The Seventh Trumpet

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘What exactly happened?’ Gormán demanded, the suppressed anger clear in his tone.

‘He said that he needed to go to the privy,’ replied Enda unhappily. ‘I suspected nothing. He went outside, and the next thing I heard was the sound of my own horse galloping off. By the time I ran out, he was vanishing along the road.’

‘How long ago did he leave?’

‘Long enough not to be overtaken if you set off after him now. The tavern-keeper had no horse to chase him, unfortunately.’

‘He went north, otherwise we would have seen him,’ Eadulf commented.

‘One thing I noticed,’ the unhappy warrior said. ‘As he galloped off, I saw that his cowl had been flung back. He wore no tonsure. I don’t think he was a religieux.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Fidelma replied.

‘It is my fault,’ Enda said dispiritedly.

‘Truly, it is your fault,’ snapped Gormán. He turned to Fidelma. ‘What now, lady? Do we chase after him?’

‘We must certainly find him,’ she said. ‘He has many questions to answer.’

She swung down from her horse and hitched it to the rail. Her companions followed suit and she led the way into the tavern. Saer was still seated with a mug of ale before him. Fedach Glas and his wife Grella faced her nervously. Fidelma spoke directly to the tavern-keeper.

‘I am told you have no horse. Do you have any animal at all, even a mule or plough horse, that you can let us have?’

Saer looked up from his ale and gave a chuckle. ‘If you could run quickly, you could have secured yourself a good horse on the Black Heath.’

Fedach Glas stared at the carpenter. ‘What nonsense is this?’

‘I tell no lie,’ the carpenter responded. ‘At dawn this morning I saw a good stallion running wild on the heath. I had half a mind to try my luck to catch it. But I don’t have the skill.’

Fidelma was impatient. ‘We do not have time to indulge ourselves in fantasy. Is there nothing that you have, Fedach Glas?’

‘I do not, but my cousin has,’ answered the tavern-keeper. ‘He runs the farm on the hills behind us and has two good horses — but they are there to work the farm, not horses such as you ride.’

‘Then we must borrow one. Will you go and bring it back here and, if possible, obtain a saddle of some sort.’

‘A plough horse would not be able to overtake a warrior’s horse,’ protested the tavern-keeper.

‘I do not mean it to do so. I merely want it to transport this warrior, Enda, back to Cashel, that is all.’

Enda was chagrined. ‘Are you sending me back to Cashel, and on a plough horse?’

Fidelma waited until Fedach Glas had set off on his errand and then turned to the disconsolate warrior.

‘I am not doing it as a punishment, Enda. There are important messages to be taken back to Cashel. Tell Caol and my brother what has happened here. That we believe the body is, indeed, an envoy from King Fianamail of Laigin. We suspect that Brother Ailgesach had something to do with this matter, but he has been killed by someone calling himself Brother Biasta. Also, I want you to go on to Imleach, taking some documents and a Missale that I shall give you. They are valuable, so put them into the hands of Abbot Ségdae. I also need to find out from the abbot whether he knows anything about these two religieux — Ailgesach and Biasta.’

Enda repeated the instructions. ‘And where will I find you, once I have gathered such information?’ he asked.

‘We shall be heading north for Durlus Éile to see if we can pick up Biasta’s trail. If we have moved on, we shall leave instructions at the fortress of the Éile so that you may follow us. Is that clear?’

‘It is indeed.’

‘Then wait here until Fedach Glas returns with the horse and do your best to return to Cashel quickly.’ She turned to Saer the carpenter. ‘I have to leave you with two unpleasant tasks but there is no alternative.’

The carpenter set aside his ale and gazed at her with a frown. ‘Tasks?’

‘We saw and heard crows around the chapel. You must try to find someone to help you bury the bodies — the one left in the chapel and that of Ailgesach. We cannot tarry any longer to help you in this.’

Grella intervened. ‘My husband will give him a hand. But what of the burial blessing? A religious should bless the grave.’ She glanced with meaning at Eadulf.

‘That I know,’ replied Fidelma. ‘However, we cannot wait. Perhaps, Enda, you could ask that a religious be sent here to fulfil this task?’

‘I don’t like it,’ sniffed Grella. ‘Things should be done according to ritual, otherwise the spirits of the dead will not lie at rest.’

‘It must be, until we can do otherwise,’ Fidelma told her. ‘Better a delay in a ritual than a murderer escapes justice.’

It was apparently the first time that either Grella or Saer understood the reason for Biasta’s flight. Their eyes widened and they exchanged a nervous glance.

‘We will carry out your wishes, lady,’ Saer said in a subdued manner.

Fidelma thanked them, turned to her companions and simply said: ‘Let us set off.’

They bade farewell to Enda, mounted their horses and within moments were cantering northwards along the highway that led to the fortress of the Éile. Fidelma did not really believe that they would overtake Biasta. Indeed, the sun was already well on the rim of the western mountains. She actually began to question her decision to start out so late, for it would soon be dark. It might have been better to spend the night at Fedach Glas’s tavern and make an early start in the morning.

She glanced to her left at the lowering sun. Eadulf, riding alongside her, caught the movement and said, ‘It will not be long before nightfall.’

‘We can cover a lot of ground before then,’ she replied, almost irritated that they had shared the same thought.

Gormán, who was riding in front of them, twisted in his saddle.

‘If we can maintain this pace, before nightfall we will arrive at a place where we can stay. The river comes close to this highway soon, and there on the left is a track that leads to a little chapel and another tavern on the banks of the Suir.’

Fidelma vaguely remembered the place from previous travels.

‘Maybe that is where Biasta is making for,’ Eadulf offered hopefully.

‘I doubt it,’ Gormán grunted. ‘I think he will want to put as much distance between Fedach Glas’s tavern and himself as possible. He will surely realise that we will give chase. I have a feeling that he would have left this main highway as soon as he was able.’

‘You may be right,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘And with the head-start that he had, he will probably have made it to Durlus Éile. Enda’s horse is fast and if Biasta is a good rider … And Durlus is a large enough township that he could be more anonymous than in an isolated country tavern.’

‘Do you agree with Enda that this Biasta is not a genuine religieux, lady?’ asked Gormán. ‘Enda says that he doesn’t wear a tonsure.’

It was Eadulf who answered for her. ‘Even if he did, anyone can cut their hair to create the right appearance.’

‘All we know for certain is that he killed Ailgesach, whom he claimed was his cousin,’ added Fidelma. ‘There are many questions that must be answered before we start speculating.’

Eadulf suddenly turned to Fidelma in a burst of excitement. ‘I have just realised! Saer said that he saw a good stallion running wild upon the heath. It could have been the missing horse of the murdered envoy.’

‘It could,’ she said. ‘However, we now have other matters to concern-Wait! Someone is approaching.’

A cart, being pulled by an ass, was creaking round a bend in the road ahead of them. Seated on a pile of sacking and cursing volubly at the animal straining in the shafts was a fat, balding man, whose dress proclaimed him as a merchant. The back of the cart was filled with farm produce and sacks of wheat and corn. He eased on the reins as he approached them.

‘Are you bound for Durlus?’ He greeted them with an apprehensive smile, having noticed Gormán’s weapons. Lone merchants travelling on isolated roads so late in the day sometimes had reason to be ill at ease. ‘You’ll not make it before sunset.’

‘We are aware of the position of the sun,’ replied Gormán dryly. ‘Have you seen any other travellers on this road?’

‘Only a few,’ said the man, realising that the warrior’s party were not dressed as he imagined bandits might be, and thereby relaxing a little. ‘A lady and her companion stopped me earlier and asked where they could find a boatman to transport them to Imleach. Of course, I said the river didn’t go there and it was best to get to An Ghabhailín, the fork of the river, and-’

The fat merchant was garrulous but Fidelma interrupted him. ‘A lady and her companion? From what direction were they travelling?’

‘Coming from the south, as you are.’

Fidelma glanced at Eadulf in surprise. ‘How long ago was this?’

‘Some time after midday,’ the man said with a shrug.

‘After midday? But that is a long time ago,’ Gormán pointed out suspiciously.

‘Indeed, that was before I pulled off the highway to Cill Locha. I had some trading to do there. I have only just rejoined the highway to the south but I am not going to make even Fedach Glas’s tavern before dark. I wanted to be in Cashel before sun-up.’

‘The man and woman,’ Fidelma said musingly. ‘They were looking for a boat to take them to An Ghabhailín … Where would they get that from?’

The man shrugged. ‘Hard to say, and they would have had to abandon their horses. No boats are going to take horses downriver. As a matter of fact, I suggested that they might try Mugrón’s tavern …’

‘That is where I was suggesting we might halt, lady,’ Gormán intervened. ‘It’s a ferry crossing on the Suir. We have to leave this highway and take a small track to the west.’

The merchant nodded. ‘You have the place correct. The lady did not seem happy and I think that she would have preferred to travel on to Durlus. But I’d be surprised if those two were able to pick up a boat today. Even if they abandoned their horses, they will find little traffic on the river. There is some festival or other, I think, which most boatmen are attending. Anyway, I left them to the joys of the day.’

Fidelma was thinking. ‘How long ago was it that you say you directed this woman and man to Mugrón’s tavern?’

‘Oh, it was quite a while ago.’ He suddenly chuckled. ‘As I said, I had to go to Cill Locha. I trade with the farmer there. Funny thing …’ He paused with a smile and shook his head.

‘What is funny?’ demanded Eadulf.

‘Well, I had only just rejoined this highway, a short while ago, when a religieux on horseback came riding up behind me. He asked if I had seen a man and woman on horseback, saying that they were friends and he wanted to catch up with them. He described them and so I told him what I have told you.’

‘A religieux on horseback?’ queried Eadulf, trying to suppress his excitement. He gave the man a brief description of Brother Biasta and Enda’s stolen horse, but the merchant shook his head.

‘That wasn’t the man or the horse, which was a roan mare. This man was young, had black hair and features that were best worn with a scowl. A curious fellow. He turned and made off back northwards at a gallop. When I watched from the brow of the hill, I saw him miss the turning along the track leading to Mugrón’s tavern.’

They watched in silence as the merchant cracked his reins and his cart trundled off down the road. Then Fidelma smiled at Eadulf’s disappointment. ‘The merchant did say that when he turned back on to the highway and was heading south, this religieux came up behind him. So the man came south along this highway and was not riding north as Biasta was.’

Eadulf heaved a sigh. ‘Well, we might be in luck in catching up with the mysterious couple who stayed with Brother Ailgesach.’

The sun had sunk completely below the western mountains, and twilight was spreading long dark shadows from the east by the time they heard and saw the rippling waters of the Suir. The great river rose on the slopes of the mountain of Beanán Éile to the north-east and pushed in a great semi-circular route through the kingdom, around Cashel itself, almost in the shape of the blade of a sickle before joining two other great rivers, the Bhearú and the Fheoir, in one giant estuary which emptied into the sea beyond. Merchants used the river for trading, bringing large vessels as far up as the ‘honey fields’ south of Cashel, while smaller vessels could navigate the river as far as Durlus Éile. It was in the Suir that Fidelma had learned to swim with her elder brother and where they both had learned to fish for brown trout and salmon.

On a bend of this river, in the gloom of the early evening, they could see a group of wooden buildings, one of which had the outline of a chapel. The others seemed to be a curious mixture of half-finished living cabins. They slowed their horses to walking pace as they approached.

‘Curious,’ observed Gormán, peering around.

‘What is?’ asked Fidelma. ‘Apart from the fact that this place looks unfinished.’

‘That is just it, lady. This is Mugrón’s tavern. When I was here last time, it was a substantial building with a flourishing business.’

It was Eadulf who had been sniffing the air and who finally pointed beyond one of the newer buildings. ‘There has been a fire here. It looks as though part of this place was burned down.’

They moved forward cautiously and examined the buildings. Now they came closer, the signs of fire were obvious. None of the buildings had escaped and not one possessed a complete roof. The structures that had once housed the tavern and quarters for the guests and horses were certainly unusable. They could now see the ash covering a lot of the site. Even the chapel was derelict.

‘Is this recent?’ Eadulf asked.

Gormán regarded the remains with a keen eye before answering. ‘I’d say it was fairly recent. No longer than a couple of weeks.’

‘Someone careless with their cooking fire?’ mused Eadulf. Such accidents were not unknown among these types of wooden buildings, especially in the dry summer months. But no one bothered to answer him.

‘Talking of fire …’ Gormán was pointing towards the remains of another derelict building further down by the riverbank. A plume of smoke was rising into the darkening sky behind it.

The warrior dropped a hand to his sword-hilt and nudged his horse gently forward. The others followed him without speaking. Turning the corner of the ruined structure they came on to the bank of the river, a broad area of flat grass looking almost as if it were cultivated. The object that held their attention was a small fire — a cooking fire, for above it was placed an old iron firedog on which a large brown trout was gently roasting. There was no one by it, but signs showed that someone was nearby. A platter lay on the ground ready. There was a kettle of water in which two more brown trout were immersed. And they could see a wooden board on which someone had cleaned the fish before putting it on the spit.

Gormán eased his sword from its sheath and glanced swiftly about him.

Then a voice cut through the silence. It came from a copse, beyond an area of undergrowth a short distance along the bank. It was a man’s baritone, raised in melancholy song.

‘Dark and grim is this life

No soft bed to lie on.

Just the cold, frosty earth

And the harsh, icy wind.

Even the birds now refuse me their song

In the shade of the cold, unfriendly sun …’

The voice suddenly halted as the singer appeared through the bushes, his hands full of green shoots and fungi which he had apparently been gathering.

He was a young man with a mass of fair, curly hair, blue eyes and regular features. The tumble of hair came to his shoulders, where it mingled with a full beard which, unlike his hair, was well trimmed and combed. While his clothing was somewhat worn, it was of good quality and one would have pronounced him a person of quality even though he wore no jewellery or emblems to mark his clan or rank.

He stood still, gazing up at them, noting their clothing and Gormán’s half-drawn weapon.

‘No need for a sword, warrior,’ the young man greeted him. Then he moved forward, ignoring them, to put down his forage by the cooking fire, before turning to face them again. ‘Welcome, strangers, to my poor fire. You are all welcome to share my frugal meal.’

‘Frugal?’ sniffed Eadulf, indicating the large brown trout on the spit and the two others in the kettle.

‘I admit I have been lucky with the trout that obligingly leaped from the river on to my hook,’ laughed the man. ‘But apart from that, I can offer little else, not even a jug of ale.’

‘How long have you been encamped here?’ snapped Gormán, his hand still on his sword.

‘Since late afternoon,’ replied the young man, lifting an eyebrow slightly at the tone in the warrior’s voice. ‘Have I offended anyone by doing so?’

‘No one that I am aware of,’ replied Fidelma. ‘We just wondered how came you here. I see no sign of a horse other than our own mounts.’

‘That is because I travel on foot, lady.’ He pointed to his feet. ‘I have to confess that it is not by preference but by necessity. I came here expecting to find a boat to take me downriver, not a deserted tavern and chapel. So I am stuck here for the night until I can find a better means of transport.’

‘Have you seen anyone else around here?’ enquired Fidelma.

‘You are the first people I have seen since I arrived.’

‘You have not noticed a couple, a man and woman on horseback?’ When the man shook his head, she pressed: ‘Nor a religieux, also on horseback?’

The young man pointed to Eadulf with a broad smile. ‘Do you mean other than this one?’ Then, seeing Fidelma’s scowl he immediately assumed a more serious expression. ‘No, I have not. Why are you looking for them?’

‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,’ Fidelma suggested. ‘What is your name?’

The young man turned his blue eyes on her. ‘You seem very curious about these people,’ he countered, ignoring her question. ‘Does something concern you?’

‘Your name!’ rapped out Gormán, his eyes narrowing and his sword hand tensed.

The young man held up his hand, palm outwards. ‘Hold hard, I am not hiding my name. It is … Torna.’

‘And where do you come from, Torna?’ Fidelma asked, hearing the slight hesitation before he gave his name.

The young man shrugged. ‘I am from an insignificant clan to the north and am merely following this river as I believe it will take me to the rich townships of the King of Muman.’

‘And why would you wish to go there?’ said Fidelma.

‘Because I am told that the King is appreciative of good verse and will be generous to a wandering bard.’

Fidelma smiled, perhaps a little grimly. ‘And are you a wandering bard, Torna? Do you have good verses to sell?’

‘Modesty prevents me from boasting but since you ask, lady, my verses are well regarded.’

‘Well, you bear a good name for a bard. Torna Eigeas’s verses are still sung today while he lived long ago.’

‘As I say, modesty forbids me from comparing myself to such a noble ancestor.’

‘That is wise,’ Eadulf observed dryly. ‘Because someone’s ancestor did something well, it does not mean that they are just as good.’ He had taken a dislike to the young man’s attitude.

The young man flushed. ‘Are you a philosopher, my Saxon friend?’

‘Neither philosopher nor Saxon,’ replied Eadulf curtly. ‘I am an Angle.’

‘Angle or Saxon, they are both the same,’ dismissed the young bard. Eadulf knew that in the eyes of the peoples of the west, this was true and he would never change their opinion. Now and then, when irritated, he would still try to correct them.

Fidelma was dismounting, with Gormán and Eadulf following her example.

‘Well, Torna the Bard, I am Fidelma of Cashel. This is my husband, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, and this is Gormán of my brother’s bodyguard.’

Torna’s eyes widened. ‘Then you are related to the King of Muman?’

‘I am his sister.’

‘Then forgive my manners, lady. I did not expect to meet with such exalted company on this riverbank.’

Fidelma indicated the roasting spit. ‘I think your fish might be in need of attention.’

The young man hurriedly removed the trout and placed the other fish on the spit in its place. Gormán took their mounts and tethered them nearby while Fidelma found a log for a seat and continued her conversation.

‘So you are a wandering bard intent on selling your songs in Cashel?’

‘That I am, lady.’

‘Why did you stop here?’

‘I was told in Durlus Éile that there was a chapel and a tavern at this spot where I could get a boat to take me downriver. When I reached here I found the place deserted, indeed, most of it burned down. Nor were there signs of passing boats on the river. I could have carried on by foot, but I was not sure how far I would have to go, to find another place to sell my poems for a night’s repose. Nor did I think it wise to travel down unknown roads in darkness. So I decided that I would wait until daylight before journeying on.’

Gormán had returned and was looking at the young man with a suspicious gaze. He glanced at Fidelma and said: ‘You may want to check your horse, lady, to ensure that it is tethered correctly.’

When Fidelma joined him at the spot where the horses were tethered, he whispered: ‘I have done a thorough check, lady. There is no sign of any other horses, nor of a woman or a religieux. Perhaps they all moved north when they saw this place was ruined and deserted. Even so, I do not trust this one.’ He indicated the poet with a slight movement of his eyes.

‘Well, we will have to spend the night here anyway,’ she replied. ‘Continue to be watchful.’

When they returned to the fire, Gormán asked the young poet: ‘If you were travelling south along the river, then you would surely have passed a ferryman’s cabin a short distance up from here. Why didn’t you stop there? He might have known of a boat going south.’

‘Had I been coming along the river then I might have done so,’ returned the young man easily. ‘However, I tried a short cut across land at the place where the river bends. I must have missed the ferryman’s place.’

Gormán frowned. ‘Then how did you know it was a short cut?’ he demanded.

The young man chuckled. ‘You are a very suspicious person, my friend. I did not know it was a short cut until a farmer advised me to take it.’

‘How far have you come?’ asked Fidelma.

‘North of Sliabh Bladhma,’ he replied, indicating the direction where a group of mountains formed the northern border of her brother’s kingdom. ‘I decided to see what fortune held for me in the Kingdom of the Eóghanacht.’

The young man then returned to his cooking. He bent over his fish again and began to put the cooked fish on to wooden platters that he had produced.

‘I found the jug and platters here and cleaned them up as best as I could,’ he explained as he set the dishes. ‘The water is fresh and clean, for there is a little spring on the rise behind those trees. Probably that was the reason why this tavern was built here. It is such a beautiful spot. A pity it has been destroyed.’

With the fish and the mixture of herbs and fungi, he put pieces of dry bread, taken from his bag that lay nearby, on the platters. These platters he distributed, and then he also passed round an earthenware jug full of water, apologising for the fact that it did not contain ale.

‘We are grateful for your hospitality, Torna,’ Fidelma acknowledged on behalf of her companions, as they spread their cloaks around the fire. There was a contented silence as they fell to eating, hardly noticing the change from twilight to darkness.

‘Why do you seek these people?’ Torna suddenly asked, re-opening the conversation. ‘I mean this man and woman?’

‘To ask them some questions,’ replied Fidelma shortly.

Torna was interested. ‘To question them?’ he asked, inflecting the word. ‘That sounds ominous. About what?’

‘That is not your business,’ Gormán said firmly, and added with a note of pride: ‘Fidelma of Cashel is a dálaigh, an advocate of the law.’

Torna’s eyes widened. ‘Fidelma of Cashel — of course! I should have known the name. Fidelma, sister to King Colgú. I have heard you spoken of as a great lawyer, lady. When Sechnussach, the High King, was murdered in his bed, were you not asked to solve the riddle of his death?’

‘I was,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘And Eadulf and Gormán were with me.’ The last thing she wanted to talk about was her own experiences and so she decided to deflect the conversation, since it seemed clear that the young man had no information of consequence to give them. ‘But what stories have you collected on your journeys? What songs? Sing us a good song and I will commend you to my brother, so that you may earn your keep.’

‘That would be truly welcome, lady. But what songs would you like? Songs of adventure, of love, of visions, of inescapable fate or of battles? I have a whole repertoire that I can sing.’

‘Let us have something new. Let’s hear one of your own songs.’ She turned to Gormán. ‘Stoke up the fire and we will hear our young poet.’

The warrior gathered a number of branches that lay near and built up the fire as they stretched themselves around its warmth. Torna, it seemed, had chosen the spot well for his encampment, for the wind was blowing from the north-north-east, and they could see little wisps of froth on the southward-flowing river where the wind was causing tiny wavelets. But they were sheltered by the woods to the north and the buildings behind them.

As soon as they were settled, Torna cleared his throat and began his song in soft, sad cadences.

‘What greater fortune on the sea of life,

To find the girl you crave to take for wife?

This love has lit a tempestuous fire No clan rebuke can quench your hot desire.

A girl to share one’s dreams and all one’s hopes

Against a despot’s harsh, constraining ropes,

That forced you both to leave your homes behind

And cast your fortunes on the wild west wind.

The fates are blind, it seems, alas, alack

For what the sea brings in,

The ebbing tide takes back.’

There seemed a slight catch in the young man’s voice as he ended and Fidelma gazed at him thoughtfully. ‘A song of experience?’ she asked.

‘A song of bitter experience,’ he confirmed with a shrug. ‘You want something merry, not melancholy. I am sorry, lady. I was not thinking.’

‘I believe you were thinking, Torna,’ Fidelma corrected. ‘Or rather, I think that you were remembering.’

‘I did not mean to sing that song. When asked to perform there should be no place for personal recollection. It just came unbidden to my tongue.’

‘On the contrary, my friend. Where else can you express feeling than from the well of personal experience? Did she die, this girl that you loved?’

Torna hesitated for a moment. ‘She did, lady.’

Fidelma glanced to where Eadulf already lay asleep huddled on his cloak and beyond him Gormán seemed to be dozing.

‘Can you tell me about it?’ she invited.

Torna seemed to think about it for a moment or two before responding. ‘It was not so long ago. Two full moons have passed and still my grief is strong. My clan …’ He paused. ‘I will keep that to myself. My life was not privileged. I met a girl. I fell in love. It is as simple as that.’

‘But her family did not agree with you marrying her?’ interposed Fidelma. ‘You indicated as much in your song.’

‘That is right enough, lady. You see, I was of the class of the daer-fuidir.’

Fidelma raised an eyebrow in surprise. The daer-fuidir was the lowest of the social classes in all the Five Kingdoms. They were usually criminals, unable to pay fine or compensation, or sometimes they were even captives taken in battle from other lands.

Fidelma knew that a daer-fuidir, if he showed remorse and industry, had the ability to progress to the level of saer-fuidir. That meant he could be allocated land from the common wealth of the clan and be allowed to work it in order to pay off his debt to society. Some daer-fuidir could accumulate sufficient wealth and status to move forward to become a clansman, a céile, with full rights.

‘How did this come about?’

‘How did I become a daer-fuidir? I was taken captive during warfare when my clan was accused of cattle-stealing. It was a lie; an unjust accusation. The powerful chief of our territory hated my family because once we had been as powerful as his family. So he saw this as an excuse to crush us. We fought to defend our honour and I was taken captive. We were slaves in his fortress.’

‘So there was no chance of you progressing from this class?’

Torna shook his head. ‘None at all, lady. I was set to work labouring, building the fortifications for this evil despot. That was where I met … met the girl. I approached a fellow captive who had once been a Brehon. I thought I could trust him because of his oath to pursue truth and justice. I asked his advice and he told the girl’s father in return from more privileges.’ He made a helpless gesture.

‘So what did you do?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘Well, I had been working on constructing the vaults of the fortress, and I knew a way out through an underground tunnel. So we eloped in the dead of night. For a while, we were chased, yet managed to elude our pursuers.’

‘But they caught up with you?’

‘They were overtaking us when we found our route was blocked by a big river in flood. There was a storm that night.’ He swallowed, went on in a lower voice. ‘What happened was my fault. I insisted that we should attempt to cross it. I was sure that our pursuers would not find us, once we had made it to the other side. She trusted me, my soul-friend. She put her life in my hands and I failed her.’

‘What happened?’

‘I am a good swimmer. I told her to hang on to me. We were not far from the other bank when she lost her grip. I heard her cry out — then she was swept away in the swirling waters.’ His voice cracked. A moment passed before he recovered himself. ‘I made a desperate effort to find her but was nearly pulled under myself. I made it to the bank and the people there hauled me out more dead than alive. They nursed me back to health. Her body was washed up sometime later.’

‘And since then?’

His expression was bitter. ‘Since then I have been a wandering bard, singing my songs, telling my stories, and hoping that-’ He suddenly stopped.

‘Hoping?’ Fidelma said gently, after a moment or two of silence. ‘Hoping for what?’

The young man shrugged. ‘That, I do not know. My life would be that much simpler if I did.’

‘Did you ever go back to your parents, your family and clan?’

‘I cannot!’ The words were harshly said. ‘They are dead to me while the chieftain who held me captive still lives. The sorry remnants of my clan have to pay tribute to him. I could not find sanctuary with them because he would send his warriors to punish them further. That is why I wander; still hoping people will buy my mournful melodies.’

‘I understand.’ She realised how useless all the platitudes were about time healing. She could have used his own imagery that, however high and strong the tide, it always ebbed away. But it would not have been appropriate to add anything to what had been said.

The young man leaned across to the fire and put more wood on it. An owl hooted softly in the trees behind them. Fidelma saw that both Eadulf and Gormán were still sound asleep.

‘It grows late,’ she said. ‘Sleep well, Torna.’

The young man answered with a soft grunt and sat staring into the flickering flames of the fire. She turned and wrapped herself in her cloak, then lay down near Eadulf, and was soon asleep.

Eadulf came awake, his eyes flickering open. He wondered what had disturbed him, then realised it was the horses, which were moving restlessly. He raised himself on one elbow and suddenly felt something heavy crash against his head, followed by the sensation of floating into a black bottomless pit.

It seemed only a moment before he was aware of a bright blinding light. He blinked a little and raised a hand to feel the back of his throbbing head. Then he remembered the restless horses and the blow to the back of his skull. He struggled to get to his feet, but could only make it on to his knees. There was a groaning: it was not coming from himself. It took Eadulf a few painful moments to locate it. Blinking and trying to focus, he saw Gormán sitting, trying to massage his head with both hands. Blood streaked down his face. The shock at seeing this had the effect of diminishing the ache in his own temples. Some sudden inner strength came to Eadulf and he peered around him.

The horses were still tethered where they had been when he went to sleep, but they remained restless, particularly Aonbharr, Fidelma’s horse. He was jerking at the reins that secured him, swinging his head from side to side; his eyes rolling and nostrils flaring. Eadulf turned back, rubbing his forehead to ease away the pain. The fire, with the firedogs over it, was just grey ash and it had obviously died some time before. Then he realised there was no sign of the young man, Torna. Eadulf’s mind was working too slowly. Shaking his head to clear it, he turned to his side: ‘Fidelma …?’

Then an icy coldness swept through him.

Her discarded cloak and marsupium were lying on the ground where she had been sleeping. There was no sign of Fidelma.