Fidelma drew rein.
‘I am going to talk to the chieftain here. He is Fiachrae, a distant cousin of mine — one of the Eóghanacht. But we can save time. Make your search and inquiries. See if you can find Forindain. You know his description: a dwarf in religious robes and doubtless carrying a leper’s bell.’
Gorman’s face took on a concerned look.
‘How should we approach a leper?’
Fidelma regarded him with amusement.
‘Like anyone else. Inform him that a dálaigh wishes to speak to him. He has a legal obligation to comply. As soon as I have made myself known to the chieftain, I will join you in the search.’
Eadulf, concentrating on what was being said, did not know exactly what happened. One minute he was seated easily on his horse, next to Fidelma, and the next his mount was rearing and whinnying as if something had startled it. Eadulf was not the best of horsemen and clung on for dear life. His powerful beast kicked out and caught Fidelma’s mount, which also reared unexpectedly, and lost its footing, its hind legs splashing back into the stream. Caught by surprise, Fidelma was catapulted backwards into the muddy waters.
Capa reached forward and grasped her horse’s head while Gorman caught at Eadulf’s mount. A moment later, both animals stood still and trembling. Eadulf and Capa immediately slid from their horses and moved hurriedly to where Fidelma still sat spluttering in the muddy waters, gasping and choking.
‘Are you all right?’ demanded Eadulf anxiously, reaching forward.
Her cheeks were bright pink with anger. She glared up at him.
‘Haven’t you learnt to control a horse yet?’ she demanded angrily.
He stepped back as if she had slapped him. Then her anger seemed to evaporate.
‘Sorry. I am bruised and muddy and soaked but doubtless my pride is more hurt than my body. Help me up out of this.’
Eadulf and Capa leant forward and drew her upright. She looked down at her muddy clothes ruefully.
‘Hardly dressed to greet my cousin,’ she murmured.
‘Your dress does not matter, Cousin Fidelma,’ came a deep, sonorous voice. A stout, round-faced, middle-aged man had approached unnoticed with some attendants. He was richly dressed and wore a gold chain of office.
Fidelma blinked. ‘Fiachrae?’
‘You are welcome to my oirechtas, cousin. But come, let one of my attendants lead you to my bathhouse and bring you dry clothes before you catch your death of cold. Then come and join me for some refreshment in my tent. Plenty of time to tell me what brings you to my little village.’
Fidelma glanced down at herself again. There was not much to argue about. She indicated Eadulf.
‘First, I must introduce you to … to my fer comtha, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham.’
The chieftain gazed with round pale eyes on Eadulf. A fer comtha indicated Eadulf’s status as husband on a temporary basis.
‘I have heard much of you,’ he said hesitantly, then glanced back to Fidelma. ‘I will take Eadulf under my care and you will find us in my tent.’
Fidelma nodded, turning to Capa and his men.
‘My mishap does not alter my plan. You may look at the fair.’
‘Understood, lady,’ agreed Capa, raising his hand in salute.
Eadulf picked up the feeling that Fidelma had not wanted Fiachrae to be informed of the purpose of their visit until later. The chieftain signalled to one of his attendants to take the horses of Fidelma and Eadulf and then led the way towards the large blue tent that served as his seat during the period of the fair.
The crowds that had gathered round to see what entertainment was offered by the arrival of the newcomers, realising it was no entertainment at all, began to drift away. The chieftain turned and summoned a female servant from the crowd.
‘Follow my attendant that way, Cousin Fidelma.’ The rotund chieftain indicated a group of buildings behind the tent. ‘She will see to all your wants.’ Fidelma went without another word. The chieftain had become quite friendly to Eadulf, talking non-stop of trivialities. He tucked his arm under Eadulf’s in intimate fashion and propelled him smilingly into the tent. An iron brazier, in which a fire smouldered to give warmth on the chill day, was placed in the centre of the tent, its smoke curling up through an aperture by the main pole.
‘Now, my Saxon friend — or should I say cousin by marriage — let us have a mug of honey mead to keep out the winter cold.’
Eadulf smiled wearily and sank into a seat that the chieftain indicated.
‘That would be most welcome.’
Within a few minutes, Eadulf had realised that the chieftain was a loquacious fellow who seemed to talk for the sake of talking. He was a teller of tales whether his audience was appreciative or not.
Fiachrae passed a mug of mead to Eadulf.
‘Have you visited Cnoc Loinge before, my Saxon friend? I do not recall you and, of course, it is a long time since I last saw my cousin.’
Eadulf shook his head as he sipped the sweet mead.
‘The closest I have come to Cnoc Loinge is to Imleach,’ he replied.
‘Ah, I heard of that occasion. It was when Brother Mochta and the holy relics of Ailbe went missing.’
Eadulf simply inclined his head in confirmation.
‘Well, you will find that my little rath has a great history. It was here that the ancestor of the Eóghanacht kings asserted their independence from any unjust demands of the High King.’
It was clear that the rotund chieftain wanted to tell the story and Eadulf thought it better to assuage his pride than to make Fidelma’s task the more difficult by rudeness. Fiachrae was seated comfortably in his chair, a mug of mead in his hand, and smiling almost meditatively.
‘The lady Moncha gave birth to a son some months after her lord, Eóghan, ancestor of all the Eóghanacht, was slain in battle. The son was Fiachrae Muilleathan, and justly was he named “king of battles”.’
Eadulf smiled. ‘While I know that Fiachrae, which is your own name, means “king of battles”, as you say, I thought Muilleathan meant broad-crowned.’
The chieftain sniffed, not liking his tale to be interrupted.
‘An astrologer predicted that if the child were born on a certain day he would be chief jester of the five kingdoms of Éireann. If he was born on the following day, then the position of the stars would be more auspicious and he would become the most powerful king in the country. So when Moncha felt the birth pangs and the day of the better prediction had not yet come, she left the palace at Cnoc Rafoan and walked into the shallows of the nearby River Suir. She sat on a flat stone to delay the baby’s coming. So that day passed, and the baby came on the day when it was predicted that the child, if born then, would be a great king. But Moncha died from her efforts to delay the birth. When the infant emerged, the force of being pressed against the stone had flattened his forehead and hence he bore thereafter the sobriquet of Muilleathan or broad-crowned.’
The chieftain spoke in all seriousness and Eadulf controlled his features, which were about to give way to mirth, and merely nodded.
‘Go on.’
‘Fiachrae, or Fiacha, for he was also known by the diminutive form as a token of affection by his people, became a great king. He ruled here during the time when the great Cormac mac Art held the high kingship, which was about four centuries ago. The Uí Néill, of the sept of the Dál Riada, expelled Cormac for a time from Tara, but Fiachrae came forward and fought in his support, and Cormac regained the high kingship. For a time, all was well between the two kings, but Cormac was ill advised. An ambitious administrator told him that this kingdom of Muman, being the largest of the five kingdoms, should pay double the tribute to the High King of any other of the kingdoms. When this was demanded, Fiachrae refused.
‘Then Cormac did a very unwise thing, spurred on by the ambitions of his bad adviser. He came with an army into Muman. Fiachrae’s own army gathered here at this very spot, on this very hill which is shaped like a ship, and here it was that Cormac’s army surrounded Fiachrae’s men. Again Cormac was ill advised. His generals told him to burn out the army of Fiachrae and they set fire to the trees and bushes, but Fiachrae’s druid Mag Ruith caused a great wind to arise and the smoke was blown on to Cormac’s warriors, suffocating them and causing them to flee. Then Fiachrae gave the order for his warriors to pursue and punish Cormac’s army. Cormac had to pay reparation to Fiachrae.’