No one had yet been able to bury the bodies of the religious who had been slaughtered there, and now that the raiders had moved on, the black, scavenging crows had descended. Fidelma averted her eyes and mumbled a prayer for the repose of their souls.
Caol was more philosophical.
‘The scavengers of battlefields,’ he said quietly. ‘The children of the Mórrígán.’
Fidelma did not reply. She knew that after great battles, these black crows and ravens were almost a blessing when it came to cleansing the corpses left to rot when survivors were too weak to bury them. But knowingit and seeing it were different things. She wished they had time to bury the corpses of these poor pious men and prevent them from being desecrated by the scavengers, for she knew that later, after the sun went down, wolves and other animals would be attracted to the leavings of the crows.
They rode on, increasing their pace. Eventually, they came in sight of Gormán who was leaning from his horse intent on examining the trail before him. It split in two. He turned, saw them and gave them a wave to show that he was continuing along the right path. Then he moved on at a quicker pace to put a little extra distance between them and himself.
‘Is the plan to follow these people into the land of the Cinél Cairpre?’ asked Caol after a while.
Fidelma nodded. ‘If that is where they are heading.’
‘I’d feel better if Irél and the Fianna had been with us, lady,’ Caol confessed. ‘After all, two swords against — we do not know how many — are not good odds.’
‘Don’t worry, Caol. I shall not do anything that is rash or precipitate us into an impossible situation. We will keep well back from these raiders. If they lead us to Ardgal, the new chieftain of the Cinél Cairpre now that Dubh Duin is dead, then we might draw conclusions without any confrontation.’
‘I hope so, lady, I hope so,’ rejoined Caol softly.
They rode on without incident for some time before the trees began to thin and they came to the shallow river, gushing over a stony bed. Gormán was waiting for them, leaning forward in his saddle in a resting position.
‘What is the matter?’ Fidelma demanded as they rode up.
Gormán gestured to the river.
‘The riverbed is stony and the path on the far side is almost paved in pebbles and rocks. I have made a search and cannot find the tracks of the raiders’ horses on the far side. I have ridden along the bank in both directions but have seen nothing.’
Caol eased his sword a little in its scabbard and glanced around. ‘A good place for an ambush. Any sign that they have stopped?’
Gormán shook his head. ‘If they were of the number you say and with pack animals, there would be some sign. If they even left a couple of men behind in ambush, there would be some unease among those animals’ — he pointed to where a small herd of deer were grazing serenely on a hill a little distance from the river. A great antlered stag was standing apart, head raised proudly in the air, watching them.
‘We will proceed onwards,’ Fidelma decided. ‘We may pick up their tracks later.’
Gormán nodded, turned his horse and rode off rapidly through the shallow waters to place himself ahead of them again.
As Eadulf rode along he was worried about Fidelma. What if the strange raiders realised that they were being followed and laid an ambush for her? He had every faith in Caol and Gormán as warriors but they were only two against so many. And Fidelma was heading right into the country of the Cinél Cairpre, whose former chieftain had killed the High King. The thought almost made him push the horse into a gallop himself but he knew he was not a good enough equestrian to sustain such a pace through the forest.
The path suddenly swung round a group of boulders that rose in the middle of the forest and before he knew it, he was in the middle of a band of armed riders. He heard Brother Manchán give a shriek of alarm before they closed in with drawn swords. His horse shied nervously and came to a halt of its own volition.
The question that sprang to Eadulf’s lips died before he could utter it. There were about a score of riders and he could see a couple of pack horses. With a feeling of growing fear, he realised that the riders were the very same group that Fidelma had set off to follow. They must somehow have doubled back on their tracks and now he was their helpless captive.
Gormán came trotting back along the track with a frown on his face.
‘I fear that we have lost them, lady,’ he called to Fidelma as he approached. ‘There are no tracks ahead.’
‘They must have turned back at the river,’ Caol sighed. ‘They will have used the stony course to confuse their tracks.’
Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘Did they do so because they were simply being cautious or because they knew that they were being followed?’
Gormán shook his head. ‘I think they are old campaigners used to hiding their tracks anyway. It was a perfect spot to do so. As you recall, it was stony on the far side and we could not pick up their tracks again. I don’t think they even crossed the river and came this way at all.’
‘How far ahead have you checked?’ Fidelma asked.
‘This track goes through some soft ground and approaches a hill thatoverlooks a small wheat plain. Even if I had missed the tracks, when I climbed the hill and scanned the plain before me, there were no signs of riders.’
‘Should we turn back?’ asked Caol. ‘Make another attempt to pick up their tracks?’
‘They could have gone north or south at the river,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘You said that you have checked a reasonable distance in both directions so it would take a long time before we picked up their tracks again. Our original intention was to see Ardgal in the land of the Cinél Cairpre. I think we should ride on and find him.’
The two warriors did not protest and the party set off again. Fidelma looked confident, but secretly she was now very worried. She hoped that Eadulf would reach Delbna Mór safely and warn Brother Céin. If the dibergach were as vicious as they had been told, it was dangerous to be an unarmed religious in these lands.
One of the riders who had surrounded Eadulf nudged his horse nearer. He was a black-bearded man with coarse ruddy features showing under a metal war bonnet which was decorated in a bizarre fashion with the stuffed head of a raven, its black wings spread out along either side. He held his sword loosely across the pommel of his saddle and wore no armour but a leather jerkin over his black and dirty clothing.
‘Well, well, what have we here? A Christian who wears the mark of Rome’s slavery! And carrying a poor wreck of another Christian who looks as though he has crawled out of an oven. Perhaps he has just been ejected from the Christian hellfire of which I have heard tell.’
His comrades laughed in appreciation of the humour.
Eadulf knew that the man had noted his tonsure, the corona spina, the tonsure of Peter, which was cut differently to that of John, adopted by the religious of the five kingdoms.
He made no answer but stared at the man defiantly. He felt Brother Manchán shaking with fear, still clinging behind him on the horse.
The man with the raven-feathered helmet, obviously the leader of the raiders, prodded him with the tip of his sword. It was sharp and Eadulf felt it draw blood through his sleeve. He winced but set his mouth firmly, determined not to show fear before these raiders.
‘You are the first Christian I have met who has not squealed,’ the man grinned patronisingly. ‘Usually your kind use your tongues too freely. Iwager your companion will sing without my prompting. Come, tell me who you are or will you die without a name?’
‘Please, please,’ cried Brother Manchán, sobbing in desperation. ‘Please, my lord, have mercy on me. I’ll tell you anything.’