It was just beyond Rath na Drinne that the forest eventually ended on the edge of an extensive grassy plain — the Plain of Femen which reached all the way to the Field of Honey by the side of the River Siúr. It was why the Eóghanacht, centuries before, had chosen their capital overlooking the plain controlling the wealth and security of the kingdom. To the south-west on the horizon rose the Sliabh na gCoillte, the Forest Mountains, and among them the strange waters of the Lake of the Dragon’s Mouth. It was here that the old God of Love, Aonghus Óg, found the tall maiden, Cáer, whom he had sought because she had appeared to him in a dream. On declaring their love, the pair had transformed into swans, circling the lake symbolically three times before disappearing off to the Land of Enchantment. Eadulf smiled. He had heard these tales many times from the old storytellers in Cashel. They were the legends of Fidelma’s people — her ancestors.
Then the smile dropped from his face. Fidelma’s people? Not his. He was suddenly aware of what his brother, Egric, had said. Was he simply a stranger in a strange land; a land in which he didn’t belong? Why was he questioning himself after all these years? Had he deluded himself that he had been accepted into this new culture? Was it his brother’s comments that had disturbed him? Or was it old Brehon Aillín’s prejudice? Indeed, was it the newfound prejudice of Brother Madagan. . Had people simply been tolerating him, smiling to his face and viewing him with dislike behind his back? Eadulf swallowed hard. This was not right, this stream of dark thoughts.
Everything had been peaceful until Egric appeared and started to question his motives. What right had Egric to do so? He had made his own life. The brothers had taken separate paths. Why had he emerged now, at such a time and at this place? He had appeared abruptly at Cashel and now, even more abruptly, had vanished on a hunting trip with Dego. Gone without taking leave; without a word of warning. It was curious. Eadulf trusted Dego. The warrior had accompanied Fidelma and himself on numerous trips; they had shared many dangers. Dego was reliable. Surely Dego respected Eadulf? He would not dismiss him as a stranger of no importance. He would never have been persuaded to take Egric hunting without being assured that Eadulf was aware of the trip. Ah, now those bleak thoughts came over him like a flood. Was he deluding himself that this was his home or. . It was surely Egric who had conjured these cheerless, negative thoughts into his mind!
That was it; it was his brother reminding him of the ghosts of the past, his family and boyhood home. But Eadulf had never rejected them; he had never denied them. He had simply grown up and moved on. That was exactly what he had told his brother. Vestigia nulla retrorsum — no footsteps backwards. He experienced a curious thrill of hatred because his brother had disturbed his life. Then he rebuked himself sharply for this train of thought. What of Fidelma? What of their son Alchú? What of the times he had shared with them in their world? Was he now beginning to believe he was in the wrong place? Of course not! This was the world that he had wanted to share; it was his world, not an alien one.
His mind drifted back to that first encounter with Fidelma in the Abbey of Hilda at Streonshalh. He had gone there with no other purpose but to represent the new teachings from Rome; to argue against the old rites of the western churches, so fiercely represented by the religious representatives of the Five Kingdoms. He had been walking along a corridor in the abbey when she had come swiftly round a corner and collided with him, her mind clearly elsewhere. He had reached out and caught her, to save her stumbling backwards and falling. Some empathy had sparked from her green eyes as he gazed at her tumbled red hair, her pale skin and delicate sprinkling of freckles. She had spoken stiffly in Latin: ‘Forgive me.’ He politely replied that it had been his fault. They had stood there for a moment — a moment when pure chemistry had passed between them. Then they had continued on their separate ways.
It was a few days later, after her friend Abbess Étain had been murdered and the outcome of the debate between the two factions had been jeopardised by the suspicions of both parties, when King Oswy and Abbess Hilda had suggested that Fidelma and Eadulf jointly investigate the mystery, so that neither faction could claim bias. They had been thrown together, strangers to each other apart from that one accidental meeting. Now, six or seven years later, they were still working together and had produced a young son. Of course Eadulf was no alien to this land, he was no alien. .
‘Brother Eadulf!’ a voice bellowed in his ear and a firm hand was clapped on his shoulder.
Eadulf blinked rapidly and found he was leaning dangerously off his horse; the only thing preventing him from falling was the steadying hand of the warrior, Luan. Eadulf righted himself in the saddle and raised a hand to rub his forehead.
‘You were drifting, Brother Eadulf,’ rebuked Luan. ‘I saw you nodding off.’
‘Were you falling asleep, athair?’ Alchú, seated on his pony, was regarding him gravely.
Eadulf turned and smiled reassuringly at him. ‘I was just thinking, little hound. Just thinking.’
‘Are you well, friend Eadulf?’ asked Luan anxiously. ‘Perhaps we should return.’
‘I was awake most of the night,’ Eadulf confessed. Then, seeing the look of disappointment on his son’s face, he went on: ‘I’ll be fine. Ferloga’s inn is just a little way on. We’ll go on and rest there before turning back.’
He turned his concentration to his horse, annoyed with himself for letting his brother’s unexpected appearance have such an effect on him.
Earlier that morning, having seen Eadulf ride off with Alchú and Luan, Fidelma set out to find Gormán. She wanted to make sure that Deogaire had spent the night safely in restraint. Having been so assured, she asked Gormán to accompany her to the roof of the guest quarters, to re-examine it in daylight. Things missed in the darkness of night might reveal themselves more clearly in the daylight. She started with the place where the marble statue of Aoife had been and saw where the iron bar or lever had been placed to ease it forward, leaving score-marks on the parapet.
She turned and said, ‘Gormán, one of your men found an iron bar on the roof last night. It was used to topple the statue. I think he might have abandoned it by the door over there when we chased down the other exit.’
Gormán went across to the door and immediately returned with the piece of iron, which measured over a metre in length. Both ends had been hammered flat, thus producing an ideal tool for the purpose it had been put to the previous night.
‘This looks like a forsua-fert. It’s a smithy’s work to produce this,’ Gormán commented.
Fidelma held out her hands and took it. A ‘pole chisel’ was usually used in digging roots of a tree, or moving blocks of masonry or objects long sunken in the soil. The iron was certainly heavy and would have had to be raised to shoulder height or a little higher, to dig at the base of the statue. It would need a person of strength and determination to do so. ‘Could our smith identify it and perhaps lead us to its user?’ she wondered aloud.
‘It’s a common enough tool,’ Gormán replied. ‘Come to think of it, some of the workmen repairing the wall at the south-east corner were using similar tools to shift the rockfall. However, the smithy might be worth questioning.’