Atonement of Blood

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Their escort set off at a brisk trot along the wide track towards the south-western mountains. But dusk was descending before they reached the ford of a broad river, beyond which dark shadows of the mountains began to rise sharply.

‘That’s the territory of the Luachra,’ Fidelma muttered for Eadulf’s benefit.

‘So this is Sliabh Luachra?’

‘The whole mountain range is known by that name,’ she confirmed. ‘Once it was a vast, uninhabited marsh area guarded by the surrounding mountains and so inhospitable that little could be farmed there. Sliabh Luachra is not a single mountain but several, with seven glens between them. The place is filled with peat bogs — and woe betide if you fall into one of them, for you will never get out.’

The leader of their escort, without checking the forward momentum of his horse, turned in his saddle and pointed to where a group of lights flickered in the darkness on the far bank of the river.

‘This is the ford of the Ealla. My father, Fidaig, is encamped on the far side.’

A moment later they were splashing through a shallow ford and entering an encampment, where fires were burning and lanterns were lit. It was not a large encampment but enough, so Fidelma estimated, to contain one hundred warriors. Nor was it a permanent encampment. Fidelma knew that even when warriors halted for one night, certain officers were in charge as to the placing of tents, bathing, cooking and rest places. Everything was planned in detail to fortify it and set up sentinels.

A concentration of several lanterns showed where the pupall or the pavilion of the chieftain was. A short distance from this, their escort halted them and Artgal indicated that they should dismount. Then Fidelma and Eadulf were separated from Gormán, who was led away, while they were instructed to follow the young man to the main tent, where he ushered them inside.

Fidaig, lord of the Luachra, protector of the Mountain of Rushes and chieftain of the Seven Glens of Sliabh Luachra, was not as Eadulf had envisaged he would be. In fact, Eadulf realised that the man had been a guest at their wedding in Cashel and that they had briefly met before. He was not a tall, imposing figure, but elderly, with a shock of white hair and an intelligent but heavily lined face of the sort that comes with age and experience. He looked more like a learned elder of his clan than a chieftain used to handling weapons in defence of his people. His eyes were dark, almost pupil-less, his mouth thin. He gave the impression of frailty, but there was something in his features that made up in shrewdness and ingenuity what he lacked in physical strength. That he had survived so long as leader of the Luachra was evidence enough of his astute qualities.

Fidaig was standing ready to greet them when they entered. There was the trace of a smile on his features as he looked from one to another.

‘Welcome to my humble camp. I would have made you more comfortable at my fortress up in the mountains, but you find me travelling and, alas, the accommodation I have to offer is but a poor warrior’s makeshift tent.’

‘Then perhaps my companions and I should have been allowed a choice in the matter?’ Fidelma’s voice was icy.

Fidaig raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘You were given no choice? Ah, I must reprimand my son, Artgal. His task was merely to invite you to be my guests. I had heard that you and your companions were travelling in my territory, and I was sure that you would come to pay your respects to me in accordance with custom. Concerned that you might not know where I was encamped, not being at my fortress, I sent my son and his men to find you and assist you to meet me here.’

His tone betrayed none of the sarcasm that his words implied. His son, Artgal, took a stand behind his father’s chair, apparently unconcerned at the rebuke. Fidaig clapped his hands for his attendants and ordered chairs to be brought forward for them all to be seated.

‘Let us take some drink and talk of what brings you here.’ Fidaig sank into a high-backed chair and smiled at each of them in turn as they reluctantly took the seats offered to them. ‘I have ordered sleeping accommodation to be set up for you and there will be feasting later tonight. Alas, the washing facilities are not all they should be, but as you will have noticed, this is a marching camp and so we camp by the river.’

A young male attendant appeared and poured beakers of corma for them before he withdrew to the side of the tent ready for the next summons.

Fidelma regarded Fidaig unsmilingly. ‘A marching camp?’ she repeated. ‘And where do you march to, Fidaig of the Luachra?’

Fidaig chuckled. ‘It seems that each year, a number of those who owe me tribute as their lord get forgetful as to the time that the tribute falls due. Therefore, I have to disrupt my cosy existence at my winter fortress to ride forth and remind them. Forgetfulness is especially prevalent on the borders of my territory. In fact, in the very area that my men found you.’

‘How did you know that we were there?’ asked Eadulf, unable to restrain himself.

‘It was not hard, my Saxon friend. Not hard at all. A chieftain without knowledge of what is happening in his own territory is a poor fellow indeed.’

Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment. ‘So, you knew that we had gone to the rath of Menma?’

This drew a soft breath from Fidaig. ‘Menma? He is long dead.’

‘Indeed, he is. His family are dead with him. I presume that you knew him?’

Fidaig inclined his head slightly. ‘Yes. At least he was never late with his tribute. The area of which he was bó-aire has become less forthcoming in that regard of late. I must encourage his replacement with someone who will help the farmers remember the time when their tribute is due.’

‘You are familiar with what happened to him? With Menma, I mean.’

Fidaig’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Is that why you are in my territory? You want to find out who destroyed his rath?’

‘That is why we were there,’ she replied.

Fidaig looked at her slyly. ‘I would have thought the answer was more easily obtainable at Cashel.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The story, as I recall, went that it was a warrior of your brother’s own bodyguard that did the deed.’

‘And you are satisfied with that explanation?’

‘I am not particularly concerned. It was a long time ago. That war is over and there has been peace ever since.’

‘For some among the Uí Fidgente, the old wounds do not heal.’

The chieftain sniffed. ‘We are of the Luachra. The Uí Fidgente have their own problems.’

‘And the Luachra do not?’ snapped Eadulf.

‘That remark is somewhat oblique. I have no understanding of it.’

‘Before we explain, let me return to Menma. Did you know him?’ asked Fidelma.

‘I met him only on the occasions when he brought me the tribute of his people. We met annually here by the River Ealla.’

‘He was of the Uí Fidgente.’

‘Borders are not stone walls that cannot be passed through. The Luachra are to be found among the Uí Fidgente and Uí Fidgente are found among the Luachra. That is not to be wondered at. The line of those hills mark the northern reaches of my territory.’

‘During the war between the Uí Fidgente and Cashel, where did Menma’s loyalties lie?’

Fidaig sat back and thought for a moment. ‘A good question. I did, in fact, once ask him.’

‘And what was his reply?’

‘He told me that Muman was a kingdom, and that the King of Muman ruled it. While others ruled territories and chieftains ruled clans, yet it was the King of Muman who ruled the entire kingdom. Therefore, unless the King was unjust, to raise one’s sword against him was treason.’

‘So he was loyal to Cashel and there would be no reason why a Cashel warrior should attack his rath,’ Fidelma pointed out.

Fidaig leaned back and shook his head. ‘Are you trying to tell me that Cashel was not responsible for the destruction of Menma’s rath? Well, it’s little enough to do with me. I did not support the Uí Fidgente nor did I side with the Eóghanacht. Sliabh Luachra is my domain. I do not care much about outside squabbles so long as I am left alone.’

‘I have heard that not all Luachra agreed: some supported Eoganán of the Uí Fidgente in his war against my brother.’

Fidaig grimaced dismissively. ‘I am the only lord of Luachra and it is my voice that matters. Eoganán was a young fool. Anyway, Eoganán or Colgú — I would wind up having to pay tribute to one or the other so why should I bother which one?’

‘I presume that you have heard of the attempt on my brother’s life?’ she asked abruptly, her eyes on him.

To her surprise, he smiled. ‘Nothing travels faster than bad news, lady. But in this case, I hear that the news is good.’

Fidelma looked uncertain. ‘I don’t understand?’

‘A rider on his way to my good neighbour and enemy, Congal, lord of the Eóganacht of Locha Léin, was persuaded to break his journey with us. He left Cashel two days ago with news that your brother, the King, is no longer awaiting Donn to transport him to the Otherworld. He is well on his way to recovering.’

Eadulf recalled that Donn was the dark Lord of Death, who collected souls and took them to the House of Donn, said to be an island to the south-west. There the souls were judged before they were allowed to proceed to the Otherworld.

Fidelma sat back, trying to control the surge of emotion that went through her. She suddenly felt weak.

‘Is it true?’ she whispered.

‘Oh, true enough, lady,’ Fidaig assured her. ‘Your brother has survived his wound and is recovering.’

‘Thanks be to God,’ Eadulf muttered automatically.

Fidaig glanced at him and chuckled. ‘Thanks be to the unskilled hand of the man who struck the blow, my friend.’

‘And what of the messenger from Cashel?’ Eadulf asked.

‘Have no fear. Having told us his news, we allowed him to ride on and inform Congal, who I think was already calling himself King of Iarmuman, west Muman. He’s a man to watch, is Congal, for didn’t his grandfather once claim the kingship at Cashel? As I recall, he lasted no more than a few months, having killed your father’s own father. You talk of the Uí Fidgente plots, lady, but I would seek out the whisperers among your own family.’

Fidelma was uncomfortable because Fidaig had pricked the weakest spot of her family. She was suddenly thinking about what Cúana had implied about rivalry in her family. It was true the Eóganacht of Cashel were the senior line descended from Eóghan Mór but, at times, other branches of the family, from Locha Léin to Raithlin, from Áine to Chliach and Glendamnach, had made successful claims for the kingship. Wasn’t her brother’s own heir apparent, Finguine, of the Eóghanacht Áine branch? She shook her head to drive the thoughts away and saw Fidaig smiling at her as if he knew what was passing through her mind.

‘The Kings of Cashel can only succeed through law, Fidaig,’ she snapped, bringing herself back to the present. ‘No one who has tried to seize power has prospered. Not even Aed Brennán of Locha Léin, the King that you referred to just now. As you say, he lasted barely a few months before the rightful choice of the derbfine overthrew him.’

Fidaig was not put out. Instead he asked, ‘What has Menma’s death to do with the attack on your brother?’

‘Perhaps nothing; perhaps much,’ replied Fidelma promptly.

‘Then I have no understanding of this.’

Fidelma decided to change the direction of her questions. ‘I am told that some years ago you made a transaction with a man called Escmug.’

A frown crossed Fidaig’s features. ‘I can’t recall the name.’

‘Perhaps the name Aibell will prompt your memory.’

Artgal, who had remained standing behind his father’s chair, bent forward.

‘Aibell, Father. She is the éludach.’

Eadulf took a moment to identify the word, which meant a servant who had absconded. He was feeling uneasy that Fidelma had suddenly raised the subject.

The lord of the Luachra had cast a glance of disapproval at his son for admitting that Aibell was known to him. Then he shrugged. ‘The girl absconded from my fortress over a week ago. As an éludach, she can be offered no legal protection, not even by someone of high rank such as yourself. Where is she?’

‘She is safe enough, Fidaig. And will remain so.’

‘She was legally exchanged under the law of the Gúbretha Caratniad,’ protested Fidaig.

‘Her father sold her to you illegally,’ corrected Fidelma. ‘The Gúbretha mentions that some parents have been known to sell their children into bondage, mostly to foreigners, and actually condemns the practice. It is as evil for those who buy as it is evil for those who sell. In this case, it is criminal, for the girl was of the age of choice. She was fourteen years old when she was sold to you, and therefore a free woman, not bound to her father nor bound to you. You kept her in bondage for four years without legal cause.’

‘And you can prove it?’ There was a slight sneer in Fidaig’s voice.

‘Do you doubt it?’ replied Fidelma coolly.

Fidaig stared at her for a moment and then forced a smile. ‘We should not be quarrelling over a bondservant.’

‘I am not quarrelling,’ corrected Fidelma. ‘Certainly I am not quarrelling over a bondservant but a freeborn girl whom you kept in your household against her will. There are legal consequences.’

‘By the old gods!’ Fidaig exploded in temper. ‘I doubt whether the Morrigú possessed such an uncompromising attitude as you, Fidelma of Cashel.’

‘How much did you give Escmug for the girl?’ Fidelma demanded, ignoring his anger.

Fidaig struggled visibly with his temper, but then he seemed to relax. ‘It is some time ago. I believe I gave him four screpalls, the honour price of the girl after he tried to claim a higher price.’

‘Ah!’ Fidelma could not help an ejaculation of triumph. ‘You have just proved that you knew she had reached her legal maturity. You have already quoted the Gúbretha Caratniad at me, so you must know the law. Had she been a minor, you would have had to offer far more than that, for as you know, until the age of fourteen years her honour price would be half that of her father. Escmug must have told you her proper age and held out for her full honour price.’

Fidaig had lost his smile. ‘You are a clever woman, Fidelma of Cashel. You are also a woman of courage to come into my camp and accuse me …’

‘I am an advocate of the law, Fidaig. That is all. And you invited me into your camp and offered my companions and myself hospitality. You know the consequence if, having done so, something untoward happens to us. You would find the Eóghanacht might exact compensation that you would not be happy to pay.’

Fidaig stared at her with open mouth. Eadulf held his breath, certain that Fidelma had gone too far in confronting the lord of Luachra. Moments of silence passed and then Fidaig exhaled slowly. There was a reluctant admiration in his voice as he told her, ‘Your wit is as sharp as your tongue, lady.’

Fidelma seemed unperturbed. ‘You have held a girl in bondage from the age of maturity until she was eighteen years. I would judge that compensation to be four screpalls per year. Sixteen screpalls … Ten screpalls to the séd.’

‘Ridiculous!’

‘Your own honour worth is seven cumal, twenty-one milch cows. Since you have now been dishonoured by knowingly and flagrantly breaking the law, then your fine will be those seven cumals that I have indicated. We will round up the fine, compensation to the value of twenty-three milch cows.’

Fidaig sat staring at her in disbelief. Behind him Artgal was fingering his sword nervously, awaiting his father’s next order.

‘Tell me, Fidelma of Cashel,’ Fidaig’s voice was cold. ‘Tell me, do you not fear that you are in the territory of the Luachra and that Cashel is far away?’

‘Cashel is indeed a few days’ ride from here,’ Fidelma replied. ‘But we are not speaking of Cashel. We are speaking of the Law of the Fenéchus whose writ runs everywhere in the Five Kingdoms and is respected from the High King down to the lowest daer-fuidir, or unfree servant. While I am an advocate of that law and offer just judgements, then what have I to fear — any more than you would fear the pronouncement of the glam dicín, the solemn curse which is the appropriate action that a Brehon or other member of the law courts would bring against the person who disobeys the law? Once pronounced, then it would be the duty of all, even the High King himself, to punish the wrongdoer.’

There was a strange silence as two wills clashed on some invisible plane. Speculative dark eyes challenged fiery green ones and, in the end, Fidaig blinked. He blinked for a second and then his face dissolved into a mask of mirth and he was guffawing with laughter. He banged his fist on the arm of his chair as he laughed and then motioned the attendant to refill the glasses.

‘By the gods of our ancestors, Fidelma of Cashel, I admire your courage, indeed I do. Very well, twenty-three milch cows it is and we will speak no more of this matter.’

To Eadulf’s horror, she was shaking her head. ‘But speak some more, we will,’ she said. ‘I will give you a chance to earn back your fine, so that all you will have to pay me is two extra séds.’

Fidaig looked surprised. ‘What game is this, lady? What is it that you now seek?’

‘It is no game. I am utterly serious. Cooperation and information is what I seek.’

Fidaig shrugged. ‘Ask away and, if it is in my knowledge to give you the information, you shall have it.’

‘Do you know a merchant from Cashel named Ordan?’

‘I have heard of him,’ Fidaig nodded. ‘He is often known to be in my territory, though he never trades with me.’

‘What does he trade in?’

‘So far as I know, anything he can get his hands on. Why are you interested in this merchant?’

‘Your son seems to have a special interest in him.’

‘My son? Which of my sons?’

‘Gláed.’

A sad expression crossed Fidaig’s features. ‘Gláed the Howler, Lord of Barr an Bheithe, the Head of the Birch Forest. Alas, he is my youngest son. His mother died, giving him life. For a while it seemed he would not survive, but he fought — yelling in his crib and hence he earned his name. Anyway, survive he did.’

‘There is a sadness in your voice, Fidaig,’ observed Fidelma.

‘Sadness because he has not been a dutiful son, like Artgal here, who is my heir apparent. Gláed goes his own way and pays me scant courtesy. When he was young he went to train as a Brehon but left barely reaching the level of freisneidhed. After that he was impossible to advise. Even during the Uí Fidgente war with Cashel, when I tried to keep my people out of it, he took some warriors and went to answer Eoganán’s call. The Uí Fidgente promised to make him lord of some territories they expected to conquer. He fought at Cnoc Áine and managed to survive.

‘Artgal has a wiser head and that is why he is my heir apparent. Gláed treads his own path. I found he has even become fanatical about these new rules of the Faith coming from Rome because he finds in them an excuse to mete out physical punishments on his people which I find it hard to contradict. He espouses something called the Penitentials and does not even celebrate the Pasch at the same time that we do. I have long since given up trying to influence him.’

‘What was the place you mentioned, the one that he is lord of?’

‘Barr an Bheithe, the Head of the Birch Forest? It is further west in the hills, where the An Abhainn Mór — the Great Black Water — rises. And you say he has dealings with this Cashel merchant, Ordan? Why is that of concern to you?’

‘It intrigues me, that is all. I presume there are mines around Barr an Bheithe?’

‘None that I know of.’ Fidaig looked puzzled. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Ordan trades in metals and stones. It seems that he and your son Gláed meet secretly, with Gláed disguised in religious robes and calling himself Brother Adamrae.’

Fidaig was staring at her in astonishment. ‘I have told you that he has become something of a religious fanatic. However, I know nothing of this trade. What is the purpose — do you know?’

‘I was hoping to find out.’

‘Then perhaps it is time that I paid my son a visit.’

‘Would Gláed continue his allegiance with any dissident Uí Fidgente after all these passing years?’

‘I know he has been restless and often rides forth with his small band of cronies. The times I have seen him since Cnoc Áine I can count on the fingers of one hand.’

‘So you would have no idea why Gláed would disguise himself as a religious and be seen at the Ford of the Oaks on the River Mháigh and have to kill to keep his identity a secret?’

There was no disguising the painful look of surprise on the face of the Lord of Luachra.

‘You had best tell me the entire story, lady,’ he said quietly.

Fidelma told him as simply as possible what had happened at the Ford of the Oaks, mentioning how she had later identified Adamrae as Gláed at Marban’s mill.

Fidaig was left silent; his bewilderment obvious. ‘I have no understanding of these matters,’ he confessed. ‘But I swear that I shall have answers. Tomorrow I shall take my men across the hills to Barr an Bheithe and seek those answers from my son.’

Fidelma hesitated for a moment and then said: ‘Perhaps we should come with you.’

Fidaig seemed to shake himself, as a dog might shake off water after an immersing. ‘Very well. Then tonight, you shall both be my guests at the feasting and entertainment. Tomorrow we will set off to Barr an Bheithe and ask for an account from Gláed. He will be called to account for the death of the apothecary and for his attack on you.’

Later, having ensured that Gormán was informed of the situation and was comfortable, Fidelma and Eadulf were escorted to a small tent and provided with water to wash themselves and prepare for the evening feasting.

Eadulf was direct. ‘Do you trust him?’

‘Fidaig is a wolf but in wolf’s clothing. He does not hide his nature and so we can trust one thing — that he can be treacherous,’ Fidelma replied.

Eadulf commented, ‘That is a curious way of expressing trust.’

‘He tries to make his son Gláed appear like a disobedient child,’ Fidelma replied, ‘but I think he suspects there is something deeper behind this.’

‘Don’t you feel we shall be in danger by going to Barr an Bheithe and confronting Gláed or Adamrae, whatever he is called?’

‘One cannot eat an egg without taking off the shell,’ she replied enigmatically. ‘So we are at the mercy of fate.’

Eadulf stared at her for a moment. ‘I thought you believed in the teachings of Pelagius, that we are the masters of our own destiny, and that you did not believe in fate.’

‘Now is not the best time for a discourse on theology, Eadulf,’ she admonished. ‘However, when you cast a stone into a pond, the ripples are inevitable. It is important how you deal with the ripples.’

‘Which means putting ourselves in harm’s way?’

‘We were in harm’s way the moment that we entered the country of the Uí Fidgente.’

‘Our main task was to find out who the assassin really was and why he attempted to kill your brother.’

‘I have not forgotten that,’ Fidelma said irritably.

‘Then surely we should be about that task, not chasing after this Adamrae or Gláed!’

‘Eadulf.’ Her voice was patient, ‘I am sure that I don’t have to point out the connections. There is a link between all these matters.’

‘Do you never allow for mere coincidence?’ he countered. ‘This matter of Gláed and what he did at the Ford of the Oaks may have nothing to do with what happened at the rath of Menma or, indeed, at Cashel. We are merely wasting our time on it. Let Fidaig discipline his own son, if discipline is needed.’

Fidelma sat back on the rushes and soft branches that had been provided for a bed.

‘Tell me how you interpret the events of the attack on my brother.’

‘Easy enough. There was a warrior who seems to have been a member of your brother’s bodyguard. After the defeat of the Uí Fidgente at Cnoc Áine, he was sent into this country, as were many others, to keep the peace until the Uí Fidgente concluded the treaty with your brother. He stayed at the rath of Menma. For some reason he turned on his host and slaughtered him and his family. That included this woman, Liamuin.

‘Suanach had seen this warrior with a shield which bore your brother’s emblem on it. She did not know what it was but she described it well enough for it to be recognised. She certainly told someone else who recognised it. That someone knew or was very close to Liamuin. We are told that Liamuin was someone with whom men easily fell in love. That person came to Cashel and tried to kill your brother in revenge … seeking an atonement of blood.’

‘And what of the questions that arise?’ Fidelma asked with an indulgent smile.

‘Such as?’

‘Why would this lovesick fury wait four years to seek vengeance? Why take the name of Liamuin’s own brother, an apothecary killed on the slopes of the Hill of Áine? Why did he come to Cashel on the very night that Liamuin’s own daughter came there? Why did they go to the very same woodman’s hut, but at differing times? And what was Ordan’s role in all of this, having come from this very area … And from there we get into his connections with Gláed, who called himself Adamrae.’ She threw up her hands in a dramatic gesture. ‘Oh Eadulf, Eadulf! Don’t you see that this is not like following a single strand of string until we reach the end? It is like … like …’

She seemed on the point of exasperation and then Eadulf shrugged.

‘I know there are complications,’ he said. ‘It is just that I feel we are adding unnecessary ones.’

‘A search for the truth is like following a river. It does not always run straight,’ Fidelma replied. ‘It twists, turns and has many little tributaries. Show me a line that you think is truly straight and I shall show you the kinks in it.’

‘Even if we confront this Gláed, do you think that the truth will be revealed?’ asked Eadulf. ‘Remember, he tried to kill you once.’

‘Trying to kill someone in the dark and in secret is not the same as doing so in the open in front of his father.’

‘His father … whom we do not trust?’

‘My mind is made up,’ she declared firmly.

Eadulf had seen Fidelma in such obstinate moods before and he knew that no powers of persuasion could convince her that she was wrong.

At that moment the sounds of music came to their ears.

‘It seems Fidaig’s feasting has started,’ Fidelma said. ‘We had best go to join it.’

They left the tent and made their way to a square which had been laid out before the pupall of the chieftain. Branches, rushes and ferns, and bundles of sedge grass had been laid out in order to lessen the amount of mud that would be churned up on the ground where the feasting was to be. In the centre, a great fire had been lit and round this were makeshift tables and log benches that had been erected for those who would sit down to the feast.

To one side were a group of musicians with their instruments — those playing the pipes, trumpet players with wide-mouthed horns, and even chain men, who produced music from chains and bells by shaking them in rhythms, along with bone men who beat out their music.

‘Fidaig provides well for his warriors when they travel,’ Eadulf observed, glancing around.

Once again Fidelma was reminded that this was only a ‘marching camp’ but containing a hundred warriors and their supporting attendants, travelling from place to place to collect tribute for the Lord of the Luachra. It was an entirely male gathering that could, if need be, have been turned into an aggressive war party. But the men were well prepared with entertainment and food. And it was only by the fires and lanterns that now lit up the encampment that she saw the heavy wagons drawn up around it. These were the wagons in which the tribute was gathered and, at the same time, they served as a form of protective barrier after the camp was set up.

In the flickering light they met Gormán, who was standing surveying the construction of the camp.

‘The person who planned this encampment has a good eye,’ he greeted Fidelma. ‘All arranged in an orderly fashion … but I am concerned, lady.’

‘Concerned?’

‘Look at the area before the chieftain’s tent. It is an oblong space, bounded by poles — and on each pole is a lantern, giving light onto the area. I saw the like of this when I was training as a warrior at the school of the Glendamnach — and I am wondering what sort of entertainment is planned.’

Fidelma was considering the matter when Fidaig emerged from his tent and greeted them.

‘Come, lady, you and your companions must sit by me,’ he instructed, before turning back to those gathering round. A silence fell on the camp, even before he held up his hand.

‘Tonight, my friends, is a night to feast — for this is the last day of gathering in the tribute. We should all be able to drink our fill and look forward to returning to our beds and our women.’

‘Whose women?’ called out a bawdy voice, which sparked laughter among the warriors.

‘A good question,’ responded Fidaig. There was an expectant silence. Fidaig waved a hand towards Fidelma. ‘Tonight we are honoured with the presence of the lady Fidelma, sister to King Colgú in Cashel, her husband Eadulf and one of her brother’s bodyguards, a warrior of the Golden Collar.’

A ripple of interest went through the assembly. Eadulf and Gormán exchanged an anxious look.

‘The lady Fidelma is a dálaigh, an advocate of our ancient law,’ Fidaig went on. ‘It is apposite that she should be with us tonight, for this evening we have to resort to an ancient ordeal to determine a dispute. It is the fír cómlainn — the truth of combat.’

Eadulf noticed that Fidelma had gone very pale. By his side Gormán leaned towards him. He was also looking nervous, his hand resting tensely on the hilt of his sword. ‘That means a single combat to the death,’ he whispered. ‘I thought it was illegal.’

Fidaig overheard and turned to Fidelma. ‘Is single combat illegal, lady?’

Fidelma stirred uneasily. ‘It is not illegal. No Brehon council had felt it necessary to proscribe it as it is so ancient that it is almost irrelevant. The idea of quarrels being agreed by the sword is thought to be uncivilised when our law provides for arbitration.’

‘Then you are in an uncivilised land, lady,’ grinned Fidaig. ‘I thought the law provided for the settlement of dispute by single combat.’

‘So it does,’ admitted Fidelma. ‘However, there are stringent rules laid down for deciding whether the cause itself is legal. Who has issued the challenge?’

Fidaig raised his hand and beckoned. A tall warrior stepped forward. He was fully armed and clad with fighting helmet and shield. To the other side emerged Artgal, Fidaig’s own son, who was also fully armed.

‘Loeg issued the challenge and Artgal has accepted it.’

‘And what is the dispute?’

Fidaig chuckled almost lewdly. ‘Over a woman, what else? The wife of Loeg is now the mistress of Artgal.’

Fidelma pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘Surely the law is sufficient to deal with this matter? We have enough grounds for separation and divorce in our laws.’

‘It may be so, lady, but the Luachra prefer the challenge to combat when there is a dispute over their women.’

Fidelma regarded the would-be combatants with disapproval. ‘It is said that there are three kinds of men who fail to understand women: young men, old men and middle-aged men.’

Fidaig laughed. ‘That may be so as well — but the challenge remains. Will you be the judge of it?’

Fidelma realised that the wily lord of the Luachra had placed her in this position in order to test her determination and courage. He was trying to force her into an arbitrary decision. Here, in this time and this place, it was impossible to make a judgement without precedent. She had to follow the only path left open.

‘The challenge has been issued, you say? And has been accepted?’

‘It has.’

‘Have both men offered to submit to law before proclaiming the combat?’

‘Both men have agreed that they felt no recourse to deciding the matter than by combat until death.’

Fidelma was silent for a moment or two, trying to think of a means to stop the fight. But the existing legal criteria had been fulfilled. Both men, it seemed, were determined to pursue the matter.

‘Very well. Let them step forward.’ When the combatants did so, Fidelma addressed each of them in turn. ‘There is no other way you will resolve this?’

The warrior Loeg said, ‘There is no way but death!’ and Artgal was smiling as he agreed. ‘Loeg challenged me this morning and I accepted. Now it shall be resolved.’

Fidelma was about to confirm the proceedings when she paused. ‘When did you say that the challenge was issued?’

‘This morning. We agreed,’ replied Artgal in a confident tone.

‘They have witnesses,’ Fidaig said quickly, seeing a smile on her lips. ‘I recalled the law and there stand the witnesses on each side. Each combatant has sworn to abide by the result of the fight.’

‘But the fight will not take place, for it is illegal,’ Fidelma stated firmly.

Fidaig gazed at her in astonishment. ‘What squeamish judgement is this, lady?’ he sneered. ‘I have ensured that everything is done within the law, as you have heard.’

‘All except one thing, Fidaig. You should know that according to the Senchus Mór, five full days must elapse between the challenge and the duel.’

Fidaig clenched a fist in annoyance. ‘Where does it say this?’ he demanded. ‘This is not right.’

‘There is a story of two famous champions — Conall Cernach and Laegaire,’ explained Fidelma. ‘They quarrelled and challenged each other to a single combat in legal form. The Chief Brehon Sencha decreed that five days should elapse for them to cool their tempers before they fought. Thus all other combats since then can only be held five days after the formal challenge is made.’

Fidaig struggled to find an answer and could not. Fidelma ignored him and dismissed the combatants and their companions. ‘At least it gives them five more days to think it over,’ she explained quietly to Eadulf.

Even as they were finally relaxing and someone had signalled for the music to restart, there came the sound of a warning horn piercing the darkness close by with three short blasts. Gormán looked round, wondering what new threat was emerging.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Fidaig called immediately. ‘It is a signal from one of our sentinels.’ Then he frowned. ‘Curious. We expect no other guests.’

He was looking towards the edge of the camp where the bulky shape of a wagon had emerged, having just crossed the river. It was being escorted by a couple of warriors.

‘I thought all my wagons had been safely gathered in for the night.’ Fidaig was surprised by the new arrival. ‘I do not know this one.’

The wagon had halted on the rim of the encampment with the other wagons. The stocky driver had climbed down. One of Fidaig’s warriors was escorting him towards the pupall. They noticed that he was not so much guiding him as propelling him forward with the point of a sword.

The driver of the wagon was a balding man of stout proportions. He came wheezing before them, his head lowered, his pudgy hands rubbing together.

Fidelma glanced at Eadulf in surprise before turning back to the newcomer.

‘Well, Ordan, I did not expect to meet you again so soon and in this place.’