There were other forms of marriage, of course. A man could legally cohabit with a woman at her home with the permission of her family, or she could go away openly with him without the consent of her family and still have rights under the law. The problem was that, having reached the stage of seriously considering marriage to Eadulf, Fidelma was in a quandary about what path to proceed along. Moreover, she had assumed that any future together would be a future in Cashel. The last few weeks with Eadulf in the kingdoms of the Angles and the Saxons had begun to raise doubts in her mind.
She found her thoughts interrupted as Eadulf was speaking again.
‘Did I say that I was not satisfied, Fidelma?’ Eadulf’s smile was a little forced now as he saw the changing expression on her face.
The door opened abruptly with a crash and for a moment it appeared that some strange figure from the netherworld stood framed against the swirling cloud of snow that pushed into the inn. An ice-cold breath of air threatened to blow out the lanterns that lit the main room of the inn. The figure, looking like some gigantic, shaggy bear, turned and had to lean against the door to push it shut against the pressure of the blustery wind. The figure turned again and shook itself, causing cascades of snow to fall from the thick furs which encased the body from head to foot. Then one arm appeared through the furs and began unwrapping part of the head covering. A bearded face emerged from under the wrappings.
‘Mead, Cynric! Mead, for the love of the mother of Balder!’
The figure stamped forward into the inn, showering snow about him from his fur wrappings. He dropped his outer garment unceremoniously on the floor. He wore a leather jerkin over a muscular torso and strips of sacking were wrapped around his giant calves and tied with leather thongs.
‘Mul!’ exclaimed Cynric, the innkeeper, in surprised recognition as he came forward to greet the newcomer. ‘What are you doing abroad and in such inclement weather?’
The man addressed as Mul was of middle age, broad-shouldered, with flaxen hair and a skin that seemed tanned by the elements. He had the build of a farmer or a smith. His thick-set shoulders and arms seemed to bulge through his leather jerkin. He had a coarse, ruddy face with a bushy beard. His features made it seem that he had been beaten about the face and never recovered. His lips were constantly parted and showed gaps in his yellowing teeth. He had piercing bright eyes set close to his beak-like nose, which gave him a permanent look of disapproval.
‘I am on my way home,’ the newcomer grunted. ‘Where should a man be on this night of all nights?’ He suddenly caught sight of Fidelma and Eadulf, seated across the room, and inclined his head in greeting.
‘May the spear of Frig and the Desir be ready to smite your enemies!’ he thundered in the ancient fashion.
‘Deus vobiscum,’ replied Eadulf solemnly with a hint of reproof in his tone.
The man, whom the innkeeper had called Mul, grabbed the tankard of mead from Cynric’s hand and sprawled in a chair near the fire, downing half of it in one great gulp. Then he uttered a loud belch of satisfaction.
Fidelma looked a little shocked but said nothing.
‘God look down on us,’ muttered Eadulf, his face showing his disapproval of the man’s lack of manners.
‘Christians, eh?’ frowned the newcomer, regarding them with curiosity. ‘Well, I am an old dog and cannot be taught new tricks. The gods who protected my father are good enough to protect me. May all and any of the gods protect all travellers this night.’
The innkeeper placed another tankard of mead ready for the newcomer.
‘Shall I prepare a bed for you, Mul?’
The big man shook his head almost violently. The gesture reminded them of a big shaggy dog, shaking itself. His hair and beard seemed to merge into one tangled mane.
‘Woden’s hammer, no!’
‘But your farm is six or more miles from here!’ exclaimed the innkeeper. ‘You’ll not make it in this storm.’
‘I’ll make it,’ the burly farmer said with grim confidence. ‘I would not let a little blow like this prevent me from going home. Anyway, tonight is the Mothernight and I intend to raise a tankard of mead to Frig and the Desir at the appointed hour. I shall be back on my farm before midnight, friend Cynric. Apart from anything else, I have animals to see to. If I am not there to tend to them, then they go without. I have been away all day to sell some cheese at the market at Butta’s Leah.’
Eadulf saw the perplexity on Fidelma’s face and explained in a whisper: ‘Tonight is the Winter Solstice, the start of the old pagan feast of Yule which lasts for twelve days. We celebrate with the feast of the goddess Frig and the Desir, the Fore-Mothers of the race. The main feast is dedicated to Woden, the Yule One.’
Fidelma was just as perplexed as before.
‘It is a time when we are in darkness and must offer gifts to the gods and goddesses to ensure the rebirth of the sun.’
He did not notice Fidelma’s disapproving look, for he had begun to regard the newcomer with some interest.
‘Might I ask, my friend, in what direction is your farm? I heard the innkeeper call you Mul. There was a Mul who used to farm Frig’s Tun before I left on my travels. Are you he?’
The burly farmer examined Eadulf keenly. A frown crossed his brows.
‘Who are you, Christian?’ he demanded.
‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, where I was gerefa before I joined the religious.’
‘Eadulf? Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham? I knew of your family. I had heard one of them had converted to the new faith. You are right. I am Mul of Frig’s Tun and, as I told Cynric, I mean to sleep in my own bed this night.’
‘Surely the roads are impassable?’ intervened Cynric the innkeeper.
The farmer laughed harshly. ‘Impassable to people without courage. Another tankard of mead, Cynric, and I will be on my way.’
Fidelma tapped Eadulf on the arm.
‘Virtutis fortuna comes,’ she whispered in Latin. Good luck was, indeed, the companion of courage, but what was meant, and understood by Eadulf, was that one must grasp opportunity when it came one’s way.
Eadulf sought to frame the question in a way which might appeal to Mul.
‘Your journey must lie in the direction of Aldred’s Abbey, must it not?’
Mul paused with his tankard to his lips and regarded Eadulf speculatively.
‘And if it does?’ he countered.
‘My companion and I are anxious to reach the abbey this evening. If there is room on your wagon, then I would make it worth your while to pass the gates of the abbey.’
Cynric, the innkeeper, was disapproving.
‘I advise you against journeying on. It is too dangerous. We have not had a blizzard like this in ten years. Why, the dry snow is being driven by this bitter wind and banking up behind walls and hedges and ditches and filling the hollows. You could even miss the path and fall into a lake or frozen stream; break a leg or worse. And there is the marsh to consider.’
Mul drained his mug and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He fingered his thick, coarse beard for a moment as if in speculation. Then he sighed and turned to the innkeeper.
‘You are an old woman, Cynric. I know the roads like the creases on the palms of my hands.’ He glanced at Eadulf. ‘My path takes me right by the gates of the abbey. May the gods curse that place of evil. If you can pay, I will take you. But I only have an uncomfortable farm wagon drawn by a team of mules.’
Eadulf exchanged a quick glance with Fidelma.
‘I do not approve of your calling a house of the Christian faith a place of evil, friend, nor calling on idolatrous gods to curse it.’
Mul grinned sourly. It made him more ugly than before.
‘It is evident that you do not know Aldred’s Abbey or whatit has become these days. But your opinions are no concern of mine.’
Eadulf hesitated and then said: ‘By payment, what had you in mind?’
‘If you decide to come with me, then I am sure that you won
’t begrudge me a penny for my labour.’
Eadulf turned to Fidelma who nodded quickly.
‘It is agreed, my pagan friend,’ Eadulf exclaimed in satisfaction.
The farmer rose to his feet, grabbing his fur outer garments.
‘How soon can you be ready?’ he demanded as he began to pull them on.
‘We are ready now.’
‘Then I will go and see to my rig. Join me outside as soon as you are prepared.’
They were already putting on their woollen cloaks before the burly farmer had disappeared through the door.
Cynric regarded them anxiously. ‘Please reconsider. It is a dangerous road. Only an idiot like Mul would attempt the journey. You should know that he is named Mad Mul in these parts. You are much safer waiting to see if the storm breaks tomorrow.’
‘And if it does not?’ smiled Eadulf as he placed some coins in the hands of the innkeeper to pay for the meal. ‘At least we will make the effort this night.’
‘It is only your lives that you risk,’ shrugged the innkeeper, realising when to accept defeat.
Outside, they found Mul already seated in his wagon, with a team of two patient mules in the shafts, heads slightly bowed against the bitter, moaning wind. The winter night had begun but the farmer had lit two storm lanterns which hung on either side of his wagon and there was light enough by the shadowy reflections on the snow to see by. Great banks of snow were piling up in the gusting winds. Eadulf helped Fidelma climb up onto the wagon, then threw up their travelling bags, before climbing up himself.
‘Sit yourselves down there,’ cried Mul, above the howling of the wind, pointing down into the shelter of wagon behind the driver’s seat. ‘Those woollen cloaks will be scant protection against the cold. There’s some furs there. Put them around you and you’ll be out of the worst of it.’
Cynric had come to the door of the inn. He raised his hand in farewell.
‘I think that you are all crazy,’ he called, his voice blurring in the whistling of the blizzard. ‘However, as you insist on going, may God be on every road that you travel.’
‘God be with you, innkeeper,’ replied Eadulf, solemnly, before tucking himself down under the furs beside Fidelma. They heard Mul crack the reins and shout and then, with a jerk, the wagon began to roll forward.
Chapter Two
Once they had passed out of the yard of the inn, beyond the surrounding trees, the wind drove at them bringing the snow like icy pellets, dry and hard and painful where they hit the flesh of the face. It was a bitter wind that groaned around them and now and then rose to a shriek like someone in anguish. Eadulf was glad of the furs in the wagon which guarded them from the full rancour of the icy storm.
Heads down, the sturdy little mules strained and tugged as they pulled the wagon through a low snowdrift, the big wooden wheels crunching on the crispy surface while the wagon swayed and tilted as Mul tried to keep it on the hidden track which lay underneath the drifting snow. For a moment it seemed that the wind was receding and then it suddenly came back with a vengeance from another quarter, causing the wagon to shake as if it had been given some life of its own. Then the wheels suddenly went into a skid as they encountered a patch of solid ice.
They heard Mul cursing but whatever he did brought the heavy wagon to a halt. He jumped down and Eadulf, peering over the side, saw him leading his team through a larger snowdrift. The farmer stayed at their heads until they came to the shelter of a stretch of forest through which the roadway was barely coated with white snow. The wind, sweeping through the trees, was like a curious whispering chorus of sighing voices.
Mul climbed back onto the wagon.
‘Are you all right, down there?’
His voice was almost obliterated by the sighing wind, but Eadulf heard him.
‘We are,’ he called in reply. ‘Are you sure that it’s safe to continue?’ Eadulf himself had begun to have second thoughts as they had driven through the unprotected countryside. At least the forest afforded some shelter from the harsh elements. But he knew its protection would not last long.
‘Woden’s hammer! Of course it’s safe. I’m driving, aren’t I?’ Mul roared with laughter at his own sense of humour.
Eadulf did not reply but turned back to Fidelma. He could not see her face through the slanting snow and gloom.
‘How are you?’
‘I’ve been through worse,’ came her calm response.
She was about to say something else when the wagon suddenly jolted and came to a halt again. The heavy wheels were slipping, turning on the surface of the icy track without finding a purchase. The animals strained hard to keep the wagon moving forward but to no avail.
‘I’ll have to get down and find some branch wood to put under the wheels,’ shouted Mul.
He was about to do so when from somewhere nearby came the mournful howling of a wolf. Eadulf felt Fidelma stiffen suddenly beside him. Wolves were common and dangerous in her country and Eadulf knew that she had good cause to be apprehensive of them. So had he, if it came to that. He looked over the edge of the wagon again and stared hard in the direction of the sound. Some grey-white shadows were moving among the trees.
Mul noticed the concern of his passengers.
‘Don’t worry. It’s an isolated male and his mate roaming these woods with their cubs. There are no packs here, so far as I know. The wolves are dying out in this country. They won’t harm us.’
Fidelma and Eadulf, having had encounters with wolves, were not so sure. Even through the driving snow they could spot the male — a great beast who must have been a full metre high at the shoulder. It had paused on a rock among the trees and was staring at them, its bright sharp eyes glowing red. Fidelma shivered as she observed its massive frame and heavy, slate-grey coat.
Below this majestic form, even in the twilight, they could make out the vixen keeping restless guard over her two leggy, yelping cubs, now and then snapping a reprimand at them with her long, white fangs.
The head of the male wolf went back and a long, mournful wail of hunger echoed through the deep forest. Then the animals turned and seemed to disappear, vanishing among the darkness of the trees. For some moments they could still hear the cry of the wolf as it gradually faded.
To their surprise, they found that Mul had already clambered off the wagon while they had been concentrating on the wolves, and was placing several branches of wood under the wheels to create a purchase for them. A moment later, he was back on his seat and the wagon jolted forward again, but in a skid that swung them into an embankment from which a pile of snow cascaded into the vehicle, almost burying them. They spluttered as they tried to clear it, some of the cold pellets finding their way into the furs and into their noses and mouths and eyes.
The wind dropped a fraction and Mul turned his head and shouted down.
‘There are too many snowdrifts along here. I am going to try the marsh road. The wind will be harsher there but there are no hollows for the snow to drift into and hold us up.’
Eadulf raised his hand to show he had understood.
‘Are you all right, Fidelma?’ he asked again, leaning close to her.
Fidelma grimaced sceptically. ‘If you keep asking, I shall suspect that you are worried. Do you know how far off we are from this abbey now?’
‘Not far. The marsh road takes us through low-lying country to a river, and the abbey is just the other side.’
‘Do we have to try to ford a river in this weather?’
Eadulf shook his head. ‘As I recall, there is a bridge, thanks be to God.’
‘At least that is comforting news.’
The swinging lanterns illuminated the misty flurries of snow sweeping diagonally this way and that as the wind veered in short staccato bursts. Had it not been so cold, had there been some respite from the raw elements of nature, it would have been a beautiful sight. If anything, the snow-laden gale seemed to be increasing as swirling whorls of icy pellets blinded them.
Abru
ptly, they felt the wagon slipping again and suddenly it came to yet another halt.
Eadulf saw the figure of the farmer rise on his seat and heard him swear, invoking all the gods of his father. Eadulf pretended not to notice the pagan profanities.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘I’ll need to dig her out this time,’ Mul responded gloomily.
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ volunteered Eadulf. He turned to Fidelma and added unnecessarily, ‘Stay where you are and keep yourself warm.’
‘I don’t think I shall ever be warm again,’ returned Fidelma without humour.
The wagon had slid sideways into a great bank of snow and almost buried the back wheels above the axles. Mul had seized a spade from the side of the cart, where it had been strapped, and was already digging furiously. Great chunks of snow flew from the blade. He paused, straightened and pointed to where a hedge could be seen on the far side of the track. The driving wind had actually cleared the hedge, heaping the snow on the side where the wagon had become bogged down.
‘Try to find some dead wood that we can pile under the wheels.’
Eadulf acknowledged the instruction with a gesture of his hand and set off to fulfil the task.
It was some time before the heavy wagon had been hauled out by the patient animals, with some pushing and yelling from both Mul and Eadulf. Eadulf returned to his perch with his clothing soaked, for he had been up to his waist in the drift and the chill was cutting like a knife through his body.
They had reached the crest of a hill and the force of the wind was almost unbearable as the tiny ice pellets drove against the wagon like diminutive stones beating a rapid tattoo on the wooden boards. Eadulf raised himself and stared over the seat, beyond Mul, along the track ahead. Mul noticed him and indicated with a jerk of his hand.
The Haunted Abbot sf-12 Page 2
