Peter Tremayne - Badger's Moon

‘Of whom was your group constituted then?’

‘Ballgel, Escrach, Gabrán and Creoda. I think I had made a mistake in overemphasising the power of knowledge to them. That our words for the moon and its manifestations as goddess and arbiter of our destinies belonged to us and not to outsiders. What I had meant was that the power to pronounce the names and contact the power directly belonged to the cognoscenti of all peoples. They had taken my meaning to be that it was a special preserve of the Cinél na Áeda. They voiced their resentment of any involvement in our group by Dangila.’

‘I believe that Accobrán had been one of your group? You do not mention him. What was his view?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Accobrán was-’

The sound of a horn blast cut through the air in a long and almost plaintive tone. It came again, sounding more urgently. Puzzled, Fidelma raised her head.

‘The sound came from Rath Raithlen,’ muttered Eadulf apprehensively, glancing towards the hill which was obscured by the trees. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It is the sound of an alarm,’ old Liag said, rising calmly and hauling in his fishing line. ‘I have not heard it in many a year. Usually, it is blown to summon people to the fortress as the territory is under attack.’

Eadulf sprang to his feet. ‘Uí Fidgente. I wager a screpall on it.’

Liag’s face was grim as he turned towards his bothán . ‘I fear that you will find no takers for that wager. After the raid of yesterday, retribution for Accobrán’s enthusiasm may well be the result.’

Fidelma was already mounting her horse with Eadulf following her example.

‘We’ll return to the rath. An attack by the Uí Fidgente might well be an opportune event for some here,’ she said to the old apothecary.

‘Let us hope that it is not a barrier to the course of truth,’ he called in reply as they rode off.

‘Our sentinels report a sluaghadh of the Uí Fidgente encamped on our borders,’ Becc explained as Fidelma, followed by Eadulf, burst into the great hall and asked the reason for the sounding horn. The harassed chieftain was surrounded by several of his retinue. There was no sign of Accobrán among them.

‘A sluaghadh? ’ Eadulf was not familiar with military terms and asked what was meant by the word.

‘A war band,’ explained Fidelma quickly. ‘Is it reported how big this hosting is?’ she asked, turning to Becc.

‘Not large, but too large for us in our present circumstances. The sentinels report that it looks like a lucht-tighe , a house company of no more than four score warriors. However, I doubt whether we can muster a score of fighting men at this moment. I’ve sent for Accobrán and ordered the alarm to be sounded.’

‘He did a foolish thing in not finding out whether the raiding party was an advance guard of a larger band,’ Fidelma muttered. ‘Now we know. Doubtless they are here to avenge their dead.’

Becc was clearly worried. ‘What can we do? We are mostly farmers and woodsmen, with very few warriors left among us. If they are professional warriors then we are outnumbered.’

At that moment, Accobrán entered noisily. He had a grim look.

‘Have you heard the news?’ Becc demanded of him.

The tanist nodded curtly. ‘I can probably raise thirty-five men to face them but of that number only a dozen have been under arms before. Perhaps we can delay them until we have sent out to other parts of our territory and raised more men.’

‘Where are the Uí Fidgente now?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘No more than a mile from here, perhaps less,’ replied Becc.

‘We can find a place to ambush them,’ Accobrán said. ‘We can cut them down before they know it.’

‘And if you don’t surprise them?’ queried Fidelma. ‘Are you prepared to take the risk that you will leave your people defenceless? That is not a good decision for a tanist to make.’

‘What is your proposal, Fidelma?’ Becc asked quietly.

‘Let us go and talk to them and discover what brings them here and what, if any, are their demands. Then we may see if there is any means of ending this matter by talking rather than bloodshed.’

Accobrán laughed harshly. ‘That is a woman’s answer and not a warrior’s way.’

Becc wheeled round on his tanist, his face grim. ‘Remember to whom you are talking, Accobrán. And remember also that some of our great warriors were women. Scáthach was the one who instructed Cúchullain in the martial arts at her academy — was she not a woman? Was not Creidne a woman, one of the most relentless warriors of the Fianna? Did not Medb of Connacht choose a female champion, Erni, to guard her treasures? Here, among the Eóghanacht, was not Mugháin Mhór our greatest warrior queen? Shame on you, Accobrán, that you can forget your inheritance so quickly that you insult your own people by your thoughtless words!’

The tanist flushed angrily but was silent.

Becc turned back with an apologetic look to Fidelma. ‘You are right, cousin. We should first seek the way of peace before resorting to the way of sorrow and bloodshed.’

‘Good. Then perhaps-’

The door burst opened and Adag the steward came in breathlessly.

‘Becc!’ he gasped, without apologising for his entrance which contravened the etiquette of a chieftain’s house. ‘A rider has come to the gates of the fortress. He rides under the méirge , the banner of the Uí Fidgente.’

Accobrán had clasped his hand to his sword hilt and was moving to the door.

‘I’ll deal with this,’ he shouted. ‘Sound the alarm!’

‘Stop!’ cried Fidelma harshly. ‘Have all your senses left you, Accobrán?’ Having caught their attention, she turned to Adag. ‘I presume this rider is a herald from the Uí Fidgente?’

Adag nodded swiftly. ‘He is indeed a techtaire bearing a message to our chieftain.’

Fidelma looked at Becc with grim satisfaction. ‘This saves us having to ride out and find the Uí Fidgente. Let us go and speak to this techtaire and find out what it is that his hosting seeks here.’

They left the chieftain’s hall and moved to the courtyard, where a couple of Becc’s warriors stood nervously, arms at the ready, before a horseman. The man was still seated in his saddle and carried nothing more lethal than a banner of red silk on which was a design of a ravening wolf. It was the symbol of his people. He wore his hair long and had a bushy sandy beard. His close-set bright eyes watched them approach impassively.

‘I am Becc, chieftain of the Cinél na Áeda,’ Becc announced as he came to a halt before the techfaire .

‘I see you, Becc,’ intoned the herald ritually. ‘I am here as a voice of Conrí, King of Wolves, war chieftain of the Uí Fidgente.’

‘I see you, herald of the Uí Fidgente,’ replied Becc in return ritual. ‘Why are you so far from your own lands?’

‘I am told to say these words to you — Conrí enters this country with a sluaghadh , a hosting, more in sorrow than in anger. He has encamped at the place you call the Marsh of the Birch and will await you or your representatives there to discuss why he should leave the land of the Cinél na Áeda without spilling the blood of its people.’

Becc inclined his head. ‘Why would your chieftain contemplate spilling that blood?’

‘I have been told to say, should you ask that question, that our sluaghadh was on its way to the lands of the prince of the Corco Loígde, where we were invited to take part in the games.’

Fidelma knew that most of the larger principalities held annual games to prepare themselves for the three great festivals at Tailltenn, Tlachtga and Uísneach. It would not be unheard of for the ruler of the Corco Loígde to invite a band of young men from the Uí Fidgente to participate in the local games there. The herald was continuing.