He picked it up and examined the curious mountings.
‘This is a strange object for you to be presented with.’
‘I was not presented with it,’ said Fidelma. Briefly, she recounted the events at Ferloga’s inn. ‘I thought that I would show it to old Brother Conchobhar as he knows much about such things. As soon as I have bathed and rested, I’ll go and have a word with him.’
She showed Eadulf the other items that she had brought from Ferloga’s inn.
‘So there is no indication of the old man’s identity among his possessions? ’ asked Eadulf,
Fidelma shook her head. ‘It would be sad for him to be buried without a name, for he must have been someone of consequence to have such belongings.’
‘And the coins,’ added Eadulf, as he inspected them. ‘These coins are valuable. I wonder what manner of man he was?’
‘It is a waste of time to speculate without facts,’ Fidelma admonished, but with a mischievous smile for it was a saying of which she was particularly fond. ‘We’ll wait to hear what old Conchobhar has to say.’
It was late afternoon before Fidelma made her way down to Brother Conchobhar’s apothecary shop, tucked away in the shadow of the chapel within the fortress complex. Eadulf had been summoned back to Bishop Ségdae for further discussions and so she had gone alone.
As she entered the gloomy interior, the musky smell of the dried herbs and potions caused her to halt momentarily and catch her breath. The odours were not unpleasant but merely heavy. At the far end of the shop, bent over a table with pestle and mortar and various bowls and vessels, beneath a hanging oil lamp, was an old man in worn and stained brown robes.
He glanced up and, seeing her there, he rose from his stool, coming forward with a smile and outstretched hands to greet her. Brother Conchobhar had known Fidelma since childhood for he had served her father, the King Failbe Flann, and, indeed, other kings of Cashel before and since. For many it seemed impossible to imagine the great capital ofMuman without the aged figure of Conchobhar, the apothecary, physician and astrologer. He had taught his skills to many, including a young Fidelma who had been anxious to be proficient in as many of the arts as possible.
In spite of their long relationship, Brother Conchobhar was always punctilious in addressing her as ‘lady’, although he had nursed her through childhood ailments, had taught her and advised her. She had only once disagreed with his advice and that had been when he had suggested that she was ill-suited to life as a religieuse at the abbey of Cill Dara. In fact, old Conchobhar knew her character so well that he had disagreed with her entering the religious life at all. That she had left Cill Dara soon after entering it was never mentioned. While she was entitled to be called ‘Sister’, he reminded her that she was the daughter of a king, the sister of a king and of the line of the Eóghanacht. ‘Lady’ was the more respectful form of address in old Conchobhar’s eyes.
‘Is all well, lady?’ he asked now. ‘You and yours are not ailing and need my potions?’
Fidelma smiled pleasantly. ‘Thanks be, no, we stand in no need of cures or restoratives, my old friend. But I do stand in need of your knowledge and advice.’
‘How can I be of service, lady?’ He suddenly realised she was holding a staff in her hand and peered at it.
‘Can you identify this?’ she asked, allowing him to take it and move to the better light provided by his lantern.
He stood turning it over, examining it carefully. ‘I have not seen anything like this since I was a child,’ he observed at last. ‘It is very old and beautiful. Where did you get it?’
‘So you have seen something like it before?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘Tell me about it first.’
Brother Conchobhar shrugged. ‘It is an old staff that symbolised one of the wise teachers of the times before the New Faith was brought to this land.’
‘The Druids?’
Brother Conchobhar nodded absently. ‘The Druids — and that should be a term of respect, for the word “vid” means “knowledge” and the prefix “dru” means “an immersion”. The Druids were considered as people who were immersed in knowledge. There were none wiser nor better informed.’
Fidelma could not hide her impatience. ‘I have heard all about them and, indeed, I have met some who still claim to be so. Yet they are people who cling on to the old beliefs and ideas.’
‘This symbol speaks of a teacher of some importance. Where did you get it?’ he asked again.
Fidelma told him what had happened at Ferloga’s inn.
Brother Conchobhar was thoughtful. ‘Did he carry anything else with him? Anything other than the staff?’
Fidelma reached into the bag she carried and brought out the gorget, its polished crescent shape sparkling with its curious designs and symbols beaten onto the panel. Brother Conchobhar took it and, unexpectedly and uncharacteristically, a soft whistle broke from his lips.
‘I did not think that anything like this would have survived the zeal of those who spread the New Faith in this land. I have seen something similar only once before in my life, and it was on the body of a dead man. They said he was a great teacher, a mystic but withal a pagan. The object was taken from him by a warrior and, at the direction of a priest, was cast into the sea with the body of the man, with many prayers and cries to Christ to protect the pious.’
‘Superstition and fear is no way forward,’ Fidelma said.
‘Any faith is spread by a certain degree of fear, lady,’ the old man replied philosophically. ‘Faith is not logic otherwise it would not be Faith. In those times it came down to those whose magic was the more powerful. That is why the stories of the miracles had to be told so that people would know what power the early fathers of the Faith had over their pagan enemies. Hence the Blessed Patrick could walk into fires or the Blessed Ailbe could restore to life the son of Mac Dara after he had drowned in the river. Look how it is told that Patrick smashed the skull of the Druid Lochru on a rock, using, as we are told, his magical powers to do so. This was to demonstrate that his magic was more powerful than their magic. In fear, they turned to the Faith that he brought as being more advantageous to their well-being. This fear spreads the Faith.’
Fidelma was slightly disapproving of the argument but she knew the stories well enough. For herself, she did not believe in miracles of any sort.
‘So this is a symbol of the old beliefs?’ she said quickly as she saw the old man about to extend his argument.
‘It may well be the only surviving symbol of a great Druid.’ Brother Conchobhar nodded slowly.
‘You think the old man who died in Ferloga’s inn was such an important member of the Old Faith?’
‘It is impossible to say with certainty, but it is rare to come upon suchaccoutrements. Do you know anything else about him? Was it known where he came from or where he was going?’
‘Apparently, he was from the north. He asked Ferloga the innkeeper, what road he should take for Cnánmhchailli. But there are no dwellings around there. It is an empty and desolate place.’
Brother Conchobhar’s eyes had widened. ‘Except for the ancient pillar stone,’ he pointed out.
‘So Ferloga said,’ Fidelma grimaced. ‘Why go to an old, decaying pillar stone? I have passed it a hundred times. It is of no significance.’
‘To you, perhaps. But if this man were truly one of those who clung to the pagan ways, then it might make sense that he would be going there.’
‘How so?’
Brother Conchobhar leaned forward, confidentially. ‘Have you heard of the legends of Mug Ruith?’
‘The sun god of the pagans?’
‘Yes. He became known as
When Fidelma smiled cynically, Brother Conchobhar told her: ‘It is not wise to dismiss other beliefs without understanding them. Among those who cling to the Old Faith it is said that Mug Ruith is their great champion against Christianity and that his Roth Fáil, his wheel of light, will one day be an engine of destruction that will sweep the teachings of Christ out of the five kingdoms; that we will once again encompass the old way. I
