‘A great evil has been committed in this valley, Orla. I am charged by my oath to discover the cause of it and who is responsible. That I mean to do.’
‘But you will not find the answer in Gleann Geis,’ replied Orla sullenly.
‘Yet it is to Gleann Geis that we are now proceeding,’ Fidelma said with confidence. ‘The sooner we get there the better. So my companion and I will leave you to await the return of your warriors and continue on.’ She looked towards Eadulf and gave a brief motion of her head, as if indicating him to follow, and, without another word, she nudged her horse forward, passing Orla and the remaining mounted warriors. After but a moment or so’s delay, Eadulf followed. The warriors were staring in some bewilderment at Orla who sat still, doing nothing to impede their progress.
Confidently, Fidelma walked her horse into the mouth of the gorge where the pathway became stony, indicating it had once been the bed of a flowing stream. How long it had been dried up was difficult to tell; perhaps for centuries. It twisted and turned with precipitous granite walls rising over a hundred feet on either side almost cutting out the light. They were in a semi-gloom from the moment they entered the passage. From an entrance of perhaps ten yards’ width, the gorge narrowed until there was only room for two horses to move comfortably abreast.
It was only after they had ridden some way that Eadulf decided to break the silence.
‘Do you …?’ he began but stopped suddenly as his voice boomed back in resounding echo against the walls of the narrow defile. He paused a moment and then lowered his voice to a whisper but even the whisper sounded like sepulchral echo. ‘Do you think that the woman, Orla, and her warriors killed those young men?’
Fidelma contrived to shrug without articulating a reply. Her face was set and stern.
‘The surprise on Orla’s face seemed genuine enough,’ Eadulf went on doggedly.
‘Nevertheless, had I not been who I am, I doubt that we would be proceeding with our journey. Orla and her warriors seem to have little liking for those of our Faith.’
Eadulf shivered and raised a hand to cross himself then caught himself and dropped it to his side. Habit caused action to lose meaning.
‘I did not know such heathen areas existed in this land. There is much to fear here.’
‘Fear is self-destructive, Eadulf. And you should not fear someone because they do not share your belief,’ chided Fidelma.
‘If they are prepared to use the sword against those whose belief is not their own — yes, there is much to fear,’ Eadulf replied, almost hotly. ‘We have doubtless seen some grotesque ritual sacrifice back there in the valley, perpetrated by these pagans. I fear for our safety.’
‘Fear is not required. But caution is the watchword. Remember what Aeschylus said — excessive fear always makes men powerless to act? So rid yourself of any fear and apply watchfulness and caution and by this means we will discover what is the truth.’
Eadulf sniffed disdainfully.
‘Perhaps fear is a means of protection,’ he protested, ‘because fear makes us cautious.’
‘Fear never makes anything virtuous. I give you an aphorism of Pubilius Syrus — what we fear comes to pass more speedily than what we hope. If you fear in this place, your fear will create that unnameable thing you fear. You have nothing to fear but fear itself. There is nothing to fear here but the evil deeds of men and women and we have stood up to evil men and women before and been victorious. So let it be now.’
She broke off, holding her head to one side.
They became aware of the sound of a horse behind them moving rapidly through the gorge.
‘They are coming after us,’ hissed Eadulf, turning in his saddle, but the ravine twisted and turned so much there would be nothing to see until the rider was almost upon them.
Fidelma shook her head.
‘They? See what fear does to judgment? It is only one horse coming along behind us and that undoubtedly belongs to Orla.’
Eadulf had barely opened his mouth to reply when the dark-haired woman came abruptly round a corner of the granite rock, saw them and halted her horse.
‘I could not let you enter Gleann Geis without the courtesy of an escort. I have left my men to deal with …’ She hesitated and made a gesture with her hand as if it would describe the horrendous scene of the dead bodies on the plain behind. ‘Artgal will report anything he may find which can help to solve the riddle of this slaughter. I shall accompany you to my brother’s ráth.’
Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgment.
‘We appreciate your courtesy, Orla.’
The dark-haired woman edged her horse forward into the lead and they proceeded at a walking pace.
Fidelma opened the conversation again.
‘I am led to understand that you disagree with your brother, Laisre, that the Faith should be recognised in this land?’
Orla smiled sourly.
‘My brother has accepted that the word of your Faith is strong in the five kingdoms. There is scarcely a petty kingdom or chief who disputes the message of this foreign god. Laisre is chieftain but we may not all agree with his action.’
Eadulf went to say something but ended up in a fit of coughing as he caught Fidelma’s warning eye.
‘So? You feel that the Christ is an alien god and not the one god of all the world?’ mused Fidelma.
‘We have our own gods who have served us since the beginning of time. Why abandon them now, especially in favour of one who is borne to this country on the tongues of Romans and Roman slaves who could never conquer us in warfare but now conquer us with their god?’
‘A unique way of looking at things,’ remarked Fidelma. ‘But you forget that our people have accepted a god of the east as the universal god but we worship him in our own way, not in the ways dictated by Rome.’
Orla pursed her lips cynically.
‘That is not what I hear. There are those of your Faith who, as you rightly say, refuse to accept the dictates of Rome but many otherswho do. Ultan of Armagh, for example, who says he has authority throughout the five kingdoms and sends his representatives to all the corners of this land, demanding allegiance.’
A frown passed Fidelma’s brow so quickly that it might not have been noticed.
‘Have you received such envoys from Ultan?’
‘We have,’ Orla admitted unabashed. ‘This same Ultan who calls himself the Comarb, the successor of Patrick, who brought the Faith of Christ to this land. This same Ultan who claims that all dues of the new Faith should be his.’
Fidelma felt obliged to point out that the scribes of the abbey at Imleach disputed Patrick’s claims to be the first to have brought the Faith to Éireann and especially Muman. Had not Muman been converted by the Blessed Ailbe, son of Olcnais, who served in the house of a king? Had not Ailbe befriended and encouraged Patrick? Had it not been Patrick and Ailbe, working together, who had converted Oengus Mac Nad Froich, king of Cashel, to the Faith? And it was Patrick who agreed that the royal city of Cashel should be the seat of Ailbe’s church in Muman. All this came tripping to her tongue, but she remained silent. Much could also be learnt through silence.
‘I have no liking for your Faith or those who propound it,’ confessed Orla honestly. ‘Your Patrick converted the people by fear.’
‘How so?’ asked Fidelma keeping her voice calm.
Orla thrust out her chin, the better to make her point.
‘We may live in a remote part of the world, but we have bards and scribes who have recounted the stories of how your Faith was spread. We know that Patrick went to Tara where he caused the Druid Luchet Mael to be burnt in a pyre and when the High King, Laoghaire, protested, Patrick brought about the death of others who refused to accept the new Faith. Even the High King Laoghaire was told that he would die on the spot unless he accepted the new Faith. Didn’t Laoghaire summon his council and tell them: “It is better for me to believe than to die” — is this a logical way to win people to a Faith?’
> ‘If what you say is the truth then it is not a logical way,’ Fidelma agreed quietly, though with a slight emphasis on the word ‘if’.
‘Do members of your Faith lie, Fidelma of Cashel?’ the woman sneered. ‘Ultan of Armagh sent my brother a gift of a book, Life of Patrick, written by one who knew him, one called Muirchú, and in which these truths are recorded. Not only that but we are told that Patrick journeyed to the fortress of Míliucc of Slemish, where he had lived before running away to Gaul and converting to thenew Faith. Hearing Patrick was nearing his fortress, so fearful of this Patrick was the chieftain, that he gathered all his valuables and his household, his wife and children, and he shut himself in his ráth and set fire to it. What fear could a man stir in another to make him end his life so horribly? Do you deny that this is so recorded?’
Fidelma sighed softly.
‘I know it is so recorded,’ she admitted.
‘And as it was written, so was it done?’
‘We are told to believe the word of Muirchú, but it was the chieftain’s decision to end his life rather than believe and serve the eternal God.’
‘Under the ancient laws, we are told that what we believe is a matter for our conscience only. Belief is our choice so long as what we believe does not harm others. Your Patrick’s conversion of the five kingdoms was through a presentation of a single choice — believe or die by his hand.’
‘By the hand of God!’ snapped Eadulf, finally no longer containing his silence.
Orla raised her eyebrows and turned in her saddle.
‘So? The foreigner speaks our language. I had begun to think that you did not or else that you were dumb. What land do you come from?’
‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk.’
‘And where is that?’
‘It is one of the Saxon kingdoms,’ explained Fidelma.
‘Ah, I have heard of the Saxons. Yet you speak our language well.’
‘I have studied in this land some years.’
‘Brother Eadulf is under the protection of the hospitality of my brother Colgú of Cashel,’ interposed Fidelma. ‘He is an envoy from the archbishop of Canterbury in the land of the Saxons.’
‘I see. And the good Saxon brother disputes my understanding of Muirchú’s account of Patrick’s life?’
‘Some things may not be taken so literally.’ Eadulf felt moved to make a defence.
‘The book is not true then?’
Fidelma groaned softly as Eadulf reddened in annoyance.
‘It is true, but …’
‘How can it be true and yet not to be taken literally?’ smiled Orla icily. ‘There is some necromancy here, surely?’
‘Some things are symbolic, meaning to impress the concept by means of stating a myth.’
‘So none of the people Patrick is said to have killed were actually killed?’
‘That is not what …’
Fidelma interrupted.
‘We are coming to the end of the gorge,’ she announced thankfully as she saw that the ravine was widening into a broad valley. ‘Is this Gleann Geis?’
‘It is the Forbidden Valley,’ confirmed Orla, turning away from Eadulf and gazing up at the cliff above them. She suddenly issued a shrill whistling sound like a bird cry. At once, a deeper answering cry sounded. The figure of a sentinel appeared high above them, gazing down. It was then that Fidelma realised this passage into Gleann Geis was well protected for no one could move in or out without the consent of those who controlled this narrow pass.
Chapter Five
Gleann Geis was spectacular. The floor of the valley was a level plain through which a fair-sized river pushed its sedate way, apparently rising at the far end from a turbulent mountain stream, cascading over precipitous waterfalls that dropped for incredible distances. Then it raced its way into another fissure, much like the dried-up gorge through which they had made their entrance. It passed through the gap in the granite barrier on its journey out of the glen. The valley floor was covered mainly in cereal and grain fields, cultivated yellowing squares of corn and wheat, set among swathes of grazing land on which cattle herds stood out as bright groups of brown, white and black against the green carpet. A few small white flocks of sheep and goats were dotted among them.
It occurred to Eadulf immediately that here was a fruitful valley; rich with pastoral land as well as cultivated areas. It was surrounded by a natural fortification. The walls of the encircling mountains stretched away with their lofty, unscalable heights which sheltered the valley from the winds. He was able to pick out buildings which seemed to cling to the sides of the mountains. Most of them appeared to be erected on little terraces. The same blue-grey granite blocks that were used in the walls of the buildings were also used in the barriers which created the terraces.
There was no need to ask which of the several buildings in the glen was the ráth of Laisre. Towards the head of the valley, in splendid isolation and set upon a single large mound of a hill, were the walls of a large ráth, or fortress, its bulwarks following the contours of the hill. Eadulf was unsure whether the hill, perhaps hillock was a better description for it rose less than a hundred feet from the valley floor, or so he estimated, was a natural phenomenon or not. Eadulf knew that some of the heights on which such fortresses were built were man-made and he wondered at the incredible time and labour of ancient times involved in producing such an elevation. They were too far away to see the detail but he knew that the great walls must stand twenty feet high.
It was an impressive valley — yes; but even with its width andits length, Eadulf felt an overwhelming claustrophobia as he gazed upwards at the surrounding mountains. He had a feeling of being shut in, of being imprisoned. He glanced at Fidelma and found that she, too, had been intently examining the breath-taking landscape and there was the same degree of awe on her features.
Orla had been watching their expressions as they surveyed their surroundings with a faintly scornful smile of satisfaction on her lips.
‘You may now understand why this is called the Forbidden Valley,’ she observed.
Fidelma regarded her gravely.
‘Inaccessible — yes,’ she agreed, ‘but why forbidden?’
‘The bards of our people sing of the time beyond time. It was in the days when Oillil Olum was said to have sat in judgment at Cashel and when we dwelt outside the boundaries of this place. We dwelt in the shadow of a mighty Fomorii lord who devastated our lands and our peoples by his greed and lust. Eventually our chieftain decided to move our people away from the reach of the Fomorii tyrant, seeking a new land to settle in. So it was we eventually came to this place. It was, as you see, a natural fortification against the enemies of our people. There is only one path into it and the same path out …’
‘Except the river,’ Eadulf pointed out.
The woman laughed.
‘Only if you are a salmon can you hope to enter the valley that way. The river cuts through the rock and over many rapids and waterfalls. No boat can get up or down. No, this is a natural fortress and only those we invite in may enter. To those we do not wish to greet in friendship, it remains the Forbidden Valley. A few sturdy warriors may hold the gorge, as you have seen.’
‘I also see that you have an abundance of warriors, unusual in a small clan,’ observed Fidelma.
Orla was deprecating.
‘None are professional such as those that you have at Cashel. Our clan is too small. Each of our warriors has other tasks to fulfil. Artgal, for example, is a blacksmith and has a small farm. Each man, in turn, serves when needed to ensure our safety against potential enemies. Though, for the most part, we are secured by nature’s decree.’
‘An enclosed form of life,’ Eadulf sighed. ‘How many dwell under the rule of Laisre?’
‘Five hundred,’ Orla admitted.
‘It occurs to me that if you have lived here for generations, surely it restricts your growth as a people?’
Orla frowned trying t
o understand Eadulf’s oblique point.
‘What my brother in Christ is saying,’ intervened Fidelma, conscious of his line of thought, ‘concerns the matter of incestuous marriage.’
Orla looked surprised.
‘But incest is forbidden by law.’
‘Surely in a small community, locked within this valley for years …’ Eadulf began to explain.
Orla understood and stared at him in disapproval.
‘The Cáin Lánamna states that there can only be nine types of marriage and this we adhere to. We are not as primitive as you would paint us, Saxon. Our bards keep strict genealogies and we have the services of a matchmaker who travels on our behalf.’
‘Who administers the law among you?’ interrupted Fidelma intrigued.
‘My brother’s Druid, Murgal. He is our Brehon as well as spiritual guide. His reputation is without equal in this part of the country. You will soon encounter him for he will negotiate for Laisre. But we delay, let us proceed to my brother’s ráth.’
Fidelma glanced surreptitiously at the woman. She began to respect Orla’s firmness of mind and easy authority, although she disagreed with her philosophy.
The road they were taking led from the gorge slightly downhill to a large sprawl of granite boulders. From their midst, standing by the roadside, there arose a large carved statue of a male figure, almost three times as big as a man. It was sitting cross-legged, one leg slightly tucked under the body. From its head great antler horns rose up. Around the neck, was a hero’s gold torc. The arms were held up so that the hands were on a level with each shoulder. In the left hand, a second hero’s torc was grasped while in the right hand a long snake was held, the hand gripping the serpent just behind the head.
Eadulf’s eyes almost started from their sockets as he viewed the great pagan idol.
‘Soli Deo gloria!’ he gasped. ‘What is that?’
Fidelma was unperturbed.
‘It is Lugh Lamhfada — Lugh of the Long Hand — who was worshipped in ancient times …’
Valley of the Shadow sf-6 Page 5