‘How is it, then, that he is called Ailbe of Imleach? Not Ailbe of Cashel? And what is this Law of Ailbe?’
Eadulf was always eager to pick up what information he could about the kingdom of Muman.
Fidelma brought her gaze back to him and smiled apologetically for her drifting.
‘The Kings of Cashel accepted that only Ailbe held ecclesiastical authority in our kingdom. Armagh, which is in the northern Uí Néill kingdom of Ulaidh, is now trying to assert that it is the primacy of all Ireland. We, in Muman, maintain that our primacy is Imleach. That is what makes Ailbe important to us.’
‘But you said that the primacy was Cashel,’ Eadulf pointed out in confusion.
‘It is said that as Ailbe grew old, an angel appeared to him and told him to follow to Imleach Iubhair, which is not too far distance from here, and there he would be shown the site of his resurrection. This was symbolic because Imleach was once the ancient capital of the kingdom before King Corc chose Cashel in pagan times. It takes its name from the sacred yew-tree which is the totem of our kingdom.’
Eadulf made a clicking sound with his tongue to express his disapproval of pagan symbolism. A convert to Christianity himself, he, like most converts, had become vehement in his new belief.
‘Ailbe left Cashel and went to Imleach and built a great abbey there,’ continued Fidelma. ‘There was an ancient sacred well which he blessed and converted to God’s use. He even blessed the sacred yew-tree. When Ailbe’s abbey was set up there, a flourishing community sprang up. When Ailbe’s work was done, the saintly man passed to heaven. His relics still remain at Imleach where he is buried. There is a legend …’
Fidelma paused, smiled and shrugged apologetically. If the truth were known she was really talking for the sake of keeping her thoughts occupied against the anxiety that kept gnawing in her mind for the safety of her brother at the Well of Ara.
‘Go on,’ pressed Eadulf, for he enjoyed the effortless way Fidelmarecalled the legends of her people, making the ancient gods and heroes seem to come to life before his fascinated eyes.
Fidelma glanced across the valley again, towards the road which led across the great River Suir and then further across the valley where the road led towards the Well of Ara. There was no sign of any movement on the road. She turned her attention back to Eadulf.
‘It is a fact not to be approved of, but many of our people believe, with an extraordinary faith, that should Ailbe’s relics be stolen from us, there would be nothing to save this land from falling to our enemies. Ailbe’s name in ancient legends was given to a hound which guarded the borders of the kingdom. Some say that Ailbe the saint was named after that mythical hound so that the people look to our saint as being the embodiment of the hound, always protecting our borders. If his relics were taken from Imleach, then the Eóghanacht dynasty would fall from Cashel; the kingdom of Muman would be rent in twain and there would be no peace in the land.’
Eadulf was clearly impressed by the legend.
‘I had no idea that such beliefs were still held by your people,’ he commented, with a slight shake of his head.
Fidelma grimaced wryly.
‘I am not one to countenance such superstitions. But the people believe it so strongly that I would hate to put it to the test.’
She glanced up and caught sight of a movement at the edge of the distant forest. She focused carefully and then her features broke into a broad smile of happy relief.
‘Look Eadulf! Here comes Colgú and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente with him.’
Chapter Three
Eadulf peered through the window, towards the expanse of green cultivated fields which lay between the outskirts of the town and the river some four miles or more away. Halfway along the road was a woodland and from its edge he could only just make out a column of riders emerging. He glanced quickly at Fidelma, silently admiring her eyesight, for he could, as yet, make out few details beyond the fact that they were horsemen. That she could recognise the approach of her brother was more than he was able to manage.
They watched in silence for a moment or two as the column moved along the road which led towards the town below the castle walls. Now Eadulf was able to pick out the brightly coloured banners of the King of Muman and his followers, together with banners which he did not recognise but presumed belonged to the Prince of the Uí Fidgente.
Fidelma suddenly grabbed his hand and pulled him up and away from the window.
‘Let us go down to the town and watch their arrival, Eadulf. This is an exciting day for Muman.’
Eadulf smiled softly at her sudden bubbling enthusiasm and allowed himself to be pulled after her across the Great Hall.
‘I confess, I do not understand this. Why is the arrival of the Uí Fidgente prince so important?’ he asked as he followed her into the courtyard of the palace.
Fidelma, assured of his following her, dropped her hand and assumed the more sober gait of a religieuse.
‘The Uí Fidgente are one of the major clans of Muman dwelling west beyond the River Maigne. Their chieftains have often refused to pay tribute to the Eóghanacht of Cashel, refusing even to recognise them as Kings of Muman. Indeed, they claim a right to the kingship of Muman by the argument that their princes descend from our common ancestor Eóghan Mór.’
She conducted the way quickly across the courtyard, passing the chapel, and through the main gates. The warriors on sentinel duty there smiled and saluted her. The sister of Colgú was well respected among her own people. Eadulf walked easily beside her.
‘Is their claim true?’ he asked.
Fidelma pouted. She was proud when it came to her family which, Eadulf knew from experience, did not make her unusual from most of the Irish nobility he had encountered. Each family employed a professional genealogist to ensure that the generations and their relationship with one another was clearly and accurately recorded. Under the Brehon Law of succession which delineated who should succeed by means of the approval of an electoral college made up of specified generations of the family, called the derbfhine, it was important to know the generations and their relationships to one another.
‘Prince Donennach, who arrives with my brother today, claims that he is the twelfth generation in male line from Eóghan Mór whom we look to as the founder of our house.’
Eadulf, missing the subtle sarcastic tone, shook his head in amazement as he wondered at the ease with which the Irish nobility knew the status of their relatives.
‘So this Prince Donennach descends from a junior branch of your family?’ he asked.
‘If the Uf Fidgente genealogists are truthful,’ Fidelma replied with emphasis. ‘Even so, junior only in terms of the decisions of the derbfhine which appoint the kings.’
Eadulf sighed deeply.
‘It is a concept that I still find hard to understand. Among the Saxons it is always the eldest male child of the senior line of the family, the first born male, for good or ill, who inherits.’
Fidelma was disapproving.
‘Exactly. Good or ill. And when that first born male proves an unsuitable choice, is crippled in mind, or rules with ill-counsel, your Saxon family have him murdered. At least our system appoints the man who is best fitted for the task, whether eldest son, uncle, brother, cousin or youngest son.’
‘And if he proves an ill-governing king,’ Eadulf was stung to reply,
‘don’t you also have him killed?’
‘No need,’ rejoined Fidelma with a shrug. ‘The derbfhine of the family meet and dismiss him from office and appoint another more suitable. Under the law, he is allowed to go away unharmed.’