She sat down on the bed and groaned aloud, holding her head in her hands.
‘Oh, Eadulf! Where are you when I need your calm strength?’ she whispered. She rocked to and fro on the edge of the bed for a few moments and then, with a sniff, she tried to draw himself together. What was he up to? Where had he gone?
She rose, hearing movement in the yard outside. Leaning from the window she looked down and saw horses being prepared. Colgú was even giving the chieftains mounts to allow them to make the journey back to their land at speed and in comfort.
She left her chamber and hurried along the corridor and down the stairs into the yard. She looked round for Gorman, who was to escort the Uí Fidgente chieftains. There seemed no sign of him but she spotted Caol leading a horse forward from the stables.
‘Where is Gorman?’ she asked curiously.
‘Gone,’ replied Caol laconically. It was clear that he was preparing his own mount for the escort of the chieftains.
‘I thought he was going to escort the Uí Fidgente and put them on the northern road?’
Caol shrugged. ‘All I know is that Gorman asked me to do this duty and said he had important matters that took him from Cashel.’
‘Important matters?’
‘He had his horse saddled.’
Caol mounted as the three Uí Fidgente were escorted forward. Fidelma hurried on to the gate where Finguine was waiting to watch the former hostages make their departure.
‘Do you know what mission has sent Gorman from Cashel?’ she asked without preamble.
Finguine looked at her blankly.
‘No mission of mine, cousin, that’s for sure. I thought he was escorting the chieftains.’
‘Caol has been asked to undertake that task. He and the chieftains are leaving any moment.’
‘Ah well, maybe it was some personal business that he had to deal with.’ Finguine turned to one of the guards at the gates. ‘Did Gorman tell you what business drew him from Cashel?’
The guard shook his head. ‘No, lord Finguine. He rode past me a short time ago but said nothing.’
Fidelma was frowning.
‘I don’t suppose you happened to see what direction he took?’ she asked on impulse.
‘I watched him go down the hill then turn through the township. He took the west road.’
Fidelma suddenly felt a chill sensation. So Gorman had turned west, west along the road that Eadulf had said he was taking; west to the abbey of Coimán.
Chapter Twelve
Eadulf had spent the night at a wayside inn a short way to the west of Cnoc Loinge. He had not really wanted to be beholden to the hospitality of Fiachrae the loquacious chieftain of the settlement and so he had skirted it and ridden on for a while. Aware of the oncoming dusk and a mist rolling down from the surrounding hills, he had started to wonder whether he had made the right decision when he saw the bobbing light in the distance, set by a crossroads. A moment later he had halted his horse under the lantern, which was swaying in the evening breeze whispering through the trees that towered on all sides. The sign said ‘Bruden Slige Mudán’.
Eadulf never ceased to admire the concept of hospitality expressed in the five kingdoms by the establishment everywhere of public hostels for free lodging and entertainment of all who chose to claim them. Each clan appointed a public hostel manager or innkeeper called a brugaid whose duty was to keep an open house for travellers. The brugaid was allotted a tract of land and other allowances to defray the expenses of the inn. His office was held in high regard. Most public hostellers were of the rank of bo-aire, magistrate, and were empowered to give judgement on certain cases brought before them. In local terms, each was able to hold court in his course for the election of a chieftain of his clan. At least one bruden was maintained in its territory by each clan.
Not all inns were free, however. Ferloga’s inn, like Aona’s at Ara’s Well, as Eadulf had discovered, was an independent inn at which guests had to pay.
Eadulf had spent a pleasant night in the hostel of Mudán’s road, as it was called, at least so far as his physical wants were concerned. The food and drink were excellent and the bed very comfortable. The hosteller was friendly and answered Eadulf’s questions as to the exact directions to the abbey of Coimán. There had been several travellers on the road recently, he said, but he could not recall anyone specifically during the period that Eadulf was concerned about. However, he did warn him that within a short distance the road would enter the country of the Uí Fidgente at its most southerly border. The hosteller had little respect for his neighbours and uttered some colourful curses which Eadulf was hard pressed to understand. His host several times expressed a desire that cats should eat the women of the Uí Fidgente, but the man had not been able to tell him the origin of such a curse.
Eadulf rode on. The day had turned out to be cold and there were one or two snow flurries from the greying sky but, thankfully, the snow had not lain and the flurries eventually ceased. In spite of the shortness of the day, Eadulf made good time. Although not an expert horseman, he seemed to hold his own when Fidelma was not there to criticise his efforts. The journey through the long stretches of forest which covered the broad plain that spread westward from Cnoc Loinge was without incident. It was an easy ride and there were no signs of hostility from the Uí Fidgente. On the contrary, the natives of the area, on the occasions when he encountered them, seemed as courteous as anyone else. It took some time to cross the broad tree-covered plain and now and then, when on a rise through the thickets of the trees, he could see mountains rising to the south which the road skirted across their foothills. A mist was hanging on the mountain tops when he rode through a pass between higher hills and came to a broad river.
Frustrated, he turned southward along its bank searching for a ford or a bridge. He had not gone far when he came across a woodcutter. The man instructed him as to the location of a ford and told him that the broad expanse of water was called Fial’s River. Eadulf made the mistake of wondering aloud who Fiai might be and the woodsman was nothing loath to tell him that she was the elder sister of Emer daughter of Forgall Manach. And when Eadulf made the further mistake of saying he did not know these personages, the man began to explain that the great hero of Ulaidh, Cúchulainn, had rejected Fiai as his lover and turned to her young sister Emer. The lecture delayed him considerably. Darkness was already beginning to fall when he managed to find the ford across the river.
He sat hesitating for a moment, wondering if he should chance the crossing. But there was no shelter that he knew of on this side of the water and he could just make out a light in the gloom on the far side of the ford. One thing that Eadulf had learnt from Fidelma was that a horse was intelligent and left to its own devices would usually find a surefooted crossing. He coaxed the animal forward into the dark waters, and sure enough the crossing was accomplished without mishap.
On the far side, Eadulf urged his mount in the direction of the light. He could just discern that he had joined a wide track, but with dusk now given way to darkness he could not make out what type of countryside he was riding through. All he knew was that he must be moving southward. He could see no stars nor moon. Heavy clouds hung low in the sky creating the blackness. Only the small light in the distance guided him.
After what seemed an eternity, and feeling that the track was beginning to ascend steeply, he arrived at the lantern that was the source of the light and knew that he had reached an inn. Thankfully, he slid from his horse and found a hitching rail lit by the lantern. He felt stiff and cold. He entered the inn and was immediately cosseted by the encompassing warmth of a roaring fire. Closing the door behind him, he stamped his feet to restore the circulation and glanced around. The inn was empty of guests, or so it seemed. Then a small, dark-featured and smiling woman appeared from another door. A tall, hook-nosed man with dark suspicious eyes followed her.
‘Good evening, stranger. You are late on the road,’ he said, without much warmth.
Ead
ulf took off his cloak and saw the couple exchange a glance as they perceived he was a religious.
‘I am not sure of the road at all,’ he confessed, moving unbidden closer to the fire. ‘I have a horse outside,’ he added.
The man nodded, frowning a little.
‘I will attend to it, Brother. By your accent, I gather that you are a Saxon.’
‘I am. I am journeying to the abbey of Coimán.’
The innkeeper shrugged. ‘Of course. There is no other religious foundation near here. If you follow the road southwards through these mountains, and across the plain beyond, passing the mountain range that you will see to your right - that is, to the west - you will come upon the abbey. It stands at the head of a large inlet. It is an easy ride from here. If you leave here after sunrise you will be there before midday.’
The innkeeper turned for the door while his wife offered food and drink. Eadulf stretched on a seat before the fire.
‘What place is this?’ he asked.
The woman continued to smile. It seemed her normal expression.
‘We call this the Inn of the Hill of the Stone Forts.’
‘Cnoc an gCaiseal?’ repeated Eadulf. ‘Has the name significance?’
The woman poured a beaker of corma.
‘In the hills above us there are many ancient forts of stone that were used in the ancient times.’
‘What are these mountains called?’
‘Sléibhte Ghleann an Ridire.’
Eadulf frowned. ‘Mountains of the Valley of the Warriors?’ he repeated.
‘In ancient times gods and warriors fought one another in these mountains,’ she declared solemnly.
Eadulf decided not to pursue the matter.
‘Do you have many travellers passing through here?’
‘A fair number, Brother.’
‘A week or so ago, would a herbalist with his wife and two babies in a wagon have passed this way?’
The door slammed as her husband returned. He was looking at Eadulf in suspicion.
‘Why do you ask?’ he demanded. There was a defensive tone in his voice.
Eadulf smiled easily. ‘They passed through Cashel some days ago and I am interested in catching up.’
‘As my wife says, many people pass through here and we cannot remember them all.’
There was little point in pursuing a conversation that was not welcome.
‘No matter,’ Eadulf said, dismissing the subject. ‘I take it you have a bed for the night and are able to take care of my horse?’
‘You horse is already stabled and my son is giving the beast a rub down and will feed her. I have brought your saddle bag in, Brother.’ He produced the bag and placed it beside Eadulf.
‘Thank you, innkeeper. I will take another bowl of your wife’s excellent stew and most certainly another beaker of corma’
The man went to fetch the drink while his wife filled another dish with the stew and placed it before him. As she did so, bending down to set the plate on the table, she whispered: ‘The people you seek did pass this way about a week ago. They told me that they planned to stay awhile at the abbey of Coimán so you might yet catch up with them there.’ She grimaced apologetically. ‘My husband is old-fashioned and thinks that a traveller’s business is his own.’
The innkeeper came across with the corma and looked suspiciously at them.
‘I was just complimenting your wife on this stew,’ Eadulf assured him. ‘I was trying to pry her secret from her.’
The innkeeper sniffed in disapproval as he put down the drink.
‘You are kind to us, Brother. However, we would soon be out of business if we told passing strangers all our secrets.’
‘Then I shall not trouble you further except for a bed after I have eaten,’ replied Eadulf solemnly.
It was the waiting that irritated Fidelma. She could hear the voice of her old mentor, the Brehon Morann, intoning, ‘The person who prevails is the person who is patient, Fidelma.’ It had always been her major fault, if fault it were. ‘Impatience,’ she had once told the old judge, ‘is a sign that we have not resigned ourselves to mere hope of a solution but to its pursuit. To say, let us wait and see what fate provides, is no virtue. I would rather be doing something than sitting in inactive expectation.’ Brehon Morann had shaken his head sadly. ‘Learn patience, Fidelma, when patience is needed. Be impetuous and restless when that is needed. Above all, learn to differentiate between the need for either, for it is said that those who do not understand when patience is a virtue have no wisdom.’
The morning after Eadulf ’s departure, Fidelma had risen with a thousand thoughts cascading through her mind. For the rest of the day, following the departure of the Uí Fidgente chieftains, she had wandered the palace, pacing nervously, unable to settle to anything. Nothing distracted her from the worries that flooded her mind. Even old Brother Conchobar had not returned and Brehon Dathal was growing impossible. She found herself moving irritably from one room to another, from one place to the next. Now, as she rose to face a new day, she realised she could not go through yet another period of inactive frustration.
She went to the chapel and was relieved that there was no one about. Taking a seat in a dark corner, she closed her eyes, feeling the silence encompassing her.
She tried to concentrate, to clear her mind, seeking refuge in the art of the dercad, the action of meditation by which countless generations of the ascetics of her people had achieved the state of sitcháin, or peace, quelling extraneous thoughts and mental irritations. She tried to relax and calm the riot of thoughts that troubled her mind. Fidelma had been a regular practitioner of the ancient art in times of stress. Yet it was a practice which many leading religious in the churches of the five kingdoms were now denouncing. Even the Blessed Patrick, a Briton who had been prominent in establishing the Faith here, had expressly forbidden some of the meditative forms of self-enlightenment. However, the dercad, while frowned upon, was not as yet proscribed.
It was no use. The one time when she needed patience, she could not engage the ancient techniques. She surprised herself, for she had thought herself an adept in the method.
She rose abruptly and left the chapel.
Almost without knowing it she found herself at the stables. There was no one about, and she uttered a prayer of thanks for it. She wanted to be alone. To face the fears that dwelt in her mind. She found her horse, her favourite black mare, and after a short time she was leading it out through the gates of the palace complex.
The guards were standing around awkwardly.
‘Lady,’ one saluted her, ‘we have a duty to ask you not to go out alone. Not with the possibility of Uí Fidgente about.’
‘And your duty is therefore done,’ Fidelma replied curtly. ‘Have no concern. I am only going out for a ride.’
Before the man could protest, she had mounted and was urging the horse down the slope from the gates. The township which had grown up around the ancient fortress of the Eóghanacht, the capital of their great kingdom of Muman, lay to the south of the limestone rocky hill on which the palace rose, towering nearly two hundred feet above the plain which surrounded it. Instead of making for the township, she turned along the track that led round the rock and northward across the plain. Once out of the shadow of the palace complex, she dug in her heels and gave her mount its head.
Fidelma had learnt to ride almost before she could walk. She loved the experience of being at one with such a powerful beast, rider and horse working together in unison, speeding across the plain. Leaning forward, close to the mare’s neck, she cried words of encouragement as it thundered forward, and sensed the animal’s enjoyment at the lack of restriction, the freedom of movement, being able to fly like the wind without constraint.
It was only when she felt the sweat on the beast’s neck, and began to hear a slightly stertorous note enter its breathing, that she started to draw rein, to slow its pace and ease it to a trot, so that the sudden deceleration would not harm it.
She finally reined it to a halt where the River Suir was joined by the Clodaigh, rushing down from the distant peak of Cnoc an Loig. She glanced up at the sun and realised it was well after noon and that her early morning ride had taken her many kilometres north of Cashel. Indeed, she realised to her surprise that she had come so far that, at this time of year, it would be dark by the time she had ridden back, and her horse was already tired from the exertion.
She sat undecided. Her brother kept a hunting lodge a few kilometres to the south-east at a vale called the Well of the Oak Grove, beside a little stream whose spring gave the spot its name. She could, at least, get a meal there before heading back to Cashel. The lodge was used as a hostel for those her brother chose to send there. There was no reason to ruin a good horse by riding it when it was so exhausted. She felt cheered by her decision.
She leant forward and patted the beast’s neck reassuringly, and then turned its head in the direction of the woods that surrounded the hunting lodge.
The way was, at least, across flat ground, for the great plain that spread north of Cashel stretched almost undisturbed as far as the eye could see from the top of the great rock on which the Eóghanacht palace stood. She walked her horse carefully along the track, which she knew led to her destination, moving slightly eastward through the forest.
Now that she had slowed her pace, and her mind was not preoccupied with the thrill of the gallop, her thoughts turned again to Eadulf and she felt both guilt and anxiety. Guilt for her own attitude and anxiety about the matter of Bishop Petrán. And why had Gorman ridden to the west? She was sure that he had gone after Eadulf - but why? Did Gorman believe that Eadulf was guilty? Brehon Dathal had said he would send someone after Eadulf. Had he instructed Gorman to go? And there was Gormán’s relationship with Delia. He claimed that he had loved Sárait. But he appeared intimate with Delia and Delia was surely twice his age. She shook her head in confusion.
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