‘So what can we do now?’ Eadulf asked, as he poured a drink from the jug of goat’s milk.
‘There is little we can do but wait,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Let us hope we get a quick response to our demand for proof.’
‘Do you think that we shall?’
‘If Alchú has really been kidnapped and if his kidnappers are serious about the exchange - yes. But there is nothing to be done until we hear. Anyway, old Conchobar has asked me to go and play brandubh with him this morning. He probably knows that I need some distraction.’
Brandubh was ‘black raven’, an ancient board game which Eadulf prided himself on being rather good at. Before the coining of the Faith to the five kingdoms, it was said that the great god of arts and crafts, Lugh, had invented it and most of the kings and heroes were thought little of unless they were masters of the game.
Conchobar was an elderly apothecary and physician who dwelt at Cashel and had known Fidelma since she was born.
‘You might ask him if he can discover where Alchú is,’ Eadulf said with some bitterness in his voice.
Conchobar was not only a physician but also an adept at making speculations from the patterns of the stars. Indeed, medicine and astrology were often twins in the practice of the physician’s lore and the study of the heavens, nemgnacht, was an ancient art in this land where most people who could afford to do so had a chart cast for the moment of their children’s birth which was called nemindithib, a horoscope.
‘That is nothing to joke about,’ Fidelma replied sharply.
Eadulf sat back and gazed thoughtfully at her.
‘Who said I was joking?’ he countered. ‘Your astrologers claim to be able to answer all manner of questions and even find people, don’t they?’
Fidelma rose abruptly, her mouth a thin disapproving line.
‘I am going to join Conchobar for a game of brandubh!’
There was almost a flounce in her gait as she left the room and slammed the door shut behind her.
Eadulf sniffed in irritation and stretched in his seat, gazing at the closed door for a moment or two. Everything he said seemed to upset Fidelma. Yet he had been half serious in his suggestion, because he knew that Fidelma was not one to dismiss the ancient beliefs and customs of her people. Old Conchobar himself had often told him that Fidelma had shown a talent for casting star charts and several times her knowledge had come in handy to solve a particularly puzzling mystery. So he was not exactly being sarcastic when he suggested that the answer to Alchú’s kidnapping might be found in some astrological map of the heavens.
He finished his meal slowly and rose reluctantly, wondering how he should occupy his day. He already felt guilty at wasting time reading when he should have been thinking about how to investigate further. He went to the window and stared out across the grey walls of the palace complex. The late autumnal day was bright. There did not seem to be a cloud in the clear blue of the sky and yet the weather was not unduly cold. At this time or year when the sky was clear, it usually meant the day was cold and frost would lie on the ground. Clouds often meant the day would not be so cold even though they might bring rain.
His view from the window gave access to the south where the forest stretched from the far side of the township down towards the distant River Suir.
It was then that the notion struck him. It would probably result in hearing the same information but to pursue the idea would be better than just sitting around doing nothing.
He hurried from his chambers and made his way down to the stables.
A stableboy obligingly saddled his horse for him. Eadulf was not the most expert horseman; when it came to horses he liked to leave matters in the hands of those with better knowledge. Once it was saddled, he led the beast across the courtyard to the gates.
Caol was on duty there and saluted Eadulf.
‘I am going for a ride. I need some exercise,’ Eadulf said before being asked.
‘A good morning for it, Brother,’ replied Caol. ‘Though I had not thought of you as being one who rides for pleasure,’ he added, with a wry grin.
‘I mean to find a spot in the hills yonder,’ he indicated southward, ‘and then walk for a while.’
‘Due south is a lake, Loch Ceann,’ confirmed the warrior. ‘You’ll find good walking there.’
‘Due south? Is that near where the woodsman Conchoille works?’ Eadulf asked innocently.
‘Fairly near. The place where he is felling trees is close by at Rath na Drínne. Did you wish to see him, Brother?’
‘A few questions do occur to me now that you mention it. So I may take the opportunity to look for him.’
Eadulf thanked the warrior, mounted and trotted down the incline that led from the mound on which Cashel was built, twisting down to the start of the township below. But he avoided the edge of the town, keeping to the road that ran along its eastern border and then joined the track into the woods.
It was not Loch Ceann that he was heading for but Rath na Drínne, where the woodsman Conchoille was working. It did not take him long before the small hill rose before him and just before it was the old wooden inn with the sign swinging in the gentle morning breeze. He halted and dismounted.
There was no one inside as he entered the dark interior. It was too early in the day. However, only a few seconds passed after the door banged shut behind him before a short, rotund man, sleeves rolled up and wearing an apron, came from a side room and examined him with curious eyes for a moment before greeting him.
‘Good day, Brother, and what can I do for you?’
‘I’ll take a mug of your mead,’ replied Eadulf with a smile, ‘and the answers to some questions.’
The innkeeper frowned as he spoke.
‘A Saxon by your accent? Would you be Brother Eadulf, husband to our lady, Fidelma of Cashel?’
Eadulf gave an affirmative nod. ‘And your name would be Ferloga?’
‘I am he, and most sorry to hear of your troubles, Brother Eadulf. The lady Fidelma is well respected in these parts. I hear that the gossip is that it is our old enemies, the Uí Fidgente, who are behind this evil.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Eadulf, moving to a chair near the log fire in the corner of the taproom.
Ferloga had poured a pottery mug of mead and brought it to him. He sat down opposite Eadulf.
‘We are a small community, Brother. Many of my customers live or work in Cashel.’
‘Like Conchoille?’
‘Like Conchoille,’ the innkeeper agreed. ‘There is little that happens at Cashel that we do not hear about.’
Eadulf sipped thoughtfully at his mead. It was sweet with the honey.
‘Conchoille was in here just before he found the body of Sárait,’ he said, making it a statement rather than a question, for he already knew the answer.
Ferloga looked reflectively into the fire.
‘I remember that night well. I didn’t hear the details until the next morning, you understand. But because of that, when Conchoille came here and told me, I went over the events of the evening.’
‘Conchoille came to tell you the details?’ asked Eadulf innocently.
‘Of course.’
‘How did he describe what happened?’ asked Eadulf persuasively. ‘You see, it is my experience that a story can often be distorted in the retelling of it. By the time that Fidelma and I came along and heard it from Conchoille’s lips, he must have told it a hundred times. You would have been among the first to hear exactly what happened. You see? Your version may contain an important item that has been overlooked.’
Ferloga chuckled. ‘I doubt that Conchoille would have overlooked anything. He is not only a woodsman but also a fine senchaid, one of the best in this area.’
Eadulf knew that a senchaid was a reciter of stories, keeper of an ancient and oral tradition. Stories were handed down from one generation to the next in word-perfect fashion. He knew, from experience in attending such storytelling gatherings, that the audience
would often know a tale as well as the reciter and woe betide the senchaid who faltered or put a word in the wrong place. They would be severely corrected.
‘Yet a senchaid is not infallible, Ferloga. Tell me what was said from your own memory.’
Ferloga leant back and closed his eyes for a moment as if to help him in the recollection.
‘Conchoille usually comes here for an evening meal and a drink when he is working in the district. He is a widower so has no woman to cook for him. So that evening, when the sky was darkening, he came in and had his meal and a few drinks, and stayed for some time exchanging a story or two. Then he left.’
‘It was late?’
‘It was so, for we had a few tales to tell each other.’
Eadulf looked at the innkeeper.
‘Tales such as … what?’
‘Local gossip, local news. That is an innkeeper’s stock in trade. I had a tale to tell of the itinerants who had been in earlier with their baby, and I about to throw them out when my wife intervened and gave them food in exchange for a salve for an infection on her leg. Anyway, Conchoille lit his lantern and set off along the track to Cashel.’
‘And what did he tell you happened then?’
Ferloga smiled. ‘He said that he was nearly at the outskirts of Cashel when he tripped over a bloodstained shawl. That was when he discovered the body of the nurse Sárait. She was quite dead.’
‘And then?’
‘He left the body and went straight to Sárait’s sister, Gobnat, who dwelt with her husband not far away. The husband, as well you will know, was Capa of the king’s warrior guard. Capa went with Conchoille to recover the body and along the way they encountered a warrior on his way to the palace and told him to raise an alarm, for Sárait was known to be in service to our lady, Fidelma. But when Caol and his guards arrived it was realised that Sárait had left the palace with lady Fidelma’s … with your baby. A search was mounted immediately without result.’
‘And that was all?’
Ferloga shrugged. ‘Only that the search was maintained by torchlight for some time and then resumed again the next morning. Both village and woods were searched.’
Eadulf sat back in thought.
Ferloga’s retelling of the tale had not materially added to his knowledge. He had not expected that it would. But there was something that was bothering him; something at the back of his mind which he could not quite place.
‘Conchoille has not added anything to this account since he first told you?’
Ferloga was frowning now.
‘Is it that you suspect Conchoille of something?’ he demanded. ‘He is a trustworthy man who fought in many battles against the Uí Fidgente.’
Eadulf turned thoughtful eyes upon him.
‘Including Cnoc Áine?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Many of us were at Cnoc Áine,’ confirmed Ferloga.
‘Including Sárait’s husband, Callada.’
Ferloga drew his brows together quickly. ‘There is no denying that fact. He was killed there.’
‘And you are saying that you and Conchoille were there? Forgive me, aren’t you too old to be in battle? Cnoc Aine was scarcely two years ago.’
Ferloga raised his chin defensively. ‘A man is as young as he feels.’
‘Was the service compulsory?’
‘Love of our leader is a better duress than compulsion under law.’
‘Did you see how Callada was killed?’
Ferloga actually chuckled sarcastically.
‘I think I know what you are getting at, Saxon. There is a story abroad that Callada was killed by one of our own and not by the enemy.’
‘And have you a comment on that?’
Ferloga shrugged. ‘It seems far-fetched. Anyway, Conchoille and I were not in the fore ranks of that charge at Cnoc Áine but held in reserve by Colgú lest the Uí Fidgente break through our lines. When we finally marched forward it was merely to take prisoners and pursue the disorganised rabble.’
‘So, as far as you are concerned, the story of Callada’s death was only a rumour?’
Ferloga gestured diffidently. ‘Strange stories circulate after a battle, especially when it was as bloody and as vicious as that one. Whether there was truth in it, I cannot say.’
Eadulf decided to switch the topic.
‘Did you take part in the search for Alchú?’
‘By the time I was told, which was midday on the day following the finding of Sárait’s body, there was little I could do. By then, the king’s guard had been scouring the countryside for some time.’
‘I see.’
Eadulf was disappointed, although he had known that little information would come of his visit to the inn. However, he had had just a small hope that Ferloga might have remembered some significant incident. He sat back with a sigh.
‘Well, as I am here and it approaches noon, I will eat something light. Some cheese and bread, perhaps. Or did you say your wife cooks? Ah yes, you mentioned she had some infection. I trust the salve cured that. You see, I studied the art of the apothecary at Tuaim Drecain.’
Ferloga smiled.
‘My wife is visiting her sister at the moment, Brother Eadulf. Thank you, the salve worked well. Perhaps it was a lucky thing that she came when she did to prevent me throwing out the itinerants.’
‘I thought the law of hospitality would have prevented the refusal of hospitality, not your wife.’
Ferloga flushed at being reminded of his duties under law as an innkeeper.
‘This is not a public inn, a bruiden, where everyone has to be accommodated. This is my own inn. I do not like itinerants. They are usually untrustworthy. Beggars. You know the sort.’
‘I thought these beggars were selling salves.’ Eadulf accented the word ‘beggars’.
Ferloga sniffed in irritation.
‘Salves, balms, herbs. They were selling things but they were itinerants nevertheless. Itinerants with their noisy, bawling child.’
‘It sounds as though you have good reason to be thankful to them.’
Ferloga was obviously reluctant to give credit.
A sudden thought occurred to Eadulf.
‘A man and wife and child, did you say?’
‘Indeed, a couple with their baby. He said that he was a herbalist and en route to the abbey of Coimán.’
‘When exactly did they pass by here?’
‘That’s easy. It was the same day that Sárait’s murder took place, but the day had scarcely darkened when they left here. That was long before Conchoille arrived. That was why I was telling him the story about them.’ Ferloga’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘You don’t think that they killed Sárait, surely?’
Eadulf did not respond to the question.
‘You say that they were itinerants. Could they have been Uí Fidgente?’
Ferloga immediately shook his head.
‘Not Uí Fidgente, that’s for sure. They had the accent of the people of Laigin. There is always a reason why people take to the road in the five kingdoms, Brother Eadulf. Usually it is because they have fallen foul of the law and cannot redeem themselves or their honour price. They cannot put down roots again and are doomed to wander.’
Eadulf drained his mug and stood up. He had made a decision.
‘Thank you for your help, Ferloga. You have been most helpful.’
The innkeeper raised his brows in question.
‘What of your food?’
‘I realise that I must return to Cashel,’ Eadulf excused himself. ‘I have remembered something I must do.’
Eadulf had ridden not more than a hundred yards when he urged the horse into a canter. Anyone who knew Eadulf would realise that this was unusual behaviour. However, he was full of excitement. A thought was irritating him, sparked by the innkeeper’s words. If he were correct, perhaps the mystery was not as insoluble as he had, at first, thought.
Fidelma was sitting frowning at the gaming board.
Conchobhar was winning the gam
e of black raven. It was a difficult game, for the board was divided into forty-nine squares, seven by seven. In the centre of the board, the middle square stood for the royal palace of Tara and held the piece representing the High King. On the squares immediately next to the High King, north, south, east and west were pieces representing the four provincial kings whose task was to protect the High King. On the outside squares at the edge of the board were the attacking pieces representing the forces of chaos, each piece moved on the throw of the dice. The object of the game was to ensure the safety of the High King piece by allowing it to move, through the encircling pieces, to the side of the board or to one of the four squares allotted to the provincial kings.
Usually it was a challenge Fidelma enjoyed, but today her mind was not on the game. She had already lost two defending pieces.
Conchobar, the elderly religieux whose apothecary shop stood in the shadow of the royal chapel in the palace grounds, was regarding her with a concerned expression.
Fidelma caught his eye and shrugged.
‘I am sorry, old friend,’ she said, for she had known him all her life. ‘I cannot concentrate.’
Conchobar regarded her with a sharp eye.
‘It is understandable. It does not need my arts to tell me that. Yet I had hoped the game would be a means of distraction. We will continue another time.’
Fidelma sighed deeply. She had been thinking about Eadulf’s suggestion about astrology and realised that he had simply voiced something in the back of her mind that she was trying to suppress. In her desperation she felt she should try anything within reason.
‘I would use your arts to find my child, Brother Conchobar,’ she said quietly.
The old man shook his head regretfully.
‘You know that is not possible.’
‘But you are the greatest adept in the field of making speculations from the patterns of the stars.’
‘I would not claim as much. Though I did study under Mo Chuaróc mac Neth Sémon, the greatest astrologer that Cashel has ever produced, yet my skill is not beyond criticism.’
‘I have heard that a good réalt-eolach, one who gathers knowledge from the stars, could cast a chart to trace the location of an object. Why not do so for my baby?’
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