Eadulf swallowed hard. Fidelma caught his eye and shook her head.
‘It may be,’ she said hurriedly, ‘that it was Uaman and his men who visited you.’
Gaeth’s eyes widened.
‘So far to the west? And what would he be doing with religious prisoners?’
‘That is why we are following them… to find out,’ Conri explained.
‘There was a rumour that Uaman was dead. I wonder if Slebene will finally be forced to do something now.’
Fidelma stared at him for a moment.
‘You speak as if Slebene never did anything to counter Uaman’s activities in his territory. After all, all this land from the abbey of Colman westward is the land of the Corco Duibhne and he is responsible for its protection and well-being.’
‘That may be so, but Slebene believes in Slebene. He was content to leave Uaman to his own devices.’
‘Do you mean that Slebene never made any effort to capture or destroy Uaman?’ asked Eadulf.
Gaeth nodded.
‘But that is not what Slebene told us.’
Gaeth looked pityingly at him.
‘What would you expect the man to say? That he is a gutless warrior? That he is great on talking, on blustering, on threatening, but a coward when it comes down to lifting a sword against equals? I even believe that he left Uaman alone because he received gold from him.’
Conri was staring at the smith. He was thinking about the challenge that Slebene had issued to him over the ‘hero’s portion’.
‘If he is a gutless warrior, what if someone challenged him to a combat? How would he avoid it?’
‘He does not have to avoid it. He is the chief. I have never known him to fight an equal combat in years.’
‘Then how…?’
‘Slebene keeps a tren fher, a strong man, a champion, to answer all challenges to single combat. You must know the system, Conri, for are you not an aire-echta yourself? Even the Blessed Patrick, your so-called Christian man of peace, kept a tren-fher in his household; an attendant to protect him. That was Mac Carthen, whom he made first bishop of Clochar, the stony place.’
‘I know the system,’ Conri said tightly. ‘I did not think a man such as Slebene purports to be would stoop to getting others to fight his battles. How could he last as a chief without being challenged?’
Gaeth chuckled in amusement.
‘That is precisely the sort of blustering man Slebene is, my friend. He does not move without his champion.’
Conri remembered the tall, broad-chested and shaggy-haired man who stood armed behind the chief during the meal.
Eadulf was also looking thoughtful.
‘But can that be legal?’ he asked Fidelma.
She nodded.
‘The laws allow it,’ she replied shortly. She turned to Gaeth. ‘If, as you say, Slebene is all bluster and has not been fulfilling his duties as chief and protecting his people, why has no complaint been sent about him to the king in Cashel? For it is the ultimate duty of the king to ensure that his nobles obey the law.’
Gaeth smiled condescendingly.
‘Cashel is a long way away. And would Cashel really be interested in what happens in a remote corner of the kingdom? So long as a chief does service to Cashel and pay tribute, what more is Cashel interested in?’
‘I will answer for my brother, Colgu, and say that Cashel will be
Gaeth looked impressed in spite his obvious scepticism.
‘It would certainly help all the people of the Corco Duibhne if there was a new chief,’ Gaimredan said abruptly, to the surprise of those who had presumed he never spoke at all.
‘That would surely be up to the derbhfine, the living generations of Slebene’s family meeting to elect a new chief?’ Eadulf pointed out, comfortably aware that he had mastered the successional laws of the country. ‘They can surely throw out a bad chief?’
‘There will be no help there.’ Gaeth smiled grimly. ‘Slebene made sure that any who might challenge him was either killed or chased out of the territory.’
Fidelma could not disguise her astonishment.
‘You seem to know a lot about Slebene,’ she remarked thoughtfully, ‘… for a hermit, that is.’
Gaeth hesitated a moment and then shrugged.
‘I know him better than anyone,’ he announced simply.
They waited for a moment and then Fidelma prompted him.
‘How so?’
‘Because he is my aite, my foster father.’
Eadulf knew that at the age of seven most children were sent away to be educated or instructed by a system of fosterage called altrram. In this way a child was educated and the foster child, the dalta, remained with the foster parents until, in the case of a boy, he was seventeen years old. Fosterage was either for payment or for affection. When a chief was the aite, the child had to be of equivalent rank. Eadulf knew that the laws on fosterage were numerous and intricate. The practice brought about close ties between families and usually such relationships were regarded as something sacred. Fidelma had told him that there were many cases where a man had voluntarily laid down his life for his foster father or foster brother. Had not the great Ui Neill King Domnall, fighting against his rebellious foster son, Congal Claen of Dal Riada, at the battle of Magh Roth, a generation ago, showed anxiety that Congal, although a mortal enemy, was not to be hurt?
‘Were you fostered for affection or for payment?’ Fidelma asked.
‘I was supposed to be fostered for affection for my family was descended from the line of Duibhne. But fosterage never brought the branches of our
‘Did he have many?’
‘None of his natural sons survived. Need I say more? As for those in fosterage — there was another chief’s son from his eastern border as well as myself. Then there was a girl from some eastern noble’s family. Her name suited her-it was Uallach.’
When Eadulf looked puzzled, the smith unbent and explained.
‘It is a name that means proud and arrogant. I think Uallach had a better relationship with Slebene than his male fosterlings. But, as far as I know, they all left him as soon as they were legally entitled to.’
‘Was Slebene ever a great warrior in his youth, as he claims?’ Conri asked, with a swift glance at Fidelma.
‘None of his contemporaries in battle, those fighting on the same side, have lived to tell the tale. Only the bards that he pays sing songs about his fame as a youthful warrior.’
‘I was told that he fought at the right side of my father Failbe Flann.’
‘If he ever did so, lady, then your father was lucky to survive.’
‘There is bitterness in your voice, Gaeth.’
‘A bitterness that was put into my mouth by my foster father,’ replied the smith shortly.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘When did you take up the art you now follow?’ asked Fidelma.
‘I suppose I used to watch Slebene’s smith when I was a child. I spent more time with him than with Slebene. Having to listen to the chief’s boastful tales of his prowess in battle was bad enough but to have to put up with being instructed in the use of weapons when a mouse might challenge and defeat him was worse. As soon as I was able, I shook the mud of his fortress from my feet. I prayed to Brigit-’
‘I thought you were a pagan?’ interrupted Eadulf.
‘I do not talk of the Christian Brigit of Kildare,’ responded Gaeth patronisingly. ‘I speak of Brigit the triune daughter of the Dagda, the Good God, Brigit, goddess of wisdom and poetry, Brigit goddess of medicine and Brigit goddess of smiths and smithwork. She led my footsteps through hidden passes under An Cnapan Mor and up to the black lake, high up in the mountains, beside whose shores I found my master, Cosrach the Triumphant. Ten years I spent at his anvil until he pronounced me a flaith-goba — the highest rank of all the smiths. I gave thanks to Brigit
‘Each man must find God in his own way,’ asserted Fidelma quietly.