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Peter Tremayne

The Seventh Trumpet

CHAPTER ONE

Tóla paused on the threshold of his farmhouse, looked towards the black mounds of the eastern hills, standing out sharply against the white bar of light that heralded dawn, and breathed in deeply before exhaling in a satisfied fashion. It was an action that had become a regular ritual each morning over many decades. He stood for a moment, gazing at the sky and estimating what sort of day it might bring before turning his attention to the dark, undulating land that spread southward before him. The light of the new day was spreading rapidly towards the thrust of rock which dominated the southern skyline just a few kilometres away. The grey-white buildings of The Rock of Cashel, which constituted the capital of the rulers of Muman, were already sparkling in the dawn light.

Tóla took a step forward and stretched languidly. He was a thickset and muscular man; a man whose very frame seemed to proclaim that he was a son of the soil; a man used to working the land and caring for the livestock. The rising sun glinted on his blue-black hair, enhancing his tanned skin and pale eyes. His features had been coarsened and aged by his outdoor life, but they were neither ugly nor unkindly. He stood like a man content with his life and all he surveyed.

There was a rustle from nearby and a large, rough-coated hound trotted round the building and whined in greeting, accompanied by quick movements of its tail. Its quiet, easy nature belied its intimidating appearance. The man bent and petted the heavy head, making a soft grunting sound as the dog gave another whine. Then Tóla turned back to the door behind him and called out: ‘It will be a good day today. ’

A woman appeared, framed in the door, rubbing her hands on an apron and glancing towards the eastern hills. She was as tanned as Tóla; a pleasant, well-built woman, used to hard work.

‘Good enough to finish the harvest?’

‘Good enough, Cainnear. We can finish the small field today and then all the grain will be in. ’

‘You had best check the heifer that’s still in calf before you do so,’ the woman advised.

‘She’s been slow, that one,’ agreed her husband. ‘The rest of the calves are already out to pasture. I’ll go and see how she is. She was down by the stream last night — she’s probably given birth by now. ’ Then he paused. ‘I suppose that our lazy son is not yet stirring? Better get him out of bed — there is a great deal to be done. ’

‘I will so, and join you in the small field later,’ Cainnear replied with a smile.

The farmer nodded absently and, with his dog trotting at his heels, he went to the shed at the back of the bothán, the stone-built cabin in which they lived, and collected a scythe and rake. Balancing them easily over one broad shoulder, he began to stroll across the fields towards the distant dark line of trees which marked the path of the little stream that was the southern border of his farmlands. The stream flowed west to join the great river called the Suir, which provided the western border of his land.