The steward sighed a little forlornly. ‘I was hoping that there would be something else to learn down there.’
‘When the bishop disappeared, where was this farmstead that he was supposed to have been called to?’
‘Not far north of here. It is a place called the meadows of Nionn, Cluain Nionn. You will pass through there if you are determined to continue your journey northward.’
‘I see no reason not to. We will go on.’
Brother Céin glanced at the darkening sky and the lengthening shadows.
‘Not tonight anyway. You may recommence your journey in the morning. Let us offer you the hospitality of our community.’
‘Which we will accept with pleasure,’ replied Fidelma.
With Brother Céin leading the way, they walked back to the wooden buildings that constituted the settlement.
Before the evening meal, the prainn, which was the principal meal of the day, Fidelma allowed herself be conducted by the steward to the community’s tech screpta or library. It contained some forty books, all hung in rows in their leather book satchels. Brother Céin was enormously proud of the library.
‘Bishop Luachan was intent on building up our little community as a repository of knowledge,’ he announced. ‘Alas, these are the first things that will be destroyed, should the dibergach attack us and we are not able to hold them off. We have one of the great collections of books in the five kingdoms.’
Fidelma, who had seen many greater libraries in her travels, did not disagree with him. Any centre where books were gathered was a special place in her eyes.
‘It is well worth defending, Brother Céin,’ she agreed. Then a memory stirred. ‘I was told this place had a connection with my own kingdom. Do you know the story?’
Brother Céin nodded. ‘But that was in ancient times. It is one of those legends handed down by the local people.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It is said that long ago, so long that the facts have become myths, there was a chieftain in the north of your brother’s kingdom of Muman. He was called Lugaid mac Tail. He had five sons and a daughter. The daughter was married to an ambitious warrior called Trad mac Tassaig. The daughter was also ambitious for her husband and, moreover, she was a great Druidess, adept in the magic arts.
‘One day she claimed that she had had a vision that unless her father, Lugaid, handed over his chieftainship and land to her husband, then a flock of demons would come and destroy it and all the family. In fear, Lugaid did as she asked and fled north with his five sons.
‘They came to Loch Lugborta and here Lugaid lit a magic fire to seek guidance. The fire spread in five directions and in those directions his five sons went and set up their homes. Lugaid stayed in the place where he had kindled the fire and thus the lake was named after him — Loch Lugborta. But he decided that he should take the name Delbaeth, from the ancient form dolb-aed — enchanted fire. Today, after many centuries, the name has been distorted and it is now called Delbna Mór.’
‘I have never heard this story before,’ Fidelma said quietly.
‘No reason why you should. It is simply a local story of how the name of the territory came into being.’
She paused awhile examining and praising the books, and then a bell began to sound for the evening meal. As they walked back towards the praintech, or dining hall, Brother Céin asked anxiously: ‘Do you still intend to go north-west tomorrow?’
‘I do.’
‘To the lands of the Cinél Cairpre?’
‘Yes.’
‘That may be where our enemies are,’ Brother Céin said.
‘Irél and his Fianna already went there. He saw the new chief, Ardgal, and obtained hostages for the clan’s good behaviour after Sechnussach’s assassination. If they meant harm, they would not have succumbed to Irél’s authority.’
‘Even so, it would be remiss of me if I did not counsel you against this journey. If Bishop Luachan were here, he would warn you of the dangers that beset this countryside.’
Fidelma smiled briefly. ‘I think you have already made the dangers clear.’
‘Well, should you return to Tara … when you return to Tara,’ he corrected hastily, ‘and speak to the new High King, tell him of our situation and warn him about the growing power of the dibergach. There is only one other community between here and the land of the Cinél Cairpre and that is the abbey at Baile Fobhair, which you will also pass on your journey. They and we are the only communities of religious in the area who have not been attacked so far, thanks be to God. But we live in daily expectation of it.’
‘Why have you not already sent to the Fianna at Tara for warriors to protect you?’
Brother Céin shrugged. ‘We did not begin to realise the seriousness of the situation until poor Bishop Luachan was taken from us. If they can do that, there is nothing that will stop them perpetrating more serious crimes.’
‘Where is this abbey of which you speak?’
‘Baile Fobhair?’
She nodded.
‘You will ride along the north side of a great loch, Loch Léibhinn. That is where the abbey is situated. But let me warn you again … ’
She paused, turned and looked into his anxious face.
‘Don’t worry, Brother Céin,’ she interrupted. ‘I fully intend to return in safety to Tara and this mystery shall be cleared up. That is a promise.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was approaching noon on the next day when Fidelma decided to call a halt in order to rest and water the horses. They had ridden north-west, passing the farmstead identified as Cluain Nionn. Here they had paused briefly while Fidelma questioned the farmer and his wife about the disappearance of Bishop Luachan. But, as Brother Céin had foretold, the couple knew nothing at all. So they had journeyed on, reaching the large lake that the rotund steward of Delbna Mór had told Fidelma was called Loch Léibhinn. For the most part, the countryside seemed deserted. They rode along its northern shore without seeing any sign of the abbey of Baile Fobhair of which she had been told. After a while, north of the lake, they reached more hilly country. Fidelma began to believe that they had missed the abbey and so suggested they rest and attend to their horses’ needs. To save time she decided not to light a fire to prepare a meal, but for them to have some fruit and the bread that the religious of Delbna Mór had given them that morning. As events turned out, it was a wise decision.
They had stopped by a small pool that was fed from a stream that gushed from the hills. It was surrounded by three great stone slabs and shaded by an ash tree. A little distance from the pool were the burned-out ruins of a watermill. The fire had obviously occurred recently, for the stench of the burned timbers still hung in the air. The countryside was heavily wooded, with many brooks and streams. There were plenty of evergreens, interspersed with wych elm, whitebeam and even strawberry trees, and in spite of it being winter the forest looked impenetrable. Both the thick woods and the rising ground were also, in retrospect, a matter of good fortune for them.
They had barely settled to eat when the sound of someone coughing came from the direction of the ruined mill. It sounded as though the person was desperately trying to stifle the cough and thereby only making thesound worse. At once Caol and Gormán were on their feet with drawn swords.
‘Who’s there?’ snapped Caol, moving cautiously towards the blackened ruins.
There was no answer.
With a quick gesture to Gormán to indicate some prearranged tactic, Caol advanced, sword ready to strike, while Gormán made a flanking movement to cover him.