Valley of the Shadow

by Peter Tremayne

  Fidelma and Eadulf pressed back into the shadows so that Brother Solin did not observe them. They waited in silence until he had vanished through the doors into the chieftain’s building.

  Eadulf pulled a face in the darkness.

  ‘It was only that pompous idiot,’ he remarked. ‘No need to hide from him.’

  Fidelma sighed softly.

  ‘Sometimes you may learn things if people are unaware of your presence.’

  ‘Learn what?’

  ‘For instance, Brother Solin passed under the light of that lamp there. What did you observe?’

  ‘That he was angry.’

  ‘True. What else?’

  Eadulf thought a moment and gave up.

  ‘Little else, I think.’

  ‘Ah, Eadulf! Did you not observe that someone seems to have struck Brother Solin hard across the cheek? Did you see the dark mark of blood on the corner of his cheek?’

  Eadulf made an impatient negative gesture.

  ‘And if that is so, what does it tell us?’ he demanded.

  ‘Earlier, I saw Brother Solin with a nose bleed. I think someone had struck him on the nose. It tells us that someone does not like Brother Solin of Armagh.’

  Eadulf burst into sardonic laughter.

  ‘I could have told you that. I do not like him for one.’

  Fidelma regarded Eadulf in amusement.

  ‘True. But you have not gone so far as to assault our pious cleric. Twice blood has been drawn. Wine has been thrown over him. Let us see if we can find the person who is responsible.’

  She led the way across the courtyard to the door that Brother Solin had exited from. She was about to open the door when it swung open and the dark-haired figure of Orla came out. She stopped in surprise as if not expecting to find anyone outside.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded ungraciously.

  ‘We seem to have missed our way,’ Fidelma returned evenly. ‘Where does this door lead?’

  The sister of Laisre glowered.

  ‘Not to the hostel, that is for certain,’ she replied. ‘There is no need for you to have missed the way to it. You can see it from here.’

  Fidelma turned and then feigned surprise.

  ‘So you can.’ She went on unabashed. ‘Tell me, have you seen Brother Solin recently? I wanted to speak with him.’

  Orla tossed her head in annoyance.

  ‘I have not seen him. Nor do I wish to. I told you this afternoon that I do not want that pig near me. Now, if you will stand aside … ?’

  ‘Are these your chambers, then?’ Eadulf stopped her, lamely feeling that he ought to make a contribution.

  Orla simply ignored his question.

  ‘I have other matters to attend to, if you do not,’ she said as she pushed by them and headed towards the feasting hall.

  Fidelma and Eadulf waited until she had gone.

  ‘She must have seen Brother Solin,’ Eadulf ventured.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘But they both came through this same door.’

  ‘True, but it leads into a large building with several apartments, including Murgal’s. Also, as you can see, there is the apothecary’s shop in the building.’

  They went through the open door and stood in the dimly lit hallway. An oil lamp hung in the centre giving a dancing shadowy light. There were several doors along one side of it leading, presumably, into the apartments. Fidelma looked across to the stairs which Laisre had conducted her up earlier that day.

  She was about to suggest that they withdraw, for there was little to be seen, when the tread of someone descending the stairs caused her to pause. Laisre appeared abruptly around the corner and started in surprise at the sight of them.

  ‘Are you looking for me?’ he greeted, having swiftly gathered his composure. ‘Or did you come seeking more books?’

  Fidelma made a hurried decision.

  ‘I thought that I would show Brother Eadulf where the library is located in case we stood in need of consulting any of its volumes tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah.’ Laisre shrugged. ‘Time enough for work tomorrow. You should be at the feasting. Yes, I know,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘you have explained all about your religious geis.’

  ‘The feast is where I thought you would have been,’ countered Fidelma. ‘I hear from the music that it is still continuing.’

  Laisre shrugged.

  ‘I had to leave it for a moment. I needed to instruct Murgal on a matter for tomorrow. He left too early for me to mention it. But now I shall go back. Are you sure that you won’t join me?’

  Fidelma shook her head.

  ‘The geis lasts from dusk until dawn,’ she replied, wishing Eadulf would not look so bewildered. ‘We should have retired some time ago but merely called in to look at the library on our way back to the hostel.’

  ‘Then I shall bid you a good night.’

  Laisre left the building with a friendly nod at the two of them.

  Fidelma and Eadulf stood at the bottom of the stairs. Laisre had not closed the door and so they could see his shadowy figure crossing the stone-flagged courtyard. Almost immediately that he left the building, a large, portly figure hurried out of the shadows and intercepted him. Fidelma and Eadulf could not mistake the rotund figure of Cruinn, the hostel keeper. She seemed animated and even grabbed the chieftain by the arm. He appeared uncomfortable, glancing round towards the door behind him, but Fidelma and Eadulf were well back in the shadows. Laisre drew the portly hostel-keeper swiftly to one side. They could faintly hear his voice raised slightly as if trying to calm her.

  Fidelma placed a finger to her lips and motioned Eadulf to follow her. Her idea was to draw closer to where Laisre and Cruinn were engaged in conversation. However, the sound of another woman’s voice within the building raised in vehemence reached their ears. A door opened and shut with an abrupt bang. The sound came from somewhere along the corridor. Fidelma quickly propelled Eadulf out into the night, closing the door behind them.

  Laisre and Cruinn had disappeared by now and they were scarcely across the courtyard when the door behind them opened and the figure of Rudgal was hurrying behind them in the darkness. He hesitated and then halted as he saw them.

  ‘Did Murgal pass you a moment ago?’ was his breathless greeting.

  ‘No, we have not seen Murgal at all this evening,’ Fidelma replied.

  Rudgal raised a hand in brief acknowledgment and hurried away.

  ‘Surely this is a place of great restlessness?’ muttered Eadulf, stifling a sudden yawn.

  Fidelma agreed without amusement. It was time to turn in anyway. Perhaps Brother Solin’s nocturnal adventure was not of importance to her after all.

  They made their way back to the hostel. The sounds of revelry were still echoing from the feasting hall. Eadulf had no regrets as he made his way directly to his bed chamber, bidding Fidelma good night. Fidelma sat for a while in the main room of the hostel. She sipped at a beaker of mead as she turned matters over in her mind. In the end she had to accept that Eadulf s proposition was right. It was no good turning the same information over and over without adding any new material to point her on to a new pathway. Eventually she made her way to bed, undressed and fell asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Something had awakened her.

  She was not sure what it was. It was still dark. She lay on her bed listening carefully. Then she realised the cause. It had been the sound of whispered voices. They were low but intense enough to penetrate into her fitful sleep.

  ‘Very well. It has to be done.’

  She sought to identify the voice. It was a moment or two before she realised that it was the young monk, Brother Dianach, who was speaking. Then she located where the voices were coming from, Brother Dianach’s sleeping chamber. The rooms were only partitioned by wood and so the sounds were not exactly muffled.

  She did not move but lay listening intently for the second voice. She had already guessed who it would be. She was not dis
appointed.

  ‘Give me the vellum and I will hand it to him.’

  It was Brother Solin’s voice.

  ‘I have it here.’

  Solin gave a hiss. ‘Not so loud, boy, otherwise you might wake our fellow guests. We would not want that to happen.’

  Brother Dianach gave an uncharacteristic laugh.

  ‘The Saxon will not wake. He quaffed enough mead and wine to sleep a week. Listen, you can hear him snoring like a pig!’

  ‘Quickly, now!’ Brother Solin became impatient. ‘It is essential I keep the rendezvous.’

  ‘Here is the vellum, Brother.’

  There was a silence as if Solin were checking the object that he had been handed.

  ‘Good. Now back to sleep with you. I will report to you in the morning. If all goes well, Cashel will fall to us before the summer is out.’

  Fidelma started up with a jerk. It was a reaction which she could not help. It was lucky that her movement had been drowned by the departure of Solin himself. Fidelma sat for a moment, heart pounding. She could hear from the soft footfalls that Solin was tip-toeing past her sleeping chamber. She swung out of bed and dragged on her robe and leather-soled shoes.

  Solin had left the hostel by the time she had reached the head of the stairs but she had to refrain from any hurried descent for it would alert Brother Dianach. There was no time to wake Eadulf who slept in the chamber opposite. She went as swiftly as she could down the stairs and out into the cold darkness of the early morning.

  The night was so still; so quiet. Yet the moon, although passed its full, shone with a bright white light, bathing the courtyard with its eerie glow. The figure of Brother Solin was hurrying quietly across the courtyard. She could see that he was carrying something, something white and rolled up in one hand. She found she had to wait in the darkened shadows of the hostel door because the moonlight was too intense to venture straight across the courtyard after him.

  Brother Solin vanished round the corner of the building complex which she and Eadulf had visited a few hours before. Only after he had turned the corner did she hurry forward. Having reached the corner, she halted and peered carefully around it. Fidelma stood still, frustrated. There was now no sign at all of Brother Solin; no indication of where he could have disappeared to. She peered into the twilight, turning in all directions. Burning torches throughout the ráth enhanced the curious flickering twilight which spread over the buildings. There was no sign of the northern cleric’s stocky figure or even inviting shadows which might indicate where he lurked. The main pathway led directly towards the stables of the ráth and she took a few hesitant steps along it, then stopped and shrugged.

  There was no point in attempting to find Solin now. He had gone to ground. There was little choice left to her but to return to the hostel and her interrupted sleep. What had Brother Solin meant? Cashel would fall before the summer had ended. That was what he had said. Summer had but one more month to run. What threat was here and how was Solin involved? That the key to the mystery lay with Solin was now abundantly clear in her mind. But what was the mystery? She still could not see any possible explanation.

  She had already moved a reluctant pace or two in the direction of the hostel when she heard a scuffling noise. She held her head to one side. It had come from the direction of the stables. She turned back and moved quietly into the shadows, moving slowly down towards the stable entrance. A brand torch was lit above the stable door throwing a pool of flickering light over the entrance.

  Had she heard a smothered cry, drawn out as if in agony? She waited some moments trying to detect any further sound.

  A figure abruptly emerged at the stable entrance, standing for a moment as if examining whether it was observed.

  It was clad from head to foot in a cloak and a hood which was held by one hand across the lower part of the face. Only the eyes and nose were visible. It was a slender figure, Fidelma could tell that in spite of the cloak which almost shrouded it. It was as the figure glanced along the path that the torchlight fell on the visible portion of its features – fell only momentarily and with shadows dancing this way and that, obscuring the exact contours of the face. However, Fidelma felt in no doubt that she had recognised the distinctive dark eyes and the features of Orla.

  The slender figure hurried abruptly into the darkness towards the building which housed Murgal’s apartment and others.

  Fidelma stood in indecision. Should she follow the furtive figure and if so for what reason? She still had to find Brother Solin. Solin would surely be the last person that Orla would wish a tryst with in the middle of the night after her threat to kill him.

  Perhaps Brother Solin had gone elsewhere? Why shouldn’t the sister of the chieftain and wife of his tanist visit the stables of the ráth at any hour she wanted to do so? It was no business of Fidelma’s and yet … yet it was clear that Orla had no wish to be seen. Why? By the time Fidelma had considered the problem the figure had vanished into the darkness and Fidelma was alone in the silence of the night.

  Fidelma suppressed a sigh and turned away. If the unlikely had happened and Solin had met Orla in the stable then he must have departed by another exit.

  The groan was so low that for a moment she thought it was some movement of the night wind. Then it came again. It was a human sound, she realised within a moment, and it came from the stables.

  She turned back and hurried to the doorway, peering into the darkness beyond. There was a gasping of agonised breath.

  She could see only the shadowy outlines of the horses now moving restlessly in the dark. She moved to the brand torch outside and took it down from its metal holder. Then, carrying it aloft, she moved forward looking carefully to locate the source of the sound.

  The figure lay at the far end of the stable, stretched on its back, one hand across its chest, the other stretched out behind its head.

  Fidelma had no trouble recognising the thick-set figure of Brother Solin of Armagh.

  She moved quickly to his side but one glance at the blood pumping from his lower chest, where his hand was vainly trying to stem the flow, was enough to show that Brother Solin was dying. His eyes were closed, his lips twisted in pain.

  ‘Solin!’ she spoke sharply. ‘Who did this to you?’

  The man rolled his head but did not open his eyes. The lips twisted further in agony.

  ‘Solin, it is Fidelma. Who stabbed you?’

  The lips parted and Fidelma had to lean close to hear the painful gasping breath.

  ‘Suaviter … suaviter in modo …’

  The head fell back. Brother Solin of Armagh was dead.

  Fidelma sighed and finished off the aphorism, ‘ … fortiter in re.’

  She compressed her lips and stared down at the body. And what did that mean? ‘Gentle in manner,’ Solin had begun. The end of the aphorism was ‘resolute in deed’. Well, his killer had been resolute in this deed but certainly it was not done in gentle manner. Orla had said that she would kill Solin if she saw him again and she had, apparently, kept her word.

  Realising Solin was beyond mortal help, she made a quick search of his body. The piece of vellum which Brother Dianach had given him, and which she had seen him carrying, was nowhere in the vicinity. She held her torch aloft and peered carefully around. There was no sign of anything remotely resembling the vellum. Had Orla taken it? If so, why? And what had Orla’s anger with Solin to do with Solin’s threat of Cashel falling before the summer ended?

  Fidelma began to rise, torch in hand, and as she did so she felt a sharp sensation in her back. A harsh male voice hissed: ‘Make no further move, lady.’

  She recognised the voice of Artgal.

  She stood still.

  ‘I shall not move,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘What do you want of me?’

  The man gave a sharp bark of laughter.

  ‘You have a droll sense of humour, lady. Stand still.’

  To Fidelma’s surprise he suddenly raised his voice in a loud cry for the me
mbers of the watch.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, less certain of herself.

  ‘You may turn and face me,’ Artgal replied. ‘But slowly.’

  Fidelma did so, facing the grim warrior-blacksmith who stood sword in hand, its point towards her. In the distance she could hear answering shouts.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded again.

  ‘Easy to say,’ Artgal smiled sourly. ‘What does one do when one finds a murderess bending over the body of her victim?’

  ‘But I did not …’ she began to protest but was unable to finish before Rudgal and another guard hurried into the stable followed a few seconds later by Laisre himself. The chieftain wore a heavy cloak wrapped around his person as if just aroused from his bed. Artgal stiffened respectfully before his chieftain.

  ‘What does this mean, Artgal?’ frowned Laisre, peering around the stable.

  ‘I was on night watch, Laisre. I was passing by the stable and saw the torch which usually lit the doorway was gone. There was a light inside the stable. I entered and saw this woman …’

  He jerked his head towards Fidelma. Laisre frowned at Artgal’s discourtesy and interrupted.

  ‘Do you mean Fidelma of Cashel?’

  Artgal was not to be put off.

  ‘I saw this woman bending over the body of the Christian priest, Solin. She is the killer.’

  ‘That is not so!’ protested Fidelma aghast at such an accusation.

  Laisre had now caught sight of the body on the ground. He exclaimed in surprise and bent forward.

  ‘By the long grasp of Lugh,’ he whispered, ‘it is, indeed, the Christian envoy from Armagh!’ He straightened up and stared in bewilderment at Fidelma. ‘What does this mean?’

  ‘I did not kill him,’ Fidelma asserted.

  ‘No?’ Artgal sneered. ‘I am a witness to the deed. Lies will not help you.’

  ‘You are the liar,’ replied Fidelma, ‘for I defy you to say that you saw me plunge a knife into this poor soul.’

  Artgal blinked at the vehemence of her denial.