‘Only that one was fat and the other a bowman.’
‘Well, that we know. But what else?’
Adag shrugged indifferently. ‘Nothing else. I served them while my grandfather attended to their horses.’
‘So they came on horseback?’ Eadulf pointed triumphantly. He turned to Fidelma. ‘Unusual, for the monk to travel on a horse.’
The child stared at him curiously. ‘Why so, when you and the Sister here travel on horseback?’
‘That is because …’ Eadulf was about to respond when Adag’s grandfather interrupted.
‘You have to learn, boy, that some religious do not have to abide by the general rule against riding on horses if they are of a certain rank. I will tell you more, later. Now reply to the lady’s questions.’
Adag shrugged. ‘I remember that the fat one handed the bowman a leather purse while they drank together. That is all.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Nothing, save the fat one was a stranger.’
‘A foreigner?’
‘No. A man of Eireann but not from the south, I think. I could tell by his accent. The bowman was from the south lands. I know that. But not the monk.’
‘You did not hear what they spoke about?’
The boy shook his head.
‘Did anyone see from which direction they came?’
‘No. But the fat one did arrive first,’ offered Aona.
‘Ah? They did not arrive together?’
‘No.’ This time it was Aona who spoke. ‘I remember now. The fat one arrived first and his horse needed attention. There was only myself and grandson here. So I went out to see to the horse while Adag served the monk with a meal. It was then that the bowman arrived. I did not see from what direction for I was in the stable.’
‘And could you tell nothing from their horses?’ Fidelma pressed. Aona was shaking his head and then his eyes lit up. ‘The bowman’s mount was scarred. It was a war horse. Chestnut coloured. Past its prime. I saw several healed wounds on it. The saddle spoke of a warrior’s steed. He had a spare quiver attached to the saddle. Apart from that, he carried all his weapons with him. I recall that the fat one’s horse was in good fettle and his harness and saddle were of good quality. They were of the quality one expects a merchant to use. But that is all I remember.’
Fidelma stood up. From her marsupium she took a coin and gave it to Aona.
‘I think your clothes are dry now, Eadulf,’ she said firmly.
Aona was thanking Fidelma even as Eadulf took his dried clothes from the pole and folded them into his saddle bag.
‘Shall I look out for these two strangers, then, lady?’ Aona asked. ‘Are these the people I must tell Capa about?’
Fidelma smiled wryly. ‘If you see these two strangers, Aona, I would seek out a priest rather than Capa. They were killed this morning after they tried to assassinate my brother and Prince Donennach.’
She raised a hand in farewell and turned for the door, followed by Eadulf.
Once mounted, she saw Aona and his grandson, Adag, standing at the door, watching them.
‘Be vigilant!’ she called, turning her horse from the inn yard and along the road to Imleach.
They rode on in silence for a while. The path took them along the north bank of the Ara with the sky darkening perceptibly. To the south of them, the long wooded ridge of Slievenamuck stood framed against the light southern sky while, before them, the tip of the lowering sun was hovering above the western horizon. The road was easy and fairly straight, running across high ground away from the lowlands around Ara’s Well. To the north of them, some miles away, there rose yet another range of hills. When Eadulf inquired what they were called, Fidelma told him that they were the Slieve Felim mountains, a rough and inhospitable country beyond which lay the lands of the Uí Fidgente.
For the most part they rode in silence because Eadulf could see Fidelma’s brow creased in thought and in such circumstances, he knew it was ill-advised to interrupt her. She was doubtless turning the information they had been given over in her mind.
They had travelled about eight miles when Fidelma suddenly raised her head and became aware of her surroundings.
‘Ah, not far now. We are almost there,’ she announced with satisfaction.
Almost at once they emerged from the wooded track to an open hilly area. Eadulf needed no prompting to identify the great stone-walled building as being the abbey of St Ailbe. It dominated the little township which stretched before it, although there was a distance between the abbey walls and the edge of the main buildings of the town. Eadulf was aware that both abbey and town were surrounded by stretches of grazing land, edged with forests of yew-trees; yet they were trees of the Irish variety with their curved needles that marked them from the yew-trees with which he was familiar in his own land. The trees were tall and round-headed, some of them, curiously, seeming to grow out of many trunks, twisted and ancient.
‘This is Imleach Iubhair …’ Fidelma sighed. ‘The Borderland of Yew-Trees’. This is the land that my cousin, Finguine of Cnoc Aine rules over.’
The township was quiet. It was much smaller than Cashel and to call it a township seemed to be a compliment. But Fidelma knew that the abbey and its church had helped to develop a thriving market there. The area seemed deserted and she presumed everyone would be at their evening meal. Vespers had come and gone.
The market place appeared to be the square directly in front of thegates of the abbey. The far side of the square was formed by the collection of houses which made up the town. Only one or two other buildings gave a cursory marking to the closer sides of the square so even to call it a square was not to be entirely accurate. It was slightly too large. In the centre stood a massive yew tree which surely stood over seventy feet high, a venerable twisted sculpture of dark brown wood and green curved needles. It dominated even the great grey walls of the abbey.
‘Now that is a tree worthy of respect,’ Eadulf breathed as he halted his horse before it and gazed up.
Fidelma turned in her saddle and smiled at her companion. ‘What makes you say that, Eadulf? Do you know about this tree?’
‘Know about it? No. I merely remark on its size and age.’
‘That is the sacred totem of the Eóghanacht. Remember, I told you about it in Cashel?’
‘A totem! That is a silly pagan idea.’
‘What else is a crucifix but a totem? Each clan, each family, have what we call a sacred Tree of Life. This is our sacred. When a new king of the Eóghanacht is installed, he has to come here and take his oath under the great yew.’
‘The tree must certainly be centuries old.’
‘Over a thousand years,’ Fidelma remarked complacently. ‘It is said that it was planted by the hand of Eber Fionn, son of Milesius, from whom the Eóghanacht descend.’
Aware of the darkness closing in, and hearing the distant howl of wolves and the bark and the whine of watch-dogs about to be released for the night, they continued towards the gates of the abbey.
Fidelma halted her mare and reached forward in order to tug at the bell chain which hung beside the gates. There was a dull clanging sound of a bell from the interior.
A wooden panel slid noisily back behind a metal grille in one of the gates. A voice called: ‘Who rings the bell of this abbey at this hour?’
‘Fidelma of Cashel wishes entrance.’
Almost at once there seemed a flurry of activity behind the door. The panel slid back with a thud. Bolts were noisily withdrawn, their metal squeaking on metal. Then the tall wooden gates of the abbey were slowly pulled back.
Before Fidelma or Eadulf could move forward, a tall, white-haired figure came running forward from the gates.
Eadulf had seen Abbot Segdae a few times before. The prelate he had seen at Cashel was a tall, dignified man; a man of quiet authority. But the man who came running forward to greet them was wild-hairedand appeared distracted. His usually serene, hawk-like features were haggard. He halted by Fidelma’s saddle, gazing up almost in the position of a worshipper at a shrine seeking solace.