23- The Seventh Trumpet

by Peter Tremayne

  The warrior gathered a number of branches that lay near and built up the fire as they stretched themselves around its warmth. Torna, it seemed, had chosen the spot well for his encampment, for the wind was blowing from the north-north-east, and they could see little wisps of froth on the southward-flowing river where the wind was causing tiny wavelets. But they were sheltered by the woods to the north and the buildings behind them.

  As soon as they were settled, Torna cleared his throat and began his song in soft, sad cadences.

  ‘What greater fortune on the sea of life,

  To find the girl you crave to take for wife?

  This love has lit a tempestuous fire No clan rebuke can quench your hot desire.

  A girl to share one’s dreams and all one’s hopes

  Against a despot’s harsh, constraining ropes,

  That forced you both to leave your homes behind

  And cast your fortunes on the wild west wind.

  The fates are blind, it seems, alas, alack

  For what the sea brings in,

  The ebbing tide takes back.’

  There seemed a slight catch in the young man’s voice as he ended and Fidelma gazed at him thoughtfully. ‘A song of experience?’ she asked.

  ‘A song of bitter experience,’ he confirmed with a shrug. ‘You want something merry, not melancholy. I am sorry, lady. I was not thinking.’

  ‘I believe you were thinking, Torna,’ Fidelma corrected. ‘Or rather, I think that you were remembering.’

  ‘I did not mean to sing that song. When asked to perform there should be no place for personal recollection. It just came unbidden to my tongue.’

  ‘On the contrary, my friend. Where else can you express feeling than from the well of personal experience? Did she die, this girl that you loved?’

  Torna hesitated for a moment. ‘She did, lady.’

  Fidelma glanced to where Eadulf already lay asleep huddled on his cloak and beyond him Gormán seemed to be dozing.

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’ she invited.

  Torna seemed to think about it for a moment or two before responding. ‘It was not so long ago. Two full moons have passed and still my grief is strong. My clan …’ He paused. ‘I will keep that to myself. My life was not privileged. I met a girl. I fell in love. It is as simple as that.’

  ‘But her family did not agree with you marrying her?’ interposed Fidelma. ‘You indicated as much in your song.’

  ‘That is right enough, lady. You see, I was of the class of the daer-fuidir.’

  Fidelma raised an eyebrow in surprise. The daer-fuidir was the lowest of the social classes in all the Five Kingdoms. They were usually criminals, unable to pay fine or compensation, or sometimes they were even captives taken in battle from other lands.

  Fidelma knew that a daer-fuidir, if he showed remorse and industry, had the ability to progress to the level of saer-fuidir. That meant he could be allocated land from the common wealth of the clan and be allowed to work it in order to pay off his debt to society. Some daer-fuidir could accumulate sufficient wealth and status to move forward to become a clansman, a céile, with full rights.

  ‘How did this come about?’

  ‘How did I become a daer-fuidir? I was taken captive during warfare when my clan was accused of cattle-stealing. It was a lie; an unjust accusation. The powerful chief of our territory hated my family because once we had been as powerful as his family. So he saw this as an excuse to crush us. We fought to defend our honour and I was taken captive. We were slaves in his fortress.’

  ‘So there was no chance of you progressing from this class?’

  Torna shook his head. ‘None at all, lady. I was set to work labouring, building the fortifications for this evil despot. That was where I met … met the girl. I approached a fellow captive who had once been a Brehon. I thought I could trust him because of his oath to pursue truth and justice. I asked his advice and he told the girl’s father in return from more privileges.’ He made a helpless gesture.

  ‘So what did you do?’ prompted Fidelma.

  ‘Well, I had been working on constructing the vaults of the fortress, and I knew a way out through an underground tunnel. So we eloped in the dead of night. For a while, we were chased, yet managed to elude our pursuers.’

  ‘But they caught up with you?’

  ‘They were overtaking us when we found our route was blocked by a big river in flood. There was a storm that night.’ He swallowed, went on in a lower voice. ‘What happened was my fault. I insisted that we should attempt to cross it. I was sure that our pursuers would not find us, once we had made it to the other side. She trusted me, my soul-friend. She put her life in my hands and I failed her.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I am a good swimmer. I told her to hang on to me. We were not far from the other bank when she lost her grip. I heard her cry out – then she was swept away in the swirling waters.’ His voice cracked. A moment passed before he recovered himself. ‘I made a desperate effort to find her but was nearly pulled under myself. I made it to the bank and the people there hauled me out more dead than alive. They nursed me back to health. Her body was washed up sometime later.’

  ‘And since then?’

  His expression was bitter. ‘Since then I have been a wandering bard, singing my songs, telling my stories, and hoping that—’ He suddenly stopped.

  ‘Hoping?’ Fidelma said gently, after a moment or two of silence. ‘Hoping for what?’

  The young man shrugged. ‘That, I do not know. My life would be that much simpler if I did.’

  ‘Did you ever go back to your parents, your family and clan?’

  ‘I cannot!’ The words were harshly said. ‘They are dead to me while the chieftain who held me captive still lives. The sorry remnants of my clan have to pay tribute to him. I could not find sanctuary with them because he would send his warriors to punish them further. That is why I wander; still hoping people will buy my mournful melodies.’

  ‘I understand.’ She realised how useless all the platitudes were about time healing. She could have used his own imagery that, however high and strong the tide, it always ebbed away. But it would not have been appropriate to add anything to what had been said.

  The young man leaned across to the fire and put more wood on it. An owl hooted softly in the trees behind them. Fidelma saw that both Eadulf and Gormán were still sound asleep.

  ‘It grows late,’ she said. ‘Sleep well, Torna.’

  The young man answered with a soft grunt and sat staring into the flickering flames of the fire. She turned and wrapped herself in her cloak, then lay down near Eadulf, and was soon asleep.

  Eadulf came awake, his eyes flickering open. He wondered what had disturbed him, then realised it was the horses, which were moving restlessly. He raised himself on one elbow and suddenly felt something heavy crash against his head, followed by the sensation of floating into a black bottomless pit.

  It seemed only a moment before he was aware of a bright blinding light. He blinked a little and raised a hand to feel the back of his throbbing head. Then he remembered the restless horses and the blow to the back of his skull. He struggled to get to his feet, but could only make it on to his knees. There was a groaning: it was not coming from himself. It took Eadulf a few painful moments to locate it. Blinking and trying to focus, he saw Gormán sitting, trying to massage his head with both hands. Blood streaked down his face. The shock at seeing this had the effect of diminishing the ache in his own temples. Some sudden inner strength came to Eadulf and he peered around him.

  The horses were still tethered where they had been when he went to sleep, but they remained restless, particularly Aonbharr, Fidelma’s horse. He was jerking at the reins that secured him, swinging his head from side to side; his eyes rolling and nostrils flaring. Eadulf turned back, rubbing his forehead to ease away the pain. The fire, with the firedogs over it, was just grey ash and it had obviously died some time before. Then he realised there was no
sign of the young man, Torna. Eadulf’s mind was working too slowly. Shaking his head to clear it, he turned to his side: ‘Fidelma …?’

  Then an icy coldness swept through him.

  Her discarded cloak and marsupium were lying on the ground where she had been sleeping. There was no sign of Fidelma.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Eadulf came unsteadily to his feet calling, ‘Fidelma!’ and peering myopically about. Moaning, Gormán began to realise that something was amiss and also rose to his feet, swaying, with one hand nursing his cut head.

  ‘What happened?’ he muttered thickly.

  ‘Fidelma is missing,’ replied Eadulf, his voice hoarse, his mind still in a haze. Then he added: ‘And that poet has disappeared as well.’

  ‘My head is aching,’ Gormán said in a rasping tone.

  ‘There is blood on it,’ Eadulf confirmed.

  The warrior focused on his hand, seeing the blood on it. He blinked several times and then looked at Eadulf. ‘You have a lump on the side of your head,’ he finally commented, before stomping over to the river, kneeling by it and splashing his head and face. Eadulf stood looking about him. The riverbank was deserted.

  ‘We must find Fidelma!’ he exclaimed, his voice full of anxiety.

  ‘Friend Eadulf,’ replied Gormán, speaking slowly, ‘we cannot do anything until we have recovered our faculties and are able to think straight. I suggest you bathe your head and take a drink.’

  Reluctantly, Eadulf accepted the logic of this advice. It was clear that something had struck Gormán’s head, breaking the skin and causing it to bleed. He examined the bump on his own head. It was swollen and tender but the skin was not broken. He crouched by the riverbank and began to bathe it. The cold water was soothing. He was more concerned with Gormán’s wound, which still seeped blood.

  ‘I have a salve in my bag,’ he said. ‘I should dress your wound, Gormán.’

  The warrior returned to the fire and stirred the grey ashes. Some of them still glowed and, placing dried twigs on them, he soon had the fire alight again. By this time, Eadulf had found the little jar he was hunting for and instructed the warrior to sit down while he applied the ointment.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded the warrior.

  Eadulf said impatiently, ‘It will not hurt you. It is a lotion made from an infusion of the petals of the marsh-marigold; it will help prevent the wound from becoming infected. It’s the best I can do.’

  He applied the salve carefully to the other’s head. The blood had made the wound look worse than it actually was and Eadulf reckoned that it would soon heal naturally, provided no infection set in.

  Gormán himself had been viewing Eadulf’s wound with a critical eye. ‘You certainly received a hefty blow, my friend.’

  ‘We both did,’ agreed Eadulf.

  ‘What happened?’

  Eadulf replaced the little jar of ointment in his bag and sat, staring into the fire, for a moment.

  ‘I have been trying to remember. I know I woke up during the night. The horses were fidgety and they disturbed me. I recall wondering if anything was wrong, whether some animal had disturbed them. Then everything went black. I think I was struck from behind.’

  The young warrior’s lips formed a grim line. ‘We were both hit on the head from behind. The lady, Fidelma, has been taken. But who did this? The poet – what was his name? Torna? – he is gone also.’

  ‘He must have had accomplices to do this.’

  ‘There was no one else nearby when we fell asleep.’

  ‘But one person alone could not have overcome Fidelma,’ said Eadulf. ‘And even if they had, she would have alerted us with her outcry.’

  ‘If only my head would stop throbbing, I would start a search. There must be signs of her struggle.’

  Eadulf sighed. His own head was just as painful. Then his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of some plants at the edge of the nearby woods.

  ‘Clean that pot in the river,’ he instructed, pointing to one of the small cooking pots that the poet had been using the previous night. ‘Then put in some water – not too much, mind – and heat it over the fire.’

  Gormán carried out the instruction without comment. Eadulf had risen and taken out his small knife before walking towards the edge of the wood and the plants that had attracted his interest: plants with broad leaves and purple flowers on upright, hairy stems. Bending down, he cut two of the plants and returned to the fire. Gormán watched him curiously as Eadulf trimmed the leaves and stem from the rest of the plant, and put them into the bubbling water.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked.

  ‘Something that will help chase away the pain,’ replied Eadulf. ‘It is a favourite healing plant among my people: we call it betony.’

  Gormán glanced at the discarded flowers and then said approvingly, ‘It is lus beatha – the Plant of Life.’

  Eadulf was a little impatient as he was preparing the infusion. He was anxious to start looking for the signs that would lead them to Fidelma, fearful of what harm might have befallen her. Gormán noticed his agitation.

  ‘Friend Eadulf,’ he said, ‘the Lady Fidelma is fond of a Latin saying: festina lente – hurry slowly. The more we hasten, the more we may miss something important.’

  Eadulf was about to utter an irritated retort but realised that was precisely what Fidelma would say in the circumstances.

  ‘Anyway,’ Gormán continued, ‘wherever they went, they cannot have gone far.’

  Eadulf stared at him in surprise. ‘How so?’

  For answer, Gormán pointed towards the still-tethered mounts. Eadulf cursed himself for an unobservant fool.

  ‘Others might have come along on horseback,’ he suggested defensively.

  ‘Indeed, but had they done so, we would have been roused by their din. They must have come by stealth on foot to have knocked us out as we slept or as we were just awakening.’

  ‘They might have tethered their horses a distance away,’ said Eadulf.

  ‘That is true, and if that is so, they will have left their tracks from here to wherever they left the horses. The tracks will not disappear before we are ready to follow. But there is another matter to consider, which is: why leave the Lady Fidelma’s horse behind, if their journey necessitated travel by horse? We were unconscious and could not have prevented them from taking our horses if they needed them.’

  The infusion was ready and Eadulf returned to his immediate task, pouring it into a beaker to cool so that they could swallow it.

  ‘So what do you think has happened?’ asked Gormán as they sipped at the mixture.

  ‘It is obvious that Fidelma has been abducted and that we were both knocked unconscious to prevent our interfering.’

  ‘And this poet, Torna?’

  ‘I think we may conclude that he was involved, otherwise he, too, would have been hit on the head and left.’

  ‘That’s logical,’ admitted Gormán, rising to his feet and rubbing his forehead once again. ‘But I think we should make sure. They might have killed him and put his body in one of the ruins behind us.’

  ‘But if they did so – why just leave us unconscious?’

  ‘Stay there, friend Eadulf. I am better trained, so I will look through the ruins first.’

  It was true. Albeit impatient, Eadulf accepted that Gormán’s warrior training made him the better qualified to look for tracks and signs around the area. Curbing his anxiety, he sat waiting, hoping the infusion would work quickly so that he could concentrate on the problem. It seemed an age before Gormán returned, shaking his head as he approached in answer to Eadulf’s unasked question.

  ‘No sign of any tracks or anything in any of these ruins,’ he stated.

  Gormán began circling round the encampment where they had slept. Then he seemed to spot something and moved cautiously along the riverbank. It was not long before he came to a halt on the muddy shoreline of the river and stood staring down.

  ‘Have you found something?’ called
Eadulf.

  In answer, Gormán beckoned him forward and, without a word, pointed down to the mud. There was a deep furrow in the bank and footprints nearby.

  ‘So the abductors came from the river,’ Eadulf said.

  ‘The deep furrow is where the prow of their vessel ran into the bank,’ Gormán replied. ‘It was a heavy riverboat, by the depth of that indentation. It’s hard to guess how many the boat contained. A vessel with a prow like that might take six or seven men and even carry a sail.’

  Eadulf stood gazing out across the river. On the far bank, the land consisted mainly of fields of stubble where crops had been harvested. Beyond that, not far away, was a small hill; its bald rounded top was hardly higher than surrounding trees. Gormán followed his gaze.

  ‘There is not much across there but grainfields and grasslands for the cattle,’ he said dismissively. ‘They belong to a few isolated farmsteads.’

  ‘And what of the hill?’

  ‘It is called Dún Bán, not because it is a fortress or white in colour. It is just a small hill of grey rocks which might produce a light shade when the sun shines on it. But no one lives near there.’

  Eadulf returned his thoughtful gaze to the river, saying, ‘So which way did these abductors go?’

  ‘I suggest they went with the flow of the river. To the south,’ Gormán said.

  ‘Southwards towards Cashel …’ Eadulf shook his head. ‘I disagree.’

  ‘Why do you think they went north? That’s against the flow of the river.’ Gormán was sceptical.

  ‘Because that is where they came from.’ Eadulf’s voice sounded so definite that Gormán was surprised.

  ‘Tell me your reasoning, friend Eadulf.’

  ‘If they came from the south, they would have had to fight their way upriver, against the current. Their coming would doubtless have woken us. They would have been struggling with their oars against the prevailing current and the wind. Remember how the wind was blowing from the north last night? So we would have heard the movement of their oars.’

  ‘They might have muffled them,’ said the warrior.