‘Surely the roads are impassable?’ intervened Cynric the innkeeper.
The farmer laughed harshly. ‘Impassable to people without courage. Another tankard of mead, Cynric, and I will be on my way.’
Fidelma tapped Eadulf on the arm.
‘Virtutis fortuna comes,’ she whispered in Latin. Good luck was, indeed, the companion of courage, but what was meant, and understood by Eadulf, was that one must grasp opportunity when it came one’s way.
Eadulf sought to frame the question in a way which might appeal to Mul.
‘Your journey must lie in the direction of Aldred’s Abbey, must it not?’
Mul paused with his tankard to his lips and regarded Eadulf speculatively.
‘And if it does?’ he countered.
‘My companion and I are anxious to reach the abbey this evening. If there is room on your wagon, then I would make it worth your while to pass the gates of the abbey.’
Cynric, the innkeeper, was disapproving.
‘I advise you against journeying on. It is too dangerous. We have not had a blizzard like this in ten years. Why, the dry snow is being driven by this bitter wind and banking up behind walls and hedges and ditches and filling the hollows. You could even miss the path and fall into a lake or frozen stream; break a leg or worse. And there is the marsh to consider.’
Mul drained his mug and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He fingered his thick, coarse beard for a moment as if in speculation. Then he sighed and turned to the innkeeper.
‘You are an old woman, Cynric. I know the roads like the creases on the palms of my hands.’ He glanced at Eadulf. ‘My path takes me right by the gates of the abbey. May the gods curse that place of evil. If you can pay, I will take you. But I only have an uncomfortable farm wagon drawn by a team of mules.’
Eadulf exchanged a quick glance with Fidelma.
‘I do not approve of your calling a house of the Christian faith a place of evil, friend, nor calling on idolatrous gods to curse it.’
Mul grinned sourly. It made him more ugly than before.
‘It is evident that you do not know Aldred’s Abbey or whatit has become these days. But your opinions are no concern of mine.’
Eadulf hesitated and then said: ‘By payment, what had you in mind?’
‘If you decide to come with me, then I am sure that you won’t begrudge me a penny for my labour.’
Eadulf turned to Fidelma who nodded quickly.
‘It is agreed, my pagan friend,’ Eadulf exclaimed in satisfaction.
The farmer rose to his feet, grabbing his fur outer garments.
‘How soon can you be ready?’ he demanded as he began to pull them on.
‘We are ready now.’
‘Then I will go and see to my rig. Join me outside as soon as you are prepared.’
They were already putting on their woollen cloaks before the burly farmer had disappeared through the door.
Cynric regarded them anxiously. ‘Please reconsider. It is a dangerous road. Only an idiot like Mul would attempt the journey. You should know that he is named Mad Mul in these parts. You are much safer waiting to see if the storm breaks tomorrow.’
‘And if it does not?’ smiled Eadulf as he placed some coins in the hands of the innkeeper to pay for the meal. ‘At least we will make the effort this night.’
‘It is only your lives that you risk,’ shrugged the innkeeper, realising when to accept defeat.
Outside, they found Mul already seated in his wagon, with a team of two patient mules in the shafts, heads slightly bowed against the bitter, moaning wind. The winter night had begun but the farmer had lit two storm lanterns which hung on either side of his wagon and there was light enough by the shadowy reflections on the snow to see by. Great banks of snow were piling up in the gusting winds. Eadulf helped Fidelma climb up onto the wagon, then threw up their travelling bags, before climbing up himself.
‘Sit yourselves down there,’ cried Mul, above the howling of the wind, pointing down into the shelter of wagon behind the driver’s seat. ‘Those woollen cloaks will be scant protection against the cold. There’s some furs there. Put them around you and you’ll be out of the worst of it.’
Cynric had come to the door of the inn. He raised his hand in farewell.
‘I think that you are all crazy,’ he called, his voice blurring in the whistling of the blizzard. ‘However, as you insist on going, may God be on every road that you travel.’
‘God be with you, innkeeper,’ replied Eadulf, solemnly, before tucking himself down under the furs beside Fidelma. They heard Mul crack the reins and shout and then, with a jerk, the wagon began to roll forward.
Chapter Two
Once they had passed out of the yard of the inn, beyond the surrounding trees, the wind drove at them bringing the snow like icy pellets, dry and hard and painful where they hit the flesh of the face. It was a bitter wind that groaned around them and now and then rose to a shriek like someone in anguish. Eadulf was glad of the furs in the wagon which guarded them from the full rancour of the icy storm.
Heads down, the sturdy little mules strained and tugged as they pulled the wagon through a low snowdrift, the big wooden wheels crunching on the crispy surface while the wagon swayed and tilted as Mul tried to keep it on the hidden track which lay underneath the drifting snow. For a moment it seemed that the wind was receding and then it suddenly came back with a vengeance from another quarter, causing the wagon to shake as if it had been given some life of its own. Then the wheels suddenly went into a skid as they encountered a patch of solid ice.
They heard Mul cursing but whatever he did brought the heavy wagon to a halt. He jumped down and Eadulf, peering over the side, saw him leading his team through a larger snowdrift. The farmer stayed at their heads until they came to the shelter of a stretch of forest through which the roadway was barely coated with white snow. The wind, sweeping through the trees, was like a curious whispering chorus of sighing voices.
Mul climbed back onto the wagon.
‘Are you all right, down there?’
His voice was almost obliterated by the sighing wind, but Eadulf heard him.
‘We are,’ he called in reply. ‘Are you sure that it’s safe to continue?’ Eadulf himself had begun to have second thoughts as they had driven through the unprotected countryside. At least the forest afforded some shelter from the harsh elements. But he knew its protection would not last long.
‘Woden’s hammer! Of course it’s safe. I’m driving, aren’t I?’ Mul roared with laughter at his own sense of humour.
Eadulf did not reply but turned back to Fidelma. He could not see her face through the slanting snow and gloom.
‘How are you?’
‘I’ve been through worse,’ came her calm response.
She was about to say something else when the wagon suddenly jolted and came to a halt again. The heavy wheels were slipping, turning on the surface of the icy track without finding a purchase. The animals strained hard to keep the wagon moving forward but to no avail.
‘I’ll have to get down and find some branch wood to put under the wheels,’ shouted Mul.
He was about to do so when from somewhere nearby came the mournful howling of a wolf. Eadulf felt Fidelma stiffen suddenly beside him. Wolves were common and dangerous in her country and Eadulf knew that she had good cause to be apprehensive of them. So had he, if it came to that. He looked over the edge of the wagon again and stared hard in the direction of the sound. Some grey-white shadows were moving among the trees.
Mul noticed the concern of his passengers.
‘Don’t worry. It’s an isolated male and his mate roaming these woods with their cubs. There are no packs here, so far as I know. The wolves are dying out in this country. They won’t harm us.’