Atonement of Blood (20 page)

A prayer bell was chiming in the distance and Brother Cú-Mara stood up.

‘I presume that you are taking the road south to Cashel?’

‘No,’ Fidelma said. ‘We’ll take the road west and join the river An Mháigh before turning south. We intend to visit Dún Eochair Mháigh before we return.’

‘I heard about the attack on King Colgú,’ the young steward said in a low voice. ‘Do you really think there is another Uí Fidgente conspiracy against your brother?’

‘We are here to find out.’

‘I have heard no whispers in my travels across the territory. I know Prince Donennach has gone to pay tribute to the High King in Tara. Indeed, the wounds of the war are such that I do not think anyone would contemplate a renewal of it, especially in Mungairit.’

‘Why do you say that – especially in Mungairit?’ Eadulf picked up on the point.

‘I was speaking to one of the scribes when I first arrived here. That was over a week or so ago. Maolán was his name. He told me that the abbot kept a small chamber containing a shrine to the memory of the Uí Fidgente defeat at Cnoc Áine. The room is filled with swords and shields, spears and battle helmets, even emblems of the warriors gathered from the battlefield. This was done so that the battle could be remembered.’

Fidelma was not impressed. ‘A strange thing to do. What is it, a shrine to be worshipped?’

The young man shook his head. ‘Shrine was not perhaps the best word, for I understand that the abbot has ordered the door to be kept locked; only he and the steward have the key to it. It was created, we are told, to remind the abbey of the evil consequences of war.’

‘How does this Maolán know of this shrine if it is kept locked?’

‘That I am not sure.’

‘I would like a word with him.’

‘He is no longer in the abbey. He left a day or so after I arrived. I think he said he was going east where his calligraphical talent was needed. I don’t think he was expecting to return.’

‘Well, let us hope that there is no conspiracy at all. Nevertheless, my brother lies close to death and the Chief Brehon of Muman is dead. Whether this is an isolated case of vengeance or part of something more widespread and serious, we must find an answer.’

‘I trust you will.’ Brother Cú-Mara’s face suddenly brightened. ‘But if you are leaving shortly and going towards An Mháigh, we will be taking the same road. Perhaps we can travel together as far as the ford, where I continue on towards Ard Fhearta?’

Fidelma agreed as she rose. ‘It is always good to have companions on the road. And now Eadulf and I must make our farewells to Abbot Nannid. Gormán will go and ready our horses.’

Brother Cú-Mara also rose. ‘Then I will accompany Gormán here to the stables for I have to collect my own beast.’ He chuckled. ‘Only an ass, I am afraid. Religious without rank do not have the privilege of riding on horses unless by special dispensation.’

Fidelma and Eadulf made their way to the abbot’s chamber and found Abbot Nannid closeted with Brother Cuineáin. The abbot seemed nervous and preoccupied.

‘We have come to say our farewells,’ Fidelma announced.

Almost at once there was a change in the man’s features.

‘Are you leaving us already?’ The regret in his voice was so obviously feigned that Eadulf felt embarrassed.

‘I am afraid we must,’ he said.

‘So where do you go now?’ asked Brother Cuineáin.

‘Why, we shall head west with Brother Cú-Mara,’ Fidelma replied, but she did not elaborate further.

Abbot Nannid seemed surprised. ‘I thought you had not known that Brother Cú-Mara was visiting us until you arrived here?’

‘Correct – but what a lucky chance that he was here. He probably told you that Eadulf and I spent some time at the Abbey of Ard Fhearta a few years ago.’

‘He did. Indeed, a coincidence.’

‘We offer you and the abbey our condolences over the demise of poor Brother Ledbán. He obviously led a long and active life so I suppose death came as no surprise.’

‘Death is the one event that is inevitable in all our lives,’ Abbot Nannid intoned. ‘However, we are sorry to hear the news of the death of Chief Brehon Áedo as we are shocked at the attempt on the life of the King, your brother. They will both be remembered in our prayers, but especially, we will pray for the recovery of your brother.’

‘Please accept our gratitude for your hospitality,’ Fidelma said politely.

‘May you find God on every road you travel,’ replied the abbot.

Thus dismissed, they followed Brother Cuineáin out of the abbey buildings and into the courtyard. Gormán was already there with their horses and nearby, Brother Cú-Mara was standing with his patiently waiting ass.

The farewell from Brother Cuineáin was less effusive than from his abbot and, as they passed through the gates of the abbey and turned westward along the road, Eadulf was uncomfortably aware of the steward standing watching them intently until the trees and shrubs that grew alongside the road hid him from sight.

T
he day was damp and chill, the clouds dark and lowering, as Fidelma and her companions progressed westward through the flat, marsh-like countryside. Now and then they passed isolated fortified homesteads but there was little sign of human activity.

‘What do you expect?’ asked Brother Cú-Mara, when Eadulf commented on the fact. ‘This is the start of winter. The harvest has been gathered in and stored, and there is little enough to do but bring the animals into the barns, keep them foddered and stay warm until the light returns.’

The bleak landscape and the big grey skies reminded Eadulf of his own country. In this area there was hardly anything that resembled a real hill, let alone a mountain. It was very much like the fens of the Kingdom of the East Angles, a series of fresh- and salt-water wetlands, often flooded by the rise and fall of the sea-levels from the Sionnan Estuary, a short distance to the north of them. It was an area criss-crossed by streams and rivers and a few meres or shallow lakes with the surrounding areas of peat.

It was Gormán who suddenly articulated Eadulf’s thoughts. ‘This is an inhospitable country. The Uí Fidgente are welcome to it.’

Brother Cú-Mara sighed. ‘Don’t forget, warrior, that the Uí Fidgente claim the same descent as the Eóghanacht. From the time of Fiachu Fidgenid, three centuries ago, they have claimed to be descendants of Cormac Cass, the elder brother of Eógan Mór.’

‘Our genealogists have disputed that claim,’ intervened Fidelma firmly. ‘That argument was laid to rest when they were defeated at Cnoc Áine by my brother.’

‘The only thing Cnoc Áine laid to rest was Prince Eóganan’s uprising against Cashel,’ replied the young steward.

Fidelma was reminded that the steward was himself a member of the Uí Fidgente. ‘Well, there is a peace between us now.’ She did not want to get into an argument with Brother Cú-Mara as she respected the young steward.

He smiled. ‘That is true, lady. And such arcane matters of who is right and who is wrong should be best left to the old, white-haired genealogists, rather than settled by the shedding of the blood of young men.’

They eventually came to a substantial river flowing from the south which turned sharply along their path to the west.

‘Is this the Mháigh?’ asked Eadulf, wondering why they were not following it to its source southwards.

‘No, it is a river called Bearna Coill – the River from the Gap in the Woods – which is exactly where it emerges,’ explained Brother Cú-Mara. ‘It flows into the Mháigh further on – and that river is much broader than this one.’

He was right. Soon they heard the rushing sounds of the meeting of the two large rivers. One broke into the other, causing a clash of currents, white-crested and billowing, before the reinforced waters roared on hungrily to the north where they would join the even mightier Sionnan.

Brother Cú-Mara flung out his arm dramatically. ‘There is An Mháigh, the River of the Plain.’

It was, indeed, as substantial a waterway as Eadulf had ever seen. On the banks were several buildings and one of them, judging by a couple of boats outside, bobbing up and down in the currents, was the home of a ferryman.

‘That is where I cross the river to continue to Ard Fhearta,’ confirmed Brother Cú-Mara. ‘So this is where I must take my leave of you.’

They waited until the young steward had led his ass onto the sturdy ferryboat. The ferry was pulled across the river with a series of ropes by a team of two men and two asses on the far bank. With the turbulent current at that point, any boat propelled by oars would have simply been swept downriver. However, it did not take very long before Brother Cú-Mara was leading his ass onto the far bank. Once mounted, he turned and waved before disappearing westward along the track.

Fidelma and her companions turned back the way they had come, for they had passed a wooden bridge a short distance back which led across the waters of the Bearna Coill to bring them southwards, along the eastern bank of An Mháigh. They were conscious of the skies continuing to darken now, and far to the south came a faint rumble of thunder.

‘A storm approaching,’ muttered Gormán unnecessarily, looking at the clouds that were beginning to race across the skies in ever-tightening dark billows, as if pushing each other out of the way in some curious race to the north-east. ‘I doubt if we’ll make the Ford of the Oaks before it breaks. That’s the next township along the river,’ he added for Eadulf’s benefit.

His doubts were quickly confirmed as large splatters of rain began to come down, increasing in size and rapidity.

Gormán, screwing his eyes against the sting of the almost horizontal rain, suddenly pointed.

‘There is a cabin ahead. It looks like a farmstead. Let’s seek shelter there.’

Heads down against the now wild, wailing wind, which seemed to be throwing the rain in torrents against them, the crack of thunder and sudden bright flashes of lightning spooking their horses, they pushed on towards the buildings.

‘You seek shelter with friend Eadulf at the cabin, lady,’ yelled Gormán. ‘I’ll take the horses to that stable over there.’ He gestured to a dark outbuilding.

Fidelma and Eadulf slipped from their horses into the squelching mud while Gormán gathered the reins and fought his way through the sleeting rain towards the stable. Wiping the water from her face, Fidelma hammered on the door. She heard a muffled exclamation and then the door swung open.

A tall, well-built man stood framed against the light of a lantern. The darkness of the storm had made it necessary for, although it was only midday, the heavy clouds seemed to have plunged them into the night.

The man seemed to be a person of quick comprehension and decision. He simply stood back and motioned them inside, shutting the door behind them.

‘Stay, Failinis!’ he shouted.

They turned to see that a large hound had risen from its place by the hearth and was sniffing enquiringly towards them. It immediately returned to its place, yet its eyes remained on them, watchful and ready.

‘Our companion has taken our horses to your stable for shelter,’ gasped Fidelma, still wiping the wetness from her face. ‘We hope that you have no objections.’

‘I would not deprive anyone of shelter on such a day as this,’ the man replied. ‘There is plenty of room in the stable. Will he need help?’

‘He will manage,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘And we thank you for your hospitality.’

The man seemed to examine them for a moment or two from eyes that sparkled like points of fire, reflecting the flicker of the lantern. He was of middle age with lean features and tanned skin. The remains of youth and handsome good looks were still etched in his features and yet there seemed a tension around his mouth which gave the impression of age and weariness. Although he was dressed as a farmer there was something about his carriage, the upright way he held himself, that did not quite match.

‘My name is Temnén,’ he announced, as if he realised that they were waiting for him to introduce himself first. He turned to Eadulf with raised brows.

‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the Land of the South Folk.’

‘A Saxon?’

‘An Angle,’ corrected Eadulf patiently.

The man’s eyes suddenly narrowed as if trying to remember something. ‘Brother Eadulf … ?’

He was interrupted by a knocking at the door. He turned and swung it open and Gormán staggered in, mud-stained and soaked.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered, thrusting the door shut behind him. He stood leaning against it, breathing heavily from his exertion running through the mud and storm to the cabin.

Temnén nodded briefly and went to a side table where there was a jug and clay beakers.

‘A drink of
corma
to keep out the winter chill?’ he asked, his gaze sweeping over them. They assented readily.

He began to pour. ‘We were in the middle of introductions,’ he said across his shoulder. ‘If this is Brother Eadulf, then you, lady, are …’

‘My name is Fidelma,’ she replied. ‘Our companion is Gormán.’

Temnén swung round rapidly, beakers in hand, examining each in turn before he handed Fidelma and Eadulf their drinks. He then poured one for Gormán and one for himself, raising his drink in a silent toast as they all took a swallow of the fiery liquid. He motioned for them to seat themselves round a central hearth in which a smouldering peat fire was sending out its warmth.