Atonement of Blood (16 page)

‘A good blade, warrior,’ he said. ‘I expect it has been put to expert use. I could use a better blade than I have.’

Gormán gritted his teeth in impotence. The sword had been an especial favourite of his.

The leader of the brigands now glanced at his comrade but the man shook his head.

‘That is all,’ the man said. ‘But the trinkets and gold torcs will pay well for this day’s work.’

‘That is true.’ The leader turned to Fidelma. ‘Think yourself lucky. I feel in a generous mood, so we’ll leave you with your lives. Two days ago we encountered a young merchant who was not as accommodating as you. He objected to us in most aggressive terms. So we hanged him.’

He gestured to his companions, who swung up on their horses. The two silent bowmen remained with their arrows still aimed while this was done. Then the sandy-bearded man yelled: ‘Ride!’

Before Fidelma and her companions could move, the band of five brigands had wheeled round and set off at a fast pace through the ruined village towards the western hills.

Gormán uttered a curse, hand to his empty scabbard. Then he was peering on the ground, apparently trying to retrieve his dagger.

Fidelma heaved a sigh, moved to a boulder and sat down.

‘Well, what now?’ Eadulf asked resignedly.

Gormán had recovered his dagger and rejoined them.

‘They have driven off our horses,’ he said, stating the obvious.

‘In that they have made one mistake,’ Fidelma replied confidently, suddenly rising to her feet again.

‘I don’t understand,’ the young warrior replied.

‘Had they been sensible, they would have driven the horses before them. Or, indeed, have taken them. Instead, they just turned them loose.’

Gormán and Eadulf looked puzzled as Fidelma strode back to the ruined chapel and, with some dexterity, managed to scramble to the top of one of the thick walls and stood eyes shaded against the rising sun. She caught sight of Aonbharr, her horse, some distance away, grazing unconcernedly. She raised her voice and began a series of long, loud wordless calls. She saw the beast’s head raise, the ears prick forward. Then the head shook up and down on its thick neck, the mane flowing in each direction. The horse gave an answering series of snorts and whinnies, pounding the earth with a front hoof, and then came trotting back towards the ruins.

Fidelma climbed down from her perch and went to stroke the muzzle of the animal as it came up to her.

‘Obviously our thieves know little about the bonds that can develop between people and their mounts. Aonbharr is not one to be chased off like that.’

‘That is well and good,’ replied Eadulf. ‘But I don’t think our horses have the same affection for us.’

Fidelma gazed at him reprovingly. ‘If you will look behind Aonbharr you’ll see that he is not alone. Horses are herd animals. The other two beasts are following him back. All we have to do now is saddle them. But I think we should break our fast first and see what these brigands have left us.’

Indeed, there was little of value that had been left, although Fidelma always carried some gold pieces for emergencies and these the thieves had missed. However, the most important items missing were the symbols of office, the white rowan-wood wand and the golden torcs which showed her and Gormán to be of the Order of the Golden Collar. Jewels and rings could be replaced, but the symbols of rank and authority were more difficult to obtain.

‘Perhaps we should turn back,’ Gormán suggested uneasily. ‘If we are to ride into Uí Fidgente country we will need to do so with some authority.’

Fidelma disagreed. ‘We are less than a day’s ride from the Abbey of Mungairit, and to turn back now would be an act of foolishness.’

‘I have no sword, nor means to defend you,’ protested Gormán.

‘Surely a sword is easily replaced?’

‘You do not understand, lady. That was a special sword.’

‘A sword is only as good as the hand that wields it,’ replied Fidelma firmly.

Gormán knew when to give up the argument.

The remaining belongings were gathered. They ate sparingly, not having much appetite after the morning’s encounter. Gormán went to refill the water bags before they mounted their horses and began to move off along the track that led to the north-west. For the main part, they journeyed in silence, a slow and thoughtful trek over the cold, undulating hills, fording numerous small streams and rivers. They passed close to the banks of a larger river, which Fidelma identified as An Mhaoilchearn.

Even Gormán, who seemed depressed over the theft of his emblem and sword, which Eadulf knew was considered a loss to his honour and status as a warrior of the bodyguard of the King of Cashel, roused himself from his torpor.

‘You will never starve by those banks,’ he assured Eadulf, who had asked about the river. ‘It is a great spawning place of salmon and sea lamprey. Otters crowd its banks. It heads north to join the great River Sionnan. You know the story of its creation?’

Before Eadulf could answer, Fidelma intervened testily: ‘There are several stories of its creation. There is even one that says that under the estuary lies a city of the Fomorii, the underwater people, which rises to the surface every seven years and all mortals who look upon it will die.’

Gormán shook his head slightly. ‘I was thinking of the story of the daughter of Lodan, the son of the Sea God Lir. She was a wayward girl and one day went to the Well of Ségais, the forbidden Well of Knowledge. Because she did a forbidden thing, the well rose up and chased her across the land until she reached the sea, where she drowned. The waters of the well that chased her formed the path of the great river that is named after her.’

‘That is one story,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Yet another is that there was a great beast, a dragon named Oilliphéist. It was chased by the Blessed Patrick and the passage of the beast created the gorge which filled with water to become the river.’

Eadulf realised they were talking merely to ease the passing of time on their journey.

‘Well, as stories go, I like the one about Sionnan,’ he piped up. ‘She seems like a real character to me – someone who is not afraid to look for forbidden knowledge in forbidden places.’ His expression was bland.

Fidelma pulled a face at him. He had not seen her mischievous grin for a while and it comforted him to know she was still capable of humour.

‘Tell me more about this Well of Knowledge,’ he invited.

‘That is your story, Gormán.’ Fidelma glanced at the young warrior.

‘The Well of Ségais? There are many stories about it. Two of them are associated with the formation of rivers. The well was said to be surrounded by nine hazel trees which bore the nuts of knowledge, and these fell into the well in which a salmon dwelled. Because he ate of the nuts, he became Fintan, the Salmon of Knowledge.’

Although they continued to keep the conversation light for a while, it was clear that the robbery had shaken Fidelma more than she would admit. The loss of the symbols of power and identity were the main concern. Even Eadulf knew how much such symbols mattered in the culture of Fidelma’s people. Without them, Fidelma would find it hard to assert her authority over the rebellious Uí Fidgente.

It was well after midday that they came into an area of low-lying bog, covered in sedges and long grasses.

‘It looks like a wilderness,’ commented Eadulf.

‘Well done, friend Eadulf!’ Gormán told him. ‘This area is called
Fasagh Luimneach
, the Wilderness of the Bare Place. That is why the abbey we seek is so named.’

Eadulf frowned. ‘Mungairit? You’ll have to explain that to me.’

‘
Mun
comes from
moing
, the tall bog brass, while
gairit
is from
garidh
, a mound that rises above the low-lying boglands.’

It was not long before they came within sight of the great Abbey of the Blessed Nessán at Mungairit.

It seemed to Eadulf to be a grey and forbidding edifice. He counted six chapels nestling among the abbey buildings.

‘It is larger than I thought it would be.’

‘It is certainly a great seat of learning,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘When was it founded?’

‘Nessán, its founder, died here well over a century ago. It is one of the biggest and most important abbeys among the Uí Fidgente, who claim to be the descendants of Cass.’

They followed the track, passing an ancient standing stone, to the walls of the abbey. The fields around were deserted but, in more temperate weather, it was obvious that the brethren used them to plant and then harvest the crops to sustain the inhabitants of the vast complex of buildings.

The gates stood open and they rode through into a large square. There were several religious moving here and there, apparently intent on various errands. A tall, burly member of the brethren, looking more like a warrior than a religieux, was striding towards them with a smile of welcome. He was a pleasant-looking man, with dark hair and sea-green eyes that were sharp and perceptive.

‘You are most welcome, pilgrims. I am Brother Lugna, the abbey’s
táisech scuir
, the master of the stables. How can I serve you?’

‘Where may we find the
rechtaire
, the steward of this abbey?’ enquired Gormán.

Brother Lugna turned and indicated one of the many buildings. ‘You will find our steward, Brother Cuineáin, in there. Shall I take care of your horses while you consult him?’

‘There is no need, Brother,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘Gormán here will look after them until we have spoken with the steward.’

‘Well, if you need to have them stabled and foddered, you will find me in that building.’ The man pointed. ‘That’s our stables. Just ask for me, Brother Lugna.’

‘That is much appreciated, Brother Lugna.’ Fidelma led the way forward and came to a halt in front of the building that the man had indicated. Dismounting and handing the reins to Gormán, Fidelma and Eadulf went to the main door of the building. A bell-rope hung by it. A distant chime came to their ears as Eadulf tugged on the rope. A moment passed before the door swung open and a grim-faced religieux stood before them. His expression was in contrast with that of the stable-master and he showed no sign of welcome.

‘
Pax tecum
,’ Fidelma greeted him solemnly. ‘Are you the
rechtaire
, the steward of this abbey?’

The man’s eyes flickered from side to side as he examined them each in turn. Then he turned back to Fidelma with a slightly hostile look.

‘
Pax vobiscum
,’ he replied. ‘I am not the
rechtaire
. Who wishes to see him?’

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel and my companion is Brother Eadulf; beyond, with our horses, is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh.’

The expression of hostility seemed to become more pronounced, as the religieux moved reluctantly aside.

‘Enter in peace.’ The words were uttered as an expressionless ritual.

They entered a dark antechamber and the religieux went to close the door on them, saying, ‘If you will wait here, I will inform the
rechtaire
of your arrival.’

Without another word he turned and hurried away. The antechamber was bare of any furniture. There were no seats and not even a fire was burning in the hearth. The whole grey stone interior gave out an atmosphere of forbidding chilliness and dark. They could just make out a wooden cross hung on one of the walls but, apart from this, there were no other ornaments or tapestries to offer relief.

Eadulf shuffled nervously. ‘Not exactly an effusive welcome,’ he muttered.

‘Did you expect there to be one?’ Fidelma replied.

‘Uí Fidgente territory or not, this is still a territory that is subject to the Kingdom of Muman, and you are sister to the King,’ he pointed out.

‘I do not have to remind you of the differences between the Uí Fidgente and the Eóghanacht,’ she murmured. ‘We are in their territory now and must accept that they do not love us.’

The door suddenly swung open as the grim-faced religieux returned, holding a lit oil lamp which spread some light in the gloom of the chamber. Behind him came a short but well-built man in dark robes, wearing the tonsure of the Blessed John. From around his bald pate, straggly grey curly hairs seemed to float in all directions. He was a fleshy-faced man with eyes of indiscernible colour, perhaps grey, perhaps light blue. They could not tell. He seemed to have a particular habit of rubbing his right wrist with his left hand.

‘I am Brother Cuineáin, the steward of this abbey.’ He looked at them expectantly.

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel and this is Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, my husband. Waiting outside with our horses is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh.’

Brother Cuineáin inclined his head in brief acknowledgement. Then he raised his pale eyes to examine them closely.

‘What do you seek here?’ His voice was as lacking in warmth as that of the religieux who had opened the door to them.

‘I wish to speak with Abbot Nannid,’ replied Fidelma.

The steward regarded her without emotion.

‘These are strange times, lady. Only a few months ago, this abbey was attacked by rebels commanded by Étain of An Dún. Now, I have heard of Fidelma and Eadulf – who has not? But it was of Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf that I have heard. While this Eadulf wears the tonsure of the Blessed Peter, you come in the robes of nobility, lady – you do not wear the robes of a religieuse. Perhaps you can let me have some proof that you are who you say you are?’

‘Brother Cuineáin.’ Fidelma was patient. ‘You have made a reasonable request but one to which we cannot respond. On our journey here, at the Hill of Ulla, we were attacked by brigands and our symbols of authority, being valuable, were taken from us.’

The steward regarded them for a few moments and then sighed, rubbing the side of his nose with a pudgy forefinger.

‘That presents me with an awkward situation. Without proof, I am not at liberty to accept that you are who you claim to be and therefore I can offer you neither admittance nor assistance. These times are fraught with unease and enemies can come in friendly guises. We must protect ourselves.’

Fidelma’s eyes flashed. ‘I am Fidelma, sister to Colgú, King of Cashel. I
demand
to see Abbot Nannid.’