‘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 story 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. ‘Sure
ly 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.’
Brother Madagan, seeing Eadulf’s puzzled look, leant forward in agreement.
‘His kingdom is not what we would call Christian. The land is a long peninsula, mountainous and wild, and Slébéne’s capital is so isolated, at the end of the peninsula, that few venture to it. It is said to be an evil place.’
Eadulf smiled wryly. ‘I think I have enough experience dealing with non-Christians to worry little about them. Christian or not, people do not vary one from another simply because of religion. When I was in Rome, I went to see a play called Asinaria. The lesson was that pride and avarice are the causes of man’s evil to man, not religion. Man is a wolf to man.’
Fidelma was bitter.
‘Lupus est homo homini,’ she murmured. ‘Yet the author, Titus Plautus, mistook the main point — wolves do not attack one another. Only man attacks his own kind without cause.’ Then she rose abruptly. ‘Let us see the leader of the pilgrim band, Brother Madagan.’
Apparently the pilgrims from Cashel were, at that moment, praying in the chapel that housed the relics of the Blessed Ailbe. The steward suggested that Fidelma and Eadulf remain in his chambers while he went to fetch their leader, Brother Buite.
Eadulf expressed his surprise. ‘Praying in
the chapel? You don’t mind a poor body afflicted with leprosy wandering freely about the abbey?’
It was Brother Madagan’s turn to look surprised.
‘What makes you think that any of these pilgrims have leprosy?’ he queried.
Fidelma turned sharply to him.
‘Among the band of pilgrims that came from Cashel there was supposed to be one that looked like a misshapen child who rang a leper’s bell. Is he not among this band?’
Brother Madagan shook his head. ‘No such misshapen pilgrim was among them. Certainly no leper came with them. But Brother Buite did say that they had come through Cashel recently.’
Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully and glanced towards Eadulf. Then she shrugged and turned back to Brother Madagan.
‘We will hear what Brother Buite has to tell us.’
Fidelma and Eadulf sat together in silence for a while, Fidelma leaning back in the comfortable wooden chair of the steward while only her tapping fingers, drumming a strange but rhythmic tattoo, showed her agitation. It was the first time they had been entirely alone for some time
‘At some stage, we must talk,’ Eadulf finally said.
Fidelma closed eyes momentarily and Eadulf waited for some outburst.
‘About what?’ Her voice was equally soft.
‘About ourselves. There is much left unsaid.’
She turned round and he was surprised at the sad smile that broke on her features.
‘You are right, Eadulf. Much has been left unsaid between us since we returned from Rath Raithlen. That is my fault. But be patient for a little while longer. At this time, I need your strength. We will speak soon. I promise.’
Eadulf turned his gaze to the fire and fell silent.
Fidelma was grateful for his sensitivity. She felt enough of a sense of guilt already not only because of the missing child but because, for the last several months, she had been questioning her relationship with Eadulf. Since little Alchú had been born she had been in a constant state of depression. It had taken her a long time to agree to become Eadulf’s ben charrthach, his wife for a year and a day. It was one of the nine forms of recognised marital relationship in which the woman’s status and rights were acknowledged under the law of the Cáin Lánamnus.
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