Peter Tremayne - Badger's Moon

‘Yet I would have thought that Lesren the tanner was best equipped to conduct the trade in hides,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Still, I suppose there is not a great deal of metal working here these days. I mean, what with the mines closed down. Do you do jobs for the abbey, for the Aksumites who stay there, for example?’

She noticed Gobnuid stiffen.

‘What is it you want, lady?’ he demanded, turning and glaring pugnaciously at her.

‘This land used to be full of metal workings,’ she went on, ignoring him. ‘Did you ever work in the mines?’

The smith turned from her and bent over his furnace, stirring the charcoal into a spitting display of sparks. ‘The mines closed when I was a young lad.’

‘Did you know that one of the Aksumites, Brother Dangila, worked in the gold mines of his country? You know Brother Dangila?’

Gobnuid was tight-lipped. ‘I have seen the man.’

Fidelma slowly stood up. She realised that Gobnuid was stubborn.

‘If you know Brother Dangila, I was wondering why you supported that cousin of yours, Brocc, in his attack on the Aksumites?’

The smith glowered at her. ‘Strangers are strangers, family is family. Anyway, I have already admitted that I took part in the attack on the abbey.’

‘I’ll bid you a good night, then, Gobnuid,’ Fidelma said in resignation. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’

She turned and began to walk away, feeling his curious gaze upon her. Gobnuid had an obstinate nature. It would be impossible to wring the truth from him but she felt that she had learnt enough.

The guest house of Becc lay on the far side of the great complex of buildings that made up Rath Raithlen and the way to it led through a collection of buildings from which the artisans and traders of the fortress conducted their businesses. Now the buildings were dark and deserted. Only Gobnuid had been working late this dark and chilly night.

Fidelma swung confidently down the darkened alley. It was not any great length and she could see some brand torches lighting its far end, which led into the squares constituting the stables at the back of the chieftain’s hall. It was only when she was halfway along the darkened alley that some sixth sense caused her to feel a tingling of the hairs at the nape of her neck. She was sure eyes were watching her. There was no logic to the feeling. But Fidelma had an acute sense of surroundings. An awareness of environment was essential to survival. Ever since she was a child Fidelma had trained herself to notice anything out of the ordinary. She rather admired old Liag, the apothecary, for while he might overdramatise his sense of environment in the woods, the basic concepts were right. Without that sense, a person was blind.

She did not show her concern by altering her step or turning her head but the feeling grew stronger. From the corner of her eye she identified a shadow in the darkness of the buildings, just a slight movement. Something, someone, was there. She continued her steady pace, head erect, but eyes alert to the dark. She was only a few yards from the lighted area by the stables when she was aware that the shadow was on the move, moving rapidly and moving towards her.

She spun round on her heel towards the oncoming shadow, which grew into the shape of a burly man. One hand was upraised and the faint light from the burning brand torch at the end of the street glinted on something in that hand which reflected and shone for a moment.

The learned ones of Éireann, both in pre-Christian times and now that they were the repositories of the New Faith, used often to journey far and wide. Travellers were frequently the object of attacks by thieves and bandits. But those learned ones believed it was wrong to carry weapons even to protect themselves from attack. Violence was abhorrent to them and against their teachings. They were therefore forced to develop a technique which they called troid-sciathagid — battle through defence. Fidelma, like other members of the religious who journeyed abroad, was taught the method of defending herself without the use of weapons.

In a split second, she saw the danger. She stood, waiting for the man’s assault as he bore down on her. As he reached her, her two hands shot out to take the raised arm and she grasped the wrist, swaying backwards and allowing the momentum of the man’s assault to carry him stumbling forward. He went crashing to the ground, unable to stop that forward movement, while Fidelma heaved on the wrist holding the knife.

The man was strong and he managed to retain hold of the knife. When it became apparent that she could not break his grip, Fidelma let go of his wrist for fear that she would be dragged down with him. She skipped backwards and shouted: ‘Guards! Guards! Help!’

The figure on the floor scrambled up and had turned and was facing her once more, wielding the knife. He was moving forward again.

But two warriors had suddenly appeared at the end of the alley and one gave a shout as they bore down on Fidelma, swords in hand.

The attacker was disconcerted for a moment, glancing behind him.

Fidelma moved forward, turning slightly sideways, and aimed a swift kick, using the flat of her foot in a jabbing motion, at the attacker’s genitalia. There came a scream and the figure dropped to its knees. In another second the two guards had reached them and one rested his sword point lightly on the figure’s neck.

‘Move and you are a dead man,’ he said curtly.

The second guard, whose eyes seemed well used to the dark, had obviously recognised Fidelma. ‘Are you harmed, lady?’

‘I am not. But let us see who it is that would wish me harm.’

The first guard had disarmed the man and he and his companion took an arm each and dragged the still moaning figure out of the darkness into the light of the brand torch.

Fidelma was aware of a babble of voices as people, disturbed by the commotion, now came forward. She saw Eadulf, his face pale, pushing through them.

‘Fidelma! Are you all right?’

She nodded briefly.

Accobrán had also come forward.

‘Is it the moon killer?’ he demanded.

The two warriors pulled their captive forward so that the light fell on his face.

‘Brocc!’

There was a gasp from the crowd.

The tanist stared at the burly man, who glowered with hatred at them.

‘So you were the moon killer? Even when you tried to stir up the people against the strangers it was you all the time!’

Brocc scowled. Fidelma moved forward and returned Brocc’s glare with a slight smile.

‘It is true that you tried to kill me in that dark alley, Brocc, but I doubt whether you are the moon killer.’

‘You know I am not!’ snapped Brocc.

‘Why did you attempt to kill me?’

‘Because you are protecting the real murderers.’

‘How do you make that out?’ she said with a frown.

‘I knew it when you first came to Rath Raithlen. You religious are all the same, protecting one another. It was obvious that the strangers killed Escrach, killed Beccnat and Ballgel. Yet I have seen you meeting them and being friendly with them. You are protecting them and therefore you must accept the guilt with them.’

Fidelma looked at the man with an expression of astonishment, which dissolved into sadness. Then she shook her head.

‘How anyone can become as confused as you are is beyond me, Brocc. And it saddens me. I do not know how to answer you. But you must know that what you have done is a serious crime. You have attempted to murder a dálaigh -’

‘Worse still,’ interrupted Becc, who had joined her, the crowd having parted respectfully to allow the chieftain to come forward, ‘worse still, you have attempted to kill the sister of the king.’