The ferryman stroked his nose thoughtfully.
‘Sometimes it is where a territory is rather than what the soil yields that makes it valuable, my friends. Ard Nemed could control all the natural harbours of this part of the kingdom. Who controls Ard Nemed, the Great Island, controls the harbour and the links to many lands. That is worth more to the ambitious man than taking a cow or two or a flock of sheep.’
‘Are the Uí Liatháin so ambitious?’
‘They have shown themselves to be so. But at the moment they are held at bay.’ Imchad smiled. ‘Artgal is a worthy prince, a true son of the Eóganacht Ráithlind, whose ancestors were kings at Cashel and who is therefore loyal to Cashel.’
The heavy ferry bumped against the southern shore of the great river. Fidelma, who had been silent during the crossing, led her horse off the boat before turning to the boatman.
‘Do you know much about this territory?’
‘I do, lady,’ Imchad replied gravely. He had been told who Fidelma was – presumably by his brother, the stable master at the abbey, for neither Eadulf nor Enda had mentioned her rank.
‘And there are many islands in this area?’
‘That is so, lady,’ Imchad answered respectfully.
‘Are the routes between them good or bad?’ she asked.
The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It is not the best time of the year to be travelling through the territory of the Ciarraige Cuirche. Of course, it depends in which direction you want to go. The tracks to the west are good. Even with last night’s rain, you will probably find most of them firm and you will encounter little real marshland until you get to the shores of the River Banna. There is a lot of high ground before the river. South of here it will be marshy, for the winter months increase the marshland. However, some tracks cross the high ground. The worst area is to the east.’
Eadulf stifled a groan, suspecting that it was to the east that she would want to go.
‘But I see hills to the east,’ Enda pointed out.
‘So you do, warrior,’ agreed Imchad, the ferryman. ‘But I doubt whether you can jump your horses from hill to hilltop. No, my friend, it is by the lowlands, between the hills, that you would have to travel, and, at this time of year, tracks are like muddy rivers. That is why this area is called the Great Marsh.’
Fidelma was looking thoughtful. Then she pointed towards one of several tracks leading south from the river, which entered a thorny-looking winter woodland, with high trees and bushes, some with evergreen foliage, others with gaunt branches denuded of growth.
‘Does that track lead south?’ she asked.
The ferryman nodded. ‘It does, lady.’
‘And would that be a safe track to travel on?’
The man grinned. ‘If you wanted to go that way,’ he began slyly, ‘I daresay I might be able to suggest a guide.’
‘Who might this guide be and where would he be found?’
The boatman stood motionless for a moment, seeming to examine his left hand with a sharp intensity.
Fidelma grimaced and, feeling inside her marsupium, she withdrew some coins, picked one and dropped it into the boatman’s hand.
‘And who would this guide be?’ she asked again, her face expressionless. ‘And where would he be found?’
‘All you have to do is travel due south, following this stream; it is called the Dark River, although it is not big. It will lead you to a farmstead, named after the stream – Dubh Glas. There the track divides, one branch continuing south, one east and the other west.’
‘And where might the guide be found?’
‘At the farmstead ask for Tassach. He will help you.’
Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgment and mounted her pony.
Imchad and his companions stood watching as the party rode away from the wooden jetty. Fidelma was aware of their continued gaze as she led the way between the few rough-built wooden cabins that were dotted on the bank. She noted that several tracks led off in various directions. She motioned with her head towards the southern track and Eadulf and Enda followed her, moving into the bare woodland ahead until they encountered evergreens and the thickening foliage began to spread around them, like an impenetrable and devouring growth.
As Fidelma and her companions entered the tall dark wood, the path narrowed a little. Enda managed to guide his horse alongside Fidelma’s grey-white pony, his tall black stallion looming over her.
‘Lady, I think it is my duty to go first,’ he announced. ‘I am, after all, a warrior of the Golden Collar and bodyguard to your family.’
Fidelma frowned a little in annoyance but then realised that it was true. It was not the custom to ride ahead of her brother’s bodyguards in such circumstances.
‘Very well, Enda, you take the lead and Eadulf and I will ride behind you. We shall keep this small stream on our left-hand side until we find this farmstead, which can’t be too far ahead.’
‘I wish the countryside were more open, though,’ Enda observed, glancing around before nudging his horse into the lead.
Although the thickly growing evergreens enclosed their path as if they were in a narrow tunnel, Fidelma laughed and called, ‘Do not tell me, Enda, that you are nervous about riding through dark woods alone?’
Enda did not turn his head. ‘If it pleases you to think so, lady,’ he replied affably.
Enda had earned his position in the elite bodyguard of the King of Muman. As a boy, long before he had reached the aimsir togú, the age of choice, he had decided that he wanted to be a feinnid, a professional warrior, and aspired to join the King’s bodyguard. He had quickly displayed his abilities to the commanders of the Nasc Niadh, the champions of the Golden Collar. He not only had to be skilled in all manner of arms but also had to display a capability in strategy and planning. Warriors had to be knowledgeable in the arts and philosophy too, for a champion did not merely use brute force on the field of combat. Indeed, it was said that Cormac, the son of Art, when he was High King, had founded three military colleges at Tara for the training of his Fianna, his army’s elite. Each ruler of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann had their chosen bodyguard catha, or battalions, and each their military training academies.
Enda had swiftly risen to the level of a curad, a warrior of valour. It was then but a short step to being accepted to wear the golden collar, or torc. Should the King call a sluaghadh, or hosting, in time of war, Enda could command a full cath, a battalion three thousand warriors strong. He would not admit it but he was disappointed that there had only once been a war since he had earned the golden collar. That had not been so long ago, when Colgú had been forced to march his battalions to counter the attempted invasion of his kingdom by Fianamal, King of Laigin, using the neutral territory of Osraige into the land of Princess Gelgeis of Éile. The sight of Colgú’s hosts had been enough to give pause to the forces of Laigin and their Osraige co-conspirators, and after a few brief skirmishes and the destruction of their fortress of Liath Mór, the invaders had been forced to die or surrender. Not many chose the first option. The intervention of the High King and his Chief Brehon, Sedna, had brought an uneasy peace between Laigin and Muman.
Now, Enda rode confidently ahead and, if the truth were known, he rode proudly as protector of his King’s sister and her husband. They had been through several adventures together and often Enda’s arms, and sometimes his abilities as a strategist, had stood the three of them in good stead, saving them from many a dangerous situation. In spite of Fidelma’s jibe, which was not meant in any seriousness because she had total trust in him, the young warrior sat relaxed on his black warhorse, showing no sign of tension as he led the way. Nonetheless, his watchful gaze swung cautiously from side to side along the path before him. Not that he expected any danger but, until Fidelma felt able to tell him what her mysterious task in this remote corner of the kingdom was, he naturally felt that caution was the watchword.
Enda was confident in his abilities but he was not arrogant. Like all warri
ors, even those who espoused the New Faith, he preferred to regard his weapons as possessing the spirits of the ancient gods and goddesses. Such old and once sacred names were always given to weapons by the champions of the Golden Collar. He called his elaborately crafted short sword Fiacail-na-hAnnan, the Teeth of Annan, the war goddess. She was said to be the predictor of death on the battlefield. His javelin was named Mac-an-Nemain, after one of the triune goddesses of war, who created frenzy and havoc among her enemies on the battlefield. His lumain, or stout shield, was simply An Cosantoir – The Protector – named after the ancient word for the star that the Romans called Mars. Enda used no other weapons, although some warriors had adopted others, such as a bow or a battleaxe. In his chosen weapons, Enda felt he was a master.
Eadulf had brought his docile cob alongside Fidelma, although there was barely room for the two horses to walk steadily abreast. Eadulf was sniffing at the air. He could smell that strange stale odour of rotting vegetation that he associated with marshland, the low-lying wetlands.
‘Well,’ he suddenly said, ‘like Enda, I will be glad when we have passed through this area; woods and wetlands do not go well together. The smell of bogs can be very unpleasant. If you remember, it was not so long ago I had the misfortunate to get lost in marshlands.’
It was true that less than a year ago Eadulf had lost his way in the southern boglands of Osraige, and had nearly died before he had managed to find his way out.
‘Little chance of being lost here,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘All we have to do is follow the stream to the farmstead that the ferryman told us of and find this man Tassach.’
‘Why do we need a guide? Where are we going?’ Eadulf was expecting Fidelma to claim she could not tell him because of her oath.
‘We must eventually turn east to that island that the ferryman told you of.’
Eadulf was surprised. ‘You mean Ard Nemed? I didn’t think you were listening to what was said.’
‘I did not want the ferryman to know,’ she confided. ‘It would not have been long before our destination was known to all and sundry, back and forth along the river. I’d rather keep it to myself at the moment.’
‘So we must turn east at some point?’ Eadulf asked. ‘And it is to do with the matter you are pursuing?’
She did not feel the need to answer. It was a logical conclusion. She settled back on her pony, riding at ease like Enda and, like him, she rode with her mind attuned to her surroundings, trying not to think about the task that she had been given and why a geis had been laid on her to keep her silent. She noticed a number of wych elm trees, not very tall, that seemed to be giving way to more populous alder, whose brown woody cones would stay on the tree, in spite of the loss of green leaves, throughout the winter. When spring arrived, the seeds would be dispersed. The alder showed they were moving through wetlands, because that was their usual habitat. And there was certainly plenty of moss along the path, and ferns predominated in the little clearings here and there. There were clumps of beech waiting patiently for winter to be gone and their dense leaf canopy to be renewed in brilliant green. She observed that around the base of one or two of the beech trunks, black finger-like projections of fungi were clinging, even the very shape forewarning that they should not be eaten. There were only few edible fungi that would grow during this winter month. She had already spotted the violet hue of one edible fungus and not far on she saw more, oyster coloured, growing from the bark of a tree. They made a popular dish.
Fidelma was someone who was very conscious of the countryside that she travelled through. One had to be knowledgeable in order to survive, otherwise, in her opinion, you were like a blind man stumbling through the dark. That they were reaching slightly to higher ground was obvious from the increasing number of bare oak trees she could see; they were tall, with longer, straighter trunks and stubby acorns. She knew these trees had to be on firmer soil. Even so, there was plenty of chickweed, and white dead nettles about to remind her that they were close to water, and once she even saw a broad-backed stoat scuttling for its den in a rock crevice. The only birdsong she could differentiate at the moment was the loud, repetitive call of a reed warbler, which was unusual for it had typically disappeared at this time of year.
Her mind returned to her task and she considered the latest development. Why had her unknown adversaries felt the matter to be so serious that the abbot had had to be killed in such a vicious and cruel way? What was it that he knew that caused his death? Cairenn was heading for the Great Island, of course. She was cousin to Artgal as well as to Nessán. And both were distantly related to Fidelma, being Eóganacht. She began to wonder what role the girl had played at the abbey. Events had happened too quickly. Was Cairenn alive or dead; had she truly fled the abbey for her own safety? At least the piece of paper she had left inside had given Fidelma the clue – just the words ‘great island’ scrawled on it. So why was she making for Ard Nemed and the fortress of Artgal?
Fidelma sighed. She wished she could discuss these matters with Eadulf, or even with Enda. But she knew a geis – from no less a person than Cenn Fáelad, the High King – was a sacred prohibition and not to be treated lightly. She had the fearful thought that Artgal’s fate might echo that of old Abbot Nessán.
She suddenly felt irritated with herself and told herself there could be no speculation without information. It was her old mantra, but she could not help speculating. She must sit back and enjoy the day for the day’s sake until she reached the next stage of her journey, because one could either make the journey easy or hard and she would prefer that the journey be easy, since she knew hardship was not far ahead.
The next thing she knew was that Eadulf, quietly riding at her side, had suddenly turned in the saddle and with a great cry leant forward and thrust against her so hard that she lost her balance and fell sideways from her pony. It was so sudden and so unexpected that her mind was a jumble of confused thoughts even as she landed on the soft moss beside the track. Her pony started nervously, rearing a little, but being blocked in by Enda’s stallion in front and Eadulf’s cob at the side, it shied before coming down firmly on all its four legs and stood snorting in agitation and shivering in shock. An arrow protruded from the bow of her saddle, on which she had been sitting moments before. A second arrow had sped across the neck of her pony to embed itself in the trunk of a gnarled beech just behind her, and was still vibrating from the impact. For several moments everything was still, as though a deathly silence had fallen across the marshes.
CHAPTER FIVE
A cacophony of sounds filled the air. Fidelma rose to her knees, peering around and trying to shake off the feeling of stunned bewilderment. She was aware of Enda shouting, saw his horse plunging forward and the flashing steel of his blade swinging above his head as he lunged into the undergrowth. Eadulf was yelling for Fidelma to remain on the ground; he had flung himself from his cob and was running after Enda. Thoughts came tumbling into her mind. Someone had shot at them; that much was obvious. An ambush? Of course, an ambush. She had not been expecting it and cursed herself for a fool for not foreseeing it.
There was a scream from somewhere ahead but she could not see. Who was it? Was it Enda? Everything seemed to be moving too quickly for her to take in. Then someone was emerging from the undergrowth onto the path, holding a javelin. Enda had not been using a javelin; he had been using his sword. She gathered herself and tried to rise to meet the danger, and then she recognised Eadulf. He halted and stood breathing heavily, leaning on the javelin for support. There was movement behind him in the thick foliage. He swung round and brought up the javelin defensively. Fidelma balanced herself against the side of her pony, preparing herself to run to help him. Then she saw Enda’s black horse moving back onto the path and Enda, sword in hand, who had dismounted and was leading it back to join them. Even in the shadowy light under the canopy of the trees, she realised that there was blood on his blade. He paused to bend and wipe it on the ferns. Then he moved to Eadulf and clapped
him on the shoulder, gently removing the javelin from his shaky hand.
‘It’s over, lady,’ Enda called, seeing her standing uncertainly by her pony. ‘No danger threatens now.’
Eadulf seemed to recover and ran towards her, hands reaching out to her: ‘Are you hurt? Are you all right?’
She forced a smile as she clasped his hands for a moment. ‘I am a bit bruised,’ she said. ‘What happened? An ambush?’
Having reassured himself that she was unhurt, Enda indicated the undergrowth behind him. ‘You were shot at,’ he said grimly. ‘Had it not been for friend Eadulf here one of the arrows might have hit you.’
She could not repress a shudder. ‘That much I can deduce.’
‘It was a lucky thing,’ Eadulf admitted. ‘The bowmen had to move aside the undergrowth which concealed them in order to get a clear shot. I saw the movement and could only push you down as they fired. I am sorry if you were hurt.’
‘I would have been sorrier had you not,’ she admitted. ‘What has happened to the attackers?’
‘Both dead, lady.’ Enda was almost dismissive. ‘They did not appear to be warriors, thankfully. From their appearance they seemed more like hunters, or woodsmen. They were armed with bows. I went for one of them with my sword, which gave the second one time to string another arrow. I think he would have managed to hit me while I was despatching the first bowman, but Eadulf seized my javelin from the sheath on my horse. He hurled it at the man and secured a good hit.’
Fidelma’s lips compressed in brief annoyance.
‘Are both men dead?’
‘They are.’
‘A pity,’ she muttered.
Enda looked surprised. ‘Why so, lady?’
‘It would have been helpful to know if they were merely robbers or whether their attack had some other purpose.’
Eadulf exchanged a frowning glance with Enda.
‘In this sort of woodland, not far from a prosperous abbey and its settlement, one would expect robbers and thieves to haunt the highways, preying on unsuspecting travellers,’ the young warrior pointed out. ‘Why would they have any other purpose?’
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