The Seventh Trumpet

CHAPTER EIGHT

Eadulf came unsteadily to his feet calling, ‘Fidelma!’ and peering myopically about. Moaning, Gormán began to realise that something was amiss and also rose to his feet, swaying, with one hand nursing his cut head.

‘What happened?’ he muttered thickly.

‘Fidelma is missing,’ replied Eadulf, his voice hoarse, his mind still in a haze. Then he added: ‘And that poet has disappeared as well.’

‘My head is aching,’ Gormán said in a rasping tone.

‘There is blood on it,’ Eadulf confirmed.

The warrior focused on his hand, seeing the blood on it. He blinked several times and then looked at Eadulf. ‘You have a lump on the side of your head,’ he finally commented, before stomping over to the river, kneeling by it and splashing his head and face. Eadulf stood looking about him. The riverbank was deserted.

‘We must find Fidelma!’ he exclaimed, his voice full of anxiety.

‘Friend Eadulf,’ replied Gormán, speaking slowly, ‘we cannot do anything until we have recovered our faculties and are able to think straight. I suggest you bathe your head and take a drink.’

Reluctantly, Eadulf accepted the logic of this advice. It was clear that something had struck Gormán’s head, breaking the skin and causing it to bleed. He examined the bump on his own head. It was swollen and tender but the skin was not broken. He crouched by the riverbank and began to bathe it. The cold water was soothing. He was more concerned with Gormán’s wound, which still seeped blood.

‘I have a salve in my bag,’ he said. ‘I should dress your wound, Gormán.’

The warrior returned to the fire and stirred the grey ashes. Some of them still glowed and, placing dried twigs on them, he soon had the fire alight again. By this time, Eadulf had found the little jar he was hunting for and instructed the warrior to sit down while he applied the ointment.

‘What is it?’ demanded the warrior.

Eadulf said impatiently, ‘It will not hurt you. It is a lotion made from an infusion of the petals of the marsh-marigold; it will help prevent the wound from becoming infected. It’s the best I can do.’

He applied the salve carefully to the other’s head. The blood had made the wound look worse than it actually was and Eadulf reckoned that it would soon heal naturally, provided no infection set in.

Gormán himself had been viewing Eadulf’s wound with a critical eye. ‘You certainly received a hefty blow, my friend.’

‘We both did,’ agreed Eadulf.

‘What happened?’

Eadulf replaced the little jar of ointment in his bag and sat, staring into the fire, for a moment.

‘I have been trying to remember. I know I woke up during the night. The horses were fidgety and they disturbed me. I recall wondering if anything was wrong, whether some animal had disturbed them. Then everything went black. I think I was struck from behind.’

The young warrior’s lips formed a grim line. ‘We were both hit on the head from behind. The lady, Fidelma, has been taken. But who did this? The poet — what was his name? Torna? — he is gone also.’

‘He must have had accomplices to do this.’

‘There was no one else nearby when we fell asleep.’

‘But one person alone could not have overcome Fidelma,’ said Eadulf. ‘And even if they had, she would have alerted us with her outcry.’

‘If only my head would stop throbbing, I would start a search. There must be signs of her struggle.’

Eadulf sighed. His own head was just as painful. Then his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of some plants at the edge of the nearby woods.

‘Clean that pot in the river,’ he instructed, pointing to one of the small cooking pots that the poet had been using the previous night. ‘Then put in some water — not too much, mind — and heat it over the fire.’

Gormán carried out the instruction without comment. Eadulf had risen and taken out his small knife before walking towards the edge of the wood and the plants that had attracted his interest: plants with broad leaves and purple flowers on upright, hairy stems. Bending down, he cut two of the plants and returned to the fire. Gormán watched him curiously as Eadulf trimmed the leaves and stem from the rest of the plant, and put them into the bubbling water.

‘What is that?’ he asked.

‘Something that will help chase away the pain,’ replied Eadulf. ‘It is a favourite healing plant among my people: we call it betony.’

Gormán glanced at the discarded flowers and then said approvingly, ‘It is lus beatha — the Plant of Life.’

Eadulf was a little impatient as he was preparing the infusion. He was anxious to start looking for the signs that would lead them to Fidelma, fearful of what harm might have befallen her. Gormán noticed his agitation.

‘Friend Eadulf,’ he said, ‘the Lady Fidelma is fond of a Latin saying: festina lente — hurry slowly. The more we hasten, the more we may miss something important.’

Eadulf was about to utter an irritated retort but realised that was precisely what Fidelma would say in the circumstances.

‘Anyway,’ Gormán continued, ‘wherever they went, they cannot have gone far.’

Eadulf stared at him in surprise. ‘How so?’

For answer, Gormán pointed towards the still-tethered mounts. Eadulf cursed himself for an unobservant fool.

‘Others might have come along on horseback,’ he suggested defensively.

‘Indeed, but had they done so, we would have been roused by their din. They must have come by stealth on foot to have knocked us out as we slept or as we were just awakening.’

‘They might have tethered their horses a distance away,’ said Eadulf.

‘That is true, and if that is so, they will have left their tracks from here to wherever they left the horses. The tracks will not disappear before we are ready to follow. But there is another matter to consider, which is: why leave the Lady Fidelma’s horse behind, if their journey necessitated travel by horse? We were unconscious and could not have prevented them from taking our horses if they needed them.’

The infusion was ready and Eadulf returned to his immediate task, pouring it into a beaker to cool so that they could swallow it.

‘So what do you think has happened?’ asked Gormán as they sipped at the mixture.

‘It is obvious that Fidelma has been abducted and that we were both knocked unconscious to prevent our interfering.’

‘And this poet, Torna?’

‘I think we may conclude that he was involved, otherwise he, too, would have been hit on the head and left.’

‘That’s logical,’ admitted Gormán, rising to his feet and rubbing his forehead once again. ‘But I think we should make sure. They might have killed him and put his body in one of the ruins behind us.’

‘But if they did so — why just leave us unconscious?’

‘Stay there, friend Eadulf. I am better trained, so I will look through the ruins first.’

It was true. Albeit impatient, Eadulf accepted that Gormán’s warrior training made him the better qualified to look for tracks and signs around the area. Curbing his anxiety, he sat waiting, hoping the infusion would work quickly so that he could concentrate on the problem. It seemed an age before Gormán returned, shaking his head as he approached in answer to Eadulf’s unasked question.

‘No sign of any tracks or anything in any of these ruins,’ he stated.

Gormán began circling round the encampment where they had slept. Then he seemed to spot something and moved cautiously along the riverbank. It was not long before he came to a halt on the muddy shoreline of the river and stood staring down.

‘Have you found something?’ called Eadulf.

In answer, Gormán beckoned him forward and, without a word, pointed down to the mud. There was a deep furrow in the bank and footprints nearby.

‘So the abductors came from the river,’ Eadulf said.

‘The deep furrow is where the prow of their vessel ran into the bank,’ Gormán replied. ‘It was a heavy riverboat, by the depth of that indentation. It’s hard to guess how many the boat contained. A vessel with a prow like that might take six or seven men and even carry a sail.’

Eadulf stood gazing out across the river. On the far bank, the land consisted mainly of fields of stubble where crops had been harvested. Beyond that, not far away, was a small hill; its bald rounded top was hardly higher than surrounding trees. Gormán followed his gaze.

‘There is not much across there but grainfields and grasslands for the cattle,’ he said dismissively. ‘They belong to a few isolated farmsteads.’

‘And what of the hill?’

‘It is called Dún Bán, not because it is a fortress or white in colour. It is just a small hill of grey rocks which might produce a light shade when the sun shines on it. But no one lives near there.’

Eadulf returned his thoughtful gaze to the river, saying, ‘So which way did these abductors go?’

‘I suggest they went with the flow of the river. To the south,’ Gormán said.

‘Southwards towards Cashel …’ Eadulf shook his head. ‘I disagree.’

‘Why do you think they went north? That’s against the flow of the river.’ Gormán was sceptical.

‘Because that is where they came from.’ Eadulf’s voice sounded so definite that Gormán was surprised.

‘Tell me your reasoning, friend Eadulf.’

‘If they came from the south, they would have had to fight their way upriver, against the current. Their coming would doubtless have woken us. They would have been struggling with their oars against the prevailing current and the wind. Remember how the wind was blowing from the north last night? So we would have heard the movement of their oars.’

‘They might have muffled them,’ said the warrior.

As answer, Eadulf pointed to the furrow in the mud bank. ‘Perhaps, but this proves my argument. You agree that this indentation was made by the prow of their boat, ramming hard into the bank?’

‘I do.’

‘Then look at the angle of it. The prow struck into the bank from the north, and to make that deep indentation it needed both propulsion and weight. That is what the current and wind gave it. It would not have been so deep, had the rowers been forcing the boat against the tide and wind; nor would it have been able to strike the bank at that precise angle.’

Gormán regarded Eadulf with admiration. ‘No wonder you are considered a worthy partner for the Lady Fidelma, friend Eadulf. I thought that I could read all the signs, but this did not occur to me.’

‘So they allowed the wind and current to carry them here in silence. In silence they were able to render us unconscious and carry away Fidelma. But why? And where? If they were using the river, where would they head for, remembering they are now rowing against the current?’

Gormán glanced up at the sky, especially noting the rustling tree-tops.

‘The north-east wind has dropped. This is a mild breeze from the west, not enough that they could use a sail to good effect, but with a good bank of oars they could progress well. But as you say, where? Not far distant from here, the river swings eastwards and finally it turns again and follows the valley to the north and north-east where it rises in the mountains behind.’

‘Are there any settlements along the river?’ Eadulf asked.

‘The next big fortress and township by the river is the principal seat of the Éile, Durlus Éile.’

‘That was the very town we were making for in our pursuit of Biasta,’ Eadulf said. ‘Do you think these abductors could have come from Durlus?’

Gormán gave an eloquent shrug. ‘I would not put it beyond the realms of possibility. The territory of the Durlus Éile has always been seen as an easy door into Muman. Who controls Durlus Éile controls the ways into the Kingdom of Muman.’

‘But isn’t Durlus Éile part of Muman?’

‘It’s true that they hold allegiance to the King of Cashel. That might not be the same thing.’

‘Are you saying that we might find danger in Durlus Éile?’

‘I am merely saying that we should be on our guard if we do go into that township.’

For a few moments Eadulf was silent, regarding the flowing river as if seeking inspiration from the grey, pushing waters. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation and went to a bush near the indentation that the boat had made.

‘What is it?’ asked Gormán.

‘Blood,’ returned Eadulf. ‘There is blood splattered here on the leaves.’ He rose quickly and glanced around. ‘Whose blood? Victim or abductor?’

Eadulf remained silent for a moment and then he hastened back to the campfire.

‘Do we have a plan, friend Eadulf?’ asked Gormán, following him.

‘There is only one plan — to follow them. I wish we had a better one,’ replied Eadulf. ‘We must follow the river north to this Durlus Éile and keep our eyes open for any sign of a likely landing-place along the bank which the abductors might have used. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Gormán replied solemnly. ‘But what if, by the time we reach Durlus Éile, we have discovered no trace or found no lead — what then?’

‘Let us hope that we do,’ Eadulf said with fervour. ‘This is a big country and there are plenty of places where Fidelma might be taken. Remember, as a dálaigh, she has many enemies — and who is to say this may not be a mission of revenge that has taken her from us.’ He thought for a moment before adding: ‘The first person we meet heading south to Cashel, if we think that they are to be trusted, must take a message to her brother Colgú to tell him what has happened.’

Gormán nodded slowly, before suddenly realising, with some surprise, that the throbbing of his head no longer bothered him. The infusion that Eadulf had mixed seemed to have worked, even though the wound was still sore. He began to pick up their belongings, tie them together and take them to the horses, ensuring that their mounts had a drink at the river first.

Eadulf went to where Fidelma had been sleeping and collected her cloak and marsupium. Her personal cíorbholg, or comb bag, was also there. She usually had it belted around her waist or in her marsupium. It was a sign of how swift the abduction had been. She would scarcely move without it. He also realised that not all of Gormán’s belongings had been collected.

‘I think you have forgotten something, Gormán,’ he called, pointing to where a blanket still lay near the fire. By it was a leather bag which had a long strap to sling it across one’s shoulder.

Gormán stared for a moment. ‘I thought they might belong to you or the Lady Fidelma,’ he muttered, ‘but …’

‘They must belong to the poet, Torna,’ Eadulf said, bending down and picking up the satchel. There were a few items of clothing in it and some pieces of vellum and two quills, a knife in a sheath but nothing else. The vellum had some writing on it, but it was in the old form of writing, Ogham, which was named after the ancient God of Literacy and Learning, Ogma. Eadulf groaned. ‘Ego senito bardus!’

‘What?’ Gormán was puzzled.

‘I am stupid!’ translated Eadulf. ‘This changes my conclusion about Torna. Had he been part of this abduction plan, he would not have left his bag and sleeping blanket discarded in this manner. He has been carried off as well.’

Gormán shrugged. ‘It still does not bring us any nearer to what happened, or why, friend Eadulf. Nor does it give us any further information as to where Fidelma’s abductors have taken her. In fact, it adds further questions.’

‘Which are?’ grunted Eadulf, still displeased with himself for not noticing Torna’s belongings before. ‘Aren’t there enough to answer already?’

‘Why would Fidelma’s abductors be content to leave us behind but take the poet — unless he was a victim of the abduction?’

Eadulf gazed thoughtfully at him. ‘We have been assuming that the object of the abduction was Fidelma.’

‘Of course, she is sister to the King and a prominent Brehon who has made many enemies. It is a logical assumption that she would be the object of the abductors,’ replied the warrior. ‘But what if she was not?’

‘Hmm, so if it was this young man, Torna, who was the intended victim, what if they, whoever they are, came for him — and when we awoke they were content to knock us unconscious. But because Fidelma was a woman and a witness, they decided to take her as well.’

‘But who would want to abduct a poet?’ sighed Gormán.

It was not long before they were riding northwards along the riverbank, with Gormán leading Fidelma’s horse, Aonbharr, behind him. Some sections of the way were muddy; mostly the land was flat and open, while drier parts led through woodland. They had been travelling some way before Eadulf broke the silence.

‘What’s that hill?’ he asked, indicating a small rise immediately to the east of them. Apart from the distant hills ahead and those beyond the great River Suir to the west of them, this was the only high ground along their path. Eadulf knew that high ground could often be dangerous, supplying a hiding-place, a sentinel post, a point for ambush. The mysterious attack and abduction had left him jumpy, and he constantly examined the ground around them as they rode.

‘That is Feart Éanna — the grave of Éanna,’ said Gormán. ‘There is nothing there but a cairn to mark the grave. I think a small farmstead lies just beyond it by a small river which flows into the Suir, but I know little else about it.’

Eadulf continued to peer at the round hillock. ‘And who was this Éanna?’

‘Éanna Airgethech was a King of Muman, so long ago that we cannot count the years. He was called Éanna of the Silver Shield and he reigned for three times nine years, but was slain in battle. That was in the days long before Eóghan Mór, the founder of the race of the Eóghanacht.’

At any other time Eadulf would have been interested, but now he was only concerned as to whether the hill hid any dangers for them.

‘Is it worth checking this farmstead?’ he asked.

‘Not if we are following a boat. We should keep to the river.’

They pressed on again in silence. They could see no boats on the water. The countryside too seemed deserted. There were no farmworkers in the bare fields because all were now stripped of crops. The harvest was over. Nor did there seem any sign of herdsmen or boys attending to the cattle or sheep that they occasionally caught sight of in the distance. It was a clear day with only a few wispy clouds very high in the bright blue canopy over them. The sun was reflected in a milliard of winking bright sparks over the surface of the river.

‘We are coming up to the point where the river bends towards the east soon,’ Gormán broke the silence. ‘There is a ferry there, and if, as you say, the abductors have passed along that route, then we might get information from the ferryman.’

‘Perhaps we should be careful?’ suggested Eadulf. ‘If the abductors came by boat, then the ferryman might be involved.’

Gormán shook his head. ‘It is only a small ferry-crossing and it has been there since I have known it. As I recall, the ferry is run by a man and his wife, and they have a son who helps them.’

Eadulf knew that ferryboats were common on the rivers throughout the Five Kingdoms. Each ferryboat and owner were subject to strict laws and regulations on ownership and management. Sometimes the ferries were owned by individuals; at other times they were owned in common by the people who lived in the settlements along the banks of the river. Churches and religious communities also had the right to own their own ferry, but on condition that people wishing to cross the river were allowed free right of passage.

The ferryman’s house was soon revealed as a log cabin almost hidden among the trees that grew close to the riverbank. They could see, as they approached, that the ether, or ferryboat, was only a small one that could be pulled by two oarsmen and seat four passengers. It was tied to a small wooden jetty which was a short distance away from the cabin. There were no other dwellings in the vicinity. Obviously the sound of their approach had been heard inside the cabin, for the door opened and a short, muscular man with greying hair came out.

‘I cannot take horses to the other side,’ he told them, gazing at their mounts.

‘We do not come seeking the use of your ferry,’ replied Gormán. ‘A beaker of lind and the answer to a few questions would serve our wants.’

The ferryman pursed his lips in disapproval.

‘The ferry is the means of support for my wife and my son, who helps row people across; otherwise you would be welcome to my hospitality.’

‘Then you shall be rewarded for your hospitality and your time,’ Gormán declared, swinging off his horse and leading it to a wooden hitching-post by the hut. ‘Do you not recognise me, Echna?’

The ferryman stared at him, suddenly noticing the golden torque. ‘Why, it is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh.’ The man seemed well-informed and quick-witted, for he turned to Eadulf and said, ‘Then you must be the Saxon named Eadulf, husband to the Lady Fidelma, the sister of our King?’

Eadulf felt the time was not right to be pedantic and point out that he was an Angle, not a Saxon. He simply acknowledged the fact.

The ferryman was already calling into the cabin for his wife to bring a jug of lind and beakers. He indicated a wooden bench overlooking the jetty by the river.

‘Be seated, Gormán. Brother Eadulf, also. My name is Echna and I run the ferry here,’ he added for Eadulf’s sake.

‘Is this a busy crossing?’ asked Eadulf as he seated himself.

At once Echna shook his head. ‘Were it not for my fields and livestock, we would be starving. We are some way from any settlement. The main track to Durlus Éile passes further to the east of here. Of course, there used to be a chapel, tavern and ferry just to the south of us, but they were destroyed less than a week ago.’

‘What happened?’ asked Gormán. There was no doubt the ferryman meant the place where they had camped for the night and confirmed their estimate of the time it had been burned.

‘A strange raid from the west of the river,’ continued Echna. ‘We were told that a dozen bandits crossed the river, attacked the chapel and set fire to it. The tavern which stood near it, also caught alight.’

Eadulf asked: ‘Was anyone killed?’

‘The chapel was only attended by a visiting priest and he was not there at the time. Unfortunately, the tavern-keeper, who also ran the ferry, was killed and his family have fled to the Abbey of Ros Cré in the land of the Éile. Now the place is derelict; just a pile of ashes.’

‘What was the purpose of the raid?’

‘Do bandits and thieves need a purpose?’ Echna asked, then added cynically, ‘The destruction of that ferry has not helped us by way of business, because merchants now make for safer crossings further north. There are bridges there as well as ferries.’

A homely-looking woman came from the cabin with a pitcher of lind and beakers to drink the ale from. With a quick smile she placed the tray within reach of her husband and disappeared back to the cabin.

‘It’s not often that travellers come to this nook of the river unless they wish to use my ferry. Are you on your way to Cashel?’

‘To Durlus,’ replied Eadulf.

‘I see — in which case you have taken a long route,’ the ferryman pointed out. ‘But surely you know that, Gormán.’

The warrior smiled thinly. ‘We were interested in following the course of the river. Is there much traffic along it these days?’

Echna gave a dry laugh. ‘It is still a main trade route into Durlus Éile. North beyond Durlus it is scarcely navigable for traders.’

‘There do not seem to be many boats on the water today,’ Eadulf observed. They had seen no river traffic since leaving the spot where they had camped.

‘Today?’ The man shook his head. ‘Today there is a feast in Durlus to celebrate the end of a good harvest, and many of the farmers and merchants will be attending. That is why you will not see much traffic along the river.’

‘I suppose that you know the river well?’

‘I know the Suir like the back of my hand, Brother Eadulf. I know the sound of her waters, the way the current gushes over the stones on her bed; I can tell when she is running in flood or when the water is drying upstream. Indeed, I know her very well.’

‘You keep account of the vessels moving up and down?’

The question surprised the ferryman. ‘I take note of them, as most river men are my friends,’ he explained. ‘Often some of the traders will call in at our jetty to rest or take refreshment as they journey downriver.’

‘I was wondering if you had heard any vessels passing at night?’

There was a momentary flicker of suspicion in the man’s eyes. ‘Surely you know that trade vessels do not pass along the river at night,’ he said. ‘They keep to safe anchorage.’

‘In normal circumstances,’ Eadulf agreed with a grim smile. ‘But do you know of such boats passing at night?’

The ferryman glanced from Eadulf to Gormán, but before he could answer, a sharp voice cut in: ‘There was no vessel passing last night!’

They turned at the sound of a new voice. It was the ferryman’s wife who was no longer smiling, but who now stood before them in an aggressive manner. Her hands were placed on her hips and her jaw was thrust out. ‘No vessel passed here last night!’ she repeated angrily. ‘Is that understood, my lords?’