Muadnat. “I am not without sympathy for your situation. There are doubtless several victims in this terrible drama. Yet I still do not understand why Dagháin would do this thing. She was the wife of a Tanist, heir presumptive to the throne of the Laighin, while Illan was merely a jockey. How could she behave thus simply because Illan rejected her for a new lover?”
The question was aimed at Fidelma.
“There is no simplicity about the complexity of human emotions, Fáelán,” replied Fidelma. “But if we are to seek the real victim then it is the poor beast Aonbharr. Truly, Aonbharr was a horse that died in an attempt to conceal the shame of others.”
A trumpet was sounding outside.
Fáelán bit his lip and sighed.
“That is the signal for me to open the afternoon’s race … my heart is not in it.”
He rose and automatically held out his arm to Muadnat, his wife. She hesitated before taking it, not looking at her husband. There would be much to mend in that relationship, thought Fidelma. Then Fáelán turned and called to his bishop:
“Bressal, will you come with us? Stand alongside me while I open the proceedings so that the people will clearly see that we are together and are not enemies? As neither of our horses can now enter this race let us show unity to our people for this day at least.”
Bressal hesitated before nodding his reluctant agreement.
“I’ll send your fee to Kildare, Fidelma,” Fáelán called over his shoulder. “I thank God we have Brehons as wise as you.”
After they had left the tent, Énna slowly rose. He stared at Fidelma and Laisran with sad eyes for a moment.
“I knew she was having an affair. I would have stood by her, even resign my office for her as I will now. I would not have divorced nor rejected her had she come to me with the truth. I will continue to stand by her now.”
Fidelma and Laisran silently watched him leave the tent.
“Sad,” remarked Fidelma. “It is, indeed, a sad world.”
They left the tent and began walking through the shouting, carefree masses, milling toward the race course. Fidelma smiled thinly at Laisran.
“As you were saying, Laisran, horse racing is a cure for all the ills of humankind. It is a surrogate for people’s aggression and for their greed.”
Laisran grimaced wryly but was wisely silent before the cynical gaze of his protegee.
INIVITATION TO A POISONINIG
The meal had been eaten in an atmosphere of forced politeness. There was a strained, chilly mood among the diners. There were seven guests at the table of Nechtan, chieftain of the Múscraige. Sister Fidelma had noticed the unlucky number immediately when she had been ushered into the feasting hall for she had been the last to arrive and take her seat, having been delayed by the lure of a hot bath before the meal. She had inwardly groaned as she registered that seven guests plus Nechtan himself made the unfavorable number of eight seated at the circular table. Almost at once she had silently chided herself for clinging to old superstitions. Nevertheless she conceded that an oppressive atmosphere permeated the hall.
Everyone at the table that evening had cause to hate Nechtan.
Sister Fidelma was not one to use words lightly for, as an advocate of the law courts of the five kingdoms as well as a reli-gieuse, she used language carefully, sparingly and with as much precision in meaning as she could. But she could think of no other description for the emotion which Nechtan aroused other than an intense dislike.
Like the others seated around the table, Fidelma had good cause to feel great animosity toward the chieftain of the Mús-craige.
Why, then, had she accepted the invitation to this bizarre feast with Nechtan? Why had her fellow guests also agreed to attend this gathering?
Fidelma could only account for her own acceptance. In truth, she would have refused the invitation had Nechtan’s plea for her attendance not found her passing, albeit unwillingly, through his territory on a mission to Sliabh Luachra, whose chieftain had sent for her to come and judge a case of theft. As one qualified in the laws of the Brehons to the level of
As it turned out, Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra, who also had cause to dislike Nechtan, had similarly received an invitation to the meal and so they had both decided to accompany one another to the fortress of Nechtan.
Yet perhaps there was another reason behind Fidelma’s halfhearted acceptance of the invitation, a more pertinent reason; it was that Nechtan’s invitation had been couched in very persuasive language. He begged her forgiveness for the harm that he had done her in the past. Nechtan claimed that he sought absolution for his misdeeds and, hearing that she was passing through his territory, he had chosen this opportune moment to invite her, as well as several of those whom he had injured, to make reparation to them by asking them to feast with him so that, before all, he could make public and contrite apology. The handsomeness of the language was such that Fidelma had felt unable to refuse. Indeed, to refuse an enemy who makes such an apology would have been against the very teachings of the Christ. Had not the Apostle Luke reported that the Christ had instructed: “Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other…?”
Where would Fidelma stand with the Faith if she refused to obey its cardinal rule; that of forgiveness of those who had wronged her?
Now, as she sat at Nechtan’s feasting table, she observed that her dislike of Nechtan was shared by all her fellow guests. At least she had made a Christian effort to accommodate Nechtan’s desire to be forgiven but, from the looks and glances of those around her, from the stilted and awkward conversation, and from the chilly atmosphere and tension, the idea of forgiveness was not the burning desire in the hearts of those who sat there. A different desire seemed to consume their thoughts.
The meal was drawing to a close when Nechtan rose to his feet. He was a middle-aged man. At first glance one might have been forgiven for thinking of him as a jolly and kindly man. He was short and plump, his skin shone with a childlike pinkness, though his fleshy face sagged a little around the jowls. His hair was long, and silver in color, but combed meticulously back from his face. His lips were thin and ruddy. Generally, the features were pleasant enough but hid the cruel strength of character which had marked his leadership of the Múscraige. It was when one stared directly into his ice-blue eyes that one realized the cold ruthlessness of the man. They were pale, dead eyes. The eyes of a man without feeling.
Nechtan motioned to the solitary attendant, who had been serving wine to the company, to refill his goblet from the pitcher which stood on a side table. The young man filled his vessel and then said quietly: “The wine is nearly gone. Shall I have the pitcher refilled?” But Nechtan shook his head and dismissed him with a curt gesture so that he was alone with his guests.
Fidelma inwardly groaned again. The meal had been embarrassing enough without the added awkwardness of a speech from Nechtan.
“My friends,” Nechtan began. His voice was soft, almost cajoling, as he gazed without warmth around him. “I hope I may now call you thus, for it has long been in my heart to seek you all out and make reparation to each of you for the wrong which you have suffered at my hands.”
He paused, looking expectantly around, but met only with embarrassed silence. Indeed, Fidelma seemed to be the only one to raise her head to meet his dead eyes. The others stared awkwardly at the remains of the meal on their plates before them.
“I am in your hands tonight,” went on Nechtan, as if oblivious to the tension around the table. “I have wronged you all…”
He turned to the silent, elderly, nervous-looking man who was seated immediately to his left. The man had
