horses. Gormán settled with the innkeeper and soon they were crossing the new bridge. Indeed, the bridge was built strongly, as it had to be, for the rushing waters of the Siúr beneath them pounded against its supports with alarming ferocity. The great sawn tree trunks on which the crossbeams rested had been driven deep into the river bed and there were about fifteen on each side. The width of it, like the Irish roads, according to Brehon Law, was broad enough to take two carriages, with room to spare between them. It was an easier crossing than last time, Eadulf remembered, when he had had to ford the rushing waters on horseback.
‘Well, a bridge certainly makes the old roadway easier to traverse,’ Fidelma observed. ‘We should make better time now.’
In fact, it was hardly any time before they came to the next natural obstacle across the track. This was a smaller river called the Teara, a tributary of the Siúr that they had just crossed. The ford here was easy, for there was an island in the middle of the river that divided it into two small crossings.
‘This is where they say the road took its name,’ Gormán suddenly said, tired of the silence of their journey.
‘I have travelled this road several times,’ Eadulf replied, ‘and never once worked out why it is called the “Track of Patrick’s Cow”.’
‘Why it is called Rian Bó Phádraig?’ Gormán hesitated and glanced at Fidelma. ‘There is an old legend.’
‘You may as well tell it,’ she invited. She had heard the legend before.
‘Well, the old folk say that the Blessed Pádraig, who helped bring the Faith especially to the northern kingdoms, had a cow and this cow had a calf. The cow and her calf were peacefully grazing on the banks of the Teara, this very river we are crossing. The story is that a thief from near Ard Mór stole the calf. The cow was consumed with anger at the loss of her calf and chased the thief all the way across the mountains to Ard Mór, and its tracks made this road.’
Eadulf pursed his lips sceptically.
‘But doesn’t this road lead from Cashel to Lios Mór?’ he pointed out in pedantic fashion.
‘And continues all the way on to Ard Mór,’ Gormán added, with a grin at his puzzled companion.
‘It is a legend,’ Fidelma intervened impatiently. ‘It is not to be taken literally. The road is far older than the time of the Blessed Pádraig. It joins the Slíge Dalla, the Way of the Blind, at Cashel, which, as you recall, is one of the five great roads that lead to Tara. There is no way of knowing why legends come about. The Blessed Ailbe converted our kingdom to the new Faith long before Pádraig arrived here and before Declan built his abbey at Ard Mór. Why would Pádraig have a cow grazing on the banks of the Teara River of all the rivers in Ireland? It makes no sense.’
‘Legends,’ Gormán solemnly announced, ‘are often the result of half-understood events, or events that have become embroidered out of all proportion by their retelling.’
‘Yet they are usually founded in truth,’ observed Eadulf.
‘The question is, how do you find that truth?’ Fidelma retorted.
‘Doesn’t the legend become its own truth?’ asked Gormán.
Eadulf chuckled. ‘You are becoming a philosopher, Gormán.’
The young warrior turned to him and, without warning, lungedforward, knocking Eadulf off his horse with a single blow of his hand. As he fell, Eadulf was aware of a curious whistling sound in the air. Something thudded into a tree just behind his horse. Gormán yelled to Fidelma to take cover and at the same time drew his sword. He urged his cob forward towards a group of trees a short distance away along the side of the highway.
Fidelma had time to see a figure with drawn bow release a second arrow before she slithered from her mount and crouched down. She heard it whistle past, wide of its intended target.
‘Stay down!’ she cried, as she saw Eadulf trying to rise from the dust in the road where he had fallen.
‘Has Gormán gone mad?’ he protested, not having seen the arrow that had nearly embedded itself in him but was now stuck in the tree.
‘He just saved you from being shot,’ Fidelma replied grimly, peering forward. She ignored Eadulf’s exclamation of surprise as she saw Gormán, sword swinging, attack the man who was trying to place a third arrow into his bow. The sword struck him on the side of the neck and he gave a cry and went down. A second man was already mounted on a horse and was urging it away at a gallop. Gormán pursued him for a short distance but it was clear the man had a fresh, and therefore faster, mount. In fact, Gormán was also handicapped by an unwillingness to abandon Fidelma and Eadulf in case there were other attackers on the road. He wisely reined in his horse and gave up the pursuit. By the time the young warrior resheathed his sword and returned to them, the second man had disappeared.
‘I am sorry, I didn’t catch him,’ he said as he rejoined them. ‘I might recognise him again, though. He was a thin man with long hair as white as snow.’
‘Elderly?’ asked Fidelma.
Gormán grimaced briefly. ‘
‘Robbers, do you think?’
‘Hard to tell. Assassins certainly, for if their arrows had struck home …’ He shrugged.
‘I have you to thank for my life, Gormán’ Eadulf began awkwardly.
‘That is my duty, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied quickly, walking across to the tree and extracting the arrow. He examined it with a shake of his head. ‘Nothing to indicate an origin. Well-crafted, though, but any one of a hundred fletchers could have made it.’
‘Let us see if we can get any explanation from our would-be killer,’ Fidelma said.
Gormán’s mouth drooped cynically. ‘I doubt it, lady. My sword bit deep.’
When they reached the body of the assailant, they could see that the man was certainly dead. He was not old although his hair was streaked grey. It was cut fairly short and his face was closely shaven. The man was tanned, which proclaimed he led an outdoor life. Regarding this, Fidelma bent to look at the hands of the man. They were neither the rough callused hands of a field worker nor the soft hands of someone unused to hard work. His clothes were nondescript, a field worker’s clothing of furs and leather. The clothing indicated someone who was neither wealthy nor poor. There was no purse on him, nothing to identify him.
It was Fidelma who pointed out that the sword that still hung from his belt was of good-quality workmanship, a warrior’s sword rather than some cheap ornament. It would not be chosen by someone who had little means to purchase it. There was also a dagger with an embossed handle, which was unusual for afield worker. He had a quiver of arrows hanging on one side of his belt. His bow lay where it had been discarded when he received his death blow from Gormán. Fidelma picked it up and, turned it over in her hands. It was well made of yew wood, a war bow rather than one used just for hunting. She turned and handed it to Gormán, asking a silent question with raised eyebrows.
‘A professional warrior’s bow,’ he muttered, having given it a quick examination. ‘Well strung.’ He paused and tested the pull on it. ‘It would take a trained bowman to pull it. There is good tension on it and a secure grip.’
Fidelma knelt again beside the body and examined it closely.
‘He wears no ornamentation, which is unusual. There is nothing decorative on him. But see here, what do you make of this, Eadulf?’ She pointed to the neck where there was a slight discoloration, like bruising or an abrasion. Eadulf’s mind went back to the customs of his own people.
‘The mark of a slave collar?’ he hazarded. ‘The slaves among my people are often given iron collars to indicate their position.’
An expression of distaste crossed Fidelma’s features. Then she turned to Gormán.
‘What do you think?’
The young warrior pursed his lips in thought for a moment and then replied, ‘Brother Eadulf has a point. I have seen Saxon slaves at the seaports wearing iron collars. But I doubt this man is a Saxon. Given his weaponry, and despite his clothing and lack of ornamentation, this might be the mark of a torc.’ His hand went automatically to the circlet of gold at his own neck, showing that he was of the élite warriors of the Nasc Niadh.
