Dancing With Demons

by Peter Tremayne

  The two warriors did not protest and the party set off again. Fidelma looked confident, but secretly she was now very worried. She hoped that Eadulf would reach Delbna Mór safely and warn Brother Céin. If the dibergach were as vicious as they had been told, it was dangerous to be an unarmed religious in these lands.

  One of the riders who had surrounded Eadulf nudged his horse nearer. He was a black-bearded man with coarse ruddy features showing under a metal war bonnet which was decorated in a bizarre fashion with the stuffed head of a raven, its black wings spread out along either side. He held his sword loosely across the pommel of his saddle and wore no armour but a leather jerkin over his black and dirty clothing.

  ‘Well, well, what have we here? A Christian who wears the mark of Rome’s slavery! And carrying a poor wreck of another Christian who looks as though he has crawled out of an oven. Perhaps he has just been ejected from the Christian hellfire of which I have heard tell.’

  His comrades laughed in appreciation of the humour.

  Eadulf knew that the man had noted his tonsure, the corona spina, the tonsure of Peter, which was cut differently to that of John, adopted by the religious of the five kingdoms.

  He made no answer but stared at the man defiantly. He felt Brother Manchán shaking with fear, still clinging behind him on the horse.

  The man with the raven-feathered helmet, obviously the leader of the raiders, prodded him with the tip of his sword. It was sharp and Eadulf felt it draw blood through his sleeve. He winced but set his mouth firmly, determined not to show fear before these raiders.

  ‘You are the first Christian I have met who has not squealed,’ the man grinned patronisingly. ‘Usually your kind use your tongues too freely. I wager your companion will sing without my prompting. Come, tell me who you are or will you die without a name?’

  ‘Please, please,’ cried Brother Manchán, sobbing in desperation. ‘Please, my lord, have mercy on me. I’ll tell you anything.’

  Eadulf felt a little disgusted at his companion’s obvious fear. Even though he himself felt an apprehension approaching dread, Eadulf knew that you should never show fear to your enemy for, by so doing, you are lost.

  ‘If you need to know my name, know then that I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk.’ Eadulf used an angry tone to disguise the fear he felt and hoped that his captors did not notice the tremor in his voice.

  ‘A Saxon?’ The man’s bearded features broke into a black-toothed smile.

  The question had an obvious answer and Eadulf made no reply.

  ‘What brings you to the kingdom of Midhe, stranger? Come to spout your pernicious doctrines to twist our minds away from the true gods of Éireann?’

  ‘I am husband to Fidelma of Cashel who is investigating the assassination of Sechnussach at Tara.’

  This caused some surprised reaction among the warrior band.

  ‘Fidelma of Cashel, the Eóghanacht?’ the leader commented with a sudden frown. ‘We had heard that the Great Assembly had sent for her. You are some way from Tara. What are you doing in this forest, Saxon? Where did you get that pitiful thing that clings to you? Where is the woman from Cashel?’

  Eadulf’s mind raced as to how best he should answer.

  ‘We are going to the abbey at Delbna Mór.’

  This raised another laugh.

  ‘If you are coming from Tara, you must have ridden past it. At least you had the sense to turn back, for it lies in that direction.’ The leader jerked his head over his shoulder.

  ‘Thank you,’ Eadulf said, thankful for the man’s misunderstanding. ‘I realised that we must have passed it and I was directed back in this direction by this wandering religious.’ The lie came naturally to his lips and he resolved to utter an act of contrition later. ‘We’ll be on our way then.’

  This caused a greater merriment among the band.

  Their leader shook his head and turned to Brother Manchán.

  ‘You are a strange religious to go wandering in soot-encrusted and torn robes. Is this to show some subservience to your God?’

  Eadulf felt Brother Manchán still shaking in his terror. He feared that the man would tell the truth of their encounter and alert them to the route Fidelma and her companions had taken.

  ‘Come,’ snapped the leader of the raiders. ‘Your name?’

  ‘Bro … Brother Manchán of Fobhair, my lord. Please … ’

  ‘Fobhair? Ah, so you are one of the nits that escaped from its nest when we tried to cleanse it. How remiss of us not to have noticed you.’

  Eadulf felt Brother Manchán start, felt his grip loosen and his body fall from the back of his horse. He turned round in horror as Brother Manchán’s body hit the ground. He was already dead. The helmeted leader was leaning down and wiping his sword point on the clothes of the body. Then the black-bearded man glanced up and smiled crookedly at Eadulf.

  ‘Now we must insist that you accompany us, Saxon. My ceannard will find your company very entertaining and I would not like to deprive her of it.’

  ‘Ceannard? Your commander?’

  ‘You do not ask questions, Saxon. Dismount so that my men may search you.’

  ‘I protest,’ began Eadulf, halfway between helpless rage and fear. ‘You have murdered this man, a religious. You have killed him in cold blood.’

  But two of the raiders had already dismounted and were pulling him from his horse. They searched him none too gently while another took his saddlebag. Having made sure he had neither weapons nor anything else of interest, one of them tied his hands in front of him, then a gag was suddenly inserted roughly into his mouth and, before he could do anything else, a blindfold shut the vision from his eyes. He found himself being hoisted back onto his horse. He clung desperately onto the edge of the saddle insofar as he was able. Someone must have taken the reins for the beast began to move and he could hear the other riders around him. He desperately strove to maintain his balance as the pace increased to a canter. He felt an icy, clawing sensation in his stomach as he considered the fact that these dibergach had killed a religious in cold blood, killed without any compunction. Eadulf knew that his life was now not worth anything.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘There is a farmstead up ahead, lady,’ Gormán called, having ridden back down the trail to rejoin Fidelma and Caol. ‘It would be an ideal place to water and rest the horses and eat something ourselves.’

  They had crossed the plain and had been riding through some hilly and thickly wooded country for some hours now. If the truth were known, Fidelma felt a little tired and thirsty herself and so she agreed without protest.

  ‘We must have reached the borders of the country of the Cinél Cairpre by now,’ she warned. ‘Best have a care if the raiders do come from here, for we may not find a welcome.’

  They approached the farmstead cautiously. There was some movement there and they could see a man rounding up cattle in an adjacent field, which was a sure sign of the lateness of the day. In farming terms the day began just before dawn when the cows were milked; it was called am buarach or spancel time, when the cows were led out. The spancel was a stout rope of twisted hair, two lengths of a man’s arm from wrist to elbow, with a loop at one end and a piece of wood providing a knob at the other. The knob was thrust into the loop to bind the hind legs of the cow, should it be fidgety. The farmer or the cowherd doing the milking always carried the buarach, or spancel, when bringing the cows home.

  The man in the field stopped when he saw them and then began to hurry towards the farmstead, leaving his cows to their own devices.

  Fidelma glanced towards Caol and Gormán, noticing them slide their hands to rest on their swordhilts.

  ‘Easy,’ she said. ‘The man has a right to be cautious at the sight of strangers.’

  They turned their horses through a gate in the stone fence and into the farmyard. The man was now standing before his door, the spancel held almost as a weapon in his hands.

  ‘That’s far enou
gh!’ he called sharply before they had reached him. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘There is no call for alarm,’ Fidelma said pleasantly. ‘We are travellers looking for the fortress of the chieftain of the Cinél Cairpre. We also need to rest, water our horses and take refreshment for ourselves. The sun is setting and soon it will be dark.’

  ‘I know the time well enough. Stay still, all of you. I must warn you that there are arrows aimed at you, and if you move you will die. I want the warriors to disarm and get down from their horses.’

  They sat still for a moment, hardly believing what the man said, for he continued in a quiet and reasonable tone: ‘You think I am joking? My boys have their hunting bows strung. Ciar, loose a shot at the post behind me!’

  A second later, a hunting arrow sped over the man’s head and embedded itself in the post.

  ‘My boys are good shots, so take heed,’ added the man without bothering to observe how the arrow had landed.

  Fidelma said quietly: ‘Do as he says.’

  ‘Gently now,’ snapped the farmer. ‘Throw down your swords to the right and dismount to the left. You, woman, remain seated.’

  Caol and Gormán took off their sword belts and let them drop as instructed before dismounting.

  Immediately, a small boy ran from an outhouse, gathered the weapons in one hand and the reins in another, leading the horses away.

  ‘Now, warriors, move to one side. Remain seated, woman, for there is an arrow still aimed at you. No tricks now.’

  As if at a hidden signal, a young man emerged with some rope and expertly tied the hands of Caol and Gormán behind them.

  ‘Now you may alight, woman,’ instructed the farmer.

  Fidelma did so. Once again the small boy ran out to lead her horse away. A second young man now emerged; he was holding a long bow nearly two metres high, with an arrow loosely strung but ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

  ‘Take the warriors to the shed and make sure they are well bound, Ciar,’ the man commanded.

  ‘We meant you no harm,’ Fidelma protested, but the man gestured for her to be silent.

  ‘You think I believe you? Strangers and warriors?’ He turned as the small boy came back. ‘Cuana, saddle your horse and ride for the chief. You’ll be there before dark. Tell him that we have visitors. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘I am on my way, Father,’ cried the boy, who was surely no more than twelve years old.

  The young man addressed as Ciar came back, still holding his bow.

  ‘They are secured, Father,’ he reported.

  Then the farmer relaxed a little and tossed his spancel to the other young man.

  ‘You tend to the cows now. We’ll take her inside. We might as well be comfortable while we wait.’

  ‘Keep a close eye on her,’ replied the young man. ‘These people are full of tricks.’

  Fidelma frowned as the farmer prompted her forward to the building. ‘Who do you think I am?’

  The man gave a sardonic snort. ‘Try no games with me, woman. I have seen enough of them – from you and your people. Our chieftain will be here soon and then you may try your tricks on him. Now, sit in that chair.’

  Fidelma had no sooner sat down than Ciar laid aside his bow, seized her wrists and bound them with a length of rope. Having done so he smiled at his father, who nodded in approval.

  ‘You can put aside your bow now, Ciar, but keep it handy. There may be others about. Anyway, the chief should not be long.’

  Eadulf was being dragged up a steep hill, the cords cutting deeply into his wrists. Even if he had wanted to cry out in pain, the tight gag effectively stopped any sound from emerging. His eyes began to water with the agony and he hoped his captors did not think it was some sign of weakness as, jeering, they pulled and prodded at him with the shafts of their spears. Several times he fell but they continued to pull, dragging him up the rough earth, until he was able to lurch to his feet again.

  Earlier, he could not estimate how long, they had ridden before a halt was called and they had dismounted. He had been roughly manhandled from his horse, and forced to climb these steep slopes.

  It seemed an age before they reached the top of the hill. It was cold and the wind was sharp, but somehow it gave his bruised and battered body some comfort. Then someone removed his blindfold and the same hand removed his gag. He stood, trying to catch his breath, and glanced around. The lowering sun still lit the land with its wintry soft golden light. He realised that he was on a high hill and noticed some curious structures there – stone-built edifices of the type he had seen elsewhere in the country. People had told him that such buildings were very ancient, constructed by the gods in the time beyond memory. He shivered slightly.

  Nearer to where he stood with his captors, there were some rough wooden buildings and cooking fires, around which some women sat. But there were no signs of any children, only adults.

  He became aware of one of the women approaching him.

  She was tall, and her raven-black hair tumbled down almost to her waist. A silver headband bearing a strange crescent design held the hair in place around her forehead. Her features were angular but striking; the dark eyes flashed with some inner fire. It was a face used to command. It was also a face that he felt he had seen before – but could not think where. Eadulf also saw that around her neck and stretching across her chest was a great semi-circular collar. Then he realised that it was a silver equivalent of the great necklet that Fidelma had shown him in Cashel. The one she had found in the room of the dead guest at Ferloga’s inn; the one she had said was a symbol of the Druids, the priests of the old gods.

  His captors thrust him forward to face the woman by the expedient of prodding him with the tip of their swords. They all seemed to treat the woman with reverence.

  In spite of the ropes binding him, Eadulf drew himself up, staring at her with his chin thrust forward defensively.

  The woman halted before him. She was nearly half a head taller than he was. She looked down at him, and her thin lips parted in a smile without warmth. Her dark eyes seemed to bore deeply into his.

  ‘Well, a Christian prisoner. You are welcome, my friend, welcome to Sliabh na Caillaigh.’

  ‘The Mountain of the Hag?’ Eadulf was frowning. He seemed to have heard the name before.

  ‘You are a Saxon by your accent,’ she observed.

  ‘I am Eadulf, of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk,’ he replied proudly. ‘Who are you?’

  The woman laughed without humour.

  ‘That is not for strangers to know, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk,’ she replied, mimicking his accent.

  The woman was accompanied by several warriors. One of her entourage a fair-haired man, seemed familiar to Eadulf and he struggled to think where he had seen the man before. He found it curious that there were several things here that seemed known to him: the ornament at the woman’s neck, her features – and now the face of this warrior.

  Then the leader of his captors moved forward and addressed the woman, but with bowed head.

  ‘Ceannard, this man claims to be husband to Fidelma of Cashel. We have heard that there was a female and male religious accompanied by two southern warriors at Tara recently.’

  ‘Is this true?’ demanded the woman, staring at Eadulf with sudden interest.

  Eadulf smiled. ‘Perhaps that is not for you to know,’ he replied, with an attempt to mimic her.

  The black-bearded warrior at his side struck him with the flat of his sword and Eadulf staggered a pace, biting his lip to stop from uttering a sound at the pain.

  The woman turned behind her and called to one of the warriors nearby. ‘Come forth and see if you recognise this man.’

  The warrior came forward to examine him.

  ‘That is the man called Brother Eadulf,’ he confirmed.

  Eadulf immediately recognised Cuan, the short, dark warrior of the Fianna who had fled from Tara.

&n
bsp; ‘He was in the company of Fidelma of Cashel who was sent for to investigate Sechnussach’s death,’ the man continued. ‘They were accompanied by two warriors of the Nasc Niadh, the golden collar, in the service of the King of Muman. I saw them all at Tara.’

  ‘They will be searching for me even now,’ Eadulf defiantly, ‘as they are searching for you, Cuan. I am told the Fianna dislike deserters and traitors and have ways of dealing with them.’

  ‘Their search will be in vain,’ snapped Cuan, ‘and you will be dead before they find you.’ He raised his sword threateningly but the woman stayed him with a sharp command.

  ‘Do not harm him lest you incur my displeasure, Cuan. And do not underestimate this man’s companion,’ she rebuked. ‘I have heard of Fidelma of Cashel. She is very clever and in other circumstances I would welcome her to my homestead. She is a defender of many of the old ways against these pernicious ideas that are being spread through these lands. She is also an advocate of the ancient laws and that makes a worthy enemy.’

  Cuan was immediately obeisant.

  ‘Where is she now?’ demanded the woman of Eadulf.

  As Eadulf set his jaw firmly, his black-beareded captor moved forward and said confidently, ‘Ceannard, I will send two of my men to find out.’

  The woman smiled thinly at him. ‘You mean that you don’t know already?’ she sneered.

  ‘We came upon the Saxon on the track to Delbna Mór. He was travelling with a survivor from Fobhair. We killed the other man. They rode with no one else.’

  This was greeted with a frown.

  ‘You allowed someone from Fobhair to survive?’ There was a threat in her voice.

  The man’s face paled considerably. ‘But I killed him when I found him.’

  ‘How many others didn’t you find, who escaped from Fobhair? And he was travelling with this Saxon – travelling to Delbna Mór? Did you not work out what that means!’