Atonement of Blood(64)

CHAPTER TEN





Fidelma stared long and hard at the warrior.

‘I know you,’ she said, trying to dredge his name from her memory. Her eyes widened. ‘You are Socht.’

There was a brief moment before the taciturn warrior grinned.

‘I am flattered that you remember me, lady. Much time has passed since we were together at Ard Fhearta.’

Now Eadulf was beginning to recall the features of the Uí Fidgente warrior.

‘Remember you?’ went on Fidelma. ‘It looks as though you have recovered from that crack on the skull delivered by the pommel of Slébéne’s short sword.’

‘Indeed, lady, the sword of the chief of the Corco Duibhne caused me many a headache for days afterwards. But thanks to you, he and his allies received their due.’

‘So are we well met again, Socht, or is it ill met?’ Fidelma asked, nodding towards his armed companions.

‘All in good time, lady,’ replied the warrior. ‘I am ordered to take you to the fortress of Ath Dara, the Ford of the Oaks.’

Without another word he turned and, motioning them to follow, set off at a trot. The other warriors closed around them and forced them to follow at the same pace, and then that pace gradually increased to a canter. It was a short ride before they swung around a bend following the riverbank and came across several habitations and a narrow crossing which nestled among the tall oaks from which it obviously took its name.

The settlement spanned both sides of the River Mháigh, which twisted and turned like some giant serpent. The main settlement was on the far bank; doubtless because its higher elevation would provide the inhabitants with protection against flooding. Here the group noticed a large stockade – a fortress of timber with a square watchtower. A horn was being sounded from within: there were several short blasts.

Fidelma’s escort did not hesitate on the riverbank but plunged forward, obviously aware of the existence of a ford. As Fidelma followed, she noticed that the ford had been reinforced, probably over many years, by deposits of stones and pebbles, creating an underwater pathway a few metres wide. The height of the water therefore barely reached above the knee of the forelegs or the hock of the hind legs of their horses.

Socht wheeled his mounted warriors towards the wooden fortress, whose gates stood open, although with sentinels on the walls above watching their approach. He halted the band in a small courtyard and swung down, shouting orders to his men. Then he turned to Fidelma and her companions.

‘My men will take your horses to the stables, lady, so if you will follow me … ?’

Fidelma was about to retort that they had been left with no other choice, but thought better of it.

Socht moved swiftly off towards the main building. A guard opened the door and he led them inside. They entered what seemed to be a chieftain’s feasting room, albeit an old-fashioned one and poorly furnished at that. A central hearth provided a fire whose smoke went upwards through a point in a conical thatched roof, which was supported by great timber supports and beams. A few shields adorned the walls as decorations, and at one side stood an ornately carved chair behind which hung a banner similar to the one Socht’s men carried – red silk which bore the image of a ravening wolf.

Rising from the chair was a tall, well-muscled young man with a shock of black hair. His eyes were grey and sparkling, and a white scar across his left cheek would have given him a sinister impression had it not been offset by his wide smile as he moved towards Fidelma with his hands outstretched in greeting.

Fidelma responded with an answering smile.

‘Conrí – King of Wolves!’ she declared. ‘Of course – with Socht here, I should have known that you would not be far away.’

‘Fidelma – Eadulf! It is good to see you both,’ declared the war chieftain of the Uí Fidgente with unfeigned warmth. ‘We have not met since we were at the Abbey of Ard Fhearta.’

‘Indeed,’ Fidelma smiled. ‘And chance continues on our travels for we were at Mungairit and encountered Brother Cú-Mara, the young steward of Ard Fhearta.’

Conrí was surprised. ‘The young steward of Ard Fhearta was at Mungairit?’

‘He was just visiting, but it was fortuitous that he was there.’

Conrí glanced at Gormán who was standing awkwardly in the background.

‘This is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh,’ introduced Fidelma, interpreting the question in his expression. ‘Conrí was elected war chieftain of the Uí Fidgente after Donennach became Prince,’ she explained.

‘Welcome, Gormán. Yet you do not wear the insignia of the Nasc Niadh, and Socht whispered in my ear that you had no weapon when he encountered you. Well, that is strange for a warrior of the Golden Collar – but you are welcome. Welcome all! Seat yourselves before my hearth and let me offer you hospitality.’