The Spider's Web

by Peter Tremayne

  Abbot Cathal grimaced.

  ‘You are very discerning, sister. Yes. He believes the Roman ways are better than our native customs. He has some support in this for he has built a Roman chapel at Ard Mór which is becoming renowned for its opulence. Father Gormán seems to have rich supporters.’

  ‘Yet he still dwells in such an isolated spot as Cill Uird,’ remarked Fidelma. ‘That is curious.’

  ‘Do not look for mysteries that do not exist,’ rebuked Abbot Cathal, though with a smile. ‘Father Gormán is a man of Araglin but believes in propagating his interpretation of the Faith as well.’

  Beccan was regarding her doleful countenance with amusement. He shook his head playfully.

  ‘The trouble, Fidelma of Kildare, is that you are too good at your profession. Your wisdom is becoming a by-word throughout the five kingdoms of Eireann.’

  ‘The thought does not please me,’ muttered Fidelma. ‘I serve the law not for personal esteem. I serve it to bring justice to the people.’

  Beccan took her irritation in good spirits.

  ‘And in doing so, Fidelma, you are known as a just person with an ability to solve contentious conundrums. In the wake of your successes comes your reputation. You must accept that with good grace. But now …’

  He turned decisively to Abbot Cathal.

  ‘I must be on my way for I wish to get to Ard Mór before nightfall. Vive valeque, Cathal of Lios Mhór.’

  ‘Vive, vale, Beccan.’

  With a quick smile to Fidelma and a nod to Eadulf, the elderly man was gone, leaving the room almost before they had realised he had departed.

  Fidelma turned to Brother Eadulf curiously.

  ‘Are you not continuing the journey with Beccan? Where do you go from here, Eadulf?’

  The dark-eyed monk, who had shared many of her adventures, was indifferent.

  ‘I thought that I would accompany you to Araglin; that is if you have no objection. I would be interested in seeing a part of this land that I have never seen before.’

  Fidelma’s lips quirked in a mischievous grin at Eadulf’s diplomatic reply which was obviously framed to placate any inquisitive thought that the abbot had.

  Eadulf was a hereditary gerefa or magistrate of his people, the South Folk Saxons. He had been converted to the Christian faith by an Irish missionary, Fursa, and sent to the great colleges of Eireann for his education, studying firstly at the monastery of Durrow and then at the famous college of medicine at Tuaim Brecain. Then Eadulf had left the Church of Colmcille for the Church of Rome. He had become secretary to Theodore, the new archbishop of Canterbury, appointed by Rome. Theodore sent him back to Ireland as an emissary to Fidelma’s brother Colgú of Cashel. Eadulf was perfectly at home in the five kingdoms, whose language he spoke fluently.

  ‘You may join me and welcome, Eadulf,’ she replied softly. Then: ‘Have you a horse?’

  ‘Your brother kindly loaned me a mount for this journey.’

  Usually the religious did not ride on their journeys. Fidelma’s ownership of a horse was merely a recognition of her rank and her office as a Brehon of the courts of law.

  ‘Excellent. Perhaps we should make a start upon our journey immediately. There are still many hours of daylight left.’

  ‘Would it not be wiser to wait until dawn tomorrow?’ asked Abbot Cathal. ‘You will not get to Araglin by nightfall.’

  ‘There is bound to be a hostel along the way,’ replied Fidelma with easy assurance. ‘If there is a possibility of preemptive action against the accused by Eber’s people, without them waiting for the matter to be dealt with by law, then the quicker I get to Araglin, the better.’

  Cathal agreed, albeit reluctantly.

  ‘As you will, Fidelma. But the mountains are no place to be caught abroad at night without shelter.’ The abbot, however, was only too well aware that he was not talking to a simple religieuse but to the sister of his king. What she decided was not something he could challenge with any authority. ‘I will get one of our brothers to prepare food and drink for your journey and see that your horses are watered and saddled.’

  Abbot Cathal rose and left the room.

  As the door shut behind him a metamorphosis overcame the solemn features of Fidelma. She wheeled round and caught the hands of the Saxon monk. There was a bubbling humour in her green-blue eyes. The natural expression of merriment on her fresh, attractive face would make even the most sombre of religious wonder why such an alluring young woman had taken up the life of holy orders. Her tall, yet well-proportioned figure seemed to express a desire for a more active and joyous role in life than that in the cloistered confines of a religious community.

  ‘Eadulf! But I had heard that you were on your way back to the land of the Saxons?’

  Eadulf’s expression reformed itself in an embarrassed grin at her enthusiasm at seeing him again.

  ‘Not yet awhile. When I heard that Beccan was coming to find you, in order to send you on this journey to Araglin, I told your brother that I would like to see something of the country and the law in operation. It gives me an excuse to stay a little longer in this land.’

  ‘It is good that you have come. If the truth be told, I was so bored here in Lios Mhór. It will be good to get up into the mountains; into the sweet air and have someone to talk with about this and that …’

  Eadulf laughed. It was a pleasant, good-natured laugh.

  ‘I have learnt what your sort of talk means,’ he replied pointedly.

  This time it was her turn to laugh. She had missed the debates which she used to have with Eadulf. Missed the way she could tease Eadulf over their conflicting opinions and philosophies; the way he would always rise with good humour to the bait which she threw at him. Their arguments would rage but there was no enmity between them. They learned together as they examined their interpretations of the moral principles of the founding fathers of their Faith and passionately contested their ideas of life.

  Eadulf was suddenly serious as he gazed at her animated features.

  ‘I, too, have missed our talks,’ he said quietly.

  They stared at one another in silence and then the door opened abruptly and Abbot Cathal came in. They moved apart in embarrassment.

  ‘It is done. The food will be ready. In fact, you are in luck. I am told that there is a farmer from Araglin who is just about to start on his return journey there. He can guide you on your way.’

  Fidelma regarded him hesitantly.

  ‘A farmer? Is he young or middle-aged?’ she queried cautiously.

  Abbot Cathal stared perplexed for a moment and then shrugged.

  ‘He is young. There is a young girl with him as well. Does this have some relevance?’

  ‘In this case, it does not matter.’ Fidelma shook her head with solemn amusement. ‘But had the farmer been an older man then I think it might well have made a difference. You see,’ she decided to explain to the clearly puzzled abbot, ‘I have just made a judgment against a middle-aged farmer – one Muadnat. He might not take kindly to my company.’

  Abbot Cathal still looked bemused.

  ‘But all must accept the judgment of law.’ He seemed unable to contemplate the concept that a judgment under the law could cause any resentful emotions.

  ‘Not everyone accepts it in good grace, abbot,’ replied Fidelma. ‘But now I think that it is time that Brother Eadulf and I were on our way.’

  Abbot Cathal appeared reluctant to let them depart.

  ‘This may be the last time we see each other, Fidelma; at least for a while.’

  ‘Why so?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Next week I shall be setting out on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. It has been my ambition for many years now. Brother Nemon will take my place as abbot here.’

  ‘The Holy Land?’ Fidelma sounded wistful. ‘That is a journey that one day I, too, hope to make. I wish you great joy of the journey, Cathal of Lios Mhór. May God be on every road you travel.’

  She held out her hand
to the abbot who took it and clasped it firmly.

  ‘And may He continue to inspire your judgments, Fidelma of Kildare,’ the abbot replied solemnly. He smiled at them both in turn and half raised a hand in blessing. ‘To the end of the road – peace and safety.’

  Chapter Three

  In the flagged courtyard of the abbey, they found the young man, Archú, with the girl who had been with him in the chapel. They were waiting impatiently, seated in the shade of the cloisters. Nearby two horses stood already saddled. Archú stood up and approached Sister Fidelma as she appeared. He still reminded her of an eager puppy awaiting his master’s pleasure.

  ‘I am told that you need a guide to take you to the land of Araglin, sister. I am pleased to be able to offer my service to you since you have restored my land and my honour.’

  Fidelma shook her head, restraining a smile at his youthful dignity.

  ‘I have told you before, the law was the only arbiter in that matter. You owe no debt to me.’

  She turned as the young girl now approached, eyes down cast. She was attractive, slim and fair-haired and Fidelma estimated that she was no more than sixteen years of age.

  Archú introduced her with a self-conscious air.

  ‘This is Scoth. Now that I have my land, we are to be married. I shall ask our priest, Father Gormán, to arrange it as soon as we get home.’

  The young girl blushed happily.

  ‘Even had the judgment gone against you, I would still have married you,’ she rebuked him gently. She turned to Fidelma. ‘That was why I followed Archú here. It would not have mattered to me which way your judgment went. Truly it would not.’

  Fidelma regarded the young girl gravely.

  ‘But it is just as well, Scoth, that the judgment went well. Now you are to marry an ocáire and not a landless man.’

  In turn, Fidelma introduced Brother Eadulf to them. One of the brothers had been packing food and drink for the journey into the saddle bags of the horses and now came forward leading the two mounts by their bridles. She noticed that Archú and Scoth each carried a bundle and a blackthorn staff. She realised that there were no other horses in the courtyard and it was clear that they had no mounts, not even an ass to ride.

  Archú noticed her frown and correctly guessed what was passing through her mind.

  ‘We do not have horses, sister. There are horses on the farm in Araglin but, of course, I was not allowed to take them for the journey here. And my cousin, Muadnat,’ he hesitated and his pronunciation of the name was tinged with bitterness, ‘has already left with Agdae, his chief cowman. So we must return as we came … on foot.’

  Fidelma shook her head gently.

  ‘No matter,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Our horses are strong mounts and you are but small extra weight. Scoth can ride behind me while you, Archú, can get up behind Brother Eadulf.’

  It was mid-afternoon when they turned through the large wooden gates of the monastery and walked the horses along a path by the broad river with the mountains rising immediately to the north of them.

  Archú, seated behind Eadulf, pointed across his shoulder.

  ‘Araglin lies up in those mountains,’ he called eagerly. ‘We will have to rest somewhere in their midst tonight but you will be in Araglin before midday tomorrow.’

  ‘Where were you planning to spent the night?’ asked Fidelma, as she turned her horse across the narrow wooden bridge which spanned the great river in the direction of the tall northern peaks.

  ‘Within a mile or so we’ll leave the northern road to Cashel and begin to ascend through hilly country towards the land of Araglin, along the west side of a small river that rises in those mountains,’ replied Archú. ‘It is heavily wooded country. Along that path there is a tavern should you wish to spend the night there. We should reach there just before nightfall.’

  ‘Then the next day’s journey will be easy,’ chimed in the girl, Scoth, from behind Fidelma. ‘It will be but a few hours’ ride across the head of the great glen and down into the valley of Araglin which takes you straight to the rath of the chieftain of Araglin.’

  Brother Eadulf turned his head slightly.

  ‘Do you know why we are heading there?’

  Archú contrived to shrug on his perch behind the monk.

  ‘The Father Abbot did tell us the news from Araglin,’ he replied.

  ‘Did you know Eber?’ asked Fidelma. The youth had not seemed unduly alarmed that his chieftain had been murdered. She was interested by his lack of concern.

  ‘I knew of him,’ Archú admitted. ‘Indeed, my mother was related to him. But most people in Araglin are related in some way. My mother’s farm was in an isolated valley known as the valley of the Black Marsh, which is some miles from the rath of the chieftain. We had little cause to go to the rath of the chieftain. Nor did Eber ever come to see my mother. Her marriage to my father was not approved of by her family. Father Gormán came to visit us now and then but never Eber.’

  ‘And you, Scoth? Did you know Eber?’

  ‘I was an orphan, raised as a servant on Muadnat’s farm. I never was allowed to go to the rath of the chieftain, though I saw Eber several times when he came to feast or hunt with Muadnat. And once he came to Muadnat’s farmstead some years ago to raise the clan to battle against the Uí Fidgente. I remember him as being in the same mould as Muadnat. I have seen him drunken and abusive.’

  ‘My father, Artgal, answered his call and went off to fight the Ui Fidgente but never returned,’ added Archú angrily.

  ‘So there is little you can tell me about Eber?’

  ‘What is it that you wish to know?’ asked Archú with interest.

  ‘I would like to know about the sort of person he was. You say that you have seen him drunk and abusive. But was he an able chieftain of his people?’

  ‘Most people spoke well of him,’ Archú offered. ‘I think he was well-liked but when I sought advice from Father Gormán, about making a legal claim against Muadnat, he advised me to take the claim to Lios Mhór rather than appeal directly to Eber.’

  Fidelma found this a curious piece of advice for a priest to give. After all, the first step in any litigation was an appeal to the clan chieftain; even a petty chieftain of a small sept had the right to make an initial judgment. She was reminded that Beccan had mentioned that Araglin did not have a Brehon to advise on the law, so perhaps Father Gormán’s advice was sound enough and not a reflection on the prejudice of Eber.

  ‘Did Father Gormán offer any reason why you should appeal directly to Lios Mhór?’ she asked.

  ‘None.’

  ‘Isn’t it curious that two people can be raised in a clan territory yet hardly see the chieftain of their clan?’ Eadulf questioned.

  Archú laughed disarmingly.

  ‘Araglin is not some small territory. You could easily get lost among the mountains. Indeed, you might dwell all your life there and not meet the neighbour on the other side of the hill. My farmstead,’ the boy paused and savoured the phrase, ‘my farmstead, as I have said, is in an isolated valley and there is only one other farmstead in it, the farm of Muadnat.’

  Scoth sighed deeply.

  ‘It is to be hoped our lives will be different now. I hardly knew the countryside beyond Muadnat’s kitchen.’

  ‘Why didn’t you run away from Muadnat then?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘I did as soon as I was of legal age. But where could I go? I was soon brought back to his farmstead.’

  Fidelma raised her eyebrows in astonishment.

  ‘Were you taken back by force? By what right did Muadnat 28 force you back? You were not one of the unfree class?’

  ‘Unfree class?’ interposed Eadulf. ‘Slaves, you mean? I did not think there were slaves in the five kingdoms.’

  ‘There are not,’ replied Fidelma immediately. ‘The “unfree class” is the class who have no rights at all within the clan.’

  ‘What are they but slaves?’

  ‘Not so. They consist of those
who were prisoners, taken in war, hostages and cowards who deserted their clan in time of need. They also include law breakers who could not or would not pay the compensation and fines judged against them. These are deprived of all civil rights but not excluded from society. They are placed in a position where they have to contribute to its welfare. Of course, they could not bear arms or be elected to any office within the clan.’

  Eadulf pulled a face.

  ‘It sounds like slavery to me.’

  Fidelma showed her annoyance.

  ‘The “unfree class” are divided into two groups. One group can rent and work on the land and pay taxes while the other are those who are untrustworthy and in constant rebellion against the system. Anyone in either position can redeem themselves by working until the fines are met.’

  ‘And if they are not met?’ queried Eadulf.

  ‘Then they remain in that position, without civil rights, until they die.’

  ‘So their children become slaves?’

  ‘Not slaves!’ Fidelma corrected again. ‘And the law states “every dead person kills their own liabilities”. Their children become full citizens once again.’

  She caught the smile of amusement around Eadulf’s mouth and wondered whether he was using her tactic of playing devil’s advocate in order to provoke her. She had often used this stratagem to bait Eadulf in the past about his beliefs. Could it be that Eadulf had finally learnt a more subtle humour? She was about to say something when the girl, Scoth, intervened.

  ‘I was not of the “unfree class”,’ she said hotly, reminding them of the origin of the discussion. ‘Muadnat was simply my legal guardian and had control of me until I reached the age of choice. He had no hold on me after that but I had nowhere to go. I left his farmstead but there was nowhere I could get work and so I had to return.’

  ‘Things will be different now,’ Archú insisted.

  ‘Well, I would caution you to beware of Muadnat,’ Fidelma advised. ‘He struck me as a man who harbours grudges.’

  Archú agreed emphatically.

  ‘That I do know. I shall be watchful, sister.’

  The track along which Fidelma and Eadulf guided their horses began to rise more rapidly up into the hills, away from the stately pushing river, upwards towards the more towering rounded bald peaks of the mountains, which poked up from the skirting forests. The lower periphery of the hills was thickly forested but the track across the mountain had been used for countless centuries so that the trees fell away on either side leaving a fairly clear roadway which even a good sized wagon could traverse in dry weather.