Atonement of Blood

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

They had left Marban’s mill and followed the narrow course of the Mháigh as it snaked its way towards the point where it rose in the south-western hills. On Fidelma’s instruction, Gormán had removed his golden collar emblem of the Nasc Niadh. She too had removed her own collar, and they had placed them in their saddle-bags. Obviously, as they proceeded into the territory of the most truculent of the Uí Fidgente septs and their neighbours, the Luachra, it was wise to be cautious. Most of the area was thick with forest, although now and then they came across large plains of intersecting waterways; small streams and water-filled gullies that rose from springs in the distant bank of hills. At times it was almost hard to follow the main course of the Mháigh, as it was so interspersed with other watercourses. But it was from all of these waters eventually merging together that the great River Mháigh was created.

The long line of low hills to the south of them began to grow higher as they approached them. Gormán pointed out a number of rath-like buildings, fortified enclosures that could be seen along the hilltops.

‘One of those must be the one we are looking for,’ he said.

Fidelma glanced at the hills in front of them. ‘We should be looking for a burned-out ruin.’

They began to guide their horses up the side of the hills. Across the gentle slopes were bands of hill sheep, black and brown with wiry wool and crooked horns. Fidelma felt it was surely time that they were brought into more protected pasture for the winter months. The animals gazed indifferently at the three riders as they moved slowly along the path. Now and then they passed patches of ferns of various varieties and gorse that would, in the early spring months, burst forth in a glorious fiery yellow.

Fidelma decided to stop at the first hill farm they came to and make enquiries. It could just about be called a rath because it was surrounded by an earthen bank and wooden fencing. A middle-aged woman was seated outside the main building plucking a chicken. She had not observed their approach and was disconcerted for a moment, rising to her feet and discarding the half-plucked bird on the wooden bench beside her. She watched them halt at the gate; her dark eyes scanned their clothes before their features to decide what sort of people they were.

She answered Fidelma’s greeting with a lack of enthusiasm.

‘What do you seek here?’ she demanded gruffly.

‘We are looking for what used to be the rath of Menma,’ called Fidelma without dismounting, unperturbed by the woman’s hostility.

‘The rath of Menma, is it?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘He is long dead and his rath is no more than a pile of firewood.’

‘So I have been told. And in which direction do we go from here?’

The woman gestured along the path to the west. ‘Keep on this track and you will come to it. But there is nothing there now. As I said, Menma is dead. They were all killed years ago.’

‘Were there no survivors?’ asked Fidelma.

Again she was met with a suspicious frown. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘If there were survivors of that tragic event, I would like to speak with them. I am a dálaigh.’

The woman blinked. ‘A lawyer? We do not have many lawyers coming along this track.’ She suddenly gave a grunt; it took them a while to realise it was a sardonic laugh. ‘In fact, you are the first strangers I have seen since the harvest.’

‘Have you lived here long?’

‘I was born on that far hill. My husband, Cadan, runs this farm. He’s away with the sheep right now.’

‘So you lived here at the time when Menma’s place was burned down?’

‘Why the questions, lady?’

‘I want to know what happened.’

‘That I can’t tell you in detail. One day we saw smoke rising above Menma’s homestead. I called my man. He and my son ran to help — but by the time they reached it, all that was left were slain bodies and smoking ruins.’

‘You knew Menma, of course?’

‘Of course.’

‘And what of his household?’

‘He had a large household. There was Menma, his wife and two sons who worked the farm. He had cornfields on the plain below. He also had two servants … oh, and there was a woman. She was a guest. I think that she might have been a relative. I forget her name now.’

‘Was anyone else at the farmstead that day?’

She shook her head. ‘Not on that day.’

Fidelma caught the inflection. ‘So, on other days there were people staying or visiting.’

‘There was one warrior. I was told that he was one of the Eóghanacht troops sent to keep us in order. It was in those days following the great defeat and there were several Eóghanacht soldiers encamped around here. He was their commander. I only saw him from a distance, riding across the hills with his men. Thankfully, he had no cause to come to our farmstead.’

‘You do not know who he was — his name, or what he looked like?’

‘Why all these questions?’ the woman muttered impatiently. ‘Who are you, lady?’

‘I told you, I am a dálaigh and I want to know what happened at Menma’s rath.’

The woman sniffed. ‘A bit late for that isn’t it, when all these years have passed.’

‘And you say no one survived?’

A cunning look spread across her features. ‘Did I say that?’

‘Then someone did survive?’ Fidelma pressed.

‘Old Suanach survived. She had worked for the family ever since she was a young girl.’

‘Suanach? Where would we find her?’

‘You just carry on beyond the ruined rath. The track leads into a forest. She took refuge there afterwards and still lives there. My man and my son found her more dead than alive and brought her here at first. We nursed her as best we could, with the help of the local apothecary, until she eventually said she would go to live across the hill. Old Menma had a cabin in the forest where he once employed a woodsman, for the forest was partially his.’

‘Thank you. That is very helpful. Did she ever tell you what happened?’

‘That the Eóghanacht horsemen attacked the rath for no reason. Cadan, my husband, was able to confirm that.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘My man is a good woodsman. He saw the signs of several horses. Most people had been killed by sword blows. The woman who was staying with them had been shot with arrows and so had one of the servants. Old Suanach would have been dead too from a hefty blow to the back of her skull from a sword but, thanks be, it merely knocked her unconscious but left such a bloody mess that they thought she was dead.’

‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Fidelma repeated. ‘What is your name?’

‘Flannait is my name.’

‘Then my thanks, Flannait.’ Fidelma turned and led the way along to the track across the hillside.

It was not long before they came across a large site of overgrown scrubland. Half-hidden amidst it were the remains of stone and burned wooden constructions; the stones were scarred and blackened by fire. Already nature was beginning to claim the site for grass, shrubs and trees were spreading across it. A quick glance assured them that it had once been a substantial rath, a large house with many outbuildings. They paused only momentarily before moving on along the track towards the forest beyond. It was a large area of evergreen, holly, mixing with blackthorns. The many-branched trees rose to contest the hardy grey alders with their pointed leaves and smooth grey bark. Even rowans spread towards the ridge of the hill. Moss, fern and lichen all clustered among them giving the impression of a dark, impenetrable forest.

Yet the forest was alive. A snipe suddenly flitted from a tree, arrowing down to the mud banks of the water-courses below. This set off some alarmed chattering from a couple of red grouse who had sought sanctuary here from the open moorland behind. However, their flight had been noted and followed by a small dark object rising rapidly skywards, with fast shallow wingbeats. The tiny merlin was an unforgiving bird of prey.

Led by Fidelma, the three travellers walked their horses along the path and entered the darker space of the woodland. It was not long before they saw the shadowy shape of a hut; it was well-hidden in the gloom and could easily have been missed, had they not been specifically looking for it. Even so, Fidelma and Eadulf had to leave their mounts, under the care of Gormán, on the main path and push through the ferns and bracken that grew almost to their own height, presumably in their search for the sun, as if reaching up towards the top of the forest canopy.

To their surprise, they found themselves in a cultivated space in front of the wooden cabin, a place where a few hardy root vegetables had been planted.

Fidelma paused and called: ‘Suanach! Don’t be alarmed. We wish to talk with you.’

There was a movement inside the hut and then the door creaked open.

A woman stood there with wild grey hair and a pale skin, creased with wrinkles. Her eyes were bright but the flesh seemed aged by weather as much as time. She was wrapped in a thick woollen shawl which covered an equally thick dress of wool.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

Fidelma reflected that suspicion seemed a natural reaction in this territory.

‘Flannait the farmer’s wife told us where we would find you,’ she began.

‘For what purpose?’ came the uncompromising response.

‘I am a dálaigh,’ Fidelma went on, unperturbed. ‘I understand you are a survivor of the attack on Menma’s rath some years ago.’

If anything, the woman’s eyes narrowed with increased suspicion. She looked from Fidelma to Eadulf — a disapproving expression on her face as she regarded him. Then she turned back.

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘No more than four years, so I am told.’

‘A long time,’ Suanach repeated as if she had not heard her.

‘Can we speak inside your cabin?’

The woman sniffed and actually stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind her.

‘No, we cannot. There is scant room for myself and none for strangers. If you must talk, there is a seat on that log. I shall sit on the porch.’

Fidelma glanced at Eadulf with a smile of resignation and went to sit on the log that the woman had indicated. Eadulf preferred to stand.

‘I merely want you to tell me the details of the attack on Menma’s rath,’ Fidelma said quietly.

‘Details?’ The woman gave a hoarse laugh. Suddenly she turned her head away and raised her long hair from the back of her neck, revealing a livid white scar. ‘Is that detail enough? Menma and all his family were all killed. I was the only survivor. A curse on the strangers from Cashel!’

Fidelma shot a warning look at Eadulf before continuing. ‘Tell me what happened. Who was at the rath that day?’

Suanach shrugged indifferently. ‘What good does it do to speak of them now? They are all dead.’

‘It may help to bring the guilty to punishment,’ Fidelma replied.

‘After all these years? I doubt it. And who will punish the Eóghanacht? Still, I shall not go to my grave without passing on the truth.’ She paused and seemed to gather herself before continuing. ‘It was a normal day. The sun was up and the warrior had gone …’

‘The warrior?’

‘It was after our defeat by the Eóghanacht. Part of our punishment was that we had bands of warriors from Cashel set to watch over us until we agreed the terms of the peace. One warrior who commanded them demanded the hospitality of the rath.’

Fidelma leaned forward eagerly. ‘Do you know his name?’

Suanach frowned. ‘It is so long ago, I forget. All I remember was that he wore a golden collar, a gold torque around his neck, and boasted that he was of the warrior élite of Cashel come to maintain order over us. He was tall and slender.’

‘Perhaps his name will come back to you as we speak,’ Fidelma replied, disappointed. ‘Let us continue. How long was he here?’

‘A long while, I think. Months, but not years. Long enough for him to pretend to be in love.’

Fidelma ran her tongue over lips that had gone dry with excitement.

‘With whom was he supposed to be in love?’

‘A woman from Dún Eochair Mháigh who was under Menma’s protection. She had come to be with us some months before. She was an attractive woman, with dark hair the colour of black night. When the sun shone on it, it danced with a blue light.’

‘What was her name? Do you remember that?’

‘Oh yes, her name I do remember. It was Liamuin. I think she had been newly widowed, but she had come here under Menma’s protection. Menma was a bó-aire, a cow lord, and influential in these parts.’

‘And this warrior from Cashel, you say that he fell in love with her?’

‘Pretended to be in love with her,’ she corrected. ‘Liamuin certainly fell in love with his deceitful looks and lying tongue.’

‘Very well. What then?’

‘On the day it happened, Menma and his sons were shearing some sheep. Menma’s wife was preparing the meal with Comnait, a young girl serving the household. Liamuin was outside with the muide churning the butter.’

Seeing that Eadulf looked puzzled, Fidelma quickly explained: ‘A muide is a small hand-churn.’ The popular word that Eadulf knew was a cuinneóg but this seemed to be a local term known to Fidelma.

Suanach had not noticed the interruption for she was continuing. ‘I had gone down to the boundary wall to look after the pigs and was-’

‘And did you say that the warrior with the golden collar was not here?’ interrupted Fidelma.

‘He was not. He was in the habit of leaving every few days. He would vanish on his horse and then return. I suppose he went to meet with his men who were encamped elsewhere in the territory.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘Everything was peaceful that morning and then … Then he appeared with a dozen of his men. They jumped their horses across the border fence and made straight for Menma and his sons. They struck them down with their swords. Burning torches were flung into the house. I saw Liamuin, her black hair flashing in the flames. She grabbed a sickle and rushed to defend Menma’s wife and little Comnait. She actually wounded the leader of the attack — yes, her former lover with the golden collar.’

‘You say that she wounded him?’

‘Yes. I saw him drop his sword as blood gushed from his hand. Then two of his men released their arrows and shot her down.’

‘And what of Menma’s wife and Comnait?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Both cut down. God forgive me, I turned and fled. I heard one of the warriors riding after me. I was trying to run into the forest to hide, but before I got there I felt a blow on the back of my head and everything went dark. I don’t really remember any more. I am told that I was over a week in fever until I came to my senses in the cabin of Flannait and her man. Cadan and his son had found me and taken me there. May they be blessed. They managed to get the local apothecary to come and tend me. It was from Lachtine that I learned that everyone had been killed and the rath burned to a cinder.’

‘Lachtine!’ exclaimed Eadulf, glancing excitedly at Fidelma.

‘He was the apothecary here. He waived his fees for he had also been in love with Liamuin. Of course, he was not alone in that. She was that sort of woman — men fell easily in love with her. God’s curse that she fell in love with the Eóghanacht warrior!’

‘You said Lachtine was the apothecary here?’ Fidelma picked up on the tense.

‘He left some time later. I do not know where he went.’

‘And you say that the attackers were led by this warrior wearing a golden collar, the one whose name you cannot remember?’

‘That is correct.’

‘And you recognised him — face to face?’

‘Not exactly — I was some distance away.’

‘How did you recognise him then?’

‘He wore a golden collar.’

Fidelma breathed out softly. ‘So you recognised him simply because he wore a golden collar at his neck. Was there anything else?’

‘I know he had a stag rampant on his shield. It was picked out with jewels.’

Fidelma started, a hand came up to her throat. ‘A stag rampant with jewels?’ she repeated faintly. ‘Do you know what that symbolises?’

‘No. I know nothing of shield emblems, nor do I wish to. I only know that he wore the hated symbol of the golden collar.’

Fidelma paused for a moment to collect herself before asking: ‘Did Liamuin, so far as you saw, make any form of recognition as she swung at him with the sickle?’

Suanach frowned and shook her head. ‘I was too far away to see what was on her face.’

‘Why would this attack have taken place? Do you know of any reason why this warrior, having lived with Menma for so long, would suddenly turn and order his men to attack and destroy the rath and its people?’ demanded Eadulf.

‘It is not for me to give reasons. I only know what happened that day and will forever bear the scar.’

‘So, as far as you are concerned, there was no reason?’

‘He was an Eóghanacht warrior. Did he need a reason? They spread death and destruction wherever they go.’

Fidelma compressed her lips for a moment. Eadulf had noticed that she had been tense since the woman had mentioned the shield. Now she seemed to allow herself to relax a little.

‘Did anyone come to investigate this matter?’ she asked.

‘None to my knowledge. Oh, I did hear that someone had been asking questions about the attack some time afterwards. But no one knew who it was. I was still confined at Flannait’s cabin and in no fit state to answer questions. I am told that after that, there was no sign of the warrior who led the attack or anyone else. Of course, by then a peace was agreed between our people and the Eóghanacht. Much good did it do us.’

To their surprise the old woman suddenly spat at her feet.

‘I say this to the Eóghanacht of Cashel — may they melt off the face of this land like snow melts off a hedge when the sun appears. May guinea fowl cry at each new birth from the loins of their women. May the old ones die roaring. May they have only ashes in their hearth through the coldest winter. And may they sustain no comfort in this world nor the other one.’

Fidelma shivered suddenly at the chill intensity of her voice. Eadulf looked angry.

‘Christ forgive you, woman. It is against the Faith to make such a curse. It is bad and penance should be made,’ he admonished.

‘Bad was its inspiration,’ muttered the old woman, ‘and the bad seed only produces a bad harvest. I have already served my penance and now it is the turn of others to serve their due.’

Fidelma gave a warning glance at Eadulf when he would pursue the moral rebuke. She rose to her feet and reluctantly Eadulf followed.

‘I thank you for telling your story, Suanach. It was bad, what happened to you — but you cannot curse a whole people for what one person has done. It is wrong to live with such bitterness in old age.’

‘It is that bitterness which sustains me in what is left of my life, dálaigh,’ she replied emphatically.

Fidelma led the way back through the fern-covered path to the main track.

‘Where now, lady?’ asked Gormán as they rejoined him.

‘I think we will return to Flannait’s farm. There are some further questions I would like to ask.’

‘The old woman was still very angry,’ remarked Eadulf, after they had quickly told Gormán what had happened.

‘I cannot believe someone of the Nasc Niadh could do such a thing,’ the young warrior said. ‘It goes against all our training, all our code of chivalry.’

‘Yet it must be true,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Warriors have sometimes been known to betray their code as well as loyalty to those they claim to hold dear and to serve until death.’

‘It is hard to accept that a warrior of the Golden Collar could have done this thing, but if the evidence shows it then we must accept it,’ Eadulf said sadly. ‘We must then find out who is the man responsible and secure his punishment.’

‘If only Suanach had not forgotten his name,’ replied Fidelma. ‘She is certain she saw him lead the attack, but only because he wore a golden collar.’

‘And carried a shield,’ added Eadulf. ‘Remember? The shield bore the symbol of a bejewelled stag rampant on it.’

Gormán’s reaction was a sharp tug on his reins so that his horse came to an abrupt halt. He turned a pale face to them.

‘You did not mention this before,’ he grated.

Eadulf looked at him in bewilderment. ‘Is there something I should know?’ he asked uneasily, recalling Fidelma’s reaction when Suanach had mentioned it.

‘There is only one person who is allowed to carry on his shield a bejewelled stag rampant.’ Fidelma’s voice was almost inaudible.

‘The stag rampant is the symbol of the Eóghanacht. That shield is only carried by the King of Muman,’ Gormán added grimly.

They rode on in silence for a while. It was Eadulf who finally broke it.

‘If the old woman was the sole survivor of the attack, then she must have told someone who also knew who carried such a shield.’

‘Suanach did not know the meaning of the shield,’ Fidelma objected.

‘But the person she told might have done. That person thought it was your brother, and if we find the person she told, we know the assassin. Don’t we need to go back and ask who she has told?’

‘You believe that the assassin came to Cashel to claim blood vengeance?’ Fidelma was reflective. ‘I am not sure. The fact that he cried “Remember Liamuin!” and not “Menma” would indicate that he sought vengeance for her and no other. It is logical, but then why wait all these years?’

‘Time? Opportunity? And isn’t there a saying that vengeance is a dish best served cold?’ offered Gormán.

‘This is true,’ Fidelma conceded. ‘But there are many things that concern me about this explanation. Suanach did not know who this warrior was. She merely described his gold torque and then the emblem on the shield of the attacker. I have never known my brother to lie. He claimed that the name Liamuin meant nothing to him. If he had stayed at Menma’s rath for the time it was said, he must have been known. His warriors had just defeated the Uí Fidgente. What was he doing here? How could he have stayed here long enough to have an affair with Liamuin? And then what purpose would have been served by this massacre?’

‘All good questions,’ Eadulf replied thoughtfully.

‘Better if we had answers,’ muttered Gormán.

‘And that is why we are going back to Flannait’s farmstead,’ Fidelma said.

‘And there is another question to be answered,’ added Eadulf. ‘Lachtine was the name of the local apothecary who attended Suanach, and he too was in love with Liamuin. He bore the same name as the apothecary at the Ford of Oaks. Is this a coincidence, or was he the same man and is there a connection?’

‘I have not forgotten,’ Fidelma replied. Then she indicated the farm buildings that spread before them on the lower slope of the hill. ‘Let us hope we shall now learn more from Flannait.’

As they approached Flannait’s farmstead, a swarthy man, of medium stature, was emerging from the cabin. Ice-blue eyes stared out from a face that wore an expression of curiosity mixed with anxiety. He called something over his shoulder and was joined in a moment by the woman Flannait, who said something hurriedly to him before coming forward to greet them. This time Fidelma slid from her horse.

‘Well, dálaigh, did you find Suanach?’

‘We did,’ Fidelma replied. The others dismounted and Eadulf joined her while Gormán secured the horses to a nearby wooden fence. The swarthy man had taken his place beside Flannait.

‘This is my man,’ muttered the woman by way of introduction.

‘My name is Cadan, lady,’ he introduced himself. ‘How may we serve you?’

Fidelma smiled reassuringly. ‘Just a few questions more. I understand that after the attack took place on Menma’s rath, you and your son were the first to arrive there and that you managed to rescue Suanach?’

The farmer shifted his weight from one foot to the other and bobbed his head in acknowledgement. His hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides in his nervousness.

‘That is right, lady. We brought her back here.’

‘I understand. Can you tell me any reason why Menma’s rath should have been burned?’

The man raised his shoulder expressively. ‘It was an Eóghanacht attack,’ he said, as if that should explain everything.

‘So I am told. But why was only Menma attacked? It makes no sense.’

‘Menma was a bó-aire. He had the biggest and richest farmstead,’ Flannait said almost defensively. ‘I suppose they attacked it for those reasons — or because of Menma’s rank.’

‘Did they sack it or carry off anything?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘Nothing was taken as far as we could see,’ replied the farmer.

‘Then there was no question of it being done for profit or gain,’ Eadulf decided. ‘It was a case of simple destruction. People killed, the place torched.’

‘Who knows the reason? It was done by the man who stayed there. The Eóghanacht warrior.’

‘I need to know more about this man,’ Fidelma said. ‘Can you tell me anything at all about him?’

‘It was long ago.’

Fidelma looked round. ‘You said your son was with you. Perhaps he might remember something?’

Cadan and Flannait looked uncomfortable.

‘Maolán? He is no longer with us, lady,’ Cadan said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Soon after the attack he left us to join the religious. He was very …’ the man chose his words carefully, ‘very sweet on the woman who was staying with Menma.’

‘Liamuin?’

‘That was her name. He took her death very badly.’

‘But she was in love with the warrior who stayed with them?’

‘So she was. But Maolán had his hopes. So did others, like our local apothecary, Lachtine. He also left us not long after. Liamuin was an attractive woman and she had plenty of admirers. We tried to persuade our son not to leave us. We have no other children. Who will look after us when the winter of our days comes upon us, which must surely be soon?’

‘Did he know that it was the warrior she apparently had affection for, the one who carried out the attack?’ asked Eadulf.

‘He did. For he left after Suanach had recovered and told her story.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘Alas, we don’t know. Maolán was talented and set out to make his way in the world. He had an eye, that boy.’

‘An eye?’ asked Eadulf curiously, not understanding the expression.

‘He was a good copyist. He went off to do that as a means of earning his living.’

‘So is there nothing you can tell me that would help identify this warrior?’ Fidelma asked in frustration, returning to the main question. She was looking intently at Cadan as she spoke and he tugged at his lower lip with one hand under her scrutiny.

‘What sort of things?’ he countered. ‘I only saw him once or twice from a distance. All I know is that he wore the Eóganacht golden collar.’

‘Was he old or young? Fair or dark? That sort of thing,’ intervened Eadulf.

‘He was not a boy, he was a young man. That is all I recall.’

‘Surely you could tell whether he was fair or dark.’

‘Fair.’

‘Not red-haired,’ Fidelma suddenly said. ‘Say red hair like mine?’

The farmer looked at her red tresses and then shook his head. There seemed an easing of tension in Fidelma’s body.

‘Presumably this warrior with fair hair carried a shield? A warrior has on his shield his suaicheantas, his emblem, by which his friends and his enemies alike would know him,’ Eadulf said.

Cadan’s brows drew together in concentration as he tried to remember. ‘His shield was plain. There was no motif upon it except …’ He paused. ‘No, the shield was coloured red with a single, narrow blue strip across it.’

Fidelma glanced at Gormán, who shook his head.

She knew that the warriors of the Golden Collar who formed the Lucht-tíghe, the house company, were the chosen élite among the bodyguards of the King. But each had his own individual emblem or insignia. These men were classed as the ridire or champions. Beyond them the King could call on larger forces in times of danger, but he usually kept one Catha or battalion, of 3,000 warriors, permanently on call throughout the kingdom. These were divided into various units: each unit was marked by a shield emblem.

‘Is there no way of identifying which unit held such an emblem?’ asked Fidelma, knowing vaguely that the position of the stripe on the shield had some significance. ‘After all, the man wore a golden collar as well.’

Gormán took out his sword and traced the outline of a shield on the wet soil.

‘Now, you say the narrow blue strip was placed this way?’ He drew the line.

Cadan the farmer looked at it quizzically and shook his head.

‘No, the other way — horizontally, as if dividing it in half.’

‘I think it was one of the units that fought at Cnoc Áine and belonged to the amuis command.’ The amuis were companies raised in times of conflict, often hired from territories outside the immediate clanland of the King.

Fidelma sighed and shook her head.

‘Well, it might help us a little.’ She turned back to the puzzled farmer and his wife. ‘As far as you were aware, was there anyone else in the vicinity of Menma’s rath when it was attacked?’

‘As soon as I saw smoke rising, my son and I went running across the hill,’ the man replied. ‘It took us a while to get there as we have no horses. When we reached the rath, there was no one else there.’

‘What of other neighbouring farmsteads? As I approached these hills I thought I saw several rath-like buildings spaced along them.’

‘We were the nearest. After those times, some of the farms fell into disuse.’

‘Did Menma answer Prince Eoganán’s call to arms?’ Eadulf suddenly asked.

‘He did not agree with the cause,’ replied the farmer with a shrug.

‘So what you are saying is that no one saw the rath on fire except yourself?’

‘So far as I know.’

‘Who is the lord of this territory?’ asked Gormán. ‘Rather, who was lord in Menma’s time?’

Cadan looked quizzically at him. ‘You mean who was Menma’s lord?’

‘Was there anyone who could tell us something about him? I mean, someone more local than the Prince at Dún Eochair Mháigh.’

‘These are the borderlands, the edge of the lands controlled by the Múscraige Luachra. Beyond the hills behind us are the mountains of the Luachra. Although we are of the Uí Fidgente here, Fidaig of the Luachra claims tribute from us.’

‘That is correct, lady,’ the farmer’s wife nodded. ‘Once a year, after harvest, Fidaig sends his warriors to collect tribute from us. We are Uí Fidgente but some of those who dwell here among us are Luachra.’

‘I thought his territory was further south in the mountains?’ Fidelma said.

‘It is not far enough away,’ Flannait remarked bitterly.

‘So, is he not a good lord?’

Flannait seemed to be suppressing a sour remark but Cadan said quickly: ‘I have known worse.’

‘How did he stand in the rebellion?’ asked Gormán.

‘Rebellion?’ queried the farmer uncertainly.

‘The war against Cashel,’ Fidelma said, with a frown at Gormán for giving away their allegiances.

‘Oh, Fidaig likes to see which way the wind is blowing before he commits himself.’

‘He did not support the Uí Fidgente at Cnoc Áine?’

‘He did not, even though he owed allegiance to Prince Eoganán. His excuse was that his warriors were needed to guard the southern borders against the Eóganacht Locha Lein and the Eóganacht Glendamnach. But it was at Cnoc Áine that the Eóganacht attacked.’

‘So Fidaig remained neutral in the war?’

‘Neutral while the wind blew against him,’ muttered Flannait. ‘He abandoned the Uí Fidgente.’

‘How did Menma stand in this conflict?’

‘Menma was first and foremost a farmer and had little time for the politics of ambitious princes. He and his sons believed their first duty was to the land. Those days were bad when death and disaster ravaged this land.’

‘But peace is restored and the kingdom is one,’ pointed out Eadulf.

‘Blood never wiped out blood,’ the farmer commented dourly. ‘The Uí Fidgente will never be at peace with Cashel.’

‘One more question,’ said Fidelma, ignoring the comment. ‘You had an apothecary here who helped nurse Suanach back to health. His name was Lachtine.’

The farmer nodded.

‘I am told that he too was in love with Liamuin.’

The farmer grimaced. ‘That he was. Just like my son, Maolán. Soon after the attack, he left here. I heard he became the apothecary in a town further downriver — ah, yes, a place called the Ford of the Oaks.’

They had taken their leave of Cadan and Flannait and ridden back down the hill towards the plains.

‘Where to now, lady?’ enquired Gormán.

‘There is nothing left but to return to Cashel. We need to speak to Ordan again, but above all, we must find out something about the warriors who served in the amuis company at that time.’

‘There are many questions to be answered,’ Eadulf said, ‘but are you sure that all the answers lie back in Cashel?’

They had barely reached the bottom of the hill and started along the track in the direction of the eastern hills when a whistling sound caught their ears, followed by a sudden thud. An arrow transfixed itself to a tree at the side of the track. Gormán was attempting to pull free his sword as the silence was abruptly pierced by shouting and the thunder of hooves.

A band of half-a-dozen horsemen came racing towards them brandishing weapons. It was obvious they were outnumbered, and any attempt to fight would end one way only. Fidelma had already seen the flash of weapons, and one of the riders had halted a little way and was stringing an arrow to his bow. The riders looked a motley bunch, but clearly had some professional training. They had an assortment of weapons, and each man was capable of using them.

For a moment, Fidelma’s blood ran cold. She thought the leader was Adamrae. Then a closer examination revealed that although he bore certain facial similarities, he was not Adamrae. Now he nudged his horse forward and scrutinised them carefully.

‘A warrior, a lady and a monk.’ He paused and grinned wickedly. ‘Well met. Undoubtedly you are Fidelma of Cashel?’

Fidelma looked at him with disfavour. ‘Well met? That arrow could have killed or wounded one of us,’ she said coldly.

‘That would have been the intention, unless you halted and surrendered.’

‘Why?’

‘We have heard of you. Visitors from Cashel, I believe, and intent on asking questions.’ The young leader was still smiling.

‘It is my right to do so as a dálaigh.’

‘My father might question that right,’ he replied. ‘You will come with us now. It is only a short ride from here, lady. But first your escort must hand over his weapons.’

Gormán glanced round at the well-armed men surrounding him and gave a philosophical shrug. Then he took out his sword and handed it to the man nearest him.

‘To whom have we surrendered — and why?’ Fidelma demanded.

‘The why, I shall leave for my lord to explain. The who? You have surrendered to Artgal, son of Fidaig of the Luachra. It is Fidaig who asks for your company. So it is to him that I shall now escort you.’