A second man rode alongside them and, before they could protest, their wrists were expertly bound behind them. Blindfolds were produced and tied over their eyes. Their reins were taken from them and they found themselves being led at a swift canter. They needed their breath to maintain their balance on the fast-moving horses and could not protest or demand an explanation. Neither Fidelma nor Eadulf could estimate the amount of time it took as they were escorted to their captors’ destination.
The end of the ride came as abruptly as it had begun.
The horses suddenly halted, there were shouted commands, and strong arms lifted them both down. Their blindfolds were removed and they stood blinking in the centre of a group of warriors. Fidelma noticed that they were in a gorge, no more than a rocky fissure, hardly big enough for four men to stand abreast. Around them the rocky walls rose almost blotting out the sky. It was a dark, narrow passageway.
The leader of the warriors, the red-haired man with a fierce, almost angry expression, stood in front of them and his shrewd scrutiny missed nothing.
‘You have come from Gleann Geis.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘We do not deny it,’ affirmed Fidelma coldly. ‘Where have you come from?’
The man’s face conveyed no reaction. His sharp blue eyes examined them both carefully, taking in Fidelma’s cross of the Golden Chain and Eadulf s foreign appearance. Then he turned and signalled to one of his men. Silently the man handed him their saddle bags which he had obviously removed from their horses. The red-haired leader peered firstly into Eadulf’s saddle bags and then took hold of Fidelma’s bags.
‘Are you common thieves and robbers, then?’ she sneered. ‘If you are looking for riches, you will not find any for …’
The man ignored her and continued to rummage through the saddle bag. His hand came out holding the gold torc. His eyes glinted.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’
‘A woman of Muman who carries the gold collar of Ailech?’ scoffed the man. He thrust it back into the saddle bag and then slung both over his shoulder.
Fidelma started at the mention of the name of Ailech.
Ailech was the capital of the northern Uí Néill kings who were in enmity with the southern Uí Néill kings who ruled at Tara.
The red-bearded man had turned and was striding towards what appeared to be the sheer cliff face. His men had closed in around Fidelma and Eadulf. Before they could protest or make further demands of their captors they were forced to move at a rapid trot towards one of the towering walls of the fissure. So fast did they move, even with their hands still tied behind their backs, that Eadulf found himself closing his eyes believing, for a moment, that their captors were intent on killing them by smashing them against the granite wall. Then he felt cold and darkness encompassed him. He ventured to open his eyes and found he was in a cave which was dimly lit by a single torch. Somehow he and Fidelma had been manoeuvred into a hidden cave entrance.
The leader continued to head the way along the dark tunnel. Neither Fidelma nor Eadulf made any protest for there was little point in protesting. The warriors moved them swiftly and professionally. They were propelled through a series of caves and narrow passageways. Then they came to a sudden halt.
‘Blindfold them again,’ ordered the leader.
Once again they were in complete darkness.
There was a moment’s pause and they were propelled onwards once more. It was not long before they came to a halt again. The atmosphere was suddenly warm. Fidelma could feel the presence of a fire from the warmth on her cheek.
‘We have caught a couple of spies from Gleann Geis, my lord,’ came the voice of the leader of their escort.
‘Spies, eh?’ The voice was familiar. ‘Untie their blindfolds and let them see.’
The blindfolds were taken off again with rough hands.
‘Gently!’ rebuked the familiar voice sharply. ‘Do not harm our honoured guests.’
Fidelma stood blinking in the smoky atmosphere of a large cave which was lit by spluttering torches. She noticed it contained sleeping rugs, a fire in one corner, strategically placed under what appeared to be a natural chimney with a cauldron hanging over its flames, steaming away. At her side, Eadulf was still blinking and not yet taking in his surroundings. Apart from the men who had escorted them into the cave, there were half-a-dozen other warriors squatting on the rugs with one of them standing over the cauldron. At one end, perched on a wooden camp chair, was a familiar figure.
Fidelma smiled grimly as she recognised the young horse trader.
‘I thought our paths would meet again, Ibor of Muirthemne.’
The young man laughed good naturedly.
‘Untie their hands and let them be seated,’ he instructed.
‘But, my lord …’ protested the red-haired man who had captured them. ‘Look!’ He took out the gold torc and thrust it at Ibor. ‘The woman carries this as proof of her guilt.’
Ibor took the torc and examined it. Then he raised his eyes to the man.
‘Untie them at once!’ he said firmly.
Reluctantly, the red-haired man drew out his knife and severed Fidelma’s bonds and then the rope which tied Eadulf’s wrists. They stood for a moment rubbing their chaffed wrists and examining Ibor in curiosity. Now he was clothed as a warrior, a costume that seemed to fit him better than his previous form of dress. Fidelma smiled grimly as the former assessment that Ibor looked more a warrior than a horse trader now appeared to be correct. The erstwhile trader from Muirthemne was obviously a fighting man.
‘Be seated and accept my hospitality,’ invited Ibor as politely as if he had simply invited them as guests to his ráth. ‘It is rather poor hospitality since we are camped out here …’
‘Hiding from lawful authority,’ interjected Eadulf sourly.
Ibor shook his head and his smile broadened.
‘Not hiding but merely not wishing to announce our presence. Come, be seated. You shall not be harmed while you are my guests.’
Reluctantly, but with no other option, Fidelma and Eadulf sat on the rugs which had been indicated.
‘Why did you allow the people in Gleann Geis to believe that it was you who bribed Artgal?’ Fidelma opened without preamble.
‘I thought that they had already decided that without my help,’ replied Ibor humorously.
‘By running away you simply confirmed it.’
‘A strategic withdrawal to join my men.’
‘And to do what exactly?’
Ibor shrugged, still smiling.
‘Who knows? Maybe to destroy that nest of vermin.’
‘Brother Dianach is dead. I know that he was the person who bought the cows to bribe Artgal with and not you.’
The young man did not look surprised.
‘And Artgal? What does he say now?’
‘Artgal is missing.’
There was a silence but Ibor’s composure did not alter.
‘As soon as Artgal started to lie about Brother Dianach, I knew that suspicion would fall on me. I knew that I would be apprehended for something I did not do … even as you were, Fidelma.’
‘You knew that I was innocent?’ Fidelma could not hide her surprise.
‘I knew that you had little reason to kill Brother Solin,’ he confirmed. ‘I was hoping to be able to find out who did before it became necessary for me to withdraw from Laisre’s ráth.’
‘It is hard to believe that you claim innocence,’ Fidelma observed skeptically. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’
‘You know already that I am Ibor; Ibor, lord of Muirthemne.’
‘That is a proud title. It is not the title of a trader in horseflesh.’
‘I am proud to bear it. It is an ancient lineage. Was not my ancestor named Setanta of Muirthemne who
