Peter Tremayne - Chalice of Blood

Automatically, she picked up the bundle of clothes and returned them to the back of the chair and then sat down on the bed. Shesat there for a long time, turning over in her mind what the abbot had said. Sleep took her unaware and the next thing she knew, the light that shone through the window was the rising sun and not the pale light of the moon.

An Dún, the fortress of Lady Eithne, lay no more than two kilometres due east of Lios Mór, overlooking the main road from Cashel where it forded An Abhainn Mór, The Great River. It had been built in ancient times to guard the roadway. Fidelma had passed it many times but had never visited it. All she had ever known of Lady Eithne was that she was very pious, a staunch upholder of the Faith, as befitted the mother of two sons who had become scholars of reputation at Lios Mór. The fortress lay a little way south of the river crossing, on a dominant hill. The track from Lios Mór ran through cultivated lands that belonged to the abbey, just north of a series of hills, to join Rian Bó Pádraig. The hills were no more than rounded hummocks, on which some ancient mounds, like carbuncles, rose. The fortress dominated. Its walls were imposing, a mixture of wood and stone.

Gormán, riding behind them, drew Fidelma’s attention to the dark silhouettes of several figures on top of the fortress walls.

‘There are many warriors there,’ he observed. ‘I thought this lady was more given to religion than to war.’

‘There does seem more than the usual number of bodyguards a chieftain is entitled to,’ agreed Fidelma, looking towards the figures.

They had just turned up an incline where the track formed an avenue between yew trees, leading towards the great wooden gates of the fortress, when a harsh voice called on them to halt. A moment later a heavily armed warrior stepped from behind the cover of some trees. His sword was drawn and he examined them in a professional manner. His eyes came to rest on Gormán.

‘Disarm yourself and dismount, warrior,’ he snapped in an accent that they did not recognise.

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel, come to speak with Lady Eithne,’ Fidelma said sharply, edging her horse forward.

The man looked at her closely, and saw the torc emblem she was wearing round her neck.

‘You and your religious companion may go on up, lady,’ he said with more respect, ‘but I am under orders not to allow any strange warriors beyond this point.’

‘This man is no strange warrior. He wears the insignia of the Nasc Niadh, the King’s bodyguard, and has the King’s authority. Where I go, he goes,’ Fidelma replied firmly.

‘I have my orders, lady,’ he said awkwardly.

‘From your accent, I take it you are a stranger to this land.’

‘I am a Briton in the employ of Lady Eithne,’ the man said defensively.

‘A mercenary?’ sneered Gormán.

‘My sword is bought by Lady Eithne,’ admitted the man. ‘She has the right to be apprehensive for her security. Her son has been murdered. To the south are the Uí Liathán and to the west are the Fir Maige Féne. She trusts neither clan. Even to the east, among her own people, the Déisi, there are some chiefs who cast envious eyes on this territory.’

‘Are you telling me that Lady Eithne has been threatened from these sources and needs mercenaries from a strange land to defend her?’ Fidelma frowned.

‘It is not for me to say. I obey her orders.’

‘Well, here is an order. I am sister to the King of Muman, a dálaigh of the courts. I order you to let me pass to the fortress with my companions. Is this order understood?’

The man looked as if he would argue for a moment. Gormán’s hand was already on his sword hilt, his body tensed. Then the opposing warrior shrugged as if the matter were no longer of concern to him. He stood back and they proceeded at a walking pace until they came to the closed gates of the fortress.

They were uncomfortably aware of archers on the ramparts above them, with bows unslung, ready to be drawn. The dark oak gates of the fortress were forbidding. Gormán looked up at the figures on the wall and shouted, ‘This is Fidelma of Cashel who comes to speak with Lady Eithne.’

There was movement and the sound of a whispered exchange above them. Then a voice replied, ‘Wait.’

It seemed an eternity before they heard the noise of large wooden bolts being slid back. Then one of the gates creaked and moved. It swung open with a rasp of its hinges and another warrior appeared and gestured for them to enter. As they halted in the inner courtyard, they saw several warriors on either side with bows in their hands. The gate swung shut behind them with a crash. Then a warrior, who seemed in command, approached.

‘The Lady Eithne will see you and Brother Eadulf,’ he told Fidelma. ‘But my lady says nothing of the warrior. He must await you here.’

Fidelma slid from her horse and glanced apologetically at Gormán.

‘You will have to wait with our horses while we speak to Lady Eithne.’ Then she turned to the warrior who seemed in charge. ‘I trust you will see my companion is refreshed and our horses watered.’

‘He can take the horses over to the blacksmith’s forge,’ the warrior said, pointing to where a smith was working his bellows in a corner of the yard. Then he guided them across the courtyard towards the main building. The wooden doors opened immediately into the great hall where Lady Eithne waited to welcome them with her sad smile

‘It is good to see you both again. Come, be seated with me and take refreshment.’

She indicated two comfortable chairs adorned with cushions and coverings before a fire at the far end of the hall. She seated herself in a third chair before motioning with a slim hand towards a servant. Moments later wine and sweet pastries were brought and served.

‘We are told that you fear some attack, lady,’ Fidelma said after the courtesies had been exchanged. ‘Who do you fear?’

Lady Eithne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who says I fear attack?’ she demanded softly.

‘Your warriors proclaim the obvious. Mercenaries as well.’

Lady Eithne suddenly smiled and shrugged. ‘What is there to say? My son is murdered and we know not how or why. My other son has chosen to remain in some foreign land. I am but a poor widow. In the days of old Maolochtair of the Déisi, both my sons were threatened, as you know, and perhaps the spirit of that threat lives on among certain chiefs of our people. Old Maolochtair was my husband’s cousin and he thought my sons wanted to wrest the chieftainship from him. Some of his relatives who live beyond the boundaries of The Great River still think our family nurse that ambition. In such circumstances, and because of the murder of poor Donnchad, should I not take to myself some protection?’

‘No blame to you for doing so, lady,’ agreed Fidelma lightly. ‘So there is no specific threat, for example from the surrounding clans — the Uí Liatháin and the Fir Maige Féne?’

‘A flock of swallows is a good sign of rain,’ she replied, using the old proverb that meant one should be prepared in case of trouble.

‘Yet both clans owe allegiance to Cashel, just as you do,’ Fidelma pointed out.

Lady Eithne stiffened slightly. ‘This is true. But the Uí Fidgente to the north are also supposed to be loyal and subservient to Cashel and yet their history of insurrection is well known.’

‘There is no denying that,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Therefore, it is good that your warriors train in preparation. I heard that one of them injured himself while training. I trust his wound is healing.’

Lady Eithne seemed slightly taken aback. ‘Who told you this?’

‘I believe that you had cause to send for the physician from the abbey.’