23- The Seventh Trumpet Page 2

  ‘That was Finguine and a few companions,’ replied Gormán.

  Finguine mac Cathail was the tánaiste, the heir apparent, to Fidelma’s brother.

  ‘What takes him away from Cashel so early in the morning?’

  ‘I believe that the Cenél Lóegairi are behind in their tribute to Cashel and, as the harvest is now over, the tánaiste decided it would be prudent to visit their chieftain and remind him of his due.’

  The Cenél Lóegairi was a clan in the south-west of the kingdom which had a reputation for being reticent in fulfilling its obligations to the King of Cashel. Finguine was Fidelma’s distant cousin from a branch of her family known as the Eóghanacht Áine. He had become heir-elect to the kingdom four years before, after the death of the former heir-apparent, Donndubhán, who had unsuccessfully plotted to assassinate Colgú and take over the kingdom. Finguine was known for his conscientious attention to administrative work on behalf of the King.

  Fidelma indicated the closed doors behind Gormán with a gesture of her hand. ‘Has my brother arisen yet?’

  ‘He was also up before dawn, lady, but Abbot Ségdae is already with him.’

  Ségdae was Abbot and Bishop of Imleach, the premier prelate of the kingdom.

  ‘It’s early for the abbot to seek a meeting with my brother. I did not even know he was in Cashel.’ Disappointment crossed her features. She had been hoping to entice her brother to accompany her on her morning ride. ‘Why are there such early-morning stirrings?’

  ‘Abbot Ségdae arrived with the dawn, lady. He must have ridden through the night and was accompanied by only one of his brethren. He had a troubled look and demanded to see Colgú immediately.’

  ‘That does not bode well,’ Fidelma responded with a frown. ‘Have they left word not to be disturbed?’

  Gormán shook his head. ‘None that I have been told.’

  ‘Then I shall enter.’

  Gormán moved to the doors, rapped twice before opening it to allow Fidelma to pass through.

  Inside the large chamber, where King Colgú usually received only special guests, Fidelma’s brother and his visitor were seated in chairs before a log fire. Colgú glanced up as his sister entered and greeted her with a smile. The elderly figure of Abbot Ségdae was rising to his feet from the other chair but she gestured to him to remain seated.

  ‘A good day to you, Sister Fidelma,’ the prelate said.

  ‘And to you, Abbot Ségdae,’ she replied, slipping into a vacant chair. Then she added softly, ‘Although you may recall that I have now formally left the religious so I am no longer “Sister” but once more plain Fidelma of Cashel.’

  The abbot regarded her protest with humour.

  ‘You will always be Sister Fidelma to us,’ he told her. ‘Your reputation is already fixed throughout the Five Kingdoms so that no one can speak of Fidelma without the prefix of Sister.’

  ‘I am hoping that people might come to know another prefix,’ she replied undeterred.

  ‘Ah yes,’ sighed the abbot. ‘My regrets that the Council of Brehons of Muman did not see fit to approve your application, but the role of Chief Brehon of this kingdom is one requiring many years of application.’

  Fidelma’s eyes sparkled dangerously for a moment, wondering if there was some hint of sarcasm in his voice. Then she relented.

  ‘I concede that Brehon Áedo does have much more experience than I do.’ Her tone was without enthusiasm. ‘Doubtless the council chose wisely in appointing him as Chief Brehon to my brother.’

  Colgú stirred uneasily. He knew well that Fidelma had set her ambition to be appointed to the position of Chief Brehon of Muman. When Brehon Baithen had died, Fidelma had declared her intention to leave the religious and seek the position. However, the choice of the appointment of Chief Brehon was in the hands of the Council of Brehons, and they had chosen the elderly and more conservatively minded Brehon Áedo.

  ‘So what now, Fidelma? What does the future hold for you?’ queried the abbot.

  ‘The future? I shall carry on as before. I see no change in my life.’

  ‘But having left our religion …?’

  ‘I have not left the religion, only the religious,’ replied Fidelma crisply. ‘And since I left the Abbey of Brigit at Cill Dara, several years ago, I have acted independently of any Rule or religious authority. To be honest, and I am sure you will admit it, my recent leaving was a formality only. So that is why I see no alteration in my life in the future. There are plenty of matters that require the ability of a dálaigh, an advocate of the law, and I can still sit in judgement in minor cases.’

  ‘That is true,’ Colgú said reflectively. ‘But perhaps this is also an opportunity. You hold the degree of anruth, which is the second highest degree in the land. Why not take the opportunity to return to your studies and become an ollamh, the highest degree? That would surely improve your future chances when you go before the Council of the Brehons?’

  Fidelma did not reply but her expression showed that her brother’s suggestion found little favour with her.

  ‘And what does Brother Eadulf think?’ the abbot pressed. His question made no attempt to disguise the fact that he knew of the tensions that had existed between Fidelma and the father of her son, little Alchú. Indeed, when she had announced her decision earlier in the year, Brother Eadulf had left to seek solitude in the community of the Blessed Rúan not far from Cashel. He had returned only at the request of King Colgú to help Fidelma resolve the matter of the murder of Brother Donnchad at Lios Mór.

  ‘Eadulf has now accepted the choice that I have made,’ Fidelma informed him coldly. ‘But if you need further information about his thoughts, it would be better to ask him.’

  Abbot Ségdae’s cheeks reddened a little and he smothered a cough while Colgú shook his head in disapproval.

  ‘Abbot Ségdae has only the good of our family and the kingdom at heart, Fidelma,’ he rebuked in a soft tone. ‘Indeed, that is what brings him here so early in the morning.’

  It was obvious to her that her brother was trying to guide the conversation into other channels. Fidelma obliged him, for she was wondering why the abbot had ridden through the night to seek him out.

  ‘Is there some matter that affects the well-being of either?’ she asked innocently. ‘I thought it might be arrangements for some more pleasant occasion that brought Abbot Ségdae hither?’

  Her brother actually blushed. Drón, Lord of Gabrán in Osraige, and his daughter, Dúnliath, had been guests at Cashel for three days now and Colgú had confessed to Fidelma that he was going to discuss the terms of a marriage contract with him. Fidelma had tried to put aside the fact that she had taken a dislike to the arrogant noble and regarded his daughter with indifference. She was trying to rationalise what she saw as her prejudice and accept that what would make her brother happy would be for his good and, therefore, the good of the kingdom.

  ‘There is news of unrest coming out of the lands of the Uí Fidgente,’ said Abbot Ségdae. ‘That is what brought me here.’

  ‘That is nothing new,’ Fidelma replied lightly. ‘The Uí Fidgente have always caused trouble to our family and to the unity of the kingdom.’

  The princes of the Uí Fidgente in the north-west of the kingdom had long claimed they should be in the line of the rightful rulers of the kingdom – and not the Eóghanacht, descendants of Eóghan Mór. They even claimed their line descended from Cormac Cass, the elder brother of Eóghan, and hence they called themselves the Dál gCais, descendants of Cass. Beyond their clan lands, however, they found little support for their claims. It had not been many years ago that Colgú had to take the field with his loyal warriors against Prince Eoghanán of the Uí Fidgente and his allies to quell their insurgency. For as long as Fidelma could remember, if there was any plot or mischief in the kingdom, it was usually inspired by the discontent of the princes of the Uí Fidgente.

  ‘I thought,’ she continued, ‘that since Donennach became their ruler, and agreed a treaty wi
th Cashel, there had been peace among them?’

  ‘This time we cannot be sure that the Uí Fidgente are behind this unrest,’ the abbot sighed.

  ‘What unrest do we speak of?’ Fidelma asked.

  After a glance at the King, as if seeking permission to speak, the abbot explained. ‘We hear that several villages and farmsteads around the territory of the Uí Fidgente have been set ablaze and many killed. The news only reached Imleach yesterday morning. That is why I set out to bring the information to your brother.’

  ‘What is the specific information that you have received?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘Burning villages and farmsteads – who reported this to you?’

  ‘The first account came by way of a merchant who had seen several homesteads in ashes. He then saw an entire settlement that had been torched.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘A settlement on the banks of An Mháigh.’

  ‘As I recall, that is a fairly long river. Was he more specific?’

  ‘The settlement that was destroyed was near a crossing called the Ford of the Oak, Áth Dara.’

  ‘That is certainly in Uí Fidgente territory,’ Colgú confirmed, ‘but if memory serves, it is on the very border of their territory, for the eastern side of the river is the territory of our cousin Finguine of the Eóghanacht Áine.’

  ‘Did this merchant make enquiries as to what had happened at this ford?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘Alas, there was no one left other than corpses. The men, women and children had all been cut down or fled. The merchant felt it wiser not to tarry there but carried straight on to our abbey at Imleach. He was very fearful about what he had seen.’

  ‘You gave the impression that he was not the only person bearing such reports,’ Fidelma remarked. ‘You said this merchant gave the first account?’

  The abbot nodded slowly. ‘It is true. Not long after the merchant had brought his news, a band of our Brothers arrived from the Abbey of the Blessed Nessan, at Muine Gairid. They came with a similar story, for they too had seen several churches and farmsteads burned on their journey south and people’s bodies lying unattended.’

  ‘Churches burned?’ Fidelma was astonished.

  ‘And religious killed,’ confirmed Abbot Ségdae.

  ‘Muine Gairid is north of Áth Dara,’ observed Colgú, ‘so these killings and burnings are mainly located in the territory of the Uí Fidgente. Did these brethren encounter anyone who knew what was happening, anyone who could identify those responsible?’

  ‘No one,’ said the abbot.

  ‘If the territory of the Uí Fidgente is under attack, then we should have heard something from Prince Donennach,’ Colgú pointed out. ‘When he became ruler over his people, under the peace settlement, we agreed that he should notify me of any dissension in his land.’

  ‘And this is all the information that you have?’ Fidelma glanced from the abbot to her brother. There was a silence. She waited a moment and then said to Colgú: ‘What is it that you intend to do?’

  ‘There is little action I can take without more facts about the perpetrators of these attacks. Apart from the reports that the abbot has brought us, there has been no word or request for assistance from the Prince of the Uí Fidgente, nor from any of the surrounding clans and settlements.’

  ‘Maybe Prince Donennach has been unable to send for assistance,’ Abbot Ségdae suggested.

  ‘Perhaps.’ But Colgú did not sound convinced. ‘The only thing to do is send some of my warriors to Prince Donennach and see what they can find out about this matter.’

  Fidelma was quiet for a few moments and then she said, ‘I too see no other path that can be taken at this time. But it is curious that we have heard nothing before this. We must be careful, lest we send our warriors into a trap.’

  ‘A trap?’ Colgú raised his eyebrows. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Recent history. The Uí Fidgente have a reputation for plotting. I do not have to remind you of the assassination attempt on you. We should have a care, brother.’

  Colgú understood the dangers only too well. ‘I shall instruct Finguine to deal with the matter. He is of the Eóghanacht Áine and is acquainted with the territory.’

  Fidelma frowned. ‘I was told that Finguine and some warriors had left before dawn to remind the Cenél Lóegairi that it was time to pay their tribute to Cashel.’

  Colgú was momentarily surprised.

  ‘He did not—’ He caught himself and shrugged. ‘Finguine is far too conscientious. I was not told he had left. In that case, I’ll appoint Dego to command.’

  ‘Not Caol?’ Fidelma enquired. ‘He is more experienced.’ Caol was the commander of Colgú’s élite bodyguard and one of the best military strategists in Cashel.

  ‘Dego has experience enough for this matter,’ her brother said firmly.

  ‘Perhaps he should be accompanied by someone legally qualified to ask pertinent questions?’ Fidelma mused.

  Her brother chuckled cynically. ‘Meaning you, I suppose? The answer is no. I know that you have been bored and with little to do since the meeting of the Council of Brehons, but I am not going to send you into a situation which may prove dangerous.’

  Fidelma was indignant. ‘Why not? Have I not been in dangerous situations enough times?’

  ‘Until we know who these raiders are and what their purpose is, then I agree that caution is needed,’ intervened Abbot Ségdae. ‘If religious are being slaughtered in the land of the Uí Fidgente, then your rank and position may not protect you.’

  ‘The abbot is right, Fidelma,’ her brother agreed. ‘Anyway, I shall not allow it. Dego will command a céta and will go north-west to investigate. That should be sufficient to deal with the matter.’

  A céta was a company of 100 warriors. Unless the kingdom was engaged in a full conflict, the King maintained only one full-time cath or battalion of warriors consisting of 3,000 men. The battalion was divided into small companies of a hundred men, and further sub-divided into units of fifty and squads of nine men. Should the services of more men be needed in time of war, a sluaghadh or hosting was called and all free clansmen, under their chieftains, were expected to come forward. Such hostings were confined to the summer months, the season for warfare, if warfare ever erupted. Throughout the year, the cath, or battalion, lived in a permanent and well-ordered encampment. There they trained in the art of warfare as well as being instructed in music and poetry, and were provided with other entertainments to amuse them as if they were in their own villages. Their commanders were usually members of the Nasc Niadh, the élite bodyguard of the Eóghanacht kings. Therefore, at any season of the year, the King was able to call upon warriors in time of need without waiting for a call to the clans to gather in a hosting.

  ‘I would like to start back to Imleach now,’ the abbot said. ‘I am expecting Bran Finn to arrive back at the abbey soon and would not like to miss him.’

  ‘Bran Finn? Who is he?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘The new Prince of the Déisi Muman, who is returning from a trip to the west. But I thought he came here first to Cashel as courtesy to you, Colgú? Did you not meet him then, Fidelma?’

  ‘My sister was visiting someone at the Hill of Rafon that day,’ Colgú intervened. ‘Bran Finn did not stay very long before travelling on to Imleach. In fact, only long enough as protocol dictated to pay his respects. He seemed in a hurry and I was surprised to see that he travelled alone.’

  ‘I do not know him,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘Surely it is unusual for a prince of the Déisi Muman to visit Imleach and the west?’

  ‘The abbey administers to the unfortunates in the Glen of Lunatics, as you know. The Prince has a distant relative under the care of the abbey. He came some days ago to ensure his relative is well sustained, and brought gifts to the abbey before going on into the Glen of Lunatics.’

  ‘He promised to return to the abbey on his way back to the territory of the Déisi,’ the abbot explained. ‘I wanted his assurance that he appr
oved our work. His patronage would be welcome, you understand. It is difficult caring for those whose minds are unbalanced and—’

  Abbot Ségdae was cut short by an urgent knock on the door. Even before Colgu could answer it, the door opened and Caol, the commander of the Nasc Niadh, entered. It was clear to Fidelma that he had important news to impart, but Colgú spoke first.

  ‘Why was I not told that Finguine had left Cashel?’

  Caol blinked at the abruptness of the question.

  ‘He told me not to disturb you while you were with Abbot Ségdae, and said he would return within a few days. I did not think it essential that you be informed.’

  ‘Well, I have a job for Dego …’

  ‘I think Caol has something more urgent on his mind,’ Fidelma interrupted. ‘Let’s hear what he has to say.’

  Her brother turned to Caol. ‘You have some other news?’

  ‘A farmer has arrived here to report the finding of a body on his land,’ said Caol. ‘He seeks a Brehon’s advice.’

  Fidelma was curious. ‘Then why come to bother the King about it? There is a choice of Brehons even in the township.’

  ‘I thought that Colgú should see this first,’ Caol said, holding out an intricately worked brooch. ‘It was found on the body, and the farmer thought it might help identify the corpse. The body was that of a well-dressed young man.’

  Colgú took the metal object with its inlaid semi-precious stones and turned it over in his hands a few times, his frown deepening. It was obvious that he recognised it but he handed it to Fidelma, saying only, ‘What do you make of it?’

  Fidelma took it and her eyes widened slightly. ‘It’s a brooch bearing the emblem of the Uí Máil,’ she said immediately.

  Colgú’s expression was grim.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘That is the emblem of a member of the Royal House of Laigin.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Abbot Ségdae leaned forward in astonishment. Fianamail mac Máele Tuile of the Uí Máil was King of the neighbouring Kingdom of Laigin. They all knew the significance of the emblem. Fidelma was examining it more closely. She had noticed a small catch on the side of the brooch and pushed it open. There was a tiny recess but it was empty.