Eadulf felt calmer in spite of his fear and anger as he tried to fathom her meaning.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It was an aphorism of my master, the Brehon Morann of Tara. The things that are obvious are sometimes an illusion and the reality lies hidden behind them.’
She paused and screwed up her eyes, focussing them on something on the ground not so far away.
‘What is it?’ asked Eadulf, wheeling round in the direction in which her gaze became fastened in case some new danger threatened.
The sun’s rays had struck something laying on the gorse several yards away and were reflecting off it.
Fidelma said nothing but made her way towards it, pushing through the stubby gorse before bending down and coming up with the object in her hand.
Eadulf could hear her inward gasp of breath.
He moved quickly to her side to stare down at what she held.
‘A warrior’s torc,’ she observed unnecessarily. Eadulf knew enough to recognise the golden collar which was once widely worn by the elite champions of the Irish and the Britons as well, even among the Gauls of more ancient times. The collar was nearly eight inches in diameter consisting of eight twisted wires soldered into cast terminals. There were intricate lines of beading, cast dots and tiny punch marks in concentric circles. It was a workof burnished gold, the polish of the metal work showing that the torc had not been discarded long.
Fidelma examined the markings thoroughly and then handed the torc over to Eadulf.
He was surprised by the lightness of the object, thinking at first that it was made of solid gold. However, the terminals were hollow and the twisted strands weighed very little.
‘Is there a connection?’ he asked, inclining his head towards the bodies beyond.
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’
Fidelma took the torc back from his hands and placed it carefully in her marsupium, the satchel which hung at her waist.
‘Whether there is or not, one thing is certain; it had not lain here long for it is too bright and newly polished. A second thing is certain: it belonged to a warrior of some quality.’
‘A warrior of Muman?’
She shook her head negatively.
‘There is a subtle difference in the designs used by the artists of Muman and those of other kingdoms,’ she explained. ‘I would say this torc was crafted among the men of Ulaidh, somewhere in the north.’
She was about to turn away from the spot when she appeared to notice something else. A grim look of satisfaction crossed her features.
‘Here is proof of your assertion, Eadulf,’ she announced, pointing.
He moved across to examine the ground. There was a muddy patch in an otherwise stony landscape from which the gorse grew irregularly. He could see that this area was criss-crossed with ruts.
‘This shows that the bodies were brought here on wagons. See the deeper ruts? Also the ones that are not so deep? The deeper ruts indicate the heavily loaded wagons and those that are not deep show them after the bodies were offloaded.’
She stared at the markings and walked along them for a short distance. Then she halted reluctantly.
‘We cannot follow them now. Our first priority is to complete our journey to Gleann Geis.’ She stared in the direction the tracks led. ‘The tracks seem to come from the north, they are difficult to follow over the stony ground. I would say that they came from beyond those hills.’
She extended her arm to indicate where she meant. For a moment she stood undecided before turning to survey the ever-growinghorde of impatiently chattering crows and ravens with distaste.
‘Well, there is little enough we can do for these poor devils. We do not have the time, nor strength, nor tools to afford them a proper burial. But perhaps God created scavengers for just such a purpose.’
‘At least we should say prayers for the dead, Fidelma,’ Eadulf protested.
‘Say your prayer, Eadulf, and I will add my amen to it. But we should leave as soon as we may.’
Sometimes Eadulf felt that Fidelma took the religious part of her life less seriously than she took her duties as an advocate of the law. He gave her a disapproving glance before he turned and blessed the circle of bodies before him and began to intone in Saxon:
‘Dust, earth and ashes is our strength,
Our glory frail and vain;
From earth we come, to earth at length
We must return again.
When in life we feed on flesh of beasts,
of fowls and divers fish;
But in death for crawling worms
Ourselves become a dish.’
Suddenly, two large crows, more courageous than their fellows, rose in the air and then fell on one of the bodies, sinking their claws into the pale flesh. Eadulf swallowed, left aside his verseful prayer and muttered a quick blessing for the repose of the souls of the young men before backing hurriedly away.
Fidelma had untied their mounts from the bush where Eadulf had left them and was now holding the fretful horses. The animals were unnerved not only by the stench of corruption but by the ravenous chorusing of the birds as they set to. He mounted as she did and they began to ride away.
‘As soon as we are able, I want to return to this spot and follow those tracks to see if we may learn something further,’ she announced, glancing over her shoulder to the distant hills.
Eadulf shuddered.
‘Is that wise?’
Fidelma pouted.
‘Wisdom has little to do with it.’ Then she smiled. ‘By my reckoning, we are only a short ride away from Gleann Geis. It lies beyond these next hills, westward there across this valley. We willsee what Laisre has to say. If he maintains that he knows nothing then we can swiftly conclude our business there, return and follow these tracks.’
‘It might rain soon and wash them away,’ Eadulf said automatically and perhaps with a little hope in his voice.
Fidelma glanced at the sky.
‘It will not rain between now and the day after tomorrow,’ she said confidently. ‘With luck it may remain dry for some days.’
Eadulf had long since given up asking how she could foretell the weather. She had explained many times about observing patterns in plants and clouds but it was beyond his understanding. He now simply accepted that she was invariably correct. He glanced back to the gorging ravens and shuddered visibly.
Fidelma, noticing his look of repulsion, said: ‘Be philosophical, my brother in Christ. Are not ravens and crows part of the great Creation and do not those scavengers have a part ordained by the Creator?’
Eadulf was unconvinced.
‘They are the creations of Satan. None other.’
‘How so?’ demanded Fidelma lightly. ‘Do you question the teachings of your own Faith?’
Eadulf frowned, not understanding.
‘Genesis,’ quoted Fidelma. ‘“God then created the great sea-monsters and all living creatures that move and swim in the waters, according to their kind, and every kind of bird; and God saw that it was good. He blessed them and said, ‘Be fruitful and increase, fill the waters of the seas; and let the birds increase on land.’”’ Fidelma paused and pulled a face. ‘“And every kind of bird,”’ she repeated with emphasis. ‘Genesis does not say, every kind of bird except the carrion.’
Eadulf shook his head, unwilling to accept her quotation.
‘Who am I to question the Creation? But God gave us free will and in that he allowed me to express my repugnance for such creatures.’
Fidelma could not help a mocking grimace. If she were truthful, she would have to admit that she enjoyed her exchanges on the Faith with Eadulf.
They had left the vast black mass of croaking scavengers, which now carpeted the ground, well behind them, increasing the pace of their horses.
‘What do you propose to do when we meet with this Laisre?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘I mean about these corpses? Do you intend to demand his explanation of them?’
‘You soun
d as though you presume him guilty.’
‘It seems a logical assumption.’
‘Assumptions are not facts.’
‘Then what do you intend to do?’
‘Do?’ She frowned for a moment. ‘Why, follow my brother’s advice. Beware what I say, when and to whom!’
Chapter Four
They had barely ridden a mile across the valley when they heard the sound of approaching horses. Immediately before them was an entrance to what appeared to be a ravine, opening between two granite heights and through which the track they were taking disappeared. It was from this direction that the sound of the horses could clearly be heard.
Eadulf, nervous and still sickened by the sight he had witnessed, began to look around immediately for some cover. There was none.
Fidelma halted her horse and sat at ease, merely awaiting the appearance of the riders, and curtly ordered him to do likewise.
A moment or so later, a column of about a score of warriors burst out of the gorge on to the plain just in front of them. Their leader, a slender figure, saw them at once and, without faltering, led the column at a breathless pace to within a yard or so of them. Then, as if at some given signal not obvious even to the discerning eye, the band of horses halted in a cloud of dust with a sound of snorting breath and an occasional whinny of protest.
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she examined the leader of the band of horsemen. The rider was a slightly built woman of about thirty years. Dark hair, almost the colour of jet, tumbled in a mass of curls from her shoulders. A thin band of twisted silver around her forehead kept it in some semblance of order. She wore a cloak and carried a long scabbard with a workman-like sword and an ornate knife on her right side. The woman’s face was slightly rounded, almost heart-shaped and not unattractive. The lips full and red. The skin pale. The eyes were dark, flashing with challenge.
‘Strangers!’ Her voice was harsh and seemed at odds with her appearance. ‘And Christians at that. I know you from your attire. Know that you are not welcome in this place!’
Fidelma’s mouth was a thin line at the discourtesy of this greeting.
‘The king of this land would be displeased to know that I am not welcome here,’ she replied softly.
Only Eadulf could recognise the quiet tone which bespoke her suppressed anger.
The dark-haired woman frowned slightly.
‘I think not, woman of the god Christ. You are speaking to his sister.’
Fidelma simply raised an eyebrow in cynical query.
‘You claim to be the sister of the king of this land?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘I am Orla, sister to Laisre, who rules this land.’
‘Ah.’ Fidelma realised that the woman had placed a different interpretation on what was meant by king. ‘I do not speak of Laisre, chieftain of Gleann Geis; I speak of the king of Cashel to whom Laisre must bend his knee.’
‘Cashel is a long way from here,’ shot back the woman in annoyance.
‘But Cashel’s reach is sure and firm and it extends justice into all the far corners of the kingdom.’
Fidelma spoke with such assured firmness that Orla’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. She appeared to be unused to being answered with confidence and as an equal.
‘Who are you, woman, who rides so unconcerned into the land of Laisre?’ Her dark eyes flashed in dislike at Eadulf, who sat quietly behind her. ‘And who are you who dares to bring a foreign cleric into this land?’
A burly warrior from the column of horsemen edged his mount forward. He was an ugly looking man, with a bushy black beard and a scar above one eye, the mark of an old wound.
‘Lady, no need to ask more of these people who wear the emasculate robes of their alien religion. Let them be gone or let me drive them forth.’
The woman, Orla, gave the warrior a glance of irritation.
‘When I need advice, Artgal, I shall consult you.’ And with this dismissal, she turned back to Fidelma. There was no change of expression on her hostile features. ‘Speak, woman, and tell me who dares lecture the sister of the chieftain of Gleann Geis on the duties of her brother.’
‘I am Fidelma … Fidelma of Cashel.’
Whether by design or accident, Fidelma made a slight movement in her saddle at which the cross of the Golden Chain, hidden in the folds of her clothing, slipped out and the sunlight struck it momentarily causing the dark eyes of Orla to glimpse it. They widened perceptibly as she recognised it for what it was.
‘Fidelma of Cashel?’ Orla repeated in a hesitant tone. ‘Fidelma, sister of Colgú, king of Muman?’
Fidelma did not bother to answer the question but assumed that Orla knew the answer already.
‘Your brother, Laisre, is expecting my embassy from Cashel,’ she went on, as if disinterested in the reaction she had provoked. She reached behind her into her saddle bags and drew out the white wand with the golden stag atop it, the symbol of her embassy from the king of Cashel.
There was a silent pause as Orla stared as if mesmerised by it.
‘Do you accept the white wand or do you choose the sword?’ Fidelma demanded with a hint of a smile on her features. Envoys going into a hostile land presented either the wand or the sword as a symbolic challenge to peace or war.
‘My brother is expecting a representative of Cashel,’ Orla admitted slowly, raising her eyes from the wand to Fidelma’s face, her expression unsure. There was an unwilling note of respect in her voice now. ‘But that representative is one who should be qualified to negotiate with Laisre on ecclesiastical matters. Someone qualified to …’
Fidelma suppressed an impatient sigh.
‘I am an advocate of the Brehon Courts, qualified to the degree of anruth. I am the negotiator whom he is expecting and I speak in the stead of my brother, Colgú, his king.’
Orla failed to disguise her surprise. The qualification of anruth was only one degree below the highest that the ecclesiastical and secular colleges of Ireland could bestow. Fidelma could walk and talk with kings, even the High King, let alone petty chieftains.
The dark-haired woman swallowed hard and, while she was undoubtedly impressed, her features remained harsh and unfriendly.
‘As representative of Laisre of Gleann Geis, I bid you welcome, techtaire.’ It took Eadulf some moments to recognise the ancient word for an envoy. Orla continued: ‘But as representative of the new religion of Christ, I say that you are not welcome in this place. Nor is the foreigner whom you bring with you.’
Fidelma leant forward, her voice sharp and clear.
‘Does that imply a threat? Are the sacred laws of hospitality abrogated in the land of Laisre? Is it the sword you accept instead of this?’
She held up the white wand again, thrusting it forward almost aggressively towards Orla. The sun sparkled brightly on the gold figure of the stag.
Orla’s cheeks coloured and she raised her chin defiantly.
‘I imply no threat to your life. Nor even his life.’ She jerked her head towards Eadulf. ‘No harm will come to you nor to the foreigner while you extend your protection to him. We are not barbarians in Gleann Geis. Envoys, under law, are regarded as sacred and inviolable and are treated with utmost respect even though they be our bitterest enemies.’
Eadulf moved uneasily for there was still a deadly serious threat behind what she was saying.
‘That is good to know, Orla,’ Fidelma replied easily, relaxing and replacing the wand in her saddle bag. ‘For I have seen what happens to people to whom such immunity from death is not given.’
Eadulf’s jaw slackened and he felt a sudden panic. If Orla and her warriors were responsible for the deaths of the young men across the valley then Fidelma, in admitting knowledge of the corpses, was putting their lives in considerable danger. He had thought she was going to be circumspect about the gruesome find. Then he suddenly became aware of the distant squawking of the birds of prey and he glanced anxiously over his shoulder. It was obvious that something was amiss across the glen
in the direction where the corpses lay and the warriors of Orla’s bodyguard must surely have spotted the ravening carrion birds anyway.
Yet Orla was regarding Fidelma with some bewilderment. She had apparently not taken in the swirling cloud of distant ravens.
‘I have no understanding of your meaning.’
Fidelma indicated across the valley with one arm in a careless gesture.
‘Can you see the black of the battle ravens there? They feed on corpses.’
‘Corpses?’ Orla jerked her gaze up, apparently seeing the birds for the first time.
‘Thirty-three young men who have suffered The Threefold Death.’
Orla’s jaw suddenly clenched; her face was white as she brought her gaze back to Fidelma. It took her a moment or two to frame an answer.
‘Is this some jest?’ she demanded coldly.
‘I do not jest.’
Orla turned to the black-bearded warrior whom she had previously rebuked for his interruption.
‘Artgal, take half of our men and see what this evil gathering means.’
Artgal was glowering with suspicion.
‘It may be some Christian trap, lady.’
The woman’s eyes flashed angrily.
‘Do as I say!’ The voice was like a whiplash.
Without another word, the warrior, Artgal, signalled a section of the mounted warriors to follow him and he rode off in the direction where the distant birds were circling and diving.
‘The Threefold Death, you claim?’ the woman almost whispered after he had gone. ‘Are you sure this was the manner of death, Fidelma of Cashel?’
‘I am sure. But your man, Artgal, will confirm what I say on his return.’
‘The blame for this is not to be laid on the people of Laisre,’ the woman protested. There was a curious expression on her features as if she was trying to overcome her fear. ‘We know nothing of this matter.’
‘How can you be so sure that you speak for all the people of Laisre?’ asked Fidelma ingenuously.
‘I am sure. I speak not only for my brother but as wife of his tanist, the heir-elect, Colla. You have my word.’
Valley of the Shadow sf-6 Page 4