Artgal shifted uncomfortably. ‘I nearly forgot. She did ask me to tell you what Abbot Nessán’s dying words were.’
‘Which were?’ She tried to keep her irritation from her voice.
‘I was to tell you to beware of the roth na grían – the solar wheel.’
Fidelma looked blank.
‘It’s a symbol of the old religion,’ Artgal said.
‘That much I know …’ Fidelma took her comb bag and drew out the seal she had taken from the dead woodsman. She held it out to Artgal.
‘It means nothing to me,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it the sun goddess Étain who stands holding the solar wheel?’
‘I don’t care who it is, I want to know what it means,’ Fidelma said petulantly, replacing the seal in her bag.
‘Let me tell you this,’ Artgal went on. ‘When we attacked the Uí Liatháin this morning there was a religieux with them. Could he have been from the abbey?’
‘Who was he?’
Artgal shrugged. ‘That I do not know. One of my men pointed him out to me just as the raiders were crossing the river back to their own side. He was a tall man in a black robe; his features were covered by a cowl.’
Fidelma gave a soft sigh, murmuring aloud, ‘So Cairenn is the companion to Grella, wife of the High King? And Cairenn is of the Eóganacht Raithlind.’
Artgal stared at her for a moment or two, and when she did not elaborate, he leant forward earnestly. ‘What has this to do with the matter? I think you should explain.’
Fidelma shrugged. ‘That is just it, Artgal. I cannot.’
‘Cannot or will not?’
‘I am under a geis not to.’
Artgal made a whistling sound through his teeth, ‘A geis? Then I will ask no more. Anyway, you and your companions are surely tired. Let us continue the feasting and then it will be time to rest.’
‘You were right; we should follow Cairenn eastward. I will need to negotiate passage with Fécho.’
‘I will send word for him to join us and you may give him instruction.’
Fidelma was quiet for a moment or two, then said bluntly: ‘I have to ask you a question.’
‘Another question – and I cannot ask you anything of what this is all about because of your geis!’ Artgal replied with dry humour.
‘It is a question whose answer might rebound on the honour of our family,’ she replied seriously. ‘On the honour of the Eóganacht.’
‘Ask away. I am intrigued. But I will hold my peace, because of your geis.’
‘I have heard that many years ago the Eóganacht and the Uí Néill vied with one another for the High Kingship. Is that so?’
‘Have you suddenly become a student of history?’
‘Let us say the fact intrigues me. Am I right?’
‘Easy enough to answer that. Crimthann mac Fidaig, the brother of Conall Corc, was the last Eóganacht to govern from Tara.’
‘That must have been at least three or four centuries ago.’
‘It was. Then the sister of Crimthann, an Eóganacht princess no less, became enamoured of an Uí Néill prince. She murdered her brother so that her husband could claim the throne of Tara. She did not last long as the lover of the new High King. Since then, the Eóganacht have left the Uí Néill to squabble over Tara among themselves, while they built up their own kingdom from Cashel, strong and independent.’
‘Have you ever heard of anyone in the many branches of our family who regretted that the Eóganacht abandoned the right to claim the High Kingship?’ asked Fidelma. ‘Is there anyone who makes reference to the ancient edict given by Amairgin, the first Druid, that the island should be divided between the children of Eibhir Fionn, ancestor of the Eóganacht, and Eremon, the ancestor of the Uí Néill?’
Artgal looked astounded. ‘What a question!’ he exclaimed. ‘I doubt even the learned scholars of today would have heard of the edict of Amairgin.’
‘So there is no one among the various branches of our family who would like to see an Eóganacht rule again at Tara? None who is restless and resentful that during these centuries it has been either the northern Uí Néill or their relatives, the southern Uí Néill, who have claimed the High Kingship of Tara? None who is resentful that the Eóganacht have been excluded? After all, tradition has it that we were the first to land on this island and should rightfully rule it.’
‘Legend is a great thing but it has no bearing on today’s reality, Fidelma,’ her cousin replied.
‘It can be a motive nevertheless,’ she said slowly, as if reluctant to abandon the matter.
‘The only rumour that I have heard is that some of the Uí Néill are as displeased with the High King Cenn Fáelad as they were with his brother Sechnussach, and you know well what happened to him.’
‘I was involved in solving the matter of his murder,’ acknowledged Fidelma.
‘Indeed. You and Eadulf prevented mayhem among the Five Kingdoms, when you were called to Tara at the time the High King was assassinated. That was only the other year. So, in spite of your geis, are you hinting that we are facing another plot?’ He suddenly stopped and thought. ‘You really suspect a conspiracy among members of our family?’ Having voiced the thought, he stared at her in disbelief.
Fidelma thought she might have gone too far and was about to change the subject when Artgal’s eyes lit up. He was not a stupid man.
‘You are not only saying that there is some plot to oust the Uí Néill at Tara which might involve our family – but what is at the back of your mind is the fact that the only person with a reasonable chance of being chosen High King under the law is …’
‘My brother,’ Fidelma acknowledged softly. ‘I can assure you that the Eóganacht Cashel are innocent of any involvement to seize the High Kingship by murder. My brother has no ambition to take that title.’
Artgal inclined his head. ‘But someone has clearly suggested that possibility to you, suggested that the family is involved in this matter? If not true, rumours travel swifter than horses.’
‘As you said, Artgal, Crimthann mac Fidaig was the last Eóganacht to take the High Kingship four centuries ago – and what good did it do him? Poisoned by his own sister to secure the High Kingship for her lover Niall from the northern clans. Thereafter, we have left the claim to his descendants, the Uí Néill. Muman is as large a kingdom as we want.’
Her mouth closed in a determined line. There was an uneasy silence.
‘But Grella of the Uí Liatháin is wife to Cenn Fáelad, of the Síl nÁedo Sláine,’ pointed out Artgal. ‘Her closest companion is the girl, Cairenn. Cairenn is of the Eóganacht Raithlinn. She is sent by Grella to see her relative the abbot. The abbot is found dead. Is this all coincidence?’
‘Meaning?’ Fidelma was troubled.
‘I am wondering who has placed you under this geis, this sacred oath?’
‘I am a dálaigh, whoever my family is. My primary oath is to the law of the Fénechus and to the truth of its justice.’
‘That is well and good, but you might have choices to face when you find yourself in the territory of the Uí Liatháin at Cluain; that is, if you are determined to follow Cairenn there. Before then, I would advise you to think carefully about your geis and the person who placed it on you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In Uí Liatháin territory, you may well be in danger and therefore you should warn your companions, so that they can be prepared. They should be watchful for danger from any likely source connected with your mission.’
Fidelma sniffed dismissively. ‘That’s just it. What likely source of danger? I was hoping that Abbot Nessán would have been able to provide me with some relevant information. Are you sure that Cairenn said no more about what she was doing at the abbey or what Nessán told her?’
‘All she told me, as I said, was that she had been sent by her mistress to the abbot as he had information for her.’ He paused as if a thought had come into his head. ‘One other thing I forgot. Grella told Cairenn that
Abbot Nessán had sent her a message by means of carrier pigeon. It was that message that took her from Tara to Cluain.’
Fidelma was reflective. ‘I knew that Nessán corresponded by carrier pigeon with the High King’s steward, as indeed he did with my brother and others. Old Brother Conchobhar at Cashel is in charge of the rock doves. There is quite a fashion now for using them, particularly for sending messages over long distances. But unless we know what is in these messages or behind them, it is hardly knowing anything at all.’
Artgal gave an eloquent shrug. ‘I cannot help you further. There is much to speculate about. Does this mean that the Uí Liatháin bear responsibility for the murder of Nessán, or is there something sinister happening within our family? Where did you get the idea that our family are in a conspiracy to overthrow an Uí Néill High King?’
Fidelma compressed her lips. ‘I repeat, again, I am under a geis.’
‘That seems contrary, for someone such as yourself who is a dálaigh.’
Fidelma shrugged. ‘I have always said, no speculation without information. But there is little enough information and much to speculate on. Anyway, I am presuming that Fécho’s ship will be allowed to transport me into the territory of the Uí Liatháin?’
‘As I said, we have only Murchú’s ship here now for our protection if there is another Uí Liatháin attack. We cannot spare it to protect your passage. Fécho knows all the settlements and harbours in these islands and even along the Uí Liatháin shores.’
Fidelma inclined her head. ‘I am happy to trust the passage to him.’
‘His trust, so I have heard, is only to those who pay him. I doubt he has any other allegiance.’
Fidelma smiled tightly. ‘Well, I certainly know he is very precise about payment and its legalities. If he can land me somewhere near Cluain, that will be sufficient.’
‘It is in a valley inland, so you will have to get your horses back on board. However, I don’t think it is an arduous journey from the nearest landing place.
Fidelma was thoughtful for a while and then she gave a long sigh.
‘Well, there is little more to be achieved today. I will persuade Fécho to undertake to transport us tomorrow morning. These winter days grow dark too quickly and we have been travelling since first light … or as light as it could get with the thick sea fog that greeted us.’
‘Those fogs and mists are rare among these islands and on this coast. Anyway, you and your companions will be my guests this evening. I can offer you little support other than that.’
Fidelma pursed her lips wryly. ‘And that support will have to be measured, Artgal, especially if we are to leave early in the morning. I hear you have a reputation for importing wines from Armorica, across the water.’
Artgal laughed. ‘Little Britain as it is now being called, since the mass migration of the Britons to that place. But you are wise as ever, cousin. We too must be constantly vigilant now, watchful for any further raids from our Uí Liatháin neighbours.’
A short time later, she was giving her request to the ship owner. Fécho did not look happy.
‘What exactly do you want me to do, lady?’
‘It is simple enough. I want you to take me and my companions, with our horses, from here to a landing place from which we can proceed to the place called Cluain.’
‘The old abbey?’
‘Exactly. Do you know it?’
‘There’s nothing there. It has been deserted these fifty years or more.’
‘Nevertheless, that is where I want to go. Just set us ashore nearby.’
Fécho shook his head slowly. ‘It means another fee and since there are now new dangers involved, with the Uí Liatháin raiders …’ He let his words trail off.
‘Of course,’ acknowledged Fidelma, trying to hide her smile. ‘You will not lose by transporting the sister of your King.’ The emphasis of her words held a message for the boatman.
‘I am neither afraid nor concerned about just payment, if that is what you are thinking,’ he snapped, his voice suddenly haughty. ‘I have lived in close proximity with the Uí Liatháin all my life. I have friends and trading contacts among them. Why should I be scared?’
‘Then there is no problem.’
‘The problem is who you are,’ he replied, almost bitterly. ‘I can understand why the sister of the King wanted passage to come to see her cousin, Lord Artgal, but now … why does she want to go into Ui Liatháin territory?’
‘In case you have forgotten,’ she said coldly, ‘the territory of the Uí Liatháin is as much part of my brother’s kingdom as any other territory of the princes. I am also a dálaigh and entitled to travel through that territory in my legal role. It is my intention to cross the territory of the southern Uí Liatháin and join An Abhainn Mhór, the Great River, along which I can return to Cashel via the great abbey of Lios Mór. That is a quicker route than going back the way we have come.’
Fécho hesitated for a moment. Fidelma hoped her explanation sounded reasonable; in fact, it was a partial truth because, if all went well, that was the route she intended to follow, rather than return to Finnbarr’s Abbey.
The owner of the Tonn Cliodhna gave a sigh, hesitated only a moment and nodded. ‘But the payment to transport you to a landing point from which you can get to Cluain will be twice as much. Don’t forget, it is into Uí Liatháin territory that you are going.’
‘I thought that you said you had friends among them, having traded these waters?’ she asked cynically.
He shrugged indifferently. ‘That I do. But you would be surprised how quickly, in time of war, your friends can desert you.’
‘So you think that these raids constitute a war?’ she asked with quick interest. ‘Why is that?’
‘Raids, war,’ Fécho said in disgust. ‘For those who die in them, it matters not by which word the conflict is described. They remain dead. Besides, if your rank were known, as I said, you and your companions would make good hostages for the raiders; they could obtain what they want without recourse to further battle.’
‘Then, Fécho, we shall have to ensure that my rank remains unspoken if we encounter any Uí Liatháin raiders, shan’t we?’
Fécho hesitated once more and then gave a gesture which seemed to signify agreement. ‘Very well … if you agree the price.’
‘Where would you put me ashore?’ she countered.
‘Do you know the territory?’ he asked in surprise.
‘Not this area of it. But I shall be trusting you.’
‘I will have to put you ashore where there is a small harbour, so that we may disembark the horses without injury. There is such a place, a sheltered inlet with a landing stage, opposite the south-eastern point of this island. There is habitation there but a small population, generally isolated from the rest of the country. It’s just a fishing settlement, where I have traded before. It’s known as the Promontory of Tialláin; Tialláin is chieftain of that settlement. He is a man not to be trusted but there is no reason why he should bother you. I can assure you that it is a safe place to land.’
‘Very well, Fécho. Your terms are agreed. We will join you at first light tomorrow. The sooner we are on our way the better.’
‘That will be fine, lady. Is that warship to follow us?’ He jerked his head in the direction of Murchú’s ship, anchored not far away.
‘Murchú’s ship remains here, which is why I am hiring your vessel to transport us.’
Fécho sniffed indifferently. ‘I don’t like it, or its captain.’
‘My cousin vouches for Murchú and his ship.’
Fécho was not impressed. ‘You are not in Cashel now, so who vouches for Artgal, lady? There are curious happenings in this part of the world. I have never known the air so filled with suspicion.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘What on earth is that?’ called Eadulf, leaning forward over the bow of the Tonn Cliodhna. He was staring beyond the carved figurehead of the goddess towards the approaching shore.
Even from some distance, Eadulf could see the inlet, which was narrowing into the month of a small river, and ahead, on the southern side of the river, evidence of habitation: several large wooden buildings and a landing stage. Yet it was not this that had seized his attention.
What had caught his eye was the dark outline of a grey stone construction, not very tall – perhaps two metres in height – which stood to one side of the inlet, rising from the waters.
‘What sort of monument is that?’ he asked again.
Beside him, Enda glanced to where Eadulf was staring and shrugged.
‘They call them dolmens, friend Eadulf,’ he replied. ‘Portal stones, I suppose.’
‘I’ve seen plenty of dolmans in this land, Enda,’ Eadulf replied. ‘I meant, what does it signify?’
One of Fécho’s crewmen, who was standing nearby, ready with his sluasat, a special type of oar, to stave the ship off any threatening rocks and guide it into the inlet should it be necessary, turned with a sour expression.
‘The warrior is right, stranger. It is a portal monument from the time before time. It warns you that you are entering the territory of the Uí Liatháin.’
‘Warns us?’ Enda asked irritably.
The crewman seemed amused. ‘Although this is still part of Colgú’s kingdom, warrior, it is also a foreign country. You are entering the land of the “grey people”, for that is the meaning of their name. Grey by name and grey by nature.’
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