Chalice of Blood by Peter Tremayne Page A

you from being shot,’ Fidelma replied grimly, peering forward. She ignored Eadulf’s exclamation of surprise as she saw Gormán, sword swinging, attack the man who was trying to place a third arrow into his bow. The sword struck him on the side of the neck and he gave a cry and went down. A second man was already mounted on a horse and was urging it away at a gallop. Gormán pursued him for a short distance but it was clear the man had a fresh, and therefore faster, mount. In fact, Gormán was also handicapped by an unwillingness to abandon Fidelma and Eadulf in case there were other attackers on the road. He wisely reined in his horse and gave up the pursuit. By the time the young warrior resheathed his sword and returned to them, the second man had disappeared.
    ‘I am sorry, I didn’t catch him,’ he said as he rejoined them. ‘I might recognise him again, though. He was a thin man with long hair as white as snow.’
    ‘Elderly?’ asked Fidelma.
    Gormán grimaced briefly. ‘ Bánaí ,’ he replied, using a word that meant someone whose hair, skin and eyes lacked normal
coloration. Fidelma had only seen such a person twice before and remembered the whiteness of their hair and skin and the pinkness of their eyes.
    ‘Robbers, do you think?’
    ‘Hard to tell. Assassins certainly, for if their arrows had struck home …’ He shrugged.
    ‘I have you to thank for my life, Gormán’ Eadulf began awkwardly.
    ‘That is my duty, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied quickly, walking across to the tree and extracting the arrow. He examined it with a shake of his head. ‘Nothing to indicate an origin. Well-crafted, though, but any one of a hundred fletchers could have made it.’
    ‘Let us see if we can get any explanation from our would-be killer,’ Fidelma said.
    Gormán’s mouth drooped cynically. ‘I doubt it, lady. My sword bit deep.’
    When they reached the body of the assailant, they could see that the man was certainly dead. He was not old although his hair was streaked grey. It was cut fairly short and his face was closely shaven. The man was tanned, which proclaimed he led an outdoor life. Regarding this, Fidelma bent to look at the hands of the man. They were neither the rough callused hands of a field worker nor the soft hands of someone unused to hard work. His clothes were nondescript, a field worker’s clothing of furs and leather. The clothing indicated someone who was neither wealthy nor poor. There was no purse on him, nothing to identify him.
    It was Fidelma who pointed out that the sword that still hung from his belt was of good-quality workmanship, a warrior’s sword rather than some cheap ornament. It would not be chosen by someone who had little means to purchase it. There was also a dagger with an embossed handle, which was unusual for a
field worker. He had a quiver of arrows hanging on one side of his belt. His bow lay where it had been discarded when he received his death blow from Gormán. Fidelma picked it up and, turned it over in her hands. It was well made of yew wood, a war bow rather than one used just for hunting. She turned and handed it to Gormán, asking a silent question with raised eyebrows.
    ‘A professional warrior’s bow,’ he muttered, having given it a quick examination. ‘Well strung.’ He paused and tested the pull on it. ‘It would take a trained bowman to pull it. There is good tension on it and a secure grip.’
    Fidelma knelt again beside the body and examined it closely.
    ‘He wears no ornamentation, which is unusual. There is nothing decorative on him. But see here, what do you make of this, Eadulf?’ She pointed to the neck where there was a slight discoloration, like bruising or an abrasion. Eadulf’s mind went back to the customs of his own people.
    ‘The mark of a slave collar?’ he hazarded. ‘The slaves among my people are often given iron collars to indicate their position.’
    An expression of distaste crossed Fidelma’s features. Then she turned