Copyright © 2012 Peter Tremayne
The right of Peter Tremayne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN : 978 0 7553 7752 7
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Principal Characters
Map
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
For Dorothea who has shared the best of times and the worst of times is feidir linn
Et septimus angelus tuba cecinit: et factae sunt voces magnae in caelo dicentes: Factum est regnum huius mundi, Domini nostri et Christi eius, et regnabit in saecula saeculorum.
And the seventh angel sounded his trumpet; and there were great voices in heaven, saying, ‘The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdom of Our Lord, and of His Christ, and He shall reign for ever and ever.’
Revelation 11:15
Vulgate Latin translation of Jerome, fifth century
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
Sister Fidelma of Cashel, a dálaigh or advocate of the law courts of seventh-century Ireland
Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk, her companion
At Cluain Mór
Tóla, a farmer
Cainnear, his wife
Breac, his son
At Cashel
Colgú, King of Muman and brother to Fidelma
Finguine, son of Cathal Cú-cen-máthair, heir apparent to Colgú
Ségdae, Abbot of Imleach, Chief Bishop of Muman
Gormán, a warrior of the Nasc Niadh, bodyguards to the King
Caol, Commander of the Nasc Niadh
Enda, a warrior of the Nasc Niadh
Drón, Lord of Gabrán
Dúnliath, daughter of Drón, Lord of Gabrán
Ailill, a warrior, foster-son of Drón, cousin of Fidelma and Colgú
At Fraigh Dubh
Saer, a carpenter
Brother Ailgesach
Fedach Glas, the innkeeper
Grella, his wife
Brother Biasta
By the River Suir
Torna, a bard
Echna, the ferryman
At Durlus Éile
Gobán, the smith
Leathlobhair, the half-leper
Gelgéis, Princess of Éile
Spealáin, her steward
Daig, Bishop of the Éile
Brocc, Gelgéis’s Brehon
Áedo, Chief Brehon of Muman
Étain of An Dún
At Liath Mór
Abbot Cronán
Brother Anfudán, the steward
Brother Sillán
Ségnat, a hostage
In Osraige
Canacán, a shepherd
At Baile Coll
Coccán, a smith
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The events in this story follow in chronological sequence after those related in The Chalice of Blood, and are set during the season known as Fogamar, the harvest season AD 670, in the last days before the autumn equinox.
CHAPTER ONE
Tóla paused on the threshold of his farmhouse, looked towards the black mounds of the eastern hills, standing out sharply against the white bar of light that heralded dawn, and breathed in deeply before exhaling in a satisfied fashion. It was an action that had become a regular ritual each morning over many decades. He stood for a moment, gazing at the sky and estimating what sort of day it might bring before turning his attention to the dark, undulating land that spread southward before him. The light of the new day was spreading rapidly towards the thrust of rock which dominated the southern skyline just a few kilometres away. The grey-white buildings of The Rock of Cashel, which constituted the capital of the rulers of Muman, were already sparkling in the dawn light.
Tóla took a step forward and stretched languidly. He was a thickset and muscular man; a man whose very frame seemed to proclaim that he was a son of the soil; a man used to working the land and caring for the livestock. The rising sun glinted on his blue-black hair, enhancing his tanned skin and pale eyes. His features had been coarsened and aged by his outdoor life, but they were neither ugly nor unkindly. He stood like a man content with his life and all he surveyed.
There was a rustle from nearby and a large, rough-coated hound trotted round the building and whined in greeting, accompanied by quick movements of its tail. Its quiet, easy nature belied its intimidating appearance. The man bent and petted the heavy head, making a soft grunting sound as the dog gave another whine. Then Tóla turned back to the door behind him and called out: ‘It will be a good day today.’
A woman appeared, framed in the door, rubbing her hands on an apron and glancing towards the eastern hills. She was as tanned as Tóla; a pleasant, well-built woman, used to hard work.
‘Good enough to finish the harvest?’
‘Good enough, Cainnear. We can finish the small field today and then all the grain will be in.’
‘You had best check the heifer that’s still in calf before you do so,’ the woman advised.
‘She’s been slow, that one,’ agreed her husband. ‘The rest of the calves are already out to pasture. I’ll go and see how she is. She was down by the stream last night – she’s probably given birth by now.’ Then he paused. ‘I suppose that our lazy son is not yet stirring? Better get him out of bed – there is a great deal to be done.’
‘I will so, and join you in the small field later,’ Cainnear replied with a smile.
The farmer nodded absently and, with his dog trotting at his heels, he went to the shed at the back of the bothán, the stone-built cabin in which they lived, and collected a scythe and rake. Balancing them easily over one broad shoulder, he began to stroll across the fields towards the distant dark line of trees which marked the path of the little stream that was the southern border of his farmlands. The stream flowed west to join the great river called the Suir, which provided the western border of his land.
It was fully light by the time he had reached the small area of wheat that still needed to be cut. Soon it would be the moon which was called Gealach na gcoinnlíní – the moon of the stubble. This marked the time when all the grain crops should be cut down to their stalks and harvested. He pau
sed and cast an eye over the field and then pursed his lips in a soundless whistle as if in approval. It would not take long to complete the harvest now. Thanks be; it had been a good harvest and a good year, for he had not lost one cow, pig or chicken to ill-fortune nor to predators. That thought prompted him to peer towards the treeline to look for his heifer, which had been waiting for her first calf. It was late. He hoped the calf had come during the night for, if it had not, the animal would be in difficulty. It was still too shadowy to make out much among the dark treeline. Placing the scythe and rake by the cornerstone of the field, he strode across the stubble towards the trees, his dog panting behind him.
He was nearing the trees when the dog suddenly halted, raised its head, as if sniffing the air, and gave a soft growl.
‘What is it, Cú Faoil?’ Tóla spoke quietly, unable to see anything untoward. Then he spotted a dark shadow at the far end of the field: it was a heifer no longer, for the smaller shadow of a calf stood by it. He smiled in relief before he realised that his dog was not looking in that direction – and the growl was still rumbling in its throat. Tóla looked cautiously in the same direction, but could see nothing. He advanced slowly, the dog obediently following, head up, alert and wary. Tóla knew that Cú Faoil, his loyal protector, was able to perceive danger before any human could. Tóla also knew that if there was scent of a predator, the animal would be more vocal in its warning. Indeed, if there were an immediate danger, then the cow, with its newborn calf, would not be standing docilely at the other end of the field. Yet something was not quite right.
The gushing of the stream behind the trees was loud at this point. This was because the waters frothed over a series of stepping stones which people often used as a pathway to the far bank. Unless travellers moved along the eastern bank of the Suir, or had access to a small boat, they had to turn along the path by this stream, called the Arglach, and make their way to this crossing through the shallows in order to continue south. On the southern side they could join the track that eventually led to the fortress of Cashel and its surrounding township. Tóla had lived all his life in this area. He expected the waters of the stream to resound against the stepping stones at this crossing-point. But his sensitive hearing picked up a different note – that of a stream in flood. He was aware that Cú Faoil had heard it too, and again the low rumble came from its throat.
Tóla walked through the trees and on to the path by the stream. At once he could see that the stones of the crossing were blocked by something which caused the waters to gush around and over them. What he saw made the breath catch in his throat.
Lying in midstream, as if fallen from the stepping stones, was a body.
Tóla moved swiftly, the cold waters coming up to his knees, and reached down to take a firm grip of the body’s clothing. Tóla was a strong man, befitting one who had worked the land all his life. Even so, it was a burdensome task to pull the body back to the bank, fighting the clawing pressure of the water which tried to press it against the stepping stones. Soon, however, the body was out of the water and stretched on the bank.
Having taken a few deep breaths to recover, Tóla examined it. The man, who had not been long dead, was young and good-looking. Moreover, the clothes he wore were of good quality and they were embroidered with fine needlework. A gold chain was still around his neck and a large ring with a semi-precious stone sparkled on his finger. The man was clearly someone of rank. He wore a short, brightly coloured cloak, pinned at one shoulder with a brooch of fine workmanship crafted in the form of an emblem. His bejewelled dagger still rested in a sheath on the left side of his belt, and his sword remained in its scabbard on the right-hand side.
Tóla raised a hand to the back of his head and rubbed it in puzzlement as he gazed at the corpse. His first thought was that the young man must have slipped and fallen from the wet stepping stones, possibly hitting his head in the darkness. But what would a young man of position be doing, travelling in such a place as this and without a horse? It was all very perplexing, not to say worrying. For a youth of rank to meet his death, even by accident, on Tóla’s farmlands could mean big trouble for him. Tóla vaguely remembered something about liability under the Law of Compensation.
He knelt to see if he could find the wound, but there were no signs of cuts or abrasions to the young man’s head. It was as Tóla was turning the body over to see if there were any wounds on the back of the head that he noticed the rents and tears in the man’s clothing. At the same time, he became aware that his hand was not just wet with water but stained faintly pink. Blood. He swallowed hard. It was now obvious to him how the young man had met his death. He had been stabbed at least three times in the back.
When Tóla realised the significance of his discovery, he was alarmed: this did, indeed, mean trouble for him. It was only the whimper and the cold muzzle of his dog, the animal sensing that all was not well with its master, that caused Tóla to finally stir. The young noble, whoever he was, had been murdered on his farm, albeit on a right-of-way that was frequently used. The big man rose unsteadily to his feet and tried to control his apprehension while he considered what he should do.
He realised that he was unconsciously staring towards the Rock of Cashel, no more than a short ride to the south. There would be Brehons at Cashel; lawyers and judges. They would know what should be done. They would investigate, they would advise. Tóla had been raised with an implicit belief in the wisdom of the Brehons. He glanced down again at the body, and noted the strange design of the brooch, fixing the cloak at the shoulder of the young man. Perhaps it was an emblem of his clan? Anyway, it would surely induce a Brehon to come here to investigate. Kneeling down once more, he undid the clasp. Then, with a swift glance around, he hastened back towards the farmhouse, with his dog loping along at his side.
Cainnear saw him coming and realised immediately that something must be wrong.
‘What is it?’ she demanded.
‘Is the boy up?’ Tóla asked breathlessly, not answering her question.
‘He was getting the ass ready to move the—’
Tóla turned towards the stable building, shouting, ‘Breac! Breac!’
A boy, not long past the age of choice, emerged from a nearby barn and came running over, a worried look on his freckled face.
‘What is it, Father?’
‘I must go to Cashel immediately, so I will need the ass,’ Tóla told him. Then: ‘I want you to take a weapon and go down to the crossing on the stream. There is the body of a young man there.’ He ignored the gasp given by his wife. ‘Don’t touch it – and don’t let anyone else touch it, or go near it,’ he ordered. ‘I am leaving Cú Faoil with you while I am off to Cashel to bring a Brehon back.’
Breac knew better than to start asking questions. Instead, he hurried to the stable and finished saddling up their ass. Meanwhile, Tóla had exchanged a few swift words of reassurance with his wife, and then, having placed the dog’s collar in the hand of Breac as an indication to Cú Faoil that he must stay, uttering the word, ‘Guard’ several times to the animal, Tóla swung up on to the ass and, with a quick wave of his hand, set the beast in an ambling trot towards the palace of the King of Muman.
CHAPTER TWO
Gormán stood at his ease outside the dark oak doors that led into the private chambers of the King of Muman. The kingdom was the largest and most south-westerly of the Five Kingdoms of the land of Éireann. Gormán was a youthful man, fair of skin with thick, raven-black hair, dark eyes and pleasant features. He wore the gold band, or torque, at his neck with a degree of self-conscious pride because it denoted that he was a member of the Nasc Niadh, the Warriors of the Golden Collar, who were the élite bodyguard of the Kings of Muman. Gormán had a right to be proud of his position for he had won it by his own strength and dexterity against many odds. Usually, members of the élite bodyguard were the sons of chieftains or of great warriors. Gormán had been the son of a bé táide, a former prostitute, but his abilities, not just those with weapon
s but his intelligence, had caused him to be singled out for a position of trust in the household of the King.
A figure appeared at the far end of the corridor and came towards him. He stiffened a little and then relaxed almost immediately as he recognised the King’s sister. He was still not used to seeing her dressed in anything other than the robes of a religieuse. Today she wore a tight-fitting upper garment in the manner of a short, bright blue coat that reached to the middle of her thighs. It had no collar but, from the shoulders, fastened by brooches, hung a cochnull, a short cloak also of bright blue but with designs in gold- and silver-coloured needlework. She also wore tight-fitting triubhas, trousers from the hips to ankle, so that they showed perfectly the shape of her limbs. Such trousers were held in place by a slender strap passing under the foot. They were also patterned in many bright colours. Her leather boots came above the ankles, and she carried her gloves in one hand.
Her long red hair was carefully combed, separated and plaited in three braids, wound and held in place by silver circlets. This fashion denoted someone who was leading an active life. The fact that the top of her head was covered in a small silk scarf of matching colour to her coat, provided the information that she was married or of mature age. At her waist she wore a girdle, a críss or belt, from which hung her comb bag, the cíorbholg, which all women carried, containing the articles needed for toiletry.
‘You are abroad early today, lady.’ Gormán allowed a smile of greeting to spread across his features. ‘Are you going riding?’ The manner of her dress, the fact that she held a pair of leather gloves in one hand, needed no intense thought to reach such a conclusion.
Fidelma of Cashel, sister to King Colgú, returned his smile. She had once helped defend his mother, Della, from unjust charges and since then had been a friend to both her and Gormán. The young warrior had acted as her bodyguard many times.
‘It is going to be a fine day. Better not to waste it by lying a-bed,’ she told him. ‘Anyway, I was roused very early by the sound of horsemen leaving the fortress. Was anything amiss?’
23- The Seventh Trumpet Page 1