‘It is in the territory of the Déisi but stands on the opposite side of the river to Uí Liatháin territory – the same Great River that flows from here.’
‘I wonder how Brother Donnchad heard or knew that Celsus’s book was at Fhear Maighe,’ mused Eadulf. ‘What about the other book – the poems of Dallán Forgaill?’
‘It is of no consequence. The thieves were after the work by Celsus, I am sure. Dallán’s poems are no danger to the Faith.’
At that moment Cumscrad came trotting towards them on his black mare.
‘Ride alongside me, Fidelma. My warriors are waiting outside the abbey to escort us.’
Indeed, just outside, a group of half a dozen warriors were sitting on a grassy knoll indulging in a game of chance which involved throwing dísle, or dice. They scrambled to their feet when they saw their chief and hurriedly set about collecting their horses, which were tethered nearby. Within moments two of them had placed themselves at the head while the others fell in behind and the entire party was on the road, riding due west.
The afternoon’s ride passed pleasantly enough and the group kept a fairly good pace leaving Lios Mór on the roadway that ran along the south bank of The Great River. Fidelma rode with Cumscrad, with Eadulf and Gormán behind. The pace was comfortable even for Eadulf. He enjoyed the ride in the mild afternoon sunshine. The hills to the south of them looked peaceful, large and rounded with thick woods carpeting them. There were plenty of rivulets and streams that tumbled and gushed down these hills to empty into The Great River, An Abhainn Mhór. There was no shortage of places to water the horses.
‘I can see why you call it simply The Great River,’ Eadulf observed, nodding towards the flowing water. ‘It’s large enough. Though in truth I have seen broader rivers in my travels.’
Gormán grinned, shaking his head, and replied, ‘It is not named because of its width, Brother Eadulf.’
‘Then it must be its length, for I understand it rises in the mountains a far distance to the west and bends southwards, flowing down to the sea.’
‘Again, not so, my friend,’ the warrior replied. ‘It is called The Great River as a euphemism. It is not its real name.’ Eadulf gave him a questioning glance and Gormán continued: ‘In the old days, before the coming of the new Faith, the river was called the Nemh, which meant immeasurable, sacred and heavenly. In that lies its greatness.’
Eadulf recognised the word, which also applied to a saintly person. ‘A sacred river?’
‘Many of the rivers in this land are named after the old gods or goddesses. They are dedicated to sacred deities.’
‘That is the custom in many countries I have visited,’ Eadulf said.
‘I have not travelled beyond the Five Kingdoms,’ Gormán replied regretfully. ‘But my people regard some rivers or places as being so sacred that their real name is never mentioned. As with The Great River here. There is a geis upon speaking its name.’
‘I have heard of the geis. Isn’t it a prohibition or taboo which, if broken, results in serious consequences?’
‘Yes.’ Gormán smiled grimly. ‘Breaking a geis could result in death or bring misfortune on your family.’
‘I had not realised that it could apply to uttering certain names.’
‘Very much so. For example, the sun and moon were considered sacred objects in the old days and their real names were names of gods. But the Druids forbade those names to be used, so we have several terms for them. For example, as you well know, we call the moon simply “the brightness”, or “the queen of the night”, and many more names besides. No one is allowed to call it by the name of the goddess it represents.’
‘So we can be sure that this river was named after a powerful pagan god?’
‘Yes. I have heard that along its great length there are still spots where people gather to make obeisance to the spirits of the river.’
They were approaching a large hill to the south, which Gormán told him was called the Hill of the Stone Ridge because of its obvious feature. Just before this point, the track they were following meandered away from the river. The river’s path came directly from the north for awhile but the track continued west through thick forests.
Suddenly one of the leading warriors gave a cry and pointed with his outstretched arm.
Some distance away to the south a band of horsemen was riding swiftly across the hills. They were a dozen or more. They were heading towards the south-east.
‘Warriors,’ muttered Cumscrad with narrowed eyes. ‘Uí Liatháin, from the colour of the battle emblem their leader is carrying.’
Fidelma stared at the distant riders. Their small party had halted and they heard a distant shout. The warriors had seen them and the leader had halted them in turn.
‘We are not enough swords to hold them, should they attack, lady,’ called Gormán. ‘Two, perhaps three, to one.’
The warrior band was still for a moment or two, seeming to return their observation.
‘Be prepared to ride,’ called Cumscrad, for he realised that discretion was the better part of valour.
Then suddenly the leader of the warriors raised his arm in a signal and, as one, the band turned and disappeared over the shoulder of the distant hill.
Cumscrad sniffed derisively. ‘Cowards!’
‘Are you sure that they were Uí Liatháin?’ asked Fidelma, frowning at the place where the warriors had disappeared.
‘You saw their battle standard,’ Cumscrad replied. ‘It was white with the head of a grey fox on it. That is their emblem.’
‘My eyes are not as good as yours, Cumscrad,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘I saw only a white flag. But I accept that the odds are that they were Uí Liatháin. Whoever they were, I am concerned about the direction they were coming from.’
For a moment Cumscrad did not understand what she meant and then he looked to where the men had first appeared. An oath fell from his lips.
‘Forward!’ he shouted. ‘Forward to Fhear Maighe!’
Abruptly, they were racing forward along the track into the straddling woods. As they rode through the woodland, the cries of birds seemed unusually loud. Even Eadulf raised his eyes to the dark canopy of branches spread above them. Something was exciting the birds, that much was obvious. They suddenly emerged on to the edge of some cultivated fields, which overlooked Cumscrad’s main township of Fhear Maighe. It lay below them along the south bank of The Great River. Cumscrad let out a great shout.
It was but a fraction of a second before they saw what had caused it. Below them, near the bank of the river on the edge of the town, a building was on fire. They could see smoke billowing. Borne into the air on a southerly breeze, it was black and ominous. Even from this distance they could all see the red and yellow tongues of flame leaping into the air.
‘The library!’ cried Cumscrad, digging his heels into his horse. ‘The library is on fire!’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Eadulf barely had time to catch his breath before they were racing down the track towards the inferno. Fhear Maighe was a large collection of buildings that clustered on both banks of The Great River. On the south bank, on an elevated section of land that was not really high enough to be called a hill, stood the fortress of Cumscrad. It was in no way as imposing nor as threatening as An Dún, the fortress of Lady Eithne. Not far away from this, the blaze was devouring a large building that rose almost on the edge of the settlement. It was a construction of both stone and timber with a curious tower at one end. It was rectangular, like a monastic hall. The tower seemed to be the centre of the fire. Great flames leaped around it and inside it, as if its very structure made it a natural chimney. But the flames were also racing eagerly along the exterior walls of the main building.
As they hurtled down the hill towards it, Eadulf was briefly aware that they passed a riderless horse in a field and, nearby, a prone body with an arrow in its back. There was no time to investigate. They swept on into the township. It seemed that the entire population, men a
nd women and even children, had gathered in a vain attempt to combat the flames. Several young men were rushing back and forth through a door in the main building, emerging with armfuls of scrolls, manuscripts, books and tiaga lebar, the book satchels. Here and there someone would stagger out with a metal box called a lebor-chomet, or book holder, in which very valuable books were stored.
The people were so intent on rescuing the contents of the building from the hungry flames that items were simply dropped on the ground. Several of the precious books were trodden into the earth as people passed buckets of water from hand to hand in a line from the river. Alongside the human chain, Eadulf noticed a curious construction of wooden troughs, along which water from the river was being pumped by a strange mechanical contraption.
Fidelma and Eadulf could see that the people were fighting a losing battle against the flames. Cumscrad and his warriors had dismounted and were assisting but it seemed there was little they could do. Suddenly, there was a great roaring noise and sparks and flames shot into the late afternoon sky as the main roof collapsed, followed, moments later by the tower section imploding. The fire, having satiated itself, was beginning to die rapidly away to a collection of blackened, smouldering timbers. The implosion seemed to have stopped its spread more than the water that had been poured into the building. Only some of the walls and a large grey stone arch, blackened with smoke, remained standing.
Fidelma pointed to where Cumscard and a group of people were standing looking down at what appeared to be a body that had been dragged clear of the building.
‘Can I help?’ offered Eadulf. ‘I have some training in the healing arts.’
‘It’s too late, Brother Eadulf,’ replied Cumscard with bitterness in his voice. ‘Dubhagan is dead.’
‘Dubhagan?’ Fidelma asked quickly. ‘This was your leabhar coimedech, your librarian?’
A young man with a blackened smoke-stained face came forward.
‘We were too late to save him,’ he announced flatly, staring down. He seemed dazed and uncertain.
Cumscrad gazed at the young man for a moment and then asked sympathetically, ‘How was he caught in the fire, Cunán?’
The young man shook his head. ‘He was dead of a sword thrust before the fire started.’
Anger began to harden Cumscrad’s features. Fidelma laid a hand on his arm.
‘Let me ask this young man some questions.’
Cumscrad hesitated before saying, ‘This is my youngest son, Cunán. He was training as an assistant to Dubhagan the librarian.’
‘Cunán.’ Fidelma spoke gently, for she could see that the young man was in a state of shock. ‘Tell me what you know of this.’
Cunán ran a hand over his forehead as if to gather his thoughts. ‘It was a short time ago. We were working in the copying section of the library. I suddenly smelt smoke and heard the crackle of flames. I raised the alarm and ran to find Dubhagan—’
‘Where was he?’
‘In his chamber in the tower.’
‘And where is the copying section?’
‘The twelve copyists work in the main hall, at the opposite end of the main library building to the tower. The tower is where Dubhagan kept his place of study and special books that are considered valuable.’
‘Very well, you say you smelt smoke and raised the alarm. Then you hurried to find Dubhagan. Is that correct?’
‘I rushed into his chamber, for it was no time to stand on protocol. The books and manuscripts in that room were already burning, the smoke was choking, but I saw our leabhar coimedech lying face down on the floor. He was already dead. There were two wounds, one in his chest and one in his neck. I knew it to be useless, but I seized him by the wrists and dragged him out of the building.’
Cunán paused and licked his parched lips. He nodded at the body of the librarian.
‘By the time I turned back, the flames were already in control. They were leaping from the tower across to the main library room. One of the copyists was ringing the alarm bell and people were coming to our aid. But the flames were too strong. They seized and swallowed the books – they were just fuel to the fire. We formed a chain, trying to bring out the books, while others formed chains to bring water to douse the fire, but there was little we could save. All the priceless works consumed … irreplaceable!’ He broke off with an uncontrollable sob.
‘Are you saying that the place where the fire started was in Dubhagan’s chamber? That he had been killed and then the place set on fire?’ pressed Fidelma.
Cumscrad scowled and before his son could speak retorted, ‘I clearly understood that is what he said. And we saw the culprits themselves riding away – the Uí Liatháin!’
Fidelma ignored him and kept her eyes on those of the young man. It was clear that she was expecting an answer from him and so Cunán nodded. ‘That is so.’
‘And there was no sign of an assailant or assailants when you found him?’
‘None.’
‘I saw them,’ called a voice from the crowd. A slight man came forward. ‘Our chief is right. I recognised them by the banner carried by one of their number. It was the grey fox’s head, the symbol of the Uí Liatháin.’
‘How were they allowed to do this?’ shouted Cumscrad. ‘Is there no man among you to take sword and shield to defend my people while I am absent? Who allowed these raiders to ride in without any attempt to stop them?’
A burly man pushed forward from the crowd. He was red in the face and spoke defensively.
‘They rode in openly, Cumscrad. We thought that they came in peace, for their swords were sheathed and they made no display of war. Their leader called out that they had only come to consult with Dubhagan.’
‘What happened then?’ asked Fidelma when she saw that Cumscrad was framing some angry retort.
‘They did just that. Two of them dismounted from their horses and entered the library tower. The rest remained outside. We did not realise anything was amiss until there was shouting, a smell of burning and we saw the flames appearing. By then, the two who had gone inside re-emerged with swords in hand, leapt on their horses and they all galloped out towards the forest beyond before we knew what was happening.’
‘Not all of them.’ It was the slight man who spoke. They turned to him. ‘I was mending my bow when they rode out. I managed to loose an arrow at one of them. I thought I hit him.’
‘You did,’ Eadulf replied, remembering the riderless horse and body. ‘He lies in the field outside the town, his horse nearby.’
Soon volunteers went to retrieve the body and the horse and when they were brought back, they crowded round to see if they recognised the person. It was Gormán who turned with a serious expression to Fidelma. ‘I think you should look at him, lady,’ he said softly.
She looked down. The man was thin, with a head of hair that was as white as snow, and a pale skin to match. She glanced back to Gormán with a query in her eyes. He nodded. ‘It is the bánaí. One of the two who tried to ambush us on the road to Lios Mór. And look at that.’ He pointed to the man’s neck where there was a dark mark, almost an abrasion, such as they had seen on the dead attacker on the road to Lios Mór.
‘Does anyone recognise this man?’ Fidelma demanded of those who were staring at the body. There was a shaking of heads and muttered denials.
‘A warrior, that is clear,’ replied the archer who had claimed his life.
‘That he was part of a party of Uí Liatháin raiders is good enough for me,’ Cumscrad said angrily. ‘I regret no more of them paid a price for this crime.’
‘What could we do?’ It was the burly man again. ‘Fight the fire or make ready our horses and ride after them? We fought the fire.’
‘You made the better choice,’ Fidelma agreed before turning to Cumscrad’s son. ‘You mentioned that Dubhagan’s chamber was where special books were stored. What do you mean by special books?’
The young man gazed at her blankly. His face was black with smoke and his cheeks and f
orearms looked singed.
Cumscrad, now icy calm, answered for him. ‘They were the ancient works, some of which many might condemn as heretical to the new Faith.’ Then he added to his son, ‘When you feel better, come to the rath, for we must talk further.’ He turned to a woman who was helping to attend those who had exhausted themselves fighting the fire. ‘Take Cunán and see to his needs,’ he instructed. The young librarian allowed himself to be guided away by the woman.
Fidelma turned to Cumscrad. The chief’s features were set and bitter and before she could speak he had turned to one of his warriors and issued rapid orders. Tasks needed to be done, assessing the damage, removing the bodies of Dubhagan and the albino raider, attending those who had been injured. One of the scribes had already volunteered to start listing what books had been saved and what had been destroyed. Other volunteers started removing the rescued books to a place of safety to store them. Cumscrad also gave orders to his warriors to arrange a special watch in the unlikely event of the raiders returning. Only when he was sure that all matters were being taken care of did he turn back to Fidelma and her companions. His expression was still bitter.
‘Let us go to my hall and discuss this matter,’ he suggested shortly. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and strode to where he had left his horse. They followed him and collected their mounts. The rath was only a short distance away and so the four of them walked in moody silence to the gates, where Cumscrad issued orders to his stable boys to take their horses and care for them. Then he led the way into his great hall where an attendant waited. He called for mead and refreshments and then invited them to sit in seats arranged before a glowing fire. When the drinks were brought, he gazed thoughtfully at Fidelma.
‘It was deliberate,’ he began. ‘The place was fired deliberately and my librarian killed.’ Cumscrad’s features were hard. ‘First they attack our barge and steal its precious cargo. Two books which our library had copied for Ard Mór. Then comes this attack on our library and its destruction. Yet I fail to see the motive. Why would they want these books? Why would they attempt to destroy the library? Why kill our librarian? It doesn’t add up.’
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