Fidaig stood defiant for a while. Then he seemed to acquiesce with a gesture of his shoulder.
‘You make your point with your usual eloquence, lady,’ he said softly. ‘Where will you take my son?’
‘We leave here for the Abbey of Mungairit. It is your right to accompany us, to see that your son is properly treated.’
Fidaig was still looking at Fidelma. ‘I would like to have a word with my son before he is taken to Mungairit.’
Fidelma inclined her head towards the barn. ‘He is being held there.’
Fidaig hesitated. ‘I would like a word alone with him. Perhaps I have been a bad parent and could have prevented this. But I would like one chance to speak to the boy before it is too late.’
‘Boy?’ It was Eadulf who cut in. ‘The boy is now a man, Fidaig. It is too late to treat him as a boy still. The damage is done.’
Fidaig swung round to him, anger on his face. ‘Damage?’
‘Ego enim sum Dominus Deus tuus Deus aemulator reddens iniquitatem patrum super filios in tertiam et quartam generationem,’ intoned Eadulf unctuously.
‘I have no understanding of what you say, Saxon!’ snapped the lord of the Luachra.
‘It is from Deuteronomy, one of the Holy Scriptures. For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children, and in the third or the fourth generation … And by the way, I am an Angle, not a Saxon.’
Fidelma shook her head warningly at Eadulf, before addressing Fidaig. ‘You may have your word with your son but then we must start for Mungairit.’
Fidaig gave a deep sigh, then took back his reins from the man who was holding his horse before leading the animal across to the barn.
Fidelma had turned back to Eadulf with a look of reproof. ‘You are free with your quotation from Holy Scripture.’
‘I thought the passage from the translation of the Blessed Jerome was appropriate,’ Eadulf replied with a smile of satisfaction. ‘I don’t trust Fidaig.’
‘Then quote for quote — non portabit filius iniquitatem patris … et pater non portabit iniquitatem filii. That’s from Ezekiel.’
Eadulf’s mouth turned down, for it was a contrary statement. The son shall not bear the punishment of the father’s iniquity, nor will the father bear the punishment for the son’s iniquity.
Conrí scratched his head. ‘Whatever this saying means, I think friend Eadulf here is right to suspect Fidaig. Perhaps I should send someone to keep an eye …’
‘I promised Fidaig a word alone with his son,’ snapped Fidelma.
There was a sudden yell from Socht. They swung round. The figure of Gláed had emerged from the barn and leaped onto his father’s horse. Within moments, he had jumped a fence and sped away towards the surrounding forest.
Socht was bawling for his men to give chase, but the Luachra warriors had formed a barrier with their horses.
‘Damn Fidaig!’ cursed Conrí. ‘He’s released his son. I knew he couldn’t be trusted.’
Fidelma looked shocked at the defiance of her legal authority by the lord of the Luachra. It was obvious that he had cut his son’s bonds and allowed him to escape. Eadulf and Conrí were running towards the barn. As Fidaig had not emerged, two of the mounted Luachra sent their horses over to the barn at a trot. Eadulf thought their purpose was to help Fidaig to escape, recognising one of the riders as his son, Artgal. Eadulf increased his speed and reached the barn just moments before them. They all came to a stunned halt at the entrance.
Fidaig was lying on the ground, covered in blood. Next to him was the iron ring to which Gláed had been secured by ropes. The pieces of rope lay cut and discarded nearby.
Eadulf fell to his knees by the side of the stricken man as Fidelma caught up and pushed her way between Artgal and his companion, who had jumped from their horses to crowd inside. Conrí had joined them. They were staring in disbelief. Fidaig’s eyes were barely open, his face twisted in pain. He groaned and then caught sight of his son across Eadulf’s shoulder.
‘Artgal, get him … Gláed … he has killed me …’
Artgal’s companion did not hesitate but turned and ran out of the barn, yelling the news to his followers.
‘Gláed has murdered his father! After him!’
The Luachra warriors wheeled their horses round and within moments were indistinguishable from Socht and his men as they formed a body racing after the fugitive.
Fidelma and Eadulf were now joined by Artgal at the side of the fallen Fidaig. The lord of Sliabh Luachra was coughing blood.
‘You were wiser … than I,’ he gasped, peering towards Fidelma as if he found difficulty in focusing.
‘Don’t speak,’ advised Eadulf. ‘Save your strength.’
The man’s mouth twisted in a parody of a grin.
‘It will not … not need much strength to die, Saxon,’ he grunted. ‘Must tell you — I thought I knew best how to treat my son. I cut him loose. Told him … there’d be no fair trial from Uí Fidgente. Told him I … would hear him at Sliabh Luachra. Tried by his own … people.’
Eadulf raised the man’s shoulders to make him more comfortable. ‘It is hard to believe ill of your own,’ he said softly.
‘Didn’t think he … think he would kill his own … father.’ Another spasm of coughing seized the dying man before his fading gaze sought out his son Artgal. ‘You are now … now lord of the Luachra. Rule more wisely than I …’
A spasm suddenly wracked Fidaig’s body and then he was still. Eadulf laid him down gently and rose to his feet.
Fidelma was still in a state of shock. Eadulf had never seen her so distressed before. She was obviously blaming herself for the tragedy. Eadulf turned to the pale-faced Artgal. The young man was still staring at the body of Fidaig as if he did not believe what he had witnessed.
‘Artgal!’ he said sharply.
The young man reluctantly drew his gaze from the dead body to Eadulf.
‘I am sorry for your loss, Artgal. You have heard your father’s dying words. Alas, he has brought this upon himself by releasing your brother.’
Artgal’s eyes suddenly flickered with a curious fire. ‘My brother will answer for this. He will answer for the death of our father.’
Fidelma moved suddenly, as if coming out of a stupor. ‘So he shall,’ she said. ‘But Gláed must answer for other matters as well. He must be recaptured and brought back here alive.’
Artgal’s face was grim. ‘That he shall be, if it can be accomplished. But he must be taken back to Sliabh Luachra where his own people shall sit in judgement on him.’
‘I am more than willing to let that happen, Artgal — but after he has provided witness to his part in this Uí Fidgente conspiracy.’
They faced each other stubbornly. Then the young man’s face seemed to crumple in lines of grief. This time it was Fidelma who reached out to comfort him.
‘You are now the lord of the Luachra, Artgal,’ she said softly. ‘Responsibility often comes upon us before we are prepared to receive it. If we can recapture Gláed, I suggest that you and some of your men shall accompany us to Mungairit. It is my intention to gather the witnesses there and resolve this conspiracy. After that, you may take him back to Sliabh Luachra and you and your people may judge him as you see fit. You have my word.’
The young lord of Luachra glanced down at his father’s body. He was quiet for a few moments. Then he gave a deep sigh.