Peter Tremayne - The Devil's seal

The three horsemen halted their mounts on the hillside and gazed down into the river valley. Below them, an expanse of trees formed a barrier between the hills and the broad, sedately flowing river to the south. The scene was a patchwork of greens, yellows and browns depending on the varied species and condition of the arboreal canopy and its foliage. The trees were mainly broad-trunk oaks, with their massive crooked branches and spreading crowns. Here and there were blackthorns, with tough yellow wood and long cruel thorns; and then appeared grey-brown rowans and even willows. They all crowded together, pressing towards the river as if seeking its nourishing waters.

The day was unusually warm for the time of year. Patches of blue with hazy sunlight appeared now and then behind the slow-moving grey-white clouds. For what was supposed to be the darkest days of the year, it was pleasantly light and mild.

The three riders were young men, warriors by their style of dress and weapons, and each wore the distinctive golden necklet that denoted that they were members of the élite bodyguard of the King of Muman, the most south-westerly and largest of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann. Their leader, Gormán, leaned forward and patted his horse on its neck. His eyes glanced quickly to the east and then, as if following the sun, which had drifted behind the clouds, moved westwards. He finally gave a satisfied nod.

‘We will be at the Field of Honey long before sundown,’ he announced to his companions. Cluain Meala, the Field of Honey, was a settlement further to the west, on the northern bank of the river called the Siúr whose waters lay before them. ‘We’ll stay there and ride on to Cashel tomorrow.’

‘I shan’t be sorry to get home,’ sighed one of his companions. He glanced nervously back in the direction from which they had come, back to where the hills rose to a dark, impressive mountain.

The leader chuckled as he caught the young man’s expression. ‘Did you expect to be enchanted by the women of the Otherworld while we were crossing the mountain, Enda?’

‘All very well for you, Gormán,’ replied the other indignantly, ‘but the old stories are often true ones.’

‘So you really believe that Fionn Mac Cumhaill and his warriors were enchanted by women of the Otherworld as they crossed the mountain?’ enquired Gormán, his tone edged with derision.

‘Is it not called Sliabh na mBan — the Mountain of Women?’ protested Enda. ‘And the entrance to the underground sanctuary of the Otherworld women is known to be located near its summit.’

The third member of the party interrupted with a snort of exasperation. ‘Stories for the campfire! If we grew cautious when approaching the site of every weird tale, we would never move from our own thresholds. Anyway, we’ve crossed the mountain without problems, so there’s no need to worry about Otherworld entities now. Let us move on, for the sooner we get to the Field of Honey, the sooner we can relax over a beaker of corma , a good meal and a bright fire.’

‘Dego is right,’ agreed Gormán. He was about to nudge his horse forward when a sudden cacophony of bird cries caused him to glance across the tree-tops towards the river. His keen eyes caught a rising circle of alarmed birds in the distance.

‘Something has startled them,’ muttered Enda, following his gaze.

‘Birds are always being startled,’ Dego said indifferently. ‘Maybe a wolf or a fox has taken its prey.’

Gormán did not bother to comment further but led his companions down the hillside into the woods below. He knew the narrow track which descended towards the river. It was not long before the trees gave way to scrubland and then stretches of sedges and reeds which lined the banks of the broad river. They walked their horses westward, becoming aware, as they did so, of the still-wheeling birds ahead of them. Now and then, black-headed Reed Buntings went skimming by, barely above the level of the water, with a frightened repetitive cry. Gormán could pick out the hoarse, laughing chatter of magpies, as they fluttered against the cloudy sky above them. Then his eyes narrowed. Among the wheeling birds were large black ones with diamond-shaped tails.

‘Ravens!’ he muttered. His tone indicated his dislike of the creatures, for ravens were the symbols of death and battle; evil carrion which were said to feed off the corpses of the slain.

‘Some creature must have been killed, as Dego said,’ Enda observed. ‘That is probably why the birds were making such a noise. And now the eaters of dead flesh have come to claim their share of the kill.’

They had been moving at a walking pace along the northern bank of the river and now, as the water course made a slight bend, they could see what it was that had alarmed the birds.

Gormán was not alone in catching his breath and sharply drawing rein.

Four corpses lay sprawled on the river bank among scattered items of clothing, remains of burned papers and other detritus. Nearby, not even secured to the bank, was a sercenn , a river craft with a single sail which, if the wind and current were contrary, was hauled in so that ramha or oars could be used to propel it. Now the sail hung limp and torn, and one of the oars, smashed and splintered, was floating in the water beside the boat.

Misfortune had certainly overcome the occupants of the craft. Two of the corpses were clad in leather jerkins and had the appearance of boatmen. One had bloody wounds to the skull while the other, who lay face down, had an arrow still impaled between his shoulderblades.

Gormán’s mouth tightened as he realised that the other two corpses were clad in the torn and bloody robes of religious.

Enda and Dego had already unsheathed their swords and were peering cautiously around them, ready to respond to any threatening danger.

Gormán shook his head. ‘It must have happened when we first heard the noise of the birds. The attackers are long gone.’

The heavy black ravens had withdrawn a little at the men’s approach but remained watching them with unblinking malignancy. As the three riders had made no aggressive moves towards them, they had begun to edge back towards the corpses. With a sudden shout, Gormán jumped from his horse and picked up a few loose stones, which he threw at the birds. They retreated with a flapping of their dark wings to a safe distance, and then stopped to stare back at the creatures that had come between them and their food. They were obviously not to be removed so easily from the prospect of a meal.

Enda joined Gormán in surveying the scene. Dego had descended and stood holding the horses’ reins, watching as his companions examined the bodies.

‘Robbers?’ he asked morosely.

‘It would seem so,’ replied Gormán. ‘If there was anything valuable in this boat, then they have taken it.’ He dropped to one knee by the corpse of one of the two religious. ‘The crucifix that this one was wearing has been removed by force.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘A little trick the lady Fidelma taught me. Observation. See that weal on the neck? That would have been caused when the thieves tore off the crucifix. What else would a religieux be wearing around the neck but a crucifix?’

‘Who was he? Someone local?’ asked Enda, staring down at the corpse.