‘Why would you think that we should hide?’ asked Gormán.
‘Because you are who you are,’ the miller replied simply. ‘Fidaig’s men are hard to control once they sense sport, and their idea of sport is not one that you would appreciate. Hide.’
‘But why are you doing this?’ Fidelma asked. ‘You are an Uí Fidgente.’
‘I am willing to see if you are right about Eóghanacht justice. Above all, I want justice for Liamuin.’
‘I have sworn justice will be done,’ Fidelma assured him.
‘Then go above the stairs and wait until they have gone.’
With that he left them, shutting the door behind him. They did not delay but climbed the stairs through the millhouse until they reached the small top-floor area. There were two windows, one overlooking the stream and sluice gates from the spring which, when the gates were opened, started the water-wheel moving by the passage of the water into the millpond. The other overlooked the grounds outside with the kiln and stables.
Eadulf glanced quickly round. ‘Well, if we are about to be betrayed, they have to come up those stairs. Only one man at a time. We can easily defend this place.’
Gormán grinned. ‘True, friend Eadulf. Except that I do not think they would bother if they were intent on catching us. They would merely wait at the bottom of the mill until we came down.’
‘Starve us out?’
‘Probably set light to the mill and we would have the choice of perishing in the flames or perishing by their swords.’
‘You are a cheerful soul, young Gormán,’ Eadulf replied without enthusiasm.
Fidelma told them to be quiet and moved carefully to the window overlooking the working area before the mill.
‘Keep down,’ she hissed. ‘A dozen horsemen are arriving. Marban is going forward to greet them.’
They could hear brief snatches of conversation. The leader of the horsemen asked a series of sharp questions to which the burly miller seemed to reply in obsequious manner, bowing and pointing to the north-west. To their relief the exchange did not last long. The horses cantered off. Moments later, they heard the miller climbing the stairs until finally his head appeared in the aperture in the floor.
‘You can come down,’ he said. ‘They’ve all gone.’
Fidelma had a strange expression on her face. ‘I recognised the young warrior leading them by his tone of voice. Who was he, Marban?’
‘That was one of the sons of Fidaig. His name is Gláed.’
‘Gláed?’ Fidelma drew in a breath. ‘I would have said his name was Adamrae.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They had left Marban’s mill and followed the narrow course of the Mháigh as it snaked its way towards the point where it rose in the south-western hills. On Fidelma’s instruction, Gormán had removed his golden collar emblem of the Nasc Niadh. She too had removed her own collar, and they had placed them in their saddle-bags. Obviously, as they proceeded into the territory of the most truculent of the Uí Fidgente septs and their neighbours, the Luachra, it was wise to be cautious. Most of the area was thick with forest, although now and then they came across large plains of intersecting waterways; small streams and water-filled gullies that rose from springs in the distant bank of hills. At times it was almost hard to follow the main course of the Mháigh, as it was so interspersed with other watercourses. But it was from all of these waters eventually merging together that the great River Mháigh was created.
The long line of low hills to the south of them began to grow higher as they approached them. Gormán pointed out a number of rath-like buildings, fortified enclosures that could be seen along the hilltops.
‘One of those must be the one we are looking for,’ he said.
Fidelma glanced at the hills in front of them. ‘We should be looking for a burned-out ruin.’
They began to guide their horses up the side of the hills. Across the gentle slopes were bands of hill sheep, black and brown with wiry wool and crooked horns. Fidelma felt it was surely time that they were brought into more protected pasture for the winter months. The animals gazed indifferently at the three riders as they moved slowly along the path. Now and then they passed patches of ferns of various varieties and gorse that would, in the early spring months, burst forth in a glorious fiery yellow.
Fidelma decided to stop at the first hill farm they came to and make enquiries. It could just about be called a rath because it was surrounded by an earthen bank and wooden fencing. A middle-aged woman was seated outside the main building plucking a chicken. She had not observed their approach and was disconcerted for a moment, rising to her feet and discarding the half-plucked bird on the wooden bench beside her. She watched them halt at the gate; her dark eyes scanned their clothes before their features to decide what sort of people they were.
She answered Fidelma’s greeting with a lack of enthusiasm.
‘What do you seek here?’ she demanded gruffly.
‘We are looking for what used to be the rath of Menma,’ called Fidelma without dismounting, unperturbed by the woman’s hostility.
‘The rath of Menma, is it?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘He is long dead and his rath is no more than a pile of firewood.’
‘So I have been told. And in which direction do we go from here?’
The woman gestured along the path to the west. ‘Keep on this track and you will come to it. But there is nothing there now. As I said, Menma is dead. They were all killed years ago.’
‘Were there no survivors?’ asked Fidelma.
Again she was met with a suspicious frown. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘If there were survivors of that tragic event, I would like to speak with them. I am a dálaigh.’
The woman blinked. ‘A lawyer? We do not have many lawyers coming along this track.’ She suddenly gave a grunt; it took them a while to realise it was a sardonic laugh. ‘In fact, you are the first strangers I have seen since the harvest.’
‘Have you lived here long?’
‘I was born on that far hill. My husband, Cadan, runs this farm. He’s away with the sheep right now.’
‘So you lived here at the time when Menma’s place was burned down?’
‘Why the questions, lady?’
‘I want to know what happened.’
‘That I can’t tell you in detail. One day we saw smoke rising above Menma’s homestead. I called my man. He and my son ran to help — but by the time they reached it, all that was left were slain bodies and smoking ruins.’
‘You knew Menma, of course?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what of his household?’
‘He had a large household. There was Menma, his wife and two sons who worked the farm. He had cornfields on the plain below. He also had two servants … oh, and there was a woman. She was a guest. I think that she might have been a relative. I forget her name now.’
‘Was anyone else at the farmstead that day?’
She shook her head. ‘Not on that day.’
Fidelma caught the inflection. ‘So, on other days there were people staying or visiting.’
‘There was one warrior. I was told that he was one of the Eóghanacht troops sent to keep us in order. It was in those days following the great defeat and there were several Eóghanacht soldiers encamped around here. He was their commander. I only saw him from a distance, riding across the hills with his men. Thankfully, he had no cause to come to our farmstead.’
‘You do not know who he was — his name, or what he looked like?’
‘Why all these questions?’ the woman muttered impatiently. ‘Who are you, lady?’
‘I told you, I am a dálaigh and I want to know what happened at Menma’s rath.’
The woman sniffed. ‘A bit late for that isn’t it, when all these years have passed.’
‘And you say no one survived?’
A cunning look spread across her features. ‘Did I say that?’