Perhaps Eadulf had not been on board at all?
No, she shook her head, deciding against the theory. He would never have given that Missal to anyone — voluntarily, that was.
But what if it had been taken from him in death? Fidelma shivered slightly and set her mouth in a thin, determinedline. Then whoever had perpetrated such a deed would be brought to justice. She would make it so.
She suddenly halted.
Ahead of her a chorus of protesting bird cries made a din that drowned out most of the forest sounds. They made an odd ‘caaarg-caaarg’ scolding. She saw a couple of birds flitting upwards to the high bare branches of an oak, recognising the white rump and pinkish-buff plumage of jays. In a nearby clump of alders, where they had been pecking at the brown, woody cones, several little birds with conical bills and streaked plumage joined in chirping in agitation.
Something was alarming them.
Fidelma took a pace forward hesitantly.
It saved her life.
She felt the breath of the arrow pass inches by her head and heard the thump as it embedded itself into the tree behind her.
She dropped to her knees automatically, her eyes searching for better cover.
While she crouched undecided as to what to do, there was a sharp cry and two large warriors, with full beards, and polished armour, came bursting through the undergrowth and seized her arms in vice-like grips before she had time to regain her wits. One of them held a sword, which he raised as if to strike. Fidelma flinched, waiting for the blow.
‘Stop!’ cried a voice. ‘Something is amiss!’
The warrior hesitantly lowered the weapon.
In the gloom of the woodland track, a figure mounted on horseback loomed up before them. A short bow was held loosely in one hand and the reins of his steed in the other. It seemed clear that he had been the perpetrator of her near clash with death.
Fidelma did not have time to respond to express her astonishment or protest because they then began to drag hertowards the mounted figure. They halted before him. He bent forward in his saddle and examined her features carefully.
‘We are misled,’ he exclaimed with disgust in his voice.
Fidelma threw back her head to return his examination. The stranger was impressive. He had long red-gold hair on which a circlet of burnished copper was set with several precious stones glinting. His face was long and aquiline, with a broad forehead. The nose was more a beak, the bridge thin, the shape almost hooked. The hair grew scantily from his temples and gathered in thickness at the back of his head, flashing in red, coppery glints as it fell to his shoulders. The mouth was thin, red, rather cruel, so Fidelma felt. The eyes were wide and almost violet in hue and seemed to have little trace of a pupil, although Fidelma conceded that this must clearly be a trick of the light.
He was no more than thirty. A muscular warrior. His dress, even had he not been wearing the copper circlet of office on his head, spoke of rank. He was clad in silks and linen trimmed with fur. A sword hung from his belt whose handle she saw was also worked with semi-precious metals and stones. A quiver of arrows hung from his saddle bow and the bow, still in his hand, was of fine craftsmanship.
He continued to examine her with a frown.
‘Who is this?’ he demanded coldly to the men holding her.
One of the warriors chuckled dryly.
‘Your quarry, my lord.’
‘Must be another wench from that religious house nearby,’ chimed in the other. Then, with some strange emphasis which Fidelma could not understand, he added: ‘She must have disturbed the deer that we were after, my lord.’
Fidelma finally found breath.
‘There was no deer within a hundred yards of me!’ she cried in suppressed rage. ‘Tell your men to unhand me or, by the living God, you shall hear more about it.’
The mounted man raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Both men holding her arms merely increased the bruising pressure. One of them starting laughing lewdly.
‘She has spirit, this one, my lord.’ Then he turned, putting his evil-smelling face next to her: ‘Silence, wench! Do you know to whom you speak?’
‘No,’ Fidelma gritted her teeth, ‘for no one has had the manners to identify him. But let me tell you to whom you speak … I am Fidelma, dálaigh of the courts, and sister to Colgú, king of Cashel. Does that suffice for you to unhand me? You are already guilty of assault before the law!’
There was a silence and then the mounted man spoke sharply to the two warriors.
‘Let her go at once! Release her!’
They dropped their hold immediately, almost like well-trained dogs obeying their master. Fidelma felt the blood gushing into her lowers arms and hands again.
The sounds of a horse crashing through the winter forest caused them all to turn. A second rider, bow in hand, came trotting up. Fidelma saw the flushed young features of Olcán. He drew rein and stared down, his expression was one of bewilderment as he recognised Fidelma. Then he had slid off his horse and was moving forward, hands outstretched.
‘Sister Fidelma, are you hurt?’
‘Small thanks to these warriors, Olcán,’ she snapped, rubbing her bruised arms.
The first rider turned to his men with an angry gesture.
‘Precede me back to the fortress,’ he snapped, and, without a word, both men turned and moved off at a shambling trot. As they did so the tall man bowed stiffly in his saddle from the waist towards Fidelma.
‘I regret this incident.’
Olcán looked from Fidelma to the man, frowning. Then he realised his manners.
‘Fidelma, may I present my friend, Torcán. Torcán, this is Fidelma of Kildare.’
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she recognised the name.
‘Torcán, the son of Eoganán of the Ui Fidgenti?’
The tall man again bowed from the saddle, this time it was more of a sort of mock salute.
‘You know me?’
‘I know of you,’ Fidelma replied curtly. ‘And you are a long way from the lands of the Ui Fidgenti.’
The Ui Fidgenti occupied the lands to the north-west of the kingdom of Muman. She knew from her brother that they were one of the most restless of his peoples. Eoganán was an ambitious prince, ruthless in his desire to dominate the surrounding clans and expand his power base.
‘And you are surely a long way from Kildare, Sister Fidelma,’ riposted the other.
‘As an advocate of the courts, it is my lot to travel far and wide to maintain justice,’ replied Fidelma gravely. ‘And what is the reason for your journey to this corner of the kingdom?’
Olcán intervened hurriedly.
‘Torcán has been a guest of my father, Gulban of Beara and is currently enjoying, with me, the hospitality of Adnár.’
‘And why was it necessary to shoot at me?’
Olcán looked shocked.
‘Sister …’ he began but Torcán was smiling quizzically down at Fidelma.
‘Sister, it was not my intention to shoot at you,’ protested Torcán. ‘I was actually shooting at a deer, or so I thought. However, I concede that my men were lacking in manners, and in this regard I fear that injury to yourself lies, not in my badly aimed arrow, for which I do heartily wish to atone.’
Torcán was either short-sighted or an easy liar for Fidelma knew that there was no animal near her when the arrow was fired. Nor could any experienced hunter have mistaken her movements for that of a deer in the bare forest. Still, there was a time when confrontation did not achieve any result andtherefore she would pretend that she accepted the explanation. She let her breath exhale softly.
‘Very well, Torcán. I will accept your apology and not press a case in law for injury to myself in that you have placed me in fear of death. I do so accepting that it was an accident. However, the behaviour of your warriors was no accident. From them, a fine of two séts each will be paid for their mishandling and bruising of me and further conveying the fear of death. In this you will find that I act in accordance with the fines outlined in the Bretha Déin Chécht.’