The old man wheeled about with surprising dexterity for his age and stomped out of the council chamber.
Colgú’s features broke into a grin, and he said to his sister, ‘If looks could kill, Fidelma. .’ He left the rest unsaid.
‘I would watch Brehon Aillín, lady,’ Gormán muttered, unamused. ‘Enemies such as he can develop their grudges into blood feuds.’
Abbess Líoch now caught their attention. She was clearly irritated. ‘When are we ever going to know why these people have come here?’ she demanded. ‘They seemed to be speaking in riddles.’
‘Let us hope that their objectives will be made clear this evening,’ Colgú replied. ‘I too am tired of these mysteries.’
‘Speaking of this evening,’ Fidelma asked, ‘is there any news of Beccan’s return?’
Colgú sighed. ‘I was relying on Beccan to return to take charge of the welcoming feast this evening. Dusk is already approaching now, so it’s too late to send someone searching for him.’
‘Since he has not returned, who will take charge?’ Fidelma asked.
‘Gormán will have to take over ceremonial duties during the feast. The lot of overseeing the preparation and serving of the food will fall to Dar Luga. There must be music and some entertainment. We would not want to show our guests that we do not know how to entertain strangers.’
‘Of course, we must show hospitality according to law,’ Fidelma agreed. In the household of every king and prince within the Five Kingdoms was a band of musicians who were assigned to provide entertainment, especially for feasting. And among them were trumpeters, who would play on their assortment of horns and trumpets as a mark of honour for distinguished visitors.
‘When our guests enter,’ said the King, ‘the trumpeters must be ready to greet them in traditional form.’
‘What of the music to be played during the feast?’ asked Gormán, taking his duties seriously.
‘I’ll leave you to speak to the musicians, Gormán,’ Colgú said. ‘The music must not be raucous, nor should it be of the kind that sends one to sleep. Tell them to play pieces in the gan-traige style.’
Gan-traige was a form of music that incited merriment and laughter — infectious, happy melodies that would hopefully counter-balance the unfriendly atmosphere that the visitors had so far provoked.
‘We should also have a few ballads after the meal,’ Abbot Ségdae suggested. ‘That will prevent the conversation from becoming too introspective. I heard your bard — what’s his name? — playing his cruit the other day and singing the praises of your victory at Cnoc Áine over the Uí Fidgente.’
The cruit was a small eight-stringed harp on which poets would accompany themselves as they sang their poems and ballads.
Colgú met Gormán’s eye. ‘See to it, but suggest a subject less controversial than the Uí Fidgente plot. What of the one about the Blessed Ailbhe? There is a ballad about him being saved by a she-wolf when he was abandoned as a baby by his father. That will surely appeal to our distinguished religious guests.’
‘It is certainly a good ballad to distract our guests with,’ Abbot Ségdae said approvingly.
Abbess Líoch was still looking unhappy, as were both Sister Dianaimh and Brother Madagan. It was the abbess who brought them back to the main subject.
‘It’s all very well to divert these people with entertainment — but what do they want? They have not even indicated why they have come here. And why here, out of all the Five Kingdoms? That’s what I’d like to know.’
‘Líoch does have a point,’ Fidelma told her brother. ‘Since we have heard of their coming, we have witnessed many inexplicable happenings. Are those events connected with the purpose of their visit?’
‘I cannot extract information if the strangers are not willing to give it,’ Colgú replied defensively. ‘Tell me a means of doing so, and I will do it.’
‘The means will present itself tonight,’ Abbot Ségdae said in a positive voice. There was a sceptical silence and so he continued: ‘I will be the spear-point in the coming conflict. As comarb, the successor to the Blessed Ailbhe, therefore abbot and senior bishop in this kingdom, I shall demand answers!’
‘And if the answers are not supplied?’ There was a slight note of derision in Abbess Líoch’s voice.
The abbot made an eloquent gesture with his hand. ‘Then we have recourse to the law.’
Even Fidelma was confused at this remark. ‘I think you had best explain that.’
‘There is a movement among some clerics, especially those influenced by Rome, to reject our system of law and replace it with what they call the “Penitentials”. A few of our abbeys are introducing them. They are a foreign abomination and I am against them.’
‘We can agree in that, but what are you saying?’ asked Fidelma.
‘In our society, an abbot or bishop has no more rights under our law than a secular lord. He is constrained by the law. If he misbehaves, his tuath, the people, can impeach him. He must be heard before a gathering of the derbhfhine of the abbey, who are considered his family. If found guilty of misconduct under the law, they can dismiss him and elect a new abbot or bishop.’ He addressed Abbess Líoch: ‘And of course, the same law applies to the abbesses and their houses.’
He paused again for a moment, in order to gather up his arguments. ‘All clerics of high rank have equal rights to provincial kings and are treated equally. I am an Eóghanacht and my honour price under law is fourteen cumals.’
Fidelma was shaking her head. ‘I still do not understand. How does this mean that we might be able to force the strangers to tell us why they are here? What recourse to law are you suggesting?’
‘There is a text in the Bretha Nemed toísech pointing out that a cleric is called upon to give dagfolad or consideration to society. If he refuses consideration, then he must face the consequences.’
Fidelma’s eyes suddenly lit up as she began to see the point he was developing.
‘The Córus Béscnai speaks of the consequences of the wrongdoing of clerics, even abbots and bishops. They can be treated like any other wrongdoer,’ she said slowly.
Abbot Ségdae was smiling triumphantly. ‘Do not the ancient annals tell us that even high-ranking churchmen can be taken as hostages and have their rights stripped from them, be confined to the territory and made to work for the good of the community?’
Colgú leaned forward nervously in his chair.
‘Now wait. Are you suggesting that we have Gormán and his warriors here take Verax and Arwald as prisoners? Surely that would produce outrage in their own lands, and the next thing would be that foreign armies would land on our shores and we would have to contend with them. That is something I do not want to see!’
Fidelma was chuckling reassuringly. ‘With God’s help, neither shall you, brother. What Abbot Ségdae is talking about is only the threat that this could be done — while not making the threat a reality. It is a bluff that, should there be further prevarication, we can use by simply pointing out our system of law. Why,’ she warmed to the idea, ‘a few years ago, the Council of Brehons even passed an amendment to the laws, speaking of the punishment which should be imposed on a bishop who stumbles in the performance of his duties and obligations to the community.’
‘Very well, how do we confront people like the Venerable Verax and Bishop Arwald?’ Colgú wanted to know. ‘How do you wrap up in diplomatic language the threat that either they tell us what they are doing here or we will simply reduce them to what they call slaves in their own country?’