‘Perhaps it is time you should be leaving, lady? Accobrán is waiting below,’ he repeated.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ replied Fidelma softly.
‘After you, lady.’ The smith stood aside from the hatch.
Eadulf said quickly: ‘I’ll go first.’ In truth, he was glad to leave this high, unprotected place. Without awaiting a reply, he climbed onto the ladder, hoping that Fidelma would not observe his haste to be gone, and began to descend. Fidelma followed him with the smith bringing up the rear.
Eadulf was halfway down the first ladder when he felt the rung on which he had placed his foot give way with a sudden crack. Had his fear not been making him hold the ladder so tightly, the surprise of the breaking rung might have precipitated him off the ladder and could have sent him tumbling the five floors down the ladder well. For an eternity he hung by his arms, his feet waving into space as they sought for a support.
He lowered himself a rung by his arms, and his foot finally found the support of the rung below the one that had snapped.
‘Are you all right, Eadulf?’ came Fidelma’s concerned voice from above him.
‘I’ve been better,’ Eadulf breathed after he felt secure. ‘One of the rungs snapped under my foot. Come down carefully, I’ll guide you over it.’
He waited until she came further down the ladder.
‘Right,’ he called. ‘The next rung is now missing. Lower yourself by your hands and feel for the next rung.’ He paused as she did so. ‘That’s it. Your foot is on the rung. Come on down.’
Fidelma did not do so at once. As she passed over the broken rung, reaching it at eye level, she paused and examined it carefully while Eadulf stood impatiently on the landing. As she came down level with him, she asked anxiously: ‘Are you sure that you are all right?’
He nodded. ‘I’d better lead the way down again.’ He smiled. ‘There could have been a nasty accident. The wood snapped.’
Gobnuid came down quickly to join them. He looked nervous.
‘Accident?’ He picked up on the word. ‘I think you are right. Some of the wood is rotten and in need of replacing.’
Eadulf glanced from Gobnuid to Fidelma with silent curiosity. He could sense something of the tension between them. Accobrán was waiting outside the tower when they emerged. He saw that something was amiss.
‘What happened?’ he demanded.
‘One of the rungs was rotten,’ replied the smith almost defensively. ‘No one is hurt.’
‘Eadulf was lucky that he had a good grip,’ added Fidelma, ‘otherwise things might have been different.’
Gobnuid vanished towards his forge and Fidelma saw the look of anger on Accobrán’s face as he looked after the smith. It seemed that he was on the point of following him, but a stable lad brought forward their horses.
‘What made you send Gobnuid up to fetch us?’ Fidelma asked the tanist. ‘A smith has more important things to do than act as a messenger. The stable lad could have summoned us.’
The young tanist shrugged.
‘Gobnuid was here. He had to shoe my mare this morning, lady,’ he replied almost defensively. ‘He volunteered to run up to get you.’
Accobrán dismissed the stable lad and began to mount his horse. ‘Fidelma and Eadulf followed his example and they were soon trotting out of the gates of Rath Raithlen.
It was a pleasant ride along the forest tracks and, as if by mutual agreement, they rode in silence for most of the way. Eadulf was bursting with questions but he knew Fidelma well enough to remain silent when he saw her preoccupied features.
They passed over the wooded hill, the strangely named Thicket of Pigs, and crossed the River Tuath by a ford where the water gushed over a bed of pebbles. Suddenly, in mid-stream, Accobráh halted and pointed to the hills that rose before them. Solemnly, he intoned: ‘A forest in full colour. The sigh of myriad leaves whispering to the listening heavens. Even great cities appear as muddy hovels to the venerable shady groves that were old before the first brick was placed on brick.’
Fidelma was startled out of her silence because the verse Accobrán had just recited was in Greek.
‘I did not know you spoke Greek.’ she commented.
The young tanist shrugged. ‘A little of Greek, Hebrew and Latin, for I spent some years at the house of Molaga thinking to become one of the religious before I realised that my hand was better suited to hold a sword than a stylus. I spent some time serving my uncle Becc in the campaigns to prevent the Uí Fidgente raids on our territory.’
‘And thus you were elected tanist, Becc’s successor?’
‘Ten months ago,’ confirmed Accobrán with a smile. ‘Now, while Becc enjoys the prestige of chieftainship, I enjoy the hard work of riding through the territory to ensure that order is kept and no one has cause to complain.’
Fidelma glanced at him with a slightly raised eyebrow. ‘Do you resent that?’
‘Resent? Accobrán seemed surprised at the idea. ‘Of course not. That is the task I undertook. When I am elderly, and I am chieftain with a tanist, it will be his task to do as I do and my reward to do as Becc does. That is in the way of things. Brother Eadulf, there’ — he indicated Eadulf with a nod of his head — ‘does not resent the tonsure he wears. He would not have become a religious if he did not want to wear the garb and perform the duties that go with the job, would he? No more do I resent the duties that are incumbent on me as tanist.’
They continued on their way through the dark woods, climbing steadily along the forest pathway through the thickly growing trees.
A loud shout from nearby caused them to abruptly rein in their horses.
There came the sound of something being struck, a crack, and then an awesome tearing noise. It was as if a mighty army was coming crashing through the trees. The horses shied nervously and Eadulf, not the best of horsemen, nearly took a tumble. He managed to regain control more by desperation than with skill.
‘What the devil…?’ he began. ‘Are we under attack?’
Accobrán was laughing and he patted his horse’s neck to calm its nervousness.
‘Not the devil, Saxon. It is just a tree being felled nearby. By law, the gerrthóir, the woodcutter, must give a cry of warning before the tree falls.’
The sound of an axe biting into wood now came to their ears.
‘Through here,’ called Fidelma, guiding her horse expertly in the direction of the sound.
They soon emerged in a clearing where a young man was working on a newly felled holly tree, hacking at its branches. He paused as he saw them, straightened up. He was scarcely out of his teenage but handsome, tanned with fair hair and blue eyes. He seemed to carry an air of boyish innocence with him. As he examined them and recognised Accobrán, a frown crossed his features.
‘I did give a warning cry,’ he said defensively.
Fidelma halted her horse before him and smiled down at his belligerent features. He was hardly more than eighteen or nineteen years of age.
‘So you did,’ she replied pleasantly.
The young man shifted uneasily, axe held loosely at his side. He stared at Fidelma and Eadulf with a glowering, suspicious look.
‘Don’t worry, Gabrán,’ called Accobrán, moving his horse alongside Fidelma. ‘We are not here to remonstrate with you.’
Gabrán glanced up at the tanist and Fidelma noticed that his suspicion gave way to a momentary expression of intense dislike. Then he seemed to control his features into a mask of indifference.
‘What is it you want, Accobrán?’ His voice was icy. Fidelma realised that there was no friendship between these young men. Then Gabrán’s gaze suddenly returned to Fidelma and his eyes widened. ‘You must be the king’s sister — the dálaigh of whom people are talking.’
‘Who talks about the dálaigh, Gabrán?’ asked the young tanist in irritation. ‘More importantly, what are they saying? It is not courteous to gossip about the sister of the king.’