Peter Tremayne - Badger's Moon

A smith was busy shaping a metal pot in the glowing charcoal of a fire, holding the tongs in one hand while the other pounded the soft metal with a flat hammer. A few people were passing by and now and again someone would acknowledge him, but he would only grunt a reply without looking up. He did not look much like the way one might imagine a smith. He was a thin, wiry individual, with fox-like features. But the thin arms and torso, the taut muscles, belied strength greater than his appearance suggested. His glistening body was clad in a sleeveless leather jerkin and breeches.

Fidelma stood and watched him, admiring the dexterity of his work. She waited until he turned to plunge the pot into his water bucket before speaking. She had to pause for the hiss and cloud of steam, which arose as the metal cooled, to evaporate.

‘Good evening, smith.’

He glanced at her and tossed his strands of sandy hair back from his face. In spite of his thin, foxy appearance, his expression was pleasant. His bright blue eyes were close set in a deeply tanned face which enhanced their colour and made them appear brighter than they were.

‘Good evening to you, lady.’

She raised an eyebrow. Usually strangers addressed her as ‘Sister’. That he called her ‘lady’ implied knowledge.

‘You know who I am?’

The smith grimaced pleasantly. ‘Doesn’t everyone in the rath know that you are a dálaigh and sister to the king at Cashel?’

Fidelma sighed. She supposed it was natural that everyone would know the reason for Becc’s journey to Cashel and the identity of those with whom he had returned.

‘You are working late, smith,’ she commented.

‘I had need to finish this pot for Adag the steward. But I am done now.’

He took out the cold metal from the water barrel, placed it on the shelf, and began to return his tools to the rack.

‘When I was here many years ago as a young girl, there were numerous forges working in this rath,’ Fidelma reflected. ‘There do not seem to be so many now.’

The smith smiled briefly.

‘Not so many,’ he agreed. ‘Our mines used to make this rath one of the great metal-working centres of the kingdom. First the gold ran out and then the silver and now there is little left. There is still a lead mine over at Dún Draighneáin. That’s but a short ride from here.’

‘I hear that copper and iron are still produced in fair quantity,’ Fidelma pointed out.

‘Indeed, lady, but not enough to bring the Cinél na Áeda back to the prosperity they once had. Our gold and silversmiths used to turn out work for the High Kings in distant Temhair but they do so no more. I started out as an apprentice to a silversmith. We turned out many a bejewelled chalice for the abbeys in the district. Now, I shoe horses, and turn out ploughshares and metal pots.’ He grimaced towards his forge with a wry expression. ‘Ah, if only someone would find another rich gold vein or a silver mine…but that’s a forlorn hope.’

Fidelma laughed softly.

The smith frowned with curiosity.

‘What amuses you, lady?’ he demanded.

‘Today I came across two small boys sitting in the river…what do you call it? The Tuath? The boys were panning for gold.’

The smith shook his head. ‘A child’s game, no more. There’s been no gold found in that river since our chieftain’s father was a small boy.’

‘Well, they did tell me that one of their fellows had found a gold nugget there.’

The man glanced up in surprise.

‘Who found such a thing?’ he asked sharply. ‘Did they say?’

‘The name of the child? They called him Síoda.’

The smith was chuckling grimly. ‘Of course, it would be young Síoda.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘I know him well enough. He’s the son of Becc’s shield-bearer. In fact, it was only a few days ago when the young scamp came running to me proclaiming that he had found gold and asked me to buy it from him.’

He suddenly turned and reached up to a shelf and took something down. Then he held out his palm towards Fidelma. A piece of metal the size of the top of a man’s thumb. It glistened with a yellow tinge.

Fidelma frowned.

‘It looks like gold,’ she hazarded.

‘Iron pyrites. It is not worth anything.’

‘Fool’s gold?’

The smith nodded appreciatively at her knowledge. ‘Fool’s gold, indeed, lady. I gave Síoda something to assuage his disappointment. So I wish the two lads you saw the best of luck, but they may sit there until the crack of doom and not come near to finding a grain of gold in that river, nor anywhere else round here.’

‘Until the crack of doom…’ sighed Fidelma reflectively.

The smith turned for a moment as his forge fire began to hiss, some manifestation of the coal causing a blue flame to shoot out of it. Fidelma seized the moment to pick up a sharp implement and scrape at the metal and examine the golden glint the scratch caused. As the smith turned back to her, she handed it back to him.

‘It is a shame that the Cinél na Áeda have fallen on lean times,’ she said. ‘But metal apart, this is a rich land and the people will not starve. You have trees in abundance, well-watered fertile soil, and some good grazing. Also you are only twelve miles from the seaport at the house of Molaga.’

‘True enough, lady,’ agreed the smith, replacing the metal on his shelf. ‘People have to adapt to new conditions, for nothing lasts for ever. We have a saying: even the road to Temhair has turnings and twists.’

Fidelma smiled appreciatively. Then she became serious as she remembered the purpose of her exploration of the rath.

‘There is no need to tell you why I am here, smith.’

‘No need at all,’ agreed the smith. ‘Becc brought you here to investigate the strangers at the abbey.’

The word he used for ‘strangers’ was actually a legal term — murchoirthe , which literally meant one thrown up by the sea. It was an interesting term for the smith to use as it also implied that the person so referred to was one who might have been a criminal beyond redemption who had been punished by being set adrift on the sea and subsequently washed ashore. Everyone had previously used the term deorad or outsider, which was also a legal term but implied that the outsider had a legal standing. Fidelma hid her interest at the smith’s choice of word.

‘So, do I take it that you believe Brocc is right when he accuses these strangers?’

‘Have you spoken with Brocc?’

‘Of course.’

‘And have you seen the strangers?’

‘I have.’

The smith shrugged indifferently as if he had made a case.

‘So what is your conclusion?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘They are not men as we know men. They are alien and ugly to us. Like the nocturnal animals, they are dangerous being let loose near our womenfolk at the full of the moon. Brocc’s word is good enough for me. They should be driven from our land or punished for what they have done. Only Becc’s interference saved them. Oh yes, lady, I admit that I was one of the crowd that went to the abbey to demand their punishment and visit it upon them if no one else would.’

Fidelma pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘Then you must know, smith, that your action is not condoned in law. What if you had killed or injured the strangers?’

The smith laughed and his prejudice was made clear.

‘A murchoirthe is without an honour price in law. Brocc told me that much. So there would be no fine or compensation to pay.’

‘Indeed? Brocc should have told you that the abbot had taken the strangers in and given them hospitality. In law, therefore, the strangers are judged as having half the honour price of the abbot.’ She glanced at his forge. ‘I doubt whether your forge would raise the amount of compensation.’