From the abbey gates a track drove through the forest around the bay but at a distance so that the sea’s great inlet was mainly obscured from the gaze of any traveller taking this route. Only now and again, through the bare trees, could a glimpse of flashing blue, caused by the sun’s reflection, bediscerned. Not even the sounds of the sea could be heard, so good a barrier were the tall oak trees, interspersed with protesting clumps of hazel trying to survive among their mighty and ancient brothers. There were whole clumps of strawberry trees with their toothed evergreen leaves, their short trunks and twisting branches rising twenty feet and more in height.
Through the trees, now and then, Fidelma could pick up the rustle of undergrowth as a larger denizen of the forest made its cautious passage in search of food. The startled snap of twigs and branches as a deer leapt away at the sound of her approach, the swish of dried, rotting leaves as an inquisitive red squirrel tried to remember where it had left a food hoard. The sounds were numerous but identifiable to anyone attuned to the natural world.
As she walked along, Fidelmá came to an adjoining road that led in the direction of the distant mountains and she saw that there were signs that horses had recently passed this way. While the ground was hard, there were traces of horses’ droppings. She remembered having seen, that morning, the procession of horses, riders and running attendants, moving down from the mountain and realised that this was the point where they must have joined the road.
For some reason she found that she had abruptly started to think about Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham again and wondered why he had sprung into her thoughts. She wondered if Ross would find any clue to the origins of the abandoned ship. It was much to ask of him. There was a whole ocean and hundreds of miles of coastline in which to hide any clue to what had happened on that vessel.
Perhaps Eadulf had not been on board at all?
No, she shook her head, deciding against the theory. He would never have given that Missal to anyone — voluntarily, that was.
But what if it had been taken from him in death? Fidelma shivered slightly and set her mouth in a thin, determinedline. Then whoever had perpetrated such a deed would be brought to justice. She would make it so.
She suddenly halted.
Ahead of her a chorus of protesting bird cries made a din that drowned out most of the forest sounds. They made an odd ‘caaarg-caaarg’ scolding. She saw a couple of birds flitting upwards to the high bare branches of an oak, recognising the white rump and pinkish-buff plumage of jays. In a nearby clump of alders, where they had been pecking at the brown, woody cones, several little birds with conical bills and streaked plumage joined in chirping in agitation.
Something was alarming them.
Fidelma took a pace forward hesitantly.
It saved her life.
She felt the breath of the arrow pass inches by her head and heard the thump as it embedded itself into the tree behind her.
She dropped to her knees automatically, her eyes searching for better cover.
While she crouched undecided as to what to do, there was a sharp cry and two large warriors, with full beards, and polished armour, came bursting through the undergrowth and seized her arms in vice-like grips before she had time to regain her wits. One of them held a sword, which he raised as if to strike. Fidelma flinched, waiting for the blow.
‘Stop!’ cried a voice. ‘Something is amiss!’
The warrior hesitantly lowered the weapon.
In the gloom of the woodland track, a figure mounted on horseback loomed up before them. A short bow was held loosely in one hand and the reins of his steed in the other. It seemed clear that he had been the perpetrator of her near clash with death.
Fidelma did not have time to respond to express her astonishment or protest because they then began to drag hertowards the mounted figure. They halted before him. He bent forward in his saddle and examined her features carefully.
‘We are misled,’ he exclaimed with disgust in his voice.
Fidelma threw back her head to return his examination. The stranger was impressive. He had long red-gold hair on which a circlet of burnished copper was set with several precious stones glinting. His face was long and aquiline, with a broad forehead. The nose was more a beak, the bridge thin, the shape almost hooked. The hair grew scantily from his temples and gathered in thickness at the back of his head, flashing in red, coppery glints as it fell to his shoulders. The mouth was thin, red, rather cruel, so Fidelma felt. The eyes were wide and almost violet in hue and seemed to have little trace of a pupil, although Fidelma conceded that this must clearly be a trick of the light.
He was no more than thirty. A muscular warrior. His dress, even had he not been wearing the copper circlet of office on his head, spoke of rank. He was clad in silks and linen trimmed with fur. A sword hung from his belt whose handle she saw was also worked with semi-precious metals and stones. A quiver of arrows hung from his saddle bow and the bow, still in his hand, was of fine craftsmanship.
He continued to examine her with a frown.
‘Who is this?’ he demanded coldly to the men holding her.
One of the warriors chuckled dryly.
‘Your quarry, my lord.’
‘Must be another wench from that religious house nearby,’ chimed in the other. Then, with some strange emphasis which Fidelma could not understand, he added: ‘She must have disturbed the deer that we were after, my lord.’
Fidelma finally found breath.
‘There was no deer within a hundred yards of me!’ she cried in suppressed rage. ‘Tell your men to unhand me or, by the living God, you shall hear more about it.’
The mounted man raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Both men holding her arms merely increased the bruising pressure. One of them starting laughing lewdly.
‘She has spirit, this one, my lord.’ Then he turned, putting his evil-smelling face next to her: ‘Silence, wench! Do you know to whom you speak?’
‘No,’ Fidelma gritted her teeth, ‘for no one has had the manners to identify him. But let me tell you to whom you speak … I am Fidelma,
There was a silence and then the mounted man spoke sharply to the two warriors.
‘Let her go at once! Release her!’
They dropped their hold immediately, almost like well-trained dogs obeying their master. Fidelma felt the blood gushing into her lowers arms and hands again.
The sounds of a horse crashing through the winter forest caused them all to turn. A second rider, bow in hand, came trotting up. Fidelma saw the flushed young features of Olcán. He drew rein and stared down, his expression was one of bewilderment as he recognised Fidelma. Then he had slid off his horse and was moving forward, hands outstretched.
‘Sister Fidelma, are you hurt?’
‘Small thanks to these warriors, Olcán,’ she snapped, rubbing her bruised arms.
The first rider turned to his men with an angry gesture.
‘Precede me back to the fortress,’ he snapped, and, without a word, both men turned and moved off at a shambling trot. As they did so the tall man bowed stiffly in his saddle from the waist towards Fidelma.
‘I regret this incident.’
Olcán looked from Fidelma to the man, frowning. Then he realised his manners.
‘Fidelma, may I present my friend, Torcán. Torcán, this is Fidelma of Kildare.’
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she recognised the name.
‘Torcán, the son of Eoganán of the Ui Fidgenti?’
The tall man again bowed from the saddle, this time it was more of a sort of mock salute.
