Peter Tremayne - Dancing With Demons

The hostel-keeper was in agreement.

‘In the morning, I shall send my sons to acquaint my chieftain with this news and see that men are sent to give burial to those unfortunates.’

‘That is good.’ Fidelma smiled briefly in thanks.

‘You mentioned that you have heard of similar raids in the west,’ Eadulf pressed. ‘What is known about these robbers — these dibergach, as you call them? Who are they and who is their leader?’

The man shrugged. ‘I only hear stories from passing travellers like yourselves. No one knows who they are — perhaps they are escaped hostages, daer-fuidir — the unfree ones who have committed great offence to their clans and should rightly be working to restore their rights and freedoms. Perhaps they have banded together to live a life without the law. That is all we know. However, the fact that they are raiding on the Plain of Nuada is worrying news.’

There was not much else to learn from the hosteller and so, after they had eaten and refreshed themselves, they retired to bed so they could be up again at first light. The hosteller and his sons, the young men who worked as stable lads, had their horses already saddled and waiting by the time the small party had broken their fast and were ready to leave. Inthese public hostels, food and beds were provided free for up to three days, as part of the obligations of hospitality on a local chieftain. After three days, another arrangement had to be reached between guests and host. They left with the further assurance from the hosteller that he would take care of the bodies of the slain religious.

The final day’s riding was easy. It was a bright morning with pale blue skies and a pastel sun. However, a chilly wind was blowing from the north almost directly into their faces. They rode north-east along the banks of the great River Bóinn for a while and, while it was still daylight, they came within sight of the distant hills over which spread the great walled complex of the palace of the High Kings at Tara.

The highway had led over several rivers and streams, for the stately Bóinn was fed by a myriad of such watery arteries rising in the surrounding high ground. Now, within a few kilometres of Tara, Fidelma remembered there was one more crossing through a marshy area in which the waters were like a spidery web that finally emerged into the Bóinn, which lay some long distance away on their left. Indeed, it came back to her that the last river was called the Scaine from the word that meant a cleaving or dispersal. But she knew that the bridges and the road to Tara were good and well-kept so the journey should be straightforward.

They moved downward through wooded country and emerged onto the banks of a small stretch of water. A well-constructed wooden bridge led across it into more thickly wooded countryside which consisted of close growing evergreens so that the onset of winter had not dispelled the darkness of the forest behind.

‘The hills of Tara rise behind this stretch of trees,’ Fidelma informed her companions with some relief. ‘We can rest soon.’

As she led the way onto the bridge, Fidelma suddenly noticed a crouching figure who appeared to be washing something in the river on the far bank, close by the end of the bridge. It appeared to be a bent-backed old woman in torn clothing and a wild mess of once-white hair. A poor old country-woman washing some clothes, was the thought that came to mind.

She had almost reached the far bank when the crouching figure straightened a little and gazed at her. A bony white arm protruded from the ragged clothing and a finger pointed directly towards Fidelma.

‘Be warned, Fidelma of Cashel,’ came a sharp voice, almost like a screech. ‘You are not welcome in Midhe.’

Fidelma was so surprised that she jerked the reins of her horse anddrew up sharply, causing some consternation among her companions. She gazed at the dishevelled figure, frowning.

‘Do you address me, old woman?’ she asked.

There was a rasping sound that Fidelma realised was meant as laughter.

‘Is there another Fidelma of Cashel, another who is a Sister of the Usurping Faith that blights our land? Be warned, I say, and return from whence you came.’

Caol had clapped a hand to his sword but Fidelma motioned him to be still.

‘You know my name, old woman. May I know yours?’

There came another cackle from the crone. ‘Who would sit at Ath na Foraire, the Ford of Watching, but the watcher herself?’ came the reply.

Eadulf noticed that his companion Gormán had shivered slightly but he could not see the features of Fidelma and Caol, whose horses were in front of him and now standing motionless on the bridge. Clearly this meant something to Gormán and he was about to ask for an explanation when Fidelma replied, quietly addressing the old woman: ‘And does the watcher have a name?’

‘Some have called me Badb,’ came the croaking response.

To Eadulf’s ear the name sounded like ‘bave’. It meant nothing to him, but at his side he heard Gormán groan a little.

Fidelma’s voice was light and bantering. ‘Are you claiming to be the hooded raven of battles, old one? The goddess Badb who delights in setting one person against the other, incites armies to fight each other so that she may delight in the slaughter and haunt the battlefields for lost souls? I declare, I never thought to meet so distinguished an entity. So you call yourself Badb?’

‘Your mind is reputed to be sharp, Fidelma of Muman. You clearly heard me say that some have called me so, therefore it is pointless trying to match your wits with mine in an attempt to irritate me.’

Fidelma’s voice was still bantering. ‘Well, old one, why am I not welcome in Midhe?’

‘You come seeking a solution to the death of Sechnussach. You will not find the truth, I tell you. There will be no peace in this land until all you of the New Faith have given up this heresy and returned to the Old Faith and the gods and goddesses of the time before Time began. You must welcome them back into your hearts and lives. When the great Cauldron of Murias is brought to the Hill of Uisnech, the navel of the world, when the sacred stone of Falias, the mighty sword of Gorias and the great RedJavelin of Finias are once more together, then shall the Children of Danú, Mother Goddess, reign supreme again over their people. It will be soon, for the Wheel of Destiny is found. The White One has spoken of these things and she speaks the truth.’

Fidelma and her companions sat spellbound by the old woman’s chanting tones. As she spoke, the crone seemed to rise up so that her hunched back was almost straight, her voice still rasping but powerful.

‘Turn back across the bridge and return to the land which your brother rules and take this message to him: “Return to the Old Faith before it is too late, for the path you are taking leads to the destruction of the peoples of the five kingdoms, and foreign kings will take the place of those who now rule in vanity”. Go back, Fidelma of Cashel! ’

Then, with a wild cry, the old woman turned from the riverbank and scuttled away into the woods.

‘Wait!’ Fidelma called to her. Even as she spoke, Caol had slapped his horse forward and was off the bridge and trying to follow the woman through the dense undergrowth.

Fidelma, Eadulf and Gormán walked their mounts slowly forward off the bridge and waited for Caol to return.

Eadulf was bewildered. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked.

Fidelma smiled without humour. ‘I’d say it was a poor demented old woman who is living in the past. There are still some who believe in the old ways and the old superstitions, and she is certainly one of that number.’

Gormán coughed nervously. ‘But, lady, how did she know that you are Fidelma of Cashel and the reason why you have come to Tara?’