Chalice of Blood

The white light that heralded dawn had only just begun to spread over the jagged tops of the eastern hills when Fidelma and Eadulf came into the courtyard at Cashel. The stable lads were patiently waiting with their horses, already saddled for the journey. They were surprised, however, to find the young warrior, Gormán, also there, with his horse saddled and obviously prepared for a long journey. Gormán was a warrior of the Nasc Niadh, the warriors of the golden collar, élite bodyguards to the kings of Muman. He was also the son of Fidelma’s friend, Della, a former be taide, or prostitute, who lived in the township beneath the Rock of Cashel on which the palace of the Eóghanacht rulers was situated. Fidelma had successfully defended both Della and Gormán from accusations of murder. Gormán had become one of Cashel’s most trusted warriors and had shared several adventures with Fidelma and Eadulf.

‘Where are you off to?’ Eadulf asked after they had greeted one another.

‘Off to Lios Mór with you,’ grinned Gormán before turning to Fidelma. ‘The King, your brother, lady, has instructed me to accompany you and put myself at your service,’ he explained.

For a moment, a frown crossed her face. Then she dismissedthe objection that had sprung to her mind, realising that Gormán was never intrusive and often helpful in their quests.

‘Very well, we have a long ride ahead and I would like to be in the abbey of Lios Mór before nightfall.’

‘Shall we go directly by way of the Rian Bó Phádraig, the old highway that takes us across the mountains?’ queried the warrior.

‘We shall,’ affirmed Fidelma.

Eadulf noted that his horse had been exchanged for a roan-coloured cob with a luxuriant mane and tail. It was a powerful and muscular animal, well-proportioned and with a proud head. But at least the breed was known for its docile and willing nature, Eadulf thought thankfully. As they mounted, Colgú suddenly appeared with Caol, the commander of his bodyguard, at his side to wish them good fortune.

‘Remember that this is an important matter.’ Colgú’s tone was soft but serious as he addressed his sister. ‘Brother Donnchad was recently back from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and his brethren stood in awe of him, regarding him almost as a saint. That he should be killed in this mysterious manner is likely to cause alarm and dissension throughout the entire kingdom, if not beyond.’

‘You know me well enough, brother. I treat all matters involving unnatural death as important,’ Fidelma replied quietly, looking down at him.

‘I do not doubt it,’ returned Colgú, ‘but truly, Brother Donnchad was no ordinary scholar. He has walked on the ground where the Christ has stepped and preached. That makes him venerated throughout the kingdom.’

‘I understand, brother,’ Fidelma assured him. With a quick lifting of her hand, she set off through the gates of the palace. Eadulf and Gormán urged their horses after her.

They trotted down the slope that led into the township nestlingin the shadow of the grey walls that rose on the great limestone outcrop. For a while, until they were well beyond the township, they did not travel at more than a walking pace, nor did they engage in any conversation. Then on the open road beyond, Fidelma urged her grey into a quick trot. She was riding her favourite horse, a gift from her brother bought from a Gaulish horse trader. She called it Aonbharr, ‘the supreme one’, after the magical horse of Manannán mac Lir, the ocean god, which could run across sea or land and could not be killed by man or god. It was an ancient breed, short neck, upright shoulders and body, slight hindquarters with a long mane and tail. The Gauls and even the Romans had bred the type for battle. It had a calm temperament, displayed intelligence and, more importantly, had agility and stamina. It could easily outrun the cobs rode by Eadulf and Gormán.

Fidelma and Eadulf had not talked further of their quarrel or the matter that had led to it since the previous day and both felt, in their own ways, grateful for Gormán’s presence, which restricted a return to any such conversation. Eadulf was happy to examine the countryside as they took the main highway running south towards the distant mountain ranges, which stood as a barrier between the plain of Cashel and the abbey of Lios Mór. They passed several disused fortresses that had once guarded the ancient highway; each of them had names, such as the rath of blackthorns or Aongus’ rath. The most impressive of these forts, in Eadulf’s opinion, rose on a great mound called the Hill of Rafon. Fidelma had pointed it out on several previous occasions when they had passed it. She did so with an air of pride because, she had told him, it was the former seat of the Eóghanacht kings of Muman, a place where they had been inaugurated and took the oath of kingship in ancient times, before they transferred their capital to Cashel.

By trotting and cantering over the flat plain they made goodtime in reaching the banks of the broad River Siúr where a settlement had risen around the ancient fortress appropriately named Cathair, the stone fort. Just south of here, Eadulf recalled, were caves in the limestone cliffs overlooking the river, in which he and Fidelma had sheltered on a journey back from the far west. It was there that he had been worried about Fidelma’s depressive moods following the birth of Alchú. And here the old road turned slightly to the south-east, following the banks of the Siúr towards the distant hills. They kept the river to their right before moving away to follow the old road through good, flat farming country before swinging back south-westerly to return to the barrier of the Siúr again. The hours sped by and no one spoke beyond an occasional remark on the scenery through which they passed.

It was time to rest and water the horses, and to eat something. Rath Ard dominated this area, the fortress seat of one of the powerful nobles of the Múscraige Breogáin. Gormán wondered if it was Fidelma’s intention to seek hospitality at the fortress. Fidelma replied that she preferred to press on rather than undergo the rituals of hospitality that would be undoubtedly forced on them and perhaps delay their journey by another day. For the same reason, she did not want to call at the nearby abbey that Fionán the Leper had established near the banks of the River Siúr which was named after him — Ard Fhionáin, Fionán’s Height.

The abbey stood by a natural ford across the river and a small settlement had sprung up around it. It was a good location, set in pleasant scenery and provided a base for traders coming upriver to transfer their goods to smaller barges or pack animals before coming to the more inaccessible reaches of the kingdom. But the ford had always presented a problem, for the currents were fairly strong. In fact, the abbey of Fionán provided a ‘watcher by the ford’ to ensure that no accident went unobserved. A bellhung ready to be rung to summon help if needed. But, as they rode beyond the abbey walls, both Fidelma and Eadulf were surprised to see a new bridge, its timbers hardly seasoned, now spanning the river.

‘It was only recently built,’ explained Gormán, when Eadulf commented on the fact. ‘The members of the abbey community built it.’

Fidelma did not seem to hear, her mind was occupied with other thoughts. In fact, she was reflecting that it was here, at this very spot, that she and Eadulf had first heard that their nurse Sárait had been murdered and their son Alchú had been kidnapped by the evil leper Uaman, Lord of the Passes of Sliabh Mis. Gormán had been in love with Sárait and was initially accused of her murder. She glanced anxiously at Gormán but there was no reason he would know of the connection. She wondered if Eadulf remembered and if he would mention it, but if he did remember, he gave no indication of it.

A tavern stood just before the new bridge. Gormán cleared his throat anxiously. He knew that Fidelma wanted to press on but they had been riding for some hours.

Fidelma took the hint; she realised that the horses did need watering. But she insisted that they did not stop long, only time enough to have their horses watered and to take food and drink in moderation for themselves.

They sat outside the inn, for the day was cloudless and warm. A stable lad attended to their horses while the innkeeper brought them their refreshments. The man had no other customers, so he remained with them and talked about the possibilities of a good harvest, the fine summer and the number of newcomers who were building their homes around the abbey. Fidelma was clearly impatient to continue the journey.

‘Is the bridge safe to cross?’ Eadulf inquired of the innkeeper as he was finishing his drink.

‘The bridge safe to cross?’ The innkeeper was a burly man, with balding head and slightly protruding eyes, and his jowls shook with laughter. ‘Bless you, Brother, an entire troop of the king’s horsemen could ride back and forth several times without disturbing one beam of it.’

‘I am not concerned with a troop of cavalry but only with my well-being,’ replied Eadulf dourly.

Before the conversation could be prolonged, Fidelma stood up and signalled to the stable lad to bring their