Peter Tremayne - Atonement of Blood

‘No one at all? No one from the distant past — any relative, friend or acquaintance?’

‘No one. Truly, sister — the name means nothing to me.’

Fidelma leaned over the figure on the bed and took one of his hands for a moment.

‘Rest well, little thorn,’ she told him. ‘Do not worry about anything. Just concentrate on getting better.’

Colgú gasped, ‘I’ll do my best, sister.’

Outside Colgú’s chambers, Fidelma greeted Eadulf with a disappointed shake of her head before he could ask the question.

‘The name meant nothing to him,’ she said.

‘Then it becomes a mystery. Why would a man attempt to assassinate someone, knowing full well that he was likely to be killed in the process, while shouting a name in justification when it meant nothing to anyone?’

‘The name meant something to the assassin,’ Fidelma replied.

‘Well, of course it would, but-’

‘Perhaps it was meant for the assassin’s own understanding and no one else’s,’ Fidelma interrupted. ‘It was a justification to himself.’

‘That is very deep.’

‘There is nothing so deep as a disturbed mind.’

‘Well, it does not help us discover who or why.’ Eadulf glanced at the drifting clouds through a nearby window. ‘We should make a search of the town for the assassin’s horse, but …’

She heard the hesitation in his voice. ‘But?’ she prompted.

‘We did promise little Alchú to take him riding.’

Fidelma sighed in annoyance. She had not forgotten but was hoping that Eadulf had.

‘Can you explain the situation to Nessán while I go on ahead to the town to make enquiries at the inn?’ she asked.

Eadulf shook his head. ‘It is Alchú who will stand in need of the explanation, not Nessán,’ he said firmly.

For a moment Fidelma looked as if she were about to argue and then she shrugged.

‘Come on, then.’

‘Lady! Eadulf! Wait!’

They turned at the urgent call. Gormán came hurrying along the corridor towards them.

‘I’ve just come from my mother’s house. She has some interesting information that might help identify the assassin.’

Fidelma stared at the young warrior in astonishment.

‘Is Della well?’ she asked immediately. Gormán’s mother had become a friend to Fidelma. She had once been an outcast, a bé-táide or prostitute, whom Fidelma had successfully represented when she had been raped. Her defence demonstrated that the law allowed protection for prostitutes if they did not consent to the sexual act. Della had then given up her way of life but Fidelma had had to defend her again — this time from a charge of murder. It was then that Della had admitted she was the mother of the young warrior Gormán.

‘My mother is in good health,’ Gormán reassured her. ‘It is about the speculation that the assassin might have left his horse in the town last night. I think you should both come with me.’

Fidelma glanced at Eadulf. She had no need to articulate the question.

Eadulf shrugged. ‘ Primum prima — first things first. We will return to give young Alchú his riding lesson later, but first we must hear what Della has to say.’

Della’s house was on the western side of the township that spread below the Rock of Cashel, on which the palace of the Kings of Muman arose, dominating the surrounding plains. Her home was set a little apart from the others with outbuildings and a paddock at the rear. The paddock led onto larger fields and an area of dense woodland, stretching to the south. As they approached, a large dog came bounding out of the house, barking noisily until Gormán called to it sharply. Then it gave one or two short barks and stood with its tail wagging. It was a fairly large animal, what many called a leith-choin or half-dog — a cross between a wolfhound and something else. Perhaps a terrier in this case.

Alerted by the dog, Della came to stand at her door. A small woman of forty years of age, her maturity had not dimmed the youthfulness of her features nor the golden abundance of her hair. She was clad in a close-fitting robe that flattered her figure, revealing that her hips had not broadened and her limbs were still shapely.

Della was clearly anxious as she greeted them. ‘What is the news of your poor brother, the King?’

‘Colgú lives, but is poorly. The next few days are crucial,’ Fidelma replied. ‘But is all well with you, Della?’

‘I am well, lady, but mystified,’ she said. ‘Has my son explained?’ She glanced at Gormán.

‘Best if we hear it from your mouth,’ returned Fidelma solemnly.

‘Of course. Yet it is not so much what I can tell as what I can show you.’

She walked past them, beckoning them to follow, and turned around the back of the buildings towards the paddock. There, she pointed. A couple of horses were in the small field. One of them Fidelma recognised as Della’s own workhorse; she had often seen it harnessed to a small fén or cart. The cart was a solid-wheel affair because spoke-wheels were expensive. Della was of a frugal disposition in spite of her son’s position in the King’s bodyguard.

It was the second animal that caught her attention. Taller and sturdier than the other horse, it was a well-muscled hunter that a warrior might ride, grey in colour but with white legs above the hocks.

‘I presume that is not your horse?’ Fidelma said.

Della made a face. ‘Would that it were, lady. That animal would fetch a good price. Or my son might have a pride in riding it.’

Gormán shifted his weight impatiently. ‘The truth is that my mother found it in our paddock this morning and in view of what has happened …’

Fidelma had already moved to the paddock gate; she swung up and over it with impressive agility, and went towards the animal. It stood docile enough, although its ears went back and its nostrils inflated as she approached. Eadulf had followed her to the gate, concern showing on his face. He was not a good horseman.

Catching his anxiety, Gormán said quietly, ‘Do not concern yourself, friend Eadulf. That breed is usually quiet and intelligent, and the lady Fidelma is a good horsewoman. She will not disturb it.’

Fidelma came to the animal, reached forward without hesitation and petted its muzzle, allowing it to smell her hand while examining her with its large soulful eyes. She spoke softly to it. Eadulf was too far away to hear the words — if, indeed, they were words and not just the musical rise and fall of her voice. Then, still speaking, Fidelma began to move around the beast, patting its strong shoulders, but being careful not to go near its hindquarters, where many a nervous kick had injured the unwary. It stood patiently. When she turned and began to walk back to the paddock gate, the horse ambled after her.

‘Do you have an apple, Della?’ she called.

Della nodded and hurried back to her house where, on the porch, there was a small barrel. She withdrew an apple, went back to the gate and handed it to Fidelma. The horse gently took it from her outstretched palm.

‘There is nothing to identify the beast,’ Gormán commented. ‘I could see no marks of ownership.’

‘There is certainly nothing that I can see,’ affirmed Fidelma.

‘If that is the horse that the assassin arrived on, and he abandoned it here, then he must have found a dry place to store the saddle and his clothes and change them before making his way to the palace,’ Eadulf suggested.

Della was shaking her head. ‘We looked through the outbuildings and found nothing.’

‘Did you hear anything last evening? No sound of restless horses? The paddock is near your house. No barking of your dog?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘And you were here yesterday afternoon and evening?’