Fidelma sank down thankfully onto the log to recover her breath. She glanced up towards the hut.
‘Aren’t we too close to the abbey to rest for a while? If the abbey is attacked then the attackers may well march in this direction.’
Eadulf shook his head. ‘I think we will be safe for a while yet.’
‘I would prefer to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the abbey, but …’ She shrugged. She was too weak to argue with him.
Eadulf left her and made his way towards the woodsman’s hut. From the outside it appeared deserted as there were no dogs or other animals about. But the wisp of smoke indicated there was a fire lit inside and where there was a fire there must be someone to stoke it. He walked confidently to the door. Then he saw a horse, still saddled, with its reins hitched to a nearby post. It was blowing a little as if it had just had a hard ride. It was a black mare.
He drew near and was about to raise his fist to the door to announce his presence when a scream stopped him. It was a female scream which ended in a peal of laughter. Then a voice, a woman’s voice, began to speak. The words were punctuated with squeals and groans.
‘Come, lover … oh, it is good … good … oh …’
It was obvious what was taking place inside and Eadulf dropped his arm. He felt a surge of embarrassment. Then he suddenly realised, with some shock, that the voice was speaking in the language of Éireann.
He hesitated, wondering what to do. Half of him wanted to turn away and the other half of him was curious to know who was speaking in such a fashion.
He suppressed his embarrassment and moved cautiously along the wall to where he had seen a window. There was no glass in it and the piece of sacking was torn. He edged near and took a quick glance into the hut. Then, ascertaining that he was not being observed by those inside, he took a longer look, feeling like some heteroclite; like some perverted peeper.
He saw what he had expected to see: a man and woman making love. It seemed that the woman was more active than the man, talking and moaning all the time. She was young and slim, with a shock of reddish-blonde hair. Above her naked body was a thick-set man of middle age. The first thing that Eadulf noticed about him was that he wore the tonsure of St Peter. Then the man raised his face but, fortunately for Eadulf, his good eye was tight shut in his ecstasy. The other was still covered by its leather patch.
It was Brother Willibrod, the dominus of Aldred’s Abbey.
Eadulf turned swiftly away, swallowing hard. He paused for a moment, gathering his breath, and then went back down the hill and through the woods to where Fidelma was patiently waiting.
‘We will get no hospitality there,’ he said shortly, responding to her questioning look. ‘We should move on immediately.’
Fidelma saw his anxiety and did not press him with questions. Eadulf would tell her what disturbed him in his own good time.
They moved as fast as her ability allowed and it was not long before they found that their road, if they intended to proceed south to Tunstall, had to cross the River Aide. Fast flowing and icy cold, it was too deep to wade across. Eadulf had forgotten that, being denied the use of the bridge by the abbey, they would have to continue along the river bank until they came to a suitable ford, which might take them miles out of their way.
They had managed to walk a distance of what he judged to be a further two miles or so when Fidelma said: ‘I am sorry, Eadulf, I must rest for a little while again.’
Eadulf could see that she was exhausted. He realised that they ought to find some shelter and soon. He stopped, and then was glad that he had halted, otherwise he might not have heard thesound. It was a creaking of wood, overlaid by a squeal of protest. Then a heavy snort.
‘A heavy wagon,’ commented Fidelma, whose hearing was acute.
‘Wait here,’ muttered Eadulf and moved hurriedly forward towards the track from which the sound was emanating. The track proved to be close by and led down to the river. A heavy-looking, four-wheeled wagon pulled by two mules came swaying along it, driven by a man in a leather jerkin. He had a ruddy face and heavy jowls. Seated by him was a second man with a swarthy complexion. The driver was easing the wagon down the incline towards the river with the obvious intention of crossing.
Eadulf seized the opportunity without thinking further. He stepped through the bushes almost into the path of the wagon.
‘Good day, brothers!’
Startled, the driver heaved on the reins, bringing the vehicle to a halt. His companion’s hand went to the knife in his belt. When they saw that they were being accosted by a religious, they both relaxed a little.
‘Good day, Brother,’ the driver said in a strangely accented voice.
Eadulf raised his voice so that Fidelma could hear him and would come to join him.
‘Forgive me, brothers, but are you travelling southwards?’
‘As you can see,’ replied the driver. ‘We are bound for the port of Gipeswic.’
‘Ah,’ smiled Eadulf. ‘My companion is exhausted and our destination lies a few miles along your road. Is it possible that you might have room on your wagon? It would facilitate our crossing the river.’
The driver was frowning, a refusal forming on his lips. Eadulf heard Fidelma come up behind him. The driver suddenly relaxed and glanced at his companion who nodded briefly.
‘There is room, indeed, Brother. We are merchants from Frankia. Forgive our wariness but it is said that outlaws throng these woods. Your companion seems to be from the land of Éireann.’
‘How did you know?’ Fidelma smiled weakly.
‘By the cut of your robes, Sister. We come from Péronnewhere there is a community of Irish religious under their abbot named Ultan.’
Eadulf looked surprised. ‘Ultan? Surely he is bishop at Ard Macha?’
Fidelma was indulgent in her explanation: ‘It is a name given to any man from the kingdom of Ulaidh. But I know the Ultan you mean,’ she said, turning to the Frankish merchants. ‘He is brother to Fursa who once led a mission to this land of the East Angles.’
Eadulf’s eyes widened a little. ‘That Ultan still lives and is abbot in Frankia?’
The driver grinned. ‘He was when we left six months ago to bring some trade to this land.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Get down, Dado, and help the good sister into the wagon. Have you travelled far, Brother?’ This to Eadulf. ‘Your companion looks tired and weak.’
‘We have travelled some distance,’ Eadulf replied ingenuously. ‘We are most grateful for your charity.’
They climbed onto the wagon and seated themselves behind the driver, a man called Dagobert, and his companion Dado. Eadulf noticed the wagon was full of trade goods. Many were local items which he realised must have been swapped for the goods brought from Frankia.
‘Have you had a successful journey, brothers?’ inquired Eadulf as the wagon lurched forward, continuing down towards the river.
‘There is little trade in this poor land, Brother,’ the driver replied, as he cracked his whip over the heads of the mules.
‘There seems a scarcity of gold and jewellery in your land,’ added his companion, Dado. ‘We brought some plate garnet and amethyst. Your smiths seemed to want our Frankish coin only to melt it down to use the gold.’ Dado pursed his lips and made a spitting sound without actually spitting. ‘The smiths here seem a poor lot. And the pottery production!’ He raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Many still seem to construct their vessels without a potter’s wheel and bake it with an uneven firing by building nothing more elaborate than a bonfire over a stack of sun-dried pots. What do these people have to trade? We shall not be coming this way again.’
Eadulf felt a little uncomfortable at these merchants’ assessment of his homeland.