‘I can see no connection at all,’ Enda commented.
‘Nor I,’ agreed Eadulf. ‘As well you know, many sons of the noble Saxon houses have been sent to the courts of the Irish kings in the traditional manner of hostages, or to escape from blood feuds among their own people, or even to learn the Faith.’
‘And this Aescwine was sent as envoy from this people you call the Gewisse?’
‘A very powerful Saxon people,’ confirmed Eadulf.
Fidelma was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Then there is a possibility that if Aescwine spent time at Tara he might be involved in an assassination plot?’
Eadulf was dismissive. ‘But he is a foreigner, Fidelma. As you have often quoted Cicero – cui bono? To whom the benefit? What would a foreigner gain from such a plot? I know the limitations your laws place on foreigners; there seems no reason for him to get involved in the dynastic politics of the High King.’
‘There are other means by which he might gain,’ reflected Fidelma. ‘He wants to make a name for himself, you say?’
‘True. But how would killing Cenn Fáelad aid him in his ambition to be ruler of the Gewisse? His position under Cenwealh’s patronage is assured.’
‘There must be a link.’ Fidelma was stubborn.
‘Wouldn’t it weaken the High King’s position if the Saxon was supposed to abduct Grella? Pressure could be brought on him to obtain her release.’
Fidelma inclined her head appreciatively. ‘There is something in that,’ she agreed. ‘But it might also give the Uí Néill a cause to rally round in his support.’
‘I can’t understand the involvement of Abbot Nessán. Why choose him as the person who sent the message to Grella,’ protested Enda.
‘The old abbot was influential in this kingdom. But you forget that he denied that he had done so to Cairenn. Anyone can tie a message to the leg of a carrier pigeon. That would mean someone who had access to Abbot Nessán’s pigeons,’ Eadulf pointed out.
‘There is another aspect,’ Fidelma said suddenly.
‘Which is?’
‘Are you forgetting that Nessán was an Eóganacht of the Raithlind branch and the whole plot is supposed to be an attempt by the Eóganacht to oust the High King? We have not entirely eliminated someone in my family from the conspiracy.’ She was unhappy when she said it but, nevertheless, it was her duty as a dálaigh to point it out.
After that a silence fell between them and, as the track became easier, they coaxed their horses into a canter. Although the clouds were changing formation, becoming almost a mackerel sky, as fishermen called the patterning of the grey wisps, the temperature was not as low as previously. There had not even been a frost that morning. The hills were not high, perhaps averaging less than a hundred metres or so. For the most part it was fairly rich pastoral land, though some woodlands were evident and tiny streams and small rivers proliferated across the landscape. Here and there they saw sheep grazing on the hillsides and even herds of cattle sheltering from chilly winds in the valleys between. They had asked the way to Cluain twice from local shepherds and had travelled over eight kilometres before an elderly man gave them the information that they wanted.
He was typical of the type Eadulf immediately thought of as a shepherd, white haired and long bearded, a thin, wiry man with bright blue eyes and a hook nose. His skin showed white around his open collar, but this contrasted with the face, which was weather tanned from a life working in the hills. A dog of mixed breeds sat a little way away from him, watching the newcomers with intent eyes as if ready to spring into action at a word of command.
‘Cluain, is it?’ he echoed reflectively. ‘Just in the next valley – but there is nothing there these days. I suppose you think that there is still a religious community there? No longer. It is all deserted since the time of my father’s father.’
‘We already know that Colmán’s community was abandoned over fifty years ago,’ Fidelma told him with a smile.
‘Ah, then perhaps you search for Antrí? He has gone as well, in spite of all his boasting.’ The man suddenly spat on the ground. ‘Good riddance to him, I say.’
‘You know this Antrí?’ Fidelma asked.
‘Calls himself an abbot. Abbot Antrí,’ the shepherd said in sour amusement. ‘He arrived only a short while ago. He brought with him some folk who, he said, would form a new abbey community. They were no more than thieves and brigands, hired toughs.’
‘Didn’t the local people protest about this?’
‘What local people? There are only a few of us. We would not go near the place, especially when word had it that they brought the Yellow Plague back to the country again and that they all died. Yes, all of them died.’
‘When was this?’
The old man shrugged. ‘Why, less than a week ago, I suppose. A friend from the farmstead over by the hazel wood across the valley passed this way and told me that the place had been deserted again. We thought there was some disease there that caused them to quit …’
‘What makes you say that?’ Fidelma asked with a frown.
‘Well, my friend said that when he passed they had been burning the bodies of those who died. The stench was awful, like roasted pork he said.’
Fidelma’s features were an expressionless mask. ‘Burning bodies? Did he see this?’
The old man shook his head. ‘Only the smoke and the fumes and the smell were left. It was enough.’
‘I was told that Antrí was related to your prince.’
‘Not that that is any recommendation. God’s curse on him. May his house rot!’ shouted the shepherd. ‘There is a man that the evil ones would flee from for he would do thrice the evil to them as they would to him.’
Fidelma was impressed. ‘You speak of Glaisne? Why don’t you like him?’
‘He demands tribute at every opportunity, and those who do not give him full measure he has taken out and beaten for what he calls disloyalty and impudence. Wasn’t my own brother stripped and flogged by him for being a month late in payment?’
‘Those actions are totally against the law,’ Fidelma protested automatically.
‘We are in the country of the southern Uí Liatháin, lady,’ Enda pointed out drily. ‘They probably do things differently here.’
‘The law of the Fenechus applies everywhere in the Five Kingdoms,’ snapped Fidelma in pedantic anger before she picked up Enda’s irony. Then she grimaced and turned back to the shepherd. ‘Tell me more about this prince, Glaisne.’
‘What more is there to tell? They tell me he has a twin brother who has a community not far distant from here. I have never seen him.’
Fidelma raised her brows slightly. ‘Is this the man called Éladach, who is also something of a religieux?’
‘I would not know. I have no interest in such matters. I stay up here in these hills and avoid local lords and abbots with their pretensions and their demands.’
‘You are very free with your opinions about people you have not seen and do not know,’ pointed out Fidelma.
‘Lady, I keep to my isolated life. My dog and the sheep are my main company, except for the occasional passer-by. I hear their news. I know what I am told. Sometimes it is better not to hear news, for is it not said that no news is better than bad news and bad news is always the quickest to travel?’
They left the shepherd to his solitary contemplation of his sheep grazing across the hillside.
Enda glanced at Eadulf, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
‘I don’t like the sound of burning bodies,’ he finally said. ‘I remember how it was a few years ago when the entire world fell victim to the Yellow Plague. Why would they burn bodies, unless it is the plague returned?’
Memories of the Yellow Plague, the Buidhe Conall, were still sharp in their minds. It had devastated not only the Five Kingdoms but had visited all the kingdoms of the Britons, the Angles and Saxons. It was said that it had come out of the east, from far-off Byzantium, and rampaged throughout what had been the old empir
e of the Romans. People had expired from its feverish embrace. It spared neither kings, nobles, bishops nor commoner or serfs.
‘There have been no reports of the Yellow Plague for some years,’ Eadulf reassured him. ‘I know that religious communities do burn bodies when there are a lot of unexpected deaths. Just as bodies are burnt after a battle, as no one is able to bury the dead in such numbers.’
Enda seized on the point. ‘If there had been some battle here, then news would surely have come to the Nasc Niadh.’
They rode on in silence, ascending a hill that was not steep but whose summit supplied a clear view of the long bare valley beyond. It was a curious-looking place, a rocky vale cleared in the middle of afforested hills.
‘That must be the community of Cluain.’ Fidelma was pointing to a group of buildings, surrounded by a rough stone wall.
Enda, whose sharp tracker eyes were surveying the buildings, breathed in sharply.
‘There is smoke still rising from it. It must have been a large fire.’
It was true. There was a pall of black smoke hanging almost motionless over the centre of the complex. Eadulf’s reaction was to sniff at the air but, of course, with the winds blowing, and the fire having smouldered for some days, he could detect nothing of the shepherd’s roast pork. Even the thought made him shiver with distaste. He tried to think of something else.
‘Why is it called Cluain? It looks nothing like a meadow,’ he said, more for something to say than interest.
‘Well, it looks an unpleasant valley sure enough,’ Fidelma replied examining the area. ‘It is curious how there are woods at either end as well as high on the hills but not actually in the valley. Why did Colmán choose to set up his community there? I suppose there is tranquillity in its bare, rocky vista.’
Enda snorted derisively. ‘Tranquillity is not what has been experienced here recently, not with those burning bodies.’
Eadulf suddenly pointed. ‘What are those black holes in the side of the hills high up over there … just under the tree line?’
‘They look like caves to me,’ Enda offered.
‘Come on.’ Fidelma suddenly urged her horse forward down the hillside. ‘It’s no use sitting here speculating on what we cannot fully appreciate.’
She led the way down into the valley. As they moved along it, Eadulf could see the rising hills were of limestone and presumed the caves must extend into those rocks. A stream flowed through the valley floor, which seemed covered in stunted blackthorn, its impenetrable nature, with cruel thorns and rough, black-brown branches, undisguised in its winter nudity. As they came close to the crumbling wall of limestone blocks, they realised the valley was not quite as sparse of growth as it had at first seemed. There were no oaks, but a few yew trees and some willow presented a shady woodland rather than the ‘meadow’ of the local name.
‘At least no one will starve here,’ Enda called, pointing to the proliferation of fungus along the path.
‘Examine them closely,’ Fidelma advised, in a meticulous mood. ‘Most fungus you see in this sort of area will not be good for eating. They do not grow at this time of year – instead you find crampballs, and those are dead man’s fingers.’
Eadulf shivered slightly. ‘Speaking of which, have you noticed there are no bird sounds along this valley?’
Fidelma had but did not say so. ‘And what do you make of that?’ she countered.
‘With those bodies, burnt or not, I would have thought some scavengers would have been about. Birds and mammals.’
‘It’s not a nice place, lady,’ Enda commented, glancing apprehensively around. ‘There is an aura about it that makes me feel cold.’
Fidelma smiled. ‘It is only people who create auras, Enda. Look!’ She pointed. ‘We are coming up to the gates of the enclosure.’
An oppressive silence hung over them as they halted before the rotting wooden gates set in the stone walls. The gates hung slightly ajar, moving gently with the rustling wind.
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ Fidelma urged after a few minutes.
Enda shook himself as if he felt cold. He reached forward from his horse and pushed at the swinging gate. It moved backwards, opening into the central compound. Instinctively, Enda drew his sword as he urged his horse in. He had gone only a short distance when he stopped. Fidelma and Eadulf followed and halted alongside him. It was clear why he had stopped. The acrid smell of smoke was strong now, rising from the blackened pile before them. There was something else, something which Eadulf had been prepared for by the shepherd’s tale.
It was, indeed, the sweet smell of burnt pork; except it was not pork.
Eadulf turned away in disgust and as he did so his eyes fell on another burnt pile. This one was no longer smoking. Even though it was almost totally destroyed, he could see it was the burnt-out remains of a carriage and that it had been quite ornate and unusual. Part of the side panel of the door was undamaged enough for him to make out part of an engraving on it.
‘Look!’ He called their attention to it. ‘How did this unusual carriage come to be here, in this deserted religious community?’
Fidelma drew a sharp breath as she examined the half-destroyed side panel. For a while she said nothing but stood staring at the almost obliterated emblem.
‘The Red Hand of the Uí Néill!’ she finally said in a hollow tone. ‘This is the symbol of the family of the High Kings. This was Grella’s carriage.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘At least we know she did not perish in it,’ Eadulf pointed out, after a few moments’ examination. ‘Áed sighted her at Eochaill after whatever happened here.’
‘If we can trust Áed,’ Enda observed sceptically.
‘No reason not to trust him simply because he seized the opportunity to take the ass and leave for home,’ Eadulf replied.
Enda was gazing with distaste at the smouldering pile behind them. They were clearly bodies and now the odours were strong and nauseating. The pyre had not completely destroyed everything. Some scorched fastenings for clothing and other pieces of metal were among the remains, and there was a lot of scorched leather: sandals and a few boots of half-tanned hide. One particular item fascinated Enda, who poked at it with the tip of his sword.
‘Why do you find that interesting?’ Fidelma asked, noticing his scrutiny.
‘It’s not the usual cuaróg, the boots worn by our warriors,’ he pointed out, indicating his own footwear. ‘This is called a búatais.’
‘And so?’ prompted Fidelma.
‘I doubt if an cuardnaidhe, a boot-maker, from these parts made it.’
Fidelma was a little impatient. ‘I wish you would make your point more clearly.’
Enda was apologetic. ‘These are the type of boots that Saxons use.’
‘How do you know?’ she demanded.
‘I have seen enough of them on the feet of Saxon warriors when they have accompanied their emissaries to Cashel,’ Enda replied.
Fidelma turned to Eadulf. ‘Is this Saxon?’
Eadulf regarded the burnt remains and gave a nod. ‘Enda has a good eye,’ he confirmed. ‘The work is of Saxon origin. You can still see there are seven folds of hide in the sole and there is a wooden block sewn around with hide as a lift for the heel.’
Fidelma stared at the object thoughtfully. ‘But a boot does not present evidence of the wearer. We should not read anything more than possibility into this. There are many Saxon students at the ecclesiastical colleges these days.’
‘Not wearing military boots,’ Enda replied drily. ‘I wonder if Aescwine sent his men here?’
‘We are encountering a lot of Saxon involvement in this mystery.’
‘If one of these bodies was a warrior accompanying Grella,’ Eadulf went on, ‘then who is to say that he was not of Tara? There is enough interchange between Tara and the kingdoms of the Angles and Saxon kingdoms, especially after Oswiu declared support for the Roman Church against the Irish churches at the Council of Streonshalh. The
re are many refugees, nobles seeking protection from the murderous intentions of their relatives. It is quite likely that such clothing might be worn by natives as well as –’
‘I have considered it,’ Fidelma cut in. ‘Perhaps I am prejudiced by my encounter with Aescwine. However, I want to know why his ship is in these waters and how he is familiar with Grella’s name.’
‘That could be for any one of many reasons.’
It was Enda who brought them back to the subject in hand. ‘We can say with certainty that Grella’s coach was here; that means a coachman and perhaps her guard were killed here. So it seems Tialláin was right about Grella being abducted. Did Cairenn tell you what their escort consisted of, lady?’
It was a question that hadn’t occurred to Fidelma during her short incarceration with Grella’s companion.
‘If Grella did not meet her end here,’ went on Enda, ‘but was at Eochaill, why were all these bodies burnt? There must be a dozen here.’
‘Good questions, but we cannot answer them just standing here,’ Fidelma said sharply, to disguise her annoyance that she had not thought of them.
‘Perhaps some information can be gleaned,’ Eadulf said, turning to the pile of fire-blackened corpses. ‘Look, the heat has not been so intense for those poor fellows who were at the bottom of this funeral pyre.’
He took a piece of cloth from his firbolg, the man-bag that he carried like a satchel for his personal possessions, and tied it around the lower half of his face. Then he moved closer to the pile and began to peer closely at the bodies. He turned to Enda: ‘Can you find or cut me a stout stick?’
The warrior went off to search and soon returned with a suitable piece of wood. Eadulf took it and began to poke cautiously among the pyre. Even Fidelma, used to all sorts of violent death that beset the world in which she lived, had to steel herself to look on as he turned over the remains. It took him some time, poking this way and that.
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