The farmer chuckled. ‘At least I have one faithful companion.’
He sliced some more meat from the bone and then picked it up, showed it to the dog, which sat up expectantly and uttered a soft growl.
‘Here, Failinis!’ He tossed the bone towards the hound who caught it with a mighty snap of its jaws and then turned away to its corner to gnaw on it.
‘Failinis,’ remarked Fidelma. ‘That was the magical hound of the God Lugh of the Long Hand.’
Temnén chuckled again, though this time, it was a sound without humour. ‘I do not consider myself a deity or even a great warrior, as Lugh was said to be. I named him as tribute to the fact that Failinis was a steadfast companion and guardian to the gods.’
‘You need a decent hound on a good quality farm such as this,’ Eadulf observed.
‘Good quality? This is only classed as a third quality farm, according to the law. It is well watered, because of the river, but much of it is only arable in the groves and between the copses where I can sow a little wheat, oats and barley.’
‘But you have animals?’
‘A few milch cows.’
‘So who milks them?’ Eadulf pressed.
‘I do,’ replied the former warrior. ‘It is astonishing what one can adapt to when the need arises. At least the pigs are no trouble.’
‘Ah yes, you said you kept pigs.’
‘I do, which reminds me – soon I must go into the woods to round up my animals. During the clement months I turn them loose into the forest to feed on mast and whatever else they can pick up. They give no trouble and can be left out day and night, except during the shortages of wintertime. Then I have to bring them into the enclosure I have behind my cabin.’
‘So you own the woodland?’
‘The woodland was the common land of my sept so everyone uses it, although we did have trouble with the neighbouring lord – that was the late unlamented Lorcán, no less. As I have said, he was an arrogant man who declared the woodland to be his and wanted unfair tribute for its use from all his neighbours. We refused and were appealing to the Brehon of Prince Eoganán when the war against Cashel started. Such things were forgotten when the fiery cross summoned all the chiefs and their clansmen to battle.’
‘So the question of the land rights was postponed,’ Fidelma summed up.
Once again, Temnén laughed without humour. It was a curious sound which he often used to express himself. ‘It was postponed permanently after Lorcán’s death. Our new Prince Donennach assigned the land to Lorcán’s more worthy brother, who donated its use to the Abbey of Mungairit. So we pay a small tribute to the religious and all are satisfied.’
‘So that was a good outcome?’
‘For the likes of us it was,’ agreed the farmer.
‘It seems good that the brother of this Lorcán is a pious man,’ murmured Gormán. ‘Who is he? Surely not Torcán, who was also killed at Cnoc Áine?’
Temnén looked surprised. ‘But you have been to Mungairit and must therefore have met him.’
‘Who are you speaking of?’
‘The stable-master at the abbey – Brother Lugna, that is the man. As I have said, he and Lorcán might have looked alike, but they were very dissimilar in character.’
‘As I recall, Brother Lugna did not bear a resemblance to the meaning of his name,’ mused Fidelma. ‘The Little Brightness – yet he was a big, burly fellow.’
‘As was his brother,’ confirmed the farmer. ‘But I see you have knowledge of the meaning of names, lady?’
‘I like to know the meaning of people’s names,’ she agreed. ‘Names should always mean something.’
‘Then you will know the meaning of mine.’
‘The Dark One,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps appropriate, for our meeting was during a dark storm.’
‘Maybe more suited to the sadness that is in me now.’ Temnén rose, went to the door and looked up at the sky. ‘But it is appropriate that at this moment the storm has passed and the day has brightened.’ He went across the room and extinguished the lamp.
It was true. The storm clouds had disappeared. The lightning and thunder had raced off to the distant eastern mountains.
Fidelma rose and stretched herself. ‘And that is a signal for us to move.’
‘You will not reach Dún Eochair Mháigh before dark but you should find shelter at the Ford of the Oaks,’ Temnén advised. ‘There is an inn there kept by Sitae. A good innkeeper much inclined to gossip.’
Gormán left to get their horses from the stables while Fidelma said quietly to their host: ‘We hope that it will be a true saying that time helps to heal, Temnén. Above all, I hope you will come to accept that there is a future and that one must continue to live the present with the hope of making that future better. The past cannot be unmade but the future should be built more firmly from the lessons of the past.’