CHAPTER NINE
The day was damp and chill, the clouds dark and lowering, as Fidelma and her companions progressed westward through the flat, marsh-like countryside. Now and then they passed isolated fortified homesteads but there was little sign of human activity.
‘What do you expect?’ asked Brother Cú-Mara, when Eadulf commented on the fact. ‘This is the start of winter. The harvest has been gathered in and stored, and there is little enough to do but bring the animals into the barns, keep them foddered and stay warm until the light returns.’
The bleak landscape and the big grey skies reminded Eadulf of his own country. In this area there was hardly anything that resembled a real hill, let alone a mountain. It was very much like the fens of the Kingdom of the East Angles, a series of fresh- and salt-water wetlands, often flooded by the rise and fall of the sea-levels from the Sionnan Estuary, a short distance to the north of them. It was an area criss-crossed by streams and rivers and a few meres or shallow lakes with the surrounding areas of peat.
It was Gormán who suddenly articulated Eadulf’s thoughts. ‘This is an inhospitable country. The Uí Fidgente are welcome to it.’
Brother Cú-Mara sighed. ‘Don’t forget, warrior, that the Uí Fidgente claim the same descent as the Eóghanacht. From the time of Fiachu Fidgenid, three centuries ago, they have claimed to be descendants of Cormac Cass, the elder brother of Eógan Mór.’
‘Our genealogists have disputed that claim,’ intervened Fidelma firmly. ‘That argument was laid to rest when they were defeated at Cnoc Áine by my brother.’
‘The only thing Cnoc Áine laid to rest was Prince Eóganan’s uprising against Cashel,’ replied the young steward.
Fidelma was reminded that the steward was himself a member of the Uí Fidgente. ‘Well, there is a peace between us now.’ She did not want to get into an argument with Brother Cú-Mara as she respected the young steward.
He smiled. ‘That is true, lady. And such arcane matters of who is right and who is wrong should be best left to the old, white-haired genealogists, rather than settled by the shedding of the blood of young men.’
They eventually came to a substantial river flowing from the south which turned sharply along their path to the west.
‘Is this the Mháigh?’ asked Eadulf, wondering why they were not following it to its source southwards.
‘No, it is a river called Bearna Coill – the River from the Gap in the Woods – which is exactly where it emerges,’ explained Brother Cú-Mara. ‘It flows into the Mháigh further on – and that river is much broader than this one.’
He was right. Soon they heard the rushing sounds of the meeting of the two large rivers. One broke into the other, causing a clash of currents, white-crested and billowing, before the reinforced waters roared on hungrily to the north where they would join the even mightier Sionnan.
Brother Cú-Mara flung out his arm dramatically. ‘There is An Mháigh, the River of the Plain.’
It was, indeed, as substantial a waterway as Eadulf had ever seen. On the banks were several buildings and one of them, judging by a couple of boats outside, bobbing up and down in the currents, was the home of a ferryman.
‘That is where I cross the river to continue to Ard Fhearta,’ confirmed Brother Cú-Mara. ‘So this is where I must take my leave of you.’
They waited until the young steward had led his ass onto the sturdy ferryboat. The ferry was pulled across the river with a series of ropes by a team of two men and two asses on the far bank. With the turbulent current at that point, any boat propelled by oars would have simply been swept downriver. However, it did not take very long before Brother Cú-Mara was leading his ass onto the far bank. Once mounted, he turned and waved before disappearing westward along the track.
Fidelma and her companions turned back the way they had come, for they had passed a wooden bridge a short distance back which led across the waters of the Bearna Coill to bring them southwards, along the eastern bank of An Mháigh. They were conscious of the skies continuing to darken now, and far to the south came a faint rumble of thunder.
‘A storm approaching,’ muttered Gormán unnecessarily, looking at the clouds that were beginning to race across the skies in ever-tightening dark billows, as if pushing each other out of the way in some curious race to the north-east. ‘I doubt if we’ll make the Ford of the Oaks before it breaks. That’s the next township along the river,’ he added for Eadulf’s benefit.