‘Repaired?’ Fidelma asked sharply.
‘When I last saw it, one of its legs and its tail had been broken off. I think, perhaps, by sword blows. This has been repaired and by a smith with much experience and talent in the art of working with this metal.’
‘So you are sure this is the Cathach of Fiachu Fidgenid and the one which Liamuin brought here when she fled from Escmug?’
‘I am sure—’ began the miller before he halted and stared at her in astonishment. ‘How did you know?’
‘Is it the same?’ repeated Fidelma.
The miller sighed and pointed to the object. ‘There is a special incision on the metal in Ogham, the ancient script, just under the belly of the animal.’
Fidelma reached forward and felt for the incised letters. ‘Buaidh!’ she read aloud. ‘Victory!’ She sat back and looked at Marban, her silence inviting him to speak.
‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘I will tell you the story as Liamuin told me and will subtract nothing.’ He paused to refill the beakers of corma, taking a large swallow of his own before beginning to speak.
‘When Liamuin came to me for help, not knowing where to turn, it was not that she was merely fleeing from her husband and abandoning her child, Aibell. You were right. You have already learned that her father was old Ledbán and that her brother was Lennán, who had trained as a physician and entered the Abbey of Mungairit.’
Fidelma waited without commenting.
‘Lennán had decided to join Prince Eoganán’s warriors when they marched against your brother’s army. Not that he supported the Prince but he was sworn to follow his calling as a physician. So he went to care for the sick and wounded.’
‘We have heard as much,’ Eadulf muttered. ‘He was killed on the slopes of Cnoc Áine by Eóghanacht warriors.’
The miller glanced at him. ‘That is not exactly so,’ he said quietly.
It was Fidelma’s turn to be surprised. ‘What are you saying? That he was not killed by Eóghanacht warriors or that he was not killed on the slopes of Cnoc Áine?’
‘He was mortally wounded but did not die there.’
‘You’d best continue the story then.’
‘It happened on the very day of the battle. As Liamuin told me, it was, thankfully, one of those evenings when Escmug was away drinking. And yet the battle was raging on a hill less than twenty kilometres away. Liamuin was mending her husband’s nets when a wounded rider arrived at her cabin. It was her own brother Lennán. He was dying. He had strength enough to tell her of the defeat of the Uí Fidgente army at the hands of Colgú. He had, indeed, been nursing the wounded on the field of slaughter.
‘One of those mortally wounded was the standard-bearer of Prince Eoganán. He was lying with the Cathach of Fiachu Fidgenid almost hidden beneath him. As Lennán turned him over to assess his wounds, he saw the golden wolf and its broken haft. He was about to treat the standard-bearer when he felt a sharp pain in his side. He turned to see a warrior bending over him, sword still in his hand. The warrior’s face was a mask of maniacal desire as he stared at the Cathach. He was screaming, “It’s mine! It’s mine! I will have the power.” He made another lunge towards the Cathach. Realising that this warrior had stabbed him with his sword, Lennán grabbed the remaining haft of the Cathach and swung it at him, catching him on the forehead. The warrior fell down and lay still.
‘Lennán knew what the Cathach symbolised. He knew that if the warrior seized the Cathach it would mean more bloodshed and destruction for the Uí Fidgente as well as the Eóghanacht. And this fear caused him to flee to his sister. The fear of that warrior on the battlefield who had struck the fatal blow at him …’
‘Some Eóghanacht warrior, no doubt?’ Gormán’s voice was almost a sneer.
To their surprise, Marban shook his head.
‘Not so. The warrior was Lorcán, son of Eoganán. Everyone knew and feared Lorcán’s ruthlessness. The man was killed not long afterwards and few among the Uí Fidgente mourned his passing. But at the time, he was a man to fear. Lennán realised that he was badly wounded, but he derived an extraordinary strength of purpose from the knowledge of what might happen if Lorcán got possession of the sacred totem. He managed to stagger from the battlefield with it, mount a horse and, wounded as he was, he rode that agonising distance to his sister Liamuin. He entrusted the emblem to her, telling her to take it and hide it somewhere safe.’