‘A few weeks ago.’
‘And in what manner did this party come?’
‘Half a dozen religieuse and a foreign monk, guarded by a dozen warriors. The person who seemed in charge was a strange figure clad in robes from poll to feet so that none could look on him.’
Fidelma expected as much.
‘We seek these people, for the warriors have taken the religious captive,’ she explained.
‘The strange monk, the one whose face we could not see, was no captive,’ replied the smith.
‘Even so, the others were. They had been abducted and their abbess had been murdered.’
‘And you seek them? Why?’
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel. I am a dalaigh. Let us dismount, my friend, and I will speak further. You may well be able to help us in our quest.’
The smith with the hammer looked at his companion. They still hesitated.
‘I am intent on bringing these killers and abductors to justice,’ Fidelma added with emphasis. ‘These are my companions, Brother Eadulf, Conri, warlord of the Ui Fidgente, whose relative was the abbess who was slain, and his warriors. Now tell us to whom we speak?’
The smith hesitated a moment and then he lowered the hammer with a shrug but did not release his hold.
‘My name is Gaeth and this is my assistant, Gaimredan.’
Fidelma looked at the bleak features of his companion and suddenly smiled broadly.
‘You are well named, my friend.’
Gaeth could not help but chuckle at her jest on the meaning of his assistant’s name.
‘Indeed he is, lady, for never was there a person of more wintry countenance and lack of humour.’
‘May we dismount now?’ asked Fidelma.
The smith gestured his assent and turned to lay aside his hammer.
‘I accept that you mean us no harm, but after the visit of the others…’
Fidelma and her companions dismounted and Socht collected their horses and tethered them.
She glanced around the collection of smithy buildings that stood alongside a gushing stream that emptied into the waters of the lake.
‘You are isolated here, Gaeth.’
‘Yet not too isolated to have unwelcome visitors,’ replied the other philosophically. He indicated one of the buildings that appeared to be the dwelling house. ‘Come inside. We have been left with enough corma to make you welcome on this cold winter’s day.’
The smith’s house was an old-style one-roomed circular house, whose floor was merely the earth made hard over centuries of use. The central hearth gave out a comfortable heat and rush matting on the floor provided their seats.
‘We live a frugal life here, lady,’ Gaeth announced. It became obvious that his comrade Gaimredan never spoke unless he had something important to contribute. ‘I suspect it is unlike the rich palace in which you
Eadulf had been examining the room and had noticed the lack of any Christian icons. But he saw some items that he had seen now and again in his travels and knew the meaning of them.
‘Do I understand that you are not of the Faith?’ he asked brusquely.
Gaeth seemed amused.
‘It all depends what you mean by Faith, Saxon brother. You imply there is one Faith. Well, we are not Christians, if that is what you mean. That is why we dwell apart in order that those who would proselytise us do not bother us. Argument is a tedious thing. We each come to the Dagda, the Good God, along our own path.’
‘It seems that you are also well named, Gaeth,’ Fidelma said, for the name meant clever and wise. ‘But we did not come to discuss the Faith. I presume that you both dwell here as hermits?’
‘It is true that we prefer to dwell in isolation from others. But many know our work and come to us.’
Gaimredan was handing round pottery cups filled with corma. The raw spirit made Eadulf gasp.
‘So you know many people in these parts?’
Gaeth inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘Well, the strangers who came here were indeed strangers. They were not of these parts. We heard from our neighbours that after they ransacked our storehouse for food they went on to the coast. There is a sandy shore not far from here to the north-west and we heard from a shepherd that these strangers were met there by a warship and taken out to sea. Who knows where they went?’
Fidelma smiled grimly.
‘We think we know where,’ she replied. ‘To those islands you call the Machaire Islands, where they have taken the hermits of Seanach’s Island prisoners or worse.’
‘Are you saying that they have harmed the group of Christian hermits that dwell there?’ The smith frowned.
‘Mortal harm has come to at least one of them,’ Fidelma replied. ‘We found one who had escaped from the island and rowed to this mainland,
Gaeth whistled softly under his breath.
‘Brother Martan was a good man. We differed in our beliefs but he was a holy man and the leader of the hermits there. Who are these people? The warriors, I mean? What do they want?’
‘Have you heard stories of Uaman the Leper?’ Conri asked.
The smith’s eyes flickered, indicating that he had.
‘By the fires of Bel,’ he said softly. ‘Many stories are connected with that one. Thankfully, his raids never reached here for he was content to demand tribute from those who came through the eastern passes into this peninsula. He never ventured further west than the Emlagh and Finglas valleys. But we heard plenty of stories about him.’
‘For hermits, shunning other folk-’ began Eadulf.
‘We prefer to live alone, but we do not shun other folk, as you put it,’ snapped Gaeth. ‘Only you Christians run away and hide from life in your communities. We live here and welcome the visitor as a natural event.’
Eadulf swallowed hard. Fidelma caught his eye and shook her head.
‘It may be,’ she said hurriedly, ‘that it was Uaman and his men who visited you.’
Gaeth’s eyes widened.
‘So far to the west? And what would he be doing with religious prisoners?’
‘That is why we are following them… to find out,’ Conri explained.
‘There was a rumour that Uaman was dead. I wonder if Slebene will finally be forced to do something now.’
Fidelma stared at him for a moment.
‘You speak as if Slebene never did anything to counter Uaman’s activities in his territory. After all, all this land from the abbey of Colman westward is the land of the Corco Duibhne and he is responsible for its protection and well-being.’
‘That may be so, but Slebene believes in Slebene. He was content to leave Uaman to his own devices.’
‘Do you mean that Slebene never made any effort to capture or destroy Uaman?’ asked Eadulf.
Gaeth nodded.
‘But that is not what Slebene told us.’
Gaeth looked pityingly at him.
‘What would you expect the man to say? That he is a gutless warrior? That he is great on talking, on blustering, on threatening, but a coward when it comes down to lifting a sword against equals? I even believe that he left Uaman alone because he received gold from him.’
Conri was staring at the smith. He was thinking about the challenge that Slebene had issued to him over the ‘hero’s portion’.
‘If he is a gutless warrior, what if someone challenged him to a combat? How would he avoid it?’
‘He does not have to avoid it. He is the chief. I have never known him to fight an equal combat in years.’
‘Then how…?’
‘Slebene keeps a tren fher, a strong man, a champion, to answer all challenges to single combat. You must
