Atonement of Blood

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The merchant recovered quickly from his obvious shock and forced a sickly smile to spread over his fleshy features.

‘Lady Fidelma,’ he bowed his head briefly. ‘I, also, hardly expected to find you here and in such distinguished company.’ He looked at Eadulf and made his curious bow again. His small glittering eyes missed nothing, observing Gormán behind them. Then he turned to Fidaig and made an artificial obeisance.

Fidaig simply ignored him but raised a questioning eyebrow to the warrior who had escorted Ordan into the camp.

‘Lord,’ began the warrior, ‘we were returning from the north, and just by the place known as the Hill of Green we saw a campfire. There we found this merchant.’

‘I had camped there for the night, lord,’ Ordan explained hastily. ‘Had I realised your encampment was nearby, I would have hastened to join you. Better to spend the night in numbers than in isolation. I have heard that the wolves and bears are many in these fastnesses.’

The warrior gave the merchant a pitying glance and went on, ‘Your campfires, lord, were clearly visible from where we found this man.’

‘Yet I had failed to see them until your warriors kindly pointed them out to me and invited me to join you,’ the merchant said suavely.

Fidaig stared at the fat man in distaste. ‘So you are Ordan of Rathordan? I hear you have often been in my territory but have never once come to my fortress to pay your respects to me.’

‘When we questioned him, he told us that he was heading for the Ford of Oaks in the land of the Uí Fidgente,’ interrupted the escorting warrior.

‘Your route is curious for one heading to the Ford of the Oaks,’ pointed out Fidaig.

The merchant spread his hands nervously. ‘I missed the road. I mean … the road I usually take was muddy and impassable.’

‘Yet you have put an entire day or more on your journey to see Gláed, haven’t you?’ Fidelma said softly.

‘It was better to arrive safely than …’ Ordan suddenly stopped, realising that he had unwittingly admitted he was going to meet Gláed. His jaw went slack and he was at a loss to continue.

‘Perhaps, lord,’ said the warrior, ‘you might like to see what is in the wagon of this merchant?’

‘That will not be necessary,’ protested Ordan. ‘I am trading a few weapons, that’s all.’

Fidaig’s expression did not favour the merchant. ‘I have heard of you, Ordan. Reports have reached me that you have often been in my territory but that you favour my son to trade with. I am curious.’

‘I trade with many people,’ Ordan muttered sullenly.

‘We shall see what goods you bring to my son.’ Fidaig turned to one of his warriors. ‘Keep our guest company while we look at his wagon.’ Then he gestured for Fidelma and Eadulf to accompany him.

Led by the warrior who had escorted Ordan into the camp, they walked across to the place where the wagon had been left under guard. Lanterns were called for and Fidaig climbed up and drew aside the covering. His gasp was audible. Without a word, he turned and signalled for Fidelma to join him. Eadulf assisted her in climbing onto the heavily laden wagon before he followed her. Gormán, not to be left behind, also climbed up.

The wagon was packed with an array of swords, spears and shields as well as bows and quivers of arrows. There was no room in the wagon for anything else.

Gormán whistled softly.

‘It looks as though your Cashel merchant was ready to start a war,’ Fidaig said, turning a suspicious glance on Fidelma.

‘Don’t get the idea that this merchant came here with Cashel’s blessing,’ Fidelma said. ‘I am as anxious to find out what use your son would put these weapons to as you doubtless are.’

‘My son shall have much to explain,’ replied Fidaig. ‘But weapons of this quantity and quality are not part of a simple trade.’

Gormán had picked up one of the swords and examined it. ‘You have observed well, Fidaig,’ he said. ‘These swords are new and the work of the famous smiths of Magh Méine. I know their work well.’

The smiths of Magh Méine, the ‘Plain of Minerals’, were also known to Fidelma, for Fhear Máighe was the centre and it was at the library there that Fidelma had managed to piece together the secret that had led to the murder of Donnchad of Lios Mór.

Gormán was continuing to examine the other weapons and shields.

‘Indeed, these are all new-made, lady,’ he said to Fidelma. Then he came across something wrapped in sacking. Gormán bent forward and picked it up. It was a battle standard. The shaft was new polished wood. He tore the sacking from it. On the top of the shaft, exquisitely worked in gold metal and inlaid with semi-precious stones, was the image of a ravening wolf. They immediately recognised the Uí Fidgente symbol.

Fidaig appeared to recognise something else. He drew a long breath and said slowly, ‘By the powers of the Mórrígan!’

Fidelma turned a cold eye towards him. ‘Is there a reason to invoke the ancient Goddess of War?’

Fidaig blinked, staring at the standard that Gormán held. The lanterns of the onlookers flickered on the golden image and the red stones set as the wolf’s eyes. Fidaig’s warriors had fallen silent, almost in awe.

‘The reason is that this is the symbol of the ancient Goddess of War,’ Fidaig said slowly. ‘It is the sacred totem of the Uí Fidgente. It disappeared after the great defeat of Cnoc Áine.’

‘A sacred totem?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘It is the Cathach of Fiachu Fidgenid,’ Fidaig uttered reverently.

Eadulf knew that most clans, when they went to battle, usually carried into the conflict a sacred object which they believed gave them strength and protection. The object was known as a cathach or battler. More recently, as the New Faith spread, some clans carried a copy of one or other of the Scriptures while others carried a reliquary of the great teachers of the Faith. But this was an ancient symbol from the time before the New Faith.

As if reading his thoughts, Fidaig said: ‘This is supposed to be the very standard that the Goddess of Darkness and Sorcery, the Mongfhind, gave to Fiachu Fidgenid, the progenitor of the Uí Fidgente, at the time before time.’ His tone was a mixture of wonder and dread.

‘Are you saying that it is the battle standard of the Uí Fidgente, last seen during the conflict at Cnoc Áine?’ asked Fidelma.

‘It disappeared from the battlefield. It was thought to have been looted and taken to Cashel, but your brother denied all knowledge of taking it as part of the spoils of battle.’

‘Had it been taken to Cashel, then it would have been destroyed,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Its symbol would have aroused too many passions among the Uí Fidgente. The question is — how has it fallen into the hands of Ordan?’

‘A question we should now attempt to answer,’ Eadulf said, turning and jumping down from the wagon before he held out his arm to assist Fidelma down.

Her feet had barely touched the ground when there were shouts coming from the direction of Fidaig’s tent, followed by the sound of a horse galloping off.

‘If the guard has let that merchant escape …’ began Fidaig, stifling an oath.

They were running for the tent across the campsite. The warriors milled around in confusion as Fidaig began yelling orders for the wagon to be protected, for others to chase after the fugitive.

They halted at the entrance of the pupall. There, lying on the ground, was the rotund form of Ordan. Eadulf went immediately to kneel by him. Ordan was clutching his side where blood was seeping over his clothing. His face was deathly white. One look into his eyes and Eadulf knew that Ordan had resigned himself to death. A tongue licked over the pale lips.

‘Wealth … more wealth than I ever dreamed of. He promised me … he promised …’

Fidelma knelt by his other side, glancing at Eadulf who shook his head.

‘Who promised you this, Ordan?’ she asked softly.

‘He would be King … he promised.’

‘Gláed? Did he promise you wealth? What was he to be King of?’

The dying merchant stared at Fidelma as if not recognising her.

‘Not Gláed. Must get it … get to Mungairit. He promised … he …’

With a sigh, Ordan suddenly went limp. Fidelma did not have to ask Eadulf whether he was dead or not.

Slowly, she and Eadulf stood up. Fidaig had just been speaking to his son Artgal. He came towards them with an angry expression.

‘It seems that one of my warriors drew his knife and killed Ordan. Then he leaped on a horse and rode away. It was Loeg, one of the men you prevented from engaging in the single combat earlier.’

Fidelma glanced into the darkness beyond the campfires. ‘Was Loeg one of Gláed’s men?’ she asked.

‘He came from Barr an Bheithe,’ acknowledged Fidaig bitterly.

‘I suppose there will be no chance of overtaking him in this darkness?’

‘Half a dozen of my men are now chasing him,’ Fidaig replied. ‘I doubt that they will be able to catch him. Come daylight, they might be able to track him, but I suspect that he will have gone to ground before then.’

‘Was the attack unprovoked?’ Eadulf asked, although he already knew the answer. ‘Did Ordan make an attempt to escape?’

‘It was when you discovered the Cathach and the news spread that Loeg struck,’ Artgal said, having followed his father to their group.

‘You think that he did it to prevent Ordan revealing where he obtained it?’ queried Fidaig, troubled. ‘If my son was buying arms then he was surely plotting against me — plotting my overthrow.’

‘That might well be,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Except that I think it was a bigger conspiracy — and one to which the Cathach of the Uí Fidgente is the key. You heard what Ordan said. The answer is at Mungairit.’

The lord of the Luachra shook his head stubbornly. ‘My concern is to stop Gláed’s folly. If he wants to take over the chieftainship of the Luachra, then he must confront me first. I am taking my men to Barr an Bheithe tomorrow. Gláed has much to learn if he thinks he can outsmart me, lady.’

‘Then I suggest that we split up and go our separate ways. I think it is important that we get to Mungairit in view of the discovery of the Cathach and Ordan’s dying words, so Eadulf, Gormán and I will continue north to Mungairit at sun-up.’

‘It could be a trap.’

Fidelma disagreed. ‘I think the totem of the Uí Fidgente is essential to this conspiracy — whatever it is. If Loeg reports that you have it, Fidaig, then they will not come after me. So I suggest that you take good care to hide Ordan’s wagon. I also suggest that you hand over this totem to me for temporary safekeeping. I think it will help to solve the many mysteries which now lie hidden. I promise that I will keep it safe. Will you trust me with that?’

Fidaig rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then he finally gave a quick nod of confirmation.

‘The Uí Fidgente mean little to me. I am content as lord of the Luachra. You may take their totem back to them or destroy it as you will. But remember, it is a powerful symbol. Even some of my own warriors have followed it and been seduced by its power. You saw how they reacted just now when it was discovered. So have a care, lady. Guard it safely.’

Fidelma turned to Gormán but before she spoke he said solemnly: ‘My honour and sword hand will defend it, lady, or I will be dead when it is taken from me.’

‘Rather you remain alive than dead, my friend,’ she replied dryly.

‘To ensure that you reach Mungairit, I can give you two of my men to accompany you,’ offered Fidaig.

To Eadulf’s surprise, Fidelma accepted the offer.

Later that night, in the darkness of their tent, Eadulf rolled over and peered towards the figure of Fidelma. The sounds of her breathing made him realise that she was awake.

‘I still don’t trust Fidaig,’ he whispered without preamble.

‘Trust does not come into it,’ she whispered back. ‘I think Fidaig is genuinely concerned about Gláed, although I don’t believe it is Gláed’s intention to overthrow his father. I return to my earlier thought about the overthrow of Prince Donennach. Why else would Gláed, in his guise of Brother Adamrae, be trading for new weapons with Ordan? I know that Ordan was a merchant without morals and that he had traded with the smiths of Magh Méine for years. Perhaps it is as simple as that. It is not every merchant who has such connections or who is willing to trade in weapons and is not too scrupulous with whom he trades. But the Cathach is something else.’

Eadulf stared into the darkness. ‘I would have thought your law system would control such things as the way merchants trade.’ He did not mean to sound rude.

‘A merchant is the one occupation that is not included in the lists of the professions,’ replied Fidelma. ‘It is not even mentioned in the law texts such as the Uraicecht Becc or the Bretha Nemed toisech.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because such a merchant of death is so abhorrent to us that we cannot conceive that he exists.’

‘And yet exist he does.’

‘Exist he does,’ she confirmed hollowly. ‘Or did so until Loeg ended his existence.’

‘Yet if there is a conspiracy to overthrow Prince Donennach, what would Gláed of the Luachra hope to achieve by it? He is not even an Uí Fidgente, let alone having a claim to the succession.’

‘I am beginning to see some light in all this darkness, Eadulf. But we have some way to go first.’

Eadulf peered at her. ‘You see some light?’ he demanded. ‘I see nothing but complications.’

‘I think that by nightfall tomorrow you will have a better understanding.’

‘Why tomorrow?’ he asked, bewildered.

‘Because tomorrow we shall be on our journey back to Dún Eochair Mháigh and our first stop will be at the watermill of Marban.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

There was a long sigh from the darkness. ‘Go to sleep, Eadulf. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

They set off after the first meal of the day. A weak sun was trying to shine, with banks of white clouds being blown rapidly across the sky by the wind from the west. Fidaig’s camp was in the process of breaking up. The heavy wagons were already moving off towards the spot where Fidaig’s fortress lay, while the warriors were saddling up ready to ride with Fidaig for Barr an Bheithe. The two who had been designated to accompany Fidelma and her companions were sturdy, capable men, professional warriors who knew their art. When Fidelma had asked them about their qualifications, they answered that they were of the fubae — warriors whose task was usually to hunt down brigands, especially horse and cattle thieves, and to keep the wolf population under control.

They made their farewells to Fidaig and, with Gormán leading, they rode back across the River Ealla, retracing their way along the track they had been forced to take on the previous day. Gormán carried the totem slung across his back, with the sacking securely tied over the gold ravening wolf so that no one would recognise it. Behind him rode Fidelma and Eadulf, and behind them came the two watchful warriors.

Most of the journey was in silence for it was a cold day, and now and again the wind brought a fine spray of rain. Fidelma and Eadulf were thankful for their lummon — thick woollen cloaks edged in beaver fur. The wool was from the black-fleeced sheep that were prevalent in the country; it was of a thick texture and could protect against the most persistent rain, having an oily quality that allowed water to drain off it without penetrating.

It was not long before they were passing north of the hills on which the rath of Menma could just be glimpsed. Then they were heading back over the marshy plains to pick up the small stream that would eventually emerge as the great River Mháigh. The trees began to grow thickly, so that woods became forests before thinning out again.

Just after midday, the smells and then the sounds of Marban’s watermill assailed their senses. A short time later, the fields, kilns and the mill itself came into their vision.

One of the workmen at the kilns saw them and, with a shout, went running to the mill, doubtless to inform Marban. Sure enough, the burly miller came out of the mill, greeting them with a raised hand.

‘Welcome back, my friends. I did not expect you to return.’

Fidelma swung down from her horse. ‘In truth, Marban, we did not expect to do so … at least not in this direction. My intention was to return directly to Cashel after we had visited Menma’s rath, or what remained of it.’

A sad look momentarily crossed the miller’s features. ‘And did you see it?’

‘We did and more.’

‘More?’

‘We were invited to encamp with Fidaig himself. Our new companions are two of his warriors.’

‘Fidaig was there?’ The miller looked concerned.

‘Not there exactly,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘However, from our journey there are a few more questions we have to ask you before we move on.’

The miller hesitated a moment. Then he said: ‘Stable your horses and let your companions rest as they will.’ He turned and ordered one of his workmen to look after Gormán and the other warriors. Gormán seemed unwilling, but Fidelma glanced at him and nodded slightly.

‘Now,’ said Marban, ‘come into the mill where we may be warm and I may provide you with hospitality and information.’

Inside, the mill was indeed as warm as they had previously experienced. They took off their cloaks and spread them on the wooden benches to sit more comfortably while Marban poured the inevitable beakers of corma.

‘Did you find out what you wanted?’ he asked Fidelma as he handed the drinks to them.

‘I found out what I was able,’ she countered. ‘Now I think you could add to that knowledge.’

Marban frowned. ‘I will answer if I can.’

‘I would like you to tell me the real reason why Liamuin ran away from her husband, Escmug.’

Marban looked astonished at the abruptness of the question. ‘He was a bully and an evil man,’ he said defensively.

‘Then why did she not leave him before?’

‘Her daughter was the reason. I told you.’

‘Yet what happened this time that she fled and abandoned her daughter? She had put up with Escmug’s beatings for fourteen years. Why choose this moment to run away?’

Marban could not meet her eye.

‘Come!’ snapped Fidelma, suddenly becoming angry. ‘Are there no Brehons here? Women are equal to men in their right to divorce or to separation. Women who have been ill-used or beaten can be divorced with full compensation — especially if blemishes have been raised on the skin by such ill-treatment. Why did Liamuin not have recourse to the law? Instead she flees — and the law states that a woman who flees from her marital contact without sufficient cause is classed in the same manner as a fugitive thief.’

The miller raised his hands, spread slightly outwards. ‘Liamuin is dead, lady. Surely the dead should be allowed to rest in peace?’

‘Not if their resurrection goes to explaining their death and exonerating their reputation. And not if their resurrection will save lives.’

‘I cannot help, lady,’ the miller replied stubbornly.

Fidelma turned to Eadulf. ‘Would you ask Gormán to bring the … the object in here.’

Eadulf rose and went off to fulfil his task. He knew that Fidelma had an idea but he was not sure what it was. He was back with Gormán within moments.

‘Gormán, unwrap the sacking and show the miller what you have there.’

As Gormán obeyed, Fidelma watched the miller’s face turn pale. A number of expressions chased across his features. He reached forward and ran his trembling hands over the golden wolf.

‘It is the same, yet it has been expertly repaired,’ he breathed at last.

‘Repaired?’ Fidelma asked sharply.

‘When I last saw it, one of its legs and its tail had been broken off. I think, perhaps, by sword blows. This has been repaired and by a smith with much experience and talent in the art of working with this metal.’

‘So you are sure this is the Cathach of Fiachu Fidgenid and the one which Liamuin brought here when she fled from Escmug?’

‘I am sure-’ began the miller before he halted and stared at her in astonishment. ‘How did you know?’

‘Is it the same?’ repeated Fidelma.

The miller sighed and pointed to the object. ‘There is a special incision on the metal in Ogham, the ancient script, just under the belly of the animal.’

Fidelma reached forward and felt for the incised letters. ‘Buaidh!’ she read aloud. ‘Victory!’ She sat back and looked at Marban, her silence inviting him to speak.

‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘I will tell you the story as Liamuin told me and will subtract nothing.’ He paused to refill the beakers of corma, taking a large swallow of his own before beginning to speak.

‘When Liamuin came to me for help, not knowing where to turn, it was not that she was merely fleeing from her husband and abandoning her child, Aibell. You were right. You have already learned that her father was old Ledbán and that her brother was Lennán, who had trained as a physician and entered the Abbey of Mungairit.’

Fidelma waited without commenting.

‘Lennán had decided to join Prince Eoganán’s warriors when they marched against your brother’s army. Not that he supported the Prince but he was sworn to follow his calling as a physician. So he went to care for the sick and wounded.’

‘We have heard as much,’ Eadulf muttered. ‘He was killed on the slopes of Cnoc Áine by Eóghanacht warriors.’

The miller glanced at him. ‘That is not exactly so,’ he said quietly.

It was Fidelma’s turn to be surprised. ‘What are you saying? That he was not killed by Eóghanacht warriors or that he was not killed on the slopes of Cnoc Áine?’

‘He was mortally wounded but did not die there.’

‘You’d best continue the story then.’

‘It happened on the very day of the battle. As Liamuin told me, it was, thankfully, one of those evenings when Escmug was away drinking. And yet the battle was raging on a hill less than twenty kilometres away. Liamuin was mending her husband’s nets when a wounded rider arrived at her cabin. It was her own brother Lennán. He was dying. He had strength enough to tell her of the defeat of the Uí Fidgente army at the hands of Colgú. He had, indeed, been nursing the wounded on the field of slaughter.

‘One of those mortally wounded was the standard-bearer of Prince Eoganán. He was lying with the Cathach of Fiachu Fidgenid almost hidden beneath him. As Lennán turned him over to assess his wounds, he saw the golden wolf and its broken haft. He was about to treat the standard-bearer when he felt a sharp pain in his side. He turned to see a warrior bending over him, sword still in his hand. The warrior’s face was a mask of maniacal desire as he stared at the Cathach. He was screaming, “It’s mine! It’s mine! I will have the power.” He made another lunge towards the Cathach. Realising that this warrior had stabbed him with his sword, Lennán grabbed the remaining haft of the Cathach and swung it at him, catching him on the forehead. The warrior fell down and lay still.

‘Lennán knew what the Cathach symbolised. He knew that if the warrior seized the Cathach it would mean more bloodshed and destruction for the Uí Fidgente as well as the Eóghanacht. And this fear caused him to flee to his sister. The fear of that warrior on the battlefield who had struck the fatal blow at him …’

‘Some Eóghanacht warrior, no doubt?’ Gormán’s voice was almost a sneer.

To their surprise, Marban shook his head.

‘Not so. The warrior was Lorcán, son of Eoganán. Everyone knew and feared Lorcán’s ruthlessness. The man was killed not long afterwards and few among the Uí Fidgente mourned his passing. But at the time, he was a man to fear. Lennán realised that he was badly wounded, but he derived an extraordinary strength of purpose from the knowledge of what might happen if Lorcán got possession of the sacred totem. He managed to stagger from the battlefield with it, mount a horse and, wounded as he was, he rode that agonising distance to his sister Liamuin. He entrusted the emblem to her, telling her to take it and hide it somewhere safe.’

‘And then he died?’

‘While knowing full well that death was at hand, he remounted his horse and rode back towards the battlefield. It seemed that he did not make it, but he was close enough for the others to think he had been killed on the field of battle or died trying to leave it. At any rate, his visit to his sister was not known.’

‘Except to you. This is the story that Liamuin told you?’

‘He had impressed his fear into the poor girl. She took the metal wolf of the Cathach, placed it in a sack, and realising she could not wait for her daughter to return from the fields, she left Dún Eochair Mháigh and so headed upriver to me.’

‘So you weren’t simply concerned with Escmug chasing after her?’

The miller shook his head. ‘Not just Escmug, although I knew he would guess where she had fled. As I told you, Menma, the bó-aire, was one of the most moral people I knew. That is why I sent her to his rath. I suggested that we take the Cathach and have him hide it.’

‘And what of her daughter, Aibell?’

‘The plan was for her to be told where her mother was later. Escmug believed that Liamuin had simply run away from him and for no other reason than she was tired of him. In revenge, he decided to do something that would wound Liamuin. That was when he sold Aibell to Fidaig as a bondservant. As I have already told you, I had no regrets in killing that animal.’

‘So Liamuin hid with Menma and nothing was done about her daughter?’

‘What could we do? The child had become a slave — to Fidaig of all people. As I told you before, she was as good as dead.’

‘Yet she did not die. I have spoken with Fidaig and he accepts that he has done wrong in law by taking the girl from Escmug knowing she was at the age of choice.’

The miller’s expression was one of incredulity.

‘Lady, you have seen that we are not far from the great fastness of the Luachra, where Fidaig and his sons rule. His power extends even over the hills where my friend Menma used to dwell. I swear that I gave up all hope of Aibell being rescued when I heard that Escmug had given her to the Luachra.’

‘Let us speak of Gláed first,’ Fidelma said. ‘I am told he played a role at Cnoc Áine — even against the wishes of his father. His ambition lay with the Uí Fidgente.’

Marban’s mouth tightened. ‘That is true, lady. Fidaig was not really interested in Eoganán’s claims to the kingship of Cashel nor, indeed, in the Uí Fidgente at all. He was concerned in building up his own fiefdom within the fastness of the Sliabh Luachra. There is a natural fortress with its great mountain barriers.’

Eadulf rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘How well known is Gláed among the Uí Fidgente? Surely he would be recognised by all the Uí Fidgente nobles? Conrí, for example.’

Fidelma saw what Eadulf was driving at but Marban was shaking his head.

‘Outside of these borderlands, I doubt many know him at all. Although he is ambitious, don’t forget he was from Sliabh Luachra and joined Eoganán with only a small band of followers — against his father’s wishes. After Eoganán’s defeat, he was not considered of any importance to the Uí Fidgente. The war was four years ago.’

‘Would Gláed know the worth of the Cathach?’

‘It would not mean much to him personally, but he might know that any dissident prince of the Uí Fidgente would do anything to have it returned to Dún Eochair Mháigh. In the hands of our nobles it is a powerful symbol; a symbol of our past and a promise of our future — a symbol that we are not a defeated people.’

Gormán stirred uneasily but Fidelma shot him a warning glance.

‘As you say, the war is long over, Marban. Hopefully, the Uí Fidgente no longer have any ambition to fight to assert their superiority,’ she said firmly. ‘Too many have died for that ambition. Too many mothers have lost sons.’

Eadulf added softly: ‘Bella detesta matribus — wars, the horror of mothers.’

‘I believe in peace as well as the next man,’ Marban stated. ‘I pray Prince Donennach will last long enough to ensure that this peace, a peace we have known for the last four years, continues. But it is a fact that the only outcome of war is hatred and more war. And I fear it will be so. War will come again out of resentment. Don’t forget, lady, in a conquered land, the defeat of its army leaves three armies in its place. An army of wounded and cripples; an army of mourners and haters; and an army of thieves and opportunists. Out of those three comes the growing resentment to seek atonement from the conquerors. An atonement in blood.’

Fidelma said sadly, ‘You sound like a philosopher, Marban. All I know is, Cashel had to defend itself once attacked. But I agree that victory in war does not determine who is right, only who was the strongest. The victory is not a solution and that is why my brother engaged in finding a solution with Prince Donennach. At least, he seemed to understand the path to peace between Cashel and Dún Eochair Maigh.’

‘Well, let us hope he has time to establish that peace. There is much resentment here.’

‘And there are people who will attempt to overthrow him and end the peace?’ queried Eadulf.

‘Isn’t that the nature of things?’ The miller looked sad. ‘Anyway, now you have heard the full story of Liamuin. She was a lovely girl, albeit a foolish one. Many loved her, but she chose the wrong man and suffered for it. Beaten, forced to abandon her own daughter, fleeing to a place where she was killed along with the family of my dear friend who gave her shelter. That is the tragedy of her life.’

Fidelma sighed. ‘I am not sure it is the full story of Liamuin as yet. At least, Marban, I can confirm some good news to alleviate the tragedy. Aibell is, at this moment, safe in Cashel, having escaped from Sliabh Luachra. Furthermore, when I challenged Fidaig he was forced to admit that he acted illegally, as I have already said, and he has agreed to pay a fine and compensation for doing so.’

The miller stared at her in disbelief. ‘Liamuin’s daughter is alive and well?’

‘Your niece is safe, Marban.’

Tears sprang into the eyes of the big man. Then he tried to pull himself together. ‘Liamuin would be overjoyed. The old saying is truly spoken — that dark stormclouds are sent to prove there is such a thing as sunshine. The impossible can happen.’

‘I am sure she will want to meet with you and hear the real story of why her mother had to abandon her,’ Fidelma said kindly. ‘Even more, my friend, I believe that soon we will find out exactly what happened at the rath of Menma — and who is responsible for it.’

As the words left her lips, one of Marban’s men came banging at the mill door and burst in before he could respond. ‘Horses are approaching,’ gasped the man. ‘It is Gláed and his men.’