Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Daolgar gave a long, inward sniff through his nostrils. It was an angry sound. His muscular body was poised as if he were about to spring forward.

“That you admit this thing, a matter known to my people, is a step in the right direction toward reconciliation, Nechtan. I will not let personal enmity stand in the way of a truce between us. All I ask is that such a truce should be supervised by an impartial Brehon. Needless to say, on behalf of my people, compensation for the lost cattle, the deaths in combat, must also be agreed-”

“Just so,” Nechtan interrupted curtly.

Nechtan now ignored Daolgar, turning to the young man who, having filled his goblet, had resumed his place.

“And now to you, Cuill, I have also made grievous injury, for our entire clan knows that I have seduced your wife and taken her to live in my house to the shame of your family before our people.”

The young, handsome man was sitting stiffly on the other side of Daolgar. He tried to keep his composure but his face was red with a mixture of mortification and a liberal amount of wine. Cuill was already known to Fidelma by reputation as a promising decorative artist whose talents had been sought by many a chieftain, bishop and abbot in order to create monuments of lasting beauty for them.

“She allowed herself to be seduced,” Cuill replied sullenly. “Only in seeking to keep me ignorant of the affair was harm done to me. That matter was remedied when she left me and went to dwell in your house, forsaking her children. Infatuation is a terrible thing.”

“You do not say ‘love’?” queried Nechtan sharply. “Then you do not concede that she loves me?”

“She was inspired with a foolish passion which deprived her of sound judgment. No. I do not call it love. I call it infatuation.”

“Yet you love her still.” Nechtan smiled thinly, as if purposely mocking Cuill. “Even though she dwells in my house. Ah well, have no fear. After tonight I shall suggest that she return to your house. I think my… infatuation … with her is ended.”

Nechtan seemed to take amusement from the young man’s controlled anger. Cuill’s knuckles showed white where he gripped the sides of his chair. But Nechtan seemed to tire of his ill-concealed enjoyment and now he turned to the last of the guests-the slim, dark-haired warrior at his right side.

“So to you, Marbán.”

Marbán was Tanist, heir-elect to Nechtan’s chieftaincy. The warrior stirred uncomfortably.

“You have done me no wrong,” he interrupted with a tight sullen voice.

Nechtan’s plump face assumed a woebegone look.

“Yet I have. You are my Tanist, my heir apparent. When I am gone, you will be chieftain in my stead.”

“A long time before that,” Marbán said, evasively. “And no wrong done.”

“Yet I have wronged you,” insisted Nechtan. “Ten years ago, when we both came together before the clan assembly so that the assembly could choose which of us was to be chief and which was to be Tanist, it was you who the assembly favored. You were the clear choice to be chieftain. I discovered this before the assembly met and so I paid bribes to many in order that I might be elected chieftain. So I came to office while you, by default, became the second choice. For ten years I have kept you at my side when you should have ruled in my place.”

Fidelma saw Marbán’s face whiten but there was no registration of surprise on his features. Clearly the Tanist already knew of Nechtan’s wrongdoing. She saw the anger and hatred pass across his features even though he sought to control the emotions.

Fidelma felt that she had no option but to speak up and she broke the silence by clearing her throat. When all eyes were turned on her she said in a quiet, authoritative tone:

“Nechtan of the Múscraige, you have asked us here to forgive you certain wrongs which you have done to each of us. Some are a matter for simple Christian forgiveness. However, as a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts of this land, I have to point out to you that not all your misdeeds, which you have admitted freely at this table, can be dealt with that simply. You have confessed that you should not legally be chieftain of the Múscraige. You have confessed that, even if you were legally chieftain, you have indulged in activities which did not promote the commonwealth of your people, such as encouraging illegal cattle raids into the territory of Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra. This in itself is a serious crime for which you may have to appear before the assembly and my brother, Colgú, King of Cashel, and you could be dismissed from your office-”

Nechtan held up his plump hand and stayed her.

“You had ever the legal mind, Fidelma. And it is right that you should point out this aspect of the law to me. I accept your knowledge. But before the ramifications of this feast of forgiveness are felt, my main aim was to recognize before you all what I have done. Come what may, I concede this. And now I will raise my goblet to each and every one of you, acknowledging what I have done to you all. After that, your law may take its course and I will rest content in that knowledge.”

He reached forward, picked up his goblet and raised it in salutation to them.

“I drink to you all. I do so contritely and then you may have joy of your law.”

No one spoke. Sister Fidelma raised a cynical eyebrow at Nechtan’s dramatic gesture. It was as if they were watching a bad play.

The chieftain swallowed loudly. Almost immediately the goblet fell from his hand and his pale eyes were suddenly wide and staring, his mouth was open and he was making a terrible gasping sound, one hand going up to his throat. Then, as if a violent seizure racked his body, he fell backward, sending his chair flying as he crashed to the floor.

For a moment there was a deadly stillness in the feasting hall.

It was Gerróc, the chieftain’s physician, who seemed to recover his wits first. He was on his knees by Nechtan in a moment. Yet it didn’t need a physician’s training to know that Nechtan was dead. The contorted features, staring dead eyes, and twisted limbs showed that death had claimed him.

Daolgar, next to Fidelma, grunted in satisfaction.

“God is just, after all,” he remarked evenly. “If ever a man needed to be helped into the Otherworld, it was this man.” He glanced quickly at Fidelma and half-shrugged as he saw her look of reproach. “You’ll pardon me if I speak my mind, Sister? I am not truly a believer in the concept of forgiveness of sins. It depends much on the sins and the perpetrator of them.”

Fidelma’s attention had been distracted by Daolgar but, as she was turning back towards Gerróc, she noticed that young Dathó was whispering anxiously to his mother Ess, who was shaking her head. Her hand seemed to be closed around a small shape hidden in her pocket.

Gerróc had risen to his feet and was glaring suspiciously at Daolgar.

“What do you mean ‘ helped into the Otherworld,’ Daolgar?” he demanded, his tone tight with some suppressed emotion.

Daolgar gestured dispassionately.

“A figure of speech, physician. God has punished Nechtan in his own way with some seizure. A heart attack, or so it appears. That was help enough. And as for whether Nechtan deserved to be so stricken-why, who around this table would doubt it? He has wronged us all.”

Gerróc shook his head slowly.

“It was no seizure brought on by the whim of God,” he said quietly. Then he added: “No one should touch any more of the wine.”

They were all regarding the physician with confusion, trying to comprehend his meaning.

Gerróc responded to their unarticulated question.

“Nechtan’s cup was poisoned,” he said. “He has been murdered.”