‘What is it now?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘I was told to bring only yourself, sister,’ she explained, with an awkward glance at Cass.
‘Very well,’ Fidelma sighed. ‘You can wait for me at the hostel, Cass.’
The tall warrior made a small grimace of disappointment but took himself off while she continued to follow Necht. The broad-shouldered sister seemed agitated and hurried while Fidelma maintained a more leisurely pace. The young novice had to keep stopping in order to wait for her. Fidelma refused to be hurried and rejected the idea of arriving before the abbot and the chieftain of the Corco Loígde in a flustered and breathless fashion.
‘It’s all right, Necht,’ Fidelma finally said, irritated by the girl’s insistence on trying to get her to hurry. ‘I know the way to the abbot’s chambers from here, so you may leave me in safety.’
The girl paused and seemed about to protest but Fidelma drew her brows together in annoyance. The expression was enough to dissuade the novice from any arguments that might have been forming on her tongue. She bobbed her head obediently and left Fidelma.
Fidelma continued across the flagged yard into the granite building which housed the abbot’s chambers. She had moved into a small, dark hallway and was crossing to the steps which led up to the second floor on which the abbot’s main chamber was situated when a shadow stirred in the darkness at the foot of the steps.
‘Sister!’
Fidelma halted and peered curiously into the shadows. The figure was familiar.
‘Is that Cétach?’
The figure of the boy moved forward into the gloomy light. Fidelma noted the tension in his body, the way his shoulders were positioned, the poise of the head.
‘I must speak with you,’ whispered the young black-haired lad, as if he were scared of being overheard.
Fidelma raised an eyebrow in the gloom.
‘It is inconvenient now. I am on my way to see the abbot. Let us meet later …’
‘No, wait!’ The voice almost rose to a wail of despair. Fidelma found Cétach’s hand clutching imploringly at her arm.
‘What is it? What are you frightened of?’
‘Salbach, the chieftain of the Corco Loígde, is with the abbot.’
‘This I know,’ Fidelma said. ‘But what is frightening you, Cétach?’
‘When you speak with him do not mention me or my brother.’
Fidelma tried to examine the boy’s features, annoyed that the shadows obscured his expression.
‘Are you scared of Salbach?’
‘It is too long a story — I cannot tell you now, sister. Please, do not mention us. Do not even say that you know us.’
‘Why? What do you fear from Salbach?’
The boy’s grip tightened on her arm.
‘For pity’s sake, sister!’ His voice was filled with such fear that Fidelma patted his shoulder in reassurance.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You have my promise. But when I am finished, we must talk and you must tell me what this means.’
‘You promise that you will not mention us?’
‘I promise,’ she replied gravely.
The boy abruptly turned and scurried away into the shadows leaving a bemused Fidelma staring in the gloom.
She waited a moment or two before heaving a sigh and then she began to mount the steps.
Abbot Brocc was waiting impatiently for her. He had apparently been pacing before his table and stopped as she entered his chamber. Her eyes immediately fell on a figure sprawled indolently in a chair before the great fire in the abbot’s chamber. The man was leaning back in the carved wooden chair, usually reserved for the abbot, one leg dangling over an arm, a large goblet of wine in one hand. He was a handsome man with hair the colour of jet, contrasting with a white skin and ice-blue eyes. He was in his early thirties. There was something saturnine about his slim features. His clothes told of wealth for they were fine woven silks and linens and he wore a small fortune in jewellery. The sword and dagger he wore were worth the full honour price of a ceile, a free clansman of the kingdom. All this Fidelma took in at a glance but one thing, of all the visual information, registered with her; the cold blue eyes of the chieftain had a close, foxy look. Here was a shrewd and cunning man.
‘Ah, Fidelma!’
The abbot was clearly relieved as she entered.
‘I was told that you had sent for me, Brocc,’ she said, closing the door behind her.
‘I have, indeed. This is Salbach, chieftain of the Corco Loígde. ’
Fidelma turned towards the chieftain. Her mouth tightened as the man made no effort to rise but continued to sprawl in his chair, sipping his wine with deliberate slowness.
‘Sister Fidelma from Kildare is my cousin, Salbach,’ the abbot said nervously, seeing the clouds gathering around Fidelma’s brows.
Salbach regarded her coldly over the rim of his goblet.
‘I am told that you are a dálaigh,’ he said. There was a tone in his voice as if he found the subject amusing.
‘I am Fidelma of the Eóganacht of Cashel, sister to Colgú, heir-apparent of Muman,’ she replied with a tone of steel. ‘I am qualified in law to the level of anruth.’
Salbach returned her gaze for a moment or two without moving. Then he carefully put down his goblet and, with exaggerated slowness, he eased himself from the chair and stood before her. He bowed ungracefully with a jerky movement of his neck.
That Fidelma had to remind him of his manners in greeting her was a source of irritation to her. It was not because she had an abundance of vanity that made her demand that he recognise her as the sister of the heir-apparent to the kingdom, nor that she was so conceited that she had to draw attention to the fact that she possessed the status of anruth, only one degree below the highest that the colleges of the five kingdoms could bestow. It was the scorn that Salbach implied towards her, which she took as an insult to her sex, that caused her to demand the traditional hero’s portion that was due to her. Yet even when she gave way to this emotion she recalled her mentor, the Brehon Morann, saying: ‘Respect received from fear is not respect. The wolf may be respected but it is never liked.’ Generally, Fidelma ignored social conventions provided people showed regard and consideration for one another simply as fellow humans. But when she came across individuals who showed no natural respect she felt she had tomake the point as example. Salbach appeared to respect no one but himself.
‘I apologise, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he said in a tone which she felt gave no value to his words. ‘I did not know that you were related to Colgú.’
Fidelma seated herself and her expression was bland.
‘Why should my relatives dictate good manners?’ she demanded softly.
Abbot Brocc coughed hastily.
‘Fidelma, Salbach has come in response to the message I sent him.’
Fidelma found herself being scrutinised again by the cold blue eyes of Salbach. He returned to his sprawling position in the other chair and took up his wine again. There was something hooded about those eyes. They reminded her of the unblinking eyes of a buzzard regarding its prey before swooping to bear it away.
‘That is good,’ Fidelma replied. ‘The sooner the crime committed at Rae na Scríne is dealt with, the better.’
‘Crime? I am told that some frightened, superstitious people, afraid of the plague at Rae na Scríne, attacked the village in an effort to drive the people into the mountains and fire the place so that the plague might not spread. If there was a crime there, it was a crime of fear and panic.’
‘Not so. It was a calm and deliberate attack.’
Salbach’s mouth twitched and his tone was sharp. ‘I have come here, Sister Fidelma, because I have heard your accusation against one of my bó-aire, a magistrate that I myself appointed but recently. I presumed that there was some mistake.’
‘I take it that you refer to the man Intat? If so, there is no mistake.’