Our Lady of Darkness (19 page)

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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #blt, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #Suspense, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Our Lady of Darkness
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‘Good. Now, it is dark and we must return to Fearna.’
They left the woman in her cabin and went to where they had tethered their horses.
The night was dark and chill, the clouds, chasing one another across the night sky, obscured the stars and the moon for the most part, making it almost impossible to see far.
‘It’s best to give the horses their heads,’ advised Enda. ‘In that way, they may tread the path homeward more carefully.’
Fidelma smiled in the shadows. She had ridden almost before she could walk and knew the habits of horses well enough. She rode with a loose rein allowing the horse to pick its way along the track, guiding gently only now and then to keep the beast moving in the right direction. She rode behind Enda, a dark shadow in front of her, knowing that the young warrior was keenly aware of his surroundings, attuned to any sense of danger.
The late autumn evening was really cold. Instinctively she knew that there would be a frost that night, the first frost of the oncoming winter. She hoped that Eadulf was not sleeping out in the open. She shivered at the thought. Yet if he were not hiding in the surrounding forests or hills, where was he? Who would be sheltering him?
She had pondered long on the problem of how he had managed to effect his escape from his cell in the abbey. Time and again she had come back to the conclusion that he must have been helped by an outside force. But who? And why?
‘Not that path, lady!’ called Enda from the darkness ahead.
Fidelma blinked.
She realised that she had fallen so deeply into her thoughts that she had given her horse too much head. As they reached a fork in the track, the horse, with free rein, had begun to turn down the left-hand path. Fidelma hauled quickly on the rein and turned the animal’s path towards the shadow of Enda.
‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,’ she called. ‘Do you know where that path leads? It seems to go directly south.’
‘It leads to a place called Cam Eolaing. I was told that it is on the same river that passes by the abbey but it is a longer route to Fearna if we go down to Cam Eolaing and turn along the river track.’
‘Cam Eolaing?’ Fidelma wondered why the name seemed familiar to her. She had heard it recently but could not place where and in what context. ‘And this is the quickest way?’
‘It is. We shall be—’
It was Enda who heard the danger a split second before the cry caused Fidelma to start. Three or four shadows burst through the woods and brush at the side of the road, attempting to grab their horses’ heads. Instinctively Fidelma jerked the reins of her mount, causing it to rear up on its hind legs and lash out with its forelegs in protest as the bit tugged at the corner of its mouth. It was this that caused its flying hooves to connect with the body of one of the forms, knocking it
backwards with a harsh scream of agony.
The figures were men and they were wielding weapons; not sticks or staves but swords, so far as the darkness allowed her to identify them. She tugged at her horse again, as it seemed the only means of protection.
In front of her, Enda had drawn his sword and smashed it down on another attacker.
‘Ride, lady, ride!’ the young man yelled.
It was as she dug her heels into the animal’s flanks to spur it forward, that the clouds parted for a second or so and the bright white winter moon shone down, causing the scene to be lit with an ethereal brilliance. She glanced down and for a moment time stood still.
It was the face of the boatman, Gabrán, which stared up at her in anger.
Then her horse surged forward and she was tearing along the darkened track with Enda at her side.
It was only after a kilometre had passed that they drew rein to allow their snorting mounts to recover from the swift gallop. They were lucky that the track was straight, its surface fairly even, otherwise the precipitous gallop through the darkness might have been extremely dangerous.
Enda replaced the sword that he had drawn. ‘Robbers!’ he snorted in disgust. ‘This country is filled with robbers!’
‘I don’t think so,’ rejoined Fidelma.
Enda’s head came up sharply. ‘What do you mean, lady?’
‘The moon came out for a second behind the cloud and I recognised their leader. It was Gabrán.’
‘Gabrán?’ Enda’s tone displayed his astonishment, mingled with some satisfaction. ‘Didn’t I say that he was the connection?’
‘You did. I had quite forgotten that his boat had been moored at the quay on the night the girl was killed. Then the next night, one of his crew is killed. You were right to point it out.
Agnus Dei
!’ she ended with an exclamation.
Enda was startled. ‘What is it, lady?’
‘Gabrán’s boat was also there when Daig was found drowned. Didn’t Deog tell us that a boatman from a boat called the
Cág
found his body? The
Cág
is Gabrán’s boat.’
Enda let out a low whistle. ‘Are you sure that you recognised him, lady? It was dark.’
‘The moonlight was full on his face long enough for me to recognise
the man, Enda. His is a face that one does not forget.’
‘Then we’d better push on to Fearna in case they have mounts and ride behind us,’ he said uneasily. ‘What do you think his game is, lady?’
They began to walk their mounts quickly along the track, side by side.
‘I’ve no idea. You have done well in making this connection, Enda. It was staring me in the face and I did not see it. There is a big mystery here. It grows each moment and always, as you say, we find Gabrán close by.’
Enda was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘I must confess that I am at a loss, lady, as to why Gabrán attacked us. Surely he must think we know more than we do?’
Fidelma had been thinking the same thing, turning over the facts as she knew them.
Usually, facts were like a string of beads. There was always a connecting thread between them even if many of the beads were missing and had to be sorted out; there was always some inevitable connection. But this time there was no thread that Fidelma could see; no connection to the facts that she had garnered so far — none except this curious fact that the thin little river boat man was always near-at-hand in every event. Moreover, he traded with the abbey and seemed to have unrestricted access to Abbess Fainder’s rooms, as she had witnessed. He also stayed at the Inn of the Yellow Mountain. Was he the thread that linked everything together? But how?
As they joined the track along the river and came up by the grim, dark walls of the abbey, Fidelma raised her head from her contemplation.
‘We will have to find out more about Gabrán,’ she finally spoke aloud, realising immediately that she was stating the obvious.
‘Do you think he realised that you recognised him?’ asked Enda.
‘I am not sure. See if his boat is still alongside the abbey quay. I suspect it is not. It would probably be moored close to the spot where we were attacked. But it is worth a look.’
They were passing the quays now and Enda swung down and handed his reins to Fidelma while he went to check on the river boats.
‘His boat was called the
Cág
, wasn’t it?’ Enda asked.
‘The
Jackdaw
, that’s right.’
Enda went to where there was a dark shadow of a boat tied up on the
abbey quay. She saw a shadow emerge on the deck and heard voices. Then Enda came back, shaking his head.
‘Was that Gabrán’s boat?’ Fidelma asked.
‘No, lady,’ Enda said, remounting. ‘The man said that the
Cág
pulled out earlier in the evening, heading upriver.’
‘Did the man know where Gabrán comes from?’
‘I asked him that. He did not. But surely Lassar, at the inn, will know where his home port on the river is. She seemed to know him well enough.’
‘I suppose that you are right.’
They skirted the abbey walls and rode into the township straight to the Inn of the Yellow Mountain.
A stable lad came to take their horses and, as they entered the warm main room of the inn, Dego came across to them. He seemed relieved to see them.
‘I was going to ride out in search of you both,’ he said. ‘It has been dark for ages and this is not the countryside to ride freely about in the dark.’
Fidelma was reassuring.
‘I think that we would agree with you, Dego. Let us find a table near the fire and see what food Lassar can offer us this evening. Not that I feel particularly hungry tonight.’
Lassar had come bustling out of an inner room with a tray of drinks. She saw them, served her customers, and then came across with a smile of welcome.
‘I was wondering whether you would be back for an evening meal, Sister. You are late this evening. Have you been searching for the Saxon? I am told there is no news of him at all.’
Fidelma pulled off her travelling cloak and indicated a table near the large fire that was now crackling away in the hearth.
‘We have been out riding,’ she confirmed shortly. ‘We’ll sit there and you may tell us what you can offer us this chilly night.’
Lassar followed them to the table and waited as they seated themselves.
‘For the main dishes, there is a choice tonight of
lonlongin,
the gullet of an ox filled with minced meat and cooked like a sausage. It is a delicacy of the area. Or there is fish – salmon – or I still have some sea-calf which I serve with
duilesc
and butter.’
‘This meat pudding sounds fine for me,’ Enda said enthusiastically.
Fidelma wrinkled her nose a little in distaste. ‘I’ll have salmon and the
duilesc.’
She had a liking for the red, edible seaweed.
‘There is the hair-onion, leek, if you like it, with goose eggs and cheese,’ added Lassar.
‘I’ll remain with the salmon but the hair-onion sounds good.’
Dego decided to accompany Enda with the
lonlongin
served with root vegetables. For the next half an hour or so, a silence fell on their company. For Fidelma, each mouthful was an ordeal as her thoughts returned to Eadulf and how he might be faring that cold night. Concentration was better when she had some task to fulfil; some objective. Left to her own thoughts, she fell into a morbid frame of mind. She broke the silence by turning to Dego.
‘Did you find out any more about Coba?’
Dego paused while taking a sip of wine. ‘Not really. He has a fortress not far from here, a place called Cam Eolaing. He is a minor chieftain and magistrate, well-respected and not a supporter of Fianamail’s introduction of the Penitentials.’
Fidelma was irritable. She could have told Dego as much.
‘But would he go against Fianamail to the extent that he might help Eadulf escape?’ she asked.
Dego shrugged but was silent.
‘We will go to see this chieftain tomorrow,’ Fidelma decided.
When Lassar reappeared to collect their dirty plates, Fidelma took the opportunity to ask her about Gabrán.
‘Gabrán? Why do you ask about him?’ The woman looked suspiciously at her.
‘I am interested in this river-boat trade, that is all.’
‘He has gone away for a few days now.’
‘Gone?’ asked Fidelma innocently. ‘Back to his home port? Where is it that he comes from – somewhere upriver?’
‘Not far from here – Cam Eolaing. Beyond that place the river is not really navigable for any length.’
Eadulf had not slept well. The pre-dawn chattering of the birds finally caused him to give up the idea of sleep and splash his face in the bowl of cold water which stood by his bed. As he towelled himself he felt a new strength of purpose. He had been left alone for an entire day since the old man, Coba, had brought him to the fortress. He was free to wander around but always within the confines of the walls and there were always guards nearby who answered him in monosyllabic tones and politely refused to elaborate on any of his questions. When he had asked to see Coba he was told that the chieftain was unable to see him. True, he had been fed well, but he was irritated that no one would explain what was happening. He wanted information.
Why had Coba given him sanctuary? Did Fidelma know where he had been taken and what his position was in law? While Eadulf had heard of this
maighin digona
he was not sure that he entirely understood it although he did realise that sanctuary was an ancient custom. Coba had said that he had disagreed only with the punishment handed out to him because it was not in accordance with the law of the Fénechus. But would a man really stand against his King and the highest authorities in the kingdom to such a point that he would rescue a foreigner from his death cell in total defiance of them? Eadulf was uncomfortable and suspicious of the motivations of the chieftain.
As if in answer to his thoughts, there was a sound outside his door and it opened. Eadulf threw the towel on the bed and found himself face to face with a small, wiry and thin-faced man whom he had never seen before.
‘I am told that you understand our language, Saxon,’ the man said abruptly.
‘I have a knowledge of it,’ admitted Eadulf.
‘That is good.’ The man obviously believed in brevity. ‘You may go.’
Eadulf frowned, uncertain that he had heard him correctly. ‘Go?’
‘I am to tell you that you are free to leave this fortress. If you go
down to the river you will find a religieuse from Cashel waiting for you.’
Eadulf’s heart beat faster and his face lightened. ‘Fidelma? Sister Fidelma?’
‘I am told that is her name.’
Eadulf felt a surge of relief and joy. ‘Then she has cleared me? She has won the appeal?’
The thin-faced man’s features were immobile. His eyes dark and deep set.
‘All I am asked to convey to you is what I have already done. I know no more.’
‘Then, my friend, I shall leave you with my blessing. But what of the elderly chieftain? How may I express my thanks to him for his kindness in bringing me here?’
‘The chieftain is not here. There is no need to thank him. Go quickly and silently. Your friend is waiting.’
The man’s tone was without emotion. He stood to one side and made no attempt to take Eadulf’s extended hand.
Eadulf shrugged and glanced round the room. He had nothing to take with him. All his possessions were at the abbey.
‘Tell your chieftain, then, that I owe him a great debt and will ensure that it is repaid.’
‘It is of no consequence,’ replied the foxy-faced man.
Eadulf left his room and the man followed him outside. The fortress seemed deserted in the cold white light of the crisp autumnal dawn. A frost still lay on the ground making it slippery beneath his leather sandals. His breath came like puffs of smoke and he realised just how cold it was.
‘Is it possible to borrow a cloak?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘It is cold and my cloak was confiscated at the abbey.’
His companion seemed impatient.
‘Your companion has clothing for your journey. Do not delay. She will be growing impatient.’
They had reached the gate of the fortress. A second man stood there; a sentinel who began to unlatch the wooden bolts and swing open the portal.
‘Can’t I express my thanks to anyone for giving me this sanctuary?’ Eadulf thought it churlish to leave the fortress in such a fashion.
His companion seemed about to make some sharp comment and
then a curious smile flickered over his cadaverous features.
‘You will be able to thank him soon, Saxon.’
The gate swung open.
‘Your friend will meet you down by the river,’ the man repeated. ‘Now you may go.’
Eadulf thought he was a surly fellow but smiled his gratitude all the same and hurried on through the gate. Before him stretched a sloping path from the small hillock on which the fortress stood, winding down towards a wooded area through which he could see the grey ribbon of water a few hundred metres away.
He halted and glanced back to the man at the gate.
‘Straight down there? Is that where Sister Fidelma is waiting?’
‘Down by the river,’ echoed the man.
Eadulf turned down the frosty path. It was slippery beneath his feet but the only alternative was to walk in the centre of the path where horses had churned it into a muddy mess. He stuck to the side of the path, its angled level causing him to move more quickly than he wanted. It was only a few moments later that the inevitable occurred. He suddenly slipped and fell.
That was what saved his life.
As his legs shot out from under him, causing him to fall backwards, two arrows flew by, one embedding itself with a hard thud in a nearby tree.
For a split second Eadulf looked at the arrows in stupefaction. Then he rolled swiftly on his side and glanced back.
The thin-faced man who had told him to go stood in the act of placing another arrow to his bowstring. He had been joined by the second man who looked every inch a professional archer for he was just releasing his second shot. Eadulf rolled again, this time into the side of the track and then he scrambled to his feet in an ungainly movement, throwing himself immediately into the underbrush. He heard the soft whine of the wood pass by his ear.
Then he was running; running for his life. He had no thoughts as to how or why; he did not try to work out what had happened. Some animal instinct for self-preservation overcame all his thought processes. He was pushing through the woods, while some small part of his brain uttered a prayer of thanks that they were mainly evergreen trees and shrubs which thus shielded him from his attackers. However, the frost was not on his side. He knew he was leaving tracks and he prayed for
the sun to rise and allow the frost to disperse. Failing that, he must find some ground where the frost had not taken.
Inevitably he made his way towards the river. He knew that air near running water was sometimes warmer. Would Fidelma be there, waiting for him?
He gave a sardonic laugh.
Of course not. It had simply been a ruse to kill him. But why? He suddenly realised that the men had law on their side. What was the ruling of the
maighin digona?
He had been given sanctuary provided he kept within the bounds of the grantee’s land. The owner of a sanctuary was bound not to allow a fugitive to escape, for the owner would then be held responsible for the original offence.
Eadulf groaned in anguish as he ran through the brush. He had fallen for a trick. He had been told to go but now could be shot down as a fugitive who had broken the laws of sanctuary. He had given them the legal opportunity to kill him, but who were they? Was this some ruse of Coba himself to kill him? If so, why rescue him in the first place? It did not make any sense.
He came to the riverbank and, as he had anticipated, the air was warmer here near the water and the frost was vanishing. The pale sun was climbing upwards in the sky and soon it would be dispersed. He paused and listened: he could hear the sounds of his pursuers. He began to hurry along the bank of the river, eyes searching for cover. He knew that his pursuers would soon break out of the trees behind him. He could not afford to stay on the bank any longer.
Ahead he saw some small juniper trees and then a patch of densely growing holly with its thick, waxy green leaves rising into a narrow conical shape with several proclaiming their feminine gender by their red berries. Eadulf was well aware that the sharp spines on the lower leaves, nature’s design to protect the trees from browsing animals, were going to hurt, but there was no other means of concealment to hand.
He could hear the two men tracking him shouting to one another now. They were very close. Eadulf left the river bank and jumped into the juniper coverage, falling to the ground, before pushing and hauling his way under the uncomfortable screen of the holly trees. He flung himself flat under their cover and lay on the hard, cold ground, heart beating wildly from its recent exertions. He could see a little stretch of the riverbank from his position, and from this vantage point he saw his pursuers come to a halt.
‘God’s curse on the wily Saxon!’ he heard the thin-faced man declare.
His companion looked around. His voice was morose. ‘He could have gone either way, Gabrán. Up or downriver. It’s your choice.’
‘God rot him!’
‘That’s no answer. Anyway, I can’t see why we had to wait until he was out of the fortress to shoot him down. Why couldn’t he have been killed while he slept?’
‘Because, Dau, my good friend,’ the other explained with a sarcastic tone, ‘it had to be made to look as though he had fled the sanctuary, that’s why! Also, we had to get him out of Coba’s fortress quietly before the household awakened. The death of the guard that I had to silence will be put down to the Saxon. Another murder to his account. Anyway, you go upriver and I’ll look downriver. My boat is moored below. I shall have to bring it upriver before noon. I do not like this. All the while the Saxon is alive, he is a danger to the whole scheme of things. It would have been best had he been left to hang at the abbey.’
The thin-faced man left his companion and began to move off rapidly along the river bank, his eyes searching the ground for signs of Eadulf’s tracks. His companion halted a while and examined the surrounding countryside and then began to walk slowly in the opposite direction. Then he paused. Eadulf shifted nervously. Had the man spotted where he had left the bank and pushed through the juniper trees?
He looked desperately round for some means of defence. Near at hand lay a discarded blackthorn stick, torn from a nearby tree. Eadulf reached tentatively forward and eased it towards himself with his fingertips. Then he grasped it firmly and rose carefully, trying not to catch the sharp leaves of the holly.
The warrior who had been addressed by the name Dau had kept an arrow in his hand, holding it in the same fist as his bow, and was now peering round as if searching for tracks.
It was at that moment that Eadulf suddenly realised that he had no choice as to his next move. The man was going to kill him. He was not sure why but that did not matter at the moment. His task was to save his own life. Eadulf moved carefully, trying to remember the skills he had once been taught as a youth by his father when hunting in his own country, the land of the South Folk. Avoiding the entwining branches, he moved slowly inch by inch around the holly tree and through the junipers to come up behind his adversary. With each footstep, he swore that the man must surely hear him.
The bowman stood looking irresolutely before him into the trees and shrubs, even as Eadulf crept forward, raising the stick in both hands. It took one swift blow to knock the man down. He fell with an almost imperceptible grunt. For a moment Eadulf stood over the inert form still holding his blackthorn stick ready to strike again. There was no further movement.
‘Forgive me for I have sinned,’ he muttered as he genuflected and knelt down by the unconscious man. He removed his adversary’s leather boots, throwing them into the river, swiftly followed by his bow and quiver of arrows. He removed and placed the man’s hunting knife in his own belt. He also removed the man’s sheepskin cloak, realising that he needed it if he was taking to the open country. At least, when the archer came around, he would not be thinking in terms of pursuit for a while, not without his boots, warm cloak and weapons. Eadulf glanced skyward, trying to remember the lines from John: ‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just.’ He hoped that the divine powers would understand his actions.
Then he stood up, swung the heavy cloak around his shoulders and started to walk towards the rising hills. He was unsure which way he should go. He realised that he ought to put enough distance between the fortress of Cam Eolaing and himself before he started to make any decisions on his ultimate destination. Certainly, he had realised that Fidelma was not any part of this strange plot to kill him. It would probably be a waste of time to go in search of her now. The best thing to do might be to head eastward to the coast and try to find a ship that would take him to either the land of the West Saxons or one of the other Saxon kingdoms? Well, there was plenty of time to think about it. He must find shelter, and some food, before he started to make decisions.
 
Fidelma glanced up at the knock on the door. It was Lassar, the innkeeper. She looked tired and somewhat nervous.
‘It is the Brehon, Bishop Forbassach, again. He wishes to speak with you.’
Fidelma had just finished dressing and was about to descend to the main room of the inn for breakfast.

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