Atonement of Blood (22 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But you have animals?’

‘A few milch cows.’

‘So who milks them?’ Eadulf pressed.

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

‘Ah yes, you said you kept pigs.’

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

‘So you own the woodland?’

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

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

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

‘So that was a good outcome?’

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

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

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

‘Who are you speaking of?’

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

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

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

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

‘Then you will know the meaning of mine.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You were speculating,’ she reproved him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

F
idelma stared long and hard at the warrior.

‘I know you,’ she said, trying to dredge his name from her memory. Her eyes widened. ‘You are Socht.’

There was a brief moment before the taciturn warrior grinned.

‘I am flattered that you remember me, lady. Much time has passed since we were together at Ard Fhearta.’

Now Eadulf was beginning to recall the features of the Uí Fidgente warrior.

‘Remember you?’ went on Fidelma. ‘It looks as though you have recovered from that crack on the skull delivered by the pommel of Slébéne’s short sword.’

‘Indeed, lady, the sword of the chief of the Corco Duibhne caused me many a headache for days afterwards. But thanks to you, he and his allies received their due.’

‘So are we well met again, Socht, or is it ill met?’ Fidelma asked, nodding towards his armed companions.

‘All in good time, lady,’ replied the warrior. ‘I am ordered to take you to the fortress of Ath Dara, the Ford of the Oaks.’

Without another word he turned and, motioning them to follow, set off at a trot. The other warriors closed around them and forced them to follow at the same pace, and then that pace gradually increased to a canter. It was a short ride before they swung around a bend following the riverbank and came across several habitations and a narrow crossing which nestled among the tall oaks from which it obviously took its name.

The settlement spanned both sides of the River Mháigh, which twisted and turned like some giant serpent. The main settlement was on the far bank; doubtless because its higher elevation would provide the inhabitants with protection against flooding. Here the group noticed a large stockade – a fortress of timber with a square watchtower. A horn was being sounded from within: there were several short blasts.

Fidelma’s escort did not hesitate on the riverbank but plunged forward, obviously aware of the existence of a ford. As Fidelma followed, she noticed that the ford had been reinforced, probably over many years, by deposits of stones and pebbles, creating an underwater pathway a few metres wide. The height of the water therefore barely reached above the knee of the forelegs or the hock of the hind legs of their horses.

Socht wheeled his mounted warriors towards the wooden fortress, whose gates stood open, although with sentinels on the walls above watching their approach. He halted the band in a small courtyard and swung down, shouting orders to his men. Then he turned to Fidelma and her companions.

‘My men will take your horses to the stables, lady, so if you will follow me … ?’

Fidelma was about to retort that they had been left with no other choice, but thought better of it.

Socht moved swiftly off towards the main building. A guard opened the door and he led them inside. They entered what seemed to be a chieftain’s feasting room, albeit an old-fashioned one and poorly furnished at that. A central hearth provided a fire whose smoke went upwards through a point in a conical thatched roof, which was supported by great timber supports and beams. A few shields adorned the walls as decorations, and at one side stood an ornately carved chair behind which hung a banner similar to the one Socht’s men carried – red silk which bore the image of a ravening wolf.

Rising from the chair was a tall, well-muscled young man with a shock of black hair. His eyes were grey and sparkling, and a white scar across his left cheek would have given him a sinister impression had it not been offset by his wide smile as he moved towards Fidelma with his hands outstretched in greeting.

Fidelma responded with an answering smile.

‘Conrí – King of Wolves!’ she declared. ‘Of course – with Socht here, I should have known that you would not be far away.’