23- The Seventh Trumpet

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘It will be sunset soon,’ Fidelma said, glancing up to the western sky. Perhaps they had stayed too long at Coccán’s village of Baile Coll. But they had needed to rest.

  ‘We will still reach Durlus well before dark,’ Enda told her, seeing her anxious gaze and thinking she was worried about arriving in darkness.

  The river, when they came to it, was not as broad as its lower reaches and it was easily fordable. They moved across on horseback in comfortable fashion as the passage of the shallows was clearly visible under the translucent waters in spite of the lateness of the day. Even the darting brown trout caused Eadulf to think that all he had to do was dismount, bend down and catch them with his bare hands. They splashed up on to the far bank and took a moment to rest again. It seemed absurd that he could think such incidental thoughts in the dark atmosphere of the last few days.

  To the south stretched the flat plains that reached down to Cashel and, for Eadulf, they were familiar and reassuring compared to the countryside through which they had just ridden. To the north was the long dark ridge of mountains stretching westward. Then he frowned as he spotted a peculiar indentation in the silhouette of the mountain range.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked Fidelma, pointing towards it.

  ‘They call it Bearnán Éile,’ she replied immediately. ‘The Gap of the Éile. In olden times, it was where warriors defended the route into Muman when the hosts of the Northern Kingdoms tried to invade.’

  ‘A curious gap,’ observed Eadulf, still looking at the silhouette of the dark table-top of the mountain.

  Enda, who had overheard the conversation, interrupted with a chuckle. ‘A curious legend has originated here. I heard it from the mouth of a merchant of the Éile. He was trying to belittle Cashel. The story is this: local people say that the devil was flying over this land and decided to take a bite out of the mountain-top. The people of the Éile were so pure and unblemished that it was reflected in the clean and unpolluted taste of their green fields and mountains. The devil didn’t like the taste and so, further on, he spat it out. The piece he spat out, which landed on the plain further south, was the Rock of Cashel.’

  ‘A silly story and one not worth its repeating,’ Fidelma said dismissively. ‘However, it is a ride south to Durlus, so let us not waste time.’

  Enda grimaced at Eadulf. It was clear Fidelma did not share their sense of humour.

  They moved on, proceeding at a comfortable pace down the track along the riverbank. The road was well-kept, according to law, and it was clear that the Éile were keen to impress visitors from the north when approaching their principal fortress and capital. The road was wide enough, allowing, according to law, for two large wagons to pass one another in opposite directions with ease. Hedges, weeds and brushwood were cleared or cut back and tended. Where the road passed over soft, muddy ground, planks were laid, resting on trestles so that they did not sink. It was a technique used for causeways and crossing bog land, as they had witnessed in the lands of the Osraige. Eadulf knew that, according to the Book of Aicill, which contained the laws on the subject, each local chieftain had to see that these highways were maintained in a proper manner.

  Large sections of the way, which moved directly south, did not follow the course of the Suir but passed through a forest.

  Gormán had been riding a short distance ahead of them as he had done almost since they had left Cronán’s fortress early that morning. He had volunteered to do this in order to give them warning in case of any attack. But now he suddenly turned his horse, almost rearing it on its hind legs, and came galloping back to them.

  ‘Take cover!’ he ordered sharply. ‘There, down there!’ He pointed to a gap between thick bushes of gorse and blackthorn which led into a depression sheltered from the roadway.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Fidelma, as she and the others instantly obeyed.

  ‘Warriors! Coming up the road.’

  They followed his instruction quickly, moving down an incline into a deep hollow and finding themselves completely hidden in a thicket reinforced with closely growing trees. They were able to halt there and sit quietly on their horses. Within a few moments the sound of cantering horses vibrated along the track and continued quickly by. Gormán had, in fact, swung off his mount and, crouching low, had moved out of the hollow to a spot where he could observe the passing of the riders without being seen. They heard the receding sounds of the party and began to relax as Gormán returned.

  ‘Mounted warriors, lady,’ he reported. ‘I felt it better that we do not encounter any strange warriors while we are outside the protection of Durlus.’

  ‘Did you see who they were?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘They bore the standard of the Éile. But until we know who our enemies are, it is best to take precautions.’

  ‘I would agree,’ she said. ‘You saw no sign of any religious emblems carried by them?’

  Gormán immediately shook his head. ‘These looked like the warriors who guard the Princess of the Éile.’

  ‘And they were riding north towards the Gap of Éile?’ Fidelma mused. ‘If any danger threatens Muman, that is where one would expect it to come from. I wonder if Gelgéis has already heard news from Osraige.’

  ‘You think that there is some threat to Durlus? Some connection with what is happening among the Osraige?’ asked Enda.

  ‘Until we can find out what is at the core of these matters, we have to proceed with caution. I suggest that we wait until darkness before we enter Durlus, and then proceed directly to our friend Gobán the smith.’

  Eadulf looked surprised. ‘Why go to the smith and not to the fortress of Gelgéis?’

  ‘We don’t know yet where Gelgéis stands in these matters. I think she has lied to me about Torna. It was in one of her store sheds that my abductors left me for dead with the body of the poor ferryman’s son. Even though she expressed horror and denied knowledge of this, I want to see if Gobán can provide any more information for us before we go to see the Princess of the Éile again.’

  ‘Very well, lady,’ Gormán said. ‘Remembering that Gobán’s forge is on the far side of town, do you want to ride through the town or swing around it and approach from the west?’

  ‘Can we do so?’

  ‘It is not an easy route, lady, as we would have to travel on lesser roads than this one, perhaps those of the tuagrota category.’

  Eadulf knew this was a small track usually called a ‘farmer’s road’, since farmers used these tracks as a right of way to an adjacent main road. But Fidelma was shaking her head.

  ‘With darkness coming on, I think we should stay on the main road. In this case it is a matter of better the path that we can see rather than go in darkness along byways we do not know.’

  Gormán glanced up at the sky. ‘Then, perhaps, we should wait here for a while before proceeding. We can then move through the town after dark.’

  Eadulf knew that Fidelma was not the most patient of people when there was a purpose to be fulfilled. But she could sit still for long periods when she began to meditate as the ancient priests in her country were wont to do. It was called an act of dercad in which the body and mind were still and rested. Fidelma slid from the back of Aonbharr, securing the beast’s reins over a bush before choosing a dry spot to be seated, cross-legged and hands in her lap. She closed her eyes.

  Eadulf dismounted, following the example of securing the reins of his own horse. As if by an unspoken agreement, both warriors went to separate places where they could watch the road, while Eadulf moved to take a seat on a fallen log. Eadulf always found it hard to do nothing, merely awaiting the passing of time. He could never master the ancient dercad technique that Fidelma had tried to teach him. He tried to sit still but instead of closing his eyes, he let them wander around the small clearing. There was a slight breeze and he was aware of the rustling of the leaves of the hardy rowans, whose white blossoms had now transformed into bunches of red berries. Among them were their almost inevitable companio
ns, the slim trunks and grey-white bark of the silver birches, with their hanging branches. The whisper of the trees distracted him a little.

  He turned to the area of thicker growth which concealed them from the roadside. Here, dense blackthorns, with their cruel thorns, provided a basic defence, interspersed with the yellow flowers and curved spiny leaves of a gorse species that also provided evergreen cover. Eadulf suddenly caught sight of a small brown furry creature scuttling at his feet. It was no bigger than the distance between the first and second knuckles of his forefinger. A tiny shrew in search of insects for its food. A faint fluttering noise then captured his attention and a bird with a long stiff tail, down-curved bill and a distinctive stream of white around its eyes, landed at the foot of one of the nearby rowan trees.

  Eadulf watched with mild interest as it suddenly started to ascend the trunk, uttering a shrill ‘tsee’-sounding call. It climbed in a spiral, in jerky fashion with sharp talons around the trunk. Now and then its bill would strike at the tree as it found its prey: weevils, beetles, earwigs, woodlice and spiders that hid in the cavities of the trunk. Eadulf frowned, trying to recall what sort of bird it was. Was it a meanglán? He tried to think of the name in his own language. The tree-creeper – that was it! The name exactly described what the bird did when it went in search of its food.

  Eadulf was not aware that he had made a noise of satisfaction when he remembered the name. The slight sound drew an exasperated sigh from Fidelma.

  ‘Can’t you ever relax?’ she complained.

  ‘I thought I was,’ protested Eadulf.

  ‘I swear I could hear your mind working from here,’ she replied. ‘The purpose of the dercad is to empty the mind of thoughts, not to fill it.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘It is difficult to begin, but never impossible.’

  ‘I was merely looking at our surroundings.’ Eadulf was irritated. He thought he had been occupying his time meaningfully.

  ‘Indeed, and you were being distracted by the sounds and vision of the world about you. The idea of the dercad is to see into the internal and not be distracted by the external.’

  They fell silent again and this time Eadulf closed his eyes and tried to let his mind drift. It seemed only a second later that he found Gormán halting before him and realised, with a feeling of guilt, that he had nodded off. He was aware of Fidelma asking: ‘Is it time to be moving?’

  ‘We can reach Durlus at nightfall if we start now,’ the warrior confirmed. ‘There has been no other movement on the road.’

  ‘Very well.’ She glanced at Eadulf, who was blinking and yawning. She smiled and shook her head. ‘You were supposed to be meditating, not sleeping.’

  He sprang hastily to his feet, brushing the leaves and twigs from his clothing. The others were mounting and he went to untether his horse, thinking he would never get the hang of this meditation. His mind was either too active or he emptied it so much that he fell asleep.

  Led by Gormán they once more set off south along the road to the township that surrounded the fortress of the Éile.

  Gormán was right. They reached the outskirts of the township when darkness had begun to engulf it and when tiny flickering lights began to spread from building to building. The main square was lit well, and there was a brazier in the centre around which a few people still congregated. Above the town was the dark outlines of the fortress of Gelgéis, the Princess of the Éile. The road to it was also well lit so they could see that the gates still stood open, with warriors pacing up and down outside.

  Gormán took them straight through the square and along the road to the southern outskirts where Gobán’s forge was situated. Although it was dark, the fires at the smithy were still ablaze and the ring of metal against metal could be heard, showing that the smith was still at work. As they came to the entrance of the forge, they saw him bent over his anvil.

  Gormán raised his voice to greet the smith.

  Gobán turned in surprise, lowering his hammer.

  ‘So, you have all returned safely,’ he greeted them. ‘Did you discover what it was that you set out to find?’

  Fidelma dismounted. ‘Partially,’ she replied. ‘But once more we come to you seeking hospitality … and some information if you have it.’

  The smith grinned. ‘Well, I suppose I should now end my day’s toil. I was trying to sharpen a plough-share for my neighbour, Lorcán. But it can be finished in the morning. Bring your horses in and we’ll put them out to grass in the back field again. There’s water there for them as well. As for hospitality, there is ale and meat enough, but the sleeping accommodation will be cramped, as well you know. I can sleep in the forge …’

  ‘As can Enda and I,’ said Gormán immediately.

  Gobán asked Enda to keep watch on the forge fire to make sure that it didn’t spark but died gently. There was always a danger of fire at a smithy’s forge. Then he organised the leading of the horses into the field, and providing fodder and water for them. Before long he had also arranged ale and platters of food for his guests in the cabin behind his forge.

  ‘So, Gobán?’ asked Fidelma, after they had settled to their meal. ‘We are anxious for any news. Has anything been happening since we left?’

  ‘They found the body of the ferryman’s son where you said it would be,’ he replied soberly. ‘Then Bishop Daig took the body downriver to the young man’s father, Echna, the ferryman.’

  Fidelma nodded sadly. ‘Justice has already caught up with some of those who took his life,’ she murmured.

  The smith gave her an uneasy glance but did not press for details.

  ‘Tell me,’ she went on, ‘what have you heard of Liath Mór?’

  ‘The old Abbey of Liath Mór? Apparently it has been rebuilt. Have you seen it, lady?’

  ‘We have, but what have you heard about it, other than it has been rebuilt?’

  Gobán shrugged. ‘I have only heard from travellers that it is now more of a fortress than an abbey. I was also told that it is an unfriendly place that denies hospitality to passing travellers.’

  ‘Have you heard anything about Cronán?’ asked Eadulf.

  The smith scratched his head. ‘All I know is that Cronán of Gleann an Ghuail is a warlord, related to the Prince of the Osraige, Tuaim Snámha. He declared himself abbot and started rebuilding the abbey. I gather it is completed.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Only that no member of the former community remained there after the rebuilding started. There was even a story that the real abbot, Cuanchear, had been killed by Cronán. These were rumours,’ he said heavily. ‘No one knew the truth.’

  Fidelma sighed. ‘What you say does not surprise me,’ she said. ‘What happened to the rest of the brethren there?’

  ‘I think the remaining brethren fled into Laigin. In truth, lady, it is a place to be avoided. At least it is isolated in the bogs and wastes, so we are not much concerned with it.’

  The smith went outside to fetch water and Eadulf gazed thoughtfully at the smouldering fire. ‘It is Cronán’s intentions that I want to know about,’ he said at last.

  ‘Intentions?’ Gormán stretched on his seat. ‘That’s simple.’ Fidelma and Eadulf stared at him in surprise. ‘Think like a warrior intent on warfare. You saw the work they are doing, laying the new roadways across the bog land. Then we have evidence of Cronán trying to increase his strength in labourers.’

  ‘You are right.’ Eadulf turned suddenly to Fidelma. ‘It is a highway system into Éile where none expect it. Think of horses being able to move rapidly over what was impenetrable bog land. He means to send raids into Éile. Most important is the question – how long will it be before an attack is launched along the new roadways?’

  ‘From what I saw, it would take only several days before it is completed,’ said Gormán.

  Fidelma was shaking her head. ‘Raids? I don’t think he is going to all that trouble just for raids.’

  Gobán had come back
with the water and overheard the last remarks. He stood bewildered. ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying that the Osraige are going to attack us?’

  ‘Perhaps not just the Osraige,’ replied Fidelma grimly. ‘Cronán’s roadways stretch to the east as well as the west, and I agree that I do not think he means them for friendly trade.’

  ‘But it is over in the west that we hear of attacks, raids and battles,’ protested Gobán.

  ‘Battles?’ Fidelma picked out the word. ‘We have heard of raids in the west but not of a battle.’

  ‘There has been news of one,’ Gobán told her. ‘The King’s warriors clashed with the raiders.’

  ‘Who was victorious?’ Gormán asked anxiously. Both he and Enda were friends as well as comrades of Dego, who had been sent to track down the raiders.

  The smith held up a hand in a helpless gesture. ‘It was only yesterday when a merchant came to the tavern in the market square. He was bursting to tell his news. I will try to stick to the basic facts, so far as I can claim them to be facts, because I swear that with each telling he grew more colourful in his account.’ He paused and took a sip of his ale. ‘Do you know the place in the Land of the Uí Fidgente called Muine Gairid? There is a large religious community there.’

  ‘I know it well,’ replied Fidelma.

  ‘That was to be the target of these raiders. However, as they were gathering for the attack, they were surprised by your brother’s warriors. They engaged them and caused them to withdraw back to the western hills. They saved the community from destruction.’

  ‘It is a large community,’ Eadulf said with a frown. ‘How on earth did the raiders think they could destroy it?’

  ‘According to the merchant’s tale, their numbers could match the religious there man for man.’

  ‘But that means—’ began Eadulf.