Eadulf groaned slightly.
‘I think that it is folly,’ he protested. ‘To go out to the islands-’
‘We would need to find a man who knows this coast,’ Conri pointed out, ignoring his protest. ‘A man who could run us to the island under cover of darkness. These can be dangerous waters, lady. I know of no such place.’
‘We must know what is happening out there,’ Fidelma insisted.
It was Socht who cleared his throat and ventured to make a suggestion. ‘If it please you, lady, you will remember that we did pass a smith’s forge by the lakeside. Perhaps the smith might know of some local fishermen who would take us out?’
‘I remember the spot. Then that is what we will do.’ Fidelma’s tone admitted no questioning and they took to their horses once more. The flat land presented them with an easy ride and soon they came to a little wooded area where a cluster of buildings stood. It was easy to recognise the forge in which a couple of men, stripped to the waist, in spite of the
One of them heard their approach and shouted something to his companion. It sounded like a warning. Then the man grabbed a large hammer in one muscular hand while his companion reached for a sword lying on a nearby bench.
Fidelma drew rein immediately, holding up her hand to halt her companions.
‘What hospitality is this?’ she called, frowning at the aggressive stance of the two smiths.
The one with the hammer, still holding it menacingly ready, examined her carefully. Then his gaze encompassed her companions. He was of middle age, bearded and powerfully built. His comrade was of slighter stature, with the bleak-looking expression of someone who cannot envisage that any human has the right to be happy.
‘No hospitality at all,’ snapped the man with the hammer. ‘What do you want here, strangers?’
‘What most travellers want — hospitality and information.’
‘Most travellers seem to want more than that, especially when they travel with warriors,’ was the roughly spoken response.
‘It is all we want,’ replied Fidelma firmly.
‘Then why have you three warriors behind you with sharpened weapons? Last time we gave hospitality to religious with warriors guarding them, they stole our food and threatened out lives.’
Fidelma leant forward a little at the news.
‘When was this?’ she demanded.
‘A few weeks ago.’
‘And in what manner did this party come?’
‘Half a dozen religieuse and a foreign monk, guarded by a dozen warriors. The person who seemed in charge was a strange figure clad in robes from poll to feet so that none could look on him.’
Fidelma expected as much.
‘We seek these people, for the warriors have taken the religious captive,’ she explained.
‘The strange monk, the one whose face we could not see, was no captive,’ replied the smith.
‘Even so, the others were. They had been abducted and their abbess had been murdered.’
‘And you seek them? Why?’
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel. I am a dalaigh. Let us dismount, my friend, and I will speak further. You may well be able to help us in our quest.’
The smith with the hammer looked at his companion. They still hesitated.
‘I am intent on bringing these killers and abductors to justice,’ Fidelma added with emphasis. ‘These are my companions, Brother Eadulf, Conri, warlord of the Ui Fidgente, whose relative was the abbess who was slain, and his warriors. Now tell us to whom we speak?’
The smith hesitated a moment and then he lowered the hammer with a shrug but did not release his hold.
‘My name is Gaeth and this is my assistant, Gaimredan.’
Fidelma looked at the bleak features of his companion and suddenly smiled broadly.
‘You are well named, my friend.’
Gaeth could not help but chuckle at her jest on the meaning of his assistant’s name.
‘Indeed he is, lady, for never was there a person of more wintry countenance and lack of humour.’
‘May we dismount now?’ asked Fidelma.
The smith gestured his assent and turned to lay aside his hammer.
‘I accept that you mean us no harm, but after the visit of the others…’
Fidelma and her companions dismounted and Socht collected their horses and tethered them.
She glanced around the collection of smithy buildings that stood alongside a gushing stream that emptied into the waters of the lake.
‘You are isolated here, Gaeth.’
‘Yet not too isolated to have unwelcome visitors,’ replied the other philosophically. He indicated one of the buildings that appeared to be the dwelling house. ‘Come inside. We have been left with enough corma to make you welcome on this cold winter’s day.’
The smith’s house was an old-style one-roomed circular house, whose floor was merely the earth made hard over centuries of use. The central hearth gave out a comfortable heat and rush matting on the floor provided their seats.
‘We live a frugal life here, lady,’ Gaeth announced. It became obvious that his comrade Gaimredan never spoke unless he had something important to contribute. ‘I suspect it is unlike the rich palace in which you
Eadulf had been examining the room and had noticed the lack of any Christian icons. But he saw some items that he had seen now and again in his travels and knew the meaning of them.
‘Do I understand that you are not of the Faith?’ he asked brusquely.
Gaeth seemed amused.
‘It all depends what you mean by Faith, Saxon brother. You imply there is one Faith. Well, we are not Christians, if that is what you mean. That is why we dwell apart in order that those who would proselytise us do not bother us. Argument is a tedious thing. We each come to the Dagda, the Good God, along our own path.’
‘It seems that you are also well named, Gaeth,’ Fidelma said, for the name meant clever and wise. ‘But we did not come to discuss the Faith. I presume that you both dwell here as hermits?’
‘It is true that we prefer to dwell in isolation from others. But many know our work and come to us.’
Gaimredan was handing round pottery cups filled with corma. The raw spirit made Eadulf gasp.
‘So you know many people in these parts?’
Gaeth inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘Well, the strangers who came here were indeed strangers. They were not of these parts. We heard from our neighbours that after they ransacked our storehouse for food they went on to the coast. There is a sandy shore not far from here to the north-west and we heard from a shepherd that these strangers were met there by a warship and taken out to sea. Who knows where they went?’
Fidelma smiled grimly.
‘We think we know where,’ she replied. ‘To those islands you call the Machaire Islands, where they have taken the hermits of Seanach’s Island prisoners or worse.’
‘Are you saying that they have harmed the group of Christian hermits that dwell there?’ The smith frowned.
‘Mortal harm has come to at least one of them,’ Fidelma replied. ‘We found one who had escaped from the island and rowed to this mainland,
Gaeth whistled softly under his breath.
‘Brother Martan was a good man. We differed in our beliefs but he was a holy man and the leader of the hermits there. Who are these people? The warriors, I mean? What do they want?’
‘Have you heard stories of Uaman the Leper?’ Conri asked.
The smith’s eyes flickered, indicating that he had.
‘By the fires of Bel,’ he said softly. ‘Many stories are connected with that one. Thankfully, his raids never reached here for he was content to demand tribute from those who came through the eastern passes into this peninsula. He never ventured further west than the Emlagh and Finglas valleys. But we heard plenty of stories about him.’
‘For hermits, shunning other folk-’ began Eadulf.
‘We prefer to live alone, but we do not shun other folk, as you put it,’ snapped Gaeth. ‘Only you Christians run away and hide from life in your communities. We live here and welcome the visitor as a natural event.’