Fidelma smiled grimly.
‘We think we know where,’ she replied. ‘To those islands you call the Machaire Islands, where they have taken the hermits of Seanach’s Island prisoners or worse.’
‘Are you saying that they have harmed the group of Christian hermits that dwell there?’ The smith frowned.
‘Mortal harm has come to at least one of them,’ Fidelma replied. ‘We found one who had escaped from the island and rowed to this mainland,
but he died of a wound they had inflicted on him. He barely made it ashore and died in our presence. He told us his name was Brother Martan.’
Gáeth whistled softly under his breath.
‘Brother Martan was a good man. We differed in our beliefs but he was a holy man and the leader of the hermits there. Who are these people? The warriors, I mean? What do they want?’
‘Have you heard stories of Uaman the Leper?’ Conrí asked.
The smith’s eyes flickered, indicating that he had.
‘By the fires of Bel,’ he said softly. ‘Many stories are connected with that one. Thankfully, his raids never reached here for he was content to demand tribute from those who came through the eastern passes into this peninsula. He never ventured further west than the Emlagh and Finglas valleys. But we heard plenty of stories about him.’
‘For hermits, shunning other folk—’ began Eadulf.
‘We prefer to live alone, but we do not shun other folk, as you put it,’ snapped Gáeth. ‘Only you Christians run away and hide from life in your communities. We live here and welcome the visitor as a natural event.’
Eadulf swallowed hard. Fidelma caught his eye and shook her head.
‘It may be,’ she said hurriedly, ‘that it was Uaman and his men who visited you.’
Gáeth’s eyes widened.
‘So far to the west? And what would he be doing with religious prisoners?’
‘That is why we are following them … to find out,’ Conrí explained.
‘There was a rumour that Uaman was dead. I wonder if Slébéne will finally be forced to do something now.’
Fidelma stared at him for a moment.
‘You speak as if Slébéne never did anything to counter Uaman’s activities in his territory. After all, all this land from the abbey of Colman westward is the land of the Corco Duibhne and he is responsible for its protection and well-being.’
‘That may be so, but Slébéne believes in Slébéne. He was content to leave Uaman to his own devices.’
‘Do you mean that Slébéne never made any effort to capture or destroy Uaman?’ asked Eadulf.
Gáeth nodded.
‘But that is not what Slébéne told us.’
Gáeth looked pityingly at him.
‘What would you expect the man to say? That he is a gutless warrior? That he is great on talking, on blustering, on threatening, but a coward when it comes down to lifting a sword against equals? I even believe that he left Uaman alone because he received gold from him.’
Conrí was staring at the smith. He was thinking about the challenge that Slébéne had issued to him over the ‘hero’s portion’.
‘If he is a gutless warrior, what if someone challenged him to a combat? How would he avoid it?’
‘He does not have to avoid it. He is the chief. I have never known him to fight an equal combat in years.’
‘Then how … ?’
‘Slébéne keeps a
trén fher,
a strong man, a champion, to answer all challenges to single combat. You must know the system, Conrí, for are you not an
aire-echta
yourself? Even the Blessed Patrick, your so-called Christian man of peace, kept a
trén-fher
in his household; an attendant to protect him. That was Mac Carthen, whom he made first bishop of Clochar, the stony place.’
‘I know the system,’ Conrí said tightly. ‘I did not think a man such as Slébéne purports to be would stoop to getting others to fight his battles. How could he last as a chief without being challenged?’
Gáeth chuckled in amusement.
‘That is precisely the sort of blustering man Slébéne is, my friend. He does not move without his champion.’
Conrí remembered the tall, broad-chested and shaggy-haired man who stood armed behind the chief during the meal.
Eadulf was also looking thoughtful.
‘But can that be legal?’ he asked Fidelma.
She nodded.
‘The laws allow it,’ she replied shortly. She turned to Gáeth. ‘If, as you say, Slébéne is all bluster and has not been fulfilling his duties as chief and protecting his people, why has no complaint been sent about him to the king in Cashel? For it is the ultimate duty of the king to ensure that his nobles obey the law.’
Gáeth smiled condescendingly.
‘Cashel is a long way away. And would Cashel really be interested in what happens in a remote corner of the kingdom? So long as a chief does service to Cashel and pay tribute, what more is Cashel interested in?’
‘I will answer for my brother, Colgú, and say that Cashel will be
interested and more than interested. I have come here for that very purpose, to ensure that justice prevails in this part of the kingdom.’
Gáeth looked impressed in spite his obvious scepticism.
‘It would certainly help all the people of the Corco Duibhne if there was a new chief,’ Gáimredan said abruptly, to the surprise of those who had presumed he never spoke at all.
‘That would surely be up to the
derbhfine,
the living generations of Slébéne’s family meeting to elect a new chief?’ Eadulf pointed out, comfortably aware that he had mastered the successional laws of the country. ‘They can surely throw out a bad chief?’
‘There will be no help there.’ Gáeth smiled grimly. ‘Slébéne made sure that any who might challenge him was either killed or chased out of the territory.’
Fidelma could not disguise her astonishment.
‘You seem to know a lot about Slébéne,’ she remarked thoughtfully, ‘ … for a hermit, that is.’
Gáeth hesitated a moment and then shrugged.
‘I know him better than anyone,’ he announced simply.
They waited for a moment and then Fidelma prompted him.
‘How so?’
‘Because he is my
aite,
my foster father.’
Eadulf knew that at the age of seven most children were sent away to be educated or instructed by a system of fosterage called
altrram.
In this way a child was educated and the foster child, the
dalta,
remained with the foster parents until, in the case of a boy, he was seventeen years old. Fosterage was either for payment or for affection. When a chief was the
aite,
the child had to be of equivalent rank. Eadulf knew that the laws on fosterage were numerous and intricate. The practice brought about close ties between families and usually such relationships were regarded as something sacred. Fidelma had told him that there were many cases where a man had voluntarily laid down his life for his foster father or foster brother. Had not the great Uí Néill King Domnall, fighting against his rebellious foster son, Congal Claen of Dál Riada, at the battle of Magh Roth, a generation ago, showed anxiety that Congal, although a mortal enemy, was not to be hurt?
‘Were you fostered for affection or for payment?’ Fidelma asked.
‘I was supposed to be fostered for affection for my family was descended from the line of Duibhne. But fosterage never brought the branches of our
families closer, Slébéne was not a man to be close even to his own natural sons or any of his fosterlings.’
‘Did he have many?’
‘None of his natural sons survived. Need I say more? As for those in fosterage - there was another chief’s son from his eastern border as well as myself. Then there was a girl from some eastern noble’s family. Her name suited her—it was Uallach.’
When Eadulf looked puzzled, the smith unbent and explained.
‘It is a name that means proud and arrogant. I think Uallach had a better relationship with Slébéne than his male fosterlings. But, as far as I know, they all left him as soon as they were legally entitled to.’
‘Was Slébéne ever a great warrior in his youth, as he claims?’ Conrí asked, with a swift glance at Fidelma.
‘None of his contemporaries in battle, those fighting on the same side, have lived to tell the tale. Only the bards that he pays sing songs about his fame as a youthful warrior.’
‘I was told that he fought at the right side of my father Failbe Flann.’
‘If he ever did so, lady, then your father was lucky to survive.’
‘There is bitterness in your voice, Gáeth.’
‘A bitterness that was put into my mouth by my foster father,’ replied the smith shortly.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘When did you take up the art you now follow?’ asked Fidelma.
‘I suppose I used to watch Slébéne’s smith when I was a child. I spent more time with him than with Slébéne. Having to listen to the chief’s boastful tales of his prowess in battle was bad enough but to have to put up with being instructed in the use of weapons when a mouse might challenge and defeat him was worse. As soon as I was able, I shook the mud of his fortress from my feet. I prayed to Brigit—’
‘I thought you were a pagan?’ interrupted Eadulf.
‘I do not talk of the Christian Brigit of Kildare,’ responded Gáeth patronisingly. ‘I speak of Brigit the triune daughter of the Dagda, the Good God, Brigit, goddess of wisdom and poetry, Brigit goddess of medicine and Brigit goddess of smiths and smithwork. She led my footsteps through hidden passes under An Cnapán Mór and up to the black lake, high up in the mountains, beside whose shores I found my master, Cosrach the Triumphant. Ten years I spent at his anvil until he pronounced me a
flaith-goba
- the highest rank of all the smiths. I gave thanks to Brigit
and promised that I would never heed the New Faith but keep to the old ways.’
‘Each man must find God in his own way,’ asserted Fidelma quietly.
Eadulf glanced at her in surprise. He had grown up in the pagan religion of his people and had been converted to Christianity by a wandering Irish missionary when he was in his early manhood. He still had the fervour of the converted and felt uncomfortable when confronted by those who held to their old religious beliefs. Nevertheless, Fidelma ignored his disapproving look.
‘So you have been here ever since?’ she went on.
‘I built this forge as soon as I left the forge of Cosrach. Within a week, Gáimredan joined me.’
‘And the old saying is that there are three places where one can gather news – the priest’s house, the tavern and the smith’s forge,’ Conrí observed, reminding them of why they had come there.
Gáeth chuckled softly.
‘I thought that you were garnering a lot of information.’
Fidelma responded with a smile.
‘We were talking of what has befallen those on Seanach’s Island.’
‘We were,’ agreed Gáeth.
‘We, my companions and myself, have decided that we should try to reach Seanach’s Island, preferably under cover of darkness to avoid the attentions of the warship that guards the waters. We have to discover what has happened to those prisoners and the hermits who live on the island.’
Gáeth regarded her with a look of admiration.
‘It is an admirable enterprise, lady. One that requires courage.’
‘It merely requires determination,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Moreover, it requires a vessel and a guide.’
Gáeth’s eyes lit with understanding.
‘And that is what you are in search of? A vessel and a guide to take you to the islands?’
Fidelma nodded.
‘It needs to be a swift
naomhóg.’
Gáeth examined them and his look became doubtful.
‘I presume that your companions have handled a
naomhóg
before? You would be facing the turbulent seas that separate these shores from that island.’
‘My warriors and I can row,’ Conrí asserted.
‘Row? But can you row a
naomhóg?
Can you guide it through tempestuous waters to reach the island? And you say that you intend to do this in the hours of darkness?’ He smiled sadly. ‘Give up the idea, lady.’
‘Leave the question of our skills to us,’ replied Fidelma firmly. ‘If you can just tell us where we may find such a vessel that will be sufficient.’
Gáeth gazed thoughtfully at her and then turned to his silent companion.
‘Well, Gáimredan, what do you think?’
The man had been watching Fidelma with his woeful expression. He suddenly leant forward as if peering into her mind.
‘Insight, reason and intellect. Impulsive, hot-tempered but sincere and unbegrudging. Positive, active and dominant, withal almost masculine but a mutable quality. This one is full of fire, searching restlessly for new fields to conquer.’