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  ‘I mean to sneak out the back and try to circle behind these carrion,’ he replied in answer to her silent question.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ replied Fidelma at once.

  Eadulf did not waste time arguing.

  Fidelma glanced to Bressal.

  ‘Our young companions are above and will attempt to put out the lighted arrows that fall into the room. You stay here and do the same but be sure that you bar the door after us.’

  Bressal said nothing. Events were happening too quickly for him to protest.

  Eadulf, with bow and arrows, followed by Fidelma, gripping the sword which Bressal had thrust into her hand, moved to the back door. Bressal unbarred it and, looking swiftly out, motioned to them that it was safe to leave. Eadulf hastened across the yard into the trees beyond. Fidelma followed a moment later, thanking the saints that the attackers, whoever they were, did not have the sense to completely surround the hostel.

  Once into the cover of the woods, Eadulf moved cautiously, swinging around the hostel towards the roadway which ran in front of it. They could see several more arrows had been released towards the front of the hostel, one or two falling onto its thatched roof. Soon the place would be ablaze unless the attack was quickly beaten off.

  The air was cold but the light was sharp now as the sun began to rise.

  Fidelma, peering through the cover of the trees, saw the shadowy figures in the underbrush opposite. She knew enough to realise that they were not professional warriors for they made no good use of the cover and were shouting to each other thus revealing their positions. It was clear that they did not expect any real opposition from the hostel keeper and his guests. It occurred to Fidelma that it was curious that they did not simply burst into the hostel and rob the occupants, if that was their intention. It seemed as if they merely wanted to burn the place down.

  Eadulf had strung an arrow and was waiting the next move.

  Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.

  One of the men, shooting the flaming arrows into the hostel, stood up to aim, presenting a clear target in the early morning light. Fidelma touched Eadulf’s arm lightly and gestured towards the figure. She had no wish to kill anyone, even though the man seemed intent on destroying the hostel, but it was too late to instruct Eadulf how to ply the bow.

  Eadulf raised the bow and aimed quickly but carefully. She saw his arrow embed itself in the shoulder of the man, the shoulder of the bow arm. She could not have done it better. The assailant gave a sudden scream and dropped his own bow, clasping his bleeding shoulder with his other hand.

  There was a momentary silence.

  Then hoarse voices cried out demanding to know what the matter was with the man. Someone ran towards the injured attacker through the trees, making a noise that any real warrior would be ashamed of. Eadulf had strung a second arrow and silently asked a question of Fidelma with a glance. She nodded.

  A second bowman had appeared by the side of the injured man.

  Eadulf took aim and released another missile.

  Again he aimed carefully and hit the bow arm, his arrow striking the man’s shoulder. The second man yelled more in surprise than in pain and began a furious cursing.

  A third voice cried out in panic: ‘We are being attacked. Let’s go. Go!’

  There was a clamour, the frenetic whinny of horses and the two injured men turned and stumbled, moaning and cursing, through the trees. Eadulf strung a third arrow.

  Out of the surrounding forests came a small band of horsemen, urging their mounts to breakneck speed towards the narrow path ahead. Fidelma saw that, as Eadulf had said, there were no more than half a dozen men. She spotted the two injured men, precariously mounted. They came charging down the road, passing close to where Fidelma and Eadulf had taken up their positions. Eadulf was about to spring out at them, but Fidelma held him back.

  ‘Let them go,’ she instructed. ‘We have been lucky so far.’ Indeed, she uttered a prayer of thanks for professional fighting men would not have been so easily routed.

  She stared up as the attackers rode by her and noticed the last man in the cavalcade, a burly man with a large reddish beard and ugly features, crouching low over his horse’s neck. Eadulf had half raised his bow but let it drop with a shrug when he realised the rider failed to present a good enough target.

  The band of horsemen quickly disappeared along the path and into the forests.

  Eadulf turned to Fidelma in bewilderment.

  ‘Why did we let them go?’ he demanded.

  Fidelma smiled tightly.

  ‘We were lucky. If they had been warriors we would not have come away so lightly. Thank God that they were a group of cowards, but if you corner a coward, like a small frightened animal, he will fight savagely for his freedom. Besides, our attention is needed at the hostel. Look, the roof is already alight.’

  She turned and hurried to the hostel, calling out to Bressal that the attackers had fled and to come out to help them.

  Bressal found a ladder and within moments, they had formed a chain, passing buckets of water up to the thatch. It took a while but eventually the fire was doused and the thatch just damp and smoky. Bressal, gratefully, took a flagon of mead and poured cups for them all.

  ‘I have to thank you for saving this hostel from those bandits,’ he announced as he handed them the drink.

  ‘Who were they?’ demanded young Archú. ‘Did you see any of them close to, sister?’

  ‘Only a glimpse,’ confessed Fidelma.

  ‘At least two of them will have painful shoulders for a while,’ Eadulf added grimly.

  ‘This area is a poor part of the country,’ Archú reflected wonderingly. ‘It is strange that bandits would attempt to rob this hostel.’

  ‘Rob?’ Fidelma raised an eyebrow slightly. ‘It seemed to me that they were trying to burn it down rather than rob it.’

  Eadulf nodded slowly.

  ‘That is true. They could have come up quietly enough and burst in, if they had wanted to simply rob the hostel and its guests.’

  ‘Perhaps they were just passing by and seized the opportunity on the spur of the moment without any thought of a plan,’ Bressal offered the explanation but his tone did not carry conviction.

  Eadulf shook his head.

  ‘Passing by? You said yourself that this road is not one used frequently and that it only leads in and out of Araglin.’

  Bressal sighed.

  ‘Well, I have never been attacked by outlaws before.’

  ‘Do you have enemies, Bressal?’ Eadulf pressed. ‘Is there anyone who would want to see you driven out of this hostel?’

  ‘No one,’ affirmed Bressal with conviction. ‘There is no one who would profit in any way by the destruction of this hostel. I have served here all my life.’

  ‘Then …’ Eadulf began but Fidelma interrupted sharply.

  ‘Perhaps it was just a gang of plunderers searching for easy pickings. But they will have learnt a lesson for now.’

  Eadulf looked as if he were about to say something but, catching Fidelma’s eye, he clamped his jaw shut.

  ‘It was lucky that you were here,’ Bressal agreed, not noticing this interplay. ‘I could not have beaten off the attack by myself.’

  ‘Well, it is time to break our fast and be on our way,’ Fidelma replied, realising that the morning hour was growing late.

  After breakfast, Archú announced that he and Scoth would part company with them. The way to Archú’s farmstead could be reached from this point without going towards the rath of Araglin. Archú and Scoth offered to spend an hour or two with Bressal helping him clean the hostel and repair the thatch while Fidelma and Eadulf continued on towards Araglin.

  It was Bressal who suggested Fidelma and Eadulf might like to keep the weapons they had borrowed from him.

  ‘As you have seen, I am not proficient with weapons. From what you tell me, these bandits rode off in the direction of Araglin and you do not want to encounter them unarmed along the way.’


  Eadulf was about to accept the weapons but Fidelma pressed them back on Bressal with a shake of her head.

  ‘We do not live by the sword. According to the blessed Matthew, the Christ told Peter that all who take the path of the sword shall perish by the sword. It is better to go into the world unarmed.’

  Bressal grimaced wryly: ‘Better to go out into the world able to defend yourself against those who are prepared to live by the sword.’

  It was not until they were well on the path to Araglin that Eadulf challenged Fidelma on her unspoken interruption when he was about to voice his suspicion as to the origin of the attackers.

  ‘Why did you not want me to point out what was only logical?’

  ‘That the so-called bandits were probably from Araglin itself?’

  ‘You suspect Muadnat, don’t you?’ he said, nodding agreement.

  Fidelma repudiated the idea.

  ‘I have no reason to suspect him. To bring up the question might put fear into Archú and Scoth unnecessarily. There are many other possibilities. Bressal might not be telling the truth when he says he knows of no enemies. This may, indeed, be simply an attack by illogical bandits. Or the attack may well have something to do with the death of Eber.’

  The other possibilities had not entered Eadulf’s mind but he was not convinced.

  ‘You mean that someone involved with Eber’s death could be trying to prevent your investigation?’ he asked sceptically.

  ‘I put it forward as an alternative to what you are suggesting, Eadulf. But I do not say that it provides the answer. We must be vigilant but assumptions without evidence can lead to a dangerous path.’

  Chapter Four

  The morning was warm and sunny as Fidelma and Eadulf made their way serenely through the tree crowded forest and emerged on a hillside track which gave a spectacular view across a valley about a mile in width, through which a sparkling silver river ran. While clumps of trees stood here and there, it was clear that the valley had long been cultivated for the woodlands which encircled the bald mountain tops had been cut back and a boundary of yellowing gorse stood between the cultivated fields and pastureland and the converging trees.

  The ribbon of the river cut through the bright green of the valley pasture. The beauty of the place caught at Fidelma’s breath. In the distance she could see a group of reddish-brown dots and as she focussed she saw a majestic red deer, a stag by his antlers, guarding a group of hind, some with small calves at their feet, brown little objects with white spots. Here and there, throughout the valley, were small grazing herds of cattle, moving slowly on the open pastureland around the stone bordered fields. The valley looked lush and enticing. It was rich farming country and the river, judging just by the run of it, would be replete with salmon and brown trout.

  Eadulf leant forward in his saddle and surveyed the landscape approvingly.

  ‘This Araglin appears to be a paradise,’ he murmured.

  Fidelma pursed her lips wryly.

  ‘Yet there is a serpent in this particular paradise,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Perhaps the richness of this land could be a motive for murder? A chieftain who has this wealth must be vulnerable,’ Eadulf suggested.

  Fidelma was disapproving.

  ‘You should know our system well by now. Once a chieftain dies, the derbfhine of the family have to meet to confirm the tanist, the heir-elect, as chieftain and appoint a new tanist to the chieftainship. Only an heir-elect would benefit and so they would be the first to be suspect. No; it is rarely possible for someone to be murdered for their office.’

  ‘The derbfhine?’ queried Eadulf. ‘I have forgotten what that consists of?’

  ‘Three generations of the chieftain’s family who elect one among them as the tanist and confirm the new chieftain in office.’

  ‘Isn’t it easier that the oldest male child inherit?’

  ‘I know the way you Saxons deal with inheritance. We prefer that the person best qualified become chieftain rather than an idiot, chosen simply because they are the eldest son of their father,’ declared Fidelma.

  She looked across the valley and pointed.

  ‘That must be the rath of the chieftain.’

  Eadulf knew that a rath was a fortification but the group of buildings in the distance, some almost hidden among several tall beeches with their new brilliant green leaves, and several still flowering yews, was not a fortress. Yet the buildings were quite extensive, like a large village. Eadulf had seen many powerful chieftains living in stone built fortresses, in his travels in the five kingdoms, but this rath had the appearance of just wooden farm buildings and cabins. Looking more closely, he could see a few stone buildings among them, one of which was obviously the chapel of Cill Uird. He could also see, close by the chapel, a large round stone construction which he presumed was the chieftain’s assembly hall.

  His expression must have shown his surprise for Fidelma explained: ‘This is farming country. The people of Araglin have the mountains as their protection. In turn they are a small community which threatens no one so there has probably never been a need to build a fortress to defend them against enemies. Nevertheless, in politeness we call a place where a chieftain dwells his rath.’

  She nudged her horse forward and started down the mountain slope towards the valley bottom, towards the distant river and the rath of the chieftain of Araglin.

  The track led across an open stretch of country running down the hillside. By the side of it stood a tall cross of carved granite. It stood nearly eighteen feet in height. Eadulf halted his horse and gazed up at the cross in admiration.

  ‘I have never seen anything like this before,’ he observed with a degree of awe which caused Fidelma to glance at him in amusement.

  It was true that there were few such spectacular, high crosses in the kingdom. Its carved grey stone depicted scenes from the gospels, picked out in bright painted colours. Eadulf could identify the scene of the Fall from Grace, Moses smiting the Rock, the Last Judgment, the Crucifixion and other incidents. The summit of the cross was shaped as a shingle roofed church with gable finials. Carved at the base were the words ‘Oroit do Eoghan lasdernad inn Chros’ – a prayer for Eoghan by whom the cross was made.

  ‘A spectacular border mark for such a small community,’ Eadulf observed.

  ‘A small but rich community,’ Fidelma corrected dryly, nudging her horse to continue its passage along the road.

  It was noon when they grew near the rath. A boy, herding cattle, stopped to stare at them with open-mouthed interest as they passed. A man busy hoeing out the hairy pepperwort that had invaded his cereal crop paused and leant on his hoe, regarding them curiously as they rode by. At least, unlike the boy, he gave them a cheery greeting and received Fidelma’s blessing in return. Dogs began to bark from the buildings ahead of them and a couple of hounds ran out towards them, yelping as they came but not threateningly so.

  A well-constructed bridge of oak crossed the swiftly flowing river to the rath on the far bank. Now that they had come closer to the rath, Eadulf observed that between the river and the buildings there had once been a large earthen bank that encircled the buildings, though it was now overgrown with grass and brush, almost part of the verdant fields around. There were several sheep grazing in its depression. It showed that the buildings had once, long ago, been fortified. Now they were surrounded by wicker walls, interlaced pieces of hazel wood which, Eadulf guessed, were more to keep out roaming wolves or wild pigs than any human aggressor. A large gate in the wicker fence stood wide open.

  The hooves of their horses struck hollowly on the wooden planking of the bridge as they crossed the river. They started up the short track to the gates.

  A figure emerged between the gates; a muscular man yet beyond his middle years, with sword and shield, and a well-cut black beard flecked with silver, who stood in the middle of the path and regarded them with narrowed speculative dark eyes but with no hostile expression on his features.

/>   ‘If you come in peace there is a welcome before you at this place,’ he greeted them ritually.

  ‘We bring God’s blessing to this place,’ returned Fidelma. ‘Is this the rath of the chieftain of Araglin?’

  ‘That it is.’

  ‘Then we wish to see the chieftain.’

  ‘Eber is dead,’ replied the man, flatly.

  ‘This we have already learnt. It is to his successor, the tanist, that we come.’

  The warrior hesitated and then said: ‘Follow me. You will find the tanist in the hall of assembly.’

  He turned and led the way through the gates directly towards the large round stone structure. The doors of the building faced straight onto the open gates and had obviously been positioned for a purpose. No visitor to the rath could avoid it. It had been designed to impress. And, as if to add to the importance of the building, the stump of what must have been a great oak tree stood to one side of its main door. Even foreshortened, it stood twelve feet high and the top of it constituted a delicately carved cross. Even Eadulf knew enough of the customs of the country to realise that this was the ancient totem of the clan, its crann betha or tree of life, which symbolised the moral and material well-being of the people. He had heard that sometimes, if disputes arose between the clans, then the worst thing that could happen would be a raid by the opposing clan to cut down or burn their rivals’ sacred tree. Such an act would demoralise the people and cause their rivals to claim victory over them.

  There was a wooden hitching post nearby. Fidelma and Eadulf slid from their horses and secured them. Several people within the rath had paused in their work or errands and stood examining the two religious with idle curiosity.

  ‘We do not often get strangers in Araglin,’ the warrior remarked, as if he felt the urge to explain the behaviour of his fellows. ‘We are a simple farming community, not often troubled by the cares of the outside world.’

  Fidelma felt no reply was needed.

  The complex of buildings spoke of prosperity. They spread in a great semi-circle behind the stone building of the hall of assembly. There were stables and barns, a mill and a dovecot. Beyond these was a perimeter of several small wooden cabins and domestic dwellings which constituted a medium-sized village not to mention the house of the chieftain and his family. Fidelma mentally calculated that some dozen families must dwell in the rath of Araglin. Most impressive was the chapel, standing next to the assembly hall, with its dry stone and elegant structure. This, Fidelma noted, must be the church of Father Gormán called Cill Uird, the church of ritual.