Colmán had picked up the stick, taking care to genuflect to keep himself from harm at the handling of such an unlucky instrument, and examined it carefully.
“The piece of aspen is still in sap,” he confirmed wonderingly.
“Garbh had burnt a point on it to ensure that it was hard and able to be used as a dagger. He carved some Ogham on it as an afterthought. That was his vanity. He had taken notice of Fiacc’s exhortation to detail and thought of a great joke to play on Fiacc. If the tomb was ever excavated, they would find Fiacc with an ancient pagan fé stuck into his heart. Garbh was too clever for his own good. It was easy to see that the fé was new-cut. And it proves that Garbh premeditated the murder. He prepared his murder weapon before he entered the tomb. It was not a spur-of-the-moment argument.”
Garbh said nothing. The blood had drained from his features.
“You may take him away now,” Fidelma instructed Irél. “And you may make the arrangements to reseal the tomb … but after the treasures of Tigernmas are replaced in it.” She grinned impishly. “It would not do, this night of all nights, to provoke the spirit of Tigernmas by keeping back any of his gold or silver, would it?”
Abbot Colmán was pouring more mulled wine and handed the goblet to Fidelma. “A sorry story, indeed,” he sighed. “An avaricious official and a corrupt judge. How can such wickedness be explained?”
“You forget Étromma in that summation,” replied Fidelma. “She was the catalyst who made Fiacc’s need of money so desperate and who started this chain of events. It was her lack of love, her selfishness, and, above all, her greed that caused this human tragedy. It is said in the book of Timothy: radix omnium malorum est cupiditas.”
“The love of money is the root of all evil,” translated Abbot Colmán and then bent his head in agreement.
THE HORSE THAT DIED FOR SHAME
“Horse racing,” observed the Abbot Laisran of Durrow, “is a cure for all the ills of humankind. It is a surrogate for people’s aggression and for their greed. We would find the world a harsher place without its institution.”
The Abbot was a short, rotund, red-faced man with an almost exuberant sense of humor. In fact, the Abbot’s features were permanently fixed in a state of jollity for he was born with that rare gift of fun and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it.
Sister Fidelma of Kildare, walking at his side, answered his philosophical pronouncement with an urchinlike grin which seemed to belie her calling as a member of the religieuse of the community of Kildare.
“I doubt that Archbishop Ultan would agree with you, Laisran,” she responded, raising a hand to her forehead in a vain attempt to push back the rebellious strands of red hair which tumbled from beneath her head-dress.
The Abbot’s lips quirked in amusement as he gazed at his onetime protégée, for it had been Laisran who had urged Fidelma to study law under the renowned Brehon, Morann of Tara, and, when she had reached the qualification of Anruth, one degree below the highest rank of learning, becoming an advocate of the courts of law, he had persuaded her to join the community of Brigid.
“But the Bishop Bressal would agree with me,” he countered. “He has two horses which he races regularly and he is not averse to placing wagers on them.”
Sister Fidelma knew that Bressal, who was Bishop to Fáelán of the Uí Dúnlainge, king of Laighin, was a keen supporter of the sport but, then, there were few to be found in the five kingdoms of Éireann who were not. Even the ancient word for a festival in Éireann, aenach, meant “the contention of horses,” when people came together to discuss weighty matters, to race their horses, to place wagers, to feast, to make merry and generally indulge in celebrations. Only recently had Ultan of Armagh, the Archbishop and primate, begun to denounce the great fairs as contrary to the Faith for, so he claimed, the fairs were merely an excuse for the people to indulge in idolatry and pagan dissoluteness. Mostly, his denouncements were ignored, even by his own clergy, for the ancient customs were so instilled in the people’s lives that it would take more than one man’s prejudice to alter or dilute them.
In fact, Ultan’s pronouncements were being ignored that very day by Abbot Laisran and Sister Fidelma as they strolled through the crowds gathering for the Aenach Life, the great annual fair held on the plain which, since the days of the High King Conaire Mór, had been called the Curragh Lifé, or “the race course of the Life,” after the name of the broad river flowing close by, twisting under the shadow of Dún Aillin. Indeed, was it not recorded that the saintly Brigid, who had founded Fidelma’s own community at nearby Kildare, had raced her own horses on this very plain? The Curragh was now the most celebrated race course in all the five kingdoms and the Aenach Lifé attracted people from all the corners of Éireann. Each year, the King of Laighin himself would come to officially open the proceedings as well as to race his own champion horses there.
Fidelma, with a smile, waved away a youth trying to sell them hot griddle cakes, and glanced at her elderly companion.
“Have you seen Bishop Bressal this morning?”
“I heard that he was here earlier,” Laisran replied, “but I have not seen him. He is racing his favorite horse, Ochain, today. However, I have seen the bishop’s jockey, Murchad, laying heavy wagers on himself to win with Ochain. At least Murchad shares the Bishop’s faith in himself and his horse.”
Fidelma pursed her lips reflectively.
“Ochain. I have heard of that beast. But why name a horse ‘moaner’?”
“I understand that Ochain utters a moaning sound as it senses that it is about to win. Horses are intelligent creatures.”
“More intelligent than most men, oftimes,” agreed Fidelma.
“Between ourselves, certainly more intelligent than the good Bishop,” chuckled Laisran. “He is openly boasting that he will win the race today against Fáelán’s own horse, which does not please the King. They say the King is in a sour mood at his Bishop’s bragging.”
“So Fáelán is also racing today?”
“His best horse,” confirmed the Abbot. “And, in truth, there is little doubt of the outcome for the King’s champion Illan is in the saddle and with Aonbharr beneath his thighs, no team in Laighin will even come near… not even Murchad and Ochain. And, indeed, the fact that Illan is riding the King’s horse is doubtless a matter of displeasure for Bishop Bressal.”
“Why so?” Fidelma was interested in Laisran’s gossip.
“Because Illan used to train and race Bressal’s horses before the King of Laighin offered him more money to train and ride Aonbharr.”
“Aonbharr, eh?” Fidelma had heard of the king’s horse. So fleet was it that the King had named it after the fabulous horse of the ancient god of the oceans, Manánnan Mac Lir, a wondrous steed which could fly over land and sea without missing a pace. “I have seen this horse race at the Curragh last year and no one could best it. This horse of Bressal’s better be good or the Bishop’s boasting will rebound on him.”
Abbot Laisran sniffed cynically.
“You have been away traveling this year, Fidelma. Perhaps you have not heard that there is something of a feud now between the King and his bishop. Four times during the last year Bressal has presented horses at races to run against the king’s champion horse and his jockey. Four times now he has been beaten. Bressal is mortified. He has become a man with an obsession. He thinks that he is being made a fool of, especially by his former trainer and jockey. Now he has one aim, to best the King’s horse and Illan in particular. The trouble is that his very efforts are making him a laughingstock.”