23- The Seventh Trumpet Read online

  Eadulf suddenly turned to Fidelma in a burst of excitement. ‘I have just realised! Saer said that he saw a good stallion running wild upon the heath. It could have been the missing horse of the murdered envoy.’

  ‘It could,’ she said. ‘However, we now have other matters to concern—Wait! Someone is approaching.’

  A cart, being pulled by an ass, was creaking round a bend in the road ahead of them. Seated on a pile of sacking and cursing volubly at the animal straining in the shafts was a fat, balding man, whose dress proclaimed him as a merchant. The back of the cart was filled with farm produce and sacks of wheat and corn. He eased on the reins as he approached them.

  ‘Are you bound for Durlus?’ He greeted them with an apprehensive smile, having noticed Gormán’s weapons. Lone merchants travelling on isolated roads so late in the day sometimes had reason to be ill at ease. ‘You’ll not make it before sunset.’

  ‘We are aware of the position of the sun,’ replied Gormán dryly. ‘Have you seen any other travellers on this road?’

  ‘Only a few,’ said the man, realising that the warrior’s party were not dressed as he imagined bandits might be, and thereby relaxing a little. ‘A lady and her companion stopped me earlier and asked where they could find a boatman to transport them to Imleach. Of course, I said the river didn’t go there and it was best to get to An Ghabhailín, the fork of the river, and—’

  The fat merchant was garrulous but Fidelma interrupted him. ‘A lady and her companion? From what direction were they travelling?’

  ‘Coming from the south, as you are.’

  Fidelma glanced at Eadulf in surprise. ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Some time after midday,’ the man said with a shrug.

  ‘After midday? But that is a long time ago,’ Gormán pointed out suspiciously.

  ‘Indeed, that was before I pulled off the highway to Cill Locha. I had some trading to do there. I have only just rejoined the highway to the south but I am not going to make even Fedach Glas’s tavern before dark. I wanted to be in Cashel before sun-up.’

  ‘The man and woman,’ Fidelma said musingly. ‘They were looking for a boat to take them to An Ghabhailín … Where would they get that from?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Hard to say, and they would have had to abandon their horses. No boats are going to take horses downriver. As a matter of fact, I suggested that they might try Mugrón’s tavern …’

  ‘That is where I was suggesting we might halt, lady,’ Gormán intervened. ‘It’s a ferry crossing on the Suir. We have to leave this highway and take a small track to the west.’

  The merchant nodded. ‘You have the place correct. The lady did not seem happy and I think that she would have preferred to travel on to Durlus. But I’d be surprised if those two were able to pick up a boat today. Even if they abandoned their horses, they will find little traffic on the river. There is some festival or other, I think, which most boatmen are attending. Anyway, I left them to the joys of the day.’

  Fidelma was thinking. ‘How long ago was it that you say you directed this woman and man to Mugrón’s tavern?’

  ‘Oh, it was quite a while ago.’ He suddenly chuckled. ‘As I said, I had to go to Cill Locha. I trade with the farmer there. Funny thing …’ He paused with a smile and shook his head.

  ‘What is funny?’ demanded Eadulf.

  ‘Well, I had only just rejoined this highway, a short while ago, when a religieux on horseback came riding up behind me. He asked if I had seen a man and woman on horseback, saying that they were friends and he wanted to catch up with them. He described them and so I told him what I have told you.’

  ‘A religieux on horseback?’ queried Eadulf, trying to suppress his excitement. He gave the man a brief description of Brother Biasta and Enda’s stolen horse, but the merchant shook his head.

  ‘That wasn’t the man or the horse, which was a roan mare. This man was young, had black hair and features that were best worn with a scowl. A curious fellow. He turned and made off back northwards at a gallop. When I watched from the brow of the hill, I saw him miss the turning along the track leading to Mugrón’s tavern.’

  They watched in silence as the merchant cracked his reins and his cart trundled off down the road. Then Fidelma smiled at Eadulf’s disappointment. ‘The merchant did say that when he turned back on to the highway and was heading south, this religieux came up behind him. So the man came south along this highway and was not riding north as Biasta was.’

  Eadulf heaved a sigh. ‘Well, we might be in luck in catching up with the mysterious couple who stayed with Brother Ailgesach.’

  The sun had sunk completely below the western mountains, and twilight was spreading long dark shadows from the east by the time they heard and saw the rippling waters of the Suir. The great river rose on the slopes of the mountain of Beanán Éile to the north-east and pushed in a great semi-circular route through the kingdom, around Cashel itself, almost in the shape of the blade of a sickle before joining two other great rivers, the Bhearú and the Fheoir, in one giant estuary which emptied into the sea beyond. Merchants used the river for trading, bringing large vessels as far up as the ‘honey fields’ south of Cashel, while smaller vessels could navigate the river as far as Durlus Éile. It was in the Suir that Fidelma had learned to swim with her elder brother and where they both had learned to fish for brown trout and salmon.

  On a bend of this river, in the gloom of the early evening, they could see a group of wooden buildings, one of which had the outline of a chapel. The others seemed to be a curious mixture of half-finished living cabins. They slowed their horses to walking pace as they approached.

  ‘Curious,’ observed Gormán, peering around.

  ‘What is?’ asked Fidelma. ‘Apart from the fact that this place looks unfinished.’

  ‘That is just it, lady. This is Mugrón’s tavern. When I was here last time, it was a substantial building with a flourishing business.’

  It was Eadulf who had been sniffing the air and who finally pointed beyond one of the newer buildings. ‘There has been a fire here. It looks as though part of this place was burned down.’

  They moved forward cautiously and examined the buildings. Now they came closer, the signs of fire were obvious. None of the buildings had escaped and not one possessed a complete roof. The structures that had once housed the tavern and quarters for the guests and horses were certainly unusable. They could now see the ash covering a lot of the site. Even the chapel was derelict.

  ‘Is this recent?’ Eadulf asked.

  Gormán regarded the remains with a keen eye before answering. ‘I’d say it was fairly recent. No longer than a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Someone careless with their cooking fire?’ mused Eadulf. Such accidents were not unknown among these types of wooden buildings, especially in the dry summer months. But no one bothered to answer him.

  ‘Talking of fire …’ Gormán was pointing towards the remains of another derelict building further down by the riverbank. A plume of smoke was rising into the darkening sky behind it.

  The warrior dropped a hand to his sword-hilt and nudged his horse gently forward. The others followed him without speaking. Turning the corner of the ruined structure they came on to the bank of the river, a broad area of flat grass looking almost as if it were cultivated. The object that held their attention was a small fire – a cooking fire, for above it was placed an old iron firedog on which a large brown trout was gently roasting. There was no one by it, but signs showed that someone was nearby. A platter lay on the ground ready. There was a kettle of water in which two more brown trout were immersed. And they could see a wooden board on which someone had cleaned the fish before putting it on the spit.

  Gormán eased his sword from its sheath and glanced swiftly about him.

  Then a voice cut through the silence. It came from a copse, beyond an area of undergrowth a short distance along the bank. It was a man’s baritone, raised in melancholy song.

  ‘Dark
and grim is this life

  No soft bed to lie on.

  Just the cold, frosty earth

  And the harsh, icy wind.

  Even the birds now refuse me their song

  In the shade of the cold, unfriendly sun …’

  The voice suddenly halted as the singer appeared through the bushes, his hands full of green shoots and fungi which he had apparently been gathering.

  He was a young man with a mass of fair, curly hair, blue eyes and regular features. The tumble of hair came to his shoulders, where it mingled with a full beard which, unlike his hair, was well trimmed and combed. While his clothing was somewhat worn, it was of good quality and one would have pronounced him a person of quality even though he wore no jewellery or emblems to mark his clan or rank.

  He stood still, gazing up at them, noting their clothing and Gormán’s half-drawn weapon.

  ‘No need for a sword, warrior,’ the young man greeted him. Then he moved forward, ignoring them, to put down his forage by the cooking fire, before turning to face them again. ‘Welcome, strangers, to my poor fire. You are all welcome to share my frugal meal.’

  ‘Frugal?’ sniffed Eadulf, indicating the large brown trout on the spit and the two others in the kettle.

  ‘I admit I have been lucky with the trout that obligingly leaped from the river on to my hook,’ laughed the man. ‘But apart from that, I can offer little else, not even a jug of ale.’

  ‘How long have you been encamped here?’ snapped Gormán, his hand still on his sword.

  ‘Since late afternoon,’ replied the young man, lifting an eyebrow slightly at the tone in the warrior’s voice. ‘Have I offended anyone by doing so?’

  ‘No one that I am aware of,’ replied Fidelma. ‘We just wondered how came you here. I see no sign of a horse other than our own mounts.’

  ‘That is because I travel on foot, lady.’ He pointed to his feet. ‘I have to confess that it is not by preference but by necessity. I came here expecting to find a boat to take me downriver, not a deserted tavern and chapel. So I am stuck here for the night until I can find a better means of transport.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone else around here?’ enquired Fidelma.

  ‘You are the first people I have seen since I arrived.’

  ‘You have not noticed a couple, a man and woman on horseback?’ When the man shook his head, she pressed: ‘Nor a religieux, also on horseback?’

  The young man pointed to Eadulf with a broad smile. ‘Do you mean other than this one?’ Then, seeing Fidelma’s scowl he immediately assumed a more serious expression. ‘No, I have not. Why are you looking for them?’

  ‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,’ Fidelma suggested. ‘What is your name?’

  The young man turned his blue eyes on her. ‘You seem very curious about these people,’ he countered, ignoring her question. ‘Does something concern you?’

  ‘Your name!’ rapped out Gormán, his eyes narrowing and his sword hand tensed.

  The young man held up his hand, palm outwards. ‘Hold hard, I am not hiding my name. It is … Torna.’

  ‘And where do you come from, Torna?’ Fidelma asked, hearing the slight hesitation before he gave his name.

  The young man shrugged. ‘I am from an insignificant clan to the north and am merely following this river as I believe it will take me to the rich townships of the King of Muman.’

  ‘And why would you wish to go there?’ said Fidelma.

  ‘Because I am told that the King is appreciative of good verse and will be generous to a wandering bard.’

  Fidelma smiled, perhaps a little grimly. ‘And are you a wandering bard, Torna? Do you have good verses to sell?’

  ‘Modesty prevents me from boasting but since you ask, lady, my verses are well regarded.’

  ‘Well, you bear a good name for a bard. Torna Eigeas’s verses are still sung today while he lived long ago.’

  ‘As I say, modesty forbids me from comparing myself to such a noble ancestor.’

  ‘That is wise,’ Eadulf observed dryly. ‘Because someone’s ancestor did something well, it does not mean that they are just as good.’ He had taken a dislike to the young man’s attitude.

  The young man flushed. ‘Are you a philosopher, my Saxon friend?’

  ‘Neither philosopher nor Saxon,’ replied Eadulf curtly. ‘I am an Angle.’

  ‘Angle or Saxon, they are both the same,’ dismissed the young bard. Eadulf knew that in the eyes of the peoples of the west, this was true and he would never change their opinion. Now and then, when irritated, he would still try to correct them.

  Fidelma was dismounting, with Gormán and Eadulf following her example.

  ‘Well, Torna the Bard, I am Fidelma of Cashel. This is my husband, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, and this is Gormán of my brother’s bodyguard.’

  Torna’s eyes widened. ‘Then you are related to the King of Muman?’

  ‘I am his sister.’

  ‘Then forgive my manners, lady. I did not expect to meet with such exalted company on this riverbank.’

  Fidelma indicated the roasting spit. ‘I think your fish might be in need of attention.’

  The young man hurriedly removed the trout and placed the other fish on the spit in its place. Gormán took their mounts and tethered them nearby while Fidelma found a log for a seat and continued her conversation.

  ‘So you are a wandering bard intent on selling your songs in Cashel?’

  ‘That I am, lady.’

  ‘Why did you stop here?’

  ‘I was told in Durlus Éile that there was a chapel and a tavern at this spot where I could get a boat to take me downriver. When I reached here I found the place deserted, indeed, most of it burned down. Nor were there signs of passing boats on the river. I could have carried on by foot, but I was not sure how far I would have to go, to find another place to sell my poems for a night’s repose. Nor did I think it wise to travel down unknown roads in darkness. So I decided that I would wait until daylight before journeying on.’

  Gormán had returned and was looking at the young man with a suspicious gaze. He glanced at Fidelma and said: ‘You may want to check your horse, lady, to ensure that it is tethered correctly.’

  When Fidelma joined him at the spot where the horses were tethered, he whispered: ‘I have done a thorough check, lady. There is no sign of any other horses, nor of a woman or a religieux. Perhaps they all moved north when they saw this place was ruined and deserted. Even so, I do not trust this one.’ He indicated the poet with a slight movement of his eyes.

  ‘Well, we will have to spend the night here anyway,’ she replied. ‘Continue to be watchful.’

  When they returned to the fire, Gormán asked the young poet: ‘If you were travelling south along the river, then you would surely have passed a ferryman’s cabin a short distance up from here. Why didn’t you stop there? He might have known of a boat going south.’

  ‘Had I been coming along the river then I might have done so,’ returned the young man easily. ‘However, I tried a short cut across land at the place where the river bends. I must have missed the ferryman’s place.’

  Gormán frowned. ‘Then how did you know it was a short cut?’ he demanded.

  The young man chuckled. ‘You are a very suspicious person, my friend. I did not know it was a short cut until a farmer advised me to take it.’

  ‘How far have you come?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘North of Sliabh Bladhma,’ he replied, indicating the direction where a group of mountains formed the northern border of her brother’s kingdom. ‘I decided to see what fortune held for me in the Kingdom of the Eóghanacht.’

  The young man then returned to his cooking. He bent over his fish again and began to put the cooked fish on to wooden platters that he had produced.

  ‘I found the jug and platters here and cleaned them up as best as I could,’ he explained as he set the dishes. ‘The water is fresh and clean, for there is a little spring on the rise behind those tree
s. Probably that was the reason why this tavern was built here. It is such a beautiful spot. A pity it has been destroyed.’

  With the fish and the mixture of herbs and fungi, he put pieces of dry bread, taken from his bag that lay nearby, on the platters. These platters he distributed, and then he also passed round an earthenware jug full of water, apologising for the fact that it did not contain ale.

  ‘We are grateful for your hospitality, Torna,’ Fidelma acknowledged on behalf of her companions, as they spread their cloaks around the fire. There was a contented silence as they fell to eating, hardly noticing the change from twilight to darkness.

  ‘Why do you seek these people?’ Torna suddenly asked, re-opening the conversation. ‘I mean this man and woman?’

  ‘To ask them some questions,’ replied Fidelma shortly.

  Torna was interested. ‘To question them?’ he asked, inflecting the word. ‘That sounds ominous. About what?’

  ‘That is not your business,’ Gormán said firmly, and added with a note of pride: ‘Fidelma of Cashel is a dálaigh, an advocate of the law.’

  Torna’s eyes widened. ‘Fidelma of Cashel – of course! I should have known the name. Fidelma, sister to King Colgú. I have heard you spoken of as a great lawyer, lady. When Sechnussach, the High King, was murdered in his bed, were you not asked to solve the riddle of his death?’

  ‘I was,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘And Eadulf and Gormán were with me.’ The last thing she wanted to talk about was her own experiences and so she decided to deflect the conversation, since it seemed clear that the young man had no information of consequence to give them. ‘But what stories have you collected on your journeys? What songs? Sing us a good song and I will commend you to my brother, so that you may earn your keep.’

  ‘That would be truly welcome, lady. But what songs would you like? Songs of adventure, of love, of visions, of inescapable fate or of battles? I have a whole repertoire that I can sing.’

  ‘Let us have something new. Let’s hear one of your own songs.’ She turned to Gormán. ‘Stoke up the fire and we will hear our young poet.’