Fidelma had hurried back from her pilgrimage to the Tomb of St James when she had heard of his troubles, and she had come to defend him. He could not leave her now; leave without seeing her, leave and let her think that he did not … He frowned. Think that he did not — what? He felt confused at the complexity of his own thoughts. Then he made up his mind. Fidelma was still in Fearna. He had no choice: he must return and find her.
‘Ut fata trahunt!’ he muttered, standing up. The Latin literally meant‘as the fates drag’, an expression that recognised that he had limited control over his destiny. It was the only way that he could explain the decision that he felt had already been made for him.
He turned and began to walk along the bank of the rivulet, facing the flow of its gushing waters and moving up towards the hills. A few kilometres in the distance, the tall peaks began to rise more steeply in a line, their rounded tops stretching like a barrier before him. He had no plan; he did not know how he would contact Fidelma once he returned to Fearna. Indeed, having heard of his removal from the abbey, Fidelma might have already left town. The thought niggled at him. Yet he could not leave without making the attempt to contact her. He left it to the mercy of destiny.
Dego and Enda exchanged an anxious glance.
Since finishing her breakfast, Fidelma had fallen into a silent meditation. The two young warriors became impatient.
‘What now, lady?’ Dego finally ventured, in a loud voice. ‘What should we do?’
Fidelma stirred after a moment. She looked blankly at Dego before registering his question in her mind. Then she smiled wryly at her companions.
‘I am sorry,’ she said contritely. ‘I have been turning over the facts in my mind and I seem to be getting no nearer to discovering a thread which links the events, let alone finding a motive as to why these people have been killed.’
‘Is knowing the motive so important?’ asked Dego.
‘Know the motive and you usually know the culprit,’ affirmed Fidelma.
‘Did we not agree the other night that Gabrán appeared to be the thread?’ Enda reminded her.
‘It was precisely his role in this mystery that I have been attempting to analyse.’
‘Why don’t we seek Gabrán out and ask him?’ returned Enda.
Fidelma chuckled softly at his directness.
‘While I am wasting my time in trying to put those pieces into some order, you come straight to the point. You have reminded me that I am ignoring my own rule; that of not making assumptions before gathering the facts.’
Dego and Enda rose together eagerly.
‘Then let us find this boatman, for the sooner he is found, lady, the sooner you will have your facts,’ Dego said.
Smoke was rising from a small copse a little distance ahead of Eadulf: it must be smoke from someone’s fire. Hunger, cold and weariness made Eadulf’s decision for him. He moved on through the small wood and found a large clearing beyond, in which was situated a cabin by a tiny stream. It was a sturdy, stone-built affair; low-roofed and thatched. He paused for he realised that there was something curious about the clearing. It was flat and seemed to have been raked free of any obstacles except, at various points surrounding the cabin, and at unequal distances from it, heavy posts had been driven into the ground. It was as if they formed a pattern. On the top of each post were notches that had been chipped into them.
Eadulf had been long enough in the five kingdoms of Éireann to realised that the notches were Ogham, the ancient writing named after the old god of literacy and learning, Ogma. Fidelma could read the old script easily but he had never mastered it, for it represented words that were archaic and obscure. He wondered what these posts symbolised. He had, at first, thought he was coming to a woodsman’s cabin but he had never seen one with such a curious structure of posts around it.
He took a few steps forward, noting the dead and dying autumnal leaves which seemed to be scattered in profusion at a certain distance from the cabin and then, curiously, everything was swept clear of leaves all around the cabin within this border. Eadulf was perplexed and took another step forward, feeling the crunch of leaves underfoot.
‘Who is it?’ demanded a strong masculine voice, and a man appeared in the door of the cabin.
Eadulf saw that he was of medium height with long straw-coloured hair. His face was in the shade of the doorway but Eadulf saw that he was a well-muscled man with a warrior’s build and, indeed, the impression seemed to be confirmed by the balance of his body, the way he stood poised as if ready to meet any threat.
‘Someone who is cold and hungry,’ answered Eadulf lightly, taking a step forward.
‘Stay still!’ snapped the man in the doorway. ‘Keep on the leaves.’ Eadulf frowned at the request. ‘I am no threat to you,’ he offered, wondering whether the man was deranged in some way.
‘You are a stranger — a Saxon, by your accent. Are you alone?’
‘As you can see,’ replied Eadulf in growing puzzlement.
‘Are you alone?’ insisted the man.
Eadulf became irritated. ‘Don’t you trust the evidence of your own eyes?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Of course I am alone.’
The man in the doorway inclined his head a fraction and in that movement the shadow left his face. It had been a handsome face but there was an old burn mark across his brow and eyes, searing the flesh.
‘Why, you are blind!’ Eadulf ejaculated in surprise.
The man started back, nervously.
Eadulf held up a hand, palm outwards in a gesture of peace, and then, realising the futility of the gesture, let it fall.
‘Have no fear. I am alone. I am Brother …’ he hesitated. Perhaps his name might have travelled through this kingdom even to the blind. ‘I am a Saxon Brother of the Faith.’
The man tilted his head to one side.
‘You seem unwilling to give me your name. Why is that?’ he asked sharply.
Eadulf glanced round. The place seemed isolated enough and surely this blind man could do him no harm.
‘My name is Brother Eadulf,’ he said.
‘And you are alone?’
‘I am.’
‘What are you doing alone in this area? It is bleak and isolated. Why would a Saxon Brother be travelling through these hills?’
‘It is a long story,’ replied Eadulf.
‘I have plenty of time,’ returned the other grimly.
‘But I am weary and, moreover, cold and hungry.’
The man hesitated as if making a decision.
‘My name is Dalbach. This is my cabin. You are welcome to a bowl of broth. It is fresh made from badger meat and I have bread and mead to complement it.’
‘Badger meat? Now that is good fare, indeed,’ observed Eadulf, knowing that many of the people of Éireann considered it a choice dish. In the ancient tale, didn’t Moiling the Swift, as a sign of esteem, promise to procure a dish of badger meat for the great warrior Fionn Mac Cumhail?
‘Over your meal you may tell me something of your story, Brother Eadulf. Walk forward now, directly to me.’
Eadulf walked towards him and Dalbach held out his hand in greeting.Eadulf took it. It was a firm grasp. Still gripping his hand, the blind man raised his other to lightly touch Eadulf’s face and trace his features. Eadulf was not startled by this for he remembered the case of Móen, the blind, deaf mute of Araglin whose method of ‘seeing’ was by touch. He stood patiently until the blind man was satisfied as to his investigation.
‘You are used to the inquisitiveness of the blind, Brother Saxon,’ he finally observed, dropping his hand.
‘I know that you but wish to “see” my features,’ agreed Eadulf.
The man smiled. It was the first time he had done so.
‘You can tell much from a person’s face. I trust you, Brother Saxon. You have sympathetic features.’
‘That is a nice way of describing a lack of handsomeness,’ grinned Eadulf.