‘It was only recently built,’ explained Gormán, when Eadulf commented on the fact. ‘The members of the abbey community built it.’
Fidelma did not seem to hear, her mind was occupied with other thoughts. In fact, she was reflecting that it was here, at this very spot, that she and Eadulf had first heard that their nurse Sárait had been murdered and their son Alchú had been kidnapped by the evil leper Uaman, Lord of the Passes of Sliabh Mis. Gormán had been in love with Sárait and was initially accused of her murder. She glanced anxiously at Gormán but there was no reason he would know of the connection. She wondered if Eadulf remembered and if he would mention it, but if he did remember, he gave no indication of it.
A tavern stood just before the new bridge. Gormán cleared his throat anxiously. He knew that Fidelma wanted to press on but they had been riding for some hours.
Fidelma took the hint; she realised that the horses did need watering. But she insisted that they did not stop long, only time enough to have their horses watered and to take food and drink in moderation for themselves.
They sat outside the inn, for the day was cloudless and warm. A stable lad attended to their horses while the innkeeper brought them their refreshments. The man had no other customers, so he remained with them and talked about the possibilities of a good harvest, the fine summer and the number of newcomers who were building their homes around the abbey. Fidelma was clearly impatient to continue the journey.
‘Is the bridge safe to cross?’ Eadulf inquired of the innkeeper as he was finishing his drink.
‘The bridge safe to cross?’ The innkeeper was a burly man, with balding head and slightly protruding eyes, and his jowls shook with laughter. ‘Bless you, Brother, an entire troop of the king’s horsemen could ride back and forth several times without disturbing one beam of it.’
‘I am not concerned with a troop of cavalry but only with my well-being,’ replied Eadulf dourly.
Before the conversation could be prolonged, Fidelma stood up and signalled to the stable lad to bring their horses. Gormán settled with the innkeeper and soon they were crossing the new bridge. Indeed, the bridge was built strongly, as it had to be, for the rushing waters of the Siúr beneath them pounded against its supports with alarming ferocity. The great sawn tree trunks on which the crossbeams rested had been driven deep into the river bed and there were about fifteen on each side. The width of it, like the Irish roads, according to Brehon Law, was broad enough to take two carriages, with room to spare between them. It was an easier crossing than last time, Eadulf remembered, when he had had to ford the rushing waters on horseback.
‘Well, a bridge certainly makes the old roadway easier to traverse,’ Fidelma observed. ‘We should make better time now.’
In fact, it was hardly any time before they came to the next natural obstacle across the track. This was a smaller river called the Teara, a tributary of the Siúr that they had just crossed. The ford here was easy, for there was an island in the middle of the river that divided it into two small crossings.
‘This is where they say the road took its name,’ Gormán suddenly said, tired of the silence of their journey.
‘I have travelled this road several times,’ Eadulf replied, ‘and never once worked out why it is called the “Track of Patrick’s Cow”.’
‘Why it is called Rian Bó Phádraig?’ Gormán hesitated and glanced at Fidelma. ‘There is an old legend.’
‘You may as well tell it,’ she invited. She had heard the legend before.
‘Well, the old folk say that the Blessed Pádraig, who helped bring the Faith especially to the northern kingdoms, had a cow and this cow had a calf. The cow and her calf were peacefully grazing on the banks of the Teara, this very river we are crossing. The story is that a thief from near Ard Mór stole the calf. The cow was consumed with anger at the loss of her calf and chased the thief all the way across the mountains to Ard Mór, and its tracks made this road.’
Eadulf pursed his lips sceptically.
‘But doesn’t this road lead from Cashel to Lios Mór?’ he pointed out in pedantic fashion.
‘And continues all the way on to Ard Mór,’ Gormán added, with a grin at his puzzled companion.
‘It is a legend,’ Fidelma intervened impatiently. ‘It is not to be taken literally. The road is far older than the time of the Blessed Pádraig. It joins the Slíge Dalla, the Way of the Blind, at Cashel, which, as you recall, is one of the five great roads that lead to Tara. There is no way of knowing why legends come about. The Blessed Ailbe converted our kingdom to the new Faith long before Pádraig arrived here and before Declan built his abbey at Ard Mór. Why would Pádraig have a cow grazing on the banks of the Teara River of all the rivers in Ireland? It makes no sense.’
‘Legends,’ Gormán solemnly announced, ‘are often the result of half-understood events, or events that have become embroidered out of all proportion by their retelling.’
‘Yet they are usually founded in truth,’ observed Eadulf.
‘The question is, how do you find that truth?’ Fidelma retorted.
‘Doesn’t the legend become its own truth?’ asked Gormán.
Eadulf chuckled. ‘You are becoming a philosopher, Gormán.’
The young warrior turned to him and, without warning, lunged forward, knocking Eadulf off his horse with a single blow of his hand. As he fell, Eadulf was aware of a curious whistling sound in the air. Something thudded into a tree just behind his horse. Gormán yelled to Fidelma to take cover and at the same time drew his sword. He urged his cob forward towards a group of trees a short distance away along the side of the highway.
Fidelma had time to see a figure with drawn bow release a second arrow before she slithered from her mount and crouched down. She heard it whistle past, wide of its intended target.
‘Stay down!’ she cried, as she saw Eadulf trying to rise from the dust in the road where he had fallen.
‘Has Gormán gone mad?’ he protested, not having seen the arrow that had nearly embedded itself in him but was now stuck in the tree.
‘He just saved you from being shot,’ Fidelma replied grimly, peering forward. She ignored Eadulf’s exclamation of surprise as she saw Gormán, sword swinging, attack the man who was trying to place a third arrow into his bow. The sword struck him on the side of the neck and he gave a cry and went down. A second man was already mounted on a horse and was urging it away at a gallop. Gormán pursued him for a short distance but it was clear the man had a fresh, and therefore faster, mount. In fact, Gormán was also handicapped by an unwillingness to abandon Fidelma and Eadulf in case there were other attackers on the road. He wisely reined in his horse and gave up the pursuit. By the time the young warrior resheathed his sword and returned to them, the second man had disappeared.
‘I am sorry, I didn’t catch him,’ he said as he rejoined them. ‘I might recognise him again, though. He was a thin man with long hair as white as snow.’
‘Elderly?’ asked Fidelma.
Gormán grimaced briefly. ‘Bánaí,’ he replied, using a word that meant someone whose hair, skin and eyes lacked normal coloration. Fidelma had only seen such a person twice before and remembered the whiteness of their hair and skin and the pinkness of their eyes.
‘Robbers, do you think?’
‘Hard to tell. Assassins certainly, for if their arrows had struck home …’ He shrugged.
‘I have you to thank for my life, Gormán’ Eadulf began awkwardly.
‘That is my duty, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied quickly, walking across to the tree and extracting the arrow. He examined it with a shake of his head. ‘Nothing to indicate an origin. Well-crafted, though, but any one of a hundred fletchers could have made it.’
‘Let us see if we can get any explanation from our would-be killer,’ Fidelma said.
Gormán’s mouth drooped cynically. ‘I doubt it, lady. My sword bit deep.’
When they reached the body of the assailant, they could see that the man was certainly d
ead. He was not old although his hair was streaked grey. It was cut fairly short and his face was closely shaven. The man was tanned, which proclaimed he led an outdoor life. Regarding this, Fidelma bent to look at the hands of the man. They were neither the rough callused hands of a field worker nor the soft hands of someone unused to hard work. His clothes were nondescript, a field worker’s clothing of furs and leather. The clothing indicated someone who was neither wealthy nor poor. There was no purse on him, nothing to identify him.
It was Fidelma who pointed out that the sword that still hung from his belt was of good-quality workmanship, a warrior’s sword rather than some cheap ornament. It would not be chosen by someone who had little means to purchase it. There was also a dagger with an embossed handle, which was unusual for a field worker. He had a quiver of arrows hanging on one side of his belt. His bow lay where it had been discarded when he received his death blow from Gormán. Fidelma picked it up and, turned it over in her hands. It was well made of yew wood, a war bow rather than one used just for hunting. She turned and handed it to Gormán, asking a silent question with raised eyebrows.
‘A professional warrior’s bow,’ he muttered, having given it a quick examination. ‘Well strung.’ He paused and tested the pull on it. ‘It would take a trained bowman to pull it. There is good tension on it and a secure grip.’
Fidelma knelt again beside the body and examined it closely.
‘He wears no ornamentation, which is unusual. There is nothing decorative on him. But see here, what do you make of this, Eadulf?’ She pointed to the neck where there was a slight discoloration, like bruising or an abrasion. Eadulf’s mind went back to the customs of his own people.
‘The mark of a slave collar?’ he hazarded. ‘The slaves among my people are often given iron collars to indicate their position.’
An expression of distaste crossed Fidelma’s features. Then she turned to Gormán.
‘What do you think?’
The young warrior pursed his lips in thought for a moment and then replied, ‘Brother Eadulf has a point. I have seen Saxon slaves at the seaports wearing iron collars. But I doubt this man is a Saxon. Given his weaponry, and despite his clothing and lack of ornamentation, this might be the mark of a torc.’ His hand went automatically to the circlet of gold at his own neck, showing that he was of the élite warriors of the Nasc Niadh.
‘You think he was a warrior of rank?’ demanded Eadulf in surprise.
‘The thought that he was a professional warrior did not escape me,’ Fidelma affirmed.
‘But he is not of the Nasc Niadh, lady,’ pointed out Gormán.
‘We are not the only people whose élite warriors wear the torc of gold. It is an old custom, even among peoples in Gaul and among the Britons.’
‘Are you saying that this person is some élite warrior in disguise?’ repeated Eadulf. ‘I do not understand.’
Fidelma shook her head. ‘We are not saying anything except that this man poses several questions. Why would he and his companion be waiting here on this road? Were they robbers lying in wait for any passer-by? Why did they attempt to kill us first? They could have simply threatened us if the intention was to rob.’
‘Given the quick retreat of the second man, perhaps they did not have sufficient courage to do so and thought to rob us after we were killed,’ Gormán offered.
‘Or was it us in particular they were waiting for?’ mused Eadulf.
‘You mean that they might have been waiting specifically to ambush us?’ Fidelma queried. She gave a shake of her head. ‘That’s absurd.’
But Gormán was frowning thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps not, lady. After all, you and Eadulf have made many enemies these last few years. There’s no denying it. Uncovering guilt and meting out justice inevitably causes one to gather enemies like a bee gathers honey. This man was lying in wait out of sight with a good bow. Had I not spotted him move forward to release his arrow and pushed Brother Eadulf from his horse, that arrow would have surely transfixed him. He drew quickly, this man, and his next arrow was already on the way to you, lady, when I cried to you to take cover. This archer was no novice when it came to the use of the bow.’
‘In other words,’ Fidelma said quietly, ‘you think these men were professional assassins whose aim was to kill Eadulf or myself?’
‘Or all three of us,’ added Gormán with a grimace. ‘I have gathered enemies as well. Although you were his first targets.’
‘This might have been a means to prevent us going to Lios Mór,’ Eadulf suddenly remarked.
Fidelma stared at him a moment and then turned thoughtfully to Gormán.
‘When my brother, Colgú, asked you to accompany us, did he say that he suspected something like this would happen?’ she asked.
The young warrior shook his head quickly. ‘Your brother, the King, felt that you might have need of me. That is all. If he had such a concern, then surely he would have suggested I bring a couple of companions with me. As I have said, lady, you have gained many enemies in your career. Those whose crimes are found out always think they are hard done by when caught and punished. They often swear to exact revenge on those responsible for their undoing.’
Fidelma glanced down at the face of the dead man. ‘If he is an enemy, I do not recognise him. Anyway, we are speculating without knowledge. He and his companion might just have been robbers. But we will keep a careful watch in case his companion doubles back. We’ll take this man’s horse and weapons. Perhaps we will eventually be able to identify him by them. There is nothing else. We will have to leave the body in this ditch. I’m afraid the wolves and other scavengers will have to dispose of it.’
Gormán bent swiftly to the task of removing the weaponry from their assailant and tied the bundle up before placing it on the brown pony that was tethered nearby. He glanced quickly over the beast before he did so and said, ‘The horse is unmarked as well. Nothing to tell where it came from other than the breed is popular in these parts.’
Fidelma compressed her lips in annoyance at herself. She should have considered that the horse might have carried an identifying brand. Gormán had diplomatically reminded her of the question that she should have asked.
‘Shall we continue on this road?’ asked Eadulf uneasily, distracting her. ‘If this was an attempt to prevent us reaching Lios Mór then it might be better to choose another route.’
She remounted her horse and turned to him. ‘It is the quickest route and, as I said, we want to be at the abbey before nightfall. The road swings to our left towards the Gallagh, the river that passes through the glen of stones. You may remember it. We shall follow it through the glen. At the head of the glen is the little chapel of Domnoc where we can rest the horses and refresh ourselves at the hostel before starting the climb through the mountains. We will follow the track up Cnoc Mhaol Domnaigh. It will not take us long to reach Lios Mór once we are through the mountains.’
Eadulf remounted and glanced at Gormán. ‘Can you manage leading that pony?’ he asked, indicating the dead man’s mount.
‘I can,’ the young warrior answered cheerfully. He knew well that Eadulf was not a good horseman and when it came to climbing through the mountains he felt he would be better able to handle their newly acquired pony.
‘Then let us start out again,’ Fidelma called, already moving off. ‘But this time let us proceed with caution.’
They rode on with senses alert but saw no one until they reached the little chapel of Domnoc, which stood by the roadside at the head of Glen Gallagh. A thickset man was working with a hoe in the field nearby and, at the sight of them, he stopped his work and approached them with a cheery greeting. He turned out to be the brother in charge of the chapel, Brother Corbach. His cheeks were red and he had bright sky-blue eyes. He recognised Fidelma immediately from previous trips she had made along this road, acknowledged Eadulf and noted Gormán’s gold torc. With some deference, he set about offering what hospitality he could. ‘I can provide good beds for the night, l
ady,’ he added but Fidelma shook her head.
‘We mean to cross the mountain and be in Lios Mór before nightfall if the weather stays fair,’ she said.
Brother Corbach glanced up at the sky. ‘It will be a fine evening.’ He paused before asking: ‘Is it because of the news from Lios Mór that you are journeying there?’
‘The news?’ asked Fidelma, curious at the man’s question.
‘Why, the news of the murder of Brother Donnchad,’ replied the man. ‘Travellers passing on this road have told me of it.’
‘And have there been many travellers today?’ Fidelma asked, deflecting his question.
‘Not many today. Why do you ask, lady?’
It was Gormán who pointed to the horse that he had been leading, the bow and quiver hanging from its saddle.
‘Did two men pass here, one being an archer riding this horse with those weapons on him?’
Brother Corbach looked puzzled but examined the horse and weapons more closely. Then his eyes widened and he nodded slowly.
‘Two men passed early this morning and halted only for some water. What happened to the archer who rode that steed?’
‘I killed him,’ replied Gormán quietly.
The religieux looked shocked. ‘That is not a good jest, my friend.’
‘It is not meant as one,’ Fidelma intervened solemnly. ‘The man and his companion tried to ambush us. My companion here killed one assailant and chased the other away. Did you know either of them? Had you seen them before?’
The man shook his head slowly. ‘Both men were strangers to me. They came over the mountain from the south.’
‘And their speech? Could you tell where they came from by their tones of speech?’
Brother Corbach reflected a moment or two. ‘I would say that the one who rode this horse might have been of the Uí Liatháin. The other man, who had strange, white hair, could have been a foreigner.’
Chalice of Blood Page 5
