‘That is the custom in many countries I have visited,’ Eadulf said.
‘I have not travelled beyond the Five Kingdoms,’ Gormán replied regretfully. ‘But my people regard some rivers or places as being so sacred that their real name is never mentioned.As with The Great River here. There is a geis upon speaking its name.’
‘I have heard of the geis. Isn’t it a prohibition or taboo which, if broken, results in serious consequences?’
‘Yes.’ Gormán smiled grimly. ‘Breaking a geis could result in death or bring misfortune on your family.’
‘I had not realised that it could apply to uttering certain names.’
‘Very much so. For example, the sun and moon were considered sacred objects in the old days and their real names were names of gods. But the Druids forbade those names to be used, so we have several terms for them. For example, as you well know, we call the moon simply “the brightness”, or “the queen of the night”, and many more names besides. No one is allowed to call it by the name of the goddess it represents.’
‘So we can be sure that this river was named after a powerful pagan god?’
‘Yes. I have heard that along its great length there are still spots where people gather to make obeisance to the spirits of the river.’
They were approaching a large hill to the south, which Gormán told him was called the Hill of the Stone Ridge because of its obvious feature. Just before this point, the track they were following meandered away from the river. The river’s path came directly from the north for awhile but the track continued west through thick forests.
Suddenly one of the leading warriors gave a cry and pointed with his outstretched arm.
Some distance away to the south a band of horsemen was riding swiftly across the hills. They were a dozen or more. They were heading towards the south-east.
‘Warriors,’ muttered Cumscrad with narrowed eyes. ‘Uí Liatháin, from the colour of the battle emblem their leader is carrying.’
Fidelma stared at the distant riders. Their small party had halted and they heard a distant shout. The warriors had seen them and the leader had halted them in turn.
‘We are not enough swords to hold them, should they attack, lady,’ called Gormán. ‘Two, perhaps three, to one.’
The warrior band was still for a moment or two, seeming to return their observation.
‘Be prepared to ride,’ called Cumscrad, for he realised that discretion was the better part of valour.
Then suddenly the leader of the warriors raised his arm in a signal and, as one, the band turned and disappeared over the shoulder of the distant hill.
Cumscrad sniffed derisively. ‘Cowards!’
‘Are you sure that they were Uí Liatháin?’ asked Fidelma, frowning at the place where the warriors had disappeared.
‘You saw their battle standard,’ Cumscrad replied. ‘It was white with the head of a grey fox on it. That is their emblem.’
‘My eyes are not as good as yours, Cumscrad,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘I saw only a white flag. But I accept that the odds are that they were Uí Liatháin. Whoever they were, I am concerned about the direction they were coming from.’
For a moment Cumscrad did not understand what she meant and then he looked to where the men had first appeared. An oath fell from his lips.
‘Forward!’ he shouted. ‘Forward to Fhear Maighe!’
Abruptly, they were racing forward along the track into the straddling woods. As they rode through the woodland, the cries of birds seemed unusually loud. Even Eadulf raised his eyes to the dark canopy of branches spread above them. Something was exciting the birds, that much was obvious. They suddenly emerged on to the edge of some cultivated fields, which overlooked Cumscrad’s main township of Fhear Maighe. It lay below themalong the south bank of The Great River. Cumscrad let out a great shout.
It was but a fraction of a second before they saw what had caused it. Below them, near the bank of the river on the edge of the town, a building was on fire. They could see smoke billowing. Borne into the air on a southerly breeze, it was black and ominous. Even from this distance they could all see the red and yellow tongues of flame leaping into the air.
‘The library!’ cried Cumscrad, digging his heels into his horse. ‘The library is on fire!’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Eadulf barely had time to catch his breath before they were racing down the track towards the inferno. Fhear Maighe was a large collection of buildings that clustered on both banks of The Great River. On the south bank, on an elevated section of land that was not really high enough to be called a hill, stood the fortress of Cumscrad. It was in no way as imposing nor as threatening as An Dún, the fortress of Lady Eithne. Not far away from this, the blaze was devouring a large building that rose almost on the edge of the settlement. It was a construction of both stone and timber with a curious tower at one end. It was rectangular, like a monastic hall. The tower seemed to be the centre of the fire. Great flames leaped around it and inside it, as if its very structure made it a natural chimney. But the flames were also racing eagerly along the exterior walls of the main building.
As they hurtled down the hill towards it, Eadulf was briefly aware that they passed a riderless horse in a field and, nearby, a prone body with an arrow in its back. There was no time to investigate. They swept on into the township. It seemed that the entire population, men and women and even children, had gathered in a vain attempt to combat the flames. Several young men were rushing back and forth through a door in the main building,emerging with armfuls of scrolls, manuscripts, books and tiaga lebar, the book satchels. Here and there someone would stagger out with a metal box called a lebor-chomet, or book holder, in which very valuable books were stored.
The people were so intent on rescuing the contents of the building from the hungry flames that items were simply dropped on the ground. Several of the precious books were trodden into the earth as people passed buckets of water from hand to hand in a line from the river. Alongside the human chain, Eadulf noticed a curious construction of wooden troughs, along which water from the river was being pumped by a strange mechanical contraption.
Fidelma and Eadulf could see that the people were fighting a losing battle against the flames. Cumscrad and his warriors had dismounted and were assisting but it seemed there was little they could do. Suddenly, there was a great roaring noise and sparks and flames shot into the late afternoon sky as the main roof collapsed, followed, moments later by the tower section imploding. The fire, having satiated itself, was beginning to die rapidly away to a collection of blackened, smouldering timbers. The implosion seemed to have stopped its spread more than the water that had been poured into the building. Only some of the walls and a large grey stone arch, blackened with smoke, remained standing.
Fidelma pointed to where Cumscard and a group of people were standing looking down at what appeared to be a body that had been dragged clear of the building.
‘Can I help?’ offered Eadulf. ‘I have some training in the healing arts.’
‘It’s too late, Brother Eadulf,’ replied Cumscard with bitterness in his voice. ‘Dubhagan is dead.’
‘Dubhagan?’ Fidelma asked quickly. ‘This was your leabhar coimedech, your librarian?’
A young man with a blackened smoke-stained face came forward.
‘We were too late to save him,’ he announced flatly, staring down. He seemed dazed and uncertain.
Cumscrad gazed at the young man for a moment and then asked sympathetically, ‘How was he caught in the fire, Cunán?’
The young man shook his head. ‘He was dead of a sword thrust before the fire started.’