‘So he might not have been a religieux?’
Brother Conchobhar sighed. ‘One cannot be certain either way. Like the girl, he bore the signs of being clad in poor homespun.’
‘And there is little else that you can tell me about him?’
‘Only that he was a young man, probably quite handsome before the disfigurement of death, with fair hair although it had become tangled and dirty.’
‘What of the clothing they were both wearing? You say they wore simple homespun.’
Brother Conchobhar pointed to the pile of clothing in a corner. ‘There it is. You may examine it for yourself. It could even be the robes worn by a religious community. I found nothing that would give a clue to origin or identity.’
Fidelma turned over the garments but found nothing of particular interest. They were just rough items with linen undergarments of plain quality. Even the leather sandals that both had worn were shoddy. There were no brooches on the female apart from the coin-like piece of metal on the hemp bracelet, and no belt or belt bag on the male. Nothing to identify either victim.
‘There is just the piece of parchment that Eadulf found in the girl’s sandal,’ Brother Conchobhar concluded.
When Eadulf had shown it to her, Fidelma had suggested that he take it to the old physician. Although she had knowledge of the ancient alphabet, and the archaic form of the language which it represented, she had wanted to double-check the meaning with her former teacher, for he had a perfect understanding of it and, what was more important, could recognise any quotations that she might overlook. ‘Did you have a chance to look at it?’ she asked now. ‘I could only make out some name when he showed it to me.’
Brother Conchobhar opened the drawer where he had placed it for safekeeping, and took out the little piece of parchment.
‘It was a simple name in Ogham and a location,’ he said.
‘I read it as Cloch Ór – “Stone of Gold of the graveyard”,’ she said.
‘Ah, but the formation is difficult. I would read it as “Golden Stone is at the graveyard of …” But I can’t make out the name.’
Fidelma peered at it: she had missed that part of the interpretation. ‘It sounds as if it is something set up in a graveyard,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘A stone of gold?’
‘Have you never heard of the Cloch Ór – the Golden Stone?’ Brother Conchobhar stared at her in surprise.
‘I don’t think so. Nothing comes immediately to mind. Why? Am I missing something?’
Brother Conchobhar pursed his lips for a moment and then smiled. ‘No reason why you should have heard of it. It’s just an old legend. It goes back to the days of the Old Faith, to the time of the Druids.’
‘And what is it?’
‘It is – or was supposed to be – a sacred stone, encrusted in gold, that stood in some ancient pagan sanctuary.’
‘Does it still exist, this Cloch Ór? And which graveyard is it in?’
‘I can tell you!’ exclaimed a voice. They swung round in surprise, to see the housekeeper of the palace, Dar Luga. The plump-faced, elderly woman stood on the threshold of the room, trying to avoid looking at the shrouded corpse on the table.
‘What are you doing here, Dar Luga?’ Brother Conchobhar demanded, rather sharply.
‘The kitchen has run out of carlann and I wanted to prepare some lamb, so I came to ask if you had any that you could spare.’
‘Yes, there is some water-mint in there,’ he said, motioning her into the next room where he kept his herbs and spices. He ushered both women into the main apothecary, pausing to shut the door behind him. Then he turned to his array of shelves to locate the mint.
Meanwhile, Fidelma was gazing with interest at Dar Luga.
‘You said that you knew where this Cloch Ór was,’ she prompted her.
Dar Luga smiled. ‘Well, not exactly. What I meant was that it was an ancient story.’
‘And one that I hope you will share with me,’ Fidelma said, smiling back at her.
‘Of course, lady. Brother Conchobhar has the right of it. It was an ancient, gold-covered stone, venerated by those who refused to follow the New Faith. It belonged to Mogh Ruith, the Slave of the Wheel, who became a god – one of the sons of An Lair Derg.’
‘The Red Mare?’ It was a euphemism for the sun. ‘You mean that he was a Sun God in the time before the New Faith? I was taught, as a child, that he was supposed to be a blind Druid who dwelled in this kingdom centuries ago.’
Dar Luga nodded slowly. ‘There are many stories about him, lady. But the country-folk in the west still believe that he became one of the immortals. If you angered him, he grew to enormous size so that his very breath could create a storm, hurling men, women and children, and all manner of animals, from one end of the land to another, and causing rivers to flood. Those who saw him in anger did not live long.’
‘But long enough to recount his amazing powers?’ commented Fidelma with some irony.
Dar Luga was not deterred and went on solemnly: ‘He wore a hornless bull hide and his face was obscured by a great bird mask, the mask of a raven. His shield was silver-rimmed and studded with golden stars. And he was so massive he carried this golden pillar stone on his shoulder; he could cast it into rivers or lakes, whereupon it turned into a giant poisonous eel and swallowed his enemies.’
‘Not a very nice person to argue with.’ Fidelma could not disguise the amusement in her tone.
Dar Luga realised that she was not being taken seriously and sniffed in annoyance. ‘I’ll take my water-mint now, Brother Conchobhar,’ she said in a prim voice.
At once Fidelma felt contrite and reached out a hand to touch her arm.
‘It is a great tale, and one I have not heard before. I am sorry if I seemed to be making sport of your storytelling. But you said you knew where this magical stone was.’
Dar Luga gave Fidelma a reproachful look.
‘They said that Mogh Ruith dwelled on Dairbhre, the Place of Oaks, which is also called Bhéil Inse, the Island by the River Mouth. It is in the country of the Uibh Ráthach.’
Fidelma frowned as she tried to locate the area. It was Brother Conchobhar who explained: ‘That is at the end of the great western peninsula; beyond the territory of the Eóganacht of Locha Léin.’
‘Indeed that is so, lady,’ confirmed Dar Luga, taking the mint from Brother Conchobhar and, with a quick nod of thanks in his direction, she left the apothecary.
Fidelma paused for a moment and then turned back to the old apothecary and said, ‘I’ve heard of Mogh Ruith, of course, but never knew that he had been transformed into a god.’
‘The land of the Uibh Ráthach is a wild and desolate place. It is beyond the great western mountains,’ the old apothecary observed. ‘In such places tales are told at night that grow into legends, and legends eventually become more certain than history.’
‘The closest I’ve been to the end of that peninsula was to see it from across the sea,’ Fidelma said. ‘I once journeyed to the monastery on Scelig Mhichil, to the south of it.’
‘Dairbhre is even obscured from there as it is on the northern side of the peninsula.’
‘Is this gold stone worth pursuing?’ she wanted to know. ‘I am just wondering why the girl had that reference to it.’
Brother Conchobhar shrugged. ‘I think Mogh Ruith was real enough, if we accept the ancient chronicles. According to them, your own ancestor, the King Fiachu Muillethan, called on him for advice when the High King Cormac Mac Airt unjustly marched his army into this kingdom to exact tribute. When Cormac was defeated, Fiachu Muillethan gave Mogh Ruith land to settle on, in perpetuity.’
Fidelma turned to him in excitement. ‘Of course! I am stupid. Did he not choose to dwell at Magh-Féne, south of here, and do not those people still regard him as their ancestor?’
‘Indeed. They have become the best metal-workers in the entire kingdom,’ confirmed Brother Conchobhar.
‘Then a stone of gold might even be there?’ Fide
lma observed thoughtfully.
‘That is something I cannot help you with, Fidelma. Perhaps that scratched Ogham name may have no significance regarding the death of these two strangers; or perhaps it does. It is up to you to follow your own course in this matter. Thankfully, I am not a dálaigh. I deal with the afflicted and the dead.’
Fidelma smiled wryly. ‘I might make a similar claim. But you are right, old friend. We are all beginners at another person’s profession. So one more question. Does this stone of gold symbolise anything over and above what Dar Luga was saying?’
‘Ah, that is knowledge I do not possess. I suppose you could assume that it was simply regarded as a sacred object under the Old Religion.’
Fidelma raised a hand in farewell to the elderly apothecary and emerged into the small courtyard. She was heading for the stable buildings to see if Eadulf had returned, when at that very moment he rode in through the gates with little Alchú beside him and Luan, the warrior, acting as their escort. The trio halted in the courtyard and Luan jumped from his horse to help the little red-haired boy dismount from his piebald pony. No sooner had his feet touched the ground than Alchú was running, grinning and shouting, towards his mother. She bent down to give him a hug.
‘Did you have a good ride, little hound?’
The child grimaced. ‘Not really, mathair,’ he whispered, casting a guilty glance to where Eadulf was alighting and handing the reins over to Luan.
Fidelma was surprised. ‘Why not?
‘Athair insisted we ride out along the road towards the High Wood. It is so flat and dull there. And he was so quiet and I was so bored.’
Fidelma stared at her son and then turned with a frown to Eadulf as he came to join them while Luan led the horses towards the stables. But before she could say anything to him, old Muirgen the nurse came bustling out of the nearby buildings to take charge of their son.
‘Now you run off with Muirgen and have a wash and we will see you shortly,’ his mother smiled. ‘Then you can tell us more about your morning’s ride.’
As Alchú trotted off happily at the side of the nurse, Fidelma turned back to Eadulf. Once again she had barely opened her mouth when there was some shouting at the gate and a mounted warrior clattered inside. He saw them, swung off his horse and marched straight over towards them.
‘Aidan sent me, lady,’ he gasped, glancing from her to Eadulf. ‘You had both better come quickly. Aidan says that he needs you immediately in the town.’
‘Why?’ Eadulf regarded the agitated warrior in surprise. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘There is a riot … or one about to start. It’s Baodain and his travellers. Baodain is threatening violence against the guards.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Will you stop trying to hurry us?’ Fidelma called out. ‘Doesn’t Aidan have any warriors with him to keep order?’
Fidelma and Eadulf had mounted their horses and were following the anxious young warrior down the track from Colgú’s fortress towards the township below. The young man reined in and glanced back, looking contrite. ‘Indeed, lady. He has a company of nine from the lucht-tighe.’
The lucht-tighe was the name for the household guards of the royal palace and the élite of the forces who guarded the King.
‘Then we shall continue at a steady pace,’ she replied sternly.
Hardly any time passed, however, before they were crossing the town square, where the sound of shouting came to their ears. On the eastern side of the town was a flat area of grassland where Baodain and his wagons had been placed under guard, with the exception of the strange wagon. This had been taken off to a more secure location in the barn of Rumann the innkeeper. Behind Baodain’s wagons, the horses and mules had been turned loose to fodder in a field. In front of the wagons they could see a cluster of men and women. Facing them were Aidan and his warriors, on foot, their shields held protectively in front of them. The position was called the lebenn sciath, a defensive form usually assumed when marching to confront enemy warriors. It seemed the action was necessary as some of the women were throwing clumps of earth and even some stones at the warriors, and shouting abuse.
The young warrior accompanying Fidelma and Eadulf immediately leaped from his horse, swinging his shield round for protection, and joined his comrades. Undeterred, Fidelma dismounted slowly and walked towards Aidan. The commander called on her to take care. But she came fearlessly to his side and turned to face the dozen men, women and several children, bunched together in a hostile fashion.
‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Put down those missiles. I am Fidelma of Cashel. I am a dálaigh. I speak not only in the name of the King, but as a representative of the courts of law. I order you to disperse!’
The answer was an angry muttering and a few shouted insults, but the missile-throwers paused. Then a tall man stepped forward, muscular with dark hair and pale eyes. His expression was hostile.
‘This is Baodain,’ whispered Eadulf, who had also dismounted and joined her.
‘We are simple entertainers,’ he told Fidelma. ‘We are guilty of no crime and we demand to be released from the constraints put upon us by these warriors.’
Fidelma moved directly towards Baodain so that they were only a single pace apart. Her chin was thrust out to match his aggressive stance.
‘Tell your people to put down their weapons and disperse,’ she told him quietly but firmly. ‘You have a duty to protect your people, for you know the consequences if they continue to hurl stones and clods of earth at members of the King’s Bodyguard.’
But Baodain was undeterred. ‘We came here to perform at the Great Fair in the Fortress of Contentions, Rath na Drínne, as we have done over many years. We will not be imprisoned or intimidated. We mean to leave here – and if any of these warriors get in the way, they are the ones who will be hurt, not us.’
Making no effort to obey her, he continued to stand in his challenging posture. A growl of approval went up from his followers. Some of the stone-throwers at the edge of their group raised their hands, clasping their missiles.
Fidelma stared directly into the pale eyes of the man. To his surprise her features broadened into a smile.
‘Aidan!’ she called to the warrior, her eyes never leaving Baodain’s. ‘Stand by me and draw your sword.’
Aidan did not hesitate. Sword in hand and shield swung defensively to his left side, he stepped forward to stand by Fidelma, as if to protect her from the angry group.
‘Aidan.’ Fidelma raised her voice slightly. Her words were meant for all to hear her. ‘Aidan, if anyone makes a move to throw their missiles, take your sword and strike this man. You need not kill him; just ensure he will never use his right arm again.’
She spoke clearly and calmly, but her words sounded all the more menacing for it. Aidan gave her a startled look, for her order was entirely out of character. But his hesitation was almost unnoticed as he turned to Baodain, his sword raised at the ready.
Baodain stared at Fidelma’s determined expression for a moment, then glanced at Aidan’s resolute figure and swallowed noisily. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Put down your missiles!’ he called nervously. His voice even cracked a little. ‘Carefully! Return to your wagons. I will deal with this dálaigh.’
With some reluctance and many a backward glance, the band dropped their stones and lumps of turf and began to move slowly away, back to their wagons. When she was sure they no longer posed a threat, Fidelma gave an approving sigh.
‘Thank you, Aidan. You may sheath your sword and put your men at ease.’ Her eyes had remained focused on Baodain. ‘A word to the wise, my friend: never challenge my authority again. If it comes to that, never challenge the authority of any Brehon or a dálaigh. They may not be as lenient as I.’
There was relief on Aidan’s features as he turned to carry out her instruction. As he passed Eadulf, he whispered, ‘Do you think she actually meant to do that?’
Eadulf had no idea. He could only shrug as he went to join hi
s wife.
‘Now, Baodain,’ Fidelma was saying in an easy tone, as if the previous confrontation had not happened, ‘let us repair to your wagon and discuss this matter.’
Baodain seemed bewildered by the change in her attitude. With some reluctance he indicated a wagon before which a small fire had been lit with some stools placed around it. A woman and two children stood hesitantly by it.
‘Is this your wife and children?’ Fidelma asked pleasantly.
Baodain grunted affirmation while the woman scowled. She was tall, with dark hair that was shiny and sleek, its strands covering a broad forehead. The dark eyes seemed menacing.
‘What is your name?’ Fidelma met her brooding gaze and held it.
‘Escrach,’ came the belligerent response.
Fidelma looked from Baodain to Escrach and back again with a shake of her head. ‘Let me emphasise something to both of you. I am not only sister to Colgú, King of Muman, but I am a dálaigh, qualified to the level of anruth. Now if that does not mean anything to you, I shall explain …’
Baodain interrupted roughly, ‘I know well what it means, lady. We are educated.’
‘Good,’ replied Fidelma with a smile. ‘So let me see no more foolish brawling with my brother’s warriors. Someone could have been hurt and,’ she nodded to his two silent children, ‘that would have been regrettable with so many young ones in your camp.’
Baodain and Escrach remained silent.
‘Now, let the young ones go to play while we discuss matters.’
Escrach turned and said something to the children, who both went scampering away.
‘You have obligations to meet,’ continued Fidelma. ‘Two deaths have occurred. It is the duty of witnesses to answer all and every one of my questions to my satisfaction. That means you and the members of your company. Is that clear? If you refuse, if you tell me falsehoods, then there will be consequences.’
The Second Death (Sister Fidelma Mysteries) Page 4