Master of Souls

by Peter Tremayne

  Fidelma gestured indifferently.

  ‘There is no other way of ascertaining the situation,’ she said simply.

  ‘But, as I say, let us bury this poor soul first.’

  The two warriors dug a shallow grave for the old man as best they could with their bladed swords. It was shallow but functional and Fidelma said a prayer over it and marked it with a makeshift cross of sticks.

  ‘I swear this poor soul, Brother Martan, will have a proper memorial. We will return and place a slab of stone over the grave and get a good artist to inscribe a cross upon it.’ Then she turned to Conrí. ‘You said that you had passed this way before? Do you know of any settlements along the way, places where we might get a boat?’

  Eadulf groaned slightly.

  ‘I think that it is folly,’ he protested. ‘To go out to the islands—’

  ‘We would need to find a man who knows this coast,’ Conrí pointed out, ignoring his protest. ‘A man who could run us to the island under cover of darkness. These can be dangerous waters, lady. I know of no such place.’

  ‘We must know what is happening out there,’ Fidelma insisted.

  It was Socht who cleared his throat and ventured to make a suggestion. ‘If it please you, lady, you will remember that we did pass a smith’s forge by the lakeside. Perhaps the smith might know of some local fishermen who would take us out?’

  ‘I remember the spot. Then that is what we will do.’ Fidelma’s tone admitted no questioning and they took to their horses once more. The flat land presented them with an easy ride and soon they came to a little wooded area where a cluster of buildings stood. It was easy to recognise the forge in which a couple of men, stripped to the waist, in spite of the chilly day, were working on dousing a fire from which steam was rising into the air.

  One of them heard their approach and shouted something to his companion. It sounded like a warning. Then the man grabbed a large hammer in one muscular hand while his companion reached for a sword lying on a nearby bench.

  Fidelma drew rein immediately, holding up her hand to halt her companions.

  ‘What hospitality is this?’ she called, frowning at the aggressive stance of the two smiths.

  The one with the hammer, still holding it menacingly ready, examined her carefully. Then his gaze encompassed her companions. He was of middle age, bearded and powerfully built. His comrade was of slighter stature, with the bleak-looking expression of someone who cannot envisage that any human has the right to be happy.

  ‘No hospitality at all,’ snapped the man with the hammer. ‘What do you want here, strangers?’

  ‘What most travellers want – hospitality and information.’

  ‘Most travellers seem to want more than that, especially when they travel with warriors,’ was the roughly spoken response.

  ‘It is all we want,’ replied Fidelma firmly.

  ‘Then why have you three warriors behind you with sharpened weapons? Last time we gave hospitality to religious with warriors guarding them, they stole our food and threatened out lives.’

  Fidelma leant forward a little at the news.

  ‘When was this?’ she demanded.

  ‘A few weeks ago.’

  ‘And in what manner did this party come?’

  ‘Half a dozen religieuse and a foreign monk, guarded by a dozen warriors. The person who seemed in charge was a strange figure clad in robes from poll to feet so that none could look on him.’

  Fidelma expected as much.

  ‘We seek these people, for the warriors have taken the religious captive,’ she explained.

  ‘The strange monk, the one whose face we could not see, was no captive,’ replied the smith.

  ‘Even so, the others were. They had been abducted and their abbess had been murdered.’

  ‘And you seek them? Why?’

  ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel. I am a dálaigh. Let us dismount, my friend, and I will speak further. You may well be able to help us in our quest.’

  The smith with the hammer looked at his companion. They still hesitated.

  ‘I am intent on bringing these killers and abductors to justice,’ Fidelma added with emphasis. ‘These are my companions, Brother Eadulf, Conrí, warlord of the Uí Fidgente, whose relative was the abbess who was slain, and his warriors. Now tell us to whom we speak?’

  The smith hesitated a moment and then he lowered the hammer with a shrug but did not release his hold.

  ‘My name is Gáeth and this is my assistant, Gaimredán.’

  Fidelma looked at the bleak features of his companion and suddenly smiled broadly.

  ‘You are well named, my friend.’

  Gáeth could not help but chuckle at her jest on the meaning of his assistant’s name.

  ‘Indeed he is, lady, for never was there a person of more wintry countenance and lack of humour.’

  ‘May we dismount now?’ asked Fidelma.

  The smith gestured his assent and turned to lay aside his hammer.

  ‘I accept that you mean us no harm, but after the visit of the others …’

  Fidelma and her companions dismounted and Socht collected their horses and tethered them.

  She glanced around the collection of smithy buildings that stood alongside a gushing stream that emptied into the waters of the lake.

  ‘You are isolated here, Gáeth.’

  ‘Yet not too isolated to have unwelcome visitors,’ replied the other philosophically. He indicated one of the buildings that appeared to be the dwelling house. ‘Come inside. We have been left with enough corma to make you welcome on this cold winter’s day.’

  The smith’s house was an old-style one-roomed circular house, whose floor was merely the earth made hard over centuries of use. The central hearth gave out a comfortable heat and rush matting on the floor provided their seats.

  ‘We live a frugal life here, lady,’ Gáeth announced. It became obvious that his comrade Gaimredán never spoke unless he had something important to contribute. ‘I suspect it is unlike the rich palace in which you must dwell at Cashel.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll wager it is even more opulent than Slébéne’s hall. Ah well, my companion and I like to dwell in isolation. We are self-sufficient here, for the earth provides us with vegetables, the mountains behind us with game, the air with birds and the sea with fish. What more could we want?’

  Eadulf had been examining the room and had noticed the lack of any Christian icons. But he saw some items that he had seen now and again in his travels and knew the meaning of them.

  ‘Do I understand that you are not of the Faith?’ he asked brusquely.

  Gáeth seemed amused.

  ‘It all depends what you mean by Faith, Saxon brother. You imply there is one Faith. Well, we are not Christians, if that is what you mean. That is why we dwell apart in order that those who would proselytise us do not bother us. Argument is a tedious thing. We each come to the Dagda, the Good God, along our own path.’

  ‘It seems that you are also well named, Gáeth,’ Fidelma said, for the name meant clever and wise. ‘But we did not come to discuss the Faith. I presume that you both dwell here as hermits?’

  ‘It is true that we prefer to dwell in isolation from others. But many know our work and come to us.’

  Gaimredán was handing round pottery cups filled with corma. The raw spirit made Eadulf gasp.

  ‘So you know many people in these parts?’

  Gáeth inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘Well, the strangers who came here were indeed strangers. They were not of these parts. We heard from our neighbours that after they ransacked our storehouse for food they went on to the coast. There is a sandy shore not far from here to the north-west and we heard from a shepherd that these strangers were met there by a warship and taken out to sea. Who knows where they went?’

  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 Islan
d 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, th
ose 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.’