Eadulf felt a little disgusted at his companion’s obvious fear. Even though he himself felt an apprehension approaching dread, Eadulf knew that you should never show fear to your enemy for, by so doing, you are lost.
‘If you need to know my name, know then that I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk.’ Eadulf used an angry tone to disguise the fear he felt and hoped that his captors did not notice the tremor in his voice.
‘A Saxon?’ The man’s bearded features broke into a black-toothed smile.
The question had an obvious answer and Eadulf made no reply.
‘What brings you to the kingdom of Midhe, stranger? Come to spout your pernicious doctrines to twist our minds away from the true gods of Éireann?’
‘I am husband to Fidelma of Cashel who is investigating the assassination of Sechnussach at Tara.’
This caused some surprised reaction among the warrior band.
‘Fidelma of Cashel, the Eóghanacht?’ the leader commented with a sudden frown. ‘We had heard that the Great Assembly had sent for her. You are some way from Tara. What are you doing in this forest, Saxon? Where did you get that pitiful thing that clings to you? Where is the woman from Cashel?’
Eadulf’s mind raced as to how best he should answer.
‘We are going to the abbey at Delbna Mór.’
This raised another laugh.
‘If you are coming from Tara, you must have ridden past it. At least you had the sense to turn back, for it lies in that direction.’ The leader jerked his head over his shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ Eadulf said, thankful for the man’s misunderstanding. ‘I realised that we must have passed it and I was directed back in this direction by this wandering religious.’ The lie came naturally to his lips and he resolved to utter an act of contrition later. ‘We’ll be on our way then.’
This caused a greater merriment among the band.
Their leader shook his head and turned to Brother Manchán.
‘You are a strange religious to go wandering in soot-encrusted and torn robes. Is this to show some subservience to your God?’
Eadulf felt Brother Manchán still shaking in his terror. He feared that the man would tell the truth of their encounter and alert them to the route Fidelma and her companions had taken.
‘Come,’ snapped the leader of the raiders. ‘Your name?’
‘Bro … Brother Manchán of Fobhair, my lord. Please … ’
‘Fobhair? Ah, so you are one of the nits that escaped from its nest when we tried to cleanse it. How remiss of us not to have noticed you.’
Eadulf felt Brother Manchán start, felt his grip loosen and his body fall from the back of his horse. He turned round in horror as Brother Manchán’s body hit the ground. He was already dead. The helmeted leader was leaning down and wiping his sword point on the clothes of the body. Then the black-bearded man glanced up and smiled crookedly at Eadulf.
‘Now we must insist that you accompany us, Saxon. My ceannard will find your company very entertaining and I would not like to deprive her of it.’
‘Ceannard? Your commander?’
‘You do not ask questions, Saxon. Dismount so that my men may search you.’
‘I protest,’ began Eadulf, halfway between helpless rage and fear. ‘You have murdered this man, a religious. You have killed him in cold blood.’
But two of the raiders had already dismounted and were pulling him from his horse. They searched him none too gently while another took his saddlebag. Having made sure he had neither weapons nor anything else of interest, one of them tied his hands in front of him, then a gag was suddenly inserted roughly into his mouth and, before he could do anything else, a blindfold shut the vision from his eyes. He found himself being hoisted back onto his horse. He clung desperately onto the edge of the saddle insofar as he was able. Someone must have taken the reins for the beast began to move and he could hear the other riders around him. He desperately strove to maintain his balance as the pace increased to a canter. He felt an icy, clawing sensation in his stomach as he considered the fact that these dibergach had killed a religious in cold blood, killed without any compunction. Eadulf knew that his life was now not worth anything.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘There is a farmstead up ahead, lady,’ Gormán called, having ridden back down the trail to rejoin Fidelma and Caol. ‘It would be an ideal place to water and rest the horses and eat something ourselves.’
They had crossed the plain and had been riding through some hilly and thickly wooded country for some hours now. If the truth were known, Fidelma felt a little tired and thirsty herself and so she agreed without protest.
‘We must have reached the borders of the country of the Cinél Cairpre by now,’ she warned. ‘Best have a care if the raiders do come from here, for we may not find a welcome.’
They approached the farmstead cautiously. There was some movement there and they could see a man rounding up cattle in an adjacent field, which was a sure sign of the lateness of the day. In farming terms the day began just before dawn when the cows were milked; it was called am buarach or spancel time, when the cows were led out. The spancel was a stout rope of twisted hair, two lengths of a man’s arm from wrist to elbow, with a loop at one end and a piece of wood providing a knob at the other. The knob was thrust into the loop to bind the hind legs of the cow, should it be fidgety. The farmer or the cowherd doing the milking always carried the buarach, or spancel, when bringing the cows home.
The man in the field stopped when he saw them and then began to hurry towards the farmstead, leaving his cows to their own devices.
Fidelma glanced towards Caol and Gormán, noticing them slide their hands to rest on their swordhilts.
‘Easy,’ she said. ‘The man has a right to be cautious at the sight of strangers.’
They turned their horses through a gate in the stone fence and into the farmyard. The man was now standing before his door, the spancel held almost as a weapon in his hands.
‘That’s far enough!’ he called sharply before they had reached him. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘There is no call for alarm,’ Fidelma said pleasantly. ‘We are travellers looking for the fortress of the chieftain of the Cinél Cairpre. We also need to rest, water our horses and take refreshment for ourselves. The sun is setting and soon it will be dark.’
‘I know the time well enough. Stay still, all of you. I must warn you that there are arrows aimed at you, and if you move you will die. I want the warriors to disarm and get down from their horses.’
They sat still for a moment, hardly believing what the man said, for he continued in a quiet and reasonable tone: ‘You think I am joking? My boys have their hunting bows strung. Ciar, loose a shot at the post behind me!’
A second later, a hunting arrow sped over the man’s head and embedded itself in the post.
‘My boys are good shots, so take heed,’ added the man without bothering to observe how the arrow had landed.
Fidelma said quietly: ‘Do as he says.’
‘Gently now,’ snapped the farmer. ‘Throw down your swords to the right and dismount to the left. You, woman, remain seated.’
Caol and Gormán took off their sword belts and let them drop as instructed before dismounting.
Immediately, a small boy ran from an outhouse, gathered the weapons in one hand and the reins in another, leading the horses away.
‘Now, warriors, move to one side. Remain seated, woman, for there is an arrow still aimed at you. No tricks now.’
As if at a hidden signal, a young man emerged with some rope and expertly tied the hands of Caol and Gormán behind them.
‘Now you may alight, woman,’ instructed the farmer.
Fidelma did so. Once again the small boy ran out to lead her horse away. A second young man now emerged; he was holding a long bow nearly two metres high, with an arrow loosely strung but ready to draw at a moment’s notice.