‘Which we will accept with pleasure,’ replied Fidelma.
With Brother Céin leading the way, they walked back to the wooden buildings that constituted the settlement.
Before the evening meal, the
prainn,
which was the principal meal of the day, Fidelma allowed herself be conducted by the steward to the community’s
tech screpta
or library. It contained some forty books, all hung in rows in their leather book satchels. Brother Céin was enormously proud of the library.
‘Bishop Luachan was intent on building up our little community as a repository of knowledge,’ he announced. ‘Alas, these are the first things that will be destroyed, should the
dibergach
attack us and we are not able to hold them off. We have one of the great collections of books in the five kingdoms.’
Fidelma, who had seen many greater libraries in her travels, did not disagree with him. Any centre where books were gathered was a special place in her eyes.
‘It is well worth defending, Brother Céin,’ she agreed. Then a memory stirred. ‘I was told this place had a connection with my own kingdom. Do you know the story?’
Brother Céin nodded. ‘But that was in ancient times. It is one of those legends handed down by the local people.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It is said that long ago, so long that the facts have become myths, there was a chieftain in the north of your brother’s kingdom of Muman. He was called Lugaid mac Tail. He had five sons and a daughter. The daughter was married to an ambitious warrior called Trad mac Tassaig. The daughter was also ambitious for her husband and, moreover, she was a great Druidess, adept in the magic arts.
‘One day she claimed that she had had a vision that unless her father, Lugaid, handed over his chieftainship and land to her husband, then a flock of demons would come and destroy it and all the family. In fear, Lugaid did as she asked and fled north with his five sons.
‘They came to Loch Lugborta and here Lugaid lit a magic fire to seek guidance. The fire spread in five directions and in those directions his five sons went and set up their homes. Lugaid stayed in the place where he had kindled the fire and thus the lake was named after him – Loch Lugborta. But he decided that he should take the name Delbaeth, from the ancient form
dolb-aed
— enchanted fire. Today, after many centuries, the name has been distorted and it is now called Delbna Mór.’
‘I have never heard this story before,’ Fidelma said quietly.
‘No reason why you should. It is simply a local story of how the name of the territory came into being.’
She paused awhile examining and praising the books, and then a bell began to sound for the evening meal. As they walked back towards the
praintech,
or dining hall, Brother Céin asked anxiously: ‘Do you still intend to go north-west tomorrow?’
‘I do.’
‘To the lands of the Cinél Cairpre?’
‘Yes.’
‘That may be where our enemies are,’ Brother Céin said.
‘Irél and his Fianna already went there. He saw the new chief, Ardgal, and obtained hostages for the clan’s good behaviour after Sechnussach’s assassination. If they meant harm, they would not have succumbed to Irél’s authority.’
‘Even so, it would be remiss of me if I did not counsel you against this journey. If Bishop Luachan were here, he would warn you of the dangers that beset this countryside.’
Fidelma smiled briefly. ‘I think you have already made the dangers clear.’
‘Well, should you return to Tara …
when
you return to Tara,’ he corrected hastily, ‘and speak to the new High King, tell him of our situation and warn him about the growing power of the
dibergach.
There is only one other community between here and the land of the Cinél Cairpre and that is the abbey at Baile Fobhair, which you will also pass on your journey. They and we are the only communities of religious in the area who have not been attacked so far, thanks be to God. But we live in daily expectation of it.’
‘Why have you not already sent to the Fianna at Tara for warriors to protect you?’
Brother Céin shrugged. ‘We did not begin to realise the seriousness of the situation until poor Bishop Luachan was taken from us. If they can do that, there is nothing that will stop them perpetrating more serious crimes.’
‘Where is this abbey of which you speak?’
‘Baile Fobhair?’
She nodded.
‘You will ride along the north side of a great loch, Loch Léibhinn. That is where the abbey is situated. But let me warn you again … ’
She paused, turned and looked into his anxious face.
‘Don’t worry, Brother Céin,’ she interrupted. ‘I fully intend to return in safety to Tara and this mystery shall be cleared up. That is a promise.’
I
t was approaching noon on the next day when Fidelma decided to call a halt in order to rest and water the horses. They had ridden north-west, passing the farmstead identified as Cluain Nionn. Here they had paused briefly while Fidelma questioned the farmer and his wife about the disappearance of Bishop Luachan. But, as Brother Céin had foretold, the couple knew nothing at all. So they had journeyed on, reaching the large lake that the rotund steward of Delbna Mór had told Fidelma was called Loch Léibhinn. For the most part, the countryside seemed deserted. They rode along its northern shore without seeing any sign of the abbey of Baile Fobhair of which she had been told. After a while, north of the lake, they reached more hilly country. Fidelma began to believe that they had missed the abbey and so suggested they rest and attend to their horses’ needs. To save time she decided not to light a fire to prepare a meal, but for them to have some fruit and the bread that the religious of Delbna Mór had given them that morning. As events turned out, it was a wise decision.
They had stopped by a small pool that was fed from a stream that gushed from the hills. It was surrounded by three great stone slabs and shaded by an ash tree. A little distance from the pool were the burned-out ruins of a watermill. The fire had obviously occurred recently, for the stench of the burned timbers still hung in the air. The countryside was heavily wooded, with many brooks and streams. There were plenty of evergreens, interspersed with wych elm, whitebeam and even strawberry trees, and in spite of it being winter the forest looked impenetrable. Both the thick woods and the rising ground were also, in retrospect, a matter of good fortune for them.
They had barely settled to eat when the sound of someone coughing came from the direction of the ruined mill. It sounded as though the person was desperately trying to stifle the cough and thereby only making the
sound worse. At once Caol and Gormán were on their feet with drawn swords.
‘Who’s there?’ snapped Caol, moving cautiously towards the blackened ruins.
There was no answer.
With a quick gesture to Gormán to indicate some prearranged tactic, Caol advanced, sword ready to strike, while Gormán made a flanking movement to cover him.
Then, from the blackened timbers, a sooty spectre rose. It was a man in torn and dirty religious robes, his face and hair covered in soot. He raised a hand as if to fend off Caol’s sword.
‘Do not kill me! Let me go in peace! I have done you no hurt.’
The voice was a despairing wail. Caol regarded the vision in some astonishment.
‘Come forward and identify yourself,’ he instructed.
The dishevelled man took a step or two and then he caught sight of Fidelma and Eadulf. A look of hope transformed his features.
‘Are you of the Faith?’ he demanded eagerly. ‘Do you acknowledge the Christ?’
‘Of course,’ Eadulf said irritably. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Brother Manchán. I am … I was … one of the community here.’ He gestured beyond the trees.
‘Where is here, Brother Manchán?’ asked Fidelma gently. ‘We are strangers in this land.’
‘Just beyond is the abbey of Baile Fobhair, the homestead of the spring. It was founded by the Blessed Feicin who, alas, died from the Yellow Plague a few years ago.’
‘I have heard of that holy man,’ Fidelma reflected after a pause for thought. ‘I am sorry to hear that the plague took him.’
The dishevelled religious sighed deeply. ‘Better to be taken by the Yellow Plague than witness what has happened to his little abbey. Burned and destroyed.’
‘When did it happen?’ Caol wanted to know. ‘Who did it?’
‘Dibergach —
raiders. They came riding down with their godless battle standard a few days ago and began to slaughter the brethren. I managed to escape and hide in the forest until they had gone. I did not know what to do – whom to trust. Five of the brethren were slaughtered and I am the only survivor.’
‘Delbna Mór is the next biggest abbey I know of. Why did you not go there?’
‘Does Delbna Mór still stand?’ queried the man, hopefully.
‘It did when we left it this morning.’
‘While I hid, I heard some of the raiders talking about it. I thought they were going to attack it.’
‘Which way did these raiders go?’
Brother Manchán shook his head. ‘I don’t know where they went immediately afterwards. I only know they came back this morning.’
They stared at the man.
‘They came back?’ Eadulf asked. ‘Where are they now?’
‘They are resting just over the rise,’ Brother Manchán replied. ‘That’s why I was hiding in the ruins of the mill.’
Eadulf looked at Fidelma. ‘We’d better move and find cover somewhere.’
‘In which direction did you say they were encamped?’ Fidelma remained calm.
The man indicated with his hand.
Fidelma turned to Caol. ‘Go to the top of the rise, carefully now, and see what the situation is.’
Caol nodded. When he returned, he had an agitated look on his face. He indicated over his shoulder to the woods.
‘This man is right, lady. The ground rises steeply as you see, but suddenly drops into a small defile. There is another track that leads through it. I could see the ruins of what must have been the abbey at one end.’
‘And these raiders?’
‘Twenty riders. Warriors, heavily armed. They have an assortment of clothing and weapons. They looked as though they were making ready to depart. From what I saw, they had been watering their horses.’
Fidelma turned to the woebegone religieux. ‘And these were definitely the same raiders who attacked your abbey earlier?’ she asked.
The man nodded quickly.
‘They were leading a couple of pack horses on which some bags were tied,’ added Caol. ‘Poking out of one of them was a golden crucifix, and I doubt that these are pious religious on their way to donate some goods to an abbey out of charity.’
‘Twenty, you say?’ mused Fidelma with a frown.
‘Twenty it was, lady,’ replied Caol.
Fidelma was silent for a moment more.
‘We need to know which direction they take. Caol, will you go back to observe them?’
‘Of course,’ he replied immediately, adding with a smile, ‘If I am discovered, I will contrive to blow my horn in warning to alert you. If you hear it, mount, ride hard and do not tarry.’
‘If that is all you have to suggest, you had better try not to be discovered,’ replied Fidelma grimly.
Caol grinned and slipped away.
‘What do you have in mind?’ Eadulf asked when he had gone.
‘It depends which way they go. If towards Delbna Mór, then I think we should try to warn Brother Céin. Also, we should warn Irél and bring the Fianna to capture them. They are pressing close to Tara now and need to have their raiding curbed. Let’s pack up and get ready to ride as soon as Caol gives us the word.’
In fact, it was not long at all before they heard movement through the undergrowth. Gormán sprang forward with drawn sword in a defensive position. Then came Caol’s voice.
‘It’s me,’ he called softly. ‘They have mounted and headed off.’
‘Which way?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘In the same direction as we are taking … towards the north-west.’
‘Towards the country of the Cinél Cairpre?’ Eadulf asked.
‘It would be logical if they were men who held allegiance to Dubh Duin,’ Caol suggested.
‘In that case,’ Fidelma made up her mind quickly, ‘we must follow them and see if they are, indeed, of the Cinél Cairpre.’
‘But I thought … ’began Eadulf.
She turned to him. ‘I do not like to split up but I fear that you must carry the news back. Take Brother Manchán behind you on your horse and leave him at Delbna Mór for Brother Céin to look after. Tell Brother Céin what we have found. Then ride straightway to Tara and tell Irél.’
‘Why me?’ Eadulf demanded a little petulantly at being asked to go back.
‘Because, if these are
dibergach,
I will need Caol and Gormán with me. Can you remember the path back?’
‘I remember,’ asserted Eadulf, suppressing his irritation.
‘I am counting on you, Eadulf. I need warriors with me so you are the logical choice to go back. Bring Irél and his warriors here and we will leave signs along the track to show you where we have gone.’
Hiding his disapproval of her plan but accepting the logic of it, Eadulf watched Fidelma and the others ride away with some anxiety. He wished that they had accepted Irél’s initial offer to accompany them with his warriors, but it was pointless to lament the fact now. Hindsight was always a good philosopher. He turned to Brother Manchán.
‘Well, Brother, we must be away then. The sooner we set out, the sooner we can reach Delbna Mór and I can continue with my task.’
The religieux nodded unhappily.
Eadulf swung up onto his horse and, using one of the stone slabs as a mounting block, Brother Manchán clambered on the horse behind him. Eadulf turned the animal along the forest in the direction they had originally come. He disliked cantering because he was not an accomplished horseman but he felt it best to keep a quick pace. He held on firmly as the horse loped along the forest path. The soot-begrimed religious was clinging tightly around his waist behind him. Now and then he felt the beast begin to flex its powerful muscles as if changing the pace into a gallop but Eadulf tugged firmly on the reins to check it. He had already decided that it was going to be an exhausting journey.
Both Caol and Gormán were competent trackers and Caol decided to send Gormán on a little way ahead. There were two tasks: one was to follow the tracks and the other, to ensure that they would not be led into any ambush.
Waiting until he was out of sight, Caol and Fidelma then followed. The track they were following swung around the wooded hills and then they came to the blackened ruins of what must have been the little abbey that had been built a generation or so ago by the Blessed Feicin who had established many Christian communities in the country.
No one had yet been able to bury the bodies of the religious who had been slaughtered there, and now that the raiders had moved on, the black, scavenging crows had descended. Fidelma averted her eyes and mumbled a prayer for the repose of their souls.
Caol was more philosophical.
‘The scavengers of battlefields,’ he said quietly. ‘The children of the Mórrígán.’
Fidelma did not reply. She knew that after great battles, these black crows and ravens were almost a blessing when it came to cleansing the corpses left to rot when survivors were too weak to bury them. But knowing
it and seeing it were different things. She wished they had time to bury the corpses of these poor pious men and prevent them from being desecrated by the scavengers, for she knew that later, after the sun went down, wolves and other animals would be attracted to the leavings of the crows.
They rode on, increasing their pace. Eventually, they came in sight of Gormán who was leaning from his horse intent on examining the trail before him. It split in two. He turned, saw them and gave them a wave to show that he was continuing along the right path. Then he moved on at a quicker pace to put a little extra distance between them and himself.
‘Is the plan to follow these people into the land of the Cinél Cairpre?’ asked Caol after a while.
Fidelma nodded. ‘If that is where they are heading.’
‘I’d feel better if Irél and the Fianna had been with us, lady,’ Caol confessed. ‘After all, two swords against – we do not know how many – are not good odds.’
‘Don’t worry, Caol. I shall not do anything that is rash or precipitate us into an impossible situation. We will keep well back from these raiders. If they lead us to Ardgal, the new chieftain of the Cinél Cairpre now that Dubh Duin is dead, then we might draw conclusions without any confrontation.’
‘I hope so, lady, I hope so,’ rejoined Caol softly.
They rode on without incident for some time before the trees began to thin and they came to the shallow river, gushing over a stony bed. Gormán was waiting for them, leaning forward in his saddle in a resting position.
‘What is the matter?’ Fidelma demanded as they rode up.
Gormán gestured to the river.
‘The riverbed is stony and the path on the far side is almost paved in pebbles and rocks. I have made a search and cannot find the tracks of the raiders’ horses on the far side. I have ridden along the bank in both directions but have seen nothing.’
Caol eased his sword a little in its scabbard and glanced around. ‘A good place for an ambush. Any sign that they have stopped?’
Gormán shook his head. ‘If they were of the number you say and with pack animals, there would be some sign. If they even left a couple of men behind in ambush, there would be some unease among those animals’ – he pointed to where a small herd of deer were grazing serenely on a hill a little distance from the river. A great antlered stag was standing apart, head raised proudly in the air, watching them.