Eadulf saw Donndubhain, Colgú’s heir-apparent, also with drawn sword, go racing after the Ui Fidgente warriors.
Fidelma was among the first to recover her wits. Her mind was racing. Two arrows had been shot at her brother and his guest and both, miraculously had missed. Obviously, the Uí Fidgente warrior had seen the path of their flight and pinpointed the buildings as hiding the bowman who wished to strike down the King of Cashel and the Prince of the Uí Fidgente. Well, there was no time to consider that now. Donndubháin had also gone in chase of the assassins.
‘See to Donennach,’ she cried to Eadulf, who was already pushing his way through the Prince’s reluctant bodyguard. She turned to where her brother was still sitting astride his horse, a little in shock, clutching at the arrow which was embedded in his arm.
‘Get down, brother,’ she urged quietly, ‘unless you want to continue to make yourself a target.’
She reached forward and helped him dismount, which he did, trying not to groan aloud from the pain of his wound.
‘Is Donennach hurt badly?’ he asked between clenched teeth. He still held one hand clutching at his blood- soaked, pain-racked arm.
‘Eadulf is looking after him. Now sit down on that stone while I remove the arrow from your arm.’
Almost reluctantly her brother sat down. By this time, two of Colgú’s men, including Capa, the captain of the bodyguard, had hurried forward but their drawn swords were superfluous. Peoplewere crowding round their King with a mixture of advice and questions. Fidelma waved them back impatiently.
‘Is there a physician among you?’ she demanded, having examined the wound and realised that the arrow head went deep. She was afraid to pry it loose for fear of tearing the muscle and creating more damage.
There was a muttering and shaking of heads.
Reluctantly, she bent down and hesitantly touched the shaft. It would take too long to send someone to find and bring old Conchobar hither.
‘Hold on, Fidelma,’ cried Eadulf, pushing his way back through the crowd.
Fidelma almost sighed with relief for she knew that Eadulf had trained in the art of medicine at the great medical school of Tuaim Brecain.
‘How is Donennach?’ Colgú greeted him, his face grey with pain as he struggled to remain in control.
‘Concentrate on yourself for the time being, brother,’ admonished Fidelma.
Colgú’s features were set grimly.
‘A good host should see to his guest first.’
‘It is a bad wound,’ Eadulf admitted, bending forward to examine where the arrow head had embedded itself in Colgú’s arm. ‘Donennach’s wound, I mean, though your own is no light scratch. I have ordered a litter be constructed so that we can carry Prince Donennach up to the palace where we may attend him better than here in the dust of the road. I suspect the arrow has entered Donennach’s thigh at a bad angle. But he was lucky … as, indeed, you are.’
‘Can you remove this arrow from my arm?’ pressed Colgú.
Eadulf had been examining it closely. The Saxon smiled grimly. ‘I can but it will hurt. I would prefer to wait until we can take you back to the palace.’
The King of Muman sniffed disdainfully.
‘Do it here and now in order that my people may see that the wound is no great one and that an Eóghanacht King can bear pain.’
Eadulf turned to one of the crowd. ‘Whose house is nearest in which there is a glowing fire?’
‘The blacksmith’s stands across the street there, Brother Saxon,’ replied an old woman, pointing.
‘Give me a few moments, Colgú,’ Eadulf said, turning and making his way to the smith’s forge. The smith himself was one of the crowd, having left his forge to see what the commotion was about. He now accompanied Eadulf with interest. Eadulf took out his knife. The smithlooked on in surprise as the Saxon monk turned the knife for a while in the glowing coals before returning to Colgú’s side.
Colgú’s jaw was set and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘Do it as quickly as you can, Eadulf.’
The Saxon monk nodded curtly.
‘Hold his arm, Fidelma,’ he instructed quietly. Then he bent forward and taking the shaft of the arrow, he eased it with the tip of the knife and pulled quickly. Colgú gave a grunt and his shoulders sagged as if he were going to fall. But he did not do so. His jaw clenched so hard that they could hear his teeth grinding. Eadulf took a clean linen cloth, which someone offered, and bound the arm tightly.
‘It will do until we get back to the fortress.’ There was satisfaction in his voice. ‘I need to treat the wound with herbs to prevent infection.’ He added quietly to Fidelma, ‘Luckily the tip of the arrow made a clean entry and exit.’
Fidelma took the arrow from him and examined it with a frown. Then she thrust it into her waist cord and turned to help her brother.
The young flush-faced heir-apparent pushed his way back through the crowd. He was now on foot. He examined Colgú, standing supported by Fidelma, with an anxious glance.
‘Is the wound bad?’
‘Bad enough,’ replied Eadulf on the King’s behalf, ‘but he will survive.’
Donndubhain exhaled slowly.
‘The assassins have been run to earth by Prince Donennach’s men.’
‘They can be dealt with once we have removed my brother back to the palace together with the Prince of the Uí Fidgente,’ Fidelma said sharply. ‘Here, help me with him.’
Eadulf had turned away to where a litter had been constructed for the wounded Prince of the Uí Fidgente. The man lay in pain on it. Eadulf had placed a tourniquet around the top of the thigh. He checked the litter and then signalled to the Uí Fidgente warriors to lift it carefully and follow him and the group escorting Colgú up the path to the palace.
They had not even began to proceed before there came the sound of horses and an outcry.
The mounted members of Donennach’s bodyguard came riding back across the square. Behind their horses, dragging along the ground, were two limp forms, their wrists secured by rope to the pommel of the leading horseman.
Fidelma had spotted them and turned from her brother with an angry cry on her lips to criticise such barbarity. To see any man,even a would-be assassin, so ill-treated, was a cause of anger. But the protest died away on her lips as the riders halted. Even a cursory glance at the blood-stained bodies showed her that both men were already dead.
The leading warrior, a man with a bland oval face and narrowed eyes, swung off his horse and strode to the litter of his Prince. He saluted swiftly with the blood still staining his sword.
‘My lord, I think you need to look at these men,’ he said harshly.
‘Can’t you see that we are carrying your Prince to the palace to have his wound tended?’ demanded Eadulf angrily. ‘Do not bother us with this matter until the more urgent task is complete.’
‘Hold your tongue, foreigner,’ snapped the warrior haughtily, ‘when I am speaking to my Prince.’
Colgú, who had halted a short distance away, turned back, leaning on Donndubháin, his face distorting in annoyance now as well as pain.
‘Do not presume to give orders on the slopes of Cashel, where I rule!’ he grunted through clenched teeth.
The Uí Fidgente warrior did not even blink. He deliberately kept his gaze on the pale, pain-racked face of Donennach of the Uí Fidgente, laying on the litter before him.
‘My lord, the matter is urgent.’
Donennach raised himself on one elbow, in a pain equally shared with his host.
‘What is it that you wish me so urgently to see, Gionga?’
The warrior named Gionga waved to one of his men, who had cut loose the two bodies. He dragged one over to the side of the litter.
‘These are the dogs who shot at you, my lord. Observe this one.’
