‘Angle or Saxon – what matters? You are a foreigner.’
‘And now you know who we are, I suggest you identify yourself,’ Fidelma said again, to show she would not be intimidated.
The man turned his gaze on her for a moment and then said, ‘I see no reason to do so.’ He addressed one of his companions. ‘These folk have no use for their horses. Turn them loose.’
With a grin at his leader, the man trotted off to the makeshift paddock where Gormán had left their horses. A few moments later came the sound of shouting and the thud of hooves on the soft ground. Then the man returned.
‘In more arduous times,’ the leader of the group addressed them languidly, ‘we might have had need of your horses. But we can dispense with them.’
Once again he signalled to his two immediate companions who, leaving the others with their arrows still strung and threatening, dismounted swords in hand and moved towards the captives.
‘This can either be done easily without the shedding of blood, or the harder way which will cause you much suffering,’ the leader called.
‘What is it that you want?’ Fidelma demanded suspiciously.
‘Only that which is valuable,’ replied the man. ‘We will take your belongings and leave.’
Fidelma’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You are just thieves? Robbers?’
‘Were you expecting that we were warriors with some lofty purpose in mind?’ The sandy-haired man laughed in amusement. ‘I regret that I have disappointed you. Alas, I am no more than a simple brigand who would relieve you of the burden of carrying such items as the golden torque that your friend of the Golden Collar wears around his neck.’
Even as he said this, his two men began to search Gormán at swordpoint, removing his dagger that he wore at his belt, the gold circlet showing his rank, a ring from his finger and a few other trinkets. Then they moved on to Eadulf, taking the silver crucifix he wore and a few other items of value including the silver seal that Brother Conchobhar had given him.
Fidelma glared at the leader of the brigands. ‘You may regret this day,’ she said fiercely.
The man made a bored gesture with his hand. ‘Indeed, I may. But “may” is a word of uncertainty. I may regret it and I may not. That is something only the future and soothsayers can tell.’
While the arrows unwaveringly covered them, the two men searched Fidelma with professional detachment, removing her jewellery and the smaller version of the golden circlet she wore at her neck. In her marsupium they also discovered a small wand of white rowan wood on which was fixed a figurine in gold. It was the image of an antlered stag, the emblem of Fidelma’s authority when acting for her brother. They added this to their store of booty while Fidelma and her companions looked on powerlessly. When they had finished collecting the spoils, one of the men packed the loot into a bag and tied it to his saddle while the other went into the ruined chapel and apparently searched the belongings they had left there. He came out after a few moments, holding Gormán’s sword which he handed to the leader. The sandy-haired man glanced at it, weighed it in his hand and muttered approval.
‘A good blade, warrior,’ he said. ‘I expect it has been put to expert use. I could use a better blade than I have.’
Gormán gritted his teeth in impotence. The sword had been an especial favourite of his.
The leader of the brigands now glanced at his comrade but the man shook his head.
‘That is all,’ the man said. ‘But the trinkets and gold torcs will pay well for this day’s work.’
‘That is true.’ The leader turned to Fidelma. ‘Think yourself lucky. I feel in a generous mood, so we’ll leave you with your lives. Two days ago we encountered a young merchant who was not as accommodating as you. He objected to us in most aggressive terms. So we hanged him.’
He gestured to his companions, who swung up on their horses. The two silent bowmen remained with their arrows still aimed while this was done. Then the sandy-bearded man yelled: ‘Ride!’
Before Fidelma and her companions could move, the band of five brigands had wheeled round and set off at a fast pace through the ruined village towards the western hills.
Gormán uttered a curse, hand to his empty scabbard. Then he was peering on the ground, apparently trying to retrieve his dagger.
Fidelma heaved a sigh, moved to a boulder and sat down.
‘Well, what now?’ Eadulf asked resignedly.
Gormán had recovered his dagger and rejoined them.
‘They have driven off our horses,’ he said, stating the obvious.
‘In that they have made one mistake,’ Fidelma replied confidently, suddenly rising to her feet again.