Gormán eased his sword from its sheath and glanced swiftly about him.
Then a voice cut through the silence. It came from a copse, beyond an area of undergrowth a short distance along the bank. It was a man’s baritone, raised in melancholy song.
‘Dark and grim is this life
No soft bed to lie on.
Just the cold, frosty earth
And the harsh, icy wind.
Even the birds now refuse me their song
In the shade of the cold, unfriendly sun …’
The voice suddenly halted as the singer appeared through the bushes, his hands full of green shoots and fungi which he had apparently been gathering.
He was a young man with a mass of fair, curly hair, blue eyes and regular features. The tumble of hair came to his shoulders, where it mingled with a full beard which, unlike his hair, was well trimmed and combed. While his clothing was somewhat worn, it was of good quality and one would have pronounced him a person of quality even though he wore no jewellery or emblems to mark his clan or rank.
He stood still, gazing up at them, noting their clothing and Gormán’s half-drawn weapon.
‘No need for a sword, warrior,’ the young man greeted him. Then he moved forward, ignoring them, to put down his forage by the cooking fire, before turning to face them again. ‘Welcome, strangers, to my poor fire. You are all welcome to share my frugal meal.’
‘Frugal?’ sniffed Eadulf, indicating the large brown trout on the spit and the two others in the kettle.
‘I admit I have been lucky with the trout that obligingly leaped from the river on to my hook,’ laughed the man. ‘But apart from that, I can offer little else, not even a jug of ale.’
‘How long have you been encamped here?’ snapped Gormán, his hand still on his sword.
‘Since late afternoon,’ replied the young man, lifting an eyebrow slightly at the tone in the warrior’s voice. ‘Have I offended anyone by doing so?’
‘No one that I am aware of,’ replied Fidelma. ‘We just wondered how came you here. I see no sign of a horse other than our own mounts.’
‘That is because I travel on foot, lady.’ He pointed to his feet. ‘I have to confess that it is not by preference but by necessity. I came here expecting to find a boat to take me downriver, not a deserted tavern and chapel. So I am stuck here for the night until I can find a better means of transport.’
‘Have you seen anyone else around here?’ enquired Fidelma.
‘You are the first people I have seen since I arrived.’
‘You have not noticed a couple, a man and woman on horseback?’ When the man shook his head, she pressed: ‘Nor a religieux, also on horseback?’
The young man pointed to Eadulf with a broad smile. ‘Do you mean other than this one?’ Then, seeing Fidelma’s scowl he immediately assumed a more serious expression. ‘No, I have not. Why are you looking for them?’
‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,’ Fidelma suggested. ‘What is your name?’
The young man turned his blue eyes on her. ‘You seem very curious about these people,’ he countered, ignoring her question. ‘Does something concern you?’
‘Your name!’ rapped out Gormán, his eyes narrowing and his sword hand tensed.
The young man held up his hand, palm outwards. ‘Hold hard, I am not hiding my name. It is … Torna.’
‘And where do you come from, Torna?’ Fidelma asked, hearing the slight hesitation before he gave his name.
The young man shrugged. ‘I am from an insignificant clan to the north and am merely following this river as I believe it will take me to the rich townships of the King of Muman.’
‘And why would you wish to go there?’ said Fidelma.
‘Because I am told that the King is appreciative of good verse and will be generous to a wandering bard.’
Fidelma smiled, perhaps a little grimly. ‘And are you a wandering bard, Torna? Do you have good verses to sell?’
‘Modesty prevents me from boasting but since you ask, lady, my verses are well regarded.’
‘Well, you bear a good name for a bard. Torna Eigeas’s verses are still sung today while he lived long ago.’
‘As I say, modesty forbids me from comparing myself to such a noble ancestor.’
‘That is wise,’ Eadulf observed dryly. ‘Because someone’s ancestor did something well, it does not mean that they are just as good.’ He had taken a dislike to the young man’s attitude.
The young man flushed. ‘Are you a philosopher, my Saxon friend?’
‘Neither philosopher nor Saxon,’ replied Eadulf curtly. ‘I am an Angle.’
‘Angle or Saxon, they are both the same,’ dismissed the young bard. Eadulf knew that in the eyes of the peoples of the west, this was true and he would never change their opinion. Now and then, when irritated, he would still try to correct them.
Fidelma was dismounting, with Gormán and Eadulf following her example.
‘Well, Torna the Bard, I am Fidelma of Cashel. This is my husband, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, and this is Gormán of my brother’s bodyguard.’
Torna’s eyes widened. ‘Then you are related to the King of Muman?’
‘I am his sister.’
‘Then forgive my manners, lady. I did not expect to meet with such exalted company on this riverbank.’
Fidelma indicated the roasting spit. ‘I think your fish might be in need of attention.’
The young man hurriedly removed the trout and placed the other fish on the spit in its place. Gormán took their mounts and tethered them nearby while Fidelma found a log for a seat and continued her conversation.
‘So you are a wandering bard intent on selling your songs in Cashel?’
‘That I am, lady.’
‘Why did you stop here?’
‘I was told in Durlus Éile that there was a chapel and a tavern at this spot where I could get a boat to take me downriver. When I reached here I found the place deserted, indeed, most of it burned down. Nor were there signs of passing boats on the river. I could have carried on by foot, but I was not sure how far I would have to go, to find another place to sell my poems for a night’s repose. Nor did I think it wise to travel down unknown roads in darkness. So I decided that I would wait until daylight before journeying on.’
Gormán had returned and was looking at the young man with a suspicious gaze. He glanced at Fidelma and said: ‘You may want to check your horse, lady, to ensure that it is tethered correctly.’
When Fidelma joined him at the spot where the horses were tethered, he whispered: ‘I have done a thorough check, lady. There is no sign of any other horses, nor of a woman or a religieux. Perhaps they all moved north when they saw this place was ruined and deserted. Even so, I do not trust this one.’ He indicated the poet with a slight movement of his eyes.
‘Well, we will have to spend the night here anyway,’ she replied. ‘Continue to be watchful.’
When they returned to the fire, Gormán asked the young poet: ‘If you were travelling south along the river, then you would surely have passed a ferryman’s cabin a short distance up from here. Why didn’t you stop there? He might have known of a boat going south.’
‘Had I been coming along the river then I might have done so,’ returned the young man easily. ‘However, I tried a short cut across land at the place where the river bends. I must have missed the ferryman’s place.’
Gormán frowned. ‘Then how did you know it was a short cut?’ he demanded.
The young man chuckled. ‘You are a very suspicious person, my friend. I did not know it was a short cut until a farmer advised me to take it.’
‘How far have you come?’ asked Fidelma.
‘North of Sliabh Bladhma,’ he replied, indicating the direction where a group of mountains formed the northern border of her brother’s kingdom. ‘I decided to see what fortune held for me in the Kingdom of the Eóghanacht.’