Fidelma pursued her lips thoughtfully.
‘Our law system grants the right for a killer to atone for his or her crime by payment of compensation. There is a fixed penalty, the éric fine, as you rightly say. This amounts to seven cumals, the value of twenty-one milch cows. But, often, when the victim is a man or woman of rank and influence, then the victim’s kinsmen are within their rights to claim an honour price, the lóg n-enech. That was, in fact, the law by which Conaire Mór claimed Osraige for Muman in the first instance. If the culprit is unable to pay this honour price then their kinsmen are expected to pay it. If this is not forthcoming then the victim’s kinsmen are allowed to commence a blood feud, or dígal, to obtain the honour price. But this does not mean that the Laigin king is entitled to do so. There are a couple of questions that need to be resolved.’
‘Advise me, Fidelma,’ invited Colgú, leaning forward eagerly.
‘What right does Fianamail have in this matter? Only kinship allows a person to name and demand an honour price.’
‘Fianamail is cousin to Dacan and speaks as kin. In this, of course, he supported by Noé, the brother of Dacán.’
Fidelma allowed herself a deep sigh.
‘That certainly allows Fianamail to press his claim. But does Abbot Noé actually support him in his demands? Such demands must surely lead to an effusion of blood. Noé is a leading advocate of the Faith and beloved and respected for his conciliatory teachings, for his acts of forgiveness. How can he demand such vengeance?’
Colgú grimaced dispassionately.
‘Dacán was, above all things, Noé’s brother,’ he pointed out.
‘Even so, I find it hard to believe Noé would act in such a manner.’
‘Well, he has. But you implied that there might be other reasons why Laigin could not inflict an honour-price fine on Muman. What more?’
‘The most obvious question devolves on the fact that the fines can only be inflicted on the family of the person who was responsible for Dacán’s death. Who killed Dacan? Only if a member of our family, the Eóganachta, as representing the kingship of Muman, is responsible, can Laigin claim an honour price from Muman.’
Colgú gestured helplessly.
‘We don’t know who killed Dacan, but the abbey of Ros Ailithir is governed by our cousin, Brocc. He is charged, as abbot, as being responsible for Dacán’s death.’
Fidelma blinked to conceal her surprise. She had vague memories of an elder cousin who had been a distant and unfriendly figure to her brother and herself.
‘What makes the king of Laigin charge our cousin with accountability for the death of Dacan? Is it simply because he is responsible for the safety of all who reside at his abbey or is something more sinister implied?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed her brother. ‘But I do not think that even Fianamail of Laigin would make so light an accusation.’
‘Have there been any steps to find out?’
‘The envoy from Fianamail has simply stated that all evidence and arguments will be placed before the High King and his Chief Brehon at the great assembly at Tara. The assembly will be asked to support Laigin and hand over Osraige to Fianamail.’
Fidelma bit her lip as she thought for a moment.
‘How can Fianamail be so sure that he can prove that Dacán’s death is the responsibility of Muman? Forbassach, his envoy, is a vain and arrogant man, but he is an ollamh of the court. Even his friendship with the Laigin king, his pride in being a man of Laigin, would not blind him to the law. He must know that the evidence is strong enough to lay a claim before the High King’s court. What is that evidence?’
Colgú had no answer. Instead he said quietly: ‘Fidelma, the assembly of Tara is due to meet in three weeks. That does not leave us much time to resolve this matter.’
‘The law also allows one month from the decision of the assembly before Fianamail can march an army into Osraige to claim the land by force if it is not handed over in peace,’ observed Fidelma.
‘So we have seven weeks before there is bloodshed and war in this land?’
Fidelma drew her brows together.
‘Providing, that is, judgment goes to Laigin. There is much mystery here, Colgú. Unless Fianamail knows something that we do not, I cannot see how the High King and his assembly could give a judgment against Muman.’
Colgú poured another two glasses of wine and handed one across to his sister with a tired smile.
‘These were the very words of Cathal, our cousin, before he succumbed to the fever. It was the reason why he asked me to send for you. The morning after the messenger had been sent to Kildare, he fell a victim to the Yellow Fever. And if the physicians are right, I shall be king before this week is out. If there is war, then it will be on my hands.’
‘It will not be a good start to your rule, brother,’ agreed Fidelma as she sipped at her wine and considered the matter carefully. Then she raised her eyes to examine her brother’s careworn face. ‘Are you giving me a commission to investigate the death of Dacán and then present the evidence to you?’
‘And to the High King,’ added Colgú quickly. ‘You willhave the authority of Muman to carry out this investigation. I ask you to be our advocate before the High King’s assembly.’
Fidelma was silent for a long while.
‘Tell me this, my brother; suppose my findings are such as to support the king of Laigin? What if Dacán’s death is the responsibility of the Eóganachta? What if the king of Laigin does have the right to demand Osraige as an honour price from Cashel? What if these unpalatable arguments become my findings? Will you accept that judgment under law and meet Laigin’s demand?’
Her brother’s face worked with complex emotions as he wrestled with the decision.
‘If you want me to speak for myself, Fidelma, I shall say “yes”. A king must live by the law established. But a king must pursue the commonwealth of his people. Do we not have an old saying? — what makes the people higher than a king? It is because the people ordain the king, the king does not ordain the people. A king must obey the will of his people. So do not ask me to speak for all the princes and chieftains of this kingdom nor, indeed, of Osraige. I fear they will not accept liability for such an honour price.’
Fidelma regarded him with a level gaze.
‘Then it will mean bloody war,’ she said softly.
Colgú attempted a grim smile.
‘Yet we have three weeks before the assembly, Fidelma. And, as you say, seven weeks before the implementation of the law if the decision goes against us. Will you go to Ros Ailithir and investigate Dacán’s death?’
‘You do not have to ask that, Colgú. I am, above all things, still your sister.’
Colgú’s shoulders sagged in relief and he gave a long, low sigh.
Fidelma laid a hand on his arm and patted it.
‘But do not expect too much of me, brother. Ros Ailithir is a minimum three days’ journey from here, and lies throughsome harsh country. You expect me to travel there, solve a mystery and travel back in time to prepare a case for the assembly at Tara? If so, you are, indeed, asking for a miracle.’
Colgú inclined his head in agreement.
‘I think that King Cathal and myself both demand a miracle of you, Fidelma, for when men and women use their courage, intelligence and learning, then they are capable of inspiring a true miracle.’
‘It is still a heavy responsibility you place on me,’ she admitted with reluctance. She realised that she had no other decision to make. ‘I will do what I can. I shall rest in Cashel tonight and hope this storm abates by tomorrow. I shall set out at first light for the abbey of Ros Ailithir.’
Colgú smiled warmly.
‘And you will not set out alone, little sister. The journey to the south-west is, as you say, a harsh one, and who knows what dangers will await you at Ros Ailithir? I shall send one of my warriors with you.’
Fidelma shrugged diffidently.
‘I am able to defend myself. You for
get that I have studied the art of troid-sciathagid, battle through defence.’
‘How can I forget that?’ chuckled Colgú, ‘for many is the time that you have bested me in our youth with your knowledge of unarmed combat. But combat in friendship is one thing, Fidelma. Combat in earnest is another.’
‘You do not have to point this out, brother. Many of our religious missionaries going into the kingdoms of the Saxons, or into those of the Franks, are taught this method of self-defence in order to protect their lives. The training has already served me well.’
‘Nevertheless, I must insist that you be accompanied by one of my trusted warriors.’
Fidelma was unconcerned.
‘I am instructed by your commission, brother. You are tánaiste here and I am acting according to your wishes.’
‘Then that is agreed.’ Colgú was relieved. ‘I already have instructed a man for the task.’
‘Do I know this warrior whom you have chosen?’
‘You have already met him,’ her brother replied. ‘He is the young warrior who earlier threw Forbassach out. His name is Cass of the king’s bodyguard.’
‘Ah, the young, curly-haired warrior?’ asked Fidelma.
‘The same. He has been a good friend and I would not only trust my life to him but yours as well.’
Fidelma gave a mischievous grin.
‘That is precisely what you will be doing, brother. How much does Cass know of this problem?’
‘As much as I have been able to tell you.’
‘So you trust him well?’ observed Fidelma.
‘Do you want to speak with him on this matter?’ asked her brother.
She shook her head and stifled a sudden yawn.
‘Time enough to talk during the three days of our journey to Ros Ailithir. Now I would prefer a hot bath and sleep.’
Chapter Three
It had not been a pleasant journey through the great glens and across the high mountain ranges of Muman. While the storm had abated on the second day, the incessant rains had left the ground soaked with cloying mud which sucked at their horses’ hooves and fetlocks like anxious, delaying hands and slowed their pace. The valley bottoms and grassy plains were turned into swampy, and often flooded, lands across which passage was almost impossible, and certainly not made with any speed. The skies continued sulky grey and threatening, with no sign of a bright autumnal sun breaking through and the moody clouds continued to hang low and dark like hill fog. Even the occasional whining wind, moaning in the tree tops, where the leaves had almost vanished, did not dispel their shroud.
Fidelma felt cold and miserable. It was not the weather for travelling. Indeed, if the matter were not so urgent, she would never have contemplated such a journey. She sat her horse stiffly, her body felt chilled to its very marrow despite the heavy woollen cloak and hood which normally helped her endure the icy fingers of inclement temperatures. In spite of her leather gloves, the hands that gripped her horse’s reins were numb.
She had not spoken to her companion for at least an hour or more, not since they had left the wayside tavern where they had eaten their midday meal. Her head was bent forward into the chill air. Her concentration was devoted to keeping herhorse on the narrow path as it ascended the steep hill before them.
In front of her, the young warrior, Cass, equally wrapped in a heavy woollen cloak and fur collar, sat his horse with a studied poise. Fidelma smiled grimly to herself, wondering just how much he was attempting to present a good figure to her critical gaze. It would not do for a member of the élite bodyguard of the king of Muman to show any weakness before the sister of the heir-apparent. She felt a reluctant sympathy with the young man and when, every now and then in an unguarded moment, she saw him shiver from the damp chill, she felt herself more compassionately disposed towards him.
The path twisted over the shoulder of the mountain and a blast of cold air from the south-west hit them in the face as they emerged from the sheltering outcrop of rocks. Fidelma became aware of the subtle tang of salt in the air, the unmistakable odour of the nearness of the ocean.
Cass reined in his mount and allowed Fidelma to edge her horse alongside his. Then he pointed across the tree-strewn hills and undulating plain which seemed to disappear in the direction of the southern horizon. Yet the clouds hung above the plain in such a fashion that she could not see where land ended and sky began.
‘We should be at the abbey of Ros Ailithir before nightfall,’ Cass announced. ‘Before you are the lands of the Corco Lofgde.’
Fidelma screwed her eyes against the cold wind and stared forward. She had not made the connection, when her brother had told her that the kings of Osraige came from Corco Lofgde. She had not realised that the abbey of Ros Ailithir was in their clan lands. Could this be merely a coincidence? She knew little about them except that they were one of the great clans which made up the kingdom of Muman and that they were a proud people.
‘What is this hill called?’ she asked, suppressing a shiver.
‘They call this mountain the “Long Rock”,’ replied Cass. ‘It is the highest point before we reach the sea. Have you visited the abbey before?’
Fidelma shook her head.
‘I have not been in this part of the kingdom before but I am told that the abbey stands at the head of a narrow inlet on the seashore.’
The warrior nodded in confirmation.
‘Ros Ailithir is due south from here.’ He indicated the direction with a wave of his hand. Then he winced as a sudden cold wind caught him full in the face. ‘But let us descend out of this wind, sister.’
He urged his horse forward and Fidelma allowed him a moment to get a length ahead before she followed.
In addition to the intemperate weather, which had made their journey so unpleasant, Fidelma found that Cass was no easy travelling companion. He had only a little fund of small talk and Fidelma kept rebuking herself for the way she kept comparing him to Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, her companion at Whitby and Rome. To her annoyance, she found that she felt a curious kind of isolation, the feeling that she had experienced when she had left Eadulf in Rome to return to her native land. She did not want to admit that she missed the company of the Saxon monk. And it was wrong of her to keep comparing Cass with Eadulf and yet …
She had managed to learn from the taciturn warrior that he had been in the service of Cathal of Cashel ever since he had reached the ‘age of choice’ and left his father’s house to take service at the court of the king. Fidelma found that he had a only a slight general knowledge. He had studied at one of Muman’s military academies before becoming a professional warrior or tren-fher. He had distinguished himself in two campaigns, becoming the commander of a catha, a battalion of three thousand men, in the king’s army in time of war. YetCass was not one to boast of his prowess in arms. At least that was a saving grace. Fidelma had made enquiries about him before they had set out from Cashel. She discovered that he had successfully fought seven single combats in Muman’s service to become a member of the Order of the Golden Collar and champion of the king.
She nudged her horse down the steep path behind him, twisting and turning sometimes into the wind and sometimes in thankful shelter from it. By the time they reached the foot of the mountain, the blustery squall had begun to ease a little and Fidelma saw the bright line of light along the horizon of the western sky.
Cass smiled as he followed her glance.
‘The clouds will be gone by tomorrow,’ he predicted confidently. ‘The wind was bringing the storm from the south-west. Now it will bring fine weather.’
Fidelma did not reply. Something had caught her attention among the foothills to the south-east. At first she had thought that it was merely a reflection from the light of the sun breaking through the heavy clouds. But what could it be reflecting against? It took her a moment or two to realise what it was.
‘That’s a fire over there, Cass!’ she cried, indicating the direction. ‘And a big one, if I am not mistaken.
’
Cass followed her outstretched hand with keen eyes.
‘A big fire, indeed, sister. There is a village that lies in that direction. A poor place with a single religious cell and a dozen houses. I stayed there six months ago when I was in this country. It is called Rae na Scríne, the holy shrine at the level spot. What could be causing such a fire there? Perhaps we should investigate?’
Fidelma delayed, compressing her lips a moment in thought. Her task was to get to Ros Ailithir as quickly as possible.
Cass frowned at her hesitation.
‘It is on our path to Ros Ailithir, sister, and the religious cellis occupied by a young religieuse named Sister Eisten. She may be in trouble.’ His tone was one of rebuke.
Fidelma flushed, for she knew her duty. Only her greater obligation to the kingdom of Muman had caused her to falter.
Instead of answering him, she dug her heels into the sides of her horse and urged it forward in annoyance at Cass’s gentle tone of reproval at her indecision.
It took them some time to reach a spot in the road which was the brow of a small, thickly wooded hillock, overlooking the hamlet of Rae na Scríne. From their position on the roadway, they could see that the buildings of the village appeared to be all on fire. Great consuming flames leapt skyward and debris and smoke spiralled upwards in a black column above the buildings. Fidelma dragged her horse to a halt with Cass nearly colliding into her. The reason for her sudden concern was that there were a dozen men running among the flames with swords and burning brand torches in their hands. It was clear that they were the incendiaries. Before she could react further, a wild shout told them that they had been spotted.
Fidelma turned to warn Cass and suggest they withdraw in case the men be hostile, but she saw a movement behind them by the trees that lined the road.
Two more men had emerged onto the road with bows strung and aimed. They said nothing. There was nothing to be said. Cass exchanged a glance with Fidelma and simply shrugged. They turned and waited patiently while two or three of the men, who had obviously been putting the village to the torch, came running up the hillock to halt before them.
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