‘And since then?’
His expression was bitter. ‘Since then I have been a wandering bard, singing my songs, telling my stories, and hoping that-’ He suddenly stopped.
‘Hoping?’ Fidelma said gently, after a moment or two of silence. ‘Hoping for what?’
The young man shrugged. ‘That, I do not know. My life would be that much simpler if I did.’
‘Did you ever go back to your parents, your family and clan?’
‘I cannot!’ The words were harshly said. ‘They are dead to me while the chieftain who held me captive still lives. The sorry remnants of my clan have to pay tribute to him. I could not find sanctuary with them because he would send his warriors to punish them further. That is why I wander; still hoping people will buy my mournful melodies.’
‘I understand.’ She realised how useless all the platitudes were about time healing. She could have used his own imagery that, however high and strong the tide, it always ebbed away. But it would not have been appropriate to add anything to what had been said.
The young man leaned across to the fire and put more wood on it. An owl hooted softly in the trees behind them. Fidelma saw that both Eadulf and Gormán were still sound asleep.
‘It grows late,’ she said. ‘Sleep well, Torna.’
The young man answered with a soft grunt and sat staring into the flickering flames of the fire. She turned and wrapped herself in her cloak, then lay down near Eadulf, and was soon asleep.
Eadulf came awake, his eyes flickering open. He wondered what had disturbed him, then realised it was the horses, which were moving restlessly. He raised himself on one elbow and suddenly felt something heavy crash against his head, followed by the sensation of floating into a black bottomless pit.
It seemed only a moment before he was aware of a bright blinding light. He blinked a little and raised a hand to feel the back of his throbbing head. Then he remembered the restless horses and the blow to the back of his skull. He struggled to get to his feet, but could only make it on to his knees. There was a groaning: it was not coming from himself. It took Eadulf a few painful moments to locate it. Blinking and trying to focus, he saw Gormán sitting, trying to massage his head with both hands. Blood streaked down his face. The shock at seeing this had the effect of diminishing the ache in his own temples. Some sudden inner strength came to Eadulf and he peered around him.
The horses were still tethered where they had been when he went to sleep, but they remained restless, particularly Aonbharr, Fidelma’s horse. He was jerking at the reins that secured him, swinging his head from side to side; his eyes rolling and nostrils flaring. Eadulf turned back, rubbing his forehead to ease away the pain. The fire, with the firedogs over it, was just grey ash and it had obviously died some time before. Then he realised there was no sign of the young man, Torna. Eadulf’s mind was working too slowly. Shaking his head to clear it, he turned to his side: ‘Fidelma …?’
Then an icy coldness swept through him.
Her discarded cloak and marsupium were lying on the ground where she had been sleeping. There was no sign of Fidelma.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eadulf came unsteadily to his feet calling, ‘Fidelma!’ and peering myopically about. Moaning, Gormán began to realise that something was amiss and also rose to his feet, swaying, with one hand nursing his cut head.
‘What happened?’ he muttered thickly.
‘Fidelma is missing,’ replied Eadulf, his voice hoarse, his mind still in a haze. Then he added: ‘And that poet has disappeared as well.’
‘My head is aching,’ Gormán said in a rasping tone.
‘There is blood on it,’ Eadulf confirmed.
The warrior focused on his hand, seeing the blood on it. He blinked several times and then looked at Eadulf. ‘You have a lump on the side of your head,’ he finally commented, before stomping over to the river, kneeling by it and splashing his head and face. Eadulf stood looking about him. The riverbank was deserted.
‘We must find Fidelma!’ he exclaimed, his voice full of anxiety.
‘Friend Eadulf,’ replied Gormán, speaking slowly, ‘we cannot do anything until we have recovered our faculties and are able to think straight. I suggest you bathe your head and take a drink.’
Reluctantly, Eadulf accepted the logic of this advice. It was clear that something had struck Gormán’s head, breaking the skin and causing it to bleed. He examined the bump on his own head. It was swollen and tender but the skin was not broken. He crouched by the riverbank and began to bathe it. The cold water was soothing. He was more concerned with Gormán’s wound, which still seeped blood.
‘I have a salve in my bag,’ he said. ‘I should dress your wound, Gormán.’
The warrior returned to the fire and stirred the grey ashes. Some of them still glowed and, placing dried twigs on them, he soon had the fire alight again. By this time, Eadulf had found the little jar he was hunting for and instructed the warrior to sit down while he applied the ointment.
‘What is it?’ demanded the warrior.
Eadulf said impatiently, ‘It will not hurt you. It is a lotion made from an infusion of the petals of the marsh-marigold; it will help prevent the wound from becoming infected. It’s the best I can do.’
He applied the salve carefully to the other’s head. The blood had made the wound look worse than it actually was and Eadulf reckoned that it would soon heal naturally, provided no infection set in.
Gormán himself had been viewing Eadulf’s wound with a critical eye. ‘You certainly received a hefty blow, my friend.’
‘We both did,’ agreed Eadulf.
‘What happened?’
Eadulf replaced the little jar of ointment in his bag and sat, staring into the fire, for a moment.
‘I have been trying to remember. I know I woke up during the night. The horses were fidgety and they disturbed me. I recall wondering if anything was wrong, whether some animal had disturbed them. Then everything went black. I think I was struck from behind.’
The young warrior’s lips formed a grim line. ‘We were both hit on the head from behind. The lady, Fidelma, has been taken. But who did this? The poet — what was his name? Torna? — he is gone also.’
‘He must have had accomplices to do this.’
‘There was no one else nearby when we fell asleep.’
‘But one person alone could not have overcome Fidelma,’ said Eadulf. ‘And even if they had, she would have alerted us with her outcry.’
‘If only my head would stop throbbing, I would start a search. There must be signs of her struggle.’
Eadulf sighed. His own head was just as painful. Then his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of some plants at the edge of the nearby woods.
‘Clean that pot in the river,’ he instructed, pointing to one of the small cooking pots that the poet had been using the previous night. ‘Then put in some water — not too much, mind — and heat it over the fire.’
Gormán carried out the instruction without comment. Eadulf had risen and taken out his small knife before walking towards the edge of the wood and the plants that had attracted his interest: plants with broad leaves and purple flowers on upright, hairy stems. Bending down, he cut two of the plants and returned to the fire. Gormán watched him curiously as Eadulf trimmed the leaves and stem from the rest of the plant, and put them into the bubbling water.
‘What is that?’ he asked.
‘Something that will help chase away the pain,’ replied Eadulf. ‘It is a favourite healing plant among my people: we call it betony.’
Gormán glanced at the discarded flowers and then said approvingly, ‘It is lus beatha — the Plant of Life.’
Eadulf was a little impatient as he was preparing the infusion. He was anxious to start looking for the signs that would lead them to Fidelma, fearful of what harm might have befallen her. Gormán noticed his agitation.