‘His or her motive,’ corrected Fidelma gently. ‘Yes. I now believe that the way the corpses were left was meant as a message to those who found them.’
Brother Febal banged down his mug.
‘Nonsense! The killings are part of a sick mind. And I know who has the sickest mind on this peninsula.’
Adnár sighed unhappily.
‘I cannot argue against that assessment. Perhaps these symbols, of which you speak, Sister Fidelma, are but some trick to distract you in your investigation? Some ruse to make you follow a path which does not lead anywhere?’
Fidelma bowed her head in consideration of the point.
‘It may well be,’ she acceded after a moment. ‘But knowing the symbolism will, I believe, eventually lead to the perpetrator whether it is intentional or unintentional. And
for this information on decapitation, Torcán, I am much indebted.’
‘Ha!’ Olcán was smirking, ‘I believe, Torcán, that you have allowed yourself to become a suspect in the good sister’s eyes? Isn’t that so, Sister Fidelma?’
She ignored his mocking tone.
‘Not so,’ replied Torcán, his eyes serious. ‘I think that Sister Fidelma would know that if I had devised such an atrocious way of leaving murdered corpses about the countryside, I would not have started to prattle about its symbolism and so draw attention to myself.’
Fidelma inclined her head towards him.
‘On the other hand,’ she smiled grimly, ‘it may well be that you would do that very thing to argue this point in order to throw me off the scent.’
Olcán was chuckling now and clapped his friend, Torcán on the shoulder.
‘There you are! You will now have to find a
dálaigh
to defend you.’
‘Nonsense!’ For a moment Torcán looked worried. ‘I wasn’t even here when the first murder, of which you were speaking, was committed …’
He caught himself and grinned sheepishly as he realised that he was the butt of his friend’s humour.
‘Olcán has an odd sense of humour,’ Adnár apologised. ‘I am sure Fidelma is not serious in saying that you might be a culprit.’
‘I do not think I even mentioned such an idea in the first place,’ she said evasively. ‘I was merely responding to Torcán’s hypothetical argument. The last person that I would tell if he or she was a suspect is the suspect themselves … unless I had a purpose for it.’
‘Well said,’ Adnár said, ignoring the final point. ‘Let us cease this morbid talk of bodies and murder.’
‘I apologise,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘But bodies and murder are, unfortunately, part of my world. I am, nevertheless, indebted
to Torcán for his knowledge. Your information on old customs is most helpful.’
Torcán was deprecating.
‘I am interested in the old warrior codes and modes of battle, but that is all.’
‘Ah? I thought you had a fascination with our history and ancient annals?’ Fidelma asked.
‘Me? No. It is Olcán here and Adnár that like to delve into ancient books. Not me. Do not be misled by my talk of ancient warrior codes. One is taught this as part of a warrior’s education.’
For a moment Fidelma wondered whether to follow this up by asking Torcán why he had requested the abbey library to send him the copy of the annals of Clonmacnoise. However, before she could continue, Brother Febal said: ‘I see that Ross and his ship have returned.’
Everyone had noticed Ross’s ship sail into the inlet that afternoon. There was no need for comment.
Olcán was helping himself to more wine. His thin face was flushed and he seemed to be imbibing with a healthy thirst.
‘I am told that his ship was seen at the island of Dóirse, further down the coast,’ continued Brother Febal.
This time she could not ignore the obvious invitation to respond. She hid her annoyance at the excellence of communication among Gulban’s people.
‘I believe that Ross trades regularly along the coast,’ she replied.
‘I would have thought there was little trade to be had on Dóirse. It is a bleak, windswept island,’ Adnár observed.
‘I am not acquainted with the trading conditions along this coast,’ Fidelma responded.
There was a movement and some servants entered to clear away the dishes and presented a variety of new dishes for dessert with apples, honey, and nuts of many varieties.
‘We do a good trade in copper from our mines near here,’ offered Olcán as he helped himself to more wine.
Fidelma was pretending to examine the dish of nuts but she had the impression that Torcán was gazing at her as if trying to examine her reactions.
‘I have heard that there are many copper mines in this district.’ It was better to stick to truth as far as it was possible. ‘Do you do much foreign trade?’
‘Gaulish ships sometimes come and trade wine for copper,’ Adnár answered.
Fidelma raised her goblet as if in toast.
‘It seems a good exchange,’ she smiled. ‘Especially if this wine is anything to go by.’
Adnár deflected any further questions by offering her more wine.
‘How is your brother, our king?’ Torcán asked the question abruptly.
At once Fidelma felt a new tension around the table. She was suddenly on her guard wondering if the stories that Ross had picked up were true. She had been wondering how to raise this topic without alerting suspicion. She must be careful.
‘My brother Colgú? I have not seen him since the judgment at Ros Ailithir.’
‘Ah yes; my father was there,’ replied Olcán helping himself to an apple.
‘As was mine,’ Torcán added coldly. ‘I hear that Colgú claims many grand new plans for Muman.’
Fidelma was dismissive.
‘I have seen my brother only the one time since he became king at Cashel,’ she said. ‘My community is at Kildare, at the house of the Blessed Brigit. I have not interested myself in the affairs of Muman very much.’
‘Ah,’ the syllable was a soft breath from Torcán.
Olcán turned a now somewhat bleary eye towards her.
‘But you were at Ros Ailithir when the Loígde assembly rejected my father’s claims for chieftainship and hailed Bran Finn Mael Ochtraighe as chieftain?’
Fidelma admitted as much.
‘That upset my father greatly. You know all about Bran Finn, of course?’
She detected that the others had become uneasy.
‘Who has not?’ she replied. ‘He has a reputation as a poet and a warrior.’
‘My father, Gulban, thinks he is an usurper.’
‘Olcán!’ Torcán turned with a warning look on the young man who was clearly the worse for his wine.
‘I hope he will prove a better chieftain than Salbach,’ Fidelma rejoined.
She saw Adnár cast what appeared to be a warning glance at Torcán, nodding in the direction of Olcán, before turning with a bland smile to Fidelma.
‘I am sure he will,’ the chieftain of Dún Boí assured her. ‘He has the good wishes of the people behind him, as does your brother Colgú. Isn’t that so, Torcán?’
‘Not so, according to my father, Gulban,’ muttered Olcán.
‘Ignore him, Sister Fidelma,’ Torcán said. ‘The wine is in, the wit is out.’
‘Of course,’ Fidelma said gravely but the words of the old Roman proverb had come to mind;
in vino veritas,
in wine there is truth.
Torcán raised his head.
‘Indeed, we hope to be in Cashel soon to give our allegiance to Colgú personally.’
Olcán suddenly spluttered into his goblet, spilling some of the contents over him. He began coughing fiercely.
‘Something … something went down the wrong way,’ he gasped, looking sheepishly around him.
Torcán, with a frown, handed him some water to drink.
‘It is evident that you have drunk enough wine this evening,’ he reproved sharply.
But Fidelma was rising, realising the lateness of the hour.
‘It is near midnight. I must return to the abbey.’
Must you go?’ Torcán was pleasantry personified. ‘Adnár
here prides himself on his musicians and we have yet to listen to their accomplishments.’
‘Thank you, but I must return.’
Adnár waved to a servant to come forward and issued whispered instructions.
‘I have ordered the boat to take you back. Perhaps you will come and listen to my musicians some other time?’
‘That I will,’ replied Fidelma as an attendant brought her shoes and helped her fasten her cloak around her shoulders.
As the boat pulled away from the jetty of Dún Boí into the darkness of the night, Fidelma felt a relief to be out of the dark, brooding walls of the fortress. She had a feeling that she had passed along a knife edge between safety and extreme peril.
The echoing tones of the gong proclaiming the midnight hour reverberated clearly from the tower of the abbey. Fidelma, her woollen cloak trimmed with beaver fur wrapped tightly around her, moved silently through the white shrouded woods. The newly-laid snow crunched crisply under her feet and her breath hung like a mist before her as the cold air caught it. In spite of the hour, the night was made bright by a full, rounded moon, which had appeared between the clouds, and whose rays sparkled against the snowy carpet below.
She was sure that no one had seen her leave the guests’ hostel and make her way silently out of the abbey grounds into the surrounding woods. She had paused once or twice to look back but nothing seemed to be stirring in the deathly quiet of the night. She moved rapidly now, her breath coming in pants, the cold air causing her to make more exertion than normal.
She was reassured when she heard the soft whinny of horses ahead of her and, after a minute or two, she saw the animals with Ross and Odar holding their reins.
‘Excellently done, Ross!’ she greeted him breathlessly.
‘Is all well, sister?’ the sailor asked anxiously. ‘Did anyone see you leaving the abbey?’
She shook her head.
‘Let us move out straight away for I believe that we have much to do this night.’
Odar came forward and assisted her into the saddle of a
dark mare. Then Ross and Odar swung on to their mounts. Ross led the way for he apparently knew the direction to be taken. Fidelma came next with Odar bringing up the rear.
‘Where did you get the horses from?’ Fidelma asked approvingly, as they moved slowly along the forest track. She was a good judge of horses.
‘Odar traded for them.’
‘A small farmer not far from here. A man named Barr,’ Odar supplied gruffly. ‘His farm seems to be prospering since the last time I had business with him. He could not afford horses then. I have paid him for a night’s use of the animals.’
‘Barr?’ Fidelma frowned. ‘I seem to have heard that name before. No matter. Oh, yes,’ she suddenly recalled. ‘I know now. And has Barr found his missing daughter?’
Odar looked at her in puzzlement.
‘Daughter? Barr is not even married, let alone with children.’
Fidelma pursed her lips but made no reply.
She suddenly shivered in the cold, in spite of her cloak, as a chill wind began to whisper its way around the snow-covered skirts of the large mountains.
Ross pointed upwards.
‘Our path lies up across the mountain. There is a track that passes the peak and crosses to the far side of the peninsula. Then it drops down behind the settlement where they dig for copper.’
Odar added: ‘I have brought a container of
cuirm
in my saddle bag which will keep out the winter chill, sister. Would you like a sip?’
‘A good thought to bring it, Odar,’ Fidelma replied in appreciation. ‘But I think it would be best if you kept that for later, for we have yet to leave the shelter of this wood and climb across the icy shoulders of the mountains. It will get even colder later and that is when we will need it.’
‘There is much wisdom in what you say, sister,’ agreed Odar stolidly.
They rode on in silence now, heads bent as the wind slowly rose and blew fine dry snow against them. There were more snow clouds bunching up from the west but Fidelma was unsure whether to be thankful or dismayed. She was thankful that the clouds might obscure the bright moon which, reflecting on the snow, made the night almost as brilliant as daylight and made them visible for considerable distances against the white background. On the other hand she was dismayed that the heavy clouds were threatening more snow and promised to make their journey as uncomfortable and as perilous as possible.
It was after they had gone five miles that the wisdom of Fidelma’s advice to conserve the
cuirm,
or spirit which Odar had brought, became apparent. They were freezing in spite of their warm cloaks and she halted her horse in a small clearing. It was a rocky area by an entrance to some caves. She suggested that Odar allow each of them a sip of the
cuirm
to fortify them. Thus fortified, they rode on again. After another mile or so, they descended through a series of twisting tracks out of the mountains and through the more rounded hills towards the seashore. They could see the black, brooding sea, reflecting now and then by the moon’s rays as the snow clouds parted and allowed it to shine through.
Their horses became skittish and not far away wolves started to bay. Fidelma, looking up the mountain, caught sight of several dark shadows moving hurriedly across the white snow and she suppressed a shiver.
‘The queen of the night is bright,’ muttered Ross, apprehensively. ‘Perhaps she is too radiant.’
Fidelma, for a moment, wondered what he was referring to until she realised that sailors had a taboo about referring directly to the moon or to the sun. The moon was often referred to as the ‘queen of the night’ or, simply, ‘the
brightness’. The ancient language of Éireann gave many other names for the moon, all of them euphemisms so that the sacred name of the moon would never be spoken. It was an old pagan custom from the time the moon was thought of as a goddess of whom no mortal could evoke her power by uttering her name.
‘Hopefully the clouds will thicken before we reach the settlement,’ Fidelma replied.
The howling of the wolf pack gradually died away across the mountains.
After what seemed an eternity, Ross halted his horse and pointed down the hill. Fidelma could just see the tiny glow of fires.
‘Those are the buildings around the mines. It is an area of fields on a cliff top. Below is a strand and the harbour from where the Dóirse islanders told me the Gaulish ship sailed from.’
Fidelma peered forward. Of course, earlier it seemed so easy to simply say that they would ride across the peninsula to the mines and find out what happened to the crew of the merchant ship. Here, in the chilly moonlight, the plan’s flaws presented themselves to her. When Ross interrupted her thoughts with: ‘What will you do, sister?’ she could have rebuked him in her irritation.
‘Do you know how many people live down there?’
‘There are many mine workers and their families.’
‘Are they all prisoners, hostages and slaves?’
Ross shrugged.
‘I do not think so. But many are. If the Gauls are among them then they should be easy to find. Or, at least, their whereabouts will be known to most people.’
‘What about guards?’
‘I cannot really say. There were few warriors there when I last traded at the mines. But, after what the islanders have told me about the Ui Fidgenti warriors, there might be as many as fifty warriors or even more.
‘Do you know the layout of the settlement? Where would the most likely places be in which the prisoners could be kept?’
In answer, Ross swung off his horse and beckoned her to follow suit. He chose a clear patch of snow and took out his sword. With the tip of it, he made several depressions.
‘Those are the entrances to the mines, there,’ he jabbed with the sword point. ‘And here is the path which goes down into the settlement. Here and here, are the huts. There are many shacks where I think the workers live. Apart from that, I cannot help further.’
Fidelma stared at the depressions and sighed.
‘We will ride down a little further and you and Odar will wait with the horses while I go on into the village on foot.’ She held up a hand to stop Ross’s protests. ‘I may achieve much more on my own than the three of us. We would simply attract attention.’
‘But you don’t know what you will find down there,’ Ross protested. ‘The whole place might be an armed camp in which strangers are not welcomed.’
Before he could protest further, Fidelma had remounted and was trotting off down the track towards the flickering lights. As they approached closer to the buildings, a dog started to yelp. A raucous voice cursed the animal, thinking — or so Fidelma judged by the sense of what was shouted — that the poor beast was yapping at the wolves on the mountainside. She held up her hand and motioned her companions towards the shelter of the surrounding trees and undergrowth where they dismounted out of sight of the settlement. Without a word she handed her reins to Ross and shook her head vehemently when he began to open his mouth in protest.
She drew her cloak more firmly over her shoulders and moved off, across the slushy approach to the settlement. It was not an enclosed settlement, as some were, but the buildings seemed to be placed in a haphazard fashion. She
had no idea where she was actually going or what she was going to do. She just walked firmly into the shadows cast by the buildings as if she had every right to be there. Someone actually emerged between two of the cabins, carrying a lantern, and began to walk by her without a second glance. He was a thick-set warrior, with shield and spear slung on his back.
With heart beating, Fidelma turned after him.
‘Warrior!’ she called, her voice filled with as much authority as she could muster.
The man paused and turned. He did not seem surprised to see a stranger accosting him in the dark and she made a point of letting the light of his lantern fall on her crucifix around her neck.
‘Yes, sister?’ There was no suspicion in his voice only a curiosity and respect. She could not see his features and hoped that they mirrored his tone. She decided to chance everything on a bold move.
‘Among the prisoners is a Saxon religieux. I need to question him. Do you know where he has been held?’
‘A Saxon?’ The man thought for a moment. ‘Oh, yes. He is being kept with the other religieuses. Do you see that second cabin across there, by the edge of those trees? You’ll find him there.’
‘Thank you, warrior.’
The warrior raised a hand in salutation and swung away.
Fidelma could hardly believe that it was so easy. She found herself recalling the line from
Phormio
by Terence:
audentes fortuna juvat —
fortune favours the daring. Her mentor, the Brehon Morann of Tara had frequently repeated that and added his own maxim. Unless one entered the wolfs lair, one could not take the cubs. Fortune had certainly smiled on her and she had entered the lair easily enough.
She hurried towards the cabin which the warrior had indicated. It was a large, isolated cabin, standing at the very
edge of the settlement by the border of the woods that served as protection from the mountains. The next building was about thirty yards away. The place appeared to be in darkness, although she saw a window across which a sackcloth hung. A faint glow of a lantern seemed to be flickering behind it. She moved up to the window and listened carefully. She could hear no sound at first. Then there came a strange, scratching noise, like metal on metal. Raising herself on tiptoe, she tugged gently at the sackcloth and peered cautiously in.
The cabin seemed divided into two rooms. The window gave entrance to one of these rooms. It was bare, except for a lamp hung from the rafters giving out a faint light. There were several poles supporting the roof. A figure sat at the foot of one of these poles. It was a male, clad in brown robes, sitting with his body bent towards his feet. He appeared to be working away at something. Fidelma breathed sharply. The figure wore the tonsure of Peter of Rome. She peered around, ensuring that there was no one else in the room. The window was impossible to get through as wooden bars prevented ingress. She went to the door and found a heavy bar locking it from the outside. Fidelma looked swiftly around and, ensuring no one was in sight, she heaved at the bar, managing to slide it from its iron mountings so that she could pull the door open.
She moved hurriedly inside and closed the door behind her. For a moment she stood with her back to it and gazed into the room.
The figure on the floor had stopped his attentions to his feet and was slumped against the pole as if in an attitude of repose. Eyes fast shut.
Fidelma took a step forward and smiled with satisfaction.
‘It is no time to be sleeping, Brother Eadulf,’ she whispered.
It was as if a cold stream of water had suddenly hit the figure. He jerked his head upwards, his body going tense and
stiff. His mouth hung open as he gazed at the shadowy figure above him.
She took another step forward and the meagre light from the lamp fell across her face.
‘My God! Can be it you?’ came the incredulous voice of the Saxon monk.
Impulsively, Fidelma bent forward, stretching forth both hands and grasped those that Eadulf held out to her. His hands were free but she noticed that he was shackled by one ankle to the wooden pole against which he was squatting. He looked dirty and careworn and appeared as if he had not eaten or slept for a week. The Saxon monk apparently could not believe his eyes and hung on to her hands fiercely as though afraid that she was a vision which would abruptly vanish.
‘Fidelma!’
For several moments neither of them were able to speak. Then it was Fidelma who finally broke the silence.