Free The Monk Who Vanished by Peter Tremayne Page B

and myself have made more dangerous journeys.’
    Donndubháin frowned for a moment and then his face broadened into a smile. ‘You are right, of course. Our Saxon friend is a good support in times of danger. He has served Cashel well since he has been here. But he is no warrior. He is slow when you might need a swift sword arm.’
    Fidelma found herself flushing as she felt that she should defend Eadulf. She was, at the same time, annoyed by her reaction.
    ‘Eadulf is a good man. A slow-footed hound often has good qualities,’ she added, indulging in an old proverb.
    ‘That is true. But beware of that Uí Fidgente, Gionga. I do not like him. Something about him makes me suspicious.’
    ‘You are not the only one, cousin,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘Have no fear. I shall be careful.’
    ‘If you see our cousin, Finguine of Cnoc Áine, give him my salutations.’
    ‘That I shall do.’ Fidelma was about to move on to the stables when she turned back. ‘Did you say that the merchant, Samradan, was trading at Imleach abbey?’
    Donndubhdáin’s eyebrows gathered.
    ‘Yes. He frequently trades there. But the assassins would have chosen the roof of his warehouse at random. He could not be involved in this matter.’

    ‘I think you said that before. You have had business with him?’
    ‘That is so. I have bought a few items in silver from him.’ He touched his silver brooch. ‘Why?’
    ‘I do not know the man. Is he a native of the town?’
    ‘He has lived here for several years. Exactly how long, I do not know. Nor do I know where he came from.’
    ‘It is of no consequence,’ remarked Fidelma. ‘As you say, he cannot be involved in this matter. Now I must be on my way. We shall all meet here in nine days’ time.’
    Donndubhain held up his papers and smiled.
    ‘Your brother will be safeguarded until your return. I promise. Go safely, cousin, and come back swiftly.’
     
    The clouds that had so dominated the sky earlier that day had broken up. Now they drifted lazily and high like the fleece of grazing sheep, fluffy against the azure background with the afternoon sun occasionally breaking through to warm the pastures. There was still a faint breeze but the air was pleasant enough and not uncomfortable.
    Fidelma and Eadulf had reached a fork in the River Suir, about four miles west of Cashel, where a wooden bridge spanned the fast-flowing waters, crossing a small island in the middle on which stood a minute rath which served as a fortification to protect the approaches to Cashel in times of war. Now it was not used for no enemy host had come close enough to threaten the capital of the Eóghanacht for many years. On either side of the bridge, along the river bank, woodlands stretched for some way. The roadway across the bridge was, so far as Eadulf knew, the only main road westward out of Cashel, joining roads leading north and south on the far side of the river.
    Fidelma, riding her white mare from her brother’s stables, just in front of Eadulf, halted at the centre of the bridge. Eadulf drew rein on his sorrel colt, frowning.
    ‘What is it?’ he demanded.
    Fidelma had noticed that there was movement in the rath itself. Then from the shadows of the timbers at the end of the bridge, where it joined the island, two archers appeared with drawn bows. The arrows were strung and pointing in their direction. A third warrior, whose shield carried the insignia of a rampant boar, his sword casually held in his right hand, came forward a pace to halt between the archers. He was careful not to obstruct the bowmen’s aim.
    Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she observed them.
    ‘Stay alert, Eadulf,’ she said quietly. ‘That warrior appears to be bearing the insignia of the Uí Fidgente.’
    She nudged her horse forward a few paces.

    ‘Halt!’ called the central warrior, raising his sword. ‘Come no further!’
    ‘Who gives orders on this bridge within sight of the King of Cashel’s s palace?’ she demanded in