Badger's Moon (12 page)

Fidelma shook her head. ‘Not evidence at all. Remember that, Gobnuid the smith. Remember, I am concerned only in getting to the truth. Let no one try to pre-empt the decision of my investigation, otherwise the law will be made clear to them and the punishment will fit their transgression of it.’

She had walked a short distance from the forge when some instinct made her glance back. Gobnuid was apparently examining something in his hand with a frown of concentration. It sparkled in the glinting light of the forge fire. It was the nugget that he had told her was iron pyrites. Fidelma turned and hurried away.

Eadulf glanced up as Fidelma entered the guestroom. He had already bathed and dressed ready to attend the evening meal in Becc’s feasting hall.

‘You’ll have to hurry,’ he began and then saw her expression. ‘What has happened?’

‘I have just had an interesting conversation with a smith called Gobnuid. There is certainly fear and prejudice against the strangers in this community. I fear that it will not be enough to exonerate them to say that there is no evidence that they are guilty. It must be demonstrated that they are innocent.’

‘Do you really think that they are innocent?’ Eadulf demanded. Fidelma looked sharply at him. ‘Thought has nothing to do with it. Where is the evidence?’

Eadulf’s eyebrows rose at her sharp tone. ‘I would reserve my judgement on their innocence or guilt until I have heard all the evidence. So far there are many questions that remain unasked, let alone unanswered.’

Fidelma compressed her lips for a moment and then slumped on the bed, realising that, perhaps, she was being too sensitive. Of course, Eadulf was right. Was she now beginning to see prejudice where there was none?

‘The Aksumites as good as admitted that one of them was on the hillside that night,’ went on Eadulf. ‘The fact that Brocc could not identify which one of the three is no absolution of guilt. It is, however, an admission of lying and why do people lie? Only when they have something to hide.’

Fidelma sighed deeply. ‘You are right, Eadulf. I am sorry if I was sharp. It is a matter that we must deal with in our search for the truth. But blind prejudice is something I cannot deal with.’ She rose suddenly as she realised the growing lateness of the hour. ‘I must bathe. Go to Becc’s hall and tend my apologies. Say that I shall be there directly.’

It was after they had broken their fast on the next day that Fidelma decided that they should find Goll and his family. This time she told Accobrán that they would travel by horse because the previous day’s walking had been quite exhausting. While the distances had been short, the hilly terrain and small woodland paths had been tiring. The young tanist went off to arrange for their horses to be saddled. While he was doing so, Fidelma and Eadulf took the opportunity to examine the high watchtowers that marked the gates in the triple ramparts of the fortress.

‘Impressive,’ Eadulf commented as he peered up at the constructions.

Impulsively, Fidelma suddenly made for the doorway to one of the towers.

‘Let’s climb up and see what view we can gain of the terrain,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘It will help us get a good perspective of the countryside about.’

With a suppressed groan, Eadulf followed, for he was the first to admit that he had no head for heights. Inside the wooden tower, ladders ran from floor to floor, and Eadulf counted five levels before they emerged on a flat roof. It was bathed in the soft October sun. Eadulf blinked nervously at the scene that unfolded below him. The woods spread like vast carpets of green in all directions, criss-crossed by silver lines that marked the run of rivers through the valleys. And faintly to the north and west he could make out the distant shadows of mountains.

‘A beautiful countryside,’ Fidelma was saying, stretching languorously in the early morning sunlight. Although it was autumn, the sun was growing quite warm. Eadulf could feel it through his clothing. He stood nervously near the hatch through which they had ascended rather than venture to the edge of the tower where Fidelma stood looking down towards the territory they had traversed yesterday. Whether he looked down or whether he looked outwards across the hills from this high point, Eadulf felt an uncomfortable sensation. It was a sense of losing his balance; that he would fall off the earth into the void of the sky. He felt the sweat stand out on his brow.

Fidelma had not noticed his discomfort and appeared to be making calculations of distance as she surveyed the wooded countryside.

‘Come and see, Eadulf,’ she urged. ‘No wonder there are so many names of places in this area with the word
garran
in them.’

Eadulf tried to concentrate, to focus on what she was saying rather than the dizzy view beyond.

‘
Garran?
What does that mean?’ he asked absently, knowing full well its translation.

‘A wood of small size or an avenue through trees,’ replied a male voice at his feet. It was a thin, wiry man with a thatch of sandy hair, whose head and shoulders had appeared through the hatch.

Fidelma swung round and her eyes widened a fraction as she recognised the smith named Gobnuid.

‘Exactly so. In your own Saxon tongue, Eadulf, you have the word
gráf
, I think.’ She pronounced it ‘grove’. ‘It means the same thing.’

Eadulf, nodding, was attuned to the hostile glance that she gave the newcomer.

‘The land of groves. It seems appropriate.’

‘I have been sent to tell you that your horses are ready, lady,’ Gobnuid announced, having climbed onto the roof to join them. ‘Accobrán the tanist is waiting below for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Fidelma said, her voice distant. ‘We were admiring the beautiful countryside around here. It certainly is best seen from this high vantage point.’

‘None finer,’ the smith agreed, glancing around as if examining the landscape for the first time.

‘In what direction is the
bothán
of Goll the woodcutter?’

‘To the south-west, beyond the Thicket of Pigs and across the river.’

Fidelma glanced towards the dark green of the treetops that spread across the hills in the direction Gobnuid had indicated.

‘It appears that it will be a pleasant ride,’ she observed.

The smith nodded absently.

‘Perhaps it is time you should be leaving, lady? Accobrán is waiting below,’ he repeated.

‘Perhaps you are right,’ replied Fidelma softly.

‘After you, lady.’ The smith stood aside from the hatch.

Eadulf said quickly: ‘I’ll go first.’ In truth, he was glad to leave this high, unprotected place. Without awaiting a reply, he climbed onto the ladder, hoping that Fidelma would not observe his haste to be gone, and began to descend. Fidelma followed him with the smith bringing up the rear.

Eadulf was halfway down the first ladder when he felt the rung on which he had placed his foot give way with a sudden crack. Had his fear not been making him hold the ladder so tightly, the surprise of the breaking rung might have precipitated him off the ladder and could have sent him tumbling the five floors down the ladder well. For an eternity he hung by his arms, his feet waving into space as they sought for a support.

He lowered himself a rung by his arms, and his foot finally found the support of the rung below the one that had snapped.

‘Are you all right, Eadulf?’ came Fidelma’s concerned voice from above him.

‘I’ve been better,’ Eadulf breathed after he felt secure. ‘One of the rungs snapped under my foot. Come down carefully, I’ll guide you over it.’

He waited until she came further down the ladder.

‘Right,’ he called. ‘The next rung is now missing. Lower yourself by your hands and feel for the next rung.’ He paused as she did so. ‘That’s it. Your foot is on the rung. Come on down.’

Fidelma did not do so at once. As she passed over the broken rung, reaching it at eye level, she paused and examined it carefully while Eadulf stood impatiently on the landing. As she came down level with him, she asked anxiously: ‘Are you sure that you are all right?’

He nodded. ‘I’d better lead the way down again.’ He smiled. ‘There could have been a nasty accident. The wood snapped.’

Gobnuid came down quickly to join them. He looked nervous.

‘Accident?’ He picked up on the word. ‘I think you are right. Some of the wood is rotten and in need of replacing.’

Eadulf glanced from Gobnuid to Fidelma with silent curiosity. He could sense something of the tension between them. Accobrán was waiting outside the tower when they emerged. He saw that something was amiss.

‘What happened?’ he demanded.

‘One of the rungs was rotten,’ replied the smith almost defensively. ‘No one is hurt.’

‘Eadulf was lucky that he had a good grip,’ added Fidelma, ‘otherwise things might have been different.’

Gobnuid vanished towards his forge and Fidelma saw the look of anger on Accobrán’s face as he looked after the smith. It seemed that he was on the point of following him, but a stable lad brought forward their horses.

‘What made you send Gobnuid up to fetch us?’ Fidelma asked the tanist. ‘A smith has more important things to do than act as a messenger. The stable lad could have summoned us.’

The young tanist shrugged.

‘Gobnuid was here. He had to shoe my mare this morning, lady,’ he replied almost defensively. ‘He volunteered to run up to get you.’

Accobrán dismissed the stable lad and began to mount his horse. ‘Fidelma and Eadulf followed his example and they were soon trotting out of the gates of Rath Raithlen.

It was a pleasant ride along the forest tracks and, as if by mutual agreement, they rode in silence for most of the way. Eadulf was bursting with questions but he knew Fidelma well enough to remain silent when he saw her preoccupied features.

They passed over the wooded hill, the strangely named Thicket of Pigs, and crossed the River Tuath by a ford where the water gushed over a bed of pebbles. Suddenly, in mid-stream, Accobráh halted and pointed to the hills that rose before them. Solemnly, he intoned: ‘A forest in full colour. The sigh of myriad leaves whispering to the listening heavens. Even great cities appear as muddy hovels to the venerable shady groves that were old before the first brick was placed on brick.’

Fidelma was startled out of her silence because the verse Accobrán had just recited was in Greek.

‘I did not know you spoke Greek.’ she commented.

The young tanist shrugged. ‘A little of Greek, Hebrew and Latin, for I spent some years at the house of Molaga thinking to become one of the religious before I realised that my hand was better suited to hold a sword than a stylus. I spent some time serving my uncle Becc in the campaigns to prevent the Uí Fidgente raids on our territory.’

‘And thus you were elected tanist, Becc’s successor?’

‘Ten months ago,’ confirmed Accobrán with a smile. ‘Now, while Becc enjoys the prestige of chieftainship, I enjoy the hard work of riding through the territory to ensure that order is kept and no one has cause to complain.’

Fidelma glanced at him with a slightly raised eyebrow. ‘Do you resent that?’

‘Resent? Accobrán seemed surprised at the idea. ‘Of course not. That is the task I undertook. When I am elderly, and I am chieftain with a tanist, it will be his task to do as I do and my reward to do as Becc does. That is in the way of things. Brother Eadulf, there’ – he indicated Eadulf with a nod of his head – ‘does not resent the tonsure he wears. He would not have become a religious if he did not want to wear the garb and perform the duties that go with the job, would he? No more do I resent the duties that are incumbent on me as tanist.’

They continued on their way through the dark woods, climbing steadily along the forest pathway through the thickly growing trees.

A loud shout from nearby caused them to abruptly rein in their horses.

There came the sound of something being struck, a crack, and then an awesome tearing noise. It was as if a mighty army was coming crashing through the trees. The horses shied nervously and Eadulf, not the best of horsemen, nearly took a tumble. He managed to regain control more by desperation than with skill.

‘What the devil…?’ he began. ‘Are we under attack?’

Accobrán was laughing and he patted his horse’s neck to calm its nervousness.

‘Not the devil, Saxon. It is just a tree being felled nearby. By law, the
gerrthóir
, the woodcutter, must give a cry of warning before the tree falls.’

The sound of an axe biting into wood now came to their ears.

‘Through here,’ called Fidelma, guiding her horse expertly in the direction of the sound.

They soon emerged in a clearing where a young man was working on a newly felled holly tree, hacking at its branches. He paused as he saw them, straightened up. He was scarcely out of his teenage but handsome, tanned with fair hair and blue eyes. He seemed to carry an air of boyish innocence with him. As he examined them and recognised Accobrán, a frown crossed his features.

‘I did give a warning cry,’ he said defensively.

Fidelma halted her horse before him and smiled down at his belligerent features. He was hardly more than eighteen or nineteen years of age.

‘So you did,’ she replied pleasantly.

The young man shifted uneasily, axe held loosely at his side. He stared at Fidelma and Eadulf with a glowering, suspicious look.

‘Don’t worry, Gabrán,’ called Accobrán, moving his horse alongside Fidelma. ‘We are not here to remonstrate with you.’

Gabrán glanced up at the tanist and Fidelma noticed that his suspicion gave way to a momentary expression of intense dislike. Then he seemed to control his features into a mask of indifference.

‘What is it you want, Accobrán?’ His voice was icy. Fidelma realised that there was no friendship between these young men. Then Gabrán’s gaze suddenly returned to Fidelma and his eyes widened. ‘You must be the king’s sister – the
dálaigh
of whom people are talking.’

‘Who talks about the
dálaigh
, Gabrán?’ asked the young tanist in irritation. ‘More importantly, what are they saying? It is not courteous to gossip about the sister of the king.’

When the boy answered he spoke to Fidelma and not to Accobrán. ‘It is only the usual gossip.’ He was guileless about protocol. ‘We were in Condn’s
bruden
last night and we heard about the
dálaigh
’s arrival.’

‘Conda’s tavern is by the little fort on the other side of that hill,’ the tanist explained with irritated embarrassment as he raised a hand to indicate the direction. ‘The Hill of Crows, we call it.’

‘Well, such talk is natural.’ Fidelma smiled. She was no great believer in meaningless etiquette. ‘It would be amazing if my arrival was not talked about. So,’ she looked down at the young woodcutter, ‘there should be no need to explain why I have come to see you and your parents.’

The young man frowned again. ‘No need to explain why you should come to see me. Doubtless, Lesren is still making terrible accusations about me. But why do you have to bother my mother and father? They have suffered enough from his vile tongue.’

‘I simply need to clarify some matters, that is all. Is your
bothán
near here?’

‘Not far. The track here leads up to a standing stone and you have to turn across the hill. Our place is a short distance away.’

‘Then let us proceed there, for the sooner we have talked, the sooner we can resolve matters,’ Accobrán suggested. ‘Swing up behind me, Gabrán, and it will save you a walk.’

He reached down one arm but the young woodcutter shook his head.

‘I have my tools to collect and bring with me. It is more than my life is worth to leave them lying about in the woods. My father would flay me.’

‘Then we will wait until you are ready,’ Fidelma announced. ‘Your father is right. Tools are valuable. Sometimes tools are more precious than gold. Is that not so, Accobrán?’

The tanist sniffed disdainfully, ‘I know nothing of the value of an artisan’s tools. My tool is this!’ He clapped his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘That, certainly, is precious.’

Gabrán lost no time in gathering his tools in a leather bag, which he then slung across his shoulders. He turned back to the horses but hesitated.

‘There is more room behind Eadulf,’ suggested Fidelma diplomatically. ‘He is not laden with a warrior’s accoutrements.’

The woodcutter took Eadulf’s extended hand and swung up behind him within a moment. Leading the way, Accobrán allowed his horse to walk along the path through the woods. A standing stone stood where the track turned at a right angle and began to rise more steeply up the hill.