“Ruisín?” intervened Fidelma, interested by Laisran’s concern. “Who is he?”
Laisran replied immediately.
“He is. . he was,” he corrected, “a champion of the Osraige.” He turned back to Lígach. “What has happened? An accident?”
Lígach shook his head.
“We think a surfeit of alcohol has killed him.”
Fidelma raised an eyebrow in query. Lígach saw the look and answered.
“He was taking part in a challenge. Crónán, the champion of the Fidh Gabhla, had challenged him as to how much ale each of them could consume. Suddenly, with no more than the first jug taken, Ruisín collapsed, and was carried to his tent, but when we laid him down we found his pulse no longer beat.”
“A drinking contest?” Fidelma’s features twisted into a grimace of disapproval. Drink in moderation, wine with a meal, there was nothing better. But to drink to destroy the senses was pathetic, something she could never understand.
Lígach was defensive.
“There are often such contests between the champions of the clans. A clan can lose all honor if their champion fails.”
She sniffed in distaste.
“Far be it for me to condemn anyone when a man lies dead, but my mentor, the Brehon Morann, always said that alcohol is lead in the morning, silver at noon, and gold at night and lead always follows the period of gold. So excessive drinking is merely a pursuit of fool’s gold.”
“Please, my lord,” urged Lígach, ignoring her, “come, confirm his death and perform the last rite of the Faith. Ruisín’s wife Muirgel is with the body and is in distress.”
“Lead me to his tent, then,” Laisran said, and then glancing at Fidelma, “Perhaps you would like to accompany me, Fidelma? You might be able to formulate some words to the widow for I feel myself inadequate to utter comfort in such circumstances.”
Reluctantly, Fidelma fell in step with the abbot. She, too, could not think what might be said to comfort someone who drank him or herself into an early grave for the sake of a wager. They followed the nervous chieftain to the area of the field where the tents of those participating in the fair were raised. A small group stood outside one tent, which marked it off as the one in which Ruisín’s body had been laid. The group of men and women parted before them.
Lígach went in before them.
Inside, a woman was kneeling beside the body of a man. She was young and fairly attractive. She glanced up as they entered. Fidelma noticed that her face wore an almost bland expression. The eyes were large and round and dry. There was no discernible grief in the face, not the tearful lines of one struck by sudden grief.
“This is Muirgel,” Lígach said quickly.
The young woman regarded them curiously. She seemed almost a somnambulist. It was as if she was not quite cognizant of her surroundings.
“Muirgel, this is Abbot Laisran and Sister. . Sister. .?”
“Fidelma,” supplied Laisran, bending down to the body.
Fidelma glanced down. The man whose body lay there had been a big, broad-shouldered man with a shock of red curling hair and a beard that covered most of his barrel chest. He had obviously been a strong man.
A thought struck Fidelma.
“What work did this man do?” she asked Lígach quietly.
“He was a blacksmith, Sister,” replied the chieftain.
“Didn’t you say that he collapsed after the first jug of ale had been consumed?”
“I did so.”
Laisran, kneeling beside the body, suddenly expelled the air from his lungs with a hiss.
“The man is, indeed, dead. I am sorry for this anguish that has been visited upon you Muirgel. Lígach, would you take Muirgel outside for a moment?”
Fidelma frowned at the studied seriousness of Laisran’s voice.
Lígach hesitated and then reached forward to help Muirgel to her feet. She did not actually respond willingly but she offered no resistance. It was as if she had no will of her own. She allowed Lígach to lead her out of the tent without a word.
“Shock, perhaps,” Fidelma commented. “I have seen death take people so.”
Laisran did not seem to hear her.
“Take a look at the man’s mouth, Fidelma,” he said quietly. “The lips, I mean.”
Puzzled a little, Fidelma bent down. She found that the man’s beard was so full and wiry that she had to pull it back a little to view his mouth and the lips. Her brows came together. The lips were a bright purple color. Her eye traveled to the skin. She had not noticed it before. It was mottled, as if someone had painted a patterning on the man.
She looked up.
“This man has not died from an excess of alcohol,” Laisran said, anticipating her conclusion.
“Poison?”
“Some virulent form,” agreed Laisran. “I have not practiced the apothecary’s art for some time, so I would not be able to identify it. Death was not from excessive alcohol, that is obvious. He was young, strong and fit, anyway. And if it was poison that caused his death, then. .”
“Then it was either an accident or murder,” concluded Fidelma.
“And no poison would enter a jug in a drinking contest by mere accident.”
“Murder?” Fidelma paused and nodded slowly. “The local Brehon must be summoned.”
There was a movement behind them. Lígach had re-entered the tent, unnoticed by them. He had heard their conclusion.
“Are you sure that Ruisín has been murdered?” he demanded, aghast.
Laisran confirmed it with a quick nod of his head.
“And are you Fidelma of Cashel?” Lígach added, turning to Fidelma. “I heard that you were attending the Fair. If so, please undertake the task of inquiring how Ruisín came by his death for I have heard great things of you. As organizer of the Fair, this is my jurisdiction and I willingly grant you the right to pursue these inquiries. If we do not clear this matter up then the reputation of the Aenach Carman will be blighted for it will be said, murder can be done within the king’s shadow and the culprit can escape unknown and unpunished.”
Before Fidelma could protest, Laisran had agreed.
“There is none better than Fidelma of Cashel to dissect any web of intrigue that is woven around a murder.”
Fidelma sighed in resignation. It seemed that she had no choice. It was time to be practical.
“I would like another tent where I may sit and examine the witnesses to this matter.”
Lígach was smiling in his relief.
“The tent next to this one is at your disposal. It is my own.”
“Then I shall want all involved in this matter to be gathered outside, including the widow, Muirgel. I will tarry a moment more with the body.”
Lígach hastened off, while Laisran stood awkwardly as Fidelma bent down to examine the body of Ruisín very carefully.
“What should I do?” he asked.
Fidelma smiled briefly up at him.
“You will witness my inquiry,” she replied, “for I would not like to be accused of interference by the Chief Brehon of Laighin.”
“I will guarantee that,” confirmed Laisran.
Fidelma was carefully examining the body of the dead man.
“What are you looking for?” the abbot asked after a while.
“I do not know. Something. Something out of the ordinary.”
“The extraordinary thing is the fact that the man was poisoned, surely?”
