‘You may ride behind either Dubán or Brother Eadulf. There is no problem.’
‘Then I will ride with Brother Eadulf,’ the old man announced. Eadulf went to get the horses and Gadra lowered his voice to Fidelma.
‘Your Eadulf speaks our language well.’
She coloured hotly.
‘He is a visitor to our country. A Saxon monk who has been trained in our colleges.’ She paused and added quietly, ‘And he is not my Eadulf.’
The amused bright eyes were suddenly fixed on her questioningly.
‘There is a warmness in your voice when you speak of this Saxon.’
Fidelma found her cheeks colouring even more fiercely.
‘He has been a good friend to me,’ she replied defensively.
Gadra studied her face closely.
‘Never deny your feelings, child, especially not to yourself.’
The old man went into his cabin before Fidelma could frame any reply. For a moment she felt annoyed and then she found herself smiling. Pagan or not, she liked the sincerity and wisdom in the old man. She turned to Dubán and found him watching her inquisitively.
‘I see that you like the old man in spite of your religious differences.’
‘Perhaps the differences are not so much once we remove the names we give to things. We are all sprang from the same common ancestry.’
‘Perhaps.’
The old man returned a moment later with a travelling cloak and a sacculus, a bag on a strap strung across his shoulder, in which he had obviously put the items he needed for the journey.
‘Tell me, brother Saxon,’ he said, as Eadulf helped him to mount the horse, ‘I presume my old antagonist Gormán is still at the rath?’
‘Father Gormán is the priest at Araglin.’
‘Not my father,’ muttered Gadra. ‘I do not object to calling anyone my brother or my sister but there are not many on this earth that I would acknowledge have the right to be called my father, especially one whose intolerance is like a canker eating away at his soul.’
Eadulf exchanged a glance with Fidelma at the old man’s vehemence but the Saxon’s amusement did not find a resonance in Fidelma’s eyes. She was solemn.
‘Have no concern of Gormán,’ she told the old man, as she swung up on her own mount. ‘Mine is the authority by which you come to the rath of Araglin.’
Gadra laughed or, at least, his sinewy body quivered with amusement.
‘Each person is their own authority, Fidelma,’ he said.
They began to make the return journey along the path through the great mountain forests. It seemed that some mutual unspoken agreement caused them to lapse into silence so that only the heavy snorting breath of their horses, treading the forest path, could be heard. Even the dark woods themselves were without sound in spite of the fact that it was still daylight above the gloomy canopy.
Fidelma was head down, deep in thought, trying to puzzle how this old man and, indeed, Teafa, could form any meaningful communication with someone who had Móen’s disabilities. She gave up the attempt after a while. The fact that he said he could do so was good enough for her for she accepted without question that Gadra was a man who spoke the truth. Didn’t the old wise ones use to say that by Truth the earth endures and by Truth we are delivered from our enemies?
She glanced back to Eadulf and wondered what he was thinking. He must be uncomfortable about the proximity of someone who rejected the New Faith and adhered to the ways of the ancient ones. Gadra had been right in his one word summation of Eadulf. He was practical; down to earth and pragmatic. He accepted what he was taught and once accepted he would adhere to those teachings without question or deviation. He was like a ponderous ship ploughing a stately way across an ocean. If so, then she was a light bark, speeding hither and thither, darting across the waves. Did she do him an injustice? She suddenly found herself remembering a maxim of Hesiod. Admire the little ship but put your cargo in a big one.
She gave a mental sigh and turned her mind back to the task in hand. She reflected on the evidence she had so far heard but at the end of her contemplation she realised there was nothing to be done until Gadra learnt what he could from Móen. Fidelma felt annoyance and, having questioned her annoyance, realised that she was impatient to get back to the rath and learn what Móen could tell them. Impatience was, she acknowledged, her biggest fault. She accepted Eadulf’s remonstration about her irritability and impatience. But she admitted that a restless spirit was at least a sign of being alive.
She was abruptly aware that Dubán had drawn rein and had raised one hand up to halt them.
He held his head cocked to one side in a listening attitude.
They stayed still for a moment or two. The warrior turned and gestured for them to dismount.
‘What is it?’ whispered Fidelma.
‘Several heavy-shod horses,’ replied Dubán in the same soft tone, ‘and riders who make little attempt to disguise their passage. Listen!’
She held her head to one side and found she could actually hear voices raised, shouting to one another.
Eyes narrowed, Dubán was looking around him.
‘Quickly,’ he instructed, still keeping his voice low, ‘let us lead our horses off the path into the forest. Through there,’ he thrust out a hand to indicate a route, ‘there are some rocks behind which we can conceal ourselves.’
Questions rose in Fidelma’s throat but she bit them back. When a trained warrior issued such advice it was not her place to debate with him.
They followed him as silently and rapidly as possible from the track into the forest, through the brush to the outcrop of rocks he indicated. Eadulf held the horses with Gadra by his side while Dubán and Fidelma moved to the edge of the rocks and crouched there observing the path.
The sound of a number of men on horseback was now easily identifiable and the noisy laughter and shouting of the riders showed they feared no opposition to their passage through the forests.
Fidelma glanced sideways at Dubán. The middle-aged warrior was frowning as he peered towards the path. He was clearly anxious.
‘What gives you concern?’ she whispered. ‘These are the forests of Araglin and you command the bodyguard of the chieftains. Why are we hiding?’
Dubán did not move his head and spoke softly out of the side of his mouth.
‘A warrior is told never to test the depth of a river with both feet.’
He paused, holding his head to one side.
‘Listen.’
Fidelma listened to the sounds of the approaching horses.
‘I am no warrior, Dubán. What do you hear?’
‘I hear the rattle of war harness, of swords bumping on shields, of the tread of heavy-shod horses. It tells me that the riders are armed men. If I see a hound in a sheep pen, I look first to see if it means harm to the sheep.’
He motioned her to silence.
The outline of figures on horseback could be seen through the brush and trees that stood between them and the forest track. There were about a dozen riders. They sat at ease on their mounts. Several of them wore light riding cloaks and carried rounded shields slung on their arms. A few of them carried long pointed spears.
At the end of the column of horsemen, being guided by long lead reins by the last riders, were half a dozen asses, sturdy pack animals, on whose backs were large covered panniers which appeared loaded and heavy.
That the riders had no idea that they were being observed was obvious. Coarse laughter echoed from their ranks and someone was exchanging ribald remarks about some member of the company.
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed. Bringing up the rear of this procession, after the asses, rode a man without a cloak. She could make out a bow, slung over one shoulder. But the other shoulder was in bandages with the arm supported by a sling.
She drew in a sharp breath.
The line of horsemen proceeded on its noisy way through the forests. They waited in silence until they could hear nothing more of th
e riders.
Slowly, Dubán rose to his feet, followed by Fidelma, and turned back to where Eadulf and Gadra stood by the horses.
‘I do not understand,’ Eadulf said immediately. ‘Why do we hide from these horsemen?’
Dubán was absently fingering his black beard.
‘I believe that they are the cattle raiders who have been worrying the farmsteads of Araglin.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Fidelma.
‘I saw a body of well-armed men who are strangers in this glen. Why are they here? We know that armed men have been raiding some of our farmsteads. Is it not logical that these are the same men?’
‘Logical enough,’ conceded Eadulf reluctantly.
‘If they were cattle raiders, why are they transporting those heavily laden asses? And to where?’
‘This road leads south out of these valleys towards the coast. You can be in Lios Mhór or Ard Mór in a short time from here,’ Gadra explained.
‘Is this a faster way of reaching Lios Mhór than the road which leads by Bressal’s hostel?’ queried Fidelma, remembering what Bressal had told her.
‘It is a full half a day quicker to reach Lios Mhór by this road than by Bressal’s hostel,’ confirmed the old man.
‘Whoever those men were,’ interposed Eadulf, ‘surely they would not harm us? I may be a stranger here but this I have learnt, it is not the custom to offer violence to those wearing the cloth of the Faith.’
‘My Saxon brother,’ Gadra laid a thin hand on Eadulf’s arm, ‘given a strong incentive, even the most established of customs may be broken. For protection you should rely only on your own common sense and not on what clothes you wear.’
‘Good advice,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘For we have met at least one of these men before.’
Eadulf’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
‘We have?’ he asked.
‘Where?’ demanded Dubán.
‘The one with his arm in the sling,’ went on Fidelma, unperturbed by their consternation, ‘was one of those shot by Eadulf two mornings ago when the hostel of Bressal was attacked. The arrow bit deep.’
‘Eadulf shot the attacker with an arrow?’
Old Gadra was gazing at Eadulf in unconcealed amazement. Then he began to chuckle.
Eadulf sniffed in annoyance.
‘Sometimes I rely on other means apart from the clothes I wear to defend myself,’ he said dryly.
Gadra clapped him on the shoulder.
‘I think I shall like you, brother Saxon. Sometimes I forget the need for the pragmatic. You cannot row across a river unless you have oars to do so.’
Eadulf was not quite sure how to interpret the old man’s remark but decided it was meant as something complimentary.
Dubán was still looking serious.
‘Are you sure that these are the men who attacked Bressal’s hostel?’
Fidelma nodded affirmatively.
‘We were witnesses to it.’
‘I think we must get back to the rath of Araglin as quickly as possible.’
‘What of Menma?’ Eadulf began, only to be silenced by Fidelma with a look of anger that made him blink.
Dubán turned to him with a frown, missing her warning glance.
‘What about Menma?’ he asked.
‘Eadulf was thinking of the need to protect the rath if these bandits attacked,’ Fidelma explained hastily.
Dubán shook his head.
‘Menma will not be of much help. But there is young Crítán and other of my warriors there. However, those outlaws are riding away from the direction of the rath so I would have no concern for the safety of it, brother.’
Eadulf shrugged, realising that for some reason or other Fidelma wanted to keep to herself her belief that Menma had been one of the raiding party at Bressal’s hostel. Fidelma gave him a withering look and began to lead her horse after Dubán.
Eadulf realised that Gadra was examining him with a knowing expression.
He turned irritably and began to lead his horse after Dubán and Fidelma, back to the track.
This time Dubán led them at a much faster pace than before, breaking into a canter whenever the path through the narrow defiles and under the low, overhanging branches allowed an easy passage.
It was after some minutes that Gadra, hanging on behind Eadulf, moved his mouth close to his ear.
‘Be comforted, my Saxon brother,’ the old man called so that only he could hear. ‘If you think twice before you speak, you will speak twice the better.’
Eadulf’s mouth closed in a tight line and he silently cursed the old man’s prescience.
Chapter Twelve
Crítán brought Móen into the guests’ hostel which Fidelma had deemed as the most appropriate place to question him, away from the environment of his imprisonment in the stables. Apart from Fidelma and Eadulf only Gadra was there. Dubán was discussing the matter of the cattle raiders with Crón.
There was a silence as the young warrior, still displaying his surly arrogance, led, almost dragged and propelled, the unfortunate Móen into the room. Fidelma noted with satisfaction that at least Crítán had continued with his attempts to keep Móen clean and with a semblance of human dignity. She could feel sympathy for the poor creature as he was pushed into the room for his face showed abject fear, not knowing, not understanding, what was happening around him.
Crítán forced him to be seated and he half-sprawled in the chair, head to one side. Crítán glanced at them with a smirk.
‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What now? What tricks are you going to make him perform?’
Gadra moved forward, his breath an angry hiss. For a moment, Fidelma thought the old man was going to physically strike the arrogant youth.
Then a curious thing happened.
Móen began to sniff, raising his head and scenting the air. For the first time, Fidelma saw an expression of hope form on his features and he started to make a soft whimpering sound.
Gadra went straight to his side, seated himself on an adjacent chair and gripped his hand.
Fidelma could not believe that the creature’s face could become so altered. It lit up in recognition and joyful pleasure. She saw Gadra grasped the young man’s left hand. It seemed, at first, a ritual, for Móen held his hand palm outward, straight and upright. She watched with surprise as Gadra began to trace motions of his hand on the young man’s palm. Then, with equal surprise, the young man gripped the hand of Gadra and began to make the same motions back. Fidelma realised that this was what the young man had tried to do with her hand in the stables. There was little doubt in her mind that an entire conversation was now taking place. The finger gestures flew fast and furious.
Suddenly, Móen began to groan as if in physical anguish, rocking back and forth on his seat as if in pain. Gadra put his arms around the creature’s shoulders. He looked up sadly at Fidelma.
‘I have just told Móen of the death of Teafa. He regarded her as his mother.’
‘How did he take the news of the death of Eber?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Without surprise,’ replied Gadra. ‘I think he knew of that. I have told him what has happened and what he is suspected of.’
‘Told him?’ It was Crítán who spoke, his voice a bark of cynical laughter. ‘Come now, old one. A joke is a joke but …’
‘Quiet!’ Fidelma’s voice was icy. ‘You will leave us now. You may remain outside until we send for you.’
‘I have been placed in charge of the prisoner.’The young warrior flushed angrily. ‘It is my duty to …’
‘It is your duty to do as you are told.’ Fidelma’s voice was testy. ‘Go and tell Dubán, your commander, that I do not want you near this prisoner again. Go now!’
‘You cannot …’ began Crítán indignantly.
It was Eadulf who rose and, with studied gentleness, took the young warrior by the arm. Only the sudden gasp of pain and tightened jaw showed them just how much pressure Eadulf exerted.
‘Yes, we can,’ Ea
dulf said pleasantly. ‘You are no longer required here.’
He propelled him to the door almost in the same way that Crítán had brought his prisoner in. When Eadulf closed the door behind the young warrior he found Gadra grinning at him.
‘Pragmatic, indeed. I am sure that I like you, brother Saxon!’
Fidelma had taken no further notice but was gazing thoughtfully at Móen. She turned to Gadra.
‘While he is composing himself, I would like to know what method you are using to communicate with him. I must know whether this communication is genuine.’
Gadra grunted in annoyance.
‘Do you think I have invented all this, child?’
Fidelma gave a swift shake of her head.
‘No, I did not mean that. But I must rightly seek an assurance that this is a genuine communication from the boy for if I have to present it before a court of law then I must have a full understanding of it.’
Gadra regarded her for a moment or two and shrugged indifferently.
‘As an advocate you probably know something of the ancient Ogam alphabet.’
Fidelma’s eyes widened.
‘You use the Ogam alphabet to communicate?’
Ogam was the earliest form of writing among the people of the five kingdoms and consisted of short lines drawn to, or crossing, a base line representing the twenty characters of the alphabet. The ancients claimed that the god Ogma, patron of literacy and learning, had come to the south-west of Muman, the place of all primal beginnings, and instructed the wise ones in the use of the characters, so that they could journey through the land and even across the seas to show people how they might write. The alphabet was often inscribed on wands of hazel or aspen and many grave markers of stone were inscribed in Ogam. It had fallen into disuse with the introduction of the new Latin learning and alphabet into the kingdoms. Fidelma had studied the old system and alphabet as part of her education for many texts were still to be found written in the archaic form.
She could suddenly see how such a simple form of alphabet might be used as a means of communication by manual gestures.
Gadra was watching her changing expression as she realised the simplicity of the form.
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