Colgú was slightly bewildered by the question.
‘Finguine? Our cousin? Why should there be?’
Fidelma did not feel his questions needed an answer. ‘Was there?’
‘None as I recall. Why do you ask?’
‘When the derbfhine of our family met to appoint the tanist to his father Cathal Cú cen Mathair, was there dissension between you?’
Cathal had been King of Cashel before Colgú.
‘I do not think so.’ her brother frowned.
‘Cathal had two sons,’ she pointed out. ‘Finguine, who is now Prince of Cnoc Aine, and Ailill, who is Prince of Glendamnach. Of the two, Finguine was of age to be elected tanist; surely hewas hurt when he was not chosen to succeed his father as King of Cashel?’
‘So were many others of the derbfhine who were equally qualified, Fidelma. But that is the law of our kingship succession. It has been so even when our ancestor Eber Fionn settled with the children of the Gael in this land and it will be so while noble Gaelic families survive in this land. Our young brother, Fogartach, might well have been my tanist if he had chosen but he prefers to stay away from politics. So when Donndubhain was elected my tanist, my heir-apparent, it could be said that many of our cousins were disappointed. Yet the heir is always elected by the derbfhine of the family. The tanist must be appointed and confirmed by the derbfhine.’
Fidelma understood the kingship succession of the kingdoms of Eireann very well. There was no automatic eldest male heir succession as in other lands. Among the children of the Gael, the family of the king formed an electoral college, and a tanist, or heir-apparent, was chosen as being the man best fitted for the task of kingship; he could be a son, but equally a brother, uncle or cousin of varying degrees of relationship. While usually a male tanist was chosen, it had even been known that a female could be chosen as leader but only for the term of her life, for her offspring could only be regarded as belonging to the clan of their father and not to the people of their mother’s father.
‘What makes you ask about Finguine?’ Colgú was interested.
‘I was interested, that’s all. Some idea that I had.’
‘Well, I can’t recall any animosity between Finguine and myself when I was made Cathal’s heir-elect although …’ he paused, as if he had suddenly remembered something.
Fidelma raised her head and looked searchingly at him. ‘What?’
‘I do recall that there was some quarrel between Finguine and Donndubhain when he was elected my tanist. Finguine was favoured to be tanist but he seems to have accepted the decision. He was undoubtedly vexed at that time. Though I cannot understand it. Finguine is nearly my age and I plan to live a long life, so that the chances of him ever becoming king, even if he were my heir-elect are slim indeed.’ Colgú grinned at his sister: ‘I plan to be King of Muman a long time in spite of conspiracies and assassinations.’
‘Then,’ Fidelma observed quietly, ‘I have much work to do, brother, to ensure that this hearing does not go against us.’
She rejoined Eadulf after the midday meal and they took a stroll around the walls of the palace. The wind was blowing strongly from the south and it was chill. They had put on their woollen cloaks and wrappedthemselves against the icy fingers of the southerly winds as they paced the battlements.
‘Apparently there is quite a lot of excitement in Cashel,’ Eadulf remarked as they gazed down on the town below. ‘People have been flocking in to attend the hearing from many places. I understand that there is a lot of ill-feeling towards the Uí Fidgente since news of the attack at Imleach and the fate of the yew-tree has been spread about the country.’
Fidelma looked troubled. ‘Have you ever played tomus?’ she asked.
Eadulf shook his head. ‘I have never heard of it,’ he assured her.
‘It’s a word that means “seeking out”, “weighing matters”. It’s the name we give to a game here in which we have numerous little wooden pieces which can fit together to form a picture.’
‘Tomus? No, I’ve never come across it.’
‘No matter. It’s just that I feel that I have all the pieces spread out on a table before me. Some of them have already fitted themselves into a pattern. Some are more intriguing and seemed to fit here or to fit there. But what it needs is one more single piece which would suddenly make all the pieces fit and thus the picture will be clearly revealed.’
‘Then you feel that you are close to the answer to this mystery?’
Fidelma sighed deeply. ‘So close … and yet …’
‘Fidelma!’
They turned at the call and were confronted by Finguine, who came up behind them. He was also dressed for the winds that blew across the Rock of Cashel; his thick, dyed woollen cloak was fastened around his neck by his round silver, solar-symbol brooch with its garnet stones.
‘I am glad that you made it back safely. Had I known you were leaving Imleach when you did I would have offered you an escort.’
Fidelma regarded her handsome cousin speculatively, trying to read what lay behind his smiling features.
‘I probably would not have made good company with Solam,’ she pointed out.
He laughed disarmingly. ‘Solam? Had I not escorted that little ferret of a man, then I doubt he would have reached here at all. Have you heard of the anger building up against the Uí Fidgente? The news of the attack at Imleach has been spreading rapidly. The destruction of the sacred yew-tree is something that the people are not going to forgive.’
‘So everyone has made up their mind that it was the Uí Fidgente?’ queried Fidelma. ‘I know that Nion, the bó-aire of Imleach, firmly believed it.’
Finguine frowned. ‘Nion? Yes, he is sure that there is some conspiracy … here in Cashel.’
‘Is that why he accompanied you here?’ she asked mildly.
‘So you have seen Nion in the palace? Yes, that’s why he accompanied me here, so that he might testify. When he does, those who stand ready to betray Cashel to the Uí Fidgente will fall.’
Fidelma blinked at the curious inflection in his voice. It was as if Finguine were trying to tell her something by innuendo.
‘Do you share Nion’s belief?’
‘There is no doubt in anyone’s mind. As the dálaigh of Cashel you will be expected to destroy the Uí Fidgente Prince at the hearing. The eyes of all the nobles of Muman will be upon you. A great restitution will be demanded and that compensation will place the Uí Fidgente for ever in our debt so that they will never rise up again.’
‘That sounds dangerously close to seeking punishment rather than retribution,’ observed Fidelma.
Finguine’s voice was harsh. ‘Of course. Let us plant the seeds of destruction among the Uí Fidgente now. For too long they have been an irritant to the Eóghanacht of Muman. If our children are to live in peace, we must ensure that they are so suppressed by our anger that they will never dare raise their eyes again and cast envious looks against Cashel!’
‘It is in the epistle to the Galatians where it is written “whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap”,’ Fidelma remarked.
‘Nonsense!’ snapped Finguine. ‘Are you saying that you plead for the Uí Fidgente? Remember your duty is to Cashel. Your duty is to your brother!’
Fidelma flushed. ‘You do not have to remind me of my duty, Prince of Cnoc Aine,’ she replied; her voice was cold.
‘Then remember the writing of Euripides, for I know that you are always fond of quoting the ancients. The gods give each his due at the time allotted. Due will be given to the Uí Fidgente and the allotted time draws near.’