‘You do not believe what you are saying, Eadulf. I know you too well to accept that you believe in the dictums of Paul of Tarsus on the obedience of women to men.’
Eadulf’s truculent features suddenly dissolved into an expression of sadness.
‘Fidelma, I am a Saxon, not an Éireannach. I was taught that my ancestors sprang from the loins of Woden, that no one was as great as we were and no other Saxon was as great as those of the South Folk. People trembled at our word. Were we not of the race of Wegdaeg, son of Woden, and of Uffa, who drove the Britons from the land we then took as our own?’
Fidelma gazed at him in astonishment.
She had heard such diatribes from Saxon princelings and warriors about the glories of their people but she had never heard it from the lips of Eadulf before. She did not know how to answer him.
Eadulf gazed at her with an agonised look.
‘What I am trying to say, Fidelma, is that imbued with such spirit I have tried to accept the mantle of charity and brotherhood that is the mark of the Faith. Fursa, a wandering monk of your own race, taught me, when I had scarcely reached manhood. I was not brought up in the Faith but I forsook and forswore the old gods of the South Folk on my twentieth birthday. I was hereditary gerefa, magistrate, of the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham. I have pride, Fidelma. I have self-esteem. I have the vanity of my race. It is sometimes hard for me to find myself here. I am a stranger in a strange land.’
Fidelma felt the bewildered misery in his voice.
‘I thought that you liked this country,’ she said, trying to formulate her thoughts.
‘I do, otherwise I would not have spent so much time here. I came here to learn the canons of the Faith long before I met you. But it is hard to completely turn one’s back on one’s homeland and one’s culture. During this last year, I have especially been reminded of what it is that I miss.’
‘This last year? Since we married? Since we had little Alchú?’
Eadulf gestured helplessly with his arms.
‘You want to return to your own land?’
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
‘I could never live in that country, Eadulf. That is why I tried to keep our relationship at a distance.’
‘I know.’
She hesitated and then took a step towards him.
‘Eadulf…’ she began.
There was a knock on the door and the servant came back with a jug of Gaulish wine and pottery mugs. The moment of intimacy had gone.
‘Do you want me to continue cleaning, lady?’ the woman asked. ‘I had only just come to the chamber when you entered.’
Fidelma shook her head. She was turning aside when her eye was caught by a garment hanging out of a small wooden chest, not properly folded away. The chest stood near Alchú’s cot. She shivered slightly, not wishing to go near it.
‘Just tuck that in before you go,’ she instructed the servant. ‘I do not like to see things left untidy. If you are to clean these chambers, make sure that such things are put away.’
The servant seemed about to speak but then she shrugged and went to carry out the instruction. There was silence until she left the room.
Eadulf was helping himself liberally to the wine. His movements still implied suppressed anger.
Fidelma spoke with a considered calm.
‘Eadulf, we are both in a state of emotional uncertainty. We have a crisis confronting us. There must be peace between us if we are to overcome this matter.’
Eadulf glanced at her. His expression did not change. He shrugged.
‘I cannot continue like this, Fidelma,’ he said simply. ‘When we did not have any formal marriage between us, I did not feel the antipathy that I am now subjected to by the people who surround you. What I cannot stand is the way that your actions and attitude to me now seem to condone the antagonism that is ranged against me.’
Fidelma considered for a while before responding.
‘I cannot change my character, Eadulf. For a long while, as you well know, I refused to make any decision about a resolution of the feelings we had for one another. I knew that, if you settled here in Cashel with me, you would be classed as a foreigner in our law, a landless foreigner with restricted rights. There are decisions that I have to make under our law which you cannot make.’
‘Your law is not my law, Fidelma. There is much we must consider about the future.’
‘Shall it be peace between us until we have regained our son?’ she asked quietly.
Eadulf pursed his lips and thought for a moment.
‘Let it be peace,’ he finally said. ‘As soon as Alchú is returned safely to us and those responsible are discovered, then we shall talk. Absit invidia,’ he added. Let ill will be absent.
Fidelma smiled sadly. ‘Mox nox in rem’ she said solemnly, using the Latin phrase to answer his. Soon night, to the business.
‘What can we do until there is an answer to our request for some proof that the ransom note is genuine?’
‘I have some inquiries to make about a certain green silk cloak, remember?’ Fidelma reminded him. ‘And that I am about to do now.’ Eadulf made a move to join her but she shook her head quickly. This time, I shall have go alone. The matter is … personal.’
Eadulf was worried. ‘Where are you going? I should know if there is danger beyond these walls.’
‘I do not think there is danger for me, Eadulf. Otherwise I would tell you. In this matter, I have to keep my own counsel in case I am making a mistake. But I can assure you of this: I am not going beyond the confines of the township below and I will be back soon.’
Eadulf was reluctant to let it go at that.
‘I swear, Eadulf,’ she went on, ‘as soon as I return, we will eat and I will tell you where my suspicions have taken me.’
Eadulf knew when to accept the inevitable.
Chapter Nine
Fidelma left the palace alone, in spite of the protests of the guards on duty at the gate who wanted to send a warrior with her as escort, in view of the perceived threat from the Uí Fidgente. She rode down the hill into the township below. Dusk was settling across the buildings and a thin mist was just rising, making everything seem gloomy and chill. She made her way across the nearly deserted square. At the far end was the inn on whose door she could see the demand for proof that the abductors had Alchú. It was tacked to the doorpost, illuminated by the lantern light, for every inn, whether in the country or in the town, was required by law to hang a lantern outside during the hours of darkness. She presumed that Cerball had finished his work and that Capa had now set off to get these notices set up as instructed.
The noise of music and laughter came from the inn. It sounded carefree and boisterous. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps she should have let Eadulf know where she was going. She became aware of a group of children outside the inn; two or three older children who she guessed were awaiting one or other of their parents who were inside. They seemed engrossed in some game by the light of the lantern. She made a sudden decision and called to them.
‘Would one of you like to earn a pingín by taking a message up to the palace?’
The tallest child, a boy, looked up at her.
‘Only a pingín?’ he protested. ‘It was worth a screpall last time.’
Fidelma gazed at him in surprised silence for a moment. Then she said: ‘Last time?’
‘You asked me if I would take a message to the palace before, and you promised to pay me a screpall. Last week, it was.’
‘Are you sure it was me?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Well,’ the boy hesitated, head to one side, ‘it was a woman in a fine cloak. Can’t be sure. She was in the shadows by the corner of the inn there.’
‘But you didn’t accept her offer?’
‘I didn’t. I was about to when my dad came out of the inn. That’s where he is now. I had to take him home. Too much corma’
His companions were chuckling but apparently the boy did not mind.
Fidelma experienced a feeling of both excitement and satisfaction. The question that had been irritating her for a while was answered. How was it that the woman had chosen the dwarf to take the message? She had just learnt the answer. It was an accident. The mysterious woman had been waiting to choose someone who would not question her. She had deliberately kept in the shadows so as not to be recognised. She had tried to get this boy to take it and he could not. Then the dwarf had come along.
‘Anyway,’ the boy was still speaking, ‘I’m not running errands for less than you promised before.’
Fidelma did not bother to reply but tossed the youth a little bronze pingín coin. Deep in thought, she let her horse walk on. She was still pensive when she came to a house on the edge of the township. The building stood a little way apart from the others; a medium-sized structure with its own outhouse and barn. Dark had descended now but the warmth of the township kept the rising mist at bay.
A short distance from the house Fidelma came out of her reverie and suddenly reined in her mount. Outside the very house that was her destination, she saw the dark shape of a tethered horse. Even as she was wondering whether to go on, the door opened. A lantern hung over the porch and by its light she recognised the tall, broad-shouldered warrior with black hair. It was Gorman. He stood for a moment holding the hand of the woman who remained on the threshold.
‘Take care of yourself, Gorman,’ came the woman’s voice. ‘Do nothing precipitous.’
The warrior replied in a low voice but Fidelma could not hear the words. Then he bent forward with an intimate embrace before he mounted his horse and was gone into the night. Thankfully he did not come towards the township along the road where Fidelma had halted. After waiting a few moments, she continued on to the house. She slid from her horse and slipped the reins over the post by the door.
Her footsteps creaked on the wooden plank of the porch and at once the door was flung open.
‘Gorman, have you-’
The woman who stood there allowed her voice to fade away as her eyes fell on Fidelma. She suddenly seemed embarrassed.
‘Good evening, Delia.’
A woman of short stature stood framed in the doorway. Her look of dismay quickly changed into a smile of welcome. She was in her forties, yet maturity had not dimmed the youthfulness of her features or the golden abundance of her hair. She was clad in a close-fitting dress that emphasised a good figure whose hips had not broadened and whose limbs were still shapely.
Fidelma took the hands that the older woman held out in greeting to her.
‘Fidelma! It is good to see you.’
‘It has been a long time, Delia,’ Fidelma returned.
The woman looked deeply into Fidelma’s eyes. Her expression was one of deep sympathy.
‘I have heard of your sorrow. Is there any further news of Alchú?’
Fidelma shook her head and Delia stood aside, motioning her to enter the house.
‘Take a seat, lady. There, that seat close by the fire, for the day is chill. A drink? There is corma or I have a sweet drink made from the flowers of trom, the elder tree.’
Fidelma seated herself and opted for a drink of elderflower wine. Delia brought the drink and sat down opposite her.
‘I am sad for you, and also sad that my friend has lost her life in this tragedy.’
Fidelma did not hide her surprise. ‘Your friend?’
‘Sárait.’
‘I did not know that you knew Sárait.’
Delia frowned for a moment. ‘I thought that was why you had come to see me.’
Fidelma shook her head. ‘The reason can wait for a moment. Tell me more about you and Sárait. When did you become friends?’
‘Oh, after her husband was slain … or rather murdered.’
‘So you have heard the rumours about his death at Cnoc Áine? From whom?’
‘From the mouth of Sárait herself.’
‘She knew that he had been murdered?’
‘She would not say much but … well, let me tell you what I know. Sárait was always pleasant to me, even when I was a bé-táide, a prostitute. Her sister, Gobnat, was too prim and proper. She would always ignore me and she still does. But Sárait was a kindly and a friendly soul. Some months after her husband was killed she came to me and she was in a state of anguish. It looked as if she had been beaten.’
Fidelma leaned forward with a frown.
‘You mean that she was physically beaten?’
‘There were bruises on her body. She came to me because she wanted advice from someone who knew the worst as well as the best of a man’s capability.’
‘Did she tell you who had assaulted her?’
‘Alas, she did not. It was someone who was in love with her but she felt repelled by him. She believed that he was the man who had killed her husband, Callada. He was trying to force his attentions on her. Indeed, he had raped her. She had fought back but he was too strong.’
Fidelma sat back with wide eyes.
‘If the man killed her husband at Cnoc Áine, he could only have been a warrior known to Cashel.’
‘She did not say who he was,’ repeated Delia. ‘But the rape was forceful.’
‘Forcor is a heinous crime against a woman.’
There were two types of rape recognised by the law. Forcor was forceful rape using physical violence while sleth covered all other situations. Sleth was especially associated with drunkenness, and sexual intercourse with a woman who was too drunk to consent was regarded as just as serious an offence as forcible rape.
‘She would not tell me the identity of the man but she wanted someone she could talk to without recrimination or condemnation. That was when we became friends and from then on she often used to call here to drink sweet mead and talk. But what is it that I can do for you, lady? You do not visit me often. Is it something you would speak of concerning your child?’
Fidelma felt embarrassment. There was a curious bond between the two women but it was true that Fidelma did not visit often, even though Delia lived no more than ten minutes from the palace of Cashel. Fidelma had once represented Delia when she had been raped, so it did not surprise her that Sarait had sought Delia out when she was in similar straits. Fidelma suddenly found herself thinking of Eadulf ‘s reaction when she had told him the story of Delia. His response had been prompted by the fact that Delia had been a prostitute, a bé-táide, or woman of secrets as it was euphemistically called in the language of the Éireannach. Fidelma had been irritated by Eadulf’s sarcasm at the idea of a prostitute’s being raped. She had snapped at him: ‘Cannot a woman be raped simply because she is a prostitute?’ The laws of the five kingdoms allowed that, even if a woman was a bé-táide, if rape was proved then she could be compensated by half of her honour price. After Fidelma had won the case, Delia had rejected her previous life and was reinstated fully in society, inheriting this little house in Cashel from her father. However, Fidelma knew that many people in the township still treated her with contempt and she had more or less become a recluse in her own home. Fidelma closed her eyes for a moment. She felt a little guilty that she did not visit more often and when she came to Delia’s house it was usually at night and in secret.
‘Can you recall our last meeting?’ Delia prompted suddenly.
‘I can,’ Fidelma confirmed.
The older woman sighed. ‘You were kind in ensuring that I was compensated when my house was smashed by the warriors of Donennach while I was hiding Brother Mochta and the holy relics of Ailbe.’
‘But do you remember what you said as we parted?’
‘That I also remember well. I said that solitude was the best society and a short abstinence from solitude urges the sweet return to it.’
Fidelma nodded, having remembered the words well. ‘And I replied that we are all of us condemned to solitude but some of our sheltering walls are merely our own skins and thus there is no door to exit from solitude into life.’
Delia was regarding her with sympat
hy.
‘You have felt solitude since your baby was stolen?’
Fidelma felt a sudden anguish, like a pain in her stomach. She did her best to disguise it; to ignore it.
‘I need to ask you a question, Delia.’
‘You do not need my permission to ask it.’
‘Then let me remind you of an unpleasant time, for it is necessary to my question. Do you recall when I represented you when you sought compensation-’
‘I remember how you defended me, yes,’ replied Delia shortly.
‘You came to the court wearing a green silk cloak with a hood. It was enriched with red embroidery and fastened by a clasp of bejewelled silver. It was quite beautiful.’
Delia looked at her thoughtfully and nodded.
‘Do you still have that robe?’
Delia hesitated a moment and then bowed her head in affirmation. ‘I have not worn it since I gave up being … gave up being a bé-táide”
‘But you still have it?’
‘I have.’
‘Will you show it to me?’
Again Delia hesitated and then shrugged. She stood up and went to a wooden chest in the corner of the room and bent down to open it. It seemed to be full of clothes and she began to take them out and lay them on the ground. They were rich garments and Fidelma did not have to ask how Delia had accumulated them. They were the memories of her past life.
Suddenly she heard Delia’s sharp intake of breath.
‘What is it?’ she demanded.
‘I don’t know. I think someone has been looking through this chest. One of the dresses is torn, the sewing ripped at the seam. It was not like that when I packed these clothes away.’
‘Which was when?’
‘Just after the case in which you defended me. I have not wanted these garments of my past life since then.’
‘Find the green silk cloak.’
Fidelma’s voice was suddenly harsh. Delia glanced questioningly at her and then bent again to the trunk. When she had turned everything out she sat back on the floor with a puzzled expression.
‘It is not here.’
Fidelma sighed deeply. ‘I rather suspected that it might not be.’
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