Atonement of Blood

CHAPTER NINE

The day was damp and chill, the clouds dark and lowering, as Fidelma and her companions progressed westward through the flat, marsh-like countryside. Now and then they passed isolated fortified homesteads but there was little sign of human activity.

‘What do you expect?’ asked Brother Cú-Mara, when Eadulf commented on the fact. ‘This is the start of winter. The harvest has been gathered in and stored, and there is little enough to do but bring the animals into the barns, keep them foddered and stay warm until the light returns.’

The bleak landscape and the big grey skies reminded Eadulf of his own country. In this area there was hardly anything that resembled a real hill, let alone a mountain. It was very much like the fens of the Kingdom of the East Angles, a series of fresh- and salt-water wetlands, often flooded by the rise and fall of the sea-levels from the Sionnan Estuary, a short distance to the north of them. It was an area criss-crossed by streams and rivers and a few meres or shallow lakes with the surrounding areas of peat.

It was Gormán who suddenly articulated Eadulf’s thoughts. ‘This is an inhospitable country. The Uí Fidgente are welcome to it.’

Brother Cú-Mara sighed. ‘Don’t forget, warrior, that the Uí Fidgente claim the same descent as the Eóghanacht. From the time of Fiachu Fidgenid, three centuries ago, they have claimed to be descendants of Cormac Cass, the elder brother of Eógan Mór.’

‘Our genealogists have disputed that claim,’ intervened Fidelma firmly. ‘That argument was laid to rest when they were defeated at Cnoc Áine by my brother.’

‘The only thing Cnoc Áine laid to rest was Prince Eóganan’s uprising against Cashel,’ replied the young steward.

Fidelma was reminded that the steward was himself a member of the Uí Fidgente. ‘Well, there is a peace between us now.’ She did not want to get into an argument with Brother Cú-Mara as she respected the young steward.

He smiled. ‘That is true, lady. And such arcane matters of who is right and who is wrong should be best left to the old, white-haired genealogists, rather than settled by the shedding of the blood of young men.’

They eventually came to a substantial river flowing from the south which turned sharply along their path to the west.

‘Is this the Mháigh?’ asked Eadulf, wondering why they were not following it to its source southwards.

‘No, it is a river called Bearna Coill — the River from the Gap in the Woods — which is exactly where it emerges,’ explained Brother Cú-Mara. ‘It flows into the Mháigh further on — and that river is much broader than this one.’

He was right. Soon they heard the rushing sounds of the meeting of the two large rivers. One broke into the other, causing a clash of currents, white-crested and billowing, before the reinforced waters roared on hungrily to the north where they would join the even mightier Sionnan.

Brother Cú-Mara flung out his arm dramatically. ‘There is An Mháigh, the River of the Plain.’

It was, indeed, as substantial a waterway as Eadulf had ever seen. On the banks were several buildings and one of them, judging by a couple of boats outside, bobbing up and down in the currents, was the home of a ferryman.

‘That is where I cross the river to continue to Ard Fhearta,’ confirmed Brother Cú-Mara. ‘So this is where I must take my leave of you.’

They waited until the young steward had led his ass onto the sturdy ferryboat. The ferry was pulled across the river with a series of ropes by a team of two men and two asses on the far bank. With the turbulent current at that point, any boat propelled by oars would have simply been swept downriver. However, it did not take very long before Brother Cú-Mara was leading his ass onto the far bank. Once mounted, he turned and waved before disappearing westward along the track.

Fidelma and her companions turned back the way they had come, for they had passed a wooden bridge a short distance back which led across the waters of the Bearna Coill to bring them southwards, along the eastern bank of An Mháigh. They were conscious of the skies continuing to darken now, and far to the south came a faint rumble of thunder.

‘A storm approaching,’ muttered Gormán unnecessarily, looking at the clouds that were beginning to race across the skies in ever-tightening dark billows, as if pushing each other out of the way in some curious race to the north-east. ‘I doubt if we’ll make the Ford of the Oaks before it breaks. That’s the next township along the river,’ he added for Eadulf’s benefit.

His doubts were quickly confirmed as large splatters of rain began to come down, increasing in size and rapidity.

Gormán, screwing his eyes against the sting of the almost horizontal rain, suddenly pointed.

‘There is a cabin ahead. It looks like a farmstead. Let’s seek shelter there.’

Heads down against the now wild, wailing wind, which seemed to be throwing the rain in torrents against them, the crack of thunder and sudden bright flashes of lightning spooking their horses, they pushed on towards the buildings.

‘You seek shelter with friend Eadulf at the cabin, lady,’ yelled Gormán. ‘I’ll take the horses to that stable over there.’ He gestured to a dark outbuilding.

Fidelma and Eadulf slipped from their horses into the squelching mud while Gormán gathered the reins and fought his way through the sleeting rain towards the stable. Wiping the water from her face, Fidelma hammered on the door. She heard a muffled exclamation and then the door swung open.

A tall, well-built man stood framed against the light of a lantern. The darkness of the storm had made it necessary for, although it was only midday, the heavy clouds seemed to have plunged them into the night.

The man seemed to be a person of quick comprehension and decision. He simply stood back and motioned them inside, shutting the door behind them.

‘Stay, Failinis!’ he shouted.

They turned to see that a large hound had risen from its place by the hearth and was sniffing enquiringly towards them. It immediately returned to its place, yet its eyes remained on them, watchful and ready.

‘Our companion has taken our horses to your stable for shelter,’ gasped Fidelma, still wiping the wetness from her face. ‘We hope that you have no objections.’

‘I would not deprive anyone of shelter on such a day as this,’ the man replied. ‘There is plenty of room in the stable. Will he need help?’

‘He will manage,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘And we thank you for your hospitality.’

The man seemed to examine them for a moment or two from eyes that sparkled like points of fire, reflecting the flicker of the lantern. He was of middle age with lean features and tanned skin. The remains of youth and handsome good looks were still etched in his features and yet there seemed a tension around his mouth which gave the impression of age and weariness. Although he was dressed as a farmer there was something about his carriage, the upright way he held himself, that did not quite match.

‘My name is Temnén,’ he announced, as if he realised that they were waiting for him to introduce himself first. He turned to Eadulf with raised brows.

‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the Land of the South Folk.’

‘A Saxon?’

‘An Angle,’ corrected Eadulf patiently.

The man’s eyes suddenly narrowed as if trying to remember something. ‘Brother Eadulf …?’

He was interrupted by a knocking at the door. He turned and swung it open and Gormán staggered in, mud-stained and soaked.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered, thrusting the door shut behind him. He stood leaning against it, breathing heavily from his exertion running through the mud and storm to the cabin.

Temnén nodded briefly and went to a side table where there was a jug and clay beakers.

‘A drink of corma to keep out the winter chill?’ he asked, his gaze sweeping over them. They assented readily.

He began to pour. ‘We were in the middle of introductions,’ he said across his shoulder. ‘If this is Brother Eadulf, then you, lady, are …’

‘My name is Fidelma,’ she replied. ‘Our companion is Gormán.’

Temnén swung round rapidly, beakers in hand, examining each in turn before he handed Fidelma and Eadulf their drinks. He then poured one for Gormán and one for himself, raising his drink in a silent toast as they all took a swallow of the fiery liquid. He motioned for them to seat themselves round a central hearth in which a smouldering peat fire was sending out its warmth.

‘The heat will quickly dry your clothes, but I would suggest that you remove your cloaks to allow them to dry more quickly. You are all soaked through.’

They did so with gratitude.

‘So,’ resumed Fidelma, ‘your name, you say, is Temnén? I take it you are a farmer?’

The man bowed his head in a solemn gesture. ‘That is now my lot, lady. I farm this small piece of land with some cattle, some pigs, two horses and my hound as my companion.’

‘You do not look like a farmer,’ Eadulf commented.

‘What is a farmer supposed to look like?’ laughed their host good-naturedly.

Eadulf shrugged. ‘I suppose I could only give the answer that I will know a farmer when I see him. You do not look like a man who has spent his life tilling the soil or herding cattle.’

Temnén regarded him for a moment and then said: ‘So what are a Princess of Cashel and her husband doing in the land of the Uí Fidgente?’

Gormán frowned and glanced at Fidelma. Temnén noticed and addressed him.

‘Have no fear, warrior — I presume that you are a warrior of Cashel — although it is a strange Cashel warrior who carries an empty sheath and lacks the insignia of the Golden Collar. Anyway, there can only be one Brother Eadulf in these parts and the stories of Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf are told and retold around many a hearth at night.’

Fidelma inclined her head. ‘That is flattering to know. I must tell you, however, that I am no longer in the religious.’

‘I have heard that you prefer your role in the Law to your role in the Faith,’ replied the man. ‘So, as I was saying, what brings you here? Apart from want of shelter from the storm, that is.’

‘You seem very well informed for a farmer, Temnén,’ Eadulf observed.

‘I have made it a rule in life to be as well informed as I can be. Is it not an old saying that knowledge is power?’

‘It depends on what power you seek, my friend,’ replied Eadulf.

‘The knowledge to provide for myself and protect my people.’

Fidelma peered quickly round the house and the man caught her doing so. He chuckled again.

‘You look for signs of a wife and children, lady? Alas, you will not find them. My wife was killed several years ago, as was my son. He was but a baby and died from want of his mother’s milk. They were bad days.’

There was no rancour in the man’s voice. It was almost emotionless, as if the stated facts were somehow unconnected with him.

‘Are you referring to the time of the Yellow Plague?’ asked Fidelma.

‘It was the time following our defeat at Cnoc Áine.’ A bitter smile came to his lips. ‘Ah, yes. Bad days, best forgotten by those who can forget.’

‘A lot of people were killed in that useless conflict,’ Fidelma pointed out sharply.

‘Too many,’ agreed Temnén, and now there was a trace of anger in his voice.

‘So you were a warrior?’ interposed Gormán.

‘Not by choice.’

‘But you fought at Cnoc Áine?’

‘I remember wandering over that dark hillside among the dead and the dying,’ the man confirmed. ‘I was lucky. A blow to the head rendered me unconscious for a while, and when I came to, the battle was over. I can remember the human vultures crawling over the battlefield and taking things from the slain, even from those who were not yet dead. Swords, jewels, torcs, shields, anything they could lay their hands on, all taken away as if they were prizes of honour. And I admit, the scavenging was not all done by the victors. Sadly, I saw many of the Uí Fidgente taking what they could before fleeing from the field.’

‘Many were slain on both sides at Cnoc Áine,’ Fidelma said once again, but this time she spoke sadly.

‘And many slain after the battle on Cnoc Áine,’ grunted Temnén.

Fidelma was puzzled. ‘After the battle? I am not sure what you mean.’

‘Many, like my wife and child, were killed after we had disarmed and surrendered.’

‘My brother would not countenance that,’ Fidelma protested, shocked at the assertion.

‘Who did your brother send to ensure our people were pacified?’ the farmer asked, his voice sounding tired, as if teaching a well-known fact to someone who would not learn.

‘It was Uisnech, Prince of the Eóganacht Áine,’ supplied Gormán, adding sarcastically, ‘and he was ambushed and killed by your so-called disarmed warriors.’

Temnén turned with a grim smile. ‘And deservedly so. He made this land a desert with his raids and burnings until at last the people could stand it no more and he was caught on a lonely hillside and cut down.’ He sighed deeply. ‘His death did not bring back my wife and child.’

Fidelma was quiet. Somehow she knew that the man was not making up the story. She had met Uisnech only twice and knew instinctively that he was a man not to be trusted. ‘I did not know of this,’ she said after a while, ‘and I am sure that my brother did not know either. He had given command to Uisnech of the Eóghanacht Áine after the battle. Uisnech was to deal with any who objected to the surrender. Later Donennach came to Cashel and agreed a treaty on behalf of the Uí Fidgente. We knew, of course, that Uisnech had been killed in an attack and that was just before the peace was agreed.’

Temnén nodded slowly. ‘Bad days,’ he said, as if agreeing with her. ‘Yet they are hard to forget.’ He drew back his shoulders with a cynical laugh. ‘I will say one good thing of Uisnech, if it is true. That he caught and slew Lorcán the son of Prince Eoganán, who was both a vicious and cruel man, although he was a Prince of the Uí Fidgente.’

‘I thought Torcán was Eoganán’s son?’ Eadulf asked, remembering back to when he had been held captive before the battle and had encountered Torcán.

‘Eoganán had three sons. Torcán was the eldest,’ Temnén explained. ‘The other two were …’ He used a word — emonach — that Eadulf had not come across before.

Fidelma quickly translated for him. ‘Twins.’

‘They were as alike in looks as if they were one,’ agreed Temnén. ‘But in character they could have been born of different parents. Lorcán was ruthless and without morals even to his own people. No one shed a tear when he was killed. At Cnoc Áine, Lorcán had a moment of glory when it was thought he had killed King Colgú. He went round waving the King’s shield and claiming that he had killed him. That soon turned out to be a falsehood.’

‘So Lorcán was killed?’

‘But that was after Cnoc Áine. Uisnech caught and slew him but Uisnech slew a good many of our people.’

‘Why did you fight at Cnoc Áine?’ Eadulf asked softly.

‘I was a bó-aire, a young noble, and when Eoganán’s rider came with the fiery cross to summon all the clans to his side, I took my arms and my horse, bade my wife and child farewell and rode off. We were young and our love of country sped through our veins like intoxicating liquor. We became drunk on it.’

‘And you did not question the morality of Eoganán’s cause?’ asked Eadulf.

Once more there was a smile on the face of the man, albeit a bitter one.

‘How does a simple warrior assess morality? Morality is for kings and philosophers, not for warriors.’ He turned to Gormán. ‘Do you ever debate with your King or even your captain when you are given an order? When you are told to do something, do you sit down and ask whether the order is right and moral?’

Gormán pressed his lips together nervously and glanced at Fidelma as if seeking guidance. Temnén saw the look and slapped his thigh with a sudden, unexpected hoot of laughter.

‘So, my friend, you prove my point. You are not even sure that my question should be answered without receiving an order from your superior. Of course, you don’t question your order. You fulfil it and, sometimes, if you have a conscience, you struggle with justifying your actions to yourself in the long dark nights that lie ahead.’

There was a silence and then Fidelma asked softly: ‘Is that what you have been doing, Temnén?’

He glanced at her, his face angry for a moment, and then his facial muscles seemed to relax again. ‘You are a wise woman, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he said.

‘Tell me, Temnén, what was the name of your wife?’

‘Órla,’ he replied, his eyes misting for a moment. Then: ‘You have not told me what brings you here,’ he said brusquely.

‘We are on our way to Dún Eochair Mháigh,’ she replied.

‘You will waste your time if you are going to see Prince Donennach. He is in Tara.’

‘We know that,’ Eadulf blurted out and then regretted it, for the man turned to him with an interested look.

‘So you are not here to see our Prince. What is your purpose then?’

‘You will hear soon enough, Temnén, and so it will do no harm to tell you now,’ Fidelma replied. ‘My brother lies near death if he has not already passed to the Otherworld. There was an attempt to assassinate him at Cashel. At the same time Áedo, the Chief Brehon of Muman, was struck down.’

Temnén’s eyes widened. ‘And you are looking for the assassin? How could he have escaped from the middle of your brother’s fortress?’

‘I did not say he had escaped. He was struck down himself.’

‘Then why do you come here?’

‘The name he gave was Brother Lennán of Mungairit.’

Temnén sat back in astonishment. ‘Lennán the physician? But I was told he had died on the slopes of Cnoc Áine!’

‘We found that out when we went to Mungairit and spoke to his father, an elderly man named Ledbán.’

‘Old Ledbán? Does he still live? He used to run the stables of Codlata close by Dún Eochar Mháigh. Codlata was Prince Eoganán’s steward. He disappeared after Cnoc Áine. But Ledbán retired to a monastery some years before that.’ He paused. ‘I still do not understand. If Lennán was killed at Cnoc Áine, how could he have been killed at Cashel? Ah.’ A look of understanding settled on his features. ‘You are here to find out who the man who called himself Lennán really was — and why he used that name.’

‘So you knew Ledbán, you say? What did you know of him?’

Temnén rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘Little enough, except that some years ago he was in service to Codlata, whose rath was at the Ford of Flagstones. Ledbán must be elderly now. Brother Lennán was his son. I simply knew him as a physician from Mungairit who came to tend the wounded during the battle. He was no warrior. He should not have been killed.’

‘You know nothing else about Lennán or Ledbán?’

‘If you spoke with Ledbán at Mungairit you must have learned all he could tell you.’

‘Ledbán died the evening we arrived there,’ replied Fidelma.

There was a moment of silence and then Temnén said reflectively: ‘That was bad fortune.’

‘Indeed it was,’ returned Fidelma. ‘Then there is little you can tell us about Lennán or his family?’

‘Little enough, other than what I have already told you. But there may be some left at An tAth Leacach, the Ford of the Flagstones, who still remember old Ledbán. As I recall, the old man was well known for his work with horses.’

‘When the storm clears, we shall continue on there.’ Her sentence was punctuated by another clash of thunder.

Temnén glanced up to the ceiling, as if able to peer through it to the storm raging above.

‘This will not pass for some time. I suggest that you join me in the eter-shod, the middle-meal?’

It was usual to have a light meal between the morning breaking of the fast and the evening meal. Temnén was no poor provider. He produced some cold joints of ham called saille, deriving from the word for salt and applied to any salted meat, for the joints were salted for preservation. These had been mixed with berries of rowan to enhance its flavour. There were also indrechtan, sausages made of a pig’s intestine, stuffed with minced meat, creamh or garlic, folt-chep or leeks, and inecon, carrot that had been cooked, pickled and placed on the table. There was also a dish of barley cakes, the inevitable basket of apples and a jug of ale.

‘You serve an excellent table, Temnén, especially for one who lives alone,’ Fidelma observed.

The farmer shrugged. ‘I make use of that which I am surrounded by.’

‘You work this farm alone?’

‘During the summer months I sometimes share the work and produce with my neighbours.’

‘I did not see any fences marking the boundaries of your farm,’ observed Eadulf.

‘What need?’ replied Temnén. ‘So far as the land is free from forest and bog, it is clan land, and as I was a bó-aire there was little need for fences to mark out my portions of it.’ He hesitated. ‘But after Cnoc Áine some of us are beginning to mark our land even though it was once common property.’

‘It is true that as tillage increases, the Council of the Brehons have introduced new regulations regarding the erection of fences between farmsteads,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘The laws now state how such fences are to be constructed, and if they are not constructed well then the owner is liable if animals are injured by them. For example, if a fence was so constructed that stakes were too sharply pointed and placed in a way to cause injury, that would bring the owner into difficulties.’

‘Doubtless Cashel will send a Brehon to teach our backward lawyers the new laws,’ Temnén said sarcastically.

‘Only if they need instruction,’ replied Fidelma without taking offence. She felt that she should make allowances for the bitterness of the bó-aire. ‘But this law does not come from Cashel. You know that every three years the Brehons gather to discuss and update the laws, and these are promulgated in the name of the Chief Brehon of the Five Kingdoms.’

Temnén suddenly relaxed and smiled.

‘There is much resentment in this land, lady. I suppose I am a symptom of it. It is hard not to feel aggrieved when you see your territory being changed by defeat and conquest.’

Fidelma saw that Gormán was having difficulty restraining himself and she gave the young warrior a warning glance.

‘We won’t argue the rights and wrongs. In Cashel we feel it was wrong for Prince Eoganán to lead his people into rebellion against us and thus, being defeated, the Uí Fidgente reaped what they had sown. Unfortunately, as we have already discussed, in warfare the innocent are swept away with the guilty. That is the sad lesson of life that we must all live with.’

As Temnén was carving the cold ham, his hound, which had been lying so quiet they had almost forgotten it, suddenly gave a little whine and thumped its tail on the floor. It still lay stretched in the corner, but its eyes were alert.

The farmer chuckled. ‘At least I have one faithful companion.’

He sliced some more meat from the bone and then picked it up, showed it to the dog, which sat up expectantly and uttered a soft growl.

‘Here, Failinis!’ He tossed the bone towards the hound who caught it with a mighty snap of its jaws and then turned away to its corner to gnaw on it.

‘Failinis,’ remarked Fidelma. ‘That was the magical hound of the God Lugh of the Long Hand.’

Temnén chuckled again, though this time, it was a sound without humour. ‘I do not consider myself a deity or even a great warrior, as Lugh was said to be. I named him as tribute to the fact that Failinis was a steadfast companion and guardian to the gods.’

‘You need a decent hound on a good quality farm such as this,’ Eadulf observed.

‘Good quality? This is only classed as a third quality farm, according to the law. It is well watered, because of the river, but much of it is only arable in the groves and between the copses where I can sow a little wheat, oats and barley.’

‘But you have animals?’

‘A few milch cows.’

‘So who milks them?’ Eadulf pressed.

‘I do,’ replied the former warrior. ‘It is astonishing what one can adapt to when the need arises. At least the pigs are no trouble.’

‘Ah yes, you said you kept pigs.’

‘I do, which reminds me — soon I must go into the woods to round up my animals. During the clement months I turn them loose into the forest to feed on mast and whatever else they can pick up. They give no trouble and can be left out day and night, except during the shortages of wintertime. Then I have to bring them into the enclosure I have behind my cabin.’

‘So you own the woodland?’

‘The woodland was the common land of my sept so everyone uses it, although we did have trouble with the neighbouring lord — that was the late unlamented Lorcán, no less. As I have said, he was an arrogant man who declared the woodland to be his and wanted unfair tribute for its use from all his neighbours. We refused and were appealing to the Brehon of Prince Eoganán when the war against Cashel started. Such things were forgotten when the fiery cross summoned all the chiefs and their clansmen to battle.’

‘So the question of the land rights was postponed,’ Fidelma summed up.

Once again, Temnén laughed without humour. It was a curious sound which he often used to express himself. ‘It was postponed permanently after Lorcán’s death. Our new Prince Donennach assigned the land to Lorcán’s more worthy brother, who donated its use to the Abbey of Mungairit. So we pay a small tribute to the religious and all are satisfied.’

‘So that was a good outcome?’

‘For the likes of us it was,’ agreed the farmer.

‘It seems good that the brother of this Lorcán is a pious man,’ murmured Gormán. ‘Who is he? Surely not Torcán, who was also killed at Cnoc Áine?’

Temnén looked surprised. ‘But you have been to Mungairit and must therefore have met him.’

‘Who are you speaking of?’

‘The stable-master at the abbey — Brother Lugna, that is the man. As I have said, he and Lorcán might have looked alike, but they were very dissimilar in character.’

‘As I recall, Brother Lugna did not bear a resemblance to the meaning of his name,’ mused Fidelma. ‘The Little Brightness — yet he was a big, burly fellow.’

‘As was his brother,’ confirmed the farmer. ‘But I see you have knowledge of the meaning of names, lady?’

‘I like to know the meaning of people’s names,’ she agreed. ‘Names should always mean something.’

‘Then you will know the meaning of mine.’

‘The Dark One,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps appropriate, for our meeting was during a dark storm.’

‘Maybe more suited to the sadness that is in me now.’ Temnén rose, went to the door and looked up at the sky. ‘But it is appropriate that at this moment the storm has passed and the day has brightened.’ He went across the room and extinguished the lamp.

It was true. The storm clouds had disappeared. The lightning and thunder had raced off to the distant eastern mountains.

Fidelma rose and stretched herself. ‘And that is a signal for us to move.’

‘You will not reach Dún Eochair Mháigh before dark but you should find shelter at the Ford of the Oaks,’ Temnén advised. ‘There is an inn there kept by Sitae. A good innkeeper much inclined to gossip.’

Gormán left to get their horses from the stables while Fidelma said quietly to their host: ‘We hope that it will be a true saying that time helps to heal, Temnén. Above all, I hope you will come to accept that there is a future and that one must continue to live the present with the hope of making that future better. The past cannot be unmade but the future should be built more firmly from the lessons of the past.’

‘I have said before, lady, that you are a wise woman,’ Temnén said after a moment or two. He turned to Eadulf: ‘You are truly a man to be envied, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham.’

They left Temnén’s farm and turned south along the main track again. The storm had completely disappeared and hardy winter birds seemed to be raising their beaks in a chorus of thanksgiving for its passing.

‘A sad man,’ commented Gormán after a while, breaking the silence that had fallen between the three of them. He was riding just behind the couple.

‘Life is sad,’ returned Eadulf over his shoulder. ‘But we can only mourn for a brief while and then must move on in life. Our friend seems to be making a virtue of his sadness.’

‘It’s a harsh judgement, Eadulf,’ commented Fidelma. ‘He has lost his wife and child.’

‘I do not mean to belittle his loss. But I would hope that he moves on as you suggested to him.’ Then Eadulf returned to the matter that had been worrying him. ‘Brother Lugna was brother to Lorcán and Torcán, which makes him …’

‘The son of the late and unlamented Prince Eoganán as well,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Yet it seems he is unlike his father or brothers. I remember Abbot Nannid telling us that he left his family when he was seventeen to serve in the abbey stables. It shows how, even in the same family, there will be differences in character.’

‘But someone smothered old Brother Ledbán,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘I was thinking …’

‘You were speculating,’ she reproved him.

At that moment, they came to a pillar stone and halted. It was a tall stone with a circular hole in it.

‘We are approaching a township,’ explained Gormán, who looked uncomfortable and kept peering round nervously.

‘Indeed,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘This is the gallan that proclaims a territorial border.’

‘A gallan?’ asked Eadulf. ‘I have heard these markers called by several names, but that is new to me.’

‘It is said that they are so named because it was a colony of Gauls who came to this land in ancient times and were the first to erect such stones to delineate their territories. Come on, we should be able to get to the Ford of the Oaks before the daylight goes.’

She was about to move off when Gormán stayed her with a piercing whisper.

‘Lady, do not look round. I think we are being observed. Be very still, Eadulf.’ The sharp command was added as Eadulf began to turn.

Fidelma bent forward to pat her horse’s neck and said, in an even tone, ‘Have you spotted who it is, Gormán?’

‘I’ve had a feeling for some time that we were being followed. I wasn’t sure, otherwise I would have said something sooner. The feeling began soon after we left Temnén’s farmstead when the forest began to thicken to our left. Several times I thought that I saw movement among the trees.’

‘Brigands again? Well, they have already taken most of our valuables,’ Fidelma said tiredly.

‘If they were brigands, they could have attacked us at any time before now,’ muttered Gormán. ‘I wish I had been able to find a replacement sword.’

‘We had best ignore them and ride on. They surely won’t attack so close to a township.’

She led the way past the pillar stone and they moved slowly at a walking pace along the track. The treeline had come down to the road now, obscuring their view to the left, and as the road swung to follow the line of the river on their right, they were suddenly halted by three riders facing them in the middle of the track, forcing them to draw rein. One of them held a fluttering red silk banner with the design of a ravening wolf. It was the meirge or battle standard of the Uí Fidgente.

‘Let your sword remain in its sheath, warrior!’ the leading rider said to Gormán, who had been automatically groping for his non-existent weapon. ‘Do not be foolish enough to throw your life away. There is an arrow aimed at your heart.’

A bowman had stepped out from the cover of the trees. The strange warrior had not been bluffing, for the man had a bow full strung, with an arrow pointing directly at Gormán. Six more mounted warriors now rode up behind them and sat at ease on their horses, their weapons carelessly displayed in their hands.

Gormán stifled an exclamation of anger and despair and raised his hands.

‘I carry no weapons. My scabbard is empty.’

The leading warrior who had issued the order looked sceptical but one of his men soon acknowledged that Gormán spoke the truth.

‘Welcome to the Land of the Uí Fidgente, Fidelma of Cashel,’ the leader then said. ‘We have been waiting patiently for you.’