‘There is a farmstead up ahead, lady,’ Gormán called, having ridden back down the trail to rejoin Fidelma and Caol. ‘It would be an ideal place to water and rest the horses and eat something ourselves.’
They had crossed the plain and had been riding through some hilly and thickly wooded country for some hours now. If the truth were known, Fidelma felt a little tired and thirsty herself and so she agreed without protest.
‘We must have reached the borders of the country of the Cinél Cairpre by now,’ she warned. ‘Best have a care if the raiders do come from here, for we may not find a welcome.’
They approached the farmstead cautiously. There was some movement there and they could see a man rounding up cattle in an adjacent field, which was a sure sign of the lateness of the day. In farming terms the day began just before dawn when the cows were milked; it was called
The man in the field stopped when he saw them and then began to hurry towards the farmstead, leaving his cows to their own devices.
Fidelma glanced towards Caol and Gormán, noticing them slide their hands to rest on their swordhilts.
‘Easy,’ she said. ‘The man has a right to be cautious at the sight of strangers.’
They turned their horses through a gate in the stone fence and into the farmyard. The man was now standing before his door, the spancel held almost as a weapon in his hands.
‘That’s far enough!’ he called sharply before they had reached him. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘There is no call for alarm,’ Fidelma said pleasantly. ‘We are travellers looking for the fortress of the chieftain of the Cinél Cairpre. We also need to rest, water our horses and take refreshment for ourselves. The sun is setting and soon it will be dark.’
‘I know the time well enough. Stay still, all of you. I must warn you that there are arrows aimed at you, and if you move you will die. I want the warriors to disarm and get down from their horses.’
They sat still for a moment, hardly believing what the man said, for he continued in a quiet and reasonable tone: ‘You think I am joking? My boys have their hunting bows strung. Ciar, loose a shot at the post behind me!’
A second later, a hunting arrow sped over the man’s head and embedded itself in the post.
‘My boys are good shots, so take heed,’ added the man without bothering to observe how the arrow had landed.
Fidelma said quietly: ‘Do as he says.’
‘Gently now,’ snapped the farmer. ‘Throw down your swords to the right and dismount to the left. You, woman, remain seated.’
Caol and Gormán took off their sword belts and let them drop as instructed before dismounting.
Immediately, a small boy ran from an outhouse, gathered the weapons in one hand and the reins in another, leading the horses away.
‘Now, warriors, move to one side. Remain seated, woman, for there is an arrow still aimed at you. No tricks now.’
As if at a hidden signal, a young man emerged with some rope and expertly tied the hands of Caol and Gormán behind them.
‘Now you may alight, woman,’ instructed the farmer.
Fidelma did so. Once again the small boy ran out to lead her horse away. A second young man now emerged; he was holding a long bow nearly two metres high, with an arrow loosely strung but ready to draw at a moment’s notice.
‘Take the warriors to the shed and make sure they are well bound, Ciar,’ the man commanded.
‘We meant you no harm,’ Fidelma protested, but the man gestured for her to be silent.
‘You think I believe you? Strangers and warriors?’ He turned as the small boy came back. ‘Cuana, saddle your horse and ride for the chief. You’ll be there before dark. Tell him that we have visitors. He’ll know what to do.’
‘I am on my way, Father,’ cried the boy, who was surely no more than twelve years old.
The young man addressed as Ciar came back, still holding his bow.
‘They are secured, Father,’ he reported.
Then the farmer relaxed a little and tossed his spancel to the other young man.
‘You tend to the cows now. We’ll take her inside. We might as well be comfortable while we wait.’
‘Keep a close eye on her,’ replied the young man. ‘These people are full of tricks.’
Fidelma frowned as the farmer prompted her forward to the building. ‘Who do you think I am?’
The man gave a sardonic snort. ‘Try no games with me, woman. I have seen enough of them — from you and your people. Our chieftain will be here soon and then you may try your tricks on him. Now, sit in that chair.’
Fidelma had no sooner sat down than Ciar laid aside his bow, seized her wrists and bound them with a length of rope. Having done so he smiled at his father, who nodded in approval.
‘You can put aside your bow now, Ciar, but keep it handy. There may be others about. Anyway, the chief should not be long.’
Eadulf was being dragged up a steep hill, the cords cutting deeply into his wrists. Even if he had wanted to cry out in pain, the tight gag effectively stopped any sound from emerging. His eyes began to water with the agony and he hoped his captors did not think it was some sign of weakness as, jeering, they pulled and prodded at him with the shafts of their spears. Several times he fell but they continued to pull, dragging him up the rough earth, until he was able to lurch to his feet again.
Earlier, he could not estimate how long, they had ridden before a halt was called and they had dismounted. He had been roughly manhandled from his horse, and forced to climb these steep slopes.
It seemed an age before they reached the top of the hill. It was coldand the wind was sharp, but somehow it gave his bruised and battered body some comfort. Then someone removed his blindfold and the same hand removed his gag. He stood, trying to catch his breath, and glanced around. The lowering sun still lit the land with its wintry soft golden light. He realised that he was on a high hill and noticed some curious structures there — stone-built edifices of the type he had seen elsewhere in the country. People had told him that such buildings were very ancient, constructed by the gods in the time beyond memory. He shivered slightly.
Nearer to where he stood with his captors, there were some rough wooden buildings and cooking fires, around which some women sat. But there were no signs of any children, only adults.
He became aware of one of the women approaching him.
She was tall, and her raven-black hair tumbled down almost to her waist. A silver headband bearing a strange crescent design held the hair in place around her forehead. Her features were angular but striking; the dark eyes flashed with some inner fire. It was a face used to command. It was also a face that he felt he had seen before — but could not think where. Eadulf also saw that around her neck and stretching across her chest was a great semi-circular collar. Then he realised that it was a silver equivalent of the great necklet that Fidelma had shown him in Cashel. The one she had found in the room of the dead guest at Ferloga’s inn; the one she had said was a symbol of the Druids, the priests of the old gods.
His captors thrust him forward to face the woman by the expedient of prodding him with the tip of their swords. They all seemed to treat the woman with reverence.
In spite of the ropes binding him, Eadulf drew himself up, staring at her with his chin thrust forward defensively.
The woman halted before him. She was nearly half a head taller than he was. She looked down at him, and her thin lips parted in a smile without warmth. Her dark eyes seemed to bore deeply into his.
