Eadulf stared into the darkness. ‘I would have thought your law system would control such things as the way merchants trade.’ He did not mean to sound rude.
‘A merchant is the one occupation that is not included in the lists of the professions,’ replied Fidelma. ‘It is not even mentioned in the law texts such as the Uraicecht Becc or the Bretha Nemed toisech.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because such a merchant of death is so abhorrent to us that we cannot conceive that he exists.’
‘And yet exist he does.’
‘Exist he does,’ she confirmed hollowly. ‘Or did so until Loeg ended his existence.’
‘Yet if there is a conspiracy to overthrow Prince Donennach, what would Gláed of the Luachra hope to achieve by it? He is not even an Uí Fidgente, let alone having a claim to the succession.’
‘I am beginning to see some light in all this darkness, Eadulf. But we have some way to go first.’
Eadulf peered at her. ‘You see some light?’ he demanded. ‘I see nothing but complications.’
‘I think that by nightfall tomorrow you will have a better understanding.’
‘Why tomorrow?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘Because tomorrow we shall be on our journey back to Dún Eochair Mháigh and our first stop will be at the watermill of Marban.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
There was a long sigh from the darkness. ‘Go to sleep, Eadulf. Tomorrow will be a long day.’
They set off after the first meal of the day. A weak sun was trying to shine, with banks of white clouds being blown rapidly across the sky by the wind from the west. Fidaig’s camp was in the process of breaking up. The heavy wagons were already moving off towards the spot where Fidaig’s fortress lay, while the warriors were saddling up ready to ride with Fidaig for Barr an Bheithe. The two who had been designated to accompany Fidelma and her companions were sturdy, capable men, professional warriors who knew their art. When Fidelma had asked them about their qualifications, they answered that they were of the fubae — warriors whose task was usually to hunt down brigands, especially horse and cattle thieves, and to keep the wolf population under control.
They made their farewells to Fidaig and, with Gormán leading, they rode back across the River Ealla, retracing their way along the track they had been forced to take on the previous day. Gormán carried the totem slung across his back, with the sacking securely tied over the gold ravening wolf so that no one would recognise it. Behind him rode Fidelma and Eadulf, and behind them came the two watchful warriors.
Most of the journey was in silence for it was a cold day, and now and again the wind brought a fine spray of rain. Fidelma and Eadulf were thankful for their lummon — thick woollen cloaks edged in beaver fur. The wool was from the black-fleeced sheep that were prevalent in the country; it was of a thick texture and could protect against the most persistent rain, having an oily quality that allowed water to drain off it without penetrating.
It was not long before they were passing north of the hills on which the rath of Menma could just be glimpsed. Then they were heading back over the marshy plains to pick up the small stream that would eventually emerge as the great River Mháigh. The trees began to grow thickly, so that woods became forests before thinning out again.
Just after midday, the smells and then the sounds of Marban’s watermill assailed their senses. A short time later, the fields, kilns and the mill itself came into their vision.
One of the workmen at the kilns saw them and, with a shout, went running to the mill, doubtless to inform Marban. Sure enough, the burly miller came out of the mill, greeting them with a raised hand.
‘Welcome back, my friends. I did not expect you to return.’
Fidelma swung down from her horse. ‘In truth, Marban, we did not expect to do so … at least not in this direction. My intention was to return directly to Cashel after we had visited Menma’s rath, or what remained of it.’
A sad look momentarily crossed the miller’s features. ‘And did you see it?’
‘We did and more.’
‘More?’
‘We were invited to encamp with Fidaig himself. Our new companions are two of his warriors.’
‘Fidaig was there?’ The miller looked concerned.
‘Not there exactly,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘However, from our journey there are a few more questions we have to ask you before we move on.’
The miller hesitated a moment. Then he said: ‘Stable your horses and let your companions rest as they will.’ He turned and ordered one of his workmen to look after Gormán and the other warriors. Gormán seemed unwilling, but Fidelma glanced at him and nodded slightly.
‘Now,’ said Marban, ‘come into the mill where we may be warm and I may provide you with hospitality and information.’
Inside, the mill was indeed as warm as they had previously experienced. They took off their cloaks and spread them on the wooden benches to sit more comfortably while Marban poured the inevitable beakers of corma.
‘Did you find out what you wanted?’ he asked Fidelma as he handed the drinks to them.
‘I found out what I was able,’ she countered. ‘Now I think you could add to that knowledge.’
Marban frowned. ‘I will answer if I can.’
‘I would like you to tell me the real reason why Liamuin ran away from her husband, Escmug.’
Marban looked astonished at the abruptness of the question. ‘He was a bully and an evil man,’ he said defensively.
‘Then why did she not leave him before?’
‘Her daughter was the reason. I told you.’
‘Yet what happened this time that she fled and abandoned her daughter? She had put up with Escmug’s beatings for fourteen years. Why choose this moment to run away?’
Marban could not meet her eye.
‘Come!’ snapped Fidelma, suddenly becoming angry. ‘Are there no Brehons here? Women are equal to men in their right to divorce or to separation. Women who have been ill-used or beaten can be divorced with full compensation — especially if blemishes have been raised on the skin by such ill-treatment. Why did Liamuin not have recourse to the law? Instead she flees — and the law states that a woman who flees from her marital contact without sufficient cause is classed in the same manner as a fugitive thief.’
The miller raised his hands, spread slightly outwards. ‘Liamuin is dead, lady. Surely the dead should be allowed to rest in peace?’
‘Not if their resurrection goes to explaining their death and exonerating their reputation. And not if their resurrection will save lives.’
‘I cannot help, lady,’ the miller replied stubbornly.
Fidelma turned to Eadulf. ‘Would you ask Gormán to bring the … the object in here.’
Eadulf rose and went off to fulfil his task. He knew that Fidelma had an idea but he was not sure what it was. He was back with Gormán within moments.
‘Gormán, unwrap the sacking and show the miller what you have there.’
As Gormán obeyed, Fidelma watched the miller’s face turn pale. A number of expressions chased across his features. He reached forward and ran his trembling hands over the golden wolf.
‘It is the same, yet it has been expertly repaired,’ he breathed at last.
‘Repaired?’ Fidelma asked sharply.
‘When I last saw it, one of its legs and its tail had been broken off. I think, perhaps, by sword blows. This has been repaired and by a smith with much experience and talent in the art of working with this metal.’
‘So you are sure this is the Cathach of Fiachu Fidgenid and the one which Liamuin brought here when she fled from Escmug?’
‘I am sure-’ began the miller before he halted and stared at her in astonishment. ‘How did you know?’