Badger's Moon

‘Good. Then perhaps-’

The door burst opened and Adag the steward came in breathlessly.

‘Becc!’ he gasped, without apologising for his entrance which contravened the etiquette of a chieftain’s house. ‘A rider has come to the gates of the fortress. He rides under the méirge, the banner of the Uí Fidgente.’

Accobrán had clasped his hand to his sword hilt and was moving to the door.

‘I’ll deal with this,’ he shouted. ‘Sound the alarm!’

‘Stop!’ cried Fidelma harshly. ‘Have all your senses left you, Accobrán?’ Having caught their attention, she turned to Adag. ‘I presume this rider is a herald from the Uí Fidgente?’

Adag nodded swiftly. ‘He is indeed a techtaire bearing a message to our chieftain.’

Fidelma looked at Becc with grim satisfaction. ‘This saves us having to ride out and find the Uí Fidgente. Let us go and speak to this techtaire and find out what it is that his hosting seeks here.’

They left the chieftain’s hall and moved to the courtyard, where a couple of Becc’s warriors stood nervously, arms at the ready, before a horseman. The man was still seated in his saddle and carried nothing more lethal than a banner of red silk on which was a design of a ravening wolf. It was the symbol of his people. He wore his hair long and had a bushy sandy beard. His close-set bright eyes watched them approach impassively.

‘I am Becc, chieftain of the Cinél na Áeda,’ Becc announced as he came to a halt before the techfaire.

‘I see you, Becc,’ intoned the herald ritually. ‘I am here as a voice of Conrí, King of Wolves, war chieftain of the Uí Fidgente.’

‘I see you, herald of the Uí Fidgente,’ replied Becc in return ritual. ‘Why are you so far from your own lands?’

‘I am told to say these words to you — Conrí enters this country with a sluaghadh, a hosting, more in sorrow than in anger. He has encamped at the place you call the Marsh of the Birch and will await you or your representatives there to discuss why he should leave the land of the Cinél na Áeda without spilling the blood of its people.’

Becc inclined his head. ‘Why would your chieftain contemplate spilling that blood?’

‘I have been told to say, should you ask that question, that our sluaghadh was on its way to the lands of the prince of the Corco Loígde, where we were invited to take part in the games.’

Fidelma knew that most of the larger principalities held annual games to prepare themselves for the three great festivals at Tailltenn, Tlachtga and Uísneach. It would not be unheard of for the ruler of the Corco Loígde to invite a band of young men from the Uí Fidgente to participate in the local games there. The herald was continuing.

‘While we were passing near the borders of your land, a small foraging party from our sluaghadh went missing. We sent out scouts and they found the bodies of our men — all had been slaughtered. The arrows we found bore the marks of the Cinél na Áeda. Some of the party had been cut down by sword blows: many had wounds in their backs that spoke plainly of how they came by their deaths. Thus, chieftain of the Cinél na Áeda, was it decided that our sluaghadh would turn from its path to the Corco Loígde and enter your territory to demand an explanation. We will see whether that explanation allows us to continue in peace or whether it forces us to invoke the law which demands dígal — blood vengeance.’

Fidelma frowned. She tried to hide the fact that she was appalled that Accobrán had not even buried the slain Uí Fidgente but had abandoned the bodies to the elements and ravering beasts. She drew herself together.

‘The futility of vengeance has been censured by the New Faith,’ she pointed out in a sharp voice.

The techfaire glanced at her as if to dismiss her. ‘Those of your cloth would say so. However, it is written in the Crith Gablach that the blood feud has legal standing and that a party of avengers may pursue such a feud in the territory of those who have wronged them.’

Fidelma smiled grimly at being lectured on the law.

‘However, that law says that the dígal can only be carried out a month after the collapse of any attempt to negotiate compensation if culpability is proved,’ she replied quickly.

The herald’s features twisted in a sneer. He was about to speak when Becc said gruffly: ‘Have a care, techtaire. It is a dálaigh of the courts who addresses you.’

The man blinked and hesitated for a moment. ‘I am not here to debate points of law but to tell you the intentions of my lord, Conrí. He awaits you, Becc, or your representatives, at the Marsh of the Birch. Tell me, chieftain of the Cinél na Áeda, will he wait in vain?’

Becc shook his head immediately. ‘You can tell your war chieftain that while it is improper for the chieftain of any tuath or tribe to come to him at his demand, nevertheless I shall send representatives to demand his withdrawal from our lands without the spilling of blood on either side.’

‘Brave words. My part is now over. Your part has begun.’

The horseman wheeled swiftly about and rode off through the gates of the fortress.

‘Let me send him back to his war chieftain with an arrow in him,’ muttered Accobrán, his hand clenching on his sword.

Fidelma turned to him with a sour expression.

‘Had you been a little less concerned with slaughter, Accobrán, then this confrontation need never have happened,’ she snapped.

‘And Suanach and even you might not be alive.’ retorted the tanist.

Becc raised a pacifying hand.

‘Let us confront the common enemy,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Fidelma, this Conrí is only a war lord and, as I am chieftain here, I cannot be seen going to him now that he has invaded our territory.’

‘I should go as tanist!’ said Accobrán quickly.

‘Your going with your current attitude would guarantee more bloodshed,’ said Fidelma waspishly. ‘No, I shall go as negotiator.’

Becc looked horrified. ‘But you are the king’s sister. If it is not right for me to go and negotiate with a warlord, then how much less fitting is it for you…’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘I am here as a dálaigh. Indeed, my relationship to the king might prove useful for the Uí Fidgente might then know that they may once again have to deal with Cashel. A memory of their defeat at Cnoc Áine might cause them to reflect on any precipitous action.’

‘It is like presenting the Uí Fidgente with a hostage,’ protested Accobrán in irritation.

‘Better than presenting them with a dozen corpses still warm from the slaughter! The warrior’s code respects the bodies of slain enemies.’

Accobrán flushed at her retort. Becc was worried and held up a hand to still any response from his tanist.

‘I believe that you are right, Fidelma,’ he said. ‘But you cannot go alone.’

‘I’ll go with her,’ interposed Eadulf quickly.

‘But there should be a representative of the Cinél na Áeda present,’ protested Accobrán. ‘If she is to speak for us, how do we know what she will say?’

‘Are you saying that I am not to be trusted?’ Fidelma asked quietly. There was an ominous tone in her softly spoken words.

Becc moved forward hurriedly and laid a pacifying hand on her arm.

‘Accobrán has fallen into the habit of speaking with impulsiveness. He did not mean that. Yet he does raise a pertinent point. Let Adag my steward accompany you and Brother Eadulf. Then everyone will be satisfied.’

Fidelma smiled in agreement. ‘I have no objection if Adag is willing.’

The steward was not looking happy but he stepped forward quickly enough. His chubby features were firmly