Peter Tremayne - Badger's Moon

She cared for Eadulf to the extent that rather than rush into easy decisions she wanted everything to be right. Logically, she knew she loved Eadulf and could not contemplate an existence without his support, his tolerance of her sharp temper, which she knew was her biggest fault. But in the months since their baby was born she had begun having all manner of depressive thoughts. She had even begun to wonder if she was ready for marriage? She turned her head aside and pulled a face, expressing her inability to form logical conclusions from the emotional turmoil into which her thoughts had descended.

Did she resent the birth of Alchú? Was that what this was all about? Often she thought how much more freedom she would have without the child. It troubled her yet she could not dispel such thoughts.

She tried to turn her mind back again to her original thought. Why was she unhappy? She loved Eadulf. She had had one unhappy affair before with the warrior Cian and thought she would never experience the agony of falling in love again. Then Eadulf came along and there had been a strange attraction. She remembered the time when they had parted, when she had left him in Rome to return to Cashel. She had felt a curious isolation then. She had not wanted to admit that she missed the company of the Saxon monk. However, she kept comparing Eadulf to the men she had met such as poor Cass, the warrior who had been killed helping her. She remembered her excitement and joy when she and Eadulf had met up again.

It was love. Surely? She enjoyed Eadulf’s company, his friendship, and his love. But she wanted to be sure that she was doing the right thing. Last year, she had decided that he should return to his homeland while she went off on the pilgrimage to the Tomb of St James and when she received the message that he was in danger of death, she came rushing back to his assistance. Surely love?

What was wrong with her? Why did these thoughts afflict her? She was surely not physically ill. The previous night, Eadulf had tried to make her drink some noxious brew made from brachlais — what was it? St John’s Wort, he called it in his own tongue. She was not stupid. She knew the apothecaries of Éireann applied it to women who became dispirited and despondent after giving birth. She was not suffering such melancholia — surely? Even as she asked herself the question, she began to realise the answer.

Her mind was so engrossed in these thoughts that she found that they had arrived at the ford before the monastery of Finan the Leper already. The place had been built fairly recently, and around the collection of buildings which constituted the monastery and chapel a small village had sprung up. It was a good location set in pleasant scenery. An excellent base for traders coming up river and transferring their goods to wagons before continuing on to the more inaccessible reaches of the kingdom.

They navigated the ford, which was still deep, the currents fairly strong. The monastery provided a ‘watcher at the ford’ to ensure that no accident went unobserved. A bell stood ready to be rung if help was needed. But Eadulf, not the most brilliant of horsemen, was able to pass across the river first and wait while Fidelma came easily across. They turned towards the monastery, where they knew hospitality awaited them.

‘Lady! My lady!’

The harsh cry came from the doorway of a tavern they were passing. A tall, swarthy warrior emerged from the shadow of the doorway. He wore the colours of the warriors of Cashel, and at his neck, the gold torc of Cashel’s warrior élite. Fidelma turned with a frown. She recognised the warrior by sight but not by name. The man came quickly forward to stand at her stirrup.

‘Thank God that I have found you, lady.’ He glanced to Eadulf and gave a swift salute, raising a hand to his forehead, adding: ‘And you, Brother Eadulf.’

‘What is God to be thanked for?’ muttered Eadulf curiously.

‘I was just setting out for Rath Raithlen in the lands of the Cinél na Áeda.’

Fidelma was solemn. ‘Then we are pleased that we have saved you such a long journey. Why do you seek us? I presume that you have some news from Cashel?’

The man shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to another. He looked sombre. ‘That I have, lady.’

Fidelma saw his downcast features and a fear began to clutch at her heart. ‘Is it my brother? Is it Colgú? Is there bad news?’

‘Your brother, the King, is in good health but not in good spirits. The news is bad, lady-’

‘Then speak it quickly or not at all!’ interrupted Eadulf, irritated by the man’s prevarication.

‘It is your nurse, Sárait. She has been killed.’

Fidelma regarded him in bewilderment. ‘Sárait killed? By whom? How? Why?’

‘Lady.’ The warrior drew a deep breath and his words came out with a sudden rush. ‘Sárait has been murdered and your son, Alchú, has been kidnapped.’