The woman was as tall as Fidelma; her hair was a honey colour, glinting with slight touches of red. Her headdress was fastened around her forehead by a circlet of gold with a gleaming sapphire stone in its centre. Her clothes and jewellery were equally rich, for she had pushed back her blue riding cloak, displaying her costume and jewellery. But it was not these accoutrements that drew Fidelma’s attention. It was her unusual beauty.
The woman was younger than Fidelma and her heart-shaped face had a curious ethereal quality. And yet the firm chin spoke of authority and purpose. Her eyes were soft grey in colour; her red lips owed nothing to artifice.
At this moment of meeting, her grey eyes stared with curiosity into the fiery green of Fidelma’s eyes. Then she spoke in the language of the country.
Brother Metellus coughed nervously, moved a step forward and said something quickly in response.
The grey eyes widened a fraction. The woman did not respond to Brother Metellus but continued to gaze thoughtfully at Fidelma. After this close scrutiny she then addressed her in Latin.
‘I am Riwanon, wife to Alain, King of the Bretons. Why am I requested to speak to you in this language?’
Chapter Nine
Brother Metellus appeared to feel that he should make the explanations and introductions.
‘It is because these strangers do not speak the language of this country, lady. This is the lady Fidelma of Muman in the land of Hibernia. Her companion is Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk in the country of the Angles.’
The young woman’s expression did not change, nor did her eyes drop from the steady gaze with which she held Fidelma’s eyes.
‘You and your companion are a long way from home, lady.’ The comment seemed to Fidelma to be a standard opening.
There was an embarrassed cough from Riwanon’s female companion, who was still sitting patiently on horseback, apparently awaiting permission to dismount. Riwanon glanced over her shoulder and then turned back, with an apologetic expression that encompassed the three of them.
‘Until I am formally invited to enter, my attendants sit outside awaiting my pleasure. Are my hosts inside? Why are they not here to invite me to cross their threshold?’
Fidelma immediately realised their bad manners in keeping the wife of the King standing on the steps. She stood back while Brother Metellus explained: ‘Forgive us,’ he said. ‘The mac’htiern is not here, nor is his son, Macliau or his daughter, Trifina. We are guests, but alone here for the time being. So allow me to presume to invite you to enter in their absence, lady.’
‘And your name?’ asked Riwanon.
‘Brother Metellus, lady.’
Riwanon frowned slightly, opened her mouth to say something and then changed her mind. She smiled quickly before passing inside, shadowed by the taciturn young warrior. The three followed her as the female attendant and the relieved escort began to dismount. The attendant hurried to her mistress’s side while the warriors of the escort stretched themselves and chatted with the stable boys who arrived to attend to their wants.
Riwanon strode across the great hall, throwing off her riding cloak, which was deftly caught by her bodyguard, before she sank into a comfortable chair by the fire. The warrior took up a stand behind her.
‘This is the commander of my personal guard, Budic of Domnonia,’ Riwanon announced.
The young man jerked his head forward in a brief acknowledgement. He was handsome, of that there was little doubt. He possessed well-chiselled features, blue eyes and fair hair — and a slight quality of vanity, as if he seemed to know the attraction of his physical qualities. Fidelma took in the gold necklet and ornaments on his arms, and the rich red cloak he sported. Budic was obviously no ordinary young warrior — and then she realised that the introduction ‘of Domnonia’ meant he was of a noble family of that place.
Iuna had appeared and came forward to greet the newcomers. As she looked from Riwanon to the male warrior, Fidelma was sure that some form of recognition passed between Budic and Iuna, and a faint flush came to the girl’s cheeks. Then she bowed slightly towards the new arrivals and apparently greeted them in the language of the Bretons.
Riwanon regarded her thoughtfully, as she had done Fidelma, before replying, and Fidelma heard her calling the girl by her name.
‘I presume that you were not warned to expect our arrival?’ Riwanon asked, lapsing back into Latin.
‘Lord Canao has not returned, lady,’ the stewardess said. ‘We were expecting him to arrive in the company of King Alain. However, as no word has come, Macliau has gone hunting and the lady Trifina has retired to her villa for today. There is no one to greet you, save I.’
Riwanon’s lips parted in a disappointed smile.
‘Indeed? We have left my husband and Lord Canao of Brilhag about two or three days’ ride from here, pursuing wild boar in the forest. That is not to my taste and so I came on here before them.’
Then, realising that they were all respectfully standing, she waved a hand indicating the chairs.
‘You do not have to stand in my presence,’ she conceded. Then she turned to Iuna. ‘I presume that you have rooms for my entourage and myself?’
‘Of course, lady. I shall order it done. Your escort can be accommodated among our own guards.’
‘Budic will be given accommodation close to mine — and my maid must have a room next to me.’
‘It shall be done, lady.’
Riwanon turned to her female attendant. ‘Make yourself useful, Ceingar. Go with this servant and ensure that the rooms are properly prepared.’
For an instant, Iuna stood still. Fidelma noticed an offended look on her face. Then she turned abruptly and, followed by the girl called Ceingar, went off. A moment later, when another attendant came in to serve refreshments, Riwanon noticed that the others had not accepted her invitation to be seated.
‘Sit you down,’ she repeated in Latin, seeming equally at home in that or her native language. ‘Now, Fidelma — is that your name? Tell me who you are and what you are doing in this country. The Saxon, I see by his tonsure, is a religious but you were described as Fidelma of some place that I cannot pronounce, a place in Hibernia. I would like to know more of you.’
Brother Metellus stepped forward hurriedly. ‘Fidelma is also of the religious in Hibernia,’ he put in.
Fidelma glanced at him in irritation and nearly said that she could speak for herself. Riwanon caught the glance and smiled as she interpreted it correctly.
‘Come, Sister Fidelma, and tell me what brings you to our part of the world.’
Fidelma briefly explained, leaving out many of the details, such as their suspicions about Brilhag.
During her recital, Budic stood behind Riwanon’s chair, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on Fidelma. She found his appraisal slightly embarrassing, while Eadulf clearly found it annoying, for he grew restless.
‘You must rank highly among the officials of the Hibernian churches to represent them at this Council of Autun,’ Riwanon commented, for Fidelma had begun with their return from the great Council.
Fidelma corrected her.
‘I am only an advocate of the laws of my land, and my knowledge of such law was sought by the abbots and bishops attending the Council. I do not hold high ecclesiastical office.’
It was then that Budic spoke for the first time, his Latin fluent. He had a pleasant baritone voice but it held a note of arrogance.
‘Brother Metellus refers to you as “lady”. That is an unusual title among members of the Faith, even in Hibernia, is it not?’
‘My brother, Colgú, is King of Muman, which is the south-west kingdom of Hibernia.’
‘Ah, then you are a princess of rank, Fidelma,’ mused Riwanon. Then she went on, ‘But those names…I seem to have heard of them somewhere before. And recently.’