‘Then it’s too late to do anything other than make for the gates. There are two iron bolts on them — see? I’ll take the top one, you take the bottom one, and don’t stop for anything.’
The bell was jangling urgently now.
Eadulf opened the door quickly and dashed across the courtyard to the gates. He felt rather than saw Basil Nestorios behind him. He grabbed at the top iron bolt and wrenched it back with a thud. The physician was almost in time with him. Eadulf pulled on the tall wooden doors just as a shout sounded behind him.
Eadulf hurried through the gap between the doors, closely followed by his companion. Then he skidded to a halt, eyes wide in dismay.
Outside, directly in front of him, stood a tall, broad-shouldered warrior, his sword already raised as if to strike. Eadulf stood frozen, petrified with shock as he recognised the features of the man in the torchlight from the brands in their holders on either side of the entrance.
‘Gormán!’ he gasped.
The warrior of Cashel’s eyes flickered over Eadulf’s shoulder and narrowed slightly.
‘Move, Brother Eadulf!’ he cried, his sword already beginning to swing.
Eadulf plunged forward, ducking in an automatic reaction to the shouted command. Then he swung round on his heel, nearly tripping himself in the movement. Behind him, as Basil Nestorios had also leapt aside, two of Uaman’s men had come through the gates, swords in hand.
Gormán’s slash caught one in the neck, either killing or disabling him. As the man fell sideways, his weapon dropped from nerveless fingers. The second warrior met Gormán’s next cut with a parry, and for a few moments blade clashed against blade. But the second warrior was no great swordsman, and the singing sword of Cashel’s élite golden-torqued warrior swept under his guard and caught him beneath the rib cage. With a grunt the man, still grasping his weapon, dropped to his knees, staring wildly before him. Then his eyes seemed to glaze and he fell forward on his face, dropping his blade.
‘Are there more behind you?’ cried Gormán.
Eadulf tried to find his voice. ‘Two or three,’ he croaked.
Gormán glanced at the physician. ‘Who is this?’
‘A fellow prisoner.’
They could still hear the jangling bell.
Gormán turned in the darkness and pointed to the shadows that denoted the shoreline.
‘The tide is coming in. We must get back. Do you know the way, Brother? The sand link to the shore is treacherous.’
The bell had suddenly stopped and an unearthly wail was sounding within the dark tower. It was scarcely human. Eadulf shivered. It was Uaman’s cry of rage.
‘That will bring his remaining warriors,’ Eadulf cried. ‘Let’s get to the shore where we will be safer.’ He turned and peered into the darkness. He was aware of the sibilant whispering of the sea on either side. ‘Straight ahead. Follow me.’
He walked forward, trying not to hurry and making sure each foot came down on firm sand before moving on. It took time. Halfway across, they could still hear the noise of shouting, a bell intermixed with screams. At one point, Eadulf dared glanced behind.
The burning brand torches, in their braziers hanging either side of the great doors of the tower, cast a light on the porch where they had left the two fallen warriors of Uaman. Another warrior, perhaps two — even three — were moving there, and he saw the crooked figure of Uaman himself, a thin, dark shadow, with his bell, standing framed in the doorway, screaming abuse.
‘They are coming after us,’ muttered Basil Nestorios, also glancing round.
Eadulf saw that Uaman was now leading the three warriors after them along the sandbank. All four carried torches to light their way and they thus had an advantage over their quarry. In spite of his dragging foot, Uaman was moving at an astonishing pace. It was clear that he had not taken the potion prepared by Basil Nestorios. Indeed, he appeared to be moving more quickly than his warriors. Eadulf increased his pace.
‘At this rate, we might make the shore but we will have to stand and fight,’ grunted Gormán, glancing behind.
‘Then we will stand and fight,’ replied Eadulf.
He realised that the incoming tide was now lapping at his feet. The water was coming in rapidly, but not rapidly enough, he thought bitterly.
A moment or so later, they were scrambling up on the firm bank before the dark trees. There they turned, preparing for the worst.
It was a curious, eerie sight that met their eyes. In the background the tall round Tower of Uaman rose on the island, dark and sullen, although its doors now stood open, still lit by the burning torches on either side. A shaft of silvery moonlight had somehow escaped between the low-lying clouds and danced with a thousand pinpricks of light on the sea. By this, they could see how quickly the tide was coming in. There was now little to be seen of the sand link to the island.
Uaman was not far from the shoreline now. Surprisingly, he was about ten metres ahead of his three warrior companions. His torch was raised in one dead white claw-like hand. It seemed his rage had taken the better of him, for he had no other weapon.
‘Look!’ Gormán suddenly whispered.
Eadulf followed the warrior’s seaward-pointing finger. Something dark was moving on the silvery waters of the sea, moving towards the strip of water that separated the island from the shore.
At first Eadulf did not understand what it was.
‘Tonn taide!’ whispered Gormán.
A tidal wave, higher than the average man, came pouring through the narrows. Within a second the three warriors behind Uaman, taking the full force of the water, were swept into the darkness, vanishing as their torches were extinguished. Uaman was closer to the shore and escaped the full force of the wave but he, too, was swept off his feet, though he managed by some miracle to cling tightly to his torch, keeping it above the waves. They saw, by its light, the waters recede for a moment or two; long enough for Uaman to clamber to his feet and start towards the shore. But the leper had been swept away from the main path, and as he moved forward, he began to sink rapidly into the sand.
‘The quicksand!’ muttered Gormán.
Already the clawing sand had reached Uaman’s waist and he was flailing about in panic. Eadulf began to move towards him but Gormán held him back.
‘You cannot help,’ the tall warrior muttered.
Eadulf was beside himself with anxiety.
‘Don’t you see, don’t you see…? He is the only one who knows what he has done with Alchú. The only one who can lead me to my baby.’
He started forward again, but the relentless sea was coming in once more and the sand was already up to Uaman’s chest.
‘Uaman!’ Eadulf yelled, moving as close as he dared. ‘Where is my baby? Where is Alchú?’
Uaman’s cowl had fallen from his white, bald skull of a head. In the flickering torchlight, they could see where the disease had eaten into his flesh.
‘My curse on you and the Eóghanacht! May you all never see the cuckoo or the corncrake. May you die screaming. May the cats eat your flesh. May you fester in your grave…’
The tidal wave returned a second time. The torch was extinguished. Uaman’s voice was silenced. Only whispering black waters could be seen at the spot where they covered his quicksand grave.
‘Es korakes!’ grunted Basil Nestorios with satisfaction in his voice. ‘To the ravens with him.’
Eadulf suddenly sat down in the darkness and cradled his head in his hands.
The nightmare was vivid.
The slow procession of religious emerged from the brass-studded oak doors of the chapel and into the cold, grey light of the central courtyard of the abbey. It was a large courtyard, flagged in dark limestone, yet on all four sides there towered the cheerless stone walls of the abbey buildings, giving the illusion that the central space was smaller than it actually was.