Fidelma wanted to know: ‘When do you expect the Chief Brehon to return from Tara?’
‘Not before a full month.’
Fidelma sighed deeply. ‘It is a bad time for him to be away. Also, it is a bad time for Gormán to be absent.’
Gormán was the commander of the King’s bodyguard, the élite warriors of the Golden Collar, the Nasc Niadh. He had been given special permission by Colgú to absent himself to follow the girl, Aibell, with whom he had fallen in love. She had suddenly quitted Cashel, having apparently decided to join Deogaire, a strange young mystic who had once rescued her from being a bondservant in the western fastness of Sliabh Luachra. Colgú and Fidelma had both felt sorry for Gormán, having evidently been deserted by the capricious Aibell. Colgú had, however, given him the opportunity to follow her and attempt to win her back.
‘Gormán is a good strategist,’ her brother conceded, ‘but we have a sound temporary commander in Aidan. We must ensure that no one tries to take advantage of this situation, and so I will ask Aidan to prepare our catha, the battalions of our warriors, just in case the worst may happen. I hoped I could trust Prince Donennach, especially after the recent developments. But one never can be sure with the Uí Fidgente.’
‘When do you want me to leave for Prince Donennach’s fortress?’
‘An hour ago.’ Colgú then grinned and added: ‘Well, as soon as you can.’
Fidelma had risen from her chair. ‘I must make arrangements for the care of Alchú, and also inform Eadulf.’
Alchú was her young son. She was at the door when her brother called: ‘I have already sent word to Prince Donennach by his own messenger that you will be coming in my place, representing both myself and the Chief Brehon.’
Fidelma turned and said, ‘I see. So you were sure that I would go, then?’
Colgú raised a smile at his sibling. ‘You forget that I know you too well, Fidelma. It is not often that a mentor of ours, who is Abbot and Chief Bishop, is murdered. I’ve also told Enda to hold himself ready to accompany you. He will instruct the stables to prepare your horses and provisions for the journey.’ Colgús smile vanished and he looked tired and worried. She read the anxiety in his eyes as he gazed into her own. ‘Sister, I am relying on you and Eadulf. I can sense some mystery here. Something does not quite add up in the facts that have been related to me. I feel …’
Fidelma waited for him to finish, and when he did not, she said quietly: ‘I think you believe this might be some Uí Fidgente plot to draw you out of the protection of Cashel and into their territory for a specific reason. I mean, a reason other than to serve the cause of justice for our friend and chief adviser. I think that is why you will not go to Dún Eochair Mháigh alone.’
Colgú looked contrite. ‘I should never underestimate your powers of perception, sister. That is precisely what is in my mind. If there is some plot, then those behind it will want to overthrow me, the King, not my sister. They would not dare harm you. You enjoy the friendship and support of the High King at Tara, and your reputation even extends to Rome. The unleashing of the Hounds from Cruachán, the Mouth of Hell, would be as nothing compared to the retribution they would face from Tara and Rome. So I believe it is only I who stands in danger if there is any subterfuge arising from this matter.’
‘I hope you are right, brother,’ Fidelma said tartly. ‘If there is such a plot, then you are staking my life on your interpretation of it!’
She found Eadulf in the palace library poring over a copy of the Uraicecht Becc, a tract on the status of individuals in society. She glanced over his shoulder and saw he was reading about the status of a midach or physician.
‘You are not thinking of going back to complete your medical studies, are you?’ she asked jokingly.
Eadulf looked up with a pensive expression. ‘I could do worse. My few years studying at Tuam Brecain have stood us in good stead several times. However, I feel I should learn more.’
‘You are thinking of the amputation of poor Dego’s arm?’ She was aware that this had been troubling him for some time.
Eadulf had indeed been thinking of that very matter. Dego, the warrior in question, had been so badly wounded that Eadulf had been forced to amputate his right arm in order to save the young man’s life. Only what he had learned in his short study of the healing arts, his instinct and good luck, had saved the warrior. Ever since Eadulf had studied the healing arts, he had carried a lés, a physician’s bag, and tried to maintain and extend his knowledge in such matters. He felt he should have been able to perform the task better. Now he answered his wife’s question with a quick nod of assent.
‘Well, Dego has made a miraculous recovery,’ Fidelma assured him gently. ‘He uses his left arm with as much dexterity as he used his right. He can ride and indulge in sword-play as well as any warrior with two good arms and hands.’
‘That is due to his own ability and perseverance,’ Eadulf replied, setting aside the ancient law text. ‘Now, what was it that your brother wished to see you about? Did the messenger bring him some important news, as we thought? You said he bore the banner of the Uí Fidgente prince, and we both know that nothing good ever comes out of that people.’
‘Come, walk with me and I will tell you.’
She had noticed a few people in the library regarding them with irritation at their conversation destroying the quiet. Outside, she led the way back towards their chambers and, by the time they reached them, she had told Eadulf the dreadful news of Ségdae’s murder.
Eadulf was shocked by the death of the old abbot. Although Eadulf was an Angle and wore the tonsure of Rome’s St Peter rather than the Irish tonsure of St John, Ségdae had always been a good friend and adviser to him. Indeed, it was Ségdae who had blessed the wedding of Eadulf and Fidelma.
After Eadulf had digested this news, Fidelma went on to tell him of her brother’s request. Eadulf was not the best of horsemen and he preferred to avoid long journeys by horseback if possible. Therefore, his expression was momentarily forlorn as he contemplated the journey across the mountains; then he simply said: ‘When do we leave?’
‘As soon as I have had a word with Muirgen,’ she replied. Muirgen was nurse to their son. ‘I need to make arrangements for Alchú to be looked after while we are away.’
‘At least we shouldn’t be gone more than a few days,’ Eadulf reflected. ‘I must admit, since we were last in Dún Eochair Mháir and nearly met our untimely ends there, I did not think we would be returning quite so quickly.’
‘This time we will be there at the invitation of the Uí Fidgente prince, so I doubt we shall be met with quite the same hostile reception,’ Fidelma mused. ‘But I agree with you that I do not feel at ease in that country either.’
‘You say that only Enda will come as escort?’
‘Colgú does not want to upset Prince Donennach by implying that we do not trust him.’
Eadulf said wryly, ‘But we don’t trust him, so why hide the fact?’
‘Hiding one’s real feelings is called diplomacy,’ admonished Fidelma. ‘Anyway, not all the Uí Fidgente are bad. Look at Conrí, the Uí Fidgente warlord.’ They had shared several adventures with the tall warrior, who had become a friend. ‘Come, Eadulf. Let us say our farewells to little Alchú and then join Enda who, I am told, is even now preparing our horses for the journey.’
The sun was nearly at its zenith on the day after they had left Cashel when Fidelma halted her grey-white pony, named Aonbharr after the magical horse of the Ocean God, Mannanán Mac Lir. Turning to her two companions with a satisfied smile, she announced, ‘It’s not far now. If I remember this track well, the fortress of the Prince of the Uí Fidgente is beyond those hills across the valley. We’ll soon be there.’
The midday sun was warm. Glancing around at the scenery, Eadulf said: ‘Perhaps there is a stream where we could stop awhile and take the opportunity of the etsruth?’ The etsruth, sometimes called the middle meal, was the light snack taken when the sun was highest in the heavens.
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Head to one side, Fidelma considered the suggestion. ‘You are right. We don’t want to arrive at the prince’s fortress in a state of hunger and agitation. There must be a stream or spring down in the valley here. We’ll stop the moment we find one.’
The day was not unduly hot for the time of year but the sky was blue with only a few fleece-like clouds scudding high above, and it was warm enough to wish for cooling water. They had been passing along the high track across the hills, which was intermittently encroached upon by trees and shrubs. Blackthorns formed a boundary to this stretch, while beyond were the straggling shapes of native pine, with areas of alder and hazel, giving way to glimpses of gorse and bracken. Beyond that were some cultivated areas of barley, the crop somewhat yellow and shrivelled after a cold, rainy spring. They saw areas where a lone farmer was cutting grass and trefoil ready to dry and stack as fodder, and once they encountered a couple of men sawing down a tree. Greetings were exchanged but the trio had not stopped in their westward progress.
As the trees began to thin out into more open countryside, Fidelma recognised the shape of the distant hills and knew they were approaching the southern territory of the Uí Fidgente. Across the valley and beyond the next hill and they would be in sight of the River Máigh and the bend on the river where rose Dún Eochair Mháigh, the fortress of the Prince of the Uí Fidgente.
Sounds from the nearby grasslands – the loud grating ‘kerrx, kerrx’ cry of the traonach or corncrake, startled Fidelma. She turned to watch it rise into the sky, red-brown, with its weak, floppy flight and dangling legs. Its cry reminded her of two rough sticks rubbing together. As her eyes followed the ungainly flight of the bird, they dropped to what she thought at first was an odd cluster of dark clouds around the top of a hill. She soon realised it was smoke.
Eadulf had spotted it as well. ‘A farmer must have lit a bonfire atop that hill. It’s an odd time to burn crops.’ Then it occurred to him that no farmer would burn crops on a hilltop.
Enda chuckled. ‘Breo telchae,’ he grunted.
Eadulf had not heard the term before and asked what it meant.
‘It’s a signal fire on a hill. But what it signals and to whom, I do not know.’
‘The smoke seems to rise in regular little puffs,’ Eadulf observed.
‘Lady!’ Enda’s cry was a low warning. The young warrior moved forward slightly, his hand falling to his sword hilt as his eyes narrowed to focus down into the valley before them. ‘A rider is coming this way at a gallop. He must have been hidden by those rocks below us.’
Fidelma and Eadulf peered down the long, low slope into the valley.
‘It doesn’t look like a warrior,’ Eadulf said, screwing up his eyes.
‘The rider is coming from the direction of Dún Eochair Mháige,’ said Enda. ‘Whoever it is, they are in a great hurry.’
‘And certainly punishing that poor horse.’ Fidelma disapproved. As a good horsewoman herself, she knew that forcing a horse to a gallop up a steep hill for no apparent reason was good for neither man nor beast. Why was the rider in such a desperate rush anyway? There were no signs of pursuit; no cause for him to punish the beast to such an extent.
They decided to halt and wait for the rider to come to them. They soon realised that it was a woman – no, more a young girl – crouching low over the neck of the beast.
‘That girl seems familiar!’ Eadulf exclaimed as the figure drew nearer.
‘It’s the friend of Aibell whom we met at Dún Eochair Mháigh,’ confirmed Fidelma in surprise. ‘What was her name?’
The girl was almost on top of them when she drew rein on her horse. It came to a halt, rearing back on its hind legs, lashing out with its forelegs before dropping back to the path on all fours, snorting and blowing from its exertions. The rider was little more than twenty years of age and her bare head was a mass of black hair; her skin fair and with pretty features which now seemed to be moulded into an expression of relief. Yet along with that relief was still something tense about her expression.
‘God be thanked, lady!’ she cried, moving her horse closer to Fidelma. ‘One of the Uí Fidgente guards told me that the signal fire meant riders from the east were approaching. I was hoping it might be you. I wanted to intercept you before you reached the fortress.’
Fidelma glanced in astonishment at Eadulf before she replied, ‘Why would you think it was me on this road – and why would you want to meet me before I arrived at the fortress?’
‘I was instructed that I should do so.’
‘By whom?’
‘By Aibell, of course. We prayed that you would come, lady.’
Fidelma exchanged another quick look of surprise with Eadulf before turning back to the girl.
‘I have no understanding of what you are saying. Aibell and you prayed that I would come – but why?’
‘Have you not heard?’ the girl almost shouted in her anxiety. ‘Abbot Ségdae has been murdered.’
‘I know – that is precisely why we are on the road to the fortress. What has this to do with Aibell?’
The girl gave a loud, sobbing gasp.
‘Have they not told you? Do you not know who has been judged guilty of the abbot’s murder?’
‘No, I have not been told,’ Fidelma responded quietly. A thought suddenly came to her. ‘Are you saying that it was Aibell who killed Abbot Ségdae?’
‘Of course it was not Aibell!’ Had the girl not been on horseback, she would have doubtless stamped her foot. As it was she made an expressive movement with her arm. ‘It is Gormán who has been found guilty,’ she snapped. ‘Gormán, the warrior who accompanied you to Dún Eochair Mháigh when we first met. It is Gormán who has been charged with the murder of Abbot Ségdae. Gormán whom they are going to execute.’
The Lair of the White Fox (e-novella) (Kindle Single) Page 12