Atonement of Blood (34 page)

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.’

T
heir 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.