‘To whom have we surrendered – and why?’ Fidelma demanded.
‘The why, I shall leave for my lord to explain. The who? You have surrendered to Artgal, son of Fidaig of the Luachra. It is Fidaig who asks for your company. So it is to him that I shall now escort you.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Their escort set off at a brisk trot along the wide track towards the south-western mountains. But dusk was descending before they reached the ford of a broad river, beyond which dark shadows of the mountains began to rise sharply.
‘That’s the territory of the Luachra,’ Fidelma muttered for Eadulf’s benefit.
‘So this is Sliabh Luachra?’
‘The whole mountain range is known by that name,’ she confirmed. ‘Once it was a vast, uninhabited marsh area guarded by the surrounding mountains and so inhospitable that little could be farmed there. Sliabh Luachra is not a single mountain but several, with seven glens between them. The place is filled with peat bogs – and woe betide if you fall into one of them, for you will never get out.’
The leader of their escort, without checking the forward momentum of his horse, turned in his saddle and pointed to where a group of lights flickered in the darkness on the far bank of the river.
‘This is the ford of the Ealla. My father, Fidaig, is encamped on the far side.’
A moment later they were splashing through a shallow ford and entering an encampment, where fires were burning and lanterns were lit. It was not a large encampment but enough, so Fidelma estimated, to contain one hundred warriors. Nor was it a permanent encampment. Fidelma knew that even when warriors halted for one night, certain officers were in charge as to the placing of tents, bathing, cooking and rest places. Everything was planned in detail to fortify it and set up sentinels.
A concentration of several lanterns showed where the pupall or the pavilion of the chieftain was. A short distance from this, their escort halted them and Artgal indicated that they should dismount. Then Fidelma and Eadulf were separated from Gormán, who was led away, while they were instructed to follow the young man to the main tent, where he ushered them inside.
Fidaig, lord of the Luachra, protector of the Mountain of Rushes and chieftain of the Seven Glens of Sliabh Luachra, was not as Eadulf had envisaged he would be. In fact, Eadulf realised that the man had been a guest at their wedding in Cashel and that they had briefly met before. He was not a tall, imposing figure, but elderly, with a shock of white hair and an intelligent but heavily lined face of the sort that comes with age and experience. He looked more like a learned elder of his clan than a chieftain used to handling weapons in defence of his people. His eyes were dark, almost pupil-less, his mouth thin. He gave the impression of frailty, but there was something in his features that made up in shrewdness and ingenuity what he lacked in physical strength. That he had survived so long as leader of the Luachra was evidence enough of his astute qualities.
Fidaig was standing ready to greet them when they entered. There was the trace of a smile on his features as he looked from one to another.
‘Welcome to my humble camp. I would have made you more comfortable at my fortress up in the mountains, but you find me travelling and, alas, the accommodation I have to offer is but a poor warrior’s makeshift tent.’
‘Then perhaps my companions and I should have been allowed a choice in the matter?’ Fidelma’s voice was icy.
Fidaig raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘You were given no choice? Ah, I must reprimand my son, Artgal. His task was merely to invite you to be my guests. I had heard that you and your companions were travelling in my territory, and I was sure that you would come to pay your respects to me in accordance with custom. Concerned that you might not know where I was encamped, not being at my fortress, I sent my son and his men to find you and assist you to meet me here.’
His tone betrayed none of the sarcasm that his words implied. His son, Artgal, took a stand behind his father’s chair, apparently unconcerned at the rebuke. Fidaig clapped his hands for his attendants and ordered chairs to be brought forward for them all to be seated.
‘Let us take some drink and talk of what brings you here.’ Fidaig sank into a high-backed chair and smiled at each of them in turn as they reluctantly took the seats offered to them. ‘I have ordered sleeping accommodation to be set up for you and there will be feasting later tonight. Alas, the washing facilities are not all they should be, but as you will have noticed, this is a marching camp and so we camp by the river.’
A young male attendant appeared and poured beakers of corma for them before he withdrew to the side of the tent ready for the next summons.