Eadulf stared at Fidelma for a moment. ‘Unless they had something to do with Abbot Nessán’s murder,’ he said quietly.
Enda looked surprised. ‘But these men were lying in wait for us. Are you saying their ambush is connected with the abbot’s murder?’
‘Is this something to do with your mission?’ Eadulf demanded.
Fidelma did not respond at first, looking down at the ground. Then she raised her head to meet their gaze. ‘I cannot say … yet. You know that, Eadulf.’
Eadulf sniffed in annoyance. ‘And will you tell us after you have been killed?’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t become you,’ she returned hotly, but she could understand his frustration.
‘Perhaps not,’ he replied calmly. ‘But if you are on a mission that threatens your life, then it would be wise to forewarn us.’
Enda was looking unhappy. ‘Why couldn’t they be robbers?’ he said, trying to keep the peace. ‘There are often bands of brigands sheltering in such woods as these.’
‘I doubt they were robbers,’ Eadulf replied, almost brusquely. ‘Look at this track. A track to nowhere, a narrow track meandering through the marshland. What wealthy victims would travel along it? Where would they be travelling to? Robbers would haunt the highways to the west, those leading to the great monasteries and settlements such as Ros Ailithir – which has become a place of pilgrimage as its very name proclaims: the pilgrims’ promontory. That is where robbers would lie in wait for victims, not here. Besides, there are three of us, and a warrior among us. They would have seen Enda’s golden collar and known him for a king’s champion – and they would know it would not be easy to overcome a trained warrior.’
‘But they might have thought their first shots would wound or kill Enda,’ Fidelma countered. It was her nature to argue. ‘With Enda wounded, they might have thought that we would be easy victims.’
‘Except those first arrows were not aimed at Enda,’ pointed out Eadulf stubbornly. ‘They were aimed at you.’
Enda suddenly understood the point Eadulf was making. ‘It’s true,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘They meant to kill you first, lady, and then deal with friend Eadulf and me afterwards, if they could.’
Once more Fidelma made no direct response. She swung away from them and strode towards the patch of undergrowth where the bodies of the attackers lay.
‘Wait, lady!’ Enda called in alarm.
‘I need to examine the bodies of these would-be assassins as you now describe them,’ she declared over her shoulder.
Enda raised his arms in a hopeless gesture before following her, with Eadulf close behind.
The first of the bodies was the one Eadulf had pierced in the chest with the javelin. The man lay on his back just as he had fallen; the bow by his left hand and the arrow by his right showed clearly that he had been hit in the very act of stringing it. As Enda had said, there was nothing remarkable about the man. The face was weather-beaten and rough, with a flat nose and a chin that bristled with an unkempt beard. His clothes were shabby and badly stitched, and the woollen cloak around his shoulders was almost threadbare. They were not dissimilar to the clothes worn by many woodsmen. His leggings were of fur, perhaps rabbit, but also of poor quality. A hat of beaver fur had fallen behind him to reveal coarse and unevenly cut black hair. A leather pouch hung from a criss, or belt, of roughly worked hide. A sharp hunter’s knife was still thrust in a leather sheath by his side. His quiver had been slung across his shoulders by a thong, and several of the arrows inside had snapped as he fell on it. The man lacked any personal adornment: there was no cheap jewellery, not even a bracelet, as often affected by the poor trying to appear to be of better station. As Fidelma peered down, examining the man, she could see that he was a total stranger to her.
She was about to turn away when a thought occurred to her and she suddenly dropped to one knee and reached for the man’s leather pouch. Inside were several copper coins and a single silver piece. The silver piece was unusual enough, for it would take a woodsman some time to earn a silver screpall. But there was something else in the pouch, another piece of metal larger than a coin. She gazed at it, turning it over in her hand, and her eyes grew wide with amazement. It was an oblong metal seal, the type cast by a noble house, the type of seal that couriers would carry as identification when they took messages between the nobles of the Five Kingdoms. It was cast in gold, not silver, and the image on it was that of a woman with a solar shield on her right shoulder. Fidelma recognised it as a symbol of the Old Faith. But was it significant? Would a noble family still use this as their seal, and if so, why would a woodsman be carrying it?
After a moment or two, she closed her hand over the seal and, without a word to Eadulf or to Enda, she thrust it into her marsupium.
‘What is it?’ demanded Eadulf.
Fidelma immediately thrust her hand back into the pouch, took out the coins and displayed them, then put them too into the marsupium.
‘Just some coins,’ she said, hoping they had not noticed the seal. ‘We’ll confiscate them and if we can find someone to come and bury these bodies, we can use them to pay for that trouble,’ she added practically.
She paused again and then did a strange thing, or so Eadulf and Enda thought. She took the hands of the dead man in her own and peered closely at them, examining their callused lines, the dirt beneath the nails and the rough, hard skin. There was nothing to indicate they were other than the hands of a rough woodsman. Certainly, they were not the hands of a courier in disguise, or even those of a warrior.
She stood up quickly and walked to the second body. This was the man whom Enda had despatched. The sword slash had rendered the assailant’s body an ugly bloody mess. This ambusher seemed very similar to his companion. The thought crossed her mind that they could have been brothers. They both had the same stubby black facial hair, flat nose and badly weathered skin that showed a life of toil out in all weathers. A similar bow and quiver lay abandoned. The only difference was that this man had carried a short sword, which he had unsheathed to defend himself against Enda’s attack. Enda had caught the man with the edge of his blade in the neck, which had caused all the bleeding.
Once again, Fidelma stood looking down at the body, observing the rough clothing and unkempt appearance. Then she examined the man’s leather pouch – which revealed little except a few copper coins.
‘Did these assassins come on foot to this place or are their horses nearby?’ she asked, glancing round.
There was an implied rebuke in her tone. Enda flushed as he realised that he should have already found out that very fact. With their own horses secured to some branches to ensure they did not wander, Fidelma and Eadulf sat on a nearby rotting log while Enda quickly made a search of the surrounding woodland. It was pointless trying to take a horse through the undergrowth. Enda, a good tracker, like most warriors of the Golden Collar, could see no sign of horses having brought the would-be assassins to this place. In any case, what would poor woodsmen be doing with horses? He was soon able to ascertain that there were no other horses in the vicinity.
‘They must be locals,’ said Eadulf as they prepared to remount their own animals. ‘Perhaps they were the woodsmen sent after the girl? But then she was said to be heading east, not south.’
Fidelma’s face remained impassive. Her thoughts were elsewhere. In fact, she was concentrating on the discovery of the strange emblem the attacker had been carrying. Of course, it was possible that he might simply have stolen it. But it was valuable and he would have soon sold it. Perhaps it was all part of this mystery. It must be. But how? She wished fervently that she could confide her thoughts to Eadulf.
‘We shall move on,’ she announced quietly.
They continued on down the track that kept parallel with the bubbling stream that Imchad had called Dubh Glas. There was no sign of anyone else passing that way. All was quiet except for the natural sounds of the stream, the rustle of the wind through the undergrowth and the occasional call of
a bird or the scampering of pine martens. That they were not far from the sea was evident from the increasing frequency of the querulous cries of scavenger gulls.
Fidelma had relapsed into total silence and so Enda and Eadulf left her alone. Enda had increased his vigilance, though Fidelma had been confident that any danger had passed. His eyes searched from side to side as they passed through the woodland, quickly but intently.
It was not long before the track broadened and eventually spread into a large clearing and they could see, beyond a fringe of trees, cultivated fields. In the centre of the clearing was a small group of buildings: a simple dwelling – a low log cabin – and a group of sheds. On the stream side, a broad bridge had been constructed and beyond it another track opened towards the east. Milling about were a few pigs, some goats, geese, and a few chickens with a large cockerel. They seemed in loose groups, intermingling with one another, seeming unconcerned by any difference in species. A woman was grinding corn in a large stone pestle. From one of the sheds behind the main dwelling came the sound of wood being sawn. The woman, a sturdy-limbed woman with short fair hair, suddenly stopped her pounding as she caught the sound of their approaching horses. She paused and watched their approach with an expression of interest but not of hostility.
‘You are safe come and welcome,’ she intoned, but she did not put down the short wooden pole that served as her mortar to grind the sheaves of corn.
‘Good day, woman,’ Enda greeted her formally. They did not dismount. ‘Is your man about?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly before she answered.
‘He is beyond the house, sawing wood,’ she said and then, before anyone could move, she raised her voice. They were surprised at the pitch and power of it. ‘Tassach!’
The sawing stopped and after a moment a short man appeared, looking every inch the farmer he evidently was. He stood regarding them with mild curiosity before coming forward.
‘You are welcome to my house, strangers.’
‘Is your name Tassach?’ Fidelma asked.
The man nodded, looking slightly taken aback. ‘Is it me that you seek, strangers?’
‘We do.’ Fidelma took the lead once more and dismounted from her horse. ‘We have come from the Abbey of Finnbarr.’
By then both the man and his wife had noticed the golden collar around Enda’s neck, the cut of Fidelma’s clothing and her jewelled emblem, and Eadulf’s garb and tonsure.
‘You have come down this track from the abbey?’ the farmer asked unnecessarily, with a shake of his head. ‘This road leads to nowhere of significance, lady. Have you mislaid your way?’
‘Not if your name be Tassach, as you have said?’
This time the farmer’s glance towards his wife was one of surprise – and something else. It was an indefinable look of unease.
‘It is. Why do you seek me?’
‘Imchad told us to take this route and gave us your name.’
‘Imchad the ferryman? And why would he do that?’ The farmer was still suspicious.
‘Because we want to reach the Great Island – Ard Nemed,’ replied Fidelma. ‘I am told the way through the marshes is difficult and the ferryman said you could guide us to where a ferry would be able to cross to the island.’
The farmer was frowning. ‘Few people dwell on Ard Nemed these days. Why would you want to go there?’
Fidelma raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Surely that would be our business.’
‘It may well be,’ replied Tassach dourly. ‘But you came here seeking me to be your guide, so it is surely my business as well.’
There was an uneasy silence until Enda lost his patience. ‘Will you guide us – yes or no?’
The farmer actually grinned. ‘No,’ he replied flatly. Before Enda could give vent to the anger that was welling inside him the man added: ‘I am a farmer with a farm to attend to. However, if you are fool enough to seek to cross to the Great Island of Nemed, I will point you in the right direction.’
‘Why do you think we are fools to seek out the Great Island?’ Eadulf demanded sharply.
‘You are a stranger by your accent … a Saxon?’ queried the farmer.
‘An Angle,’ corrected Eadulf in a surly tone.
‘Because you are a stranger, I will answer your question,’ replied the farmer, ignoring the correction. ‘There are frequent attacks on the island. Across the short stretch of water that separates it from the mainland both north and east is the territory of the Uí Liatháin, and they lay claim to ownership of the island. They frequently try to enforce their claim by raiding and bloodshed. Why is it necessary to go there and put your life in danger?’
Fidelma was annoyed. ‘We have nothing to do with those claims or counterclaims. We merely want to reach Ard Nemed.’
‘You treat conflict lightly, lady,’ interjected the woman. ‘Are you not scared of death?’
‘Like all people, I am scared of the process of death,’ Fidelma said grimly. ‘I am not scared of death itself. It seems that death can visit me here just as much as anywhere else. I presume you are the wife of Tassach?’
The woman thrust out her chin defiantly. ‘I am Anglas, wife to Tassach. And you speak in riddles, lady.’
‘Why do you feel it is foolish of us not to be concerned about the Uí Liatháin?’ asked Enda. ‘We know they are considered warlike but no more so than the Uí Fidgenti with whom they claim kinship. They were once deadly enemies of Cashel but have now made their peace. The Uí Liatháin have never challenged the authority of the Eóganacht.’
Anglas sniffed dismissively. ‘I know nothing of the concerns of Cashel. But the prince of our people, Artgal, son of our chief, Fe-dá-Lethe, has been sent by his father to restore the fortress on the island, to serve as a warning to the Uí Liatháin that the Cenél nÁeda will not give up the island so easily. These can be frightening times. What if the Uí Liatháin take over Ard Nemed and, not content with that, come sweeping through the marshes to seize the territories of the Eóganacht Raithlind?’
‘That will never be so,’ Fidelma replied firmly. ‘Anyway, this talk makes no difference to our intent. All we seek is a guide to take us to the island.’
The farmer was indifferent. ‘But that guide will not be me.’
‘Why so?’
‘I farm quietly here. I bother no one and no one has so far bothered me. I intend that this state of affairs shall continue.’
‘That is fairly said,’ conceded Fidelma reluctantly. ‘Then we will settle for you to direct us on our journey.’
The farmer smiled, though without humour. ‘If you are so intent on going to Ard Nemed, then I will direct you. All you have to do is cross the bridge over the stream there and follow the path straight. It leads directly to the east. There might be muddy stretches and you may have to cross a few strips of water, but none is deep and your horses will keep you dry. Just keep carefully to the track; it is still discernible in spite of the weather and time of year. Do not deviate – the marsh is treacherous on either side. You will soon come to the River Sabrann and find the Great Island on the far side of it.’
Enda was confused. ‘But we have already crossed that river and come south.’
‘The course of the river is deceptive. Even before the abbey the Sabrann diverts its course into two branches. The north one, that you crossed, flows directly east, and the south one also flows east before making a sharp turn to the south.’
‘And so by going east we will come to the Sabrann again?’ asked Fidelma.
‘You will. On its banks there you will find a settlement called Pasáiste Thiar, the West Passage, because it is considered to mark the western passage of the river. You’ll find a small fishing community there. That place has a safe harbour. It is only ten kilometres from here.’
‘And what will we find there, besides the fishing community?’ Fidelma pressed.
‘On the far side of the channel there is the western end of the island, the Great Island, that you seek. All you h
ave to do is cross. I am sure you will find boats enough to transport you.’
‘Would one of these fishing folk be able to take us across the water? We would need to take our horses with us.’
Tassach simply shrugged. ‘Once you get to the settlement, ask for Fécho. Anyone will tell you who he is. He owns two coastal boats that sail all the waters around the islands. Here are many islands – the Great Island, the Long Island, the Little Island, and the Isle of Foxes. Seek him out; he will take you across to Ard Nemed, for a price – if that is where you must go.’ He pointed down the track. ‘As I say, the way is simple. That is the path to the settlement and that is where you will find Fécho the boatman.’
‘Then we will take it,’ Enda said, turning back to his horse. It was clear he was bored by the farmer’s eloquence.
Fidelma held up her hand to stay him. ‘There is one other matter to be discussed before we depart. Has anyone else come by your farmstead today?’
Tassach’s wife gave another sniff. ‘As my man has told you, this path leads to nowhere of significance. We can pass many a month without seeing another soul.’
‘So you have seen no other strangers here today?’
‘No strangers have come here today other than you,’ Tassach replied.
‘Not two men, who looked like woodsmen,’ pressed Fidelma.
It was the woman who answered. ‘As we have said, there have been no other folk passing this way,’ she said shortly. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I am a dálaigh; it is my right to ask,’ replied Fidelma.
‘A dálaigh?’ Tassach and his wife exchanged a nervous glance.
‘You are addressing Fidelma of Cashel,’ Enda could not help adding.
It was the first time Fidelma’s name had been mentioned and while Fidelma frowned in annoyance at Enda, Anglas’s face grew pale.
‘The lady Fidelma?’ she whispered.
‘Sister to your King, Colgú of Cashel,’ Enda smiled with satisfaction at the reaction his announcement had caused. Then he added, a little conceitedly, touching his golden collar: ‘That is why I wear the symbol of the Nasc Niadh, bodyguard to …’
Bloodmoon Page 8