‘I don’t understand,’ the young warrior replied.
‘Had they been sensible, they would have driven the horses before them. Or, indeed, have taken them. Instead, they just turned them loose.’
Gormán and Eadulf looked puzzled as Fidelma strode back to the ruined chapel and, with some dexterity, managed to scramble to the top of one of the thick walls and stood eyes shaded against the rising sun. She caught sight of Aonbharr, her horse, some distance away, grazing unconcernedly. She raised her voice and began a series of long, loud wordless calls. She saw the beast’s head raise, the ears prick forward. Then the head shook up and down on its thick neck, the mane flowing in each direction. The horse gave an answering series of snorts and whinnies, pounding the earth with a front hoof, and then came trotting back towards the ruins.
Fidelma climbed down from her perch and went to stroke the muzzle of the animal as it came up to her.
‘Obviously our thieves know little about the bonds that can develop between people and their mounts. Aonbharr is not one to be chased off like that.’
‘That is well and good,’ replied Eadulf. ‘But I don’t think our horses have the same affection for us.’
Fidelma gazed at him reprovingly. ‘If you will look behind Aonbharr you’ll see that he is not alone. Horses are herd animals. The other two beasts are following him back. All we have to do now is saddle them. But I think we should break our fast first and see what these brigands have left us.’
Indeed, there was little of value that had been left, although Fidelma always carried some gold pieces for emergencies and these the thieves had missed. However, the most important items missing were the symbols of office, the white rowan-wood wand and the golden torcs which showed her and Gormán to be of the Order of the Golden Collar. Jewels and rings could be replaced, but the symbols of rank and authority were more difficult to obtain.
‘Perhaps we should turn back,’ Gormán suggested uneasily. ‘If we are to ride into Uí Fidgente country we will need to do so with some authority.’
Fidelma disagreed. ‘We are less than a day’s ride from the Abbey of Mungairit, and to turn back now would be an act of foolishness.’
‘I have no sword, nor means to defend you,’ protested Gormán.
‘Surely a sword is easily replaced?’
‘You do not understand, lady. That was a special sword.’
‘A sword is only as good as the hand that wields it,’ replied Fidelma firmly.
Gormán knew when to give up the argument.
The remaining belongings were gathered. They ate sparingly, not having much appetite after the morning’s encounter. Gormán went to refill the water bags before they mounted their horses and began to move off along the track that led to the north-west. For the main part, they journeyed in silence, a slow and thoughtful trek over the cold, undulating hills, fording numerous small streams and rivers. They passed close to the banks of a larger river, which Fidelma identified as An Mhaoilchearn.
Even Gormán, who seemed depressed over the theft of his emblem and sword, which Eadulf knew was considered a loss to his honour and status as a warrior of the bodyguard of the King of Cashel, roused himself from his torpor.
‘You will never starve by those banks,’ he assured Eadulf, who had asked about the river. ‘It is a great spawning place of salmon and sea lamprey. Otters crowd its banks. It heads north to join the great River Sionnan. You know the story of its creation?’
Before Eadulf could answer, Fidelma intervened testily: ‘There are several stories of its creation. There is even one that says that under the estuary lies a city of the Fomorii, the underwater people, which rises to the surface every seven years and all mortals who look upon it will die.’
Gormán shook his head slightly. ‘I was thinking of the story of the daughter of Lodan, the son of the Sea God Lir. She was a wayward girl and one day went to the Well of Ségais, the forbidden Well of Knowledge. Because she did a forbidden thing, the well rose up and chased her across the land until she reached the sea, where she drowned. The waters of the well that chased her formed the path of the great river that is named after her.’
‘That is one story,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Yet another is that there was a great beast, a dragon named Oilliphéist. It was chased by the Blessed Patrick and the passage of the beast created the gorge which filled with water to become the river.’
Eadulf realised they were talking merely to ease the passing of time on their journey.
‘Well, as stories go, I like the one about Sionnan,’ he piped up. ‘She seems like a real character to me – someone who is not afraid to look for forbidden knowledge in forbidden places.’ His expression was bland.