the smaller of the two, a man who spoke in a thin, hesitant voice as though he had some speech impediment.

She noted his pale skin and close-cropped, untidy grey hair. He gave the impression of being emaciated; his eyes were so deeply set under bushy brows that, at first glance, they appeared as black hollows. The red lips were thin and cruel, drawn into a permanent sneer. It was Drón of Gabrán.

Fidelma found herself, not for the first time, musing on the fact that he bore little resemblance to his daughter. And yet … there was something about that mouth, the thin lips, the expression … that marked their relationship; something indefinable. She had heard that Drón had been married twice and there were stories that he kept women in his household. It was rumoured that his daughter, Dúnliath, had actually been raised by his dormun , or concubine, and not by her own birth mother. Fidelma wondered how a man she found so repugnant had been able to attract women to him.

The second figure was her cousin Ailill. He stood deferentially behind Drón as befitted a foster-son. Ailill’s grandfather, Fingen, had been Fidelma’s father’s brother. Until Ailill had arrived in Drón’s retinue, she had not seen him since he was a child. He had been sent to be fostered at Drón’s own fortress at Gabrán, as was the custom to strengthen bonds of kingship in her culture; a practice from remote times followed among all classes of society. Children were sent away to be reared and educated, and those who undertook the task became foster-parents of the child. Now Ailill had grown into a handsome young man of twenty; very tall, with dark, red hair that bespoke his Eóghanacht inheritance, and light blue eyes. He smiled shyly at her in greeting.

‘You seem preoccupied, lady?’ Drón repeated, and Fidelma realised she had been dwelling so deeply on her thoughts that she had not responded.

‘Excuse me, Drón. I am, indeed, preoccupied. I have a commission from my brother which is going to take up my time.’

‘I am sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to inviting you to join Ailill and myself for a hunt today. I thought we could organise a party to see if we could find red deer to compensate for his wasted day yesterday.’

‘Wasted day?’ queried Fidelma absently.

Ailill said sheepishly, ‘I went out hunting on my own yesterday and tracked a magnificent deer all afternoon and evening but, regretfully, had to return to Cashel empty-handed.’

Drón smirked at the discomfiture of his foster-son. ‘He returned well after last night’s feasting and so had to make do with cold meat and cheese. That is why we have taken pity on him today and will organise a hunt as recompense for his failure. Are you sure you cannot join us?’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘I am afraid it is not possible.’

‘A pity. I was hoping to get better acquainted with those who will be my daughter’s new family.’ Fidelma felt the irritation rise in her as the noble continued, ‘Although your cousin, Ailill, here, is as much a son to me as foster-son, so the rights and privileges of your family are not entirely unknown to me and my daughter. After all, Ailill’s own father was once King of Cashel.’

Behind Drón’s shoulder, Ailill gave her a grimace, expressing his disapproval at the impropriety of the remark.

Fidelma needed no reminder that Ailill’s father, Mánach, had succeeded to the kingship and ruled for over twenty years following her father’s death. Mánach had died eight years before, after which another cousin had succeeded, only to succumb to the Yellow Plague. Thus, her brother Colgú became King. Succession was often a tangled skein which was not merely passed through the bloodline but, by the consent of the family, through the electoral processes of the derbhfine , a council usually consisting of three generations from the last King, who then appointed the head of the household according to his ability to fulfil the demands of office.

‘There will be plenty of opportunity for us all to get to know one another in good time,’ she replied distantly.

‘Let us hope so,’ Drón said. ‘When my daughter is installed in this grand fortress I shall doubtless be a frequent guest at Cashel.’

Fidelma fought madly to think of some polite, neutral response.

Thankfully, at that moment, Eadulf appeared. He greeted Drón and Ailill briefly before addressing Fidelma. ‘Apparently Muirgen is in the courtyard with Alchú. Gormán has taken our bags down.’

Drón’s smile was thin. ‘So you are both leaving Cashel? It sounds important, this commission of your brother’s.’

‘A matter concerning the law,’ Fidelma said briefly, not answering his implied question. ‘So if you will excuse us …?’ Without waiting for a response she turned, with Eadulf following her, and made her way down the flight of stone steps that descended into the main courtyard.

As they neared the body, Eadulf whispered: ‘I am afraid I don’t like Drón any more than you do. What is it about people that makes you know instinctively that you cannot trust or make friends with them?’

Fidelma glanced at him and sighed. ‘I feel sorry for my young cousin. Ailill is made to follow Drón about as if he were a servant.’

‘He is over the age of choice,’ replied Eadulf, ‘and is supposed to be Drón’s bodyguard. He seems a pleasant enough young man, anyway. I am sure if he felt things were bad, he would simply leave Drón’s service. The choice is up to him.’

Muirgen, the nurse, was waiting to bid them goodbye, holding little Alchú by the hand. In spite of their journey only being a short one, Fidelma had insisted that Muirgen be prepared, just in case they could not return for a long period. For a few moments they paused to say goodbye to Alchú, who stood with a stubborn look on his features, for he knew what this ritual portended. The set of the little boy’s face seemed to say that he would not give way to the welling unhappiness he felt. Eadulf still experienced guilt at seeing his son clinging tightly to the hand of Muirgen.

Fidelma was about to say her farewells when she noticed that Dúnliath had joined them. The girl’s smile was apologetic as usual.

‘Are you going riding so early, lady?’ she asked, gazing round at them in wonder. ‘Or is it some hunt? My father was talking about a hunt earlier.’

‘Not a hunt, lady,’ replied Fidelma, hoping she would not pursue the question. ‘I have duties to fulfil as a dálaigh .’

‘Of course, I forget that you are so clever,’ sighed the girl without guile. ‘I am not clever at all. On a day such as this, I prefer to sit in the garden and listen to tales of wonder and magic and love. I have found that one of your bards knows the tale of the courtship of Étain, a beautiful tale of immortal love. My mother was named Étain. Do you know the story, lady?’

‘I have heard it,’ replied Fidelma irritably.

‘Étain the wife of Midir was turned into a fly and-’

‘I know the story!’ Fidelma repeated. ‘I am glad that you have found someone to tell it to you. But I must depart immediately.’

The apologetic smile spread. ‘Of course, I am sorry to delay you. It is so wonderful being here in Cashel that I …’