‘You have much blood on your hands, whoever you are.’ Once more she tried to assert her authority but no longer with much conviction. ‘You will pay dearly for it.’
‘Oh, come, come, lady. Let us not argue. I am confident that we can come to an alternative accommodation between us. The price you will pay is surely more than I would be faced with.’
‘Are you going to kill Antrí?’ Her voice dropped to a whisper as she began to comprehend the enormity of her situation.
‘Alas, if he were truly an abbot, he might have set a better example to his flock. I am afraid that he and his sheep’ – he waved at the bodies again – ‘were not good conspirators. He should have been the first to lead them on the path to the next world. In fact, he should have made his own way there but, as it turned out, he tried to make a bargain with me about your fate. You see, lady, I know everything.’
‘What do you want of me?’ she asked, subdued now she realised just how ruthless this man, whoever he was, could be.
‘I’ve told you. I want only your company, until the time comes when you will make a good confession and make a new arrangement with me about your future.’
He turned and began to issue orders to his men. Others had now joined them. One man had led the carriage through the gates into the abbey compound and was unharnessing the horses. Two others were dealing with the bodies of the driver and the second guard.
‘Have your men caught the escaped warrior yet?’ the masked leader called to one of the men, who was overseeing the operation.
‘The horse bolted and managed to reach the far woods. He was still clinging to it. We have given chase.’
The leader swore viciously. ‘I need him found; he must be killed, or your men will be sorry. Make sure none of the bodies is identifiable.’
‘But what of the coach?’ protested the man. ‘It is a good one and it would be sad to see it burnt.’
‘But sadder for everyone concerned if it is recognised before we have resolved matters. Burn it.’
The woman attempted to bring her chin up pugnaciously. ‘Am I to be killed as well? After all, as wife to the High King, I am more recognisable than the coach.’ The fear in her voice eliminated any authority she may have previously held.
Her captor gave a little chuckle. ‘Well pointed out, lady. But don’t be alarmed. For the moment we are just going for a little ride. Anyway, I don’t think you were expecting to be the wife of the High King for much longer. Cousin Antrí was most specific about your plans.’
There was a sudden cry of alarm from one of the men. He was rushing from the hut where she had seen Antrí imprisoned. ‘By the Ever Living Ones, my lord, Antrí seems to have loosened his bonds and escaped. Shall we go after him?’
The masked leader swore. ‘Am I surrounded by incompetents? Yes, get after him quickly. That parasite knows too much. He is expendable, so make sure he does not leave the valley alive!’
The High King’s wife was pale and shivering, but she tried to call forth some dignity even so. ‘You will find that this gross insult to the family of the High King will not go unpunished.’
The man turned to her, his voice still filled with amusement. ‘Perhaps it is to prevent such an insult that we act in this matter, lady.’ Then, while she was still trying to decipher his meaning, he turned and raised his voice: ‘Set the fires and let us be away from this place.’
CHAPTER TWO
Three riders paused on the crest of the hill and stared down into the broad river valley before them, screwing up their eyes against the cold air. In spite of a blustery wind, the sky was mainly blue with only patches of brilliant white cloud, woolly domes drifting swiftly in irregular succession across the sky. The leading rider, a woman on a grey-white pony, pulled her thick woollen cape more tightly around her and, as she did so, her long, red-gold hair was caught momentarily by the wind. She was forced to raise a hand to disentangle it and tuck it back under her hood. The second rider, a tall youthful man, leant back on his horse and gazed at the sky.
‘The clouds are thickening, lady,’ he observed. ‘I fear bad weather is approaching.’
The woman turned with a pleasant smile to the speaker, who was clad in the accoutrements of a warrior and wore the traditional golden torc, the neckband of the Nasc Niadh, the Golden Collar, denoting a member of the elite bodyguard to the King of Cashel. Cashel was the principal fortress of the kingdom of Muman, the largest and most south-westerly of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann.
‘We will reach the abbey before the rain showers come,’ she assured him with confidence. ‘It is not far from here.’
The third rider, astride a docile-looking roan cob, was a man in brown religious woollen robes, bearing the tonsure of the Blessed Peter on his unprotected pate, which showed he followed the rule of Rome rather than that of the churches of the Five Kingdoms. He shivered slightly as the winds caught him.
‘How do you know it will rain?’ he demanded, slightly petulantly. ‘At this time of year it is more likely to snow.’
‘Observe the clouds, Eadulf,’ the woman replied. ‘See the formations? If they continue to change shape, like those approaching from the north, we will see some rain before long. But it is not yet cold enough for snow. It is not until later this month, after the new moon, that the temperature will drop suddenly, heralding the really high winds and the risk of snow falling.’
Eadulf sighed with an almost exaggerated expulsion of his breath. It was clear he was not in a good mood.
The young warrior, Enda, who had been tasked to accompany the couple on their journey, noticed the tension in him and intervened quickly.
‘Is this abbey that we seek close by, lady?’
Fidelma of Cashel, sister to Colgú, King of Muman, indicated the wide, lush valley before them.
‘The abbey is not so much a building but a large community, sheltering behind a wooden stockade on the top of a small limestone cliff overlooking that river which you see before you.’
‘And that river is called …?’
‘The Sabrann.’
‘A strange name,’ reflected the warrior. ‘But I have never been in this part of the kingdom before.’
‘It is an ancient name,’ Fidelma explained, ‘although the Greek traveller Ptolemy recorded it by the name Dabrona. Traders have long used this river and the inlets it flows into as a great harbour.’
‘Well, it looks a peaceful and pleasant countryside,’ observed Enda.
Eadulf sniffed, still looking displeased. ‘All I see is marsh and swamp and, despite the cold, I have already encountered enough biting insects to last a lifetime. I have no wish for closer acquaintance with any more of them.’
‘I thought you had a balm for that,’ Fidelma replied cheerfully. ‘Honey and apple-cider as I recall …’
‘I’d rather eliminate the cause than the symptoms,’ Eadulf replied curtly. ‘Why are we always riding through marshland?’
‘I cannot control the geography of this kingdom,’ Fidelma replied tartly, responding to the testiness of Eadulf’s attitude.
Not for the first time on this trip did Enda, the young warrior, feel he should intercede. Ever since they had left Cashel he had been aware of some curious antagonism between Fidelma and her husband Eadulf. What was worse, it seemed to be increasing.
‘It is true, lady, there is a lot of marshland in this part of the kingdom.’
After her momentary irritation had subsided, Fidelma continued in a more controlled fashion: ‘This area is not called Corcaigh Mór na Mumhan, the Great Marsh of Muman, for nothing. You will see that the area is made up of many islands intersected by waterways, and even the great river is marshy and prone to flood.’
‘Full of the flying insects, no doubt,’ Eadulf muttered.
There seemed to be no appeasing his bad temper. If the truth were known, Eadulf was feeling excluded by Fidelma. She had announced that she had been asked to journey to the Abbey of the Blessed Finnbarr in this marshland to discuss some legal
matter with the current abbot, Nessán, though she had not been willing to discuss the cause of her mission. Eadulf had heard of the great teaching abbey but had never seen it, so he had promptly decided to accompany her. She had protested, saying she would take the young warrior, Enda, for companionship, and Eadulf had had the distinct feeling that Fidelma did not want him to come but could find no way to refuse. Nothing had been said but he had felt his company was not wanted, which had made him all the more determined to join her. So they had left their son, Alchú, in the care of Muirgen, the nurse. Fidelma’s farewell to the boy had been almost peremptory. That was odd.
Fidelma’s reticence about her mission had become a growing frustration to Eadulf as they made their way to the south-west. Her silence was unusual and curious. Fidelma had often explained to Eadulf the intricacies of the law and the tasks she was asked to carry out as a dálaigh and legal advisor to her brother. Eadulf had been a hereditary gerefa, a magistrate of the laws of his own people of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the lands of the South Folk of the kingdom of the East Angles. In the years they had been together, especially as man and wife in accordance with the ancient laws of Fidelma’s people, Eadulf had even been trusted with the confidence of her brother, Colgú, the King. Eadulf had frequently assisted Fidelma in solving the mysteries that had made the reputations of both of them; their names were inseparable throughout the Five Kingdoms of Éireann, even in the palace of the High King. So he was increasingly perplexed when she refused to tell him anything about her current task, even when he asked her bluntly. All she would say was that it was a personal undertaking. Her apparent lack of trust in him was what had put him in such a bad mood during the journey.
In spite of the fact that it was Meadhónach Gaimrid, the month designated the ‘middle of winter’, and in spite of Eadulf’s increasing complaints, the journey to the marshlands had been a surprisingly easy and comfortable one. The temperatures had been generally mild, although occasionally, as now when they paused on the hill, a sharp, cold wind turned on them from the north-east. They made their way slowly down the track towards the river, through wood of oak and hazel. As they neared the river banks, they joined a wider and more frequently used path – they could see the ruts showing heavy carts had often passed this way. They even saw a few landing stages along the river, with boats and barges moored by them and other signs that traders and merchants were active here. Fidelma knew it was a long river that eventually emptied into the sea, with an ancient history of encouraging visitors and merchants from many strange lands.
From these landing stages and the few cabins along the river, a gentle incline rose to the limestone ridge above, on which they could see a high wall of wooden stakes, marking the official enclosure of the religious community which was their objective. Fidelma had been to this abbey before and knew that the main buildings were beyond these walls. It was impressive. Fidelma knew that Lóchán, son of Amergin of Maigh Seola, had chosen the site to become a centre where the tenets of the New Faith could be taught to younger generations. Lóchán became a respected teacher of the New Faith, better known under his nickname: ‘fair haired’ or Finnbarr. He had died fifty years earlier, and his name and teachings had spread throughout the land.
As they guided their horses upwards to the main gates, Fidelma remembered her previous visit, when she had solved the mystery of the vanishing bell that Finnbarr had once used to summon the faithful to prayer in his chapel. The bell had been kept as an icon in the abbey and so its loss had caused great alarm, until Fidelma had been able to restore it to Abbot Nessán, an elderly man even then. It was said that Nessán was so old that he had known Finnbarr personally.
It was Eadulf’s first sight of abbey and he was not impressed by it, for he was used to the northern teaching communities of Imleach, Mungairit and Darú, constructed of great cut stones, mainly limestone and even grey granite. This, by contrast, was like any poor village, crudely built from the local trees.
Eadulf suddenly became aware that the gates in the wooden stockade, for such he viewed it, were open and a heavily built man, with dark hair and a sallow complexion, was waiting to greet them. The expression he wore was one of almost petulant suspicion, coupled with bitterness. He was dressed in dyed grey woollen homespun, hands folded before him around a wooden cross that hung from a leather thong around his neck.
‘You are welcome, travellers,’ he intoned. The words were said without emotion, a ritual only.
They dismounted from their horses and Fidelma responded, assuming the role of spokesman of the party.
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’
‘I am Brother Ruissine, the rechtaire, steward to Abbot Nessán. How can I be of service?’
‘Abbot Nessán should be expecting me,’ Fidelma replied, her tone indicating that she did not appreciate the brusqueness of his greeting.
‘Indeed?’ Brother Ruissine raised an eyebrow. ‘The abbot is resting and no one is allowed to disturb him before the bell rings for the prain – that is the evening meal.’
Fidelma’s mouth tightened a little and she glanced to the sky.
‘Then I hope the bell will ring soon,’ she replied drily, causing the steward to blink. ‘In the meantime, since darkness will soon be upon us, we require hospitality. We need stables and fodder for our horses, accommodation for Enda, of the King’s bodyguard, and hospitality befitting my husband, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, and myself.’
The steward seemed momentarily shocked and then appeared to register for the first time the rank of the new arrival.
‘You are all welcome, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he said after some hesitation, trying with obvious effort to put more feeling into his words. He turned and signalled to a young man, evidently a stable lad, to come forward to take care of their horses. At another signal, some other attendants approached, with a jug and a linen cloth. ‘We observe the customary rituals here, lady,’ the steward said, almost apologetically. He parted his lips into an expression that was meant to carry the warmth of a smile.
There followed the traditional washing of the hands and feet of the travellers by the attendants.
‘We have adopted many of the rituals of Rome,’ explained Brother Ruissine in an aside to Eadulf. ‘The Blessed Finnbarr himself went on pilgrimage there and accepted many of the ways of the Faith that were established during the reforms of the Holy Father Gregory the Great. We still maintain them.’
Once the rituals of hospitality were completed, the steward suggested that Enda should follow the stable lad, who would organise his lodging and food. Then he invited Fidelma and Eadulf to accompany him to the guests’ quarters to rest before being summoned to the prain. Without further ado, Brother Ruissine conducted them through a series of huts of various sizes. He paused before a very large wooden building.
‘This is our praintech, our refectory. When you hear the bell sound for the evening meal, come here and make yourselves known to the attendants, who will take you to the appropriate seats.’
Eadulf had noticed that the community housed both men and women.
‘I see that this is a conhospitae, a mixed house?’ he observed.
‘We are no different from many of the teaching communities of the Faith,’ agreed the steward in an offhand manner. ‘However, I have heard there are many who believe in the separation of the sexes. I suppose there will always be such groups, wishing to isolate themselves.’
The steward left them at their hut, but Eadulf found he could not settle – and there was little he could discuss with Fidelma without knowing the purpose of their visit. So he left his wife to rest and decided to look round the community while it was still light. He could feel the growing chill as dusk approached. Now and then he was conscious of the flitting shadows of birds seeking their nocturnal nesting places. The limestone cliffs on which the abbey was built seemed to attract many of them. He noticed the soft continuous sounds of one call: ‘druuuu, druuuu …’, and finally identified the bird as a rock dove, a pigeon that commonly nest
ed in the rocks and cliffs of coastal areas.
He had not explored very far when he again encountered the steward, Brother Ruissine, who now seemed entirely happy to escort him around the meandering buildings. Brother Ruissine explained that there were plans eventually to replace the wooden structures with buildings of stone, but stoneworkers were expensive. He was apparently proud of the abbey and its traditions. He turned out to be a garrulous guide, comprehensively informing Eadulf about the foundation of the abbey and adding that Abbot Nessán was so advanced in years that as a young man he had attended one of Finnbarr’s last celebrations of the ritual of the Mass. Only once did he display any sign of serious inquisitiveness about his visitors.
‘I was wondering what brings the sister of King Colgú of Cashel to our abbey?’ he said, in the middle of pointing out the extensive forests to the south of the river from the vantage point of the abbey wall.
‘Surely the abbot has discussed the matter with you, as steward?’ Eadulf asked, a little surprised.
‘The abbot neglected to inform me of her coming,’ Brother Ruissine replied swiftly, as if it was of no consequence. ‘It has been a busy time – our scholars have been debating whether we should start observing the Nativity of Christ in the manner of some of the abbeys in Rome.’
‘The Nativity?’ Eadulf was astonished. ‘Even in Rome scholars are in disagreement about the observation. It is more important to the observances of the Faith to commemorate the Lord’s execution and resurrection.’
‘There has been much debate since the Roman Emperor Lucius Domitius Aurelianus declared that the old Roman pagan festival of the Sol Invictus should be adopted as the birthday of our Lord.’
‘I know that idea was accepted at the Council of Tours a hundred years ago. I did not think there was further need for debate. So many old pagan festivals have been adopted to promote the continuation of religious practice.’
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