Brother Metellus took it on himself to answer and he was sparing with the full truth of the matter as he afterwards related the conversation in translation to his companions.
‘I am Brother Metellus, from the abbey. I am showing my companions, who are strangers to this place, our beautiful country.’
The two men glanced at one another but did not look reassured.
‘I do not recognise you,’ replied the spokesman suspiciously. ‘You have a foreign accent.’
‘One is not responsible for where one is born, my friend,’ replied Brother Metellus. ‘Merely for how we live our lives.’
‘Why are you spying on the mac’htiern’s fortress?’
‘I am showing my companions the amazing view.’
Fidelma and Eadulf, with their limited knowledge of the language of the Britons, had been trying to follow the conversation.
‘Tell him we are not spying on the fortress. We are simply strangers from the land of Hibernia,’ Fidelma instructed Brother Metellus.
‘We have never heard of it,’ replied the warrior, still suspicious.
‘It is the island called Iwerzhon,’ explained Brother Metellus, substituting the local name for the Latin one.
The warrior’s silent companion now spoke rapidly to him and he turned to Brother Metellus.
‘It may be that Macliau will desire to meet your companions,’ he announced. ‘You will accompany us to ascertain his wishes.’ And, as if in emphasis, he dropped a hand to his sword hilt.
Fidelma saw Eadulf tense and she surreptitiously shook her head.
‘Tell them that we shall be delighted to accompany them,’ she said to Brother Metellus, wondering if he was able to translate the humour correctly.
The warriors made no reply but the leader merely motioned with one arm in the direction of the fortress, indicating that they should precede him and his companion.
‘Óis carcre,’ muttered Eadulf in Fidelma’s own language. ‘We are prisoners.’
Fidelma smiled encouragingly at him.
‘Well, I wanted to examine the fortress,’ she said. ‘These warriors have made it easy for us to do so.’ She noticed that the warriors were regarding them suspiciously and she glanced at Brother Metellus’ gloomy features. As they walked along, she spoke to him loudly, wondering if the warriors knew Latin. ‘As you have told us, Brother, this is a magnificent view and this sea ahead of us is what you called the Morbihan?’
Realising she was speaking for the warriors’ benefit, the monk returned her smile, although with a little effort.
‘Exactly so. Beyond this headland of Brilhag are many islands. It is a beautiful area.’
They came to the gates in the sandstone walls. The sentinels, on observing their approach, had straightened up and assumed more rigid postures. One of their warrior companions shouted an order and the gates were immediately opened.
‘Inside!’ he commanded and, with Brother Metellus leading the way, they entered into a courtyard where they were called upon to halt. The great gates slammed shut behind them.
Then a voice called from somewhere above them.
A young man was leaning out of a window of a large building that towered over the courtyard. They could see that he was a slightly built youth, with a mop of fair hair, pale, sunken cheeks and watery eyes that might be light blue.
‘Why are these people here?’ His voice was a high, nasal drawl. Then he recognised the Roman. ‘Is that Brother Metellus?’
‘It is I, Macliau,’ confirmed the monk, stepping forward.
‘Then do not stand on ceremony. Enter.’ The young man glanced at the warriors. ‘There is no need for an escort, Boric,’ he said to the leading man and then disappeared from the window.
The dark warrior addressed as Boric stepped forward and opened the great door for the visitors with an apologetic look.
‘All strangers must be regarded with suspicion until they are shown to be friends,’ he said in Latin, which surprised them. So he had understood them the whole time.
‘Ad utrumque paratus,’ Fidelma smiled with the phrase given to one who is prepared for all eventualities.
The warrior actually grinned. ‘Semper paratus,’ he answered. Always prepared.
They entered into the great hall of the fortress. Logs blazed in the large fireplaces at both ends of the chamber in spite of the summer weather. Tapestries of bright colours and with fascinating imagery, presumably from the myths, hung on most of the walls, and in between, at regular paces, were displayed ornate shields. A great woven carpet, of matching bright colours, spread across the central area of the floor, which was of stone flags. On this was a stout, carved oak table set ready for feasting with bowls of fruit on it. Around the table were several wooden chairs. More comfortable chairs were placed in front of the fires while other chairs seemed dotted at haphazard in various parts of the hall. Here and there was a polished wooden chest or small table, and strange-looking earthenware pots and a giant amphora balanced on a stand in one corner. There were several doors leading off the hall and at the end, to one side of the great fireplace, was a wooden stairway that apparently led to the upper chambers.
In front of the fire a small dog had been stretched. It now arose and came trotting towards them. It had long hair, with a blue-grey coat and black ears and muzzle. The hair reached over the forehead and eyes, so that they were barely seen, and ended in a moderate beard below the muzzle. It was a hunting dog — Fidelma recognised the breed as one often used in the pursuit of badgers. The dog sniffed around them. The young man who had hailed them from the window was now descending the stairs with a smile of welcome on his face. The dog looked up at him with a soft whine, the tail wagged slightly and it trotted back to its place in front of the fire.
Eadulf muttered: ‘Well, this young lord seems friendly enough.’
‘This is Macliau, the son of Lord Canao, the mac’htiern of Brilhag,’ replied Brother Metellus quietly.
‘It is good to see you again, Brother Metellus,’ greeted the young man slightly effusively. ‘You do not often grace us with your presence. I thought you had been exiled to the island of the duckling for arguing with our good friend Abbot Maelcar.’
Brother Metellus returned the youth’s cynical grin with a slight bow.
‘I think that you will know how easy it is to argue with Abbot Maelcar,’ he replied dryly. ‘My companions are the Lady Fidelma from Hibernia and her husband Brother Eadulf, a Saxon.’
‘You are all welcome to the house of Brilhag,’ announced the young man in fluent Latin. ‘I am Macliau and I greet you in the absence of my father, Lord Canao.’
He bowed his head to Fidelma and then acknowledged Eadulf with a quick smile. Close up, Fidelma saw the flaw in the young man’s handsome features. There was something dissipated about them. A weak jawline perhaps, and the eyes were rheumy and cheeks too flushed.
A male attendant had entered and was now hovering discreetly in the background, ready to obey Macliau’s wishes.
‘First, we have to perform the protocol of our house,’ the young man announced in a bored fashion. ‘Do any of you carry weapons?’
Eadulf could not disguise his surprised expression.
Macliau laughed outright at it.
‘Do not be concerned. My father is a man of traditions. There is a custom, a very ancient custom here, that no one can enter the hall of the mac’htiern of Brilhag as a guest if he is bearing weapons.’ He moved to a door and, taking down a key from a hook beside it, unlocked it. He threw open the door and pointed inside. They saw a small armoury of swords, spears, daggers and other instruments of war. ‘All weapons must be discarded by visitors and placed here. They are returned when a person leaves the great hall.’
‘It is also an ancient custom in my land,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘When people sit down to feast, it is the custom that all weapons should be left outside the feasting hall. And perhaps it is a good custom, too, for when one is drinking and arguing, tempers can grow hot. In anger, one’s impulse might be to reach for a weapon.’