Valley of the Shadow

by Peter Tremayne

  Reluctantly, Eadulf departed on his mission.

  Brother Solin looked aghast.

  ‘You mean to go through with it? You cannot leave here now!’

  She regarded him coldly.

  ‘Who will stop me? And what business is it to you?’

  ‘You mean to leave here, having insulted the chieftain and his council in such a manner?’

  ‘The chieftain and his council have insulted me by not discussing the business that had been arranged.’

  Brother Solin spread his hands in helpless agitation.

  ‘But surely there must be give and take to everything? These people want assurances about the Faith and it is our moral duty to give them those assurances. To each, something of the Faith and …’

  ‘Poor Brother Solin,’ Fidelma said with a harshness in her voice that belied her solicitude. ‘You do not see, or do not wish to, that you were being manipulated into an unending debate, wasting time in arguing small points of theology. I am unsure if you be knave or fool. Why do you wish to waste time which might elsewhere be spent profitably? Did you really think that this was the opportune moment to attempt to convert Murgal and his followers to the Faith? You should have remembered the wise saying fere libenter homines quod volunt credunt – men usually believe what they want to believe.’

  ‘I do not know what you mean,’ Brother Solin said defensively.

  She examined his features carefully.

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. I would not like to think that you knowingly played a part in this distraction.’

  She turned and ran up the stairs and picked up her saddle bags and then gathered Eadulf’s from his room. Then she returned to the main room.

  ‘Perhaps our paths may cross again, Brother Solin, but I shall not wish that day will come speedily,’ she said icily and, before he could reply, she had left the hostel and crossed towards the stables.

  Eadulf was waiting with their mounts. He looked pale and was clearly not in the best of health. Fidelma felt sorry for him but all depended on what she did now.

  ‘What do we do?’ he muttered. ‘We are being watched by a group at the council chamber door.’

  ‘Then we shall depart exactly as we said.’

  Fidelma swung up on her horse. Eadulf followed her example and Fidelma led the way to the gates of the ráth. The warriors standing there watched them, nervously glancing towards the door of the council chamber, unsure of what they should do. They finally moved aside and let Fidelma and Eadulf through.

  Outside Eadulf groaned.

  ‘I will not be able to ride far without a rest, Fidelma. I am still ill with the bad wine.’

  ‘You will not have to,’ she assured him.

  ‘I wish you would tell me what exactly you have in mind,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Exactly? That I cannot. For I might have to change my plan as minute passes minute.’

  Eadulf stifled another groan. He would do anything for an hour on a bed. Even half an hour.

  ‘Then you do have a plan?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Of course. Shall I wager a screpall to a sicuil with you? You see the cluster of houses by the river fork?’

  Eadulf glanced ahead and answered in the affirmative.

  ‘That is the very place where Brother Solin said he walked early this morning,’ Fidelma went on. ‘Well, my wager is that by the time we get there we shall be overtaken by a rider from the ráth who will beg us, in the name of Laisre, to return and crave our forgiveness for the events of this forenoon.’

  ‘Knowing you, Fidelma,’ sniffed Eadulf, with resignation, ‘I am not likely to take your wager. But at times I wish we could follow some easier path.’

  It was Laisre himself who caught up with them just before they reached the wooden bridge which crossed the river to the group of buildings forming the closest settlement to the ráth. The chieftain of Gleann Geis looked suitably chastened.

  ‘Fidelma of Cashel, I apologise. It was my fault for letting the council get out of hand.’

  They had stopped their horses before the bridge and sat astride them facing one another.

  Fidelma did not reply.

  ‘You were right, Fidelma,’ pressed Laisre. ‘You did not come hither to engage in a discourse about philosophy but to discuss some practical arrangements. It was Murgal who allowed his hostility to sweep him away into such …’

  Fidelma held up a hand.

  ‘Are you saying that you wish the council to reconvene to discuss the practical matter?’

  ‘Of course,’ Laisre agreed at once.

  ‘Your Druid and council do not seem to be in accord with you on this matter of allowing a Christian church to be built in this valley.’

  ‘Come back and you shall see.’ Laisre was almost pleading.

  ‘If I return …’ Fidelma paused significantly. ‘If I return, there would have to be conditions governing this matter.’

  Laisre’s expression changed to one of suspicion.

  ‘What conditions?’ he demanded.

  ‘Your council will have to meet and make a decision before I enter into any discourse with you; decide, that is, whether you want this church and school or not. If the answer is negative, as it seems to be at this time, then I shall return to Cashel without further waste of my time. If the answer is affirmative, then we can deal with the practical matters. But that negotiation will now be between you and I and no other member of your council. I do not want to provide a theatre for Murgal to display his abilities as play-actor.’

  Laisre raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Is that how you see Murgal?’ he demanded in surprise.

  ‘Can it be that you do not?’ she retorted.

  Laisre looked pained for a moment and then, abruptly, he started to laugh heartily. Finally he shook his head.

  ‘There is something in what you say, Fidelma. I admit it. But do not underestimate his serious intent.’

  ‘No,’ replied Fidelma quietly. ‘That I do not.’

  ‘Then you will agree to return? I cannot guarantee that Murgal will apologise to you.’

  ‘I do not ask that he does. All I ask is that whatever discussion your council wants to hold on this matter, it does so before I start to discuss practical arrangements with you.’

  ‘You have my word.’ Laisre thrust out a hand. ‘My hand on it, Fidelma of Cashel.’

  Fidelma glanced closely at him but did not take it.

  ‘Before we conclude, and as we speak in honesty, Laisre, what is Brother Solin of Armagh doing here?’

  Laisre looked startled.

  ‘I thought he was here at your behest? He came bearing gifts from Armagh.’

  ‘My behest?’ Fidelma controlled herself. ‘Is that what he has told you?’

  ‘No, but he is of your Faith. I suppose that I presumed …’ He shrugged. ‘Then all I know is that he is a traveller who sought our hospitality. We do not deny him that on grounds that he is of a different faith.’

  It was only then that she accepted Laisre’s hand.

  ‘I accept your word, Laisre. Eadulf and I will return, shortly.’

  Laisre appeared puzzled.

  ‘You will not ride back with me now?’

  ‘We want to look around your pleasant valley a while. We shall return soon.’

  Laisre hesitated and then shrugged.

  ‘Very well. Thank you for agreeing.’ He nudged his horse and went back in the direction of the ráth at a canter.

  Eadulf looked wistfully after him.

  ‘I could have gone back to sleep for a while,’ he moaned. ‘I do not see the purpose in these games, Fidelma.’

  ‘It is called diplomacy, Eadulf,’ grinned his companion. ‘The problem is that I do not know who is representing whom. Now let us see if this group of houses will reveal the information I want to know.’

  They rode across the bridge into a tiny square surrounded by half-a-dozen homesteads. The largest was a sizable farmhouse. The others appeared to be no more than cabins which could
belong either to people with small fields to work or the workers on the larger farm.

  A large, red-faced woman was standing leaning against the door of the big farmstead watching their approach with unconcealed curiosity. Fidelma had noticed her immediately they had paused by the bridge to talk with Laisre. The woman looked a typical farmer’s wife, she was thick-set with muscular arms, ready to do a day’s work in the fields. She had been studying them carefully and with a degree of hostility on her features.

  ‘Health on you, good woman,’ greeted Fidelma.

  ‘My man is at the council,’ snapped the woman in an unfriendly tone. ‘He is Ronan and he is lord of this place.’

  ‘I am come from the council myself.’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘Good.’ Fidelma swung herself down from her horse. ‘Then I do not have to explain.’

  The woman scowled discouragingly.

  ‘I told you that my man was away.’

  ‘It was not your man that I came to see. You say you know who I am. Good. What is your name?’

  The woman looked suspicious.

  ‘Bairsech. Why do you want to know? What is it you want?’

  ‘To talk, that is all, Bairsech. Do you have many people living in this settlement?’

  ‘Twice twenty,’ the woman replied indifferently.

  ‘Did you have a visitor last night?’

  ‘A visitor? We had several. My man was at the feasting, as was his right, and three cousins stayed with us, having come down the valley to attend. It is a long journey back at night, especially when one has drink taken.’

  Fidelma smiled, trying to put the still hostile woman at ease.

  ‘You are wise, Bairsech. But were there any other visitors, other than your cousins, that stayed here? I mean,’ she decided to be explicit, ‘a thick-set man who is currently a guest at the ráth.’

  The woman’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Thick-set? A man with his head cut in that ridiculous manner which your companion wears?’

  Eadulf flushed in irritation at the reference to his tonsure but kept silent.

  ‘The same.’

  ‘A man in fine clothes? Oh yes, he was here. I saw him leaving this morning when I was up to milk the cows, leaving my man still snoring abed. Yes. He was here.’

  ‘Does he know your man, then – know Ronan?’

  ‘I said he was here in the settlement. He was not staying with our household.’

  She jerked her head towards a small building set apart from the others with its own stable and an adjacent field in which half-a-dozen cattle were grazing peacefully.

  ‘That is where he stayed.’

  Fidelma turned to gaze upon the small building with interest.

  ‘And who dwells there?’

  ‘A woman of the flesh,’ replied the other disapprovingly. It was a euphemism for a prostitute.

  Fidelma’s eyes widened in astonishment. She had not expected a prostitute to be dwelling in this isolated valley, let alone in such a small hamlet.

  ‘And does she have a name, this woman of the flesh?’

  ‘She is called Nemon.’

  ‘Nemon? An inappropriate name for one of her calling it would seem.’

  Nemon was the name of one of the ancient war goddesses. It meant ‘battle-fury’.

  ‘I spit on the name,’ the burly woman suited the word to the action, ‘I have told my man that she should be driven away from here. Yet the farmstead is her property and she is under the protection of Murgal.’

  ‘She is? And you say that the man I described stayed with her last night?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Then we will go and see what Nemon has to say about this. Thank you, Bairsech, for your time and courtesy.’

  They left the woman still scowling in suspicion after them.

  Eadulf had slid off his horse by now and together they walked across the settlement, leading their horses.

  ‘Who would have thought our pious brother from the north was a frequenter of women of the flesh,’ he chuckled.

  ‘We do not know that for sure,’ Fidelma reproved him. ‘All we know is that he did not return to the guests’ hostel and appears to have stayed the night at the house of a prostitute. It does not imply that he is a frequenter of such places. The fact that this Nemon is under the protection of Murgal is a more interesting aspect of this affair.’

  They walked up to the door of the cabin and tapped upon its oak wood panels.

  A moment later it opened and a woman stood regarding them with the same hostility on her features as that of the farmer’s wife.

  She was a fleshy woman, in her fourth decade of life, with straw-coloured hair and ruddy features. Her face was heavy with make-up, the eyebrows dyed with berry juice and her lips crimsoned. She had been attractive once; but that must have been some years ago and now she had a voluptuousness that was gross rather than alluring. She examined them for a moment with her dark eyes and then focussed over their shoulder to where Bairsech, the wife of Ronan, still stood watching their every move with unconcealed curiosity.

  ‘Her nose grows longer each day,’ the woman muttered. ‘Bairsech is a name which suits her well.’ Fidelma suddenly realised that the name could be applied to a brawling woman. Then the woman stood aside and motioned them in. ‘Come inside and do not give her the pleasure of examining us further.’

  They hitched their horses to a small post outside the building and entered.

  It was a comfortable room but not inviting.

  ‘Are you Nemon?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘You are strangers to the valley.’ It was a statement not a question.

  ‘You do not know why we are here?’

  ‘I know nothing and care less. I care only for my comfort and my time is gauged in what I may profit from it.’

  Fidelma turned to Eadulf.

  ‘Give Nemon a screpall,’ she instructed.

  Unwillingly Eadulf took the coin out of his purse and handed it to the woman. She almost snatched it out of his hand and examined it suspiciously.

  ‘Money is rare in this valley. We usually barter. But money is therefore thrice welcome.’

  She assured herself that the coin was genuine before regarding them with a question on her features.

  ‘What is it you want? Not my services,’ she added, laughing lewdly, ‘that’s for sure.’

  Fidelma shook her head, hiding her distaste at even the suggestion.

  ‘We want a few moments of your time, that’s all. And the answers to some questions.’

  ‘Very well. Ask your questions.’

  ‘I am told that you had a guest here last night.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A man from the ráth? Thick-set. Wearing fine clothes with his head in a tonsure … cut in the fashion of my friend here?’

  ‘What of it?’ Nemon made no attempt to disguise the fact.

  ‘When did he come?’

  ‘Late. After midnight, I believe. I had to dispense with two customers to accommodate him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He paid me.’

  ‘Yet a stranger … would you not have been better served to continue with your local clients than serve a stranger who might visit you only once?’

  Nemon sniffed.

  ‘True enough. But Murgal was with him and told me that I would not lose by it.’

  ‘Murgal?’

  ‘Yes. He brought the man to me. Solin was the man’s name. I remember now.’

  ‘And Murgal the Druid to Laisre brought the man from the ráth to you and asked you to … to bestow your favours on him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Murgal give you a reason why you should do this?’

  ‘Do you think that people give me reasons for what they do? I ask no questions so long as I receive money for my services.’

  ‘Have you known Murgal long?’

  ‘He is my foster-father. He looks after me.’

  ‘Your foster
-father? And he looks after you?’ Fidelma’s voice took on an air of cynicism. ‘Have you known any other life but the one you now pursue?’

  Nemon laughed disdainfully.

  ‘You are disapproving? Do you think I should be like Ronan’s woman across the yard there? Look at her, a woman who is younger than I am but who looks old enough to be my mother. Old before her time because she is condemned to go out into the fields at the crack of dawn and milk the cows while her husband lies in a drunken slumber. She has to plough fields and dig and sow and harvest while he rides about pretending to be a great warrior, not a lord, as he claims, but merely a sub-chieftain of this pitiful collection of hovels. No, I want no other life than the one I have. At least I sleep in fine linen sheets and for as long as I like.’

  The derision on the woman’s face was plain.

  ‘Yet I notice that you have a small farm to run,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘There are cows outside to be milked. Who does your work if you do not?’

  Nemon screwed up her face in an ugly gesture.

  ‘I only keep them because they are money. I would sell them tomorrow if the price was right. They are too much hard work. But, as I said, this valley is mainly a place of barter, so I must expect cows, goats, chickens, eggs and the like in place of coins.’

  ‘Thank you for speaking with us,’ Fidelma abruptly said, rising to leave.

  ‘No thanks are necessary. You paid me for my time. Come again, if you need more conversation.’

  Outside the cabin of Nemon, Eadulf exchanged a wry look with Fidelma.

  ‘Do you think that Murgal was appeasing Brother Solin in some way?’

  Fidelma looked speculative as she considered the question.

  ‘You mean, he bribed him? He used Nemon to put Solin in a good mood in order to take part in this morning’s play-acting at the council meeting?’

  Eadulf nodded.

  ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Perhaps Brother Solin simply cannot resist the comfort that a woman like Nemon can provide. Maybe he asked Murgal where he might find such comfort. Murgal seems to have ideas in that direction himself.’

  ‘You refer to the incident with Marga, the apothecary?’

  Fidelma did not reply but mounted her horse.

  Bairsech, the wife of Ronan, was still standing outside her door, her broad arms folded, and watching them with intense dislike as, together, they began to ride slowly away from the group of farm buildings over the bridge in the direction of the ráth.