Valley of the Shadow

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Forgive me,’ smiled Fidelma gently. ‘It is a habit. I have been a dálaigh for too long to change it. Ah, but I think I know. Brother Solin paid you a visit this morning.’

  Obviously, young Brother Dianach had told Solin and Solin had passed on the information when he went into Marga’s apothecary that morning.

  Marga shot her a look of dislike and spun on her heel and strode off.

  Fidelma stood looking after her a moment or two before resuming her path towards the main building of the ráth where the council chamber was.

  The saturnine figure of Murgal greeted her at the door.

  ‘So you have decided to come back?’

  He evinced no pleasure in the fact.

  ‘That much is obvious, Murgal. Why do you seek to make your chieftain’s task difficult?’

  Murgal smiled thinly.

  ‘You must already know that I disagree with what my chieftain is doing. Why, then, should I make his path easier?’

  ‘I was led to believe that a decision was already made. If so, you should abide by that decision.’

  ‘A decision made arbitrarily is not binding on all the people.’

  ‘Are you telling me that Laisre made the decision to send to Imleach and Cashel without discussing the matter with his council?’

  Murgal hesitated, made to open his mouth and then thought better of it.

  Fidelma waited a moment and when Murgal continued his silence she added: ‘We may not agree on a common faith but one thing we both believe, Murgal, and that is the rule of the law. Your chieftain’s word is inviolable once given. You are a Brehon, Murgal. You have sworn an oath; an oath that is sacred, and that oath is to uphold the law.’

  Murgal shook his head disdainfully.

  ‘But my oath is not valid according to your Faith because it is not an oath to your God.’

  ‘You are not speaking to any foreign cleric, Murgal. Christian or not, I am of the same bloodline as Eber the Fair. You have sworn your oath even though the sea rise and engulf you or the sky fall upon you. You are sworn to hold fast to the law. You will do so.’

  ‘You are a strange woman, Fidelma of Cashel.’

  ‘I am a product of my people, just as you are.’

  ‘I am an enemy to your Faith.’

  ‘But you are not an enemy to our people. If Laisre’s word was given in accordance with the law, then you know you are sworn to uphold it.’

  The doors of the council chamber opened and Laisre came out. He was followed by the young man Fidelma had seen at the door of the stable. She examined the newcomer carefully.

  He was about thirty. Not tall but muscular in spite of the loose clothing he wore. His dress was not that of a warrior and certainly not the finery of a noble. But her quick eyes saw what the warrior at the gate of the ráth had observed. The young man carried himself in a particular way. He wore a sword slung on his hip and a dagger in his belt. They gave the impression that they were not for show. The deep brown eyes of the man were restive, examining and assessing things as quickly as did Fidelma. His brown hair was well cut, his moustache was trimmed. The clothes did not seem to suit his figure at all, as if he had put them on by mistake.

  Laisre had evidently not been expecting to see Fidelma and Murgal together.

  He halted, his eyes darting from one to the other in question and then seeing that they were not overtly in enmity he stepped forward again with a forced smile.

  ‘We have another stranger travelling through our land. Fidelma of Cashel, Murgal, may I present Ibor of Muirthemne?’

  The young man took a step forward and jerked his head forward in a perfunctory bow.

  ‘Lady, your reputation precedes you. Your name is spoken of with affection even at Tara.’

  ‘You are gracious, Ibor,’ Fidelma replied. ‘And you are also many miles from your home in Muirthemne.’

  ‘It is the lot of a merchant to seldom stretch his limbs beside his own hearth, lady.’

  ‘I am told that you are a horse trader.’

  The young man nodded affirmation. He had a warm, open face, Fidelma thought, almost boyish.

  ‘You have been told correctly, lady.’

  ‘Then I would like to see your horses for I am much interested. Where is your herd grazing?’

  ‘I have no herd,’ the young man returned without embarrassment.

  It was Murgal who spoke now, framing the question that Fidelma was about to ask.

  ‘A trader in horses without horses? That requires some explanation.’

  Undeterred, the young man chuckled.

  ‘Oh, but I do have a horse. I have brought a horse to sell.’

  ‘Just one?’ Murgal asked somewhat surprised. ‘It is a long journey from Muirthemne just to sell a single horse.’

  ‘True,’ Ibor assented. ‘But it is such a horse and it is such a price that I am expecting to raise! I expected to sell it for thirty séds.’

  ‘Thirty séds?’ exclaimed Murgal. ‘A large sum for one animal.’

  ‘You said – expected?’ Fidelma said quickly.

  ‘I had heard that Eoganan, the chieftain of the Uí Fidgente, was looking for a thoroughbred horse and for an animal of great worth he would be prepared to pay a price that would make my journey worthwhile. I had found such an animal, a horse raised among the Britons which I brought to Éireann. I thought I would make the sum from Eoganán and it alone would recompense me for the long journey.’

  Fidelma regarded him with suspicion.

  ‘But Eoganán was killed at the Hill of Áine six months ago.’

  Ibor of Muirthemne raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

  ‘That I only found out when I arrived in the country of the Uí Fidgente. There I found the new chieftain, Donnenach, trying to restore the shattered fortunes of his defeated people …’

  ‘Defeated by Fidelma’s brother, Colgú of Cashel,’ interposed Murgal maliciously.

  ‘After the Uí Fidgente under Eoganan had plotted Cashel’s overthrow,’ Fidelma replied in annoyance. It was not the first time that Murgal had tried to present Cashel’s defeat of the Uí Fidgente as if it were Cashel’s responsibility.

  ‘Yes, but I knew none of this,’ Ibor of Muirthemne pointed out disarmingly.

  ‘News does not take that long to travel to Muirthemne, surely?’ queried Fidelma.

  ‘I was in the kingdom of Gwynedd, among the Britons, when all this happened,’ protested Ibor. ‘I was there arranging the buying of horses. I returned to Ulaidh about a month ago and the news was so old that no one bothered to relate it. I took the horse that I had especially chosen and set out for the country of the Uí Fidgente …’

  ‘Wasn’t it difficult to bring a thoroughbred horse out of Ulaidh when the law of the Allmuir Sét would have stipulated its sale only within the boundaries of Ulaidh?’ asked Fidelma ingenuously.

  The young man hesitated and then shrugged.

  ‘I had special dispensation from the king of Ulaidh,’ he explained hurriedly. ‘I did not learn the news about the defeat of the Uí Fidgente until I reached their lands where I had been expecting to find Eoganan.’

  ‘Then what brought you here? The Uí Fidgente live beyond the northern mountains,’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘I told you,’ the young man was a little aggrieved, ‘there was devastation and destruction there. No one wanted to barter for a thoroughbred horse when their cattle herds had been taken for fines. I did not want to take the horse north again and so I came here. One of the Uí Fidgente told me that Laisre of Gleann Geis was a shrewd judge of horse flesh.’

  Fidelma turned to Laisre with curiosity.

  ‘And have you made a judgment on the beast?’

  ‘I have not seen the horse as yet. Ibor has just arrived and the horse is stabled below at Ronan’s farmstead. I shall see it within the next day or so once our guest has rested from his journey.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Ibor. ‘I promised Ronan’s woman, Bairsech, that I would return to bathe and refresh myself
from my journey and I am already late. So forgive me, I must go now.’

  ‘I will escort you as far as Ronan’s farmstead,’ Murgal announced. ‘I need to go in that direction. My … my foster-daughter lives within Ronan’s hamlet.’

  ‘That is good of you, Murgal.’ The words were not reinforced by his tone of voice. The young man did not seem pleased to have Murgal’s company. He turned courteously to Fidelma. ‘I am honoured to have met you, Fidelma of Cashel.’

  ‘I am always interested in meeting a trader in horses, especially one who travels great distances to come to this small corner of the kingdom of Cashel.’

  Together, he and Murgal left the ráth.

  ‘A personable young man,’ remarked Laisre as he and Fidelma stood watching them leave.

  Fidelma was cynical.

  ‘A foolish young man.’ When she saw Laisre look at her questioningly, she continued: ‘It is a fool who rides alone through the country of the Uí Fidgente with a valuable horse in these turbulent times.’

  ‘Perhaps it is not so dangerous in the country of the Uí Fidgente as you may think,’ Laisre commented. ‘Brother Solin and his young acolyte were there a few days ago.’

  Fidelma did not hide her reaction of surprise.

  ‘Brother Solin actually came here by way of the lands of the Uí Fidgente? Surely that was a curious choice of route?’

  ‘It is a logical route from the northern kingdoms,’ returned Laisre.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Fidelma conceded reluctantly. ‘But not one that I would venture.’

  ‘My council and I will be gathering later this afternoon to iron out our differences and we may plan to resume our negotiation tomorrow before noon. I apologise once again for this morning. Murgal is an honest man but he is not yet convinced that tolerating the new Faith will bring us anything but a disappearance of our people. He fears the changes it will bring.’

  ‘It is an understandable attitude,’ accepted Fidelma. ‘However, Heraclitus once said that nothing is permanent in this life but change.’

  Laisre smiled wanly.

  ‘A good saying but it will take much to change Murgal’s mind.’ He paused and then added: ‘We will have another feasting tonight.’

  Fidelma winced slightly.

  ‘Perhaps you will excuse Brother Eadulf and myself?’

  The chieftain frowned slightly. To refuse to attend a feast was approaching an insult. Fidelma knew the laws of hospitality. She went on hastily: ‘I am under a geis, a prohibition that on each day after the full moon, I must spend the evening with simple fare and in meditation of my Faith.’

  Laisre’s eyes widened a little.

  ‘A geis, you say?’

  Fidelma nodded seriously. A geis was an ancient prohibition, a taboo or a bond which, when placed on someone, compelled them to obey the injunction. The concept of the geis still survived in the Brehon Laws. The legendary warrior-hero of Ulaidh, Cúchulainn, had been given a geis never to eat the flesh of a dog. Trapped by his enemies, he eventually had to eat dog flesh and this infringement brought about his inevitable death. The ignoring or transgression of the prohibition exposed the one on whom the geis had been placed to rejection by society and would place them outside the social order.

  Fidelma told the lie after the briefest struggle with her religious conscience. Did not the Brehon Morann say: ‘Never to lie is to have no lock to the door of your house. Mendacity is permissible as a means of protection from a greater evil.’ She knew that Laisre could understand and would not question such a prohibition.

  ‘Very well, Fidelma. I will press you no further.’

  ‘There is one thing, however …’ Fidelma stayed him.

  ‘You have but to ask.’

  ‘Is there a library at the ráth?’

  ‘Of course.’ Laisre seemed momentarily indignant. ‘It is not only Christians who keep libraries.’

  ‘I did not mean to imply otherwise,’ Fidelma pacified. ‘Where do I find this library?’

  ‘I will show you. It is, in fact, under Murgal’s control as my Druid and Brehon.’

  ‘Will he mind if I examine it?’

  ‘I am his chieftain,’ Laisre replied curtly in explanation.

  He led the way across the courtyard to the same building where the apothecary’s shop was placed. There was a main entrance, a little further beyond the shop, and through this door was a flight of wooden steps leading to other storeys. Laisre climbed the stairs to the third and final storey and proceeded along a passage which led into a square tower room. The squat tower dominated the ráth.

  ‘That is Murgal’s apartment.’ Laisre indicated an adjacent room. ‘And here is the library.’

  Fidelma entered a single, small chamber with the walls lined with wooden pegs from which hung book satchels, each satchel filled with a particular leather-bound volume.

  ‘Were you looking for something particular?’ Laisre asked as Fidelma moved down the lines of pegs and satchels, searching each book’s title in turn.

  ‘I am looking for the law books.’

  Laisre pointed to several works in one corner. He stood hesitating as she began to peer through them. Fidelma took no further notice of him and he finally cleared his throat.

  ‘Then if you have no further need of me … ?’ he queried.

  Fidelma looked up, as if she had forgotten his existence, and smiled apologetically.

  ‘I am sorry. I will not be long in looking up the reference I require. But you need not wait for me. I can find my own way back.’

  Laisre hesitated, then nodded in acknowledgment.

  ‘Then, unless our paths cross later, I will see you in the council tomorrow before noon.’

  Fidelma turned back to the book satchels as he left. She was looking for a copy of a specific law text and wondered if the Brehon had it in his collection of the score or so of legal texts.

  She finally found what she was looking for. It was a tract called the Allmuir Sét or sale of foreign goods. She spent half an hour reading the text before replacing it in its satchel and rehanging it on its peg.

  She left the room with a contemplative expression on her face and retraced her steps down the stairs to the courtyard, making her way confidently to the hostel.

  Chapter Ten

  Fidelma was crossing the courtyard when the sound of clattering hooves at the gate of the ráth made her turn. The sound announced the arrival of a body of horsemen. She immediately recognised Colla and Artgal at their head. They came to a halt and began to dismount. Fidelma walked across to where Colla was loosening his saddle girth.

  ‘So, Colla, what news?’ she demanded without preamble.

  The tanist of Gleann Geis looked up sourly. Colla was not apparently overjoyed to see her.

  ‘A wild goose chase,’ he announced. ‘I expected little else.’

  ‘What did you find?’ she pressed.

  ‘Little enough,’ he said dismissively. ‘The ravens had feasted well. Little to be seen. My men and I followed some tracks but they soon vanished in the stony ground. All I could tell was that the tracks led towards the north.’

  ‘And?’ encouraged Fidelma. ‘Did you follow them?’

  ‘The ground was stony, as I said. The tracks soon vanished. We looked around for as long as we could but there was little else to do but return.’

  Fidelma’s eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction.

  ‘So that is what I must report to Cashel? That thirty-three young men died here in some ritual slaughter and there was nothing to be done?’

  Colla stood up and faced her defiantly.

  ‘I cannot conjure a reason from nothing, Fidelma of Cashel. Not even you could have followed a non-existent track.’

  ‘Yet you say that the tracks led north? How far did you follow them?’

  ‘As far as the spot where they could no longer be seen.’

  ‘But what country lies to the north?’ Fidelma pressed.

  ‘The Corco Dhuibhne are immediately to the north of these v
alley lands.’

  Fidelma pressed her lips together for a moment.

  ‘They are a pleasant enough clan, whose chieftain, Fathan, I know. This evil does not bear their mark. What other lands are there beyond here?’

  ‘Well, to the north-east is the country of your own cousin, Congal of the Eóghanacht of Loch Léin, king of Iarmuman. Do you see his hand in this?’

  Fidelma had to admit that she did not.

  ‘But beyond him is the land of the Uí Fidgente,’ she said reflectively.

  Colla’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Is it a scapegoat you seek?’ he asked. ‘The Uí Fidgente are a devastated people. Your brother defeated them at Cnoc Áine. They are weak and not capable of any hostile action. Do you wish to pursue them into oblivion?’

  ‘Only if they are responsible for this outrage,’ Fidelma affirmed.

  ‘Well, one thing – they are a Christian people so surely that eliminates them from your suspicions?’ Colla was scornful.

  Artgal came forward to take the tanist’s horse and lead it away into the stables. He also dismissed the other warriors back to their dwellings.

  Fidelma gazed in silence at Colla for a moment before speaking and, when she did so, she was deliberate in her tone.

  ‘For the time being, Colla, without evidence, we cannot say who slaughtered the young men, except that the manner in which their bodies were laid out indicates that the culprit wanted to indicate a pagan symbolism to any who found them … unintentionally or intentionally.’

  She thanked him coldly for his efforts and strode back to the guests’ hostel.

  There was only one person about and that was Eadulf. He was now sitting helping himself liberally to a pitcher full of cold water.

  ‘Feeling any better?’ she asked encouragingly.

  He raised bloodshot eyes and forced a smile. His face was still pale.

  ‘A little but not much.’

  ‘Are you in a mood to accept an invitation from Laisre to another feasting?’ she asked keeping her expression serious.

  Eadulf groaned aloud and put his head in his hands.

  Fidelma smiled maliciously.

  ‘I thought not. Have no fear. I have already declined in both our names.’