Valley of the Shadow

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘I wonder if Ultan of Armagh knows that his secretary is the sort of person to visit a woman of the flesh?’ mused Eadulf.

  Fidelma was serious.

  ‘I doubt it. Ultan is in favour of the new ideas emanating from Rome on the celibacy of clergy.’

  ‘It will never catch on,’ Eadulf averred. ‘It is true that there are always going to be some aesthetics but for all the clergy of the Faith to take such vows is demanding too much of human beings.’

  Fidelma gave him a sideways glance.

  ‘I thought you approved of the idea?’

  Eadulf coloured but did not answer.

  ‘Well, at least we have solved the mystery of where Brother Solin was last night,’ he said hurriedly.

  ‘Yes, but not why. We will have to keep a watch on both Murgal and our Brother Solin.’

  Eadulf sighed.

  ‘All I want, at the moment, is to be able to stretch out and sleep until my head stops pounding.’

  Chapter Nine

  They rode slowly back to the ráth. There were only a few people about. It being midday, most had retired for the midday meal. Eadulf was still moaning about his headache and Fidelma, finally taking pity on him, suggested that he go straight to the hostel while she stabled the horses. He received the suggestion without demur and he left her outside the stables and made his way across the stone-flagged courtyard. Fidelma led the two horses inside and took them to the far stalls which were the only empty ones. There was no sign of the two boys who usually looked after the stables but it did not take her long to unsaddle the horses and provide them with fodder and water.

  She was bending in the stalls to retrieve the discarded saddle bags when she heard someone enter the stable. She was about to stand up when she heard Brother Solin’s voice speaking in a defensive tone. She hesitated for a moment and then some instinct made her sink back to her knees behind the cover of the stall’s panels.

  There were two voices. It was easy to recognise the sibilant wheezy tones of Brother Solin but she could not recognise the second voice. It was young and masculine. What made her hesitate in identifying herself was the fact that this second voice also spoke in a northern accent. She edged carefully to the entrance of the stall and managed a quick glance around its shelter. Brother Solin and a young man were standing just inside the doors of the stable. She darted back behind the cover of the wooden stall.

  ‘There,’ came Brother Solin’s tones, ‘at least we can be unobserved.’

  ‘It matters not whether we are observed or not,’ replied the younger voice. There was anger in his tone.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Brother Solin replied suavely, ‘if anyone here knew that you were here to spy among these people they would not take kindly to it. They might decide to do something … shall we say, drastic?’

  ‘A harsh word is “spy” especially from such as you,’ sneered the young man. ‘And what of your own mission here?’

  ‘Do you question my right to be in this place?’

  ‘Right? What right? I certainly question your intentions.’

  ‘Listen, my young friend,’ Brother Solin seemed unperturbed, ‘and listen to me well. I advise you to stay out of the business of Armagh. You think that you are immune because of those whom you serve? Well, there are greater powers than your master and they will not tolerate interference.’

  There was an angry intake of breath from the younger man.

  ‘Make no idle threats with me, pompous cleric, for your cloth will be no protection from the wrath of him I serve.’

  There was a sudden silence.

  Cautiously, Fidelma raised her head over the edge of the wooden stall again and this time saw the stocky figure of Brother Solin standing alone by the door, staring out of it. It seemed his adversary must have left. Brother Solin stood for a moment or two, as if deep in thought, and then he shrugged his shoulders and also left.

  Fidelma came out of the stall and stood undecided for a while, trying to put an interpretation on what she had heard. Suppressing a sigh at the impossibility of the task, she turned back and picked up the saddle bags. She went to the door, hesitating to make sure no one observed her. She caught sight of Brother Solin entering the apothecary shop across the courtyard.

  She hurried across the courtyard to the guests’ hostel.

  Cruinn, the portly hostel-keeper, was preparing the midday meal. She looked up with a fleshy smile as Fidelma entered.

  ‘Your companion, the foreigner, has gone to bed,’ she announced with some amusement. ‘But there be many men in the ráth doing likewise this day. Will you sit down to a meal?’

  Fidelma indicated that she would and that she would first have a word with Eadulf to see how he fared. She was about to go up when the portly woman cleared her throat as if embarrassed.

  ‘Might I have a word, lady, while we are alone?’

  Intrigued, Fidelma turned back to her in curiosity.

  ‘Feel free to speak,’ she invited.

  ‘I have been told that you are a dálaigh, familiar with our laws. Is that so?’

  Fidelma nodded affirmatively.

  ‘Do you know all about the laws on marriage?’

  Fidelma was not expecting such a question and raised her eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘I know the text of the Cáin Lánamna, yes.’ She smiled encouragement at the nervous woman. ‘Are you thinking of marriage, Cruinn? Best you should consult with Murgal. He would know your pagan ceremonies.’

  The hostel keeper shook her head, wiping her hands on a large saffron-coloured apron.

  ‘No; not him. I want some advice. I will pay, though I have not much.’

  So anxious was her face that Fidelma took her by the arm and made her sit down on a bench at the table while she took a seat opposite.

  ‘You may ask my advice for nothing, Cruinn. If it is so important to you. How may I help?’

  ‘I want to know …’ The elderly woman hesitated and then proceeded carefully. ‘I want to know whether a woman of lowly position can marry a person of chiefly blood. Is there danger that the marriage might not be legal?’

  Fidelma was quietly amused. She was about to ask what chief Cruinn planned to marry but felt that it was a silly mockery on her part.

  ‘It depends on the position of the chieftain. Is he of royal lineage?’

  ‘No. He is an aire coisring, a chieftain of a small clan,’ the woman replied immediately.

  ‘I see. Well, usually, the more formal types of union should be of partners from the same social class. Even a bó-aire is expected to marry the daughter of a man of equal rank. But such marriages between the lower class and higher class are known.’

  Cruinn looked up swiftly, almost eagerly.

  ‘And is the marriage valid?’

  ‘Oh, of course. But I warn you that the financial burden of a socially mixed marriage falls more heavily on the family of the partner of the lower class. I will tell you this: if it is the woman who is of the lower class, as you seem to indicate, then her family has to supply two thirds of the cattle of joint wealth. It is a great step to take and think well on it, Cruinn, before you agree to any such liaison.’

  Cruinn shook her head and smiled thinly.

  ‘Oh no, it is not my marriage, for I have been most happily married and have a child. Though my man is dead, I am content. No, I ask on behalf of someone I know who would never bother to ask.’

  Fidelma hid her smile. The woman would surely not ask such questions for a friend. Fidelma was sure that it was a personal matter but could not imagine Cruinn winning the heart of even the lowest lord of a clan. She realised that she was prejudiced, of course, but that realisation could not prevent the feeling of amused cynicism arising.

  ‘Tell your friend to think well on it, then, for there is an ancient triad which says it is a misfortune for the offspring of a commoner to aspire to marriage with the offspring of even the lowest grade of lord.’

  Cruinn stood up and bobbed in gratitude.

&nb
sp; ‘I will remember and am grateful for your advice, lady. Now I will prepare your meal.’

  Thinking it was a curious world, Fidelma hurried up the stairs to deposit her saddle bags in her room before turning into Eadulf’s chamber with his bags.

  Eadulf lay stretched on his bed with his eyes shut.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked sympathetically, putting his bags on a nearby table.

  Eadulf winced at the sound of her voice and did not open his eyes.

  ‘I think it is time to sing a cepóc for me but do not sing it too loudly.’

  Fidelma grinned. A cepóc was a funeral dirge, a lament for the passing of someone into the Otherworld.

  ‘Have you tried the infusion that Marga gave you?’ she inquired, feeling solicitous.

  ‘I will, as soon as that portly virago vanishes from the kitchen.’

  ‘The woman Cruinn?’

  ‘The same,’ sighed Eadulf. ‘She tried to make me eat some squishy mess when I came in. Another herbal remedy. I swear she is trying to kill me. She told me that it would help me recover and that she ought to know good medicines for she was often gathering herbs for the apothecary.’

  ‘Well, you are no use to me until you recover your senses, Eadulf,’ Fidelma said. ‘I am going down to eat now. Get better as soon as you can.’

  Downstairs she found that Brother Dianach had arrived and was already seated at his meal. Cruinn had already laid out the food and departed. Fidelma greeted the young monk and sat down. There was no sign of Brother Solin nor of the newcomer to the ráth.

  ‘Is Brother Solin ailing?’ she asked, suddenly remembering that she had last seen him entering the apothecary shop.

  Brother Dianach looked up in surprise.

  ‘Ailing? No. What makes you think so?’

  Fidelma decided to keep her own council.

  ‘So many people seem caught with the affliction of the bad wine of last night.’

  Brother Dianach sniffed in disapproval.

  ‘I did warn Brother Eadulf this morning that like does not cure like.’

  ‘So you did,’ Fidelma replied absently picking at her food. ‘I thought I heard that there was another guest arriving here in the ráth?’

  Again Brother Dianach was unresponsive.

  ‘I have not heard so.’

  ‘It was another traveller from Ulaidh.’

  ‘No. You are surely mistaken.’

  There was a sound on the stair and Eadulf, pale and wan, came down and, without a word to them, began to prepare some infusion from a small bag of medicines that he usually carried. Fidelma noticed that he did not use the foxglove leaves that Marga had given him. However, she knew that Eadulf was well enough trained in the art of herbal mixtures to trust he knew what he was doing.

  After a while he came to the table with a beaker of some aromatic brew and began to sip it with closed eyes.

  ‘Similia similibus curantur?’ Brother Dianach gibed derisively.

  ‘Contraria contrariis curantur,’ replied Eadulf with a shudder. ‘I will see you later.’ He rose looking pale and unsteady, still bearing his beaker of liquid and retired to his room.

  The door opened and Brother Solin entered. He seemed flushed and agitated.

  ‘Is the hostel keeper here?’ he demanded. ‘I am hungry.’

  Fidelma was about to say that he could help himself to food when Brother Dianach leapt to his feet.

  ‘I will bring you the food, Brother Solin.’

  Fidelma stared at the thick-set secretary in disapproval.

  ‘Your nose is bleeding, Solin,’ she remarked dispassionately. She also noticed that the front of the man’s linen shirt was badly stained with wine and there were some dried flecks over his forehead. Someone had recently thrown wine in the cleric’s face, of that she was certain.

  Solin grimaced and drew out a cloth to hold to his nose. He offered no explanation but regarded her with censure in his eyes.

  ‘I hope this afternoon will see better progress on the matter of bringing the Faith to this place.’

  ‘You caused this morning to be wasted,’ she replied coldly.

  Brother Dianach hurried back with the plate of food for his master and resumed his seat with an unhappy expression.

  Solin scowled at Fidelma.

  ‘Wasted? There is no waste when one preaches the Word. If you would not defend your Faith before these pagans, then it was up to me to do so.’

  In spite of their earlier argument, Solin could not apparently understand that he had incurred Fidelma’s censure.

  ‘Did you not see that Murgal was trying to lead me into the trap of arguing theology to waste time and avoid the main purpose of my visit here?’ she demanded.

  ‘I simply saw that, sooner than stand up for your Faith, you removed yourself from the hall and left the pagans victorious!’ snapped Solin. ‘And I will pass that information on to Ultan of Armagh to whom you may have to answer.’

  ‘Then you are blind as well as a fool, Solin. You may pass my opinion on to Ultan as well.’

  Having finished her meal, Fidelma rose and left the hostel. She was intrigued as to who the mysterious young man from Ulaidh was but needed to discover the fact without arousing attention.

  At the gate she recognised one of the two warriors who stood talking there. The fair-haired Rudgal, the secret Christian. She walked across the courtyard and greeted him by name, nodding in affable fashion to the second man.

  ‘I hear that there is another visitor to this ráth from the north?’ she began.

  Rudgal gave her an appreciative glance.

  ‘There is little that escapes you, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he replied. ‘Yes, while you and the Saxon were down in Ronan’s hamlet below, a merchant arrived.’

  ‘A merchant? What is his merchandise?’

  Rudgal did not seem particularly interested.

  ‘He is a dealer in horses, I believe,’ he said dismissively.

  Rudgal’s companion grimaced cynically, an expression which was not lost on Fidelma. She turned to him inquisitively.

  ‘You disagree?’

  ‘A horse dealer?’ the man replied skeptically. ‘That one has the mark of a professional warrior on him.’

  Fidelma examined Rudgal’s companion with interest.

  ‘You seem to have observed him closely. Why do you say he has the mark of a warrior?’

  Rudgal coughed harshly. It was an obvious signal and the other man shrugged, leaving with a muttered apology about being needed elsewhere.

  Rudgal was on the point of leaving also when Fidelma stayed him.

  ‘What did your companion mean?’

  ‘Only that a man can be many things,’ he replied indifferently. ‘As you know, Sister, I am a wagon maker by trade and yet I am called to serve Gleann Geis as a warrior when needed. Just as Ronan is a farmer as well as a warrior.’

  ‘Has this horse trader moved on? Or is he staying in the ráth?’

  ‘We have no room at the guests’ hostel, so Laisre has suggested that the merchant stay at Ronan’s farmstead.’

  ‘Is he there now?’

  ‘He has returned to the ráth and is in conversation with Laisre in the council chamber.’

  ‘I see. And where is his merchandise? Is that at Ronan’s farmstead?’

  Rudgal frowned.

  ‘Merchandise?’

  Fidelma was patient.

  ‘If he is a trader in horses, he must have horses to trade. I am interested in horses. I would like to see what he has to offer. We can see Ronan’s pastures below us from here. I see no herd of horses grazing there among the cows.’

  For a moment Rudgal looked baffled.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps you should speak with him.’

  Fidelma gazed after the disappearing warrior for some moments as Rudgal swung down the hill away from the ráth.

  She suddenly became aware of someone hurrying by and she turned, finding herself contemplating the angry face of Orla, wife of the tanist, as the woman headed
towards a building near the gates.

  ‘You look distressed, Orla,’ she called, forcing the wife of the tanist to stop in her tracks. ‘Can I be of service?’

  The handsome woman stared at her a moment; she swallowed hard but the anger did not go from her features.

  ‘May the goddess of death and battles curse all you Christians,’ she said with venom. ‘You claim piety, chastity and humility but you are nought but animals!’

  Fidelma was astonished.

  ‘I do not know what you mean. Perhaps you should explain.’

  Orla thrust out her chin.

  ‘I will kill that fat pig, Solin, if he comes near me again!’

  ‘I hope you did not waste good wine on him,’ smiled Fidelma, suddenly remembering Brother Solin’s appearance.

  Orla stared at her.

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘I presume it was you who doused Brother Solin with wine?’

  Orla shook her head.

  ‘Not I. I would not waste even bad wine on the pig.’ Without another word, Orla passed on leaving Fidelma with a thoughtful expression on her features. Fidelma turned back into the ráth and began making her way across the courtyard.

  A voice hailed her.

  It was Marga, the apothecary, who approached.

  ‘Do you take me for a fool?’

  Fidelma kept her features composed. Two angry women in as many minutes?

  ‘Why would you think that I might do so?’ she countered with interest.

  ‘This morning you came to me and sought a cure for your foreign friend’s hangover. Were you testing me?’

  ‘Why would I be testing you?’

  ‘Who knows your motives? Your Saxon friend had enough knowledge to provide his own medication. I learnt that he has studied at Tuam Brecain and is learned enough without the necessity of consulting me.’

  Fidelma remained quiet for a moment.

  ‘How did you learn that he studied at Tuam Brecain?’ she asked after a moment’s consideration.

  Marga was exasperated.

  ‘You answer my questions with questions! Don’t think that you can keep secrets in such a small place as the ráth of Laisre.’