The Second Death (Sister Fidelma Mysteries)

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Could we have missed him in the gloom?’ Even as Aidan asked the question, he knew it was a silly one.

  Fidelma glanced at the black sky through the hole in the roof.

  ‘One thing is certain, we cannot do anything further now the light has gone,’ Aidan went on.

  ‘True enough,’ Fidelma sighed. ‘We had best find our way back to the tavern. There is a slim chance that Eadulf might have gone there by some other route. If not … if not we shall come back here at first light. Enda is a good tracker. We might be able to follow his trail from here.’

  As much as he disliked abandoning the place without finding Eadulf, Aidan had to accept that it was the only sensible thing to do. ‘Providing those clouds are not bringing rain with them, Enda might be able to spot some tracks,’ he said. ‘I can’t even see the moon now or the stars.’

  Fidelma did not reply. She knew only too well the problems of heavy rain washing away any tracks that had been left. What concerned her more was that Eadulf could have wandered off the main path into the marshland, the terrifying quagmire into which numberless humans and animals had been sucked to their deaths.

  Eadulf had lain still for a long time, concerned that the departure of his captors might be some trick – and that they were merely waiting for him to move to give them an excuse to kill him. However, it was eventually clear that they had departed, and such a trick he realised would be illogical after what he had heard. It seemed that the man who had been told to despatch him was so bound up in ancient superstition that he had been too afraid to carry out the wish of the mysterious ‘lord’. Once more Eadulf strained against his bonds but they were just as tight as before and he had no hope of loosening them by force. In fact, he had little hope of doing anything until he could see again.

  He inhaled deeply in annoyance, and once again the linen of the hood was sucked in against his mouth. He spat it out and tried to breathe more gently through his nostrils. It was then that the idea occurred to him. He had once been shown the trick by a fairground performer – ironically, as that now appeared in the light of his current adventure. The performer would have himself blindfolded twice by someone from his audience and then be given a bow and an arrow before shooting at a target held by his assistant. As a little boy, Eadulf had demanded to know how it was done. The answer was simple. The first blindfold totally obscured the vision while the outer hood was of such loose threads they could be seen through. Obviously, when the audience tried both the blindfolds on together, they could not see a thing. When the performer had the hood placed over the first blindfold, this obscured what he was doing to it. Using his mouth and teeth, he was able to manipulate and pull it down from his eyes, so all he had to see through were the loose weaves of the hood.

  Now Eadulf wondered whether the same principles would work for him.

  He breathed in through his mouth and sure enough was able to catch the fibre of the hood in between his teeth. Trying not to think of the bitter taste, he began to manipulate it as if he were trying to eat it, pulling at it and twisting it. He nearly choked several times, and several times he had to let it out and recover his breath and simply rest his jaws. Then he seemed to find a correct point to pull at. He felt the cloth rising from the back of his head, coming slowly … ever so slowly … over his head and face. Then the whole hood fell off in front of him and he was blinking into the darkness of a room. He stayed a while, content just to breathe fresh air and recover from his exertions. He did not know how long he had taken to remove the blindfold but it seemed an age.

  After a while he started to focus into the shadowy darkness. It was clearly nighttime, and judging by the gloom he did not think there was a good enough moon to help him see. He felt, more than observed, that he was in a circular building and, judging by the texture of the walls, it was of interwoven wickerwork. In that case he was surely in one of the outer buildings of the farmstead. Perhaps even the one he had been examining when he was struck on the head.

  If that were so, why had Fidelma and the others not come back to look for him when he had failed to rejoin them? They knew where he had been going. Surely Fidelma would not have been so annoyed at his insistence in coming to the deserted house that she had decided not to bother to look for him until daylight? Surely not!

  He stretched and pulled at his bonds – but they were very secure. He needed to free his hands, and his ankles were tied very tightly. He blinked and once more focused his eyes on the shadows. In the darkness he could see nothing that would assist him. The grim thought struck him that he could do nothing until he could see – and that meant waiting until dawn. Yet he had no way of estimating how long that would be. His captors might return at any time to finish their task. What if the superstitious one had been overcome by his companion, who seemed so greatly in awe of the person who gave the orders? Yet there was no alternative. It was with reluctance that he forced himself to lie back in as relaxed a position as possible and close his eyes. There was no one more surprised than he was when, as if a moment later, he beheld the bright light of day. As uncomfortable as he was, and in such a perilous situation, he had fallen fast asleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Aidan and Enda found themselves hard-pressed to keep up with Fidelma as she trotted her horse along the track that zigzagged its way through the marshes. At first light she had awoken them and had the horses made ready to set out for the deserted farmstead. She had cantered ahead almost at break-neck speed along the road until the turn-off which led through the marshland, and did not slow down until they arrived at the top of the mound.

  Enda, who was gifted in the craft of tracking, swung down from his horse and immediately began to examine the ground, while Fidelma and Aidan decided to take another look in the main building to check whether they had missed anything the night before. They had barely begun their search when Enda called to them.

  ‘Here! I have found something.’

  The warrior was standing at the entrance of one of the circular wickerwork outhouses. He waved them over and pointed downwards. Just inside the door was a large flat stone.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Fidelma.

  Enda bent down and picked up the stone. There was a dark mark on it. Without saying a word, he licked his forefinger and rubbed it on the mark then held it up. There was a dark brown smudge on his finger.

  Aidan recognised it at once. ‘Blood? This was where I found the torn piece of material last night.’

  Enda nodded. ‘Yes, it’s dried blood but not old. This blood was shed recently.’

  ‘Are there any other signs?’ Fidelma had gone pale. ‘Any tracks?’

  ‘It’s difficult, lady. I have tried to separate the marks of your horse and that of Aidan’s where you came last night. There have been several other horses here, and they were certainly here before you came, as your horses’ tracks have overlaid them.’

  ‘Can you tell anything else?’ Fidelma tried to keep her voice calm.

  ‘Not much at the moment, lady.’

  ‘Then do your best and we will continue with our search.’

  But the main building and the outhouses revealed nothing that they could associate with Eadulf. When they returned outside they saw that Enda was on the path beyond the outer wall of the farmstead. He was frowning and now and then dropping to a crouch as he examined the ground.

  ‘Do you see anything?’ called Fidelma.

  Enda straightened and shook his head. ‘The ground along these paths is too hard, lady. This I can say, however: there seems to have been several horses here. Once they left the enclosure, they started along the path here and were heading south-east.’

  ‘Several horses?’

  ‘I make it three. If Eadulf was here, it seems that he accompanied two others. Whether he went willingly or unwillingly, it is hard to say.’

  Fidelma stood undecided. ‘Can we even be sure that the bloodstain was Eadulf’s blood?’ She did not want to accept that conclusion.

  ‘He is not here, la
dy,’ pointed out Aidan gently. ‘We must presume that he has gone with whoever rode the other horses and, no doubt, unwillingly. Perhaps he found something that he was not supposed to find. We now know the girl’s wagon and ox team were also here. Perhaps whoever it was …’

  Aidan’s voice trailed away when he realised what he was about to say. He looked guiltily at Fidelma, whose expression was grim. She realised that she had to act; that it was no use wasting time speculating about what had happened. Eadulf had been here. The blood might or might not be connected. Some horses had been here and were now gone.

  ‘I suggest that we should follow the tracks as far as we are able. If they head south-east, then that way should eventually meet up with the Slíge Dála. Let us hope that somewhere along the way, we will come across other signs.’

  Hearing the resolution in her voice, Aidan and Enda obediently remounted, pretending not to notice the concern on Fidelma’s features which gave lie to the confidence in her voice.

  When Eadulf came awake, he could hear the cry of birds, and felt softness in the air – a gentle breeze which he later discerned was the wind whispering through the spaces in the wickerwork where the dry wattle had fallen away. He eased himself up into a sitting position. His mouth was dry as sand and his head ached. He felt awful and the blood seemed to have deserted his hands and feet, for they were cold and numb.

  He could see that he was in a circular wickerwork hut. He presumed it was one of the outbuildings of the farmstead. In order to survive, he realised that he had to get his bonds loosened. But how? He ran his eyes swiftly over the interior of the hut. It was devoid of any furniture although there were several bits and pieces of wood that might well have been a table or a stool at some time.

  On the far side was a door and near it stood a tall pole, leaning against the wall. He had no difficulty in recognising a shepherd’s staff. Well, that would not help him. He continued to lie still, searching with his eyes around the room. There was a pile of mouldering cloth, or what at first glance he thought was cloth but then realised it was sheep’s wool. So this hut had been used by a shepherd at some time. But the condition of the place made it clear that it had long since been abandoned for that purpose. No shepherd would suddenly arrive to help him and, at any moment, his captors might return – having changed their minds or succumbed to the authority of the man who commanded them.

  Seeing nothing near him of consequence, he began to painfully manoeuvre his body across the hard earth floor towards the door. Perhaps if he could open the door, get out, he might find a sharp stone outside against which he could use to try to sever the bonds around his wrists. His progress was painful, as there was little or no feeling in his hands and feet.

  He was nearing the door when he felt his robes catch on something. He stopped moving immediately. Something dark was half-buried in the earth floor and he stared at it for a moment. Then excitement took hold. He swung himself around so that, in spite of the numbness of his hands, he could attempt to grasp it with his fingertips. It was hard and cold to his touch. He tried to dig his nails into the earth around the object and then worked to pull and push it from side to side, in order to uncover the top part. It felt rusty but sharp.

  Sitting with his back to it, he began moving his wrists against the edge. It seemed the work of ages. He had to keep stopping because of exhaustion but slowly, little by little, he felt the bonds loosening … and then one of them snapped. It was enough for him to strain and wriggle and eventually loosen one hand. He almost gave a shout of relief. Now he swung round and examined his wrists. They were bloodied and bruised where the rope had cut into them. He saw that the bond on the other wrist could be untied and this he did, clumsily. The blood rushed almost painfully back and he sat for a while massaging his throbbing wrists and hands as the feeling gradually returned.

  The next problem was the bonds around his ankles. Whoever had tied him up was no novice at the art. He turned round and looked for the piece of metal that had been his saviour. Carefully, so as not to cut himself, he used a nearby piece of splintered wood to pry the metal completely loose from the earth floor. It took no more than a moment or two before he held it in his hand. He smiled and uttered a silent prayer of thanks to the long-departed shepherd, for what he held in his hand was the rusty, long-discarded blade of a paring knife – a butún, the local word came unbidden to his mind. All shepherds carried this type of knife for paring hooves or even stripping the skin off a stillborn lamb to put the skin on a motherless lamb so that the ewe would adopt it for the one she had lost. Eadulf had seen it done many times, but had never thought he would owe his life to such an instrument. Using the knife-blade, it was the work of a moment to sever the bonds around his ankle.

  It seemed an age before he felt able to stand. He moved slowly and unsteadily to the door, wondering if his captors – whoever they were – had left his horse behind. That would be wishing for too much. He opened the catch and stepped outside.

  That was when he had his first shock.

  He was not in one of the outbuildings of the abandoned farmstead. His round wickerwork hut stood by itself within a copse of yews which obscured the surrounding scenery. Only the elevation of the land seemed to indicate to Eadulf that this was also on one of the craggy islets that emerged from the broad sweep of marshlands. He looked about and realised that he had no idea at all of where he was. Not only had his captors taken his horse but also his saddlebag with his goatskin water bag and his lés, his medical bag. And his thirst was now almost uncontainable.

  Even as this thought occurred to him, he thought he heard the splashing of water. He immediately dismissed the sound as wishful thinking and tried to concentrate his thoughts on estimating where he was, and other mysteries. Who were the two men who had brought him here? Why had they mistaken him for another religieux? More importantly, who was the ‘lord’ who could order his death without a moment’s hesitation, rather than just releasing him?

  He stared out across the flat green plains, so tranquil-looking, but he reminded himself that the green was but a thin covering of the deadly marshland. In most directions, lines of hills of irregular shapes and sizes were just misty marks on the horizon. He wondered how far he would get, feeling ill as he did, with the soreness of his wrists and ankles and the pounding in his head, let alone his incredible thirst. He did not think he would last long in this wilderness. If only he still had his medical bag with him, but everything was gone. That was when he noticed that he was also barefoot.

  The sounds of that running water were tormenting him. He started looking for a small pebble. He had once heard that placing a pebble in the mouth caused one to salivate. There was a term for it but his head hurt and he could not remember it. Even as he was looking, the splashing of water became louder. It was real. Then something else registered. The shepherd’s hut where he had been kept was sheltered by yew trees. It must have been built there for a purpose. The splashing, now that he concentrated on it, seemed to come from behind the trees. He thought there was a wall there but on moving through the thin band of trees he saw that it was a natural rock formation which had been covered as if it were an embankment.

  He swallowed with a dry, retching motion. From a hole in this rock edifice, water was gushing into a gully which went down into the verdant covering of the marshland beyond. It was a natural spring – small but more than enough to provide what water he needed. Eadulf almost flung himself at it. On his knees, and using only his hands, he ladled up the water and lapped at it like a dog until he had drunk his fill. Then he lay on his back on the ground, eyes closed and gasping for breath.

  Moments later, it came to him that while one immediate problem was resolved, he was faced with others that would soon become crucial. He had to set out to find a habitation – but the first problem was that he had nothing on his feet. He had checked before emerging from the hut in case his sandals had been left there, but everything had been taken, even his belt. The second problem was, which way should
he go? The third problem was, he had found water, but how could he carry it to sustain him for any length of time? Each question was one which meant life or death.

  Eadulf gave a deep sigh. Sitting here by the comfort of the little spring, he knew that it was high time to become more organised and not waste the day. He went back into the shepherd’s hut. The blade of the paring knife would come in useful, and the staff might also help him on the walk he must undertake. But there was nothing else in the wicker hut.

  If a shepherd had used the hut frequently, life had taught Eadulf that shepherds usually had four tools of their trade. He had found two of them – the staff and paring knife. He did not expect to find any loman, a thin cord or string that shepherds carried, but he was hoping that there might be a síthal, a small bucket or vessel for drawing water. All shepherds considered cord or string essential, especially during the lambing season, and a small bucket was often necessary for giving water to distressed ewes. Eadulf was disappointed that there was no sign of the latter item. But then he had no idea how long this place had been deserted.

  Luck was with him, however, for in taking a slow walk around the area for one final look, he saw what appeared to be a leather feedbag for a horse or a mule. It was old and discarded, true, and the smell was not enticing but it was better than nothing. Indeed, he recalled something from the writing of the Blessed Jerome – Equi donatei dentes non inspiciuntur – one doesn’t inspect the teeth of a horse given as a gift. He took the bag into the gully where the spring flowed and started to laboriously wash it out. What came out of it appeared pretty unpleasant and it took him some time to clean it to the point where he felt he might be able to stomach the water it would contain. It was not even completely watertight but it would surely do to help him on the way to some habitation.

  He was busy filling it when he heard a faint noise, and looking through the trees, he saw a horse and rider appear in the distance. He was about to run forward, hand rising ready to wave, when some instinct caused him to pause. Was it one of his captors, returning to put him to death?