Master of Souls

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Uaman is dead,’ Eadulf pointed out, trying to bring the conversation to the immediate point. ‘The task is to find out who these raiders are.’

  Slébéne glanced at him with interest.

  ‘How do you know that Uaman is dead, my Saxon friend?’

  ‘Because I saw him die. I was a prisoner in his fortress but escaped and watched him perish in the quicksand and the tides that separated his island from the mainland.’

  The chieftain regarded him in some astonishment.

  ‘I had heard rumours that he died screaming. I did not know there was a witness to his end. But you claim to be that witness, Saxon?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Are you sure he died?’

  Eadulf coloured a little.

  ‘Do you doubt my word?’ he said testily.

  ‘If you say that you saw him die then I accept it. However …’ Slébéne paused. ‘I have reports from the eastern border of my lands that say he is still seen among the mountain passes, still raiding and demanding tribute from my people.’

  ‘That cannot be. He was caught in the quicksand.’

  Eadulf grew impatient.

  ‘It is not Uaman that concerns us but—’

  The chief held up a giant paw of a hand to still him.

  ‘I am sure that there is no need for you to worry. We’ve always had raiders in these waters. Pirates in search of a cargo. Seanach’s community has never been harmed before, why would they be now?’

  Fidelma was piqued.

  ‘Are you saying that you will not send a vessel and men to investigate?’

  Slébéne shrugged.

  ‘I see no great need for it …’ He paused, catching the dangerous glint in her eye. Then he chuckled. ‘But if you feel that I should … then of course I’ll send a vessel. And if they encounter these pirates,’ he chuckled again, ‘then we will see how they fight when they have real champions to contend with.’

  Conrí pushed out his lower lip. He was angry at the implied insult to him and his warriors.

  ‘There is an old saying, Slébéne,’ his voice was dangerous, ‘that any man may laugh on a hillside.’

  The chief’s eyes narrowed and for the first time there was a look of hostility in his eyes. The meaning of the saying was that it was all very well to ridicule one’s foes from a safe position. He was about to reply when Fidelma intervened.

  ‘At least we had good Uí Fidgente warriors with us who managed to halt their attack, whoever the raiders were,’ she said quietly.

  The big man blinked, hesitated and then roared with laughter again, clapping his hand to his knee.

  ‘A dog knows his own faults, Fidelma,’ he replied with a smile and using another old saying to counter Conrí’s. ‘I am sure the warlord of the Uí Fidgente will understand that no slight against him or his men was intended.’

  ‘Therefore no slight is taken,’ confirmed Conrí. tightly.

  ‘That is well said,’ Fidelma added smoothly. ‘Yet let me point out that there is a contradiction when you assume that the religious hermits on the island stand in no danger.’

  ‘A contradiction?’ demanded Slébéne with interest. ‘What contradiction?’

  ‘The very thing that has brought us here. The slaughter of the Abbess Faife and the disappearance of her religieuse who were on their way to Bréanainn’s mountain.’

  The chief became serious.

  ‘Ah, Abbess Faife. I grieved when I heard the news. She had passed through Daingean many times with pilgrims on the road to the mountain. A sadness has been on me since I heard of her death. But it happened in the eastern passes where we have reports of these marauders. When Uaman the Leper used to control—’

  ‘Did you send warriors to investigate?’

  Slébéne shook his head, unabashed at her tone.

  ‘There was no need. Travellers told me that the body of the abbess was recovered and taken back to Ard Fhearta. Is it about this matter that you have come here, Fidelma of Cashel?’

  ‘I am here to find the missing members of the community of Ard Fhearta as well as to find out who was responsible for the abbess’s death.’

  The chief did not appear particularly concerned.

  ‘Then this evening you will be my guests and we will feast. I will send my steward to fetch you when all is ready. Tomorrow you may travel where you will with my blessing and authority to conduct your inquiries in my territory.’

  His tone clearly dismissed them from his presence. Slébéne’s good humour seemed to have evaporated. His mood was sullen. Fidelma rose with the others.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, with dignity. ‘In that case we shall withdraw and bathe before the feasting starts.’

  Slébéne of the Corco Duibhne knew how to arrange a good feast, of that there was no doubt. The meal had been organised in the great hall and there were some forty guests. Fidelma, Eadulf and Conrí were apparently not the only visitors to Daingean that day. There were some merchants and local chieftains who had come to pay their respects and tributes to Slébéne. An officer known as a bollscari was employed to instruct guests where they should be seated at the lines of willow tables. Fidelma and her companions found themselves placed at the top table facing the lines of guests of lesser rank. When all the guests were seated, two seats remained empty at the table at which Fidelma and the others sat. Behind one of these empty chairs a broad, muscular man, with bushy red curly hair and beard, whose attire and accoutrements proclaimed him to be a warrior, had taken his stand with folded arms. Fidelma noticed a tattoo on his right arm, a curious image of a serpent wrapped round a sword. This was against all convention for the young men of Eireann did not usually adorn themselves in such a fashion. But this unusual body decoration was not the cause of Fidelma’s disapproving frown. It was unusual for warriors entering feasting halls to carry weapons. This man was well armed with sword and daggers. She presumed that the man was Slébéne’s trén-fher, his personal champion and bodyguard. But it was a sign of bad taste to invite guests for a feast and parade an armed warrior to protect the chief in the feasting hall.

  As soon as all the guests were seated, the fear-stuic, the trumpeter, at a signal from the bollscari, gave a single blast on his instrument. The company rose and then Slébéne and a young woman entered. She had a hard-faced beauty and arrogant poise. It was not until after the meal that Fidelma heard that this was the chief’s latest mistress. Whether Slébéne was out to impress them or the other guests, Fidelma was not sure. The chief of the Corco Duibhne entered the great hall clad in fine regalia; in satins and silks and wearing a silver circlet on his head in which were embedded clear purple amethysts and bright green emeralds. Fidelma had only seen such ostentation at the ceremonial feasts of the High King himself. Of all the company, only Fidelma remained seated as he entered, not as an insult, but as she was entitled to do by her rank as sister to the king of Muman.

  Another blast of the trumpet and the formalities were almost complete. In came the deoghbhaire, the cupbearers, with wines, ale and mead, to be followed by attendants carrying bowls of steaming beochaill, a broth of meats and herbs, a favourite dish at this time of year for the winter was chill. Attendants came forward to place basins of water by the plate of each diner and a lámhbrat, or handcloth, for them to cleanse and dry their hands after the meal. With the empty bowls of broth removed, there came another trumpet blast and three attendants came to present large dishes of uncarved meat for Slébéne’s inspection. One dish was of roasted pig, another, Eadulf could tell, was venison while the third he was not sure of.

  The chief, who seemed to have recovered from his sullen mood, glanced at the dishes and then pointed to the pork with a grin. The other dishes were removed to the side and the chosen meat was placed on the table before Slébéne. One of the attendants came forward with sharpened knives. He was known as the dáilemain, the attendant responsible for carving the meal and distributing it to the guests. A choice joint was expertly carved from it, placed on a platter and ha
nded to Slébéne, who stood up, took it in both hands and held it up at eye level.

  ‘This is the curath-mir,’ he intoned loudly. ‘It is the hero’s portion. To whom does the hero’s portion belong?’

  One of the guests immediately shouted: ‘To you, lord Slébéne! You are the greatest champion of them all.’

  Slébéne chuckled in appreciation.

  ‘Yet I am not the only hero who dines here tonight.’

  The company continued shouting approval for Slébéne. But the chief turned slightly towards Conrí and suddenly the guests fell silent.

  ‘There sits the warlord of the Uí Fidgente, Conrí son of Conmael. We of the Corco Duibhne have often tasted the steel of his people. Is he not worthy of the hero’s portion? We have met his people in battle several times. Can we not acknowledge the bravery of their warlord?’

  An angry muttering started to ripple through the hall.

  ‘Come, do not be shy. Rise up, Conrí son of Conmáel, if you would claim the hero’s portion for yourself.’ Slébéne gave a bellow of laughter and held out the plate of meat.

  Conrí had started to stiffen. Fidelma put a restraining hand on his arm.

  Eadulf looked quickly at the chief, realising that Slébéne was deliberately trying to provoke the Uí Fidgente warlord. Behind the chief, his champion stood with a soft smile on his lips. It was clearly an insult, just as it was clear from the eager expressions on the faces of the guests that they realised that Slébéne was challenging Conrí to fight. Such things happened in ancient times at feastings. Although the New Faith frowned on it, challenges as to who was the better champion still occurred. In the old days, such challenges and their outcome made exciting stories for the bards to relate to their enthralled audiences.

  Conrí now shook off Fidelma’s restraining hand and rose slowly in his place.

  ‘I …’ he began.

  ‘I would claim the hero’s portion!’

  Everyone looked round in surprise.

  Fidelma was suddenly on her feet and had issued the challenge quietly but clearly.

  There was an awkward silence. Then someone began to laugh but was quickly hushed by their neighbour.

  Slébéne stood stock still in wide-eyed astonishment.

  Conrí was frowning in annoyance at her. Eadulf was shocked at this turn of events.

  ‘You cannot—’ Conrí began.

  She turned angrily to him, eyes burning him back into his seat.

  ‘I have issued my claim first. Those who deny it must prove themselves against me.’

  ‘But you are a religieuse, one of the Faith …’ protested Conrí weakly.

  Fidelma threw back her red hair and thrust out her chin slightly.

  ‘I am Fidelma, daughter of Failbe Flann, king of Muman, sister of Colgú, king of Muman, descendant of generations of kings from the time of Eibhear the Fair, son of Mile. In the name of those generations, do you deny me, Slébéne of the Corco Duibhne? Let your bards recite your lineage and if it is greater than mine, then deny me my right to the curath-mir!’

  She stared defiantly into his black narrowing eyes. For a while there was silence. Then Slébéne swallowed noisily. He shook back his mane of hair and roared with laughter. This time the laughter conveyed good humour and not insult.

  ‘Was there any doubt to whom the portion should go?’ He thrust the plate of meat at the attendant. ‘To the daughter of Cashel’s greatest king, Failbe Flann, goes the hero’s portion!’ He turned and clapped his hands to bring the other attendants forward. ‘Come, quickly now, distribute the meat before it grows cold upon the plates.’

  The attendant placed the dish of pork before Fidelma and she slowly sat down. Conrí was still staring at her in bewilderment.

  Eadulf, at her other side, was looking relieved.

  ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ he whispered harshly to Fidelma.

  She smiled quickly at him.

  ‘I was counting on the fact that he would not dare accept my challenge because he knows what would happen if Colgú decided that he had to avenge me.’ She bent nearer his ear. ‘For some reason Slébéne was trying to provoke Conrí into a fight. The only way to stop him was if I stepped in first to claim the hero’s portion. It worked. But Slébéne is a wily one. Keep a careful watch on him, Eadulf.’

  The dáilemain came forward with a platter offering venison or pork or the other meat that he did not recognise.

  He asked what it was and was told it was rón. He was still none the wiser until Fidelma explained in Latin that it was vitulus marinus.

  ‘Seal!’ Eadulf screwed up his face with a shudder and chose the venison. There was foltchep, or leeks, and mecan, parsnip, to have as side dishes.

  Wheaten cakes and sweet meats, honey kneaded with salmon’s roe into little cakes, provided the last course.

  At the centre of the table, Slébéne seemed oblivious of the glances that he had received, and was tucking into his meal with relish. His regular roar of laughter even drowned out the playing of the cruit, a lute-like instrument, which had accompanied the meal from the start.

  It was as the meal came to a close and the braccat - a liquor distilled from malt and mixed with honey and spices - was handed round that Slébéne called for his bard to come forward. A handsome young man came to the table and asked, in a soft tenor voice, what the chief’s pleasure might be.

  Slébéne rapped on the table with the butt of his knife for silence.

  ‘In honour of our guest, Fidelma of Cashel, we shall hear the forsundud, the praise song of the race of Eibhear, her own ancestors.’

  The forsundud was the most ancient form of song in the land, in which the generations of kings and princes were listed and praised.

  The young man bowed and stood for a moment until the noise of the feasting hall had died away and then he began softly.

  Ceatharchad do Chormaic Cas

  Ar lath mhór mhumhan mionn-ghlar …

  Cormac Cas reigned over Muman

  For forty years unvanquished

  But by the River Siur his great ambitions

  By Death were basely thwarted …

  Eadulf listened to the chanting, wild rhythms but, as he had heard it before, after a while he became bored.

  He was almost nodding off and had not realised that he had closed his eyes. The volume of sound suddenly shocked him awake.

  Six religious had taken the place of the young bard. They were roaring out one of the new chants of the Faith but in a strange mixture of the tongue of the Eireannach and Latin. It was a musical sound that he had recently heard before.

  Regem regum rogamus – in nostris sermonibus

  who protected Noah with his crew – diluui temporibus.

  Melchisedech rex Salem - incerto de semine,

  May his prayers deliver us—ab omni formidine.

  Soter who delivered Lot from fire, qui per saecia habetur,

  Ut nos omnes precamur – liberare digneteur.

  It was a joyous chant and Eadulf wondered where he had heard it before.

  He had the opportunity of speaking to one of the singers as the feasting drew to a close. He was a barrel-chested man who sung baritone.

  ‘That song is a new one, Brother.’ He smiled at Eadulf’s question. ‘It was composed by Colman mac Uí Clusaim, who took his people from their abbey at the town on the marshland, and went to the islands when the place was threatened by the Yellow Plague. He and his followers sang it to keep them healthy.’

  ‘So it is only a few years old in its composition?’

  The singer agreed. ‘It is a beautiful song, Brother.’

  ‘And sung to a Gallican chant,’ observed Eadulf thoughtfully.

  The singer looked at him with a new respect.

  ‘You know about such things, Brother?’

  Eadulf shrugged.

  ‘Only a little,’ he confessed. ‘I heard something of these chants from Brother Cillín at Ard Fhearta.’

  The man was suddenly very interes
ted.

  ‘Brother Cillín? Are you then one of the Unending Circle?’

  Eadulf tried to hide his frown of surprise. Obviously this meant something significant. He had heard the term before. But where, and what did it mean?

  He smiled and lowered his voice confidentially.

  ‘Are not the enlightened all one with the Unending Circle?’ he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

  To his surprise the singer held out his hand.

  ‘Indeed. And the day will surely come soon, Brother. Brother Cillín has promised us that. We shall all be prepared. Perhaps I shall see you soon in Ard Fhearta when we meet again with Brother Cillín?’

  ‘You know him well?’ asked Eadulf. ‘Brother Cillín, that is?’

  ‘He was here two moons ago to help us train our little band of singers.’

  ‘He was here in Daingean?’

  ‘Indeed, he was.’

  The singer was suddenly distracted by one of his companions and he smiled apologetically at Eadulf.

  ‘Sic itur ad astra!’ he said softly and was gone before Eadulf could respond. Eadulf was still frowning when Fidelma came up.

  ‘Why so pensive, Eadulf?’ she asked.

  ‘Sic itur ad astra,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Thus one goes to the stars?’ repeated Fidelma. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I am not sure. It was said to me. What does it mean?’

  ‘Your Latin is as good as mine. If you want a non-literal meaning, it is something like – this is the path to immortality. So what have you been up to?’

  Briefly Eadulf told her.

  ‘Maybe it is some secret society that Brother Cillín has formed, something connected with choristers perhaps? There are several movements among the churches, but mainly among the Franks and Romans, to set up little groups who fondly imagine themselves to be the elite of their professions. They are little groups of artisans and the like, a bit like boys at play with their secret societies.’