Valley of the Shadow

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘None with antlers from their heads,’ vowed Eadulf.

  They reached the entrance of the gorge and started through its narrow rocky passage.

  ‘Who passes?’ cried a voice from high above them.

  Fidelma groaned inwardly. She had forgotten the sentinels who guarded the gorge. However, what had worked once would doubtless work again.

  ‘Fidelma of Cashel,’ she called back. Then, as an afterthought, ‘Were you on guard here yesterday afternoon?’

  A shadow moved above them and emerged indistinctly in the rising light of the dawn.

  ‘Not I. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I wondered if the horse dealer, Ibor of Muirthemne, was seen passing this way or Artgal?’

  ‘Everyone who passed through this gorge came under our scrutiny. The horse dealer certainly passed along here in the afternoon for my brother was on duty here. But as for Artgal … no, it would have been mentioned if he had passed this way. The news of Artgal’s loss of honour has certainly been spoken.’

  Fidelma accepted the information with resignation. She had not really expected to learn much.

  ‘Very well. Can we proceed?’

  ‘Go in peace,’ invited the sentinel.

  By the time they had negotiated the gorge, dawn had broken across the mountains in streaks of orange, gold and yellow and the countryside was coming to life with a noisy chorus of birds arising from all around them. Fidelma made her unerring way towards the spot where they had encountered the slaughtered bodies of the young men. It was well and truly light by the time they reached the place. The view was clear in every direction. However, in two days the ravens had done their work well. The white bones of the skeletons lay scattered with hardly any flesh left upon them. Eadulf shuddered as he gazed about the bright sepulchre of bones, reflecting in the translucent light.

  Fidelma did not give them a second glance but rode directly to where she recalled that the tracks had been. She could not find them. It was Eadulf who attempted an explanation.

  ‘While it didn’t rain in Gleann Geis yesterday, there was some rain beyond the mountains. It might be that the tracks have been washed away.’

  Fidelma moved forward to view the ground more carefully.

  ‘But not entirely,’ she called triumphantly. ‘I can still see faint traces of the ruts.’

  Eadulf followed her, his eyes sweeping the countryside around them in case of danger for he still questioned the wisdom of what they were attempting. Those who would not hesitate to kill thirty-three young men in a ritual slaughter would not falter in killing any religious if they became a threat.

  ‘Come on,’ Fidelma called, ‘the tracks lead northwards.’

  She began to walk her horse carefully across the floor of the valley.

  ‘How far do you intend to go?’ grumbled the Saxon. ‘Colla says the tracks soon disappeared.’

  Fidelma pointed before her towards the northern hills on the rim of the valley.

  ‘I will go as far as the edge of the glen, just there, where the hills begin to rise. If we see no further signs by then, we will follow the edge of the valley back to the entrance to Gleann Geis and conclude our business there.’

  ‘Do you mistrust Colla so much? Do you really think that he has tried to mislead us?’

  ‘I prefer the evidence of my own eyes,’ replied Fidelma easily. ‘And don’t forget, I did see Orla outside the stable. I know I did. Therefore, the logical conclusion is that Colla lied to protect his wife. By doing so, he placed me in jeopardy. What he did once, he can do a second time.’

  In silence they walked their horses on, sitting at ease in their saddles, but now and then Fidelma stopped in an attempt to pick up the signs of the passing of the wagons. The tracks soon disappeared. They had not been visible for long before the stony ground had, indeed, disguised all signs of the passing of the carts. She was forced to admit that Colla had told the truth. They were still a mile or so off from the foot of the hills when all trace completely vanished.

  ‘Perhaps you have done Colla an injustice?’ ventured Eadulf wryly.

  Fidelma did not grace his comment with an answer.

  ‘If we go back empty handed, what excuse will you give to Laisre?’ Eadulf pressed.

  Fidelma thrust out her lower lip in annoyance.

  ‘I am not in the habit of giving excuses,’ she replied crossly. ‘He has no right to question my actions as a dálaigh.’

  She drew her horse to a halt and raised a hand to shade her eyes. Then she exhaled in irritation.

  ‘I would be happier if I even had an idea of what we were looking for,’ protested Eadulf. ‘I don’t think we are going to find further tracks in this terrain. What else is there?’

  For a time Fidelma did not bother to reply. They continued in silence for a while until the stony valley floor began to rise into the surrounding hills. But there was no sign of any tracks at all. After a fruitless hour or so Fidelma called a halt and extended her hand southwards.

  ‘There are some grassy areas if we swing south of here. Perhaps we might find some tracks there,’ she volunteered. ‘This northern path looks as if it is going to reveal nothing.’

  Eadulf suppressed a sigh but still followed her. He already had a feeling that a search of the area would reveal nothing. Not a sign of wagon tracks but Fidelma pressed on. Eadulf was about to make a stronger protest to the effect that they were simply wasting time and ought to return to Gleann Geis when Fidelma halted.

  ‘Tracks of several horses,’ she cried triumphantly pointing downwards to the disturbed grassy area.

  Eadulf confirmed the statement with a sour glare.

  ‘It means little without wagon tracks. There are plenty of people on horseback who could pass this spot.’

  It happened so suddenly that Fidelma and Eadulf had no time at all to react.

  Out of nowhere half-a-dozen warriors appeared on horseback with swords ready and surrounded them.

  ‘Hold still, if you value your lives!’ cried their leader, a large man with a bushy red beard and a burnished bronze helmet studded with red enamel pieces.

  Fidelma had a sinking sensation as she realised that the man spoke in a northern accent.

  A second man rode alongside them and, before they could protest, their wrists were expertly bound behind them. Blindfolds were produced and tied over their eyes. Their reins were taken from them and they found themselves being led at a swift canter. They needed their breath to maintain their balance on the fast-moving horses and could not protest or demand an explanation. Neither Fidelma nor Eadulf could estimate the amount of time it took as they were escorted to their captors’ destination.

  The end of the ride came as abruptly as it had begun.

  The horses suddenly halted, there were shouted commands, and strong arms lifted them both down. Their blindfolds were removed and they stood blinking in the centre of a group of warriors. Fidelma noticed that they were in a gorge, no more than a rocky fissure, hardly big enough for four men to stand abreast. Around them the rocky walls rose almost blotting out the sky. It was a dark, narrow passageway.

  The leader of the warriors, the red-haired man with a fierce, almost angry expression, stood in front of them and his shrewd scrutiny missed nothing.

  ‘You have come from Gleann Geis.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘We do not deny it,’ affirmed Fidelma coldly. ‘Where have you come from?’

  The man’s face conveyed no reaction. His sharp blue eyes examined them both carefully, taking in Fidelma’s cross of the Golden Chain and Eadulf s foreign appearance. Then he turned and signalled to one of his men. Silently the man handed him their saddle bags which he had obviously removed from their horses. The red-haired leader peered firstly into Eadulf’s saddle bags and then took hold of Fidelma’s bags.

  ‘Are you common thieves and robbers, then?’ she sneered. ‘If you are looking for riches, you will not find any for …’

  The man ignored her and continued
to rummage through the saddle bag. His hand came out holding the gold torc. His eyes glinted.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

  ‘A woman of Muman who carries the gold collar of Ailech?’ scoffed the man. He thrust it back into the saddle bag and then slung both over his shoulder.

  Fidelma started at the mention of the name of Ailech.

  Ailech was the capital of the northern Uí Néill kings who were in enmity with the southern Uí Néill kings who ruled at Tara.

  The red-bearded man had turned and was striding towards what appeared to be the sheer cliff face. His men had closed in around Fidelma and Eadulf. Before they could protest or make further demands of their captors they were forced to move at a rapid trot towards one of the towering walls of the fissure. So fast did they move, even with their hands still tied behind their backs, that Eadulf found himself closing his eyes believing, for a moment, that their captors were intent on killing them by smashing them against the granite wall. Then he felt cold and darkness encompassed him. He ventured to open his eyes and found he was in a cave which was dimly lit by a single torch. Somehow he and Fidelma had been manoeuvred into a hidden cave entrance.

  The leader continued to head the way along the dark tunnel. Neither Fidelma nor Eadulf made any protest for there was little point in protesting. The warriors moved them swiftly and professionally. They were propelled through a series of caves and narrow passageways. Then they came to a sudden halt.

  ‘Blindfold them again,’ ordered the leader.

  Once again they were in complete darkness.

  There was a moment’s pause and they were propelled onwards once more. It was not long before they came to a halt again. The atmosphere was suddenly warm. Fidelma could feel the presence of a fire from the warmth on her cheek.

  ‘We have caught a couple of spies from Gleann Geis, my lord,’ came the voice of the leader of their escort.

  ‘Spies, eh?’ The voice was familiar. ‘Untie their blindfolds and let them see.’

  The blindfolds were taken off again with rough hands.

  ‘Gently!’ rebuked the familiar voice sharply. ‘Do not harm our honoured guests.’

  Fidelma stood blinking in the smoky atmosphere of a large cave which was lit by spluttering torches. She noticed it contained sleeping rugs, a fire in one corner, strategically placed under what appeared to be a natural chimney with a cauldron hanging over its flames, steaming away. At her side, Eadulf was still blinking and not yet taking in his surroundings. Apart from the men who had escorted them into the cave, there were half-a-dozen other warriors squatting on the rugs with one of them standing over the cauldron. At one end, perched on a wooden camp chair, was a familiar figure.

  Fidelma smiled grimly as she recognised the young horse trader.

  ‘I thought our paths would meet again, Ibor of Muirthemne.’

  The young man laughed good naturedly.

  ‘Untie their hands and let them be seated,’ he instructed.

  ‘But, my lord …’ protested the red-haired man who had captured them. ‘Look!’ He took out the gold torc and thrust it at Ibor. ‘The woman carries this as proof of her guilt.’

  Ibor took the torc and examined it. Then he raised his eyes to the man.

  ‘Untie them at once!’ he said firmly.

  Reluctantly, the red-haired man drew out his knife and severed Fidelma’s bonds and then the rope which tied Eadulf’s wrists. They stood for a moment rubbing their chaffed wrists and examining Ibor in curiosity. Now he was clothed as a warrior, a costume that seemed to fit him better than his previous form of dress. Fidelma smiled grimly as the former assessment that Ibor looked more a warrior than a horse trader now appeared to be correct. The erstwhile trader from Muirthemne was obviously a fighting man.

  ‘Be seated and accept my hospitality,’ invited Ibor as politely as if he had simply invited them as guests to his ráth. ‘It is rather poor hospitality since we are camped out here …’

  ‘Hiding from lawful authority,’ interjected Eadulf sourly.

  Ibor shook his head and his smile broadened.

  ‘Not hiding but merely not wishing to announce our presence. Come, be seated. You shall not be harmed while you are my guests.’

  Reluctantly, but with no other option, Fidelma and Eadulf sat on the rugs which had been indicated.

  ‘Why did you allow the people in Gleann Geis to believe that it was you who bribed Artgal?’ Fidelma opened without preamble.

  ‘I thought that they had already decided that without my help,’ replied Ibor humorously.

  ‘By running away you simply confirmed it.’

  ‘A strategic withdrawal to join my men.’

  ‘And to do what exactly?’

  Ibor shrugged, still smiling.

  ‘Who knows? Maybe to destroy that nest of vermin.’

  ‘Brother Dianach is dead. I know that he was the person who bought the cows to bribe Artgal with and not you.’

  The young man did not look surprised.

  ‘And Artgal? What does he say now?’

  ‘Artgal is missing.’

  There was a silence but Ibor’s composure did not alter.

  ‘As soon as Artgal started to lie about Brother Dianach, I knew that suspicion would fall on me. I knew that I would be apprehended for something I did not do … even as you were, Fidelma.’

  ‘You knew that I was innocent?’ Fidelma could not hide her surprise.

  ‘I knew that you had little reason to kill Brother Solin,’ he confirmed. ‘I was hoping to be able to find out who did before it became necessary for me to withdraw from Laisre’s ráth.’

  ‘It is hard to believe that you claim innocence,’ Fidelma observed skeptically. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

  ‘You know already that I am Ibor; Ibor, lord of Muirthemne.’

  ‘That is a proud title. It is not the title of a trader in horseflesh.’

  ‘I am proud to bear it. It is an ancient lineage. Was not my ancestor named Setanta of Muirthemne who men called Cúchulainn, the hound of Culainn?’

  Fidelma looked into Ibor’s eyes and saw a pride in his ancestry.

  ‘You have not explained why the lord of Muirthemne in Ulaidh was skulking in Gleann Geis in the guise of a merchant. This is a curiously isolated part of the world for a band of warriors from the north to stumble on without some evil intent?’

  ‘In truth, we did not stumble on it and we did come here with a specific purpose.’

  ‘At least you are honest with me. Why?’

  Ibor smiled disarmingly.

  ‘I would ask you to promise that you will be circumspect as to what I tell you.’

  Fidelma held her head slightly to one side. Her expression one of curiosity.

  ‘Circumspect? You do not ask me for secrecy?’

  Ibor shook his head.

  ‘I trust your discretion and honesty as I hope you will trust mine once you hear my story. I know of your reputation. I told you so before. And I also see that you wear the cross of the order of the Golden Chain. This is why I shall put my trust in you.’

  Fidelma continued to gaze at him thoughtfully.

  ‘I would answer that I apply discretion in all things but as to accepting your honesty, that remains to be seen.’

  ‘I would expect no more in the circumstances.’ The young lord of Muirthemne glanced quickly at Eadulf. ‘Your voice also speaks for the Saxon brother?’

  ‘You may be assured of Brother Eadulf’s discretion as you are of mine.’

  ‘Discretion is all I ask.’

  ‘You can expect little more, especially when you hold that gold torc which I found at the site of the slaughter of thirty-three young men,’ Fidelma added quietly.

  Ibor glanced down at the torc in his hand and nodded absently.

  ‘It is a torc fashioned for the warriors of Ailech,’ he commented absently. ‘You will hear the explanation for this shortly. To begin, my men and I have be
en following Brother Solin of Armagh this past week.’

  ‘On whose authority?’ Fidelma asked at once.

  ‘On the authority of Sechnassuch, High King at Tara.’

  ‘With what purpose?’

  ‘With the purpose of discovering his reason for coming to this land.’

  ‘You say that as if you suspected him of some transgression against the law?’ intervened Eadulf.

  The lord of Muirthemne chuckled grimly.

  ‘I would venture that my view has long passed the point of mere suspicion. And as for transgressing the law, he has transgressed every moral code that I know of.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ Fidelma said. ‘You are a man of the north and yet you appear to be claiming that you are an enemy of Brother Solin? Why is this? Is Brother Solin not only a man of the north but also of the cloth? He maintained that he was on a mission for the Faith.’

  ‘A mission for the Devil!’ snapped Ibor. Then he leaned forward, his voice grave. ‘Surely you know something about the dissensions among the kings of the north? You have been to Tara and you have also been to Armagh.’

  ‘Is it a coincidence that Brother Solin once asked me this very same question? I have been to Tara and I have been to Armagh but I was not privy to any internal disputes there.’

  Ibor sat back.

  ‘I will explain the divisions as simply as I can. First you must know that I am an emissary of the High King, Sechnassuch. As you know, he is of the southern Uí Néill, of the seed of Aedo Slaine. Here is his royal seal as proof of my word.’ He reached beneath his shirt and brought out a gold seal on a golden chain and held it out for her inspection. ‘You have been to Tara and know it well.’

  Fidelma glanced at the gold medallion. On it was stamped a regal upright hand symbolising the duty of the king to reach out his hand to protect his people, for in ancient times it was said that both words rí for king and reach were the same. Fidelma recognised the seal of the Uí Néill immediately.

  ‘Go on,’ she invited. ‘Tell us your story.’

  ‘Brother Solin was secretary to Ultan of Armagh.’

  ‘That I know,’ Fidelma said, a trifle impatiently.

  ‘Ultan has secretly sworn to support the claims of the dynasty of the northern Uí Néill, the kings who sit at Ailech.’