The Leper's Bell

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘When was that?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘Four or five days ago.’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘They had two babies with them, you say?’

  Aona nodded.

  ‘No matter,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Has anyone else passed here? Any other strangers?’

  ‘Two more only. A short time before the apothecary and his wife, two religious passed here. One was from the northern kingdom, travelling with a stranger from beyond the seas. They rode good horses. The stranger from beyond the seas was unlike any foreign religious that I have seen.

  At first, I thought him to be a Greek, because I have encountered several of those who have passed on their way to Imleach. Yet he was not quite the same as a Greek…’

  That was probably the Persian,’ Eadulf intervened by way of explanation. ‘Was the one who came from the north a brother from the abbey at Ard Macha?’

  Aona grimaced indifferently. ‘He could well have been, Brother Eadulf. He was a proud young man and mentioned with pride his king, Blathmac mac Máel Cobo…’

  ‘Of the Dál Fiatach of Ulaidh,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘How long did they stay here?’

  ‘Long enough for a meal. They said that they were passing on to Colmán’s abbey on the western coast.’ Aona paused and glanced at the warriors. ‘If you will excuse me, lady, I’d better attend to the food. I presume young Adag is looking after your horses?’

  On learning this was the case Aona disappeared, to quickly reappear with bread, freshly baked, and hot bowls of savoury mutton stew.

  Eadulf joined the others as they fell to the bowls of steaming soup. While they were so engaged, Aona went round filling pottery mugs with corma, the fiery barley distilled alcohol that he personally brewed on the premises. Eadulf remembered the first time he had been at Aona’s inn and how he had nearly choked as the fiery liquid left him gasping for breath. He asked for a jug of water and met with Aona’s knowing grin.

  ‘I see you remember my corma well, Brother Eadulf.’

  Fidelma sat on a window seat, watching the rain splattering down and nibbling pensively on a dish of fruit that Aona had tempted her with.

  Presently, when they were all more relaxed and oblivious of the thunderstorm raging outside, Fidelma and Eadulf drew their chairs before the fire and settled down with Aona to talk more about old times. Adag, having fed and settled the horses, came in then, pausing to shake the rain off his heavy woollen cloak.

  ‘Do you still reckon on an hour until the storm passes, youngster?’ Capa called cynically.

  Adag grinned, unembarrassed. ‘Not much more than an hour, warrior. The mountain hid the full extent of the storm clouds from me. But already there is blue showing behind the clouds, so it will soon pass,’ he added confidently.

  Amid the soft conversation of the warriors and the crackle of the fire there appeared a lull in the exchange of the old comrades. Then Aona said sadly: ‘I was unhappy to hear that it was Sárait who had been murdered. A sad family.’

  ‘Sad?’ queried Eadulf sharply. ‘Did you know her family?’

  ‘Rather I knew the family of her husband,’ Aona amended. ‘I knew her husband’s father, Cathchern, very well indeed. He was one of my men and came from the Well of Ara. I watched his son Callada grow up and was not surprised when he followed his father into the bodyguard of the kings of Cashel. Callada and Sárait married here - yes, it was here in this very room that we had the feasting. That was three or four years ago.’

  ‘I did not know Callada well,’ admitted Fidelma.

  ‘He would have been about ten years older than you, lady.’

  ‘But why did you say the family was sad?’ Eadulf was puzzled.

  ‘Well, my old comrade Cathchern was killed in a battle against the Uí Néill when Callada had hardly reached the age of choice. Cathchern’s wife died of the Yellow Plague. Then Callada… he was killed at the battle of Cnoc Áine scarce two years ago.’

  That I knew,’ Fidelma said. ‘And because of that, Sárait was given work at my brother’s palace when I returned there for my confinement. She became my nurse and nurse to my baby.’

  ‘I presume that Cathchern and his son Callada both freely chose life as warriors?’ asked Eadulf. ‘If so, death must be recognised as a constant companion, and many people died in the Yellow Plague. Yet you say they were a sad family?’

  ‘There were ugly stories.’

  ‘Ugly stories?’

  Aona made an awkward gesture with his hands as if trying to dismiss what he had said. ‘Maybe it is not right to repeat them now.’

  Eadulf snorted in annoyance. The time to have hesitated was before you hinted at some intrigue. Continue your tale now.’

  Aona hesitated, shrugged and bent forward with lowered voice.

  ‘I heard from a couple of warriors who were at the battle of Cnoc Áine that Callada was slain not by the enemy - the Uí Fidgente - but by one of his own men.’

  Eadulf was not shocked. He had heard similar tales about deaths in battles.

  ‘You mean that he turned coward on the field? I have heard enough stories of battles to know that often a man has been slain when he showed cowardice and endangered the lives of his comrades.’

  That I know. But Callada was no coward. He was a good warrior and descended from a line of great warriors. Yet these stories have persisted. However he died, he was slain at Cnoc Áine. Now Sárait has come by a violent death as well. It is a sad, sad family in which death comes in violent ways and no one is left to sing the praises of the deeds of the past generations.’

  Fidelma said nothing for a moment. Then she grimaced.

  ‘Well, Aona, we have seen our fair share of violence. It would be pleasing now if we could take ourselves off to some isolated valley high up in the mountains and begin to live in peace with ourselves and our surroundings.’

  Aona’s face was sad.

  There is no permanent sanctuary against the violence of mankind. It is a permanent condition, I fear, lady.’

  Fidelma stood up and gazed through the window at the lightening sky.

  ‘I think Adag is being proved correct. The sky is brighter. The storm is passing. We must soon be on our way to Imleach.’

  The old innkeeper rose in response.

  ‘I wish you well in your quest, lady. May you have all success in finding your child and bringing the murderer of Sárait to justice.’

  Capa and his men had also risen.

  ‘Are we continuing the journey to Imleach, lady?’ Capa asked. At Fidelma’s affirmative, he went on: ‘We will go and prepare the horses, then. No need to trouble the young lad, innkeeper.’ Adag had gone to the brewery at the side of the inn to carry out some jobs for Aona.

  The warriors had just left when the door opened again and a thickset, middle-aged man entered. His features showed good humour and he seemed to have a commanding presence.

  ‘Greetings, Adag. I see your guests are just leaving, warriors by the look of them…’

  His eyes suddenly fell on Fidelma and Eadulf and he halted in confusion. Aona turned to Fidelma with a smile.

  ‘On the very subject of which we have been speaking - this is Cathalán. He fought at Cnoc Áine. Cathalán, this…’

  The newcomer had crossed the room and bowed his head in respect.

  ‘Lady, I had the honour to serve your brother at Cnoc Áine. I recognise you and have heard of your trouble, for which I am sorry.’

  Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgement.

  ‘Cathalán, we were speaking a short time ago of Sárait’s husband and the manner of his death.’

  ‘Were you a witness to how he died?’ Eadulf asked.

  Cathalán shook his head at once.

  ‘Not a witness, no. I merely heard stories. In battle, Brother Eadulf, one hears a story from someone. When you question them, they say they heard it from someone else and that someone saw it happen. When you ask that person, then they, too, have heard it from someone who, they say, saw it happen. But the sto
ry that Callada was killed by one of our own warriors came from two separate sources. One was an Uí Fidgente and the other was one of our own men. I doubt it not. But we have not been able to discover anything further for we have found no one who could be claimed as a true witness.’

  ‘Was the matter reported to a Brehon?’ queried Fidelma.

  ‘It was. Brehon Dathal said he had examined the matter but found nothing over which action could be taken.’

  ‘I see. So you were one of the warriors who were merely repeating what others told you.’

  Cathalán hesitated for a moment.

  ‘There is something else?’ prompted Fidelma.

  ‘I was Callada’s cenn-feadhna? Eadulf took a moment to remember that the military structures of Éireann were well organised and a cenn-feadhna was the captain of a buden or company of one hundred warriors. ‘We lost sight of one another in the heat of the battle on Cnoc Áine. In fact, several of my company - fourteen men in all - perished that day because we were one of the first to be ordered forward into the centre of the Uí Fidgente.’ He paused. ‘I knew that there was something troubling Callada on the evening before the battle, as we sat round the fire. I asked him what ailed him and he was reluctant to say anything at first. But as he was troubled and I pressed the matter, he finally told me that he had good reason to believe that his wife Sárait was unfaithful to him.’

  ‘That she was having an affair with another man?’ Eadulf asked, making sure he understood.

  ‘That she might have been having an affair with another.’ The former warrior corrected the emphasis with a grave expression.

  ‘Who else knew of this?’ It was Fidelma who posed the question.

  ‘He spoke to me reluctantly. I do not think that he had told his suspicions to anyone else…’ He suddenly frowned. ‘You think there is some connection with Sárait’s death?’ He shook his head immediately. ‘But no, she was nursing your child and the baby has been kidnapped. There is surely no relation?’

  ‘Yet all possibilities must be considered,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘Sárait is now dead. She was enticed from the palace to her death. Was it a means to kidnap my child? If so, then—’

  She suddenly snapped her mouth shut, realising that she was thinking aloud. She focused her green-blue eyes on Cathalán.

  ‘Did Callada say whom he suspected of having an affair with his wife?’

  ‘Alas, he did not.’

  ‘And hearing this rumour, how he met his death, you are presuming … what exactly?’

  Cathalán shrugged. ‘I was not made a cenn-feadhna for presuming things, lady. I merely reported the facts to old Brehon Dathal. Those facts may be connected and thus they pose a question. That is all I am saying.’

  Gorman put his head round the inn door without observing the newcomer.

  ‘The horses are ready, lady.’

  Fidelma paused a moment and then smiled at the former warrior.

  ‘I am grateful for this information, Cathalán. Do not think that I am not. It may or may not be of relevance. Probably not. But all information is of help.’ She turned back to Aona. ‘Once more we are indebted for your welcome hospitality, Aona.’ She pressed some coins into his reluctant hand.

  ‘I am always pleased to serve you, lady.’ The old innkeeper smiled. ‘There is no person in this kingdom, having heard of your plight, who does not wish you success in tracking down the culprit.’

  Eadulf pursed his lips cynically. ‘Surely one would have to accept there must be at least one person in this kingdom who does not, Aona,’ he said dryly as he turned and followed Fidelma from the inn. It took Aona a moment or two before he understood what Eadulf meant, by which time the door had closed behind him.

  Within a short time they were following the north bank of the River Ara while, to the south, the long wooded ridge of Slievenamuck stood framed against the lighter sky. The heavy storm clouds had passed over to the east and it looked as though the late afternoon was going to be fine. The sun was in the western sky but not low as yet. Eadulf was trying to remember the name of the hills to the north of them, some miles distant. Fidelma had told him when they had first made their journey along this road.

  Fidelma, as though she had read his thoughts, at that moment leant over and touched him on the arm.

  ‘The Slieve Felim mountains,’ she said, pointing. ‘Beyond those are the lands of the Uí Fidgente. Not a place to go wandering without protection.’

  When they emerged from the woodland and into an open hilly area, Eadulf recognised his surroundings immediately.

  Imleach Iubhair: ‘the borderland of yew trees’. The great stone walls surrounded the abbey of St Ailbe, who had first preached Christianity in Muman. They dominated the little township that stretched before them. He found it hard to accept that it was here that he and Fidelma had nearly lost their lives. He felt very much at home as he looked on the stretches of grazing land, edged with forests of yew trees, tall and round-headed.

  The first time he had seen Imleach it was deserted, but now the market place, directly in front of the abbey, was bustling. People were thronging the stalls and pens in which cattle patiently stood waiting to be sold, and goats, pigs and sheep moved impatiently in their confines. Traders were shouting their wares; cheesemakers, blacksmiths, bakers and a hundred and one others trying to attract customers.

  ‘Not like the last time I came here,’ Eadulf remarked humorously.

  ‘Life has returned to normal,’ observed Fidelma shortly as she led the way through the market square towards the sad-looking, burnt-out remains of a massive yew tree that had once dominated even the great walls of the abbey. Once it had risen nearly twenty-two metres in height. Fidelma, with Capa and the other warriors, halted her horse before it and bowed her head. Eadulf remembered that this was once the sacred totem of the Eóghanacht, their ‘Tree of Life’, which was said to have been planted by the hand of Eibhear Foinn, son of Milidh, from whom the Eóghanacht claimed to have descended. Eadulf remembered the time when the enemies of the Eóghanacht had attacked and tried to destroy it. He and Fidelma had been sheltering in the abbey and impotent to halt the destruction. Yet halted it had been.

  ‘In spite of our enemies,’ Gorman smiled proudly, pointing to some green shoots on some of the higher branches, ‘our tree still thrives.’

  Eadulf was surprised that the ancient tree was still living. It remained the symbol of Eóghanacht power. It was an ancient belief that the tree was a symbol of the vitality of the Eóghanacht dynasty and if the tree flourished, they flourished. If it were destroyed … then the dynasty would fall and be no more. But the dynasty, like the tree, had survived; survived, if the ancient bards were to be trusted, for fifty-nine generations since Eibhear Foinn established it.

  They turned from the tree and moved on to the abbey. The gatekeeper had already spotted their approach and the great oak doors stood open. A familiar figure stood ready to receive them. It was Brother Madagan, the rechtaire or steward of the abbey.

  Chapter Five

  They sat in Brother Madagan’s chamber, from where the steward administered the great abbey of Imleach. As rechtaire, he assumed control in the absence of Bishop Ségdae, who was not only bishop but also abbot of Imleach. The mood was sombre. Brother Madagan had sat silently while Fidelma had explained the reason for their visit to the abbey. During the course of her explanation he continually raised a hand to finger the scar on his forehead. Both Fidelma and Eadulf knew well how he had received the wound during the attack on Imleach.

  When Fidelma had finished telling Brother Madagan what had brought them to the abbey again, they sat sombrely in front of the crackling fire. The steward was filled with concern at the news and offered to give what help he could. Fidelma had told him about the pilgrims and the other travellers who had passed through Cashel.

  ‘So you are wishing to question the pilgrims who have come to pray in the chapel of the Blessed Ailbe?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ Fidelma affirmed. ‘I hope
they are still here?’

  Brother Madagan nodded. ‘But the others you mentioned … Brother Tanaide, and the stranger from beyond the seas, are no longer here. They have already continued their journey westward after one night of hospitality.’

  ‘Who is Brother Tanaide?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘The young monk who was guide and interpreter for the stranger from Persia.’

  ‘What did this stranger from Persia want here?’

  ‘He calls himself Brother Basil Nestorios and speaks Greek and Latin as well as his native tongue. He has a lively discourse and spoke much about his homeland and beliefs. I felt sad that he could only spend a night here before travelling on to the abbey of Coimán. You surely don’t need to speak to them?’ Brother Madagan hesitated and then shook his head. ‘I am sure that neither of these brothers of the Faith could have had anything to do with the matter that brings you hither.’

  Fidelma smiled tiredly. ‘I am sure you are right. It is merely a matter of questioning to hear if they observed anything that might help us. What may be seen and discarded as unimportant by a bystander, when collected, like a piece of a puzzle, and compared to other accounts might create a complete picture.’

  ‘Where is this abbey of Coimán?’ asked Eadulf.

  To the west, standing by the sea at the mouth of the River Maighin, the river of the plain,’ explained the steward. ‘It is at least one day’s journey from here if one rode a fast horse.’

  ‘It stands at the beginning of the lands of the Corco Duibhne, the land of Duibhne’s people,’ added Fidelma. ‘To get there it means crossing Uí Fidgente territory.’

  ‘Are the Corco Duibhne part of your brother’s kingdom?’

  ‘Their sub-king Slébéne pays tribute to Cashel. However, they are a fierce and independent people who still claim a pagan goddess named Duinech as their foster-mother. She was said to have regenerated herself into seven periods of youth so that she became mother to the widely scattered tribes of the Múscraige. The abbey of Coimán lies on the edge of his territory, which is guarded by a vicious Uí Fidgente warlord who, so reports tell us, claims to be lord of the passes through the mountains there. I, for one, would prefer to avoid Slébéne’s petty kingdom.’