‘Fidaig provides well for his warriors when they travel,’ Eadulf observed, glancing around.
Once again Fidelma was reminded that this was only a ‘marching camp’ but containing a hundred warriors and their supporting attendants, travelling from place to place to collect tribute for the Lord of the Luachra. It was an entirely male gathering that could, if need be, have been turned into an aggressive war party. But the men were well prepared with entertainment and food. And it was only by the fires and lanterns that now lit up the encampment that she saw the heavy wagons drawn up around it. These were the wagons in which the tribute was gathered and, at the same time, they served as a form of protective barrier after the camp was set up.
In the flickering light they met Gormán, who was standing surveying the construction of the camp.
‘The person who planned this encampment has a good eye,’ he greeted Fidelma. ‘All arranged in an orderly fashion … but I am concerned, lady.’
‘Concerned?’
‘Look at the area before the chieftain’s tent. It is an oblong space, bounded by poles – and on each pole is a lantern, giving light onto the area. I saw the like of this when I was training as a warrior at the school of the Glendamnach – and I am wondering what sort of entertainment is planned.’
Fidelma was considering the matter when Fidaig emerged from his tent and greeted them.
‘Come, lady, you and your companions must sit by me,’ he instructed, before turning back to those gathering round. A silence fell on the camp, even before he held up his hand.
‘Tonight, my friends, is a night to feast – for this is the last day of gathering in the tribute. We should all be able to drink our fill and look forward to returning to our beds and our women.’
‘Whose women?’ called out a bawdy voice, which sparked laughter among the warriors.
‘A good question,’ responded Fidaig. There was an expectant silence. Fidaig waved a hand towards Fidelma. ‘Tonight we are honoured with the presence of the lady Fidelma, sister to King Colgú in Cashel, her husband Eadulf and one of her brother’s bodyguards, a warrior of the Golden Collar.’
A ripple of interest went through the assembly. Eadulf and Gormán exchanged an anxious look.
‘The lady Fidelma is a dálaigh, an advocate of our ancient law,’ Fidaig went on. ‘It is apposite that she should be with us tonight, for this evening we have to resort to an ancient ordeal to determine a dispute. It is the fír cómlainn – the truth of combat.’
Eadulf noticed that Fidelma had gone very pale. By his side Gormán leaned towards him. He was also looking nervous, his hand resting tensely on the hilt of his sword. ‘That means a single combat to the death,’ he whispered. ‘I thought it was illegal.’
Fidaig overheard and turned to Fidelma. ‘Is single combat illegal, lady?’
Fidelma stirred uneasily. ‘It is not illegal. No Brehon council had felt it necessary to proscribe it as it is so ancient that it is almost irrelevant. The idea of quarrels being agreed by the sword is thought to be uncivilised when our law provides for arbitration.’
‘Then you are in an uncivilised land, lady,’ grinned Fidaig. ‘I thought the law provided for the settlement of dispute by single combat.’
‘So it does,’ admitted Fidelma. ‘However, there are stringent rules laid down for deciding whether the cause itself is legal. Who has issued the challenge?’
Fidaig raised his hand and beckoned. A tall warrior stepped forward. He was fully armed and clad with fighting helmet and shield. To the other side emerged Artgal, Fidaig’s own son, who was also fully armed.
‘Loeg issued the challenge and Artgal has accepted it.’
‘And what is the dispute?’
Fidaig chuckled almost lewdly. ‘Over a woman, what else? The wife of Loeg is now the mistress of Artgal.’
Fidelma pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘Surely the law is sufficient to deal with this matter? We have enough grounds for separation and divorce in our laws.’
‘It may be so, lady, but the Luachra prefer the challenge to combat when there is a dispute over their women.’
Fidelma regarded the would-be combatants with disapproval. ‘It is said that there are three kinds of men who fail to understand women: young men, old men and middle-aged men.’
Fidaig laughed. ‘That may be so as well – but the challenge remains. Will you be the judge of it?’
Fidelma realised that the wily lord of the Luachra had placed her in this position in order to test her determination and courage. He was trying to force her into an arbitrary decision. Here, in this time and this place, it was impossible to make a judgement without precedent. She had to follow the only path left open.