The man seemed to be a person of quick comprehension and decision. He simply stood back and motioned them inside, shutting the door behind them.
‘Stay, Failinis!’ he shouted.
They turned to see that a large hound had risen from its place by the hearth and was sniffing enquiringly towards them. It immediately returned to its place, yet its eyes remained on them, watchful and ready.
‘Our companion has taken our horses to your stable for shelter,’ gasped Fidelma, still wiping the wetness from her face. ‘We hope that you have no objections.’
‘I would not deprive anyone of shelter on such a day as this,’ the man replied. ‘There is plenty of room in the stable. Will he need help?’
‘He will manage,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘And we thank you for your hospitality.’
The man seemed to examine them for a moment or two from eyes that sparkled like points of fire, reflecting the flicker of the lantern. He was of middle age with lean features and tanned skin. The remains of youth and handsome good looks were still etched in his features and yet there seemed a tension around his mouth which gave the impression of age and weariness. Although he was dressed as a farmer there was something about his carriage, the upright way he held himself, that did not quite match.
‘My name is Temnén,’ he announced, as if he realised that they were waiting for him to introduce himself first. He turned to Eadulf with raised brows.
‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the Land of the South Folk.’
‘A Saxon?’
‘An Angle,’ corrected Eadulf patiently.
The man’s eyes suddenly narrowed as if trying to remember something. ‘Brother Eadulf …?’
He was interrupted by a knocking at the door. He turned and swung it open and Gormán staggered in, mud-stained and soaked.
‘Thanks,’ he muttered, thrusting the door shut behind him. He stood leaning against it, breathing heavily from his exertion running through the mud and storm to the cabin.
Temnén nodded briefly and went to a side table where there was a jug and clay beakers.
‘A drink of corma to keep out the winter chill?’ he asked, his gaze sweeping over them. They assented readily.
He began to pour. ‘We were in the middle of introductions,’ he said across his shoulder. ‘If this is Brother Eadulf, then you, lady, are …’
‘My name is Fidelma,’ she replied. ‘Our companion is Gormán.’
Temnén swung round rapidly, beakers in hand, examining each in turn before he handed Fidelma and Eadulf their drinks. He then poured one for Gormán and one for himself, raising his drink in a silent toast as they all took a swallow of the fiery liquid. He motioned for them to seat themselves round a central hearth in which a smouldering peat fire was sending out its warmth.
‘The heat will quickly dry your clothes, but I would suggest that you remove your cloaks to allow them to dry more quickly. You are all soaked through.’
They did so with gratitude.
‘So,’ resumed Fidelma, ‘your name, you say, is Temnén? I take it you are a farmer?’
The man bowed his head in a solemn gesture. ‘That is now my lot, lady. I farm this small piece of land with some cattle, some pigs, two horses and my hound as my companion.’
‘You do not look like a farmer,’ Eadulf commented.
‘What is a farmer supposed to look like?’ laughed their host good-naturedly.
Eadulf shrugged. ‘I suppose I could only give the answer that I will know a farmer when I see him. You do not look like a man who has spent his life tilling the soil or herding cattle.’
Temnén regarded him for a moment and then said: ‘So what are a Princess of Cashel and her husband doing in the land of the Uí Fidgente?’
Gormán frowned and glanced at Fidelma. Temnén noticed and addressed him.
‘Have no fear, warrior — I presume that you are a warrior of Cashel — although it is a strange Cashel warrior who carries an empty sheath and lacks the insignia of the Golden Collar. Anyway, there can only be one Brother Eadulf in these parts and the stories of Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf are told and retold around many a hearth at night.’
Fidelma inclined her head. ‘That is flattering to know. I must tell you, however, that I am no longer in the religious.’
‘I have heard that you prefer your role in the Law to your role in the Faith,’ replied the man. ‘So, as I was saying, what brings you here? Apart from want of shelter from the storm, that is.’
‘You seem very well informed for a farmer, Temnén,’ Eadulf observed.
‘I have made it a rule in life to be as well informed as I can be. Is it not an old saying that knowledge is power?’
‘It depends on what power you seek, my friend,’ replied Eadulf.
‘The knowledge to provide for myself and protect my people.’
Fidelma peered quickly round the house and the man caught her doing so. He chuckled again.
‘You look for signs of a wife and children, lady? Alas, you will not find them. My wife was killed several years ago, as was my son. He was but a baby and died from want of his mother’s milk. They were bad days.’
There was no rancour in the man’s voice. It was almost emotionless, as if the stated facts were somehow unconnected with him.
‘Are you referring to the time of the Yellow Plague?’ asked Fidelma.
‘It was the time following our defeat at Cnoc Áine.’ A bitter smile came to his lips. ‘Ah, yes. Bad days, best forgotten by those who can forget.’
‘A lot of people were killed in that useless conflict,’ Fidelma pointed out sharply.
‘Too many,’ agreed Temnén, and now there was a trace of anger in his voice.
‘So you were a warrior?’ interposed Gormán.
‘Not by choice.’
‘But you fought at Cnoc Áine?’
‘I remember wandering over that dark hillside among the dead and the dying,’ the man confirmed. ‘I was lucky. A blow to the head rendered me unconscious for a while, and when I came to, the battle was over. I can remember the human vultures crawling over the battlefield and taking things from the slain, even from those who were not yet dead. Swords, jewels, torcs, shields, anything they could lay their hands on, all taken away as if they were prizes of honour. And I admit, the scavenging was not all done by the victors. Sadly, I saw many of the Uí Fidgente taking what they could before fleeing from the field.’
‘Many were slain on both sides at Cnoc Áine,’ Fidelma said once again, but this time she spoke sadly.
‘And many slain after the battle on Cnoc Áine,’ grunted Temnén.
Fidelma was puzzled. ‘After the battle? I am not sure what you mean.’
‘Many, like my wife and child, were killed after we had disarmed and surrendered.’
‘My brother would not countenance that,’ Fidelma protested, shocked at the assertion.
‘Who did your brother send to ensure our people were pacified?’ the farmer asked, his voice sounding tired, as if teaching a well-known fact to someone who would not learn.
‘It was Uisnech, Prince of the Eóganacht Áine,’ supplied Gormán, adding sarcastically, ‘and he was ambushed and killed by your so-called disarmed warriors.’
Temnén turned with a grim smile. ‘And deservedly so. He made this land a desert with his raids and burnings until at last the people could stand it no more and he was caught on a lonely hillside and cut down.’ He sighed deeply. ‘His death did not bring back my wife and child.’
Fidelma was quiet. Somehow she knew that the man was not making up the story. She had met Uisnech only twice and knew instinctively that he was a man not to be trusted. ‘I did not know of this,’ she said after a while, ‘and I am sure that my brother did not know either. He had given command to Uisnech of the Eóghanacht Áine after the battle. Uisnech was to deal with any who objected to the surrender. Later Donennach came to Cashel and agreed a treaty on behalf of the Uí Fidgente. We knew, of course, that Uisnech had been killed in an attack and that was just before the peace was agreed.’