Peter Tremayne - Dancing With Demons

‘We will proceed onwards,’ Fidelma decided. ‘We may pick up their tracks later.’

Gormán nodded, turned his horse and rode off rapidly through the shallow waters to place himself ahead of them again.

As Eadulf rode along he was worried about Fidelma. What if the strange raiders realised that they were being followed and laid an ambush for her? He had every faith in Caol and Gormán as warriors but they were only two against so many. And Fidelma was heading right into the country of the Cinél Cairpre, whose former chieftain had killed the High King. The thought almost made him push the horse into a gallop himself but he knew he was not a good enough equestrian to sustain such a pace through the forest.

The path suddenly swung round a group of boulders that rose in the middle of the forest and before he knew it, he was in the middle of a band of armed riders. He heard Brother Manchán give a shriek of alarm before they closed in with drawn swords. His horse shied nervously and came to a halt of its own volition.

The question that sprang to Eadulf’s lips died before he could utter it. There were about a score of riders and he could see a couple of pack horses. With a feeling of growing fear, he realised that the riders were the very same group that Fidelma had set off to follow. They must somehow have doubled back on their tracks and now he was their helpless captive.

Gormán came trotting back along the track with a frown on his face.

‘I fear that we have lost them, lady,’ he called to Fidelma as he approached. ‘There are no tracks ahead.’

‘They must have turned back at the river,’ Caol sighed. ‘They will have used the stony course to confuse their tracks.’

Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘Did they do so because they were simply being cautious or because they knew that they were being followed?’

Gormán shook his head. ‘I think they are old campaigners used to hiding their tracks anyway. It was a perfect spot to do so. As you recall, it was stony on the far side and we could not pick up their tracks again. I don’t think they even crossed the river and came this way at all.’

‘How far ahead have you checked?’ Fidelma asked.

‘This track goes through some soft ground and approaches a hill thatoverlooks a small wheat plain. Even if I had missed the tracks, when I climbed the hill and scanned the plain before me, there were no signs of riders.’

‘Should we turn back?’ asked Caol. ‘Make another attempt to pick up their tracks?’

‘They could have gone north or south at the river,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘You said that you have checked a reasonable distance in both directions so it would take a long time before we picked up their tracks again. Our original intention was to see Ardgal in the land of the Cinél Cairpre. I think we should ride on and find him.’

The two warriors did not protest and the party set off again. Fidelma looked confident, but secretly she was now very worried. She hoped that Eadulf would reach Delbna Mór safely and warn Brother Céin. If the dibergach were as vicious as they had been told, it was dangerous to be an unarmed religious in these lands.

One of the riders who had surrounded Eadulf nudged his horse nearer. He was a black-bearded man with coarse ruddy features showing under a metal war bonnet which was decorated in a bizarre fashion with the stuffed head of a raven, its black wings spread out along either side. He held his sword loosely across the pommel of his saddle and wore no armour but a leather jerkin over his black and dirty clothing.

‘Well, well, what have we here? A Christian who wears the mark of Rome’s slavery! And carrying a poor wreck of another Christian who looks as though he has crawled out of an oven. Perhaps he has just been ejected from the Christian hellfire of which I have heard tell.’

His comrades laughed in appreciation of the humour.

Eadulf knew that the man had noted his tonsure, the corona spina, the tonsure of Peter, which was cut differently to that of John, adopted by the religious of the five kingdoms.

He made no answer but stared at the man defiantly. He felt Brother Manchán shaking with fear, still clinging behind him on the horse.

The man with the raven-feathered helmet, obviously the leader of the raiders, prodded him with the tip of his sword. It was sharp and Eadulf felt it draw blood through his sleeve. He winced but set his mouth firmly, determined not to show fear before these raiders.

‘You are the first Christian I have met who has not squealed,’ the man grinned patronisingly. ‘Usually your kind use your tongues too freely. Iwager your companion will sing without my prompting. Come, tell me who you are or will you die without a name?’

‘Please, please,’ cried Brother Manchán, sobbing in desperation. ‘Please, my lord, have mercy on me. I’ll tell you anything.’

Eadulf felt a little disgusted at his companion’s obvious fear. Even though he himself felt an apprehension approaching dread, Eadulf knew that you should never show fear to your enemy for, by so doing, you are lost.

‘If you need to know my name, know then that I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk.’ Eadulf used an angry tone to disguise the fear he felt and hoped that his captors did not notice the tremor in his voice.

‘A Saxon?’ The man’s bearded features broke into a black-toothed smile.

The question had an obvious answer and Eadulf made no reply.

‘What brings you to the kingdom of Midhe, stranger? Come to spout your pernicious doctrines to twist our minds away from the true gods of Éireann?’

‘I am husband to Fidelma of Cashel who is investigating the assassination of Sechnussach at Tara.’

This caused some surprised reaction among the warrior band.

‘Fidelma of Cashel, the Eóghanacht?’ the leader commented with a sudden frown. ‘We had heard that the Great Assembly had sent for her. You are some way from Tara. What are you doing in this forest, Saxon? Where did you get that pitiful thing that clings to you? Where is the woman from Cashel?’

Eadulf’s mind raced as to how best he should answer.

‘We are going to the abbey at Delbna Mór.’

This raised another laugh.

‘If you are coming from Tara, you must have ridden past it. At least you had the sense to turn back, for it lies in that direction.’ The leader jerked his head over his shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ Eadulf said, thankful for the man’s misunderstanding. ‘I realised that we must have passed it and I was directed back in this direction by this wandering religious.’ The lie came naturally to his lips and he resolved to utter an act of contrition later. ‘We’ll be on our way then.’

This caused a greater merriment among the band.

Their leader shook his head and turned to Brother Manchán.

‘You are a strange religious to go wandering in soot-encrusted and torn robes. Is this to show some subservience to your God?’

Eadulf felt Brother Manchán still shaking in his terror. He feared that the man would tell the truth of their encounter and alert them to the route Fidelma and her companions had taken.

‘Come,’ snapped the leader of the raiders. ‘Your name?’

‘Bro … Brother Manchán of Fobhair, my lord. Please … ’

‘Fobhair? Ah, so you are one of the nits that escaped from its nest when we tried to cleanse it. How remiss of us not to have noticed you.’

Eadulf felt Brother Manchán start, felt his grip loosen and his body fall from the back of his horse. He turned round in horror as Brother Manchán’s body hit the ground. He was already dead. The helmeted leader was leaning down and wiping his sword point on the clothes of the body. Then the black-bearded man glanced up and smiled crookedly at Eadulf.