Solin smirked, rising from his seat.
‘I was just trying to persuade the good sister to accompany me to the chieftain’s council chamber,’ he said obsequiously. ‘She seemed more concerned with the reasons for my presence in Gleann Geis.’
Fidelma opened her mouth to challenge his lie but then snapped it shut. She turned to Orla and met her anger with a stony look.
‘I am ready. Precede us.’
Orla raised an eyebrow, disconcerted for the moment by the haughty expression on Fidelma’s face for she was quite unused to having her authority challenged. Without a further word, she led the way from the hostel. Eadulf and Solin brought up the rear.
The chambers of Laisre were housed in the largest of the buildings in the ráth. A centrally situated three-storey building which, when entered by the great door, revealed a large reception chamber with passageways leading left and right and with a stone stairway to the rooms above. A tall inner door then gave entrance into a large chamber. There were several people gathered there in the high-ceilinged, smoky room. Large tapestries draped the walls and hanging lamps illuminated the room, although the central fire, on which logs were blazing, gave out a strong glowing light and was the cause of the smoky atmosphere.
A couple of deer hounds lay at full length before the roaring fire. To one side of them was a large ornate carved oak chair. Clustered around it were several men and women of the chieftain’s immediate circle. Two warriors guarded the interior door and a third stood just behind the oak chair of office. Fidelma recognised this third warrior as the black-bearded man,named Artgal, who had accompanied Orla when they had first encountered her.
It needed no introduction to identify Laisre, the chieftain of Gleann Geis, even if he had not been sprawling in the great oak chair. Knowing that Orla was his sister Fidelma could distinguish him at once for the resemblance was truly remarkable. He had the same structure of face, the same dark eyes and hair and the same manner of expression. Had he not worn a long wispy dark moustache she would have said they were two peas from the same pod. In fact, as she examined him more closely, she realised that he and Orla must be twins. He was a man of slender looks and handsome with, perhaps, the fault of knowing it. He was not remotely like the image that Fidelma had conjured of a pagan chieftain at Cashel. She had imagined a wild, unruly man. But, pagan as he was, Laisre was poised, impeccable in his manners and with all the appearance of civility.
As Orla conducted them into the chamber Laisre rose from his chair of office and came forward to greet Fidelma in token of her rank, of which Orla must have informed him. His hand was outstretched.
‘You are well come to this place, Fidelma of Cashel. I trust your brother, the king, is well?’
‘He is, by the grace of God,’ replied Fidelma automatically.
There was a smothered exclamation from one of the men in the room. Fidelma turned an inquiring look in the direction of the group.
Laisre grimaced apologetically. There was a humour in his eyes.
‘Some here may ask the question, by the grace of which god?’
Fidelma’s eyes found the man from whom the sound had come. He was a tall, thin man, with iron-grey hair and distinctive particoloured robes, embroidered with gold thread, and a gold chain of office around his neck. He met her gaze with unconcealed hostility. His face had an almost bird-like quality, scrawny with a prominent Adam’s apple which bobbed furiously as he swallowed, which seemed to be a constant habit. His deep black eyes, unblinking like a serpent, smouldered with a deep emotion.
‘Murgal is entitled to express his opinions,’ she observed coldly, turning back to Laisre.
Fidelma was aware that the thin man had started in surprise. Even Laisre was astonished that she could identify Murgal.
‘Do you know Murgal?’ the chieftain asked hesitantly, unable to see the simple logic by which she had arrived at her identification.
Fidelma suppressed a smile of self-satisfaction at the effect she had caused.
‘Surely everyone knows the reputation of Murgal and that he is a man of principle and learning … and of propriety,’ she replied solemnly, determined to take the best advantage she could before entering into the negotiations with Laisre. It was always best to start out by wrong-footing one’s adversaries. She had merely made a deduction. Orla had boasted about Murgal, her brother’s Druid and Brehon. She had, in fact, never heard of Murgal before. But who else would be standing so close to his chieftain and wearing such a chain of office? It was pure bluff and she had succeeded with it. The knowledge of the envoy of Cashel would now be whispered around the council chamber of Gleann Geis.
Murgal’s mouth had compressed. His eyes became hooded as he regarded her, assessing her qualities as his opponent.
The significance of the interaction of the initial clash was lost upon all but Fidelma and Murgal.
‘Come forward, Murgal, and greet the envoy and sister of Colgú of Cashel,’ Laisre ordered.
The tall man came forward and bowed slightly in deference to her rank.
‘I, too, have heard of Fidelma, daughter of Faílbe Fland of Cashel,’ he greeted in a curious whispering pitch, a slightly wheezing tone as if he were a sufferer from asthma. ‘Your reputation has preceded you. The Uí Fidgente have long memories and their defeat last winter has been attributed to you.’
Was there some subtle threat implied in his words?
‘The defeat of the Uí Fidgente, after they tried to overthrow the rightful king of Cashel, was brought about only by their own vanity and avarice,’ replied Fidelma calmly. ‘For that they have been justly punished. However, as a loyal servant of Cashel, I am pleased when any who nurture treachery to Cashel are uncovered, just as I am sure that Laisre, as a loyal servant of Cashel, is also pleased.’
Murgal blinked slowly, the lids of his eyes drooping as if he were tired and needed to close them. He was beginning to realise that he had met an opponent of wit and perception who would need to be treated with skill and discretion.
‘Your principles are a thing to be admired — the surety of knowledge that one serves a rightful cause against wrong must surely be a comfort?’ he replied.
Fidelma was about to respond when Laisre, smilingly, took her arm and turned her from Murgal saying, ‘Well, there is nothing wrong in principle though it is often easier to fight for a principlethan to adhere to its precepts. Come, Fidelma, let me introduce you to my tanist, Colla, the husband of my sister Orla.’
The man standing next to Orla took a pace forward and inclined his head in salutation. The tanist was the heir-elect in any tribe or kingdom. Colla was the same age as Laisre but standing a good head taller than his chieftain. That he was a man of action there was little doubt. He had the build of a warrior. His skin was bronzed by the sun which contrasted with the fiery copper redness of his hair and bright blue eyes. He was not handsome but had a subtle masculine attractiveness which Fidelma could not fail to notice. Perhaps it was his manner, some inner quality of strength or the lazy smile on his features, which made him seem easy going and affable but did not conceal the steel of his character to the discerning eye. He was dressed in accoutrements for war and his sword was slung in workman-like fashion.
‘I rejoice at your safe arrival here, Fidelma,’ he greeted in a deep, booming voice that caused Fidelma to start for a moment. ‘My wife, Orla, has told me of the horror which you encountered in the glen beyond and I can only assure you that I will do everything in my power to find the culprits and bring them to justice. The reason for that senseless slaughter must be uncovered for it does not reflect well upon our people.’
Fidelma regarded him gravely for a moment and then asked in an innocent tone: ‘Why do you say it was senseless slaughter?’
The tanist started in surprise.
‘I do not know what you mean.’
‘If you do not know the reason for it, why do you say it was senseless slaughter?’ she explained carefully.
There was an awkward silence for a moment or two and then Colla shrugged.
‘It is just a matter of expression …’
Laughter interrupted him. Laisre was consumed with mirth.
‘You have a sharp wit, Fidelma. Our negotiation will prove interesting. But, in seriousness, when Orla and Artgal reported this matter, we were all perplexed. The Uí Fidgente have been quiet since your brother’s army crushed them at the Hill of Áine last year. Until that time they had been the only hostile raiders in this
