Atonement of Blood (13 page)

Fidelma playfully punched Eadulf on the arm for she was not displeased with the compliment.

‘And now we must find Gormán and warn him of our journey tomorrow,’ she said.

As Eadulf was about to pass out of the door after Fidelma, Brother Conchobhar suddenly tugged at his sleeve and pressed something round and metallic into his hand. The old man said softly: ‘Fidelma has left the religious, I know. She believes that she no longer needs their help. The time may come when you might – especially where you are going. This is the silver seal of Ségdae of Imleach, whose authority is known throughout Muman. He gave it to me some time ago. Show it to any religious in the kingdom and they will respect its authority.’ Then he raised his voice and wished Eadulf ‘good luck’ on his journey.

They left the apothecary, with Fidelma not seeming to have noticed the exchange, and made their way across the shadow-filled courtyard, lit by several brand torches. The shadows darted this way and that as warriors moved here and there, fulfilling their duties as sentinels. They found Gormán at the stables checking the tackle. He looked up as they entered and grinned. He was clearly in a good mood.

‘Caol has already told me,’ he greeted them. ‘We shall journey together. I don’t think Caol was too pleased that he has to stay behind tomorrow.’

‘I suppose he feels responsible that he was not able to defend the King against the assassin’s blow before the damage had been done,’ Eadulf commented. ‘Perhaps there is vengeance in his mind.’

‘That’s probably it,’ agreed the young warrior. ‘He would doubtless like to reinstate himself in your eyes.’

‘He has no call to feel any guilt in that respect,’ Fidelma replied. ‘It happened so fast that none of us were able to move until it was too late. It was so unexpected.’

‘Are you prepared for tomorrow?’ asked Eadulf.

‘The horses will be ready in the courtyard before dawn, friend Eadulf.’

‘We will make our journey in slow and easy fashion,’ Fidelma promised, knowing full well that Eadulf did not regard himself as the best of horsemen.

‘I have ridden to Mungairit in a single day,’ said Gormán solemnly, ‘but that was on a warm summer’s day and I rode from dawn to sunset with scarcely a pause. But do not fear; with these shorter, winter days, we have only half the time to be on the road, otherwise darkness and cold will overcome us. Nevertheless, we could stay overnight at a place called Ulla, among the rounded hillocks. There is a good tavern there, as I recall. We could reach it before dark tomorrow. Then by the next day we will be safely in Mungairit.’

‘It is a good suggestion but we will let the day and conditions dictate our pace,’ Fidelma said sensibly. ‘There is no need to rush, for we are not in pursuit of anyone … yet we are travelling through the country of the Uí Fidgente so we must be vigilant.’

‘That is understood, lady; yet it would be a bad thing when a warrior of the Golden Collar is fearful of travelling in any part of the Kingdom of Muman because of a rebellious clan who ought to have learned their lesson by now.’

‘Even so, as the philosophers say –
in ominia paratus
. Be prepared for anything.’

‘Then we shall be prepared, come what may, lady.’

T
he early morning frost had vanished rapidly soon after they had set out from Cashel. They had taken the westward road with the sun rising behind them, spreading a mild warmth in a cloudless blue sky that was surprising for the time of year. Aware of the length of the journey they were embarking on, and understanding horses and the conditions well, Fidelma had decided they should keep their pace to a slow trot unless faced with an emergency. So it was mid-morning when they were following the track through the marshy approaches to the River Ara, surrounded by the fen sedge and wilting bulrushes, to the spot called Ara’s Well. This was a settlement of a few isolated homesteads sprawled carelessly on both sides of the river.

Fidelma led the way across the shallow ford to where a large building stood near a smith’s forge and other outbuildings. An elderly man was seated outside the door in the lukewarm sun, polishing leather. Hearing the sounds of the horses’ hooves squelching along the muddy path from the river, he glanced up and then rose with a smile of greeting, tossing the piece of leather down on the bench behind him as he strode forward to meet them.

‘Is it truly yourself, lady?’ the old man beamed in disbelief.

‘It is I, Aona, and Eadulf is with me.’

She slid from her horse, as did Eadulf and Gormán, with Gormán moving to take their reins while they went forward to greet the man called Aona.

The tavern-keeper, for such was Aona’s profession, took Fidelma’s hand shyly, and then extended his greeting to Eadulf.

‘It is a while since you have passed this way, lady. But, praise be, time has been kind to us all.’ He glanced at their companion. ‘And is that not young Gormán who rides with you? How are things with my old companions of the Nasc Niadh?’

As a young man, Aona had commanded a full
catha
or battalion of the bodyguards of the Kings of Cashel, before his retirement to become a tavern-keeper at the Well of Ara.

‘May good health attend you, Aona,’ smiled Gormán. ‘But there is sadness on me that, because of my youth, I cannot bring news of any of your former companions as a new generation now serves the King.’

Aona grimaced. ‘Sometimes I forget my age. Those I served with during the days of King Failbhe Flann are all long retired from the service of Cashel or passed on to the Otherworld. But what am I thinking of? You must come inside and drink
corma
with me.’ He turned and shouted: ‘Adag! Adag!’

From the side of the building a youth came hurrying. He halted a moment at the sight of them and then his face broadened into an urchin grim. Adag had been about eleven years old, the last time they had seen him as a boy fishing on the riverbank. Now he was almost as tall as them.

‘Lady! Brother Eadulf! It is good to see you both again.’

They returned the boy’s enthusiastic welcome.

‘Well, Adag, you must soon be nearing the age of choice,’ remarked Eadulf, as the boy went to take their horses from the care of Gormán.

Aona chuckled. ‘My grandson lacks another year or two before he can make his own decisions, according to the law. But I have no fear that he will make the wrong ones. He is a good boy and a good helper. Now, come in and tell me all the news from Cashel.’

It was some time later as they sat before the smouldering fire, sipping Aona’s home-brewed
corma
, and talking over the news from Cashel, that the old man turned a worried face to Fidelma.

‘If this is something to do with the Uí Fidgente, then I do fear the future, lady. Why are you and your companions intent on entering their territory? Was there not enough conflict the other month when that crazy woman, Étain of An Dún, escaped from the Glen of Lunatics and persuaded some of the Uí Fidgente to follow her?’

‘Only a few of them were foolish enough to follow her,’ corrected Eadulf. ‘Prince Donennach actually sent warriors to help Cashel confront Étain and her ragtag of fighters.’

Aona made a dismissive gesture. ‘Isn’t there an old saying that there are four things not to be trusted: a bull’s horn, a horse’s hoof, a dog’s snarl – and the friendship of the Uí Fidgente?’

‘Do not concern yourself, Aona,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘We shall take special care. Anyway, this afternoon we hope to reach Cnoc Ulla before dark and there is nothing to fear along the valley between here and there.’

‘It is afterwards that I fear, lady. If this is some plot of the Uí Fidgente, then they will not be content until it is successful or until they are destroyed.’

‘But we don’t know that it is,’ Fidelma said firmly. ‘And that is the purpose of our journey into their territory – to find out what, if anything, is going on.’

‘You are in a good position to hear news from merchants coming out of Uí Fidgente country,’ Eadulf said now. ‘If anything was stirring there, then surely the merchants would have some gossip to spread?’

Aona smiled in acknowledgement. ‘True – merchants always have gossip to spread, Brother Eadulf. The problem is judging whether the gossip is true or false. I swear some of that lot are better than the bards at their storytelling.’

‘But the resourceful listener, such as yourself, can surely detect a lie from the truth?’ Eadulf said.

The tavern-keeper grinned modestly. ‘That is true. Take Ordan for example …’

‘Ordan?’ Fidelma frowned. ‘Ordan of Rathordan?’

‘Himself, no less,’ nodded Aona. ‘He is a frequent traveller between here and the country of the Uí Fidgente and Luachra. When he came here the other afternoon—’

‘When was this?’ Fidelma interrupted.

‘It was three days ago. He arrived about midday.’

‘But that was the day of the assassination attempt,’ Eadulf said. ‘Midday? Don’t you mean midnight?’

‘I may be old but I still know the difference between midday and midnight,’ chided Aona.

‘Go on,’ Fidelma said with a warning look at Eadulf. ‘You were saying … ?’

Aona cleared his throat, took a sip of his
corma
and then continued: ‘Well, he arrived at midday saying that he had come from Uí Fidgente country. He wanted a meal and he took his time about it. I had the impression …’ He seemed to ponder.

‘You had the impression?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘I might be wrong but I thought he was very preoccupied. You know what a vain man Ordan is, full of bombast and stories. That was why I mentioned him, because of his usual gossip and storytelling. Well, this day he was as quiet as a lamb. He was sitting over there.’ Aona pointed to a dark corner by the window.

Fidelma glanced across. ‘Not by your fire? These are cold days and often raining, when a fire’s warmth is welcome.’

‘Indeed, lady. Usually Ordan would make himself comfortable on a chair before the hearth and be talking non-stop. But that day he went and sat over there alone while I remained at the fire.’

‘So?’ Fidelma prompted again when he paused to take another swallow from his beaker.

‘He had eaten his meal and was having a drink when another traveller came in. He was difficult to place for he wore a long cloak and was hooded. I know he arrived on horseback, because Adag went to tend to it. The traveller asked for
corma
and went to sit just there, between the fire and near where Ordan was sitting.’

‘You saw nothing by which you could identify this man?’

Aona shook his head.

‘Was his cloak of good material; and what of his boots?’ asked Eadulf, meeting Fidelma’s nod of approval.

‘Ah, I see. His cloak was of heavy wool. It was a good weave, edged with beaver fur and doubtless expensive. He kept the hood covering his face. The cloak was tightly pinned with something … now, what was it? Ah, I have it. A polished bronze brooch. I can’t remember the pattern, but I know it kept the cloak so tight around him that I could not see what manner of clothes he was wearing beneath. The boots I noticed were of treated leather and appeared well-made.’

‘Are you suggesting that Ordan might have been waiting for this person?’ Fidelma asked.

Aona shrugged. ‘I can’t swear it was so, lady.’

‘Yet you felt it? Did they speak to one another?’

‘No more than a curt acknowledgement as the man entered. The sort of greeting strangers give when they confront one another in a confined space.’

‘But you’re not convinced?’ Fidelma said, picking up on the intonation of the tavern-keeper.

‘Funny thing – the newcomer asked me to make sure that Adag was looking after his horse correctly. I assured him he would be well cared for, but he insisted that I go to check. On my way back, I thought I heard quiet voices, but no – when I re-entered, the stranger and Ordan were still sitting in the same places. Some time later, the stranger rose, made his farewell, collected his horse and left.’

‘Do you recall what his horse looked like?’ Eadulf asked suddenly.

The old inn-keeper looked surprised for a moment but then said: ‘As a matter of fact, I do. It was grey in colour with white legs above the hocks. Even young Adag remarked on it, as it was the sort of hunter that a noble would ride.’

Eadulf smiled in satisfaction. ‘So the stranger left. What did Ordan do?’

‘That was what puzzled me. He stayed here, sipping at his ale until it began to grow dark and then he demanded another meal, it being so late. It was not until near midnight that he rose to pay his dues and said he would travel on to Cashel. I asked, was it wise to travel on during darkness? After all, I saw that his wagon was heavily laden with goods and it is not unknown for merchants to have been waylaid and robbed at the bridge over the River Suir on the road that leads to Cashel. There are some wild youths among the Múscraige Breogain who dwell in that area.’

‘And what was his answer?’ prompted Eadulf after the tavern-keeper hesitated.

‘He did not seem worried. He said that he was under the protection of the King’s warriors and that no one would dare molest him.’

‘It is true that Ordan often carries a banner on his wagon.’ Gormán spoke for the first time. ‘It is a symbol of the Nasc Niadh which he uses to frighten any would-be robbers.’ He added with a smile of pride: ‘Often, it works – for the warriors of the Golden Collar have a reputation.’