‘It is true the Faith triumphed after the battle at Magh Ráth,’ he conceded, ‘and thanks be to God for that. It was told that just before the feast two horrible black spectres, one male and one female, had appeared to the assembly and, having devoured enormous quantities of food, vanished. They left a baleful influence. So it was that King Domnall had to lead the forces of Christ against the forces of the Devil. He overcame them, Deo favente!’
The elderly scribe, Mel, uttered a laugh of derision.
‘When did you say this happened?’ Eadulf ignored him and addressed the boy as if he were in sympathy with him.
‘It was in my father’s time; scarcely three decades ago when he was a young warrior. He left his right arm behind at Magh Ráth.’
It was only then that Eadulf realised that he had heard of the battle before. He had studied at Tuam Brecain and in that ecclesiastical college there had been an elderly teacher called Cenn Faelad. He had been a professor of Irish law but had also written a grammar of the language of the people of Éireann which had helped Eadulf increase his knowledge of the language. Cenn Faelad walked with a limp and, when Eadulf had pressed him, he had revealed that as a young man he had been wounded in a battle which Eadulf, mishearing the pronunciation, had thought was called ‘Moira’. As Tuam Brecain was already a leading medical college as well as having a faculty of law and of ecclesiastical learning, Cenn Faelad had been taken there and the abbot, himself a skilled surgeon, had brought him back to health. There Cenn Faelad had stayed learning law instead of war and becoming one of the greatest Brehons of the five kingdoms. Eadulf was about to turn to his companion with this contribution to the conversation when he was interrupted.
Laisre had stood up and the trumpeter gave a further blast onhis horn to bring the assembly to silence. Eadulf wondered for a moment if Laisre was actually going to say a Deo gratias to bless the meal, before he realised his mistake. Laisre merely gave a traditional formal welcome to his guests.
The servants then came in bearing great trays of food and pitchers of wine and mead. Eadulf noticed that the hot plates of meat which were carried in were formally presented in order of rank as well. Particular joints were reserved for certain chiefs, officials and professionals according to their status. The dáilemain, the carvers or distributors of food, went down the tables offering joints to each person in turn. Using the left-hand fingers to catch hold of the joint, the recipient would cut off the required piece of meat with a knife held in the right hand. Each person was careful to respect the area of the joint from which they could cut their meat. It was a great insult if a forbidden joint was inadvertently taken. There was even a law, Brother Dianach, growing quite loquacious, advised Eadulf, which penalised the person who took the curath-mir, or hero’s morsel, a special choice joint reserved for the person who was acknowledged, by general consent, to have performed the bravest and greatest exploit among the guests.
Dishes of breads, fish and cold meats followed the hot meat, and there were bowls of fruit aplenty, all served with pitchers of imported wine or jugs of local mead and ale. The fact that Gleann Geis was able to import wine, although Eadulf assessed it was not a particularly good wine or that it had not travelled well from Gaul, indicated that its chieftain prided himself on his table. Eadulf had taken two clay goblets of the wine before he realised that it was leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and decided to change to drinking the local rich honey-mead.
Each person was given a lambrat, a hand cloth, to wipe their hands after the meal.
During the course of the meal, Eadulf did his best to pump the young cleric about the reasons for his journey with Brother Solin. The young man, with an innocence which made Eadulf wonder if it was artfulness, seemed more interested in asking him questions about life in the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and, having learnt that Eadulf had actually been to Rome, would answer no question until Eadulf had talked about the city and the great churches there. Eadulf, in fact, learnt little and, the wine souring his mouth, he drank more mead than was good for him. Wisely, the young cleric had started with a beaker of ale which he made last throughout the meal and which he only sipped at.
‘My father was a warrior of the Dál Fiatach in the kingdom ofUlaidh until he lost his arm at Magh Ráth,’ Brother Dianach finally replied in answer to Eadulf’s insistence. In fact, Eadulf’s indulgence had caused him to lose any subtlety in his questioning. ‘But that was long before I was born. I was sent to Armagh to study with the religious and that was when I learnt to be a scribe.’
‘But how did you come here?’
‘With Brother Solin,’ replied the young man innocently to Eadulf’s exasperation.
‘This I know, but why were you chosen to accompany Brother Solin?’
‘Because I was a good scribe, I suppose,’ Brother Dianach replied. ‘Also because I was fit. It is a long journey from Armagh to this kingdom.’
‘Why send Brother Solin here at all?’ Eadulf encouraged.
The young man heaved a sigh at Eadulf’s continued repetition of this particular question.
‘That is something known only to Brother Solin. I was taken aside by my superior and told to report to Brother Solin with my stylus and writing boards and told to do as he bid me do.’
‘Surely you were told more?’ Eadulf demanded, the alcohol making him sound aggressive.
‘Only that we would be on a long journey and to prepare myself for such. I was told that I would be doing the work of God and Armagh.’
‘And Brother Solin explained nothing of the purpose for this journey? Not even some stray comment as you passed along the way?’
Brother Dianach shook his head emphatically.
‘But assuredly you were curious?’ Eadulf was like a dog worrying a bone.
‘Why are you so interested in the business of Brother Solin?’ the young man finally was pressed into asking. ‘Brother Solin says that curiosity, with ambition, are two scourges of the unquiet soul.’
Eadulf was exasperated but he realised that he had pressed the point too far.
‘Surely he who is not curious is an enemy of knowledge? How can you learn anything when you are not curious?’ he responded defensively.
Brother Dianach regarded Eadulf’s flushed face with distaste. He would say no more about the matter and turned to Mel, the elderly scribe, on his other side, ignoring Eadulf who suddenly felt a little foolish. He was not that imbued with alcohol that he had lost allsensitivity. He cursed himself for having mixed the bad wine with the potent mead.
At the top table Fidelma knew that it was bad manners to inquire further of Laisre or his tanist about matters concerning the forthcoming negotiations. The feasting hall was the place where weapons and matters of politics and business were traditionally left outside. So Fidelma had turned the conversation to the history of the people of Gleann Geis for she liked to learn as much as she could about various parts of the country. But the conversation was somewhat guarded and stilted.
She was, therefore, somewhat thankful when some musicians were admitted to the hall. Laisre had explained that, unlike most chieftains, he refused the presence of musicians during the feast. Only after the meal had been eaten did he allow them to enter and provide entertainment.
‘To play music during a meal insults both cook and musician and kills conversation,’ he explained.
Now, as more wine and mead were circulating among the guests, a harper entered and came forward, carrying a small hand-held cruit, or harp, and sat himself cross-legged on the floor in front of his chieftain on the other side of the table. He struck up an energetic tune, nimble fingers moving with an astonishing and complex motion, striking the difficult modulations in perfect harmony, completing the cadences in a rich yet delicate manner. The tinkling of the higher notes, supporting the deeper tones of the bass strings, was soothing to the ears.
At the end of the piece, Orla leant towards Fidelma: ‘You see that even we poor pagans can find enjoyment in our music.’
Fidelma ignored Orla’s furtiv
e gibe.
‘My mentor, the Brehon Morann of Tara, once said that where there is music there can be no evil.’
‘A wise observation,’ Laisre agreed. ‘Now choose a song, Fidelma, and my musicians shall demonstrate their talent for you.’
The cruit player had been joined by another harpist who played a ceis, a smaller harp which was square shaped and, as Fidelma knew, was used to accompany the cruit. A timpan player, with his eight-stringed instrument, played with a bow and a plectrum, also joined the group together with a piper and his cruisech.
There were usually three kinds of music which were popular at feasting. The gen-traige, which incited the listeners to merriment and laughter and produced lively dance tunes; the gol-traige which expressed sorrow and laments, sad songs of the death of heroes;and the súan-traige which was a softer form of music, like songs of unrequited love and lullabies.
Music had always been an essential part of Fidelma’s childhood. The palace at Cashel was never wanting in musicians, songsters and ballad makers.
She was thinking about a choice of song when Murgal, who was seated alongside Brother Solin at the adjacent table, lurched to his feet. His face was flushed and Fidelma saw at once that he had indulged freely in the wine.
‘I know a song that will be to the taste of an Eóghanacht princess,’ he sneered. ‘I will sing it:
‘The fort on the great Rock of Muman,
Once it was Eoghan’s, once it was Conall’s,
It was Nad Froích’s, it was Feidelmid’s.
It was Fíngen’s, it was Faílbe Fland’s.
Now it is Colgú’s;
‘The fort remains after each in his turn -
And the kings sleep in the ground.’
There was a roar of laughter from the warriors at their table and many banged their knife handles on the wooden boards in appreciation.
There was no doubting what Murgal was saying. The message was that the authority of the kings of Cashel was transitory.
Laisre’s face became an angry mask.
‘Murgal, the wine is in and your wit is out! Would you insult your chieftain by demeaning him in the eyes of his guests?’
Murgal turned to his chieftain, still smiling a slightly vacuous grin, the wine giving him courage.
‘Your Eóghanacht guest desired a song. I merely supplied one which paid tribute to her brother at Cashel.’
He sat down heavily in his seat, still smiling. Fidelma saw Brother Solin smirking at what he imagined was her discomfort. She became aware of a young woman on the other side of Murgal, a slender blonde-haired woman, rather attractive. Her face was without emotion and she was looking at the table before her, clearly discomfited by her drunken companion.
Laisre was turning to apologise to Fidelma but Fidelma rose to her feet. She allowed a soft smile to spread as if she was sharing Murgal’s joke.
‘Murgal has made a good song,’ she announced to the company,‘although I have heard better and certainly in better tune. Perhaps I might bring him the latest composition of the bards of Cashel?’
Then without more ado, she tossed back her hair from her face and began to sing, softly at first but then with growing resonance. Fidelma had the gift of music and the lilting soprano of her voice caused a stillness to fall within the feasting hall.
‘He is no branch of a withered tree,
Colgú, prince of the Eóghanacht,
Son of Faílbe Fland of noble deeds,
Lofty descendant of Eoghan Mór,
Sprung from the race of Eber the Fair
Who ruled Eireann from the banks of the Boyne -
south to the Wave of Cliodhna.
‘He is of the stock of a true prince,
A tree sprung,from the roots of the forest
sanctuary of Eireann,
The just heir of Milesius,
The sum of a great harvest with fruit of many trees,
Each as ancient as the oldest oak,
The crown above a multitude of branches.’
She sat down amidst an uncomfortable silence. Then Eadulf, not really understanding the nuances of the exchange, and carried away by his indulgence in alcohol, hearing only that Fidelma had sung as sweet a song as ever he had heard, began to clap loudly. His applause eventually caused Laisre to follow his example and soon a polite tribute rippled around the chamber. When it died away Laisre turned to his musicians and bid them play softly.
In her song, Fidelma had answered Murgal’s cynical sneer that the Cashel kings were mortal and their authority was only brief. She had pointed out how the Eóghanacht claimed to be descended from the Eber, son of Milesius, leader of the Milesians, the first Gaels to land in Ireland. From Eber had descended Eoghan Mór, the founder of the royal dynasty of the Eóghanacht. The subtlety of the song reminded her listeners of the status she held.
Laisre glanced at her contritely.
‘I apologise for Murgal’s lack of etiquette.’
He referred to the fact that it was a rigid rule that a guest was not to be insulted within a feasting hall.
Fidelma spoke without rancour.
‘As you rightly observed, Laisre, it was the wine that made him forget though, as Theoginis once said, wine is wont to show the mind of man.’
The sound of someone being smacked across the face was so abrupt that the soft music of the cruit player faltered and died away for there was a series of sounds which followed in quick succession. First a chair went over backwards, crockery plates crashed and splintered on the floor and there came an angry but almost suppressed exclamation. All eyes in the feasting hall were drawn to the table where Murgal was standing swaying on his feet once again; this time, however, one hand was nursing a reddening cheek, his eyes were glowering at the fair-haired woman who had been sitting next to him and who now was on her feet as well, standing facing the Druid.
It was the slim woman whom Fidelma had noticed. Her face was now contorted with anger.
‘Pig and son of a pig!’ she hissed and then turned abruptly and exited from the feasting hall without a backward glance. A plump woman rose from another table and went trotting out with an angry look in Murgal’s direction. Fidelma realised it was the hostel keeper, Cruinn.
Murgal seemed to quiver with anger and then he, too, left the feasting hall. A moment later one of the warriors, the fair-haired Rudgal, rose and hurriedly followed Murgal from the room.
Fidelma, watching, turned with a glance of inquiry towards Laisre.
‘Some domestic matter, I suppose?’ she asked innocently.
‘No, Marga is not wife to Murgal,’ Orla replied cattily before her brother could speak. ‘But Murgal has a wandering eye.’
Esnad, the young daughter of Orla, began to chuckle and then, catching sight of an angry glance from her father, Colla, pouted and made no further sound.
Laisre flushed slightly.
‘It is not a matter to be commented on before strangers at a feasting,’ he snapped at his sister. Orla grimaced at her brother to express her annoyance before sitting back. Laisre resumed a more considered expression towards Fidelma.
‘Suffice to say, wine can make a lout of the best of us,’ he observed, trying to make a joke out of the matter.
‘Wine is like rain. If it falls on a bog, it makes it the more foul. But on good soil, it wakens it to bloom and radiance,’ observed Colla, who had not spoken at the table for some time. It was clear that he had little respect for Murgal.
‘This Marga is an attractive woman,’ Fidelma observed. ‘Who is she?’
‘She is our apothecary,’ replied Laisre distantly. Fidelma observed a colour on his cheeks. Then, as if he felt he should reply to her comment, added: ‘Yes, an attractive woman.’
Fidelma was surprised.
‘So young and an apothecary!’
‘She is qualified under the law.’ It was said defensively by Laisre.
‘I would have expected no less.’ Fidelma’s soft reply had a note of rebuke in it. ‘Does she reside in
the ráth?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’ Colla asked sharply.
‘Oh,’ Fidelma decided to turn the subject at the suspicion voiced in Colla’s reply, ‘it is always wise to know where an apothecary resides.’
One of the musicians had resumed his interrupted long, interminable song, singing in a form without instrumental accompaniment, his voice rising and falling. It was an old, old song, about a young girl who was being lured by unseen forces towards a mountain top where she would eventually meet the fate which the gods had set for her. Fidelma suddenly felt an empathy with the heroine of the song. Something had drawn her to this valley and it seemed there were unseen forces dictating her fate.
Chapter Seven
It was still early when Fidelma decided to leave the feasting hall. There was music being played and the wine and mead continued to circulate. She made her excuses to Laisre, telling him that she was tired after travelling the long journey from Cashel. He made no protest. As she passed through the hall, Fidelma quietly signalled to Eadulf to follow her. He rose unsteadily, and somewhat reluctantly, and did so. He was aware that he had imbibed a little more than was good for him and tried hard to compensate for it by moving slowly and deliberately.
Outside it was surprisingly light. The moon was full, hanging like a bright white orb in the cloudless sky. The sky itself was a glitter of light with numerous stars winking across the canopy. Fidelma was waiting for him by the door. She had not noticed his slow, uncertain gait.
‘Let us walk around the walls of the ráth,’ she instructed rather than suggested. She led the way up the steps to the battlements where a soft night breeze ruffled her hair. She could see some shadowy figures farther along the wall, young men and women who had absented themselves from the feast to pursue their own amorous interests, and so she stopped, gazing up at the night sky. In the distance they could hear the occasional sound of laughter and the faint sounds of music. From the courtyard below a woman laughed lasciviously and there was a deep chuckle from her male companion. Fidelma shut her mind to the extraneous sounds and inhaled softly as she gazed at the breath-taking magnificence of the spectacle of the night-sky.
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