He was about to make a remark to Gormán when the whinny of a horse outside stayed him. The young warrior came quickly to his feet, head to one side in a listening attitude. Fidelma also jumped up, exchanging a glance with Gormán. To most people, one horse sounds much like another. But to someone who has spent their life with horses, there is an ability to detect differences as another might observe the contrast in the sound of people’s voices.
It was at that moment when a harsh voice called from outside of their makeshift compound.
‘Come on out, strangers! And if you have weapons, discard them. I have bowmen here, and their arrows are strung and ready. If we see a sign of any weapon, you will have seen your last dawn.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Put down your weapon, Gormán,’ Fidelma ordered quietly as she saw the warrior clutch the hilt of his sword in automatic reaction. ‘We have no reason to suppose whoever is outside is not speaking the truth.’
Gormán slowly drew his sword and placed it on the ground. Fidelma then went to the doorway and pulled aside the temporary barricade they had erected to protect themselves from stray animals during the night.
‘We are coming out – unarmed,’ she called.
‘Come forth, then,’ invited the grating voice.
She glanced over her shoulder at Eadulf and Gormán. ‘Do nothing foolish until we see who summons us in this fashion.’ Then she turned and took a step outside.
The man who had summoned them had not been lying. Five men sat on their horses forming a semi-circle before the ruined chapel. Those at either end of this semi-circle had bows strung with arrows aimed. Two others had their swords ready while only the central figure sat at his ease on his horse without a weapon in his hand.
Fidelma automatically noted that once this man might have been handsome. He was tall, muscular, with a shock of sandy-coloured curly hair and a beard to match. However, his face was disfigured by a scar that caused a white welt from his forehead diagonally across his left eye, nose and cheek. It was not clear whether the eye was blind but it was certainly a pale, opaque colour compared to the restless blue orb that was its companion. He stared at them almost with disinterest. There was no way of telling whether he was smiling or not, for the thick beard hid all his lower features.
‘Well, now, what have we here?’ he muttered as Fidelma, followed by Eadulf and Gormán, appeared through the doorway. ‘A warrior.’ The glance fell on Gormán’s empty scabbard. ‘You were wise to abandon your sword, warrior. Now raise your hands just in case you are tempted to seek the knife I see still in your belt. Quickly!’
Keeping a rein on his anger, Gormán did as he was bid.
The man nodded approvingly. ‘Bowmen, keep a watch on that one. He wears a golden circlet around his neck. You know what that means? He is a warrior of the Nasc Niadh, the Golden Collar, who regard themselves as élite champions. They don’t surrender easily and are full of tricks. If he even moves a finger to scratch his nose, loose your arrows.’
Fidelma took a step forward.
‘If you recognise a warrior of the Nasc Niadh, the bodyguard of your King, you know that you trespass on dangerous ground, whoever you are. Name yourself!’
This time there was no doubting that the sandy-bearded warrior was laughing, as a deep throaty sound issued from where the beard hid his mouth. He then focused his gaze down on Fidelma.
‘I have no wish to name myself,’ he replied evenly. ‘I am the captor and, in case you have missed it, you are the captives. Now, who are you that travel in the company of a foreign religious and a warrior of the Golden Collar?’
Fidelma thrust out her jaw pugnaciously. ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel, sister to your King, Colgú.’
‘Not my King, woman,’ replied the man, as if amused. ‘And if you are Fidelma of Cashel, why do you sport clothes of this fashion. It is well known that Colgú’s sister went into religious service. Does not everyone talk of Sister Fidelma?’
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘So might they. But since you know so much, you may know that I have left the religious and pursue my rôle as dálaigh, an advocate at my brother’s court.’
The sandy-haired leader grunted indifferently and glanced at Eadulf.
‘So who is the foreigner?’
‘I am able to speak for myself,’ Eadulf snapped. ‘I am Eadulf of Saxmund’s Ham in the Land of the South Folk, among the Angles.’
‘There is a sound of arrogance in your voice, Saxon,’ sneered the man.
‘I am an Angle,’ replied Eadulf.