Fidelma drew a sigh and glanced apprehensively at the approaching dark. ‘At least they will be safe awhile,’ she said. ‘May God have mercy on their souls. Now, we must try to reach the inn before nightfall.’
They remounted and resumed their journey along the road. Fidelma led them in a canter, for the sooner they reached the warmth and safety of the inn the better. Across the plain, the howling of wolves echoed distantly in the gathering dusk.
By the time they saw the light of the inn, after rounding a bend as the road wound over the shoulder of a hill, night had already fallen. At least the light was welcoming. All inns and hostels had a lantern raised at night on a tall pole set on the faithche, the area just outside the entrance to the inn, to guide travellers to it from a distance. It was with some relief that they trotted into the yard, the sound of their arrival disturbing a sleepy cockerel that set up an indignant cry which seemed to agitate the brooding hens. The door opened and a thickset man emerged and surveyed the visitors with an appraising glance before turning and calling to someone inside the inn. Then he took a step forward.
‘Welcome, strangers. You are late abroad. Do you seek shelter for the night?’
Fidelma dismounted as two young men appeared at his side. ‘We do, indeed,’ she replied. ‘But first water to bathe after our travel and food to eat.’
‘Then enter and be comfortable.’
The others also slid wearily from their mounts and took their saddlebags, allowing the two young men to lead their horses to the stables.
‘Welcome, lady, welcome, my friends,’ the man said again. ‘I am the brugh-fer.’
‘Ah, so this is a brugaid? A public hostel?’ asked Fidelma.
The man nodded. Hospitality was a virtue highly esteemed in the five kingdoms, and each clan made provision for lodging and entertaining travellers and officials. The public hostels ran side by side with private inns, and strict laws applied to both establishments. The keepers of each were restricted in what they could and could not provide for their guests, and as guests were constantly arriving and departing, the furniture and other property in the hostels and inns was carefully protected by law from wanton or malicious damage and, as Fidelma knew, the laws went into detail about the compensation to be paid, and for any injuries sustained.
‘Are you travelling to Tara?’ the man asked, showing them into the main room where a fire was spreading a comfortable heat. A fire in a public hostel had to be kept constantly alight, according to law.
‘We are,’ affirmed Fidelma.
‘Ah, then you must travel on a sad business. I heard of the High King’s death. And you are from the south, if your accent is not false.’
‘This is Fidelma of Cashel,’ Caol interrupted, indicating Fidelma’s social rank with some pride.
The hostel-keeper’s eyes widened as he regarded her. ‘I have heard stories of Fidelma of Cashel – a famous dálaigh.’
‘I am Fidelma,’ she said simply. ‘And a dálaigh.’
‘You and your companions are most honoured guests, lady,’ the man said. ‘I will call my wife and there shall be drink and food upon the table shortly. Water will also be heated soon.’
He made to leave but Fidelma stayed him. ‘We came across Magh Nuada,’ she said.
‘Oh yes? Of course, that is the main road from the south-west,’ said the hostel-keeper, puzzled by the solemn way she spoke. ‘Was something amiss?’
‘Some miles back we came upon a church and its buildings destroyed by fire, and the two Brothers of Christ who tend it were dead upon the ground and all their animals driven off.’
‘Dead?’ echoed the man in bewilderment. ‘I know those Brothers of the Faith!’
‘They were slain,’ explained Caol.
The man’s eyes widened and then he shivered. ‘These are troubled times. I have heard that there are dibergach who are active in the west. The High King’s death has come at a difficult time.’
‘Dibergach?’ queried Eadulf.
‘Brigands, marauders – tribeless and desperate men, Brother Saxon, who plunder and rob at will.’ The man had either identified Eadulf by association with Fidelma or had recognised his accent.
‘Are you telling us that there are robbers who would attack a church and kill clerics?’ Eadulf was horrified.
‘I have heard stories from the west,’ the innkeeper repeated. ‘There are groups of them who cling to the old religions, so attacking Christians does not worry them. But they have never come this far east before.’
‘You say that you have not been troubled by them before?’ asked Caol.
‘This is a brugaid under the protection of my chief, the noble lord Tóla. They would not dare rouse my chief’s enmity by destroying any one of his public hostels. He has but to stretch out his hand … his reach is long and vengeance swift.’
‘Who is your chief?’ asked Fidelma.
‘This is the land of the Cairpre,’ replied the innkeeper.
‘But I thought …’ Eadulf was about to point out that it had been the chief of the Cinél Cairpre who had killed the High King, but a look from Fidelma stopped him.
‘It is just that the church is so close to here and we had no time to bury the poor religious who were slain there,’ Fidelma said quickly. ‘We placed their bodies in the underground food store so that scavengers would not disturb them. But they should be buried properly.’
The hostel-keeper was in agreement.
‘In the morning, I shall send my sons to acquaint my chieftain with this news and see that men are sent to give burial to those unfortunates.’
‘That is good.’ Fidelma smiled briefly in thanks.
‘You mentioned that you have heard of similar raids in the west,’ Eadulf pressed. ‘What is known about these robbers – these dibergach, as you call them? Who are they and who is their leader?’
The man shrugged. ‘I only hear stories from passing travellers like yourselves. No one knows who they are – perhaps they are escaped hostages, daer-fuidir — the unfree ones who have committed great offence to their clans and should rightly be working to restore their rights and freedoms. Perhaps they have banded together to live a life without the law. That is all we know. However, the fact that they are raiding on the Plain of Nuada is worrying news.’
There was not much else to learn from the hosteller and so, after they had eaten and refreshed themselves, they retired to bed so they could be up again at first light. The hosteller and his sons, the young men who worked as stable lads, had their horses already saddled and waiting by the time the small party had broken their fast and were ready to leave. In these public hostels, food and beds were provided free for up to three days, as part of the obligations of hospitality on a local chieftain. After three days, another arrangement had to be reached between guests and host. They left with the further assurance from the hosteller that he would take care of the bodies of the slain religious.
The final day’s riding was easy. It was a bright morning with pale blue skies and a pastel sun. However, a chilly wind was blowing from the north almost directly into their faces. They rode north-east along the banks of the great River Bóinn for a while and, while it was still daylight, they came within sight of the distant hills over which spread the great walled complex of the palace of the High Kings at Tara.
The highway had led over several rivers and streams, for the stately Bóinn was fed by a myriad of such watery arteries rising in the surrounding high ground. Now, within a few kilometres of Tara, Fidelma remembered there was one more crossing through a marshy area in which the waters were like a spidery web that finally emerged into the Bóinn, which lay some long distance away on their left. Indeed, it came back to her that the last river was called the Scaine from the word that meant a cleaving or dispersal. But she knew that the bridges and the road to Tara were good and well-kept so the journey should be straightforward.
They moved downward through wooded country and emerged onto the banks of a small stretch of water. A well-c
onstructed wooden bridge led across it into more thickly wooded countryside which consisted of close growing evergreens so that the onset of winter had not dispelled the darkness of the forest behind.
‘The hills of Tara rise behind this stretch of trees,’ Fidelma informed her companions with some relief. ‘We can rest soon.’
As she led the way onto the bridge, Fidelma suddenly noticed a crouching figure who appeared to be washing something in the river on the far bank, close by the end of the bridge. It appeared to be a bent-backed old woman in torn clothing and a wild mess of once-white hair. A poor old country-woman washing some clothes, was the thought that came to mind.
She had almost reached the far bank when the crouching figure straightened a little and gazed at her. A bony white arm protruded from the ragged clothing and a finger pointed directly towards Fidelma.
‘Be warned, Fidelma of Cashel,’ came a sharp voice, almost like a screech. ‘You are not welcome in Midhe.’
Fidelma was so surprised that she jerked the reins of her horse and drew up sharply, causing some consternation among her companions. She gazed at the dishevelled figure, frowning.
‘Do you address me, old woman?’ she asked.
There was a rasping sound that Fidelma realised was meant as laughter.
‘Is there another Fidelma of Cashel, another who is a Sister of the Usurping Faith that blights our land? Be warned, I say, and return from whence you came.’
Caol had clapped a hand to his sword but Fidelma motioned him to be still.
‘You know my name, old woman. May I know yours?’
There came another cackle from the crone. ‘Who would sit at Ath na Foraire, the Ford of Watching, but the watcher herself?’ came the reply.
Eadulf noticed that his companion Gormán had shivered slightly but he could not see the features of Fidelma and Caol, whose horses were in front of him and now standing motionless on the bridge. Clearly this meant something to Gormán and he was about to ask for an explanation when Fidelma replied, quietly addressing the old woman: ‘And does the watcher have a name?’
‘Some have called me Badb,’ came the croaking response.
To Eadulf’s ear the name sounded like ‘bave’. It meant nothing to him, but at his side he heard Gormán groan a little.
Fidelma’s voice was light and bantering. ‘Are you claiming to be the hooded raven of battles, old one? The goddess Badb who delights in setting one person against the other, incites armies to fight each other so that she may delight in the slaughter and haunt the battlefields for lost souls? I declare, I never thought to meet so distinguished an entity. So you call yourself Badb?’
‘Your mind is reputed to be sharp, Fidelma of Muman. You clearly heard me say that some have called me so, therefore it is pointless trying to match your wits with mine in an attempt to irritate me.’
Fidelma’s voice was still bantering. ‘Well, old one, why am I not welcome in Midhe?’
‘You come seeking a solution to the death of Sechnussach. You will not find the truth, I tell you. There will be no peace in this land until all you of the New Faith have given up this heresy and returned to the Old Faith and the gods and goddesses of the time before Time began. You must welcome them back into your hearts and lives. When the great Cauldron of Murias is brought to the Hill of Uisnech, the navel of the world, when the sacred stone of Falias, the mighty sword of Gorias and the great Red Javelin of Finias are once more together, then shall the Children of Danú, Mother Goddess, reign supreme again over their people. It will be soon, for the Wheel of Destiny is found. The White One has spoken of these things and she speaks the truth.’
Fidelma and her companions sat spellbound by the old woman’s chanting tones. As she spoke, the crone seemed to rise up so that her hunched back was almost straight, her voice still rasping but powerful.
‘Turn back across the bridge and return to the land which your brother rules and take this message to him: “Return to the Old Faith before it is too late, for the path you are taking leads to the destruction of the peoples of the five kingdoms, and foreign kings will take the place of those who now rule in vanity”. Go back, Fidelma of Cashel!’
Then, with a wild cry, the old woman turned from the riverbank and scuttled away into the woods.
‘Wait!’ Fidelma called to her. Even as she spoke, Caol had slapped his horse forward and was off the bridge and trying to follow the woman through the dense undergrowth.
Fidelma, Eadulf and Gormán walked their mounts slowly forward off the bridge and waited for Caol to return.
Eadulf was bewildered. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked.
Fidelma smiled without humour. ‘I’d say it was a poor demented old woman who is living in the past. There are still some who believe in the old ways and the old superstitions, and she is certainly one of that number.’
Gormán coughed nervously. ‘But, lady, how did she know that you are Fidelma of Cashel and the reason why you have come to Tara?’
The thought had also occurred to Fidelma.
‘It is no use speculating when I do not have information,’ she replied airily. ‘It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that Cenn Faelad’s sending for me has been talked about at Tara so that she acquired such knowledge that way.’
‘Well, I have no understanding of half the things that were said,’ Eadulf commented. ‘What or who is a bave?’
‘Badb.’ Fidelma corrected his pronunciation slightly. ‘She was one of three evil goddesses who presided over death and battles, who loved slaughter and bloodshed, and would often sow baneful thoughts to incite people to commit violence against one another.’
Gormán chimed in: ‘And she is often depicted as an old woman washing the skulls of those slain in battle while sitting at a ford – that is why she is also known as the Washer at the Ford.’
‘Except the old one called herself a watcher at the ford,’ corrected Fidelma, with a smile at the young warrior’s nervous features. ‘The demented one was as human as you or I, Gormán.’
The young warrior grimaced. ‘I fear no human, lady. That you know. But …’ He shrugged.
‘Well, I would like to know what all that meant – the cauldron, sword and spear,’ interrupted Eadulf. ‘I have never heard the like.’
Fidelma turned to him with a soft smile. ‘It is the ancient tales, Eadulf. It was said that in the time before Time, the ancient gods and goddesses of Éireann, who were known as the Children of Danú, the Mother Goddess, came from four great mystic cities. They came to this island bringing with them their greatest treasures, one from each of their lost cities. From Falias they brought with them a sacred stone which was called the Lia Fáil, or the stone of destiny; from Gorias they brought with them a mighty sword called “Retaliator”; from Urias they brought with them the “Red Javelin” which, once cast, would seek out its enemies no matter where they hid; and from Murias, they brought a great cauldron – the Cauldron of Plenty – from which no one went away hungry. Those were the great treasures and symbols of the Old Faith.’
She did not mention the old woman’s reference to the Wheel of Destiny, the Roth Fáil, for it was the only thing that worried her by the coincidence of the reference after what Brother Conchobhar had told her.
Caol suddenly broke cover along the bank and came riding back, looking crestfallen.
‘I lost her,’ he confessed. ‘Either that old woman knows these woods really well, or … or she has the ability to vanish.’
Fidelma chuckled. ‘She doubtless knows the secret paths, my friend, but I doubt if she has learned the art of vanishing. Well, a fascinating encounter, Caol, but we cannot delay. We are but a short distance from Tara.’
Eadulf looked around anxiously. ‘Shouldn’t we take what the old one said more seriously? She did after all threaten us.’
‘A threat from someone clearly demented …’ began Fidelma.
‘Is still a threat,’ interrupted Eadulf.
Caol was also looking gloomy. ‘Eadul
f is right, lady. We should be on our guard.’
‘I would hope that is exactly what you are about, you and Gormán,’ Fidelma said airily. ‘As bodyguards and my brother’s elite warriors, you should always be attentive to danger. Come, let’s not delay further.’
CHAPTER FOUR
When their presence at the gates of the royal enclosure was announced, it was Abbot Colmán, the spiritual adviser to the Airlechas or Great Assembly of the High King, who emerged to greet them. He was a thickset, ruddy-faced man in his late fifties. As Fidelma dismounted from her horse, he came forward with both hands outstretched, as if greeting an old friend, but behind his welcoming smile, his features wore an expression of anxiety.
‘Sister Fidelma! It is always good to see you here at Tara. But alas, it is sad that such tragedy brings you hither again.’
He gripped her hands warmly and she returned the greeting with the same warmth. It had been some time since their last meeting, when Fidelma had won the respect of the abbot by her abilities, firstly in solving the riddle of the theft of the High King’s ceremonial sword, and next by discovering the truth that lay behind a haunted tomb in the graveyard of the High Kings.3
‘You are looking well, Colmán, and I swear that the passing years have not changed you,’ she complimented him.
Colmán assumed a solemn countenance. ‘Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas,’ he quoted piously. ‘I would like to think so, but alas, my reflection calls me vain if I do.’ Then he turned to greet Eadulf. ‘You are welcome here, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. We have heard much about you, Brother Saxon. The tales of your deeds with our dear Sister Fidelma are told by the storytellers around many a hearth during these dark winter months.’ Then Colmán greeted Caol and Gormán in turn as Fidelma introduced them.
‘The hospitality of Tara is yours,’ he said with a gesture that encompassed them all, before adding significantly, ‘Such hospitality as can be obtained in this troubled time.’
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