believe that many of the Old Faith still search in the hope of finding the Roth Fáil.’
‘An old pillar stone is hardly the Roth Fáil.’ Fidelma was dismissive.
‘The Druids spoke in symbols. Who knows what they meant? Tell me, did this man carry anything else with him?’
Fidelma brought forth the bag of coins. ‘He carried these.’
Brother Conchobhar emptied the coins on his table and peered at them. ‘Roman coins?’ he asked.
‘Look closer. They are ancient coins of the type the Britons and Gauls used to cast before the coming of the Romans, centuries before the birth of Christ. I have seen them before in my journeys. And here are also somemarked with the name of Tasciovanus, who ruled in Britain two generations before the Romans invaded. Do you see the letters CAM on this gold stater? That signified his capital of Camulodunum. Not one of these coins is later than the time that Rome moved into these territories. They are the most ancient coins of our western world.’
‘Why would this old man be carrying such coins with him?’ frowned the apothecary as he sifted through the coins. ‘This is proof of wealth indeed.’
‘I was hoping that you would have some arcane knowledge that might explain it,’ Fidelma told him.
‘Alas, lady, I have not.’
‘Well, I will leave these items with you, my friend, in case you can discover anything else. If the old man was one of those ancient ones, a man who does not recognise the New Faith, it would be interesting to know what he intended. Do you really think he was searching for the Roth Fáil?’
Brother Conchobhar glanced at her with a worried expression. ‘Perhaps. And there might be something else.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I have heard that there is a new and growing activity from those who adhere to the Old Faith.’
‘Growing activity?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘I haven’t heard this.’ Brother Conchobhar inclined his head seriously. ‘Some travellers from Inis Celtra in the Red Lake told me that they had heard stories.’
‘That is the school which the Blessed Caiman set up. I well remember him from when I was a child. A kindly old man who died when I was away at Brehon Moran’s school.’
‘Indeed. The travellers from Inis Celtra said that they had been hearing stories from some of the remoter regions of Connacht that Christian pilgrims have been attacked by bands who proclaim themselves to be of the Old Faith and who carry a totem with a wolf’s head affixed to it.’
‘A wolf’s head?’
‘Yes. In the old days, among Corco Baiscinn, the people who dwell near the Red Lake, there was a band of those who followed the old religion and they called themselves the Fellowship of the Wolf.’
‘And these stories, are they just stories or did these travellers know for certain such attacks had taken place?’
The old man shrugged. ‘They were repeating stories that they had been told.’
‘One can therefore place no reliance on such tales,’ Fidelma said briskly. ‘You know that. The Faith has only been spread for two centuries in this land and although you will find groups here and there who still believe in the old gods, they are usually elderly folk who cling to the traditions of our ancestors. Violence is not part of their character, nor did the old beliefs teach brutality or violence as a virtue. These people live in perfect amity with their Christian brethren. Indeed, there is something sad about them as they come to accept that the youth have eagerly devoured the New Faith and that the future of this land is inevitably linked with the teachings of Christ.’
Brother Conchobhar’s gloomy features did not lighten. ‘Even so, the story that the travellers recounted was told with such conviction that the Brehon Baithen has gone with some of your brother’s warriors to Inis Celtra to investigate.’
Fidelma was surprised but not concerned. ‘Well, there was no wolf’s head among the possessions of the old man who died at Ráth na Drínne. There seems no link that I can see and no need to bring the matter to the attention of my brother’s Brehon.’
She was about to leave the apothecary shop when Caol burst in. He seemed full of suppressed excitement.
‘Lady, your brother has sent me to bring you to him … immediately.’
‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Nothing, lady, but he asks you to join him at once.’
‘Why does he summon me thus?’ she demanded.
Caol made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘Lady, I am not permitted to say.’ He glanced at Brother Conchobhar and his eyes, still full of some excitement, came back to her. ‘All I can say is that half an hour ago, a messenger arrived from Tara, would not rest, bathe nor refresh himself until he saw the King. He is still with him.’
‘Do you know more?’
‘Lady, do not press me. I must take you to your brother now.’
A deep furrow of curiosity formed on her brow. Fidelma bade farewell to Brother Conchobhar, before turning to follow the commander of her brother’s guard. Caol was moving so quickly that she was forced almost to run to keep up with his strides. They crossed the courtyard in front of the chapel steps and went into the main dwellings. Two warriors, well-known to her, Enda and Gormán, stood outside the doors of her brother’s private chambers. They smiled at her and then Enda turned and struck the door twice before opening it so that she and Caol could pass inside. As Fidelma did so, she thought itstrange that her brother was meeting a messenger from Tara in his private chamber and not in the official reception hall, as was the custom.
Inside, her brother, Colgú, King of Muman, was standing in front of the fire, hands clasped behind his back. His handsome face wore a haggard expression. Before him stood a dishevelled young man, still with the dust of travel on his clothes and exhaustion chiselling his features. He bowed stiffly as Fidelma entered. She acknowledged him with a nod and then addressed her brother.
‘There is bad news from Tara?’ she asked.
‘Caol has not told you?’ demanded Colgú.
‘Caol has told me nothing except that this messenger is from Tara. The expression on your face tells me that he does not bring good news.’
Colgú’s mouth formed a thin line for a moment as though he was hesitant to tell her. Then he said simply: ‘The High King has been murdered.’
There was a pause and, shocked, she looked at the messenger. He seemed to feel the need to confirm Colgú’s statement.
‘It is true, lady. Sechnussach was murdered in his bed.’
Fidelma blinked slightly. The High King had been at her wedding scarcely a year before. She had met him a few times before that and, indeed, had solved a matter of the theft of the official sword of the High Kings of Éireann, without which he would have been prevented from holding office.1 Fidelma had respected Sechnussach for, during the few years he had reigned from Tara over the five kingdoms, he had proved a just and bountiful monarch.
‘Is it known who did this?’ was her next question.
‘It is, lady,’ replied the messenger. ‘It was Dubh Duin of the Cinél Cairpre. He also killed himself when the High King’s guards rushed into the chamber.’
‘The Cinél Cairpre?’ Fidelma thought for a moment.
‘A northern tribe,’ Colgú explained. ‘They claim descent from Cairbre, one of the sons of Niall of the Nine Hostages. They dwell around Loch Gomhna, the Lake of the Calf, in the High King’s own territory of Midhe.’
‘They are Uí Néill, then?’
‘Distantly related to the High King’s own family who descend from another son of Niall. In fact, the Cinél Cairpre once provided a High King themselves — Tuathal Maelgarb. But that was well over a century ago.’
‘And what was the motive for the murder? A blood feud?’
The messenger sighed. ‘Alas, that is not known, lady.’
