‘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 Slebene! You are the greatest champion of them all.’
Slebene chuckled in appreciation.
‘Yet I am not the only hero who dines here tonight.’
The company continued shouting approval for Slebene. But the chief turned slightly towards Conri and suddenly the guests fell silent.
‘There sits the warlord of the Ui Fidgente, Conri 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, Conri son of Conmael, if you would claim the hero’s portion for yourself.’ Slebene gave a bellow of laughter and held out the plate of meat.
Conri had started to stiffen. Fidelma put a restraining hand on his arm.
Eadulf looked quickly at the chief, realising that Slebene was deliberately trying to provoke the Ui 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 Slebene was challenging Conri 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.
Conri 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.
Slebene stood stock still in wide-eyed astonishment.
Conri was frowning in annoyance at her. Eadulf was shocked at this turn of events.
‘You cannot-’ Conri 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 Conri 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 Colgu, king of Muman, descendant of generations of kings from the time curath-mir!’
She stared defiantly into his black narrowing eyes. For a while there was silence. Then Slebene 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. Conri 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 Colgu decided that he had to avenge me.’ She bent nearer his ear. ‘For some reason Slebene was trying to provoke Conri into a fight. The only way to stop him was if I stepped in first to claim the hero’s portion. It worked. But Slebene is a wily one. Keep a careful watch on him, Eadulf.’
The dailemain 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 ron. 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, Slebene 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 Slebene called for his bard to come forward. A handsome young man
Slebene 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 mhor 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 Ui 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 Cillin at Ard Fhearta.’
The man was suddenly very interested.
‘Brother Cillin? 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.
‘Are not the enlightened all one with the Unending Circle?’ he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
To his surprise the singer held out his hand.