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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #blt, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #Medieval Ireland

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BOOK: Master of Souls
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‘Did you send warriors to investigate?’
Slébéne shook his head, unabashed at her tone.
‘There was no need. Travellers told me that the body of the abbess was recovered and taken back to Ard Fhearta. Is it about this matter that you have come here, Fidelma of Cashel?’
‘I am here to find the missing members of the community of Ard Fhearta as well as to find out who was responsible for the abbess’s death.’
The chief did not appear particularly concerned.
‘Then this evening you will be my guests and we will feast. I will send my steward to fetch you when all is ready. Tomorrow you may travel where you will with my blessing and authority to conduct your inquiries in my territory.’
His tone clearly dismissed them from his presence. Slébéne’s good humour seemed to have evaporated. His mood was sullen. Fidelma rose with the others.
‘Thank you,’ she said, with dignity. ‘In that case we shall withdraw and bathe before the feasting starts.’
Slébéne of the Corco Duibhne knew how to arrange a good feast, of that there was no doubt. The meal had been organised in the great hall and there were some forty guests. Fidelma, Eadulf and Conrí were apparently not the only visitors to Daingean that day. There were some merchants and local chieftains who had come to pay their respects and tributes to Slébéne. An officer known as a
bollscari
was employed to instruct guests where they should be seated at the lines of willow tables. Fidelma and her companions found themselves placed at the top table facing the lines of guests of lesser rank. When all the guests were seated, two seats remained empty at the table at which Fidelma and the others sat. Behind one of these empty chairs a broad, muscular man, with bushy red curly hair and beard, whose attire and accoutrements proclaimed him to be a warrior, had taken his stand with folded arms. Fidelma noticed a tattoo on his right arm, a curious image of a serpent wrapped round a sword. This was against all convention for the young men of Eireann did not usually adorn themselves in such a fashion. But this unusual body decoration was not the cause of Fidelma’s disapproving frown. It was unusual for warriors entering feasting halls to carry weapons. This man was well armed with sword and daggers. She presumed that the man was Slébéne’s
trén-fher,
his personal champion and bodyguard. But it was a sign of bad taste to invite guests for a feast and parade an armed warrior to protect the chief in the feasting hall.
As soon as all the guests were seated, the
fear-stuic,
the trumpeter, at a signal from the
bollscari,
gave a single blast on his instrument. The company rose and then Slébéne and a young woman entered. She had a hard-faced beauty and arrogant poise. It was not until after the meal that Fidelma heard that this was the chief’s latest mistress. Whether Slébéne was out to impress them or the other guests, Fidelma was not sure. The chief of the Corco Duibhne entered the great hall clad in fine regalia; in satins and silks and wearing a silver circlet on his head in which were embedded clear purple amethysts and bright green emeralds. Fidelma had only seen such ostentation at the ceremonial feasts of the High King himself. Of all the company, only Fidelma remained seated as he entered, not as an insult, but as she was entitled to do by her rank as sister to the king of Muman.
Another blast of the trumpet and the formalities were almost complete. In came the
deoghbhaire,
the cupbearers, with wines, ale and mead, to be followed by attendants carrying bowls of steaming
beochaill,
a broth of meats and herbs, a favourite dish at this time of year for the winter was chill. Attendants came forward to place basins of water by the plate of each diner and a
lámhbrat,
or handcloth, for them to cleanse and dry their hands after the meal. With the empty bowls of broth removed, there came another trumpet blast and three attendants came to present large dishes of uncarved meat for Slébéne’s inspection. One dish was of roasted pig, another, Eadulf could tell, was venison while the third he was not sure of.
The chief, who seemed to have recovered from his sullen mood, glanced at the dishes and then pointed to the pork with a grin. The other dishes were removed to the side and the chosen meat was placed on the table before Slébéne. One of the attendants came forward with sharpened knives. He was known as the
dáilemain,
the attendant responsible for carving the meal and distributing it to the guests. A choice joint was expertly carved from it, placed on a platter and handed to Slébéne, who stood up, took it in both hands and held it up at eye level.
‘This is the
curath-mir,’
he intoned loudly. ‘It is the hero’s portion. To whom does the hero’s portion belong?’
One of the guests immediately shouted: ‘To you, lord Slébéne! You are the greatest champion of them all.’
Slébéne chuckled in appreciation.
‘Yet I am not the only hero who dines here tonight.’
The company continued shouting approval for Slébéne. But the chief turned slightly towards Conrí and suddenly the guests fell silent.
‘There sits the warlord of the Uí Fidgente, Conrí son of Conmael. We of the Corco Duibhne have often tasted the steel of his people. Is he not worthy of the hero’s portion? We have met his people in battle several times. Can we not acknowledge the bravery of their warlord?’
An angry muttering started to ripple through the hall.
‘Come, do not be shy. Rise up, Conrí son of Conmáel, if you would claim the hero’s portion for yourself.’ Slébéne gave a bellow of laughter and held out the plate of meat.
Conrí had started to stiffen. Fidelma put a restraining hand on his arm.
Eadulf looked quickly at the chief, realising that Slébéne was deliberately trying to provoke the Uí Fidgente warlord. Behind the chief, his champion stood with a soft smile on his lips. It was clearly an insult, just as it was clear from the eager expressions on the faces of the guests that they realised that Slébéne was challenging Conrí to fight. Such things happened in ancient times at feastings. Although the New Faith frowned on it, challenges as to who was the better champion still occurred. In the old days, such challenges and their outcome made exciting stories for the bards to relate to their enthralled audiences.
Conrí now shook off Fidelma’s restraining hand and rose slowly in his place.
‘I …’ he began.
‘I would claim the hero’s portion!’
Everyone looked round in surprise.
Fidelma was suddenly on her feet and had issued the challenge quietly but clearly.
There was an awkward silence. Then someone began to laugh but was quickly hushed by their neighbour.
Slébéne stood stock still in wide-eyed astonishment.
Conrí was frowning in annoyance at her. Eadulf was shocked at this turn of events.
‘You cannot—’ Conrí began.
She turned angrily to him, eyes burning him back into his seat.
‘I have issued my claim first. Those who deny it must prove themselves against me.’
‘But you are a religieuse, one of the Faith …’ protested Conrí weakly.
Fidelma threw back her red hair and thrust out her chin slightly.
‘I am Fidelma, daughter of Failbe Flann, king of Muman, sister of Colgú, king of Muman, descendant of generations of kings from the time
of Eibhear the Fair, son of Mile. In the name of those generations, do you deny me, Slébéne of the Corco Duibhne? Let your bards recite your lineage and if it is greater than mine, then deny me my right to the
curath-mir!’
She stared defiantly into his black narrowing eyes. For a while there was silence. Then Slébéne swallowed noisily. He shook back his mane of hair and roared with laughter. This time the laughter conveyed good humour and not insult.
‘Was there any doubt to whom the portion should go?’ He thrust the plate of meat at the attendant. ‘To the daughter of Cashel’s greatest king, Failbe Flann, goes the hero’s portion!’ He turned and clapped his hands to bring the other attendants forward. ‘Come, quickly now, distribute the meat before it grows cold upon the plates.’
The attendant placed the dish of pork before Fidelma and she slowly sat down. Conrí was still staring at her in bewilderment.
Eadulf, at her other side, was looking relieved.
‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ he whispered harshly to Fidelma.
She smiled quickly at him.
‘I was counting on the fact that he would not dare accept my challenge because he knows what would happen if Colgú decided that he had to avenge me.’ She bent nearer his ear. ‘For some reason Slébéne was trying to provoke Conrí into a fight. The only way to stop him was if I stepped in first to claim the hero’s portion. It worked. But Slébéne is a wily one. Keep a careful watch on him, Eadulf.’
The
dáilemain
came forward with a platter offering venison or pork or the other meat that he did not recognise.
He asked what it was and was told it was
rón.
He was still none the wiser until Fidelma explained in Latin that it was
vitulus marinus.
‘Seal!’ Eadulf screwed up his face with a shudder and chose the venison. There was
foltchep,
or leeks, and
mecan,
parsnip, to have as side dishes.
Wheaten cakes and sweet meats, honey kneaded with salmon’s roe into little cakes, provided the last course.
At the centre of the table, Slébéne seemed oblivious of the glances that he had received, and was tucking into his meal with relish. His regular roar of laughter even drowned out the playing of the
cruit,
a lute-like instrument, which had accompanied the meal from the start.
It was as the meal came to a close and the
braccat
- a liquor distilled from malt and mixed with honey and spices - was handed round that Slébéne called for his bard to come forward. A handsome young man
came to the table and asked, in a soft tenor voice, what the chief’s pleasure might be.
Slébéne rapped on the table with the butt of his knife for silence.
‘In honour of our guest, Fidelma of Cashel, we shall hear the
forsundud,
the praise song of the race of Eibhear, her own ancestors.’
The
forsundud
was the most ancient form of song in the land, in which the generations of kings and princes were listed and praised.
The young man bowed and stood for a moment until the noise of the feasting hall had died away and then he began softly.
Ceatharchad do Chormaic Cas
Ar lath mhór mhumhan mionn-ghlar
…
Cormac Cas reigned over Muman
For forty years unvanquished
But by the River Siur his great ambitions
By Death were basely thwarted …
Eadulf listened to the chanting, wild rhythms but, as he had heard it before, after a while he became bored.
He was almost nodding off and had not realised that he had closed his eyes. The volume of sound suddenly shocked him awake.
Six religious had taken the place of the young bard. They were roaring out one of the new chants of the Faith but in a strange mixture of the tongue of the Eireannach and Latin. It was a musical sound that he had recently heard before.
Regem
regum rogamus – in n
ostris sermonibus
who protected Noah with his crew –
diluui temporibus
.
Melchisedech
rex Salem - incerto de semine,
May his prayers deliver us—
ab omni formidine.
Soter who delivered Lot from fire,
qui per
saecia habetur,
Ut
nos omnes
precamur – liberare digneteur.
It was a joyous chant and Eadulf wondered where he had heard it before.
He had the opportunity of speaking to one of the singers as the feasting drew to a close. He was a barrel-chested man who sung baritone.
‘That song is a new one, Brother.’ He smiled at Eadulf’s question. ‘It was composed by Colman mac Uí Clusaim, who took his people from their abbey at the town on the marshland, and went to the islands when the place was threatened by the Yellow Plague. He and his followers sang it to keep them healthy.’
‘So it is only a few years old in its composition?’
The singer agreed. ‘It is a beautiful song, Brother.’
‘And sung to a Gallican chant,’ observed Eadulf thoughtfully.
The singer looked at him with a new respect.
‘You know about such things, Brother?’
Eadulf shrugged.
‘Only a little,’ he confessed. ‘I heard something of these chants from Brother Cillín at Ard Fhearta.’
The man was suddenly very interested.
‘Brother Cillín? Are you then one of the Unending Circle?’
Eadulf tried to hide his frown of surprise. Obviously this meant something significant. He had heard the term before. But where, and what did it mean?
He smiled and lowered his voice confidentially.
BOOK: Master of Souls
7.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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