‘Do we have a plan, friend Eadulf?’ asked Gormán, following him.
‘There is only one plan — to follow them. I wish we had a better one,’ replied Eadulf. ‘We must follow the river north to this Durlus Éile and keep our eyes open for any sign of a likely landing-place along the bank which the abductors might have used. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ Gormán replied solemnly. ‘But what if, by the time we reach Durlus Éile, we have discovered no trace or found no lead — what then?’
‘Let us hope that we do,’ Eadulf said with fervour. ‘This is a big country and there are plenty of places where Fidelma might be taken. Remember, as a dálaigh, she has many enemies — and who is to say this may not be a mission of revenge that has taken her from us.’ He thought for a moment before adding: ‘The first person we meet heading south to Cashel, if we think that they are to be trusted, must take a message to her brother Colgú to tell him what has happened.’
Gormán nodded slowly, before suddenly realising, with some surprise, that the throbbing of his head no longer bothered him. The infusion that Eadulf had mixed seemed to have worked, even though the wound was still sore. He began to pick up their belongings, tie them together and take them to the horses, ensuring that their mounts had a drink at the river first.
Eadulf went to where Fidelma had been sleeping and collected her cloak and marsupium. Her personal cíorbholg, or comb bag, was also there. She usually had it belted around her waist or in her marsupium. It was a sign of how swift the abduction had been. She would scarcely move without it. He also realised that not all of Gormán’s belongings had been collected.
‘I think you have forgotten something, Gormán,’ he called, pointing to where a blanket still lay near the fire. By it was a leather bag which had a long strap to sling it across one’s shoulder.
Gormán stared for a moment. ‘I thought they might belong to you or the Lady Fidelma,’ he muttered, ‘but …’
‘They must belong to the poet, Torna,’ Eadulf said, bending down and picking up the satchel. There were a few items of clothing in it and some pieces of vellum and two quills, a knife in a sheath but nothing else. The vellum had some writing on it, but it was in the old form of writing, Ogham, which was named after the ancient God of Literacy and Learning, Ogma. Eadulf groaned. ‘Ego senito bardus!’
‘What?’ Gormán was puzzled.
‘I am stupid!’ translated Eadulf. ‘This changes my conclusion about Torna. Had he been part of this abduction plan, he would not have left his bag and sleeping blanket discarded in this manner. He has been carried off as well.’
Gormán shrugged. ‘It still does not bring us any nearer to what happened, or why, friend Eadulf. Nor does it give us any further information as to where Fidelma’s abductors have taken her. In fact, it adds further questions.’
‘Which are?’ grunted Eadulf, still displeased with himself for not noticing Torna’s belongings before. ‘Aren’t there enough to answer already?’
‘Why would Fidelma’s abductors be content to leave us behind but take the poet — unless he was a victim of the abduction?’
Eadulf gazed thoughtfully at him. ‘We have been assuming that the object of the abduction was Fidelma.’
‘Of course, she is sister to the King and a prominent Brehon who has made many enemies. It is a logical assumption that she would be the object of the abductors,’ replied the warrior. ‘But what if she was not?’
‘Hmm, so if it was this young man, Torna, who was the intended victim, what if they, whoever they are, came for him — and when we awoke they were content to knock us unconscious. But because Fidelma was a woman and a witness, they decided to take her as well.’
‘But who would want to abduct a poet?’ sighed Gormán.
It was not long before they were riding northwards along the riverbank, with Gormán leading Fidelma’s horse, Aonbharr, behind him. Some sections of the way were muddy; mostly the land was flat and open, while drier parts led through woodland. They had been travelling some way before Eadulf broke the silence.
‘What’s that hill?’ he asked, indicating a small rise immediately to the east of them. Apart from the distant hills ahead and those beyond the great River Suir to the west of them, this was the only high ground along their path. Eadulf knew that high ground could often be dangerous, supplying a hiding-place, a sentinel post, a point for ambush. The mysterious attack and abduction had left him jumpy, and he constantly examined the ground around them as they rode.
‘That is Feart Éanna — the grave of Éanna,’ said Gormán. ‘There is nothing there but a cairn to mark the grave. I think a small farmstead lies just beyond it by a small river which flows into the Suir, but I know little else about it.’
Eadulf continued to peer at the round hillock. ‘And who was this Éanna?’
‘Éanna Airgethech was a King of Muman, so long ago that we cannot count the years. He was called Éanna of the Silver Shield and he reigned for three times nine years, but was slain in battle. That was in the days long before Eóghan Mór, the founder of the race of the Eóghanacht.’
At any other time Eadulf would have been interested, but now he was only concerned as to whether the hill hid any dangers for them.
‘Is it worth checking this farmstead?’ he asked.
‘Not if we are following a boat. We should keep to the river.’
They pressed on again in silence. They could see no boats on the water. The countryside too seemed deserted. There were no farmworkers in the bare fields because all were now stripped of crops. The harvest was over. Nor did there seem any sign of herdsmen or boys attending to the cattle or sheep that they occasionally caught sight of in the distance. It was a clear day with only a few wispy clouds very high in the bright blue canopy over them. The sun was reflected in a milliard of winking bright sparks over the surface of the river.
‘We are coming up to the point where the river bends towards the east soon,’ Gormán broke the silence. ‘There is a ferry there, and if, as you say, the abductors have passed along that route, then we might get information from the ferryman.’
‘Perhaps we should be careful?’ suggested Eadulf. ‘If the abductors came by boat, then the ferryman might be involved.’
Gormán shook his head. ‘It is only a small ferry-crossing and it has been there since I have known it. As I recall, the ferry is run by a man and his wife, and they have a son who helps them.’
Eadulf knew that ferryboats were common on the rivers throughout the Five Kingdoms. Each ferryboat and owner were subject to strict laws and regulations on ownership and management. Sometimes the ferries were owned by individuals; at other times they were owned in common by the people who lived in the settlements along the banks of the river. Churches and religious communities also had the right to own their own ferry, but on condition that people wishing to cross the river were allowed free right of passage.
The ferryman’s house was soon revealed as a log cabin almost hidden among the trees that grew close to the riverbank. They could see, as they approached, that the ether, or ferryboat, was only a small one that could be pulled by two oarsmen and seat four passengers. It was tied to a small wooden jetty which was a short distance away from the cabin. There were no other dwellings in the vicinity. Obviously the sound of their approach had been heard inside the cabin, for the door opened and a short, muscular man with greying hair came out.
‘I cannot take horses to the other side,’ he told them, gazing at their mounts.
‘We do not come seeking the use of your ferry,’ replied Gormán. ‘A beaker of lind and the answer to a few questions would serve our wants.’