Atonement of Blood(101)

Fidaig struggled visibly with his temper, but then he seemed to relax. ‘It is some time ago. I believe I gave him four screpalls, the honour price of the girl after he tried to claim a higher price.’

‘Ah!’ Fidelma could not help an ejaculation of triumph. ‘You have just proved that you knew she had reached her legal maturity. You have already quoted the Gúbretha Caratniad at me, so you must know the law. Had she been a minor, you would have had to offer far more than that, for as you know, until the age of fourteen years her honour price would be half that of her father. Escmug must have told you her proper age and held out for her full honour price.’

Fidaig had lost his smile. ‘You are a clever woman, Fidelma of Cashel. You are also a woman of courage to come into my camp and accuse me …’

‘I am an advocate of the law, Fidaig. That is all. And you invited me into your camp and offered my companions and myself hospitality. You know the consequence if, having done so, something untoward happens to us. You would find the Eóghanacht might exact compensation that you would not be happy to pay.’

Fidaig stared at her with open mouth. Eadulf held his breath, certain that Fidelma had gone too far in confronting the lord of Luachra. Moments of silence passed and then Fidaig exhaled slowly. There was a reluctant admiration in his voice as he told her, ‘Your wit is as sharp as your tongue, lady.’

Fidelma seemed unperturbed. ‘You have held a girl in bondage from the age of maturity until she was eighteen years. I would judge that compensation to be four screpalls per year. Sixteen screpalls … Ten screpalls to the séd.’

‘Ridiculous!’

‘Your own honour worth is seven cumal, twenty-one milch cows. Since you have now been dishonoured by knowingly and flagrantly breaking the law, then your fine will be those seven cumals that I have indicated. We will round up the fine, compensation to the value of twenty-three milch cows.’

Fidaig sat staring at her in disbelief. Behind him Artgal was fingering his sword nervously, awaiting his father’s next order.

‘Tell me, Fidelma of Cashel,’ Fidaig’s voice was cold. ‘Tell me, do you not fear that you are in the territory of the Luachra and that Cashel is far away?’

‘Cashel is indeed a few days’ ride from here,’ Fidelma replied. ‘But we are not speaking of Cashel. We are speaking of the Law of the Fenéchus whose writ runs everywhere in the Five Kingdoms and is respected from the High King down to the lowest daer-fuidir, or unfree servant. While I am an advocate of that law and offer just judgements, then what have I to fear – any more than you would fear the pronouncement of the glam dicín, the solemn curse which is the appropriate action that a Brehon or other member of the law courts would bring against the person who disobeys the law? Once pronounced, then it would be the duty of all, even the High King himself, to punish the wrongdoer.’

There was a strange silence as two wills clashed on some invisible plane. Speculative dark eyes challenged fiery green ones and, in the end, Fidaig blinked. He blinked for a second and then his face dissolved into a mask of mirth and he was guffawing with laughter. He banged his fist on the arm of his chair as he laughed and then motioned the attendant to refill the glasses.

‘By the gods of our ancestors, Fidelma of Cashel, I admire your courage, indeed I do. Very well, twenty-three milch cows it is and we will speak no more of this matter.’

To Eadulf’s horror, she was shaking her head. ‘But speak some more, we will,’ she said. ‘I will give you a chance to earn back your fine, so that all you will have to pay me is two extra séds.’

Fidaig looked surprised. ‘What game is this, lady? What is it that you now seek?’

‘It is no game. I am utterly serious. Cooperation and information is what I seek.’

Fidaig shrugged. ‘Ask away and, if it is in my knowledge to give you the information, you shall have it.’

‘Do you know a merchant from Cashel named Ordan?’

‘I have heard of him,’ Fidaig nodded. ‘He is often known to be in my territory, though he never trades with me.’

‘What does he trade in?’

‘So far as I know, anything he can get his hands on. Why are you interested in this merchant?’

‘Your son seems to have a special interest in him.’

‘My son? Which of my sons?’

‘Gláed.’

A sad expression crossed Fidaig’s features. ‘Gláed the Howler, Lord of Barr an Bheithe, the Head of the Birch Forest. Alas, he is my youngest son. His mother died, giving him life. For a while it seemed he would not survive, but he fought – yelling in his crib and hence he earned his name. Anyway, survive he did.’