The Second Death (Sister Fidelma Mysteries)

by Peter Tremayne

  Without further hesitation, Eadulf turned and ran back to the covering of the yew trees, then flung himself down the bank behind the outcrop of rock. He heard the horse’s strenuous breath as it climbed the hillock. There came the familiar commanding tone of the leader of his captors.

  ‘Still alive, foreigner? It seems the lackey I left to make your demise painless was more fearful of shadows than he was of me. Well, he has now gone to meet those gods he feared so much. So I have personally come to put you out of your misery!’

  For a moment Eadulf thought the man was addressing him, having spotted him hiding. Then he realised that the man was just venting his anger aloud as he approached the hut.

  Eadulf crouched low behind the rocks, eyes searching feverishly for a weapon. A paring knife’s blade without a handle was not much protection against an armed man. He heard the sounds of the man dismounting. He must have entered the hut immediately, for a string of profanities filled the air, followed by the banging of the hut door. The man would have assumed that Eadulf had freed himself during the night and long since fled, for he immediately swung back onto his horse. Eadulf could hear the creak of leather as he did so. The man was obviously so concerned about Eadulf’s escape that he neglected to search the surrounding undergrowth on the islet but sent his horse at a gallop down to the path and along it – as if he guessed where Eadulf would be heading.

  Eadulf waited until he heard the sound of hooves die away. Then he gathered his leaking bag of water, the blade of the paring knife and the old shepherd’s staff. He gave a last rueful glance at what had been his prison for the night and made his way down from the hillock to the more level area onto a dry path. Here he stood undecided for a moment. He decided first to make a complete circle of the hillock, following the track to check how many paths led from it and in which directions. There were three. It was then he rebuked his timidity for not trying to get a glimpse of the man and the direction he had taken. At least he would have some means to identify him in future. However, it was too late now.

  From the position of the sun he saw that one path went due west; another path led north-east, while the third went towards the south-east. If he recalled correctly, the south-east would bring him closer to the great Slíge Dála and habitation, where he might be able to pick up a horse or at least some footwear. Bracing himself, he began to walk slowly, treading carefully to avoid stones or other sharp surfaces, and with watchful eyes for any cover in case the rider came back.

  Fidelma was reluctant to leave the marshland. It seemed to her that she was deserting Eadulf and yet she knew this was emotion speaking, not reason. The marshes encompassed too large an area to spend more time exploring every path that twisted through it. They had done the only reasonable thing, setting off in the direction in which Enda had observed that the three horses were heading. However, after a while the track’s surface became harder and the signs that Enda was following petered out. The only course open was to follow the main track and hope to pick up the tracks again. Now, however, they were approaching the borders of the marshland.

  ‘There’s a dwelling over there,’ Aidan said suddenly.

  The ground had been gradually rising from the low-lying bog area and now they were on more solid but still fertile soil. They had passed through a small wood and now Aidan was pointing towards a collection of buildings – probably a farmstead – with a welcoming wisp of smoke rising from a central chimney. Fidelma was aware of a dog barking, which meant that they had already been seen.

  ‘Do you want to call there, lady, and see if the farmer has news of any travellers?’ asked Aidan.

  ‘Perhaps we can ask for the hospitality of a drink,’ added Enda. ‘It has been some while since we halted.’

  ‘I agree on both accounts,’ Fidelma was forced to concede. ‘If Eadulf, or the people he was with, came this way, then the farmer would surely know.’

  As they approached the buildings, a tall man appeared from the main one and shouted a few commands to the little terrier which was already trotting towards them, barking but in a friendly manner. At the sound of his master’s stern voice, the terrier promptly ceased making a commotion and sat with a low whine, watching the farmer with cautious eyes.

  The man, Fidelma noted, was of middle years and well muscled, for he wore a sleeveless leather jerkin. His features were fleshy and pock-marked, but tanned as someone used to working in the fields. He wore his sandy-coloured hair, streaked with grey, long and tied at the back, and had a shaggy grey beard. Beneath bushy brows, his brown eyes watched their approach with an unblinking gaze.

  ‘To whose farmstead have we come?’ Aidan called as they halted their horses before him.

  ‘You have arrived at the farmstead of Rechtabra son of Fínachta, of the Uí Airbh.’

  ‘The Uí Airbh?’ Aidan frowned thoughtfully, identifying the clan. ‘So we are in the territory of the Osraige?’

  ‘You are in the Land of the People of the Deer,’ the farmer confirmed. Such was the meaning of the name Osraige. Then his eyes widened as he caught sight of the gold torcs around the necks of Aidan and Enda. He obviously knew what they signified because, if anything, his manner became even more guarded. ‘You are all welcome to whatever poor hospitality that I can offer.’

  ‘We accept, Rechtabra,’ Fidelma replied, speaking for the first time. ‘But perhaps you can answer a question first. Have you seen a man in religious robes travelling out of the marsh recently? He wears the tonsure of Rome, and may or may not be accompanied by two others on horseback.’

  The farmer was regarding her with a frown of curiosity.

  ‘He would speak with a foreign accent,’ Enda prompted.

  Rechtabra’s features were impassive. He shook his head. ‘Few strangers travel into the marshes or, indeed, out of them unless they have cause to be there. Shepherds and the marsh farmers are known to me, but I have seen no strangers. My farm is on the edge of the marshlands and it is not an easy place for travellers to traverse.’

  Fidelma dismounted and her companions followed her example.

  ‘We will not tarry long here,’ she informed the man, ‘but would request water for our horses.’

  The farmer examined her for a moment and then, as if remembering his manners, asked: ‘Who do I have the honour of welcoming to my unworthy hearth?’

  ‘This is Fidelma of Cashel,’ Aidan announced.

  ‘Then you are thrice welcome.’ Did Rechtabra have a moment’s hesitation before he greeted her? They were not sure. ‘Allow me to offer you my humble hospitality. Woman of the house!’ The latter was an imperious command.

  A woman came out of the building to welcome them. She was much younger than the farmer, hardly a few years more than the ‘age of choice’. She had fair hair and attractive features, and her skin was pale, unlike someone used to working outside. Her eyes, a smoky blue colour which contrasted with her naturally red lips, regarded the strangers nervously, and when she saw Fidelma examining her, she shyly dropped those eyes and fixed them on the ground. She was much shorter than the farmer with a pleasing figure. Side by side, the two of them made an incongruous pair.

  ‘Is this your daughter?’ Fidelma asked pleasantly, after the man made no attempt to introduce her.

  Rechtabra actually glowered for a moment in response and then he replied tersely, ‘Ríonach is my wife. Get inside, girl, and fetch drinks for our guests.’

  The girl flushed and then hurried into the house. Rechtabra motioned them inside, allowing them to precede him into the main room of the farmstead. Fidelma noticed that the terrier trotted after them and lay down in a corner of the room with a curious whining sound.

  ‘What may I offer you, lady?’ the girl almost whispered. ‘We do not have anything grand. We have nenadmin, a cider from wild apples, or, if you like something stronger, there is miodh cuill, mead made from hazels.’

  Fidelma smiled encouragingly at the girl’s nervous demeanour. ‘I saw a well as I came in. Cold fresh water is often as s
weet as wine.’

  The farmer seemed disapproving. ‘It is no hospitality without a drink,’ he muttered the ancient saying.

  ‘Yet water is the original drink of all creatures, and therefore the greater hospitality is preserved,’ Fidelma replied gravely.

  The farmer looked for a moment as if he would debate the point and then shrugged. ‘Hurry, girl,’ he hissed at his wife.

  She took a jug and hastened outside to the well, while her husband bade them to be seated. He did not offer to provide drinks for Enda and Aidan while waiting for his wife’s return. She came with a jug of fresh water for Fidelma and then asked Aidan and Enda if they wanted cider to quench their thirst. They both followed Fidelma’s example and settled for the well water. The farmer told the girl to fetch him cider and be quick about it. By now, Fidelma was taking a dislike to him for his bullying attitude to his young wife. He seemed arrogant, and his manner made Fidelma uncomfortable.

  ‘We had not realised that we had crossed into the territory of Osraige,’ Aidan said, breaking an awkward silence.

  ‘If you came through the marshlands then there is no way of knowing,’ agreed the farmer. ‘Coileach is lord of these marshlands and his territory covers the marshes east of the road that runs up to Durlus. Coileach, in turn, pays tribute to the Prince of Osraige.’

  Fidelma turned to the young girl. ‘And are you of Osraige?’ she asked.

  The girl blushed and shook her head. ‘I was raised further south of here, lady. My parents were of the Déisi. They are now both dead.’

  ‘But now she is of Osraige and the clan Uí Airbh,’ the farmer added curtly, causing his young wife to start nervously. ‘It is something to be proud of.’

  Fidelma felt a growing sympathy for her.

  ‘Where are you heading for?’ Rechtabra asked, trying to adopt a more friendly tone when he saw he was making a bad impression on his visitors. But his voice sounded insincere, too suspicious. ‘We see few travellers around the marshlands, as I said.’

  ‘We are trying to meet up with our lost companion. Where do those southerly tracks lead to?’

  Rechtabra seemed thoughtful for a moment, his expression impassive as he gazed at her. ‘Beyond the woodland, it joins the great highway between Cill Cainnech and Cashel.’

  ‘How far is the main highway from here?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘Of forrach, no more than two-twenties.’

  ‘A very short distance then,’ muttered Enda. ‘I did not think we were that close.’

  ‘When you come out of the woodland you will see the Mountains of the High Fields to the south. The highway runs before them.’

  ‘Being so close to the main highway, I am surprised that you do not have much to do with the travellers who pass up and down along the way,’ Aidan observed.

  ‘The Fates be thanked that our farmstead is sufficiently hidden from the highway so that travellers pass by without stopping,’ Rechtabra replied dourly. ‘Some farms that are closer to it have people knocking on their doors at all times of the night seeking a place to stay. There are good hostels and taverns along the highway without honest farmers having their sleep disrupted, their animals disturbed and often no reward for their hospitality.’

  ‘But do you have good fields here? Doesn’t the marshland restrict your farming?’ asked Enda, who had been raised on a farm.

  ‘We are only a small farmstead,’ Rechtabra replied briefly.

  ‘What do you grow here?’ Enda pressed. ‘The wet ground seems fertile enough.’

  ‘The main crops are cruithnecht and arba,’ the farmer replied. Cruithnecht was the native red wheat while arba was one of the corn crops. ‘We have some animals and get by without having to offer free hospitality to travellers along the great road.’

  Aidan and Enda exchanged a frowning glance, wondering if the farmer was hinting that he expected some form of compensation for his meagre hospitality.

  If Fidelma felt the same, she disguised it with a sniff. ‘This is a time when the great fairs are held,’ she commented. ‘Particularly the Great Fair of Cashel which will be celebrated soon. There is probably a lot of traffic along the road. I would have thought there would be many wagons of performers passing this way, bound for Cashel?’

  Ríonach’s mouth opened and she seemed about to say something – but she caught sight of a warning glance from her husband and her jaw clamped shut.

  ‘Well, we have seen no sign of such wagons here,’ he said. ‘We lead a quiet life, as you can see.’

  Fidelma knew there was little point in confronting the farmer further about this. She rose from her seat and stretched; the yawn was, perhaps, a little too over-emphatic. She glanced at Aidan meaningfully, saying: ‘Go and check our horses. We must be on our way and join the Slíge Dála ourselves. Oh, and you had best check that the water bags are filled.’ She turned to Rechtabra. ‘Perhaps your wife could show him where to fill them?’

  ‘No need to give my wife extra work,’ the farmer said tersely, to their surprise. Then turning to Aidan, he said, ‘You will see the well immediately to your left.’

  The girl looked at Fidelma apologetically. That put an end to her idea of hoping that Aidan could ask what the girl had been going to say about travellers before she was forestalled by her husband.

  ‘It is a pity that your visit has been so brief.’ Rechtabra spoke politely but without warmth as he rose. It was clearly a hint. ‘As I have said, a drink of water is hardly hospitality.’

  ‘It is the degree of welcome that is the essence of hospitality and not the substance,’ Fidelma replied quietly as she followed his example.

  Rechtabra gave her a quick glance, not sure whether there was a waspish meaning in her reply, but he said no more and moved to the door. There was nothing else to do but to say polite farewells and, once Aidan had filled the water bags, mount their horses.

  The farmer stood watching Fidelma and her companions ride slowly out of the yard and along the track which would soon connect with the great highway. The young girl, Ríonach, came to stand at his shoulder, watching their departure with a sorrowful look.

  ‘Do you think the lady suspects anything about your Fellowship?’ she asked, as the riders disappeared through the trees.

  Her husband’s voice was angry. ‘It is well you mention the Fellowship only in my hearing, girl. Otherwise you would feel the back of my hand across your mouth.’ Then he paused and added: ‘She may be a dálaigh but she is not gifted with the imbas forosnai, the gift of prophetic knowledge.’

  ‘How do you know she is a dálaigh?’

  Rechtabra chuckled coarsely. ‘That conclusion needs no illumination from the Otherworld. Who has not heard of Fidelma of Cashel? Did you not see that she rode with men who wore the Golden Collar of the King of Cashel’s Bodyguard? Did Fidelma of Cashel not thwart the plans of Osraige’s greatest warlord, Cronan of Gleann an Ghuaill?’

  Ríonach shivered slightly. ‘Then all the more true that your own lord should be alarmed, if you are not.’

  ‘Do not speak of him,’ retorted her husband angrily. ‘There is no one of mortal flesh that can cause him alarm. The sooner you accept it, the better for you. Otherwise, you will feel the lash of my belt again.’

  Eadulf did not know how long he had been walking. He knew he was moving south-east and the stretches of verdant green were now giving way to patches of early blossoming marsh marigolds with their dark green heart-shaped leaves, on long stalks, and the yellow flowers lighting up the dark places. There were now clumps of trees ahead of him, affording him some hope of finding human habitation where he might get help.

  He had long since exhausted his supply of water, for the goatskin bag had constantly seeped, spilling more of its content than it had retained. His feet were painful, and even though he tried to avoid the stones along the path, they had soon become cut and bruised. However, he persevered trying to concentrate on other matters.

  Then he heard, high above him, the ominous kraa, kraa, kraa cry. He looked
up and spotted two wheeling birds with their gloss black plumage. His sharp eye spotted the square tail which, apart from size, seemed to be the only thing that differentiated these scavengers, the carrion crows, from the birds of ill-omen and harbingers of death – the ravens. He wondered what dead carcass they had spotted because the circular motions and warning cries showed that they were descending to a spot not far ahead of him.

  He grasped his shepherd’s staff more firmly as he hobbled towards the trees. It was here that the crows had descended; he saw they had landed at the side of the track and were attacking something with a flapping of their wings.

  He was some way off when he realised that the object the scavenger birds were attacking was a human body, or part of one, and obviously dead from the way it lay inert to the crows now pecking at it. He stumbled forward, shouting hoarsely and whirling the shepherd’s staff over his head. Why he did this, he did not know, for the man – it was a man’s torso – was clearly beyond rescue.

  The crows seemed to glance disdainfully at him, but apparently decided some caution was needed before they continued with their feast, so they launched themselves into the sky but did not move far off, simply flying in circles at tree-top height.

  Eadulf peered down at the part of the body he could see; it was covered in mud and slime. The man could not have been dead long, for in spite of the mud covering, the cuts and abrasions looked fresh. Much of the lower part of the body was still submerged in the marsh that immediately bordered the path. It seemed to Eadulf that the body had been pushed into the marsh in the hope of concealing it, but the corpse had risen and somehow lodged on the harder earth next to the path.

  Eadulf bent forward. The dead man was a thick-set individual, who had no doubt always worked in the fields; a muscular man with callused hands. One arm lay across his chest, a thick arm with a dirty, stubby figures and …