a habit of restively chewing his nails, a habit which Fidelma thought disgusting. It was a fact that, among the professional classes of society, well-formed hands and slender tapering fingers were considered a mark of beauty. Fingernails were usually carefully cut and rounded and most women put crimson stain on them. It was also considered shameful for a professional man to have unkempt nails.
Fidelma knew that the elderly man was Nechtan’s own physician which made his untidy and neglected hands twice as outrageous and offensive in her eyes.
Nechtan smiled at the man. It was a smile, Fidelma thought, which was merely the rearrangement of facial muscles and had nothing to do with feeling.
“I have wronged you, Gerróc, my physician. I have regularly cheated you of your fees and taken advantage of your services.”
The elderly man stirred uncomfortably in his seat but then shrugged indifferently.
“You are my chieftain,” he replied stiffly.
Nechtan grimaced, as if amused by the response, and turned to the fleshly but still handsome middle-aged woman who sat next to Gerróc. She was the only other female at the table.
“And you, Ess, you were my first wife. I divorced you and drove you from my house by false claims of infidelity when all I sought was the arms of another younger and more attractive woman who took my fancy. By seeking to convict you of adultery I unlawfully stole your dowry and inheritance. In this, I wronged you before our people.”
Ess sat stony-faced; only a casual blink of her eyes denoted that she had even heard Nechtan’s remark.
“And seated next to you,” Nechtan went on, still turning sunwise around the circle of the table, “is my son,
Dathó was a slim young man of twenty; his face was graven but his eyes-he had his mother’s eyes and not the grey, cold eyes of his father-flashed with hatred at Nechtan. He opened his mouth as though to speak harsh words but Fidelma saw that his mother, Ess, laid a restraining hand on his arm and so he simply sniffed, thrust out his jaw pugnaciously but made no reply. It was clear that Nechtan would receive no forgiveness from his son nor his former wife.
Yet Nechtan appeared unperturbed at the reactions. He seemed to take some form of satisfaction in them.
Another of the guests, who was seated opposite Ess-Fidelma knew him as a young artist named Cuill- nervously rose from his seat and walked round the table, behind Nechtan, to where the pitcher of wine stood and filled his goblet, apparently emptying the jug, before returning to his seat.
Nechtan did not seem to notice him. Fidelma only half-registered the action. She continued to meet Nechtan’s cold eyes steadily with her stormy green ones, and raised a hand to thrust back the rebellious strands of red hair which fell from under her head-dress.
“And you, Fidelma of Cashel, sister of our king Colgú…” Nechtan spread his hands in a gesture which seemed designed to extend his remorse. “You were a young novice when you came to this territory as one of the retinue of the great Brehon Morann, chief of the judges of the five kingdoms. I was enamored by your youth and beauty; what man would not be? I sought you out in our chamber at night, abusing all laws of hospitality, and tried to seduce you…”
Fidelma raised her jaw; a tinge of red showed on her cheeks as she recalled the incident vividly.
“Seduce?” Her voice was icy. The term which Nechtan had used was a legal one-
Nechtan blinked rapidly and for a moment his face dissolved into a mask of irritation before reassuming its pale, placid expression.
Nechtan bowed his head, as if contritely.
“It was a wrong, good Sister,” he acknowledged, “and I can only admit my actions and plead for your forgiveness.”
Fidelma, in spite of her internal struggle, reflecting on the teachings of the Faith, could not bring herself to indicate any forgiveness on her part. She remained silent, staring at Nechtan in ill-concealed disgust. A firm suspicion was now entering her mind that Nechtan, this evening, was performing some drama for his own end. Yet for what purpose?
Nechtan’s mouth quirked in a fleeting gesture of amusement, as if he knew her angry silence would be all the response that he would receive from her.
He paused a moment before turning to the fiery, red-haired man seated on her left. Daolgar, as Fidelma knew, was a man of fierce temper, given to action rather than reflection. He was quick to take offense but equally quick to forgive. Fidelma knew him as a warm-hearted, generous man.
“Daolgar, chieftain of Sliabh Luachra and my good neighbor,” Nechtan greeted him, but there seemed irony in his tone. “I have wronged you by encouraging the young men of my clan to constantly raid your territory, to harass your people in order to increase our lands and to steal your cattle herds.”
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.”
