The Spider's Web

secret.’

‘Why?’

‘That answer has doubtless died with her.’

Gadra rose to his feet and Fidelma followed his example.

‘I have no horse,’ the old man said, ‘so it may take me a while to reach the rath of Araglin.’

‘You may ride behind either Dubán or Brother Eadulf. There is no problem.’

‘Then I will ride with Brother Eadulf,’ the old man announced. Eadulf went to get the horses and Gadra lowered his voice to Fidelma.

‘Your Eadulf speaks our language well.’

She coloured hotly.

‘He is a visitor to our country. A Saxon monk who has been trained in our colleges.’ She paused and added quietly, ‘And he is not my Eadulf.’

The amused bright eyes were suddenly fixed on her questioningly.

‘There is a warmness in your voice when you speak of this Saxon.’

Fidelma found her cheeks colouring even more fiercely.

‘He has been a good friend to me,’ she replied defensively.

Gadra studied her face closely.

‘Never deny your feelings, child, especially not to yourself.’

The old man went into his cabin before Fidelma could frame any reply. For a moment she felt annoyed and then she found herself smiling. Pagan or not, she liked the sincerity and wisdom in the old man. She turned to Dubán and found him watching her inquisitively.

‘I see that you like the old man in spite of your religious differences.’

‘Perhaps the differences are not so much once we remove the names we give to things. We are all sprang from the same common ancestry.’

‘Perhaps.’

The old man returned a moment later with a travelling cloakand a sacculus, a bag on a strap strung across his shoulder, in which he had obviously put the items he needed for the journey.

‘Tell me, brother Saxon,’ he said, as Eadulf helped him to mount the horse, ‘I presume my old antagonist Gormán is still at the rath?’

‘Father Gormán is the priest at Araglin.’

‘Not my father,’ muttered Gadra. ‘I do not object to calling anyone my brother or my sister but there are not many on this earth that I would acknowledge have the right to be called my father, especially one whose intolerance is like a canker eating away at his soul.’

Eadulf exchanged a glance with Fidelma at the old man’s vehemence but the Saxon’s amusement did not find a resonance in Fidelma’s eyes. She was solemn.

‘Have no concern of Gormán,’ she told the old man, as she swung up on her own mount. ‘Mine is the authority by which you come to the rath of Araglin.’

Gadra laughed or, at least, his sinewy body quivered with amusement.

‘Each person is their own authority, Fidelma,’ he said.

They began to make the return journey along the path through the great mountain forests. It seemed that some mutual unspoken agreement caused them to lapse into silence so that only the heavy snorting breath of their horses, treading the forest path, could be heard. Even the dark woods themselves were without sound in spite of the fact that it was still daylight above the gloomy canopy.

Fidelma was head down, deep in thought, trying to puzzle how this old man and, indeed, Teafa, could form any meaningful communication with someone who had Móen’s disabilities. She gave up the attempt after a while. The fact that he said he could do so was good enough for her for she accepted without question that Gadra was a man who spoke the truth. Didn’t the old wise ones use to say that by Truth the earth endures and by Truth we are delivered from our enemies?

She glanced back to Eadulf and wondered what he was thinking. He must be uncomfortable about the proximity of someone who rejected the New Faith and adhered to the ways of the ancient ones. Gadra had been right in his one word summation of Eadulf. He was practical; down to earth and pragmatic. He accepted what he was taught and once accepted he would adhere to those teachings without question or deviation. He was like a ponderous ship ploughing a stately way across an ocean. If so, then she was a light bark, speeding hither and thither, darting across the waves. Did she do him an injustice? She suddenly found herself remembering a maxim of Hesiod. Admire the little ship but put your cargo in a big one.

She gave a mental sigh and turned her mind back to the task in hand. She reflected on the evidence she had so far heard but at the end of her contemplation she realised there was nothing to be done until Gadra learnt what he could from Móen. Fidelma felt annoyance and, having questioned her annoyance, realised that she was impatient to get back to the rath and learn what Móen could tell them. Impatience was, she acknowledged, her biggest fault. She accepted Eadulf’s remonstration about her irritability and impatience. But she admitted that a restless spirit was at least a sign of being alive.

She was abruptly aware that Dubán had drawn rein and had raised one hand up to halt them.

He held his head cocked to one side in a listening attitude.

They stayed still for a moment or two. The warrior turned and gestured for them to dismount.

‘What is it?’ whispered Fidelma.

‘Several heavy-shod horses,’ replied Dubán in the same soft tone, ‘and riders who make little attempt to disguise their passage. Listen!’

She held her head to one side and found she could actually hear voices raised, shouting to one another.

Eyes narrowed, Dubán was looking around him.

‘Quickly,’ he instructed, still keeping his voice low, ‘let us lead our horses off the path into the forest. Through there,’ he thrust out a hand to indicate a route, ‘there are some rocks behind which we can conceal ourselves.’

Questions rose in Fidelma’s throat but she bit them back. When a trained warrior issued such advice it was not her place to debate with him.

They followed him as silently and rapidly as possible from the track into the forest, through the brush to the outcrop of rocks he indicated. Eadulf held the horses with Gadra by his side while Dubán and Fidelma moved to the edge of the rocks and crouched there observing the path.

The sound of a number of men on horseback was now easily identifiable and the noisy laughter and shouting of the riders showed they feared no opposition to their passage through the forests.

Fidelma glanced sideways at Dubán. The middle-aged warrior was frowning as he peered towards the path. He was clearly anxious.

‘What gives you concern?’ she whispered. ‘These are the forests of Araglin and you command the bodyguard of the chieftains. Why are we hiding?’

Dubán did not move his head and spoke softly out of the side of his mouth.

‘A warrior is told never to test the depth of a river with both feet.’

He paused, holding his head to one side.

‘Listen.’

Fidelma listened to the sounds of the approaching horses.

‘I am no warrior, Dubán. What do you hear?’

‘I hear the rattle of war harness, of swords bumping on shields, of the tread of heavy-shod horses. It tells me that the riders are armed men. If I see a hound in a sheep pen, I look first to see if it means harm to the sheep.’

He motioned her to silence.

The outline of figures on horseback could be seen through the brush and trees that stood between them and the forest track. There were about a dozen riders. They sat at ease on their mounts. Several of them wore light riding cloaks and carried rounded shields slung on their arms. A few of them carried long pointed spears.

At the end of the column of horsemen, being guided by long lead reins by the last riders, were half a dozen