Atonement of Blood (37 page)

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
.