Dancing With Demons

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It 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 thesound 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 knowingit 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.

‘We will proceed onwards,’ Fidelma decided. ‘We may pick up their tracks later.’

Gormán nodded, turned his horse and rode off rapidly through the shallow waters to place himself ahead of them again.

As Eadulf rode along he was worried about Fidelma. What if the strange raiders realised that they were being followed and laid an ambush for her? He had every faith in Caol and Gormán as warriors but they were only two against so many. And Fidelma was heading right into the country of the Cinél Cairpre, whose former chieftain had killed the High King. The thought almost made him push the horse into a gallop himself but he knew he was not a good enough equestrian to sustain such a pace through the forest.

The path suddenly swung round a group of boulders that rose in the middle of the forest and before he knew it, he was in the middle of a band of armed riders. He heard Brother Manchán give a shriek of alarm before they closed in with drawn swords. His horse shied nervously and came to a halt of its own volition.

The question that sprang to Eadulf’s lips died before he could utter it. There were about a score of riders and he could see a couple of pack horses. With a feeling of growing fear, he realised that the riders were the very same group that Fidelma had set off to follow. They must somehow have doubled back on their tracks and now he was their helpless captive.

Gormán came trotting back along the track with a frown on his face.

‘I fear that we have lost them, lady,’ he called to Fidelma as he approached. ‘There are no tracks ahead.’

‘They must have turned back at the river,’ Caol sighed. ‘They will have used the stony course to confuse their tracks.’

Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘Did they do so because they were simply being cautious or because they knew that they were being followed?’

Gormán shook his head. ‘I think they are old campaigners used to hiding their tracks anyway. It was a perfect spot to do so. As you recall, it was stony on the far side and we could not pick up their tracks again. I don’t think they even crossed the river and came this way at all.’

‘How far ahead have you checked?’ Fidelma asked.

‘This track goes through some soft ground and approaches a hill thatoverlooks a small wheat plain. Even if I had missed the tracks, when I climbed the hill and scanned the plain before me, there were no signs of riders.’

‘Should we turn back?’ asked Caol. ‘Make another attempt to pick up their tracks?’

‘They could have gone north or south at the river,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘You said that you have checked a reasonable distance in both directions so it would take a long time before we picked up their tracks again. Our original intention was to see Ardgal in the land of the Cinél Cairpre. I think we should ride on and find him.’

The two warriors did not protest and the party set off again. Fidelma looked confident, but secretly she was now very worried. She hoped that Eadulf would reach Delbna Mór safely and warn Brother Céin. If the dibergach were as vicious as they had been told, it was dangerous to be an unarmed religious in these lands.

One of the riders who had surrounded Eadulf nudged his horse nearer. He was a black-bearded man with coarse ruddy features showing under a metal war bonnet which was decorated in a bizarre fashion with the stuffed head of a raven, its black wings spread out along either side. He held his sword loosely across the pommel of his saddle and wore no armour but a leather jerkin over his black and dirty clothing.

‘Well, well, what have we here? A Christian who wears the mark of Rome’s slavery! And carrying a poor wreck of another Christian who looks as though he has crawled out of an oven. Perhaps he has just been ejected from the Christian hellfire of which I have heard tell.’

His comrades laughed in appreciation of the humour.

Eadulf knew that the man had noted his tonsure, the corona spina, the tonsure of Peter, which was cut differently to that of John, adopted by the religious of the five kingdoms.

He made no answer but stared at the man defiantly. He felt Brother Manchán shaking with fear, still clinging behind him on the horse.

The man with the raven-feathered helmet, obviously the leader of the raiders, prodded him with the tip of his sword. It was sharp and Eadulf felt it draw blood through his sleeve. He winced but set his mouth firmly, determined not to show fear before these raiders.

‘You are the first Christian I have met who has not squealed,’ the man grinned patronisingly. ‘Usually your kind use your tongues too freely. Iwager your companion will sing without my prompting. Come, tell me who you are or will you die without a name?’

‘Please, please,’ cried Brother Manchán, sobbing in desperation. ‘Please, my lord, have mercy on me. I’ll tell you anything.’

Eadulf felt a little disgusted at his companion’s obvious fear. Even though he himself felt an apprehension approaching dread, Eadulf knew that you should never show fear to your enemy for, by so doing, you are lost.

‘If you need to know my name, know then that I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk.’ Eadulf used an angry tone to disguise the fear he felt and hoped that his captors did not notice the tremor in his voice.

‘A Saxon?’ The man’s bearded features broke into a black-toothed smile.

The question had an obvious answer and Eadulf made no reply.

‘What brings you to the kingdom of Midhe, stranger? Come to spout your pernicious doctrines to twist our minds away from the true gods of Éireann?’

‘I am husband to Fidelma of Cashel who is investigating the assassination of Sechnussach at Tara.’

This caused some surprised reaction among the warrior band.

‘Fidelma of Cashel, the Eóghanacht?’ the leader commented with a sudden frown. ‘We had heard that the Great Assembly had sent for her. You are some way from Tara. What are you doing in this forest, Saxon? Where did you get that pitiful thing that clings to you? Where is the woman from Cashel?’

Eadulf’s mind raced as to how best he should answer.

‘We are going to the abbey at Delbna Mór.’

This raised another laugh.

‘If you are coming from Tara, you must have ridden past it. At least you had the sense to turn back, for it lies in that direction.’ The leader jerked his head over his shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ Eadulf said, thankful for the man’s misunderstanding. ‘I realised that we must have passed it and I was directed back in this direction by this wandering religious.’ The lie came naturally to his lips and he resolved to utter an act of contrition later. ‘We’ll be on our way then.’

This caused a greater merriment among the band.

Their leader shook his head and turned to Brother Manchán.

‘You are a strange religious to go wandering in soot-encrusted and torn robes. Is this to show some subservience to your God?’

Eadulf felt Brother Manchán still shaking in his terror. He feared that the man would tell the truth of their encounter and alert them to the route Fidelma and her companions had taken.

‘Come,’ snapped the leader of the raiders. ‘Your name?’

‘Bro … Brother Manchán of Fobhair, my lord. Please … ’

‘Fobhair? Ah, so you are one of the nits that escaped from its nest when we tried to cleanse it. How remiss of us not to have noticed you.’

Eadulf felt Brother Manchán start, felt his grip loosen and his body fall from the back of his horse. He turned round in horror as Brother Manchán’s body hit the ground. He was already dead. The helmeted leader was leaning down and wiping his sword point on the clothes of the body. Then the black-bearded man glanced up and smiled crookedly at Eadulf.

‘Now we must insist that you accompany us, Saxon. My ceannard will find your company very entertaining and I would not like to deprive her of it.’

‘Ceannard? Your commander?’

‘You do not ask questions, Saxon. Dismount so that my men may search you.’

‘I protest,’ began Eadulf, halfway between helpless rage and fear. ‘You have murdered this man, a religious. You have killed him in cold blood.’

But two of the raiders had already dismounted and were pulling him from his horse. They searched him none too gently while another took his saddlebag. Having made sure he had neither weapons nor anything else of interest, one of them tied his hands in front of him, then a gag was suddenly inserted roughly into his mouth and, before he could do anything else, a blindfold shut the vision from his eyes. He found himself being hoisted back onto his horse. He clung desperately onto the edge of the saddle insofar as he was able. Someone must have taken the reins for the beast began to move and he could hear the other riders around him. He desperately strove to maintain his balance as the pace increased to a canter. He felt an icy, clawing sensation in his stomach as he considered the fact that these dibergach had killed a religious in cold blood, killed without any compunction. Eadulf knew that his life was now not worth anything.