Night of the Lightbringer

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We were not friends!’ The emphatic pronunciation caused Fidelma to decide not to pursue the matter at that time.

  ‘No matter then.’ She raised a hand in thanks before turning and leading the way across the square to where Rumann was standing surveying the crowds with an expression of satisfaction. Obviously he was appraising the business possibilities, for after the people had made their purchases from the merchants, they would make straight for his tavern, seeking a thirst-quenching drink before starting for home. Some merchants might even decide to stay overnight in his establishment. Rumann acknowledged Fidelma as she dismounted in front of him.

  ‘Brother Conchobhar and a couple of warriors have taken the body up to the palace, lady,’ he informed her, glancing around to make sure they were not overheard. ‘Just in time too. It would not have done much good for trade here if it became known there was a body lying about.’

  ‘I am sure it would not have been Spelán’s wish to disrupt your trade,’ Fidelma replied dryly.

  Rumann flushed. ‘I did not mean …’

  Fidelma made an impatient gesture of her hand. ‘I understand that a strange woman came and demanded to see the corpse before it was collected by Brother Conchobhar.’

  ‘Yes. A strange woman, indeed. I have never seen her before nor do I wish to see her again. She was a tall person, clad all in black. I’m no coward, but her appearance filled me with alarm.’

  ‘Alarm? In what way?’

  ‘Her manner of dress, the black feather cloak …’

  Fidelma cast a disappointed glance at Aidan. ‘A black feather cloak?’ she asked with emphasis.

  ‘Yes. She wore a cloak that was made entirely from interlaid black feathers, like those of the crows or ravens. I gathered from Aidan there that she went to the bonfire and uttered some curses against Cashel.’

  ‘You did not hear these curses?’

  ‘I remained here but Aidan followed her across the square trying to learn her name and where she came from.’

  ‘I gather no one knows where she has gone or what her business was in Cashel?’ Fidelma reflected. ‘A pity, as we would have liked to have a word with her before we proceed to Cnoc Bológ. Never mind, she will probably be staying somewhere nearby for the festival.’ She paused and added: ‘I suppose you have mentioned the circumstances of Spelán’s death to several people?’

  The sheepish look on Rumann’s face confirmed that he had done so.

  ‘I was wondering how this woman knew that it was Spelán who had been killed, and how she came to you to demand to see the body by name?’

  ‘I swear, lady, I do not know.’ Rumann looked positively fearful as he understood the point that Fidelma was making. ‘I had never seen the woman before.’

  Fidelma stared at him a moment before she inclined her head. ‘My thanks, Rumann, for your help.’ With a gesture to her companions, she remounted and led the way around the corner of the tavern along the main track towards the western end of the township.

  News of the find at the bonfire seemed to have spread throughout the township. Many of the inhabitants stood at the doors of their houses, some with heads bent together, talking in low, worried voices. They glanced up almost furtively as the three rode down the street. Some acknowledged their passing, but without the carefree greetings that they usually reserved for Fidelma. She was well liked by the people of the township. Eadulf looked round and saw that, the moment they had passed, heads were bent once again in muttered conversation. The apprehensive mood of the townsfolk was all too clear to see.

  At the western edge of Cashel lay the home of Fidelma’s friend Della, the mother of Gormán, the commander of the Nasc Niadh, the elite bodyguard of her brother Colgú. It was not exactly a farmstead but Della kept a small paddock with horses, and some outhouses with a few animals; she also specialised in bees and the production of honey. One of Eadulf’s tasks that morning had been to collect some containers of honey for Fidelma; as they approached, he was reminded that it was a task that still needed to be accomplished. Gormán’s young wife, Aibell, had already seen their approach and came to the gate to greet them accompanied by a dog. Della always kept, by tradition, as a guard dog, a leth-choin, a cross between a wolfhound and a terrier. The animal had recognised Fidelma and Eadulf and decided that barking a warning was superfluous; it stood merely wagging its tail in silent greeting.

  ‘Have you come to collect the honey?’ Aibell asked with a smile, about to pull open the gate. Fidelma stayed her with an upraised hand.

  ‘Not this time. We are passing by, not stopping, so I won’t come in.’ She swung down from her horse, however, but stood at the gate holding its reins. Eadulf and Aidan remained mounted.

  The girl frowned. ‘You all look so serious,’ she said. ‘Is something wrong?’

  At that moment, Della appeared from her porch and hastened down to the gate. Fidelma had once successfully defended her from a false accusation of murder, and the two of them had been good friends ever since. Della was a woman of short stature and over forty years of age now, but time had not disguised the fact that she had once been a real beauty – and even now, she was handsome, and still with a golden sheen in her hair. She had overheard Aibell’s remark and she, too, caught their worried expressions.

  ‘Has something happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing to concern yourself with,’ replied Fidelma. ‘News travels fast hereabouts, so doubtless you will soon learn that a body was found stuffed into the base of the Samhain bonfire they are building in the town square.’

  Della looked shocked. ‘We had not heard,’ she replied. ‘Whose body is it?’

  ‘A shepherd named Spelán.’

  Della’s reaction was unexpected. ‘I know the man,’ she said, to their astonishment. ‘He lives up beyond Cnoc Bológ.’ She pointed towards the south-westerly hills.

  ‘How do you know him, Della?’

  The woman gave a deprecating sniff. ‘Perhaps “know” is the wrong word. A few times I have found him, the worse for drink, sleeping in my hedge – no doubt coming back from Rumann’s tavern and incapable of making his way home. Was it the drink finished him off?’ Then she paused, recalling what Fidelma had said. ‘Did you say “stuffed into the base” of the woodpile? So did he climb in to sleep it off and died there?’

  But Fidelma was shaking her head. ‘He was hidden there deliberately, by someone else, and his death had nothing to do with drink, Della. He was murdered. That is why we are on our way to the Hill of the Bullock to discover more about his background. Do you know anything about him?’

  Della sighed. ‘That he lived on the hill and kept a flock of sheep there was about all I knew. I was told that he did not mix much with people here. I don’t think he was particularly successful as a shepherd – I doubt he made much money out of it.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The state of his clothes, for example.’

  Eadulf leaned forward from his saddle with an interested expression. ‘What could you tell by the state of his clothes?’

  ‘Oh, they were practically rags, full of holes and tears, and never an attempt to mend them. He obviously did not have a good woman to sew for him.’

  ‘But we are told that he had a wife,’ Eadulf informed her.

  Della raised an eyebrow. ‘If that is so, then she contributed little in taking care of his appearance.’

  ‘Perhaps he could not afford decent clothes because he spent most of his earnings on drink?’ mused Aidan.

  ‘Quite possibly. The fact was, he never changed his clothes nor washed them – or his person – so far as I could discern, for the smell of him was vile. He was not a nice person, and one I avoided if at all possible.’

  ‘Smell?’ Eadulf frowned, remembering. ‘Did he ever douse himself with fragrances to disguise the stale odours? Something like lavender, for example.’

  Della stared at Eadulf, wondering if this were some kind of a joke – but then saw that
he was serious. ‘How would a creature like that afford such a luxury?’ she asked reasonably. ‘Thankfully, I hardly found myself in close proximity to him. He stank as if he had wallowed in a pig-pen. What makes you ask about lavender? That is something few people around here can afford.’

  Fidelma cast a warning glance at Eadulf. Usually she kept no secrets from her old friend Della, but these were early days in their investigation and she did not like being diverted from her guiding principle that there should be no speculation without information.

  ‘It was just an aroma that came to mind,’ Eadulf said contritely.

  ‘Do you know much about Cnoc Bológ, Della?’ Fidelma asked then. ‘Frankly, I have never been due west of the Road of Rocks. There are easier highways to the great river and to Ara’s Well, or even more south-west.’

  ‘Although it is only a short ride from here, it is an isolated area and sparsely populated.’

  ‘I am told it is the territory of the clan Sítae.’

  ‘To call them a clan is to pay them a compliment. They are more like a small group of families. I’ve only been up there a few times, myself. It is a lonely place. The hills are bare and stony and the forests in the valleys are dark, cold places. I recall that part of the hill has a circle of standing stones on it, from which you have a good view of the entire area.’

  ‘What made you go there then?’ Fidelma was curious.

  ‘It was when I was a young girl,’ Della explained. ‘Once you cross the main summit of the Hill of the Bullock, immediately south-west is another rocky summit on which stands Ráth Cuáin. It is a religious community.’

  Eadulf was mystified. ‘A religious community? I thought a ráth signified a fortress?’

  ‘You are not wrong, Eadulf,’ confirmed Della. ‘It is usually a fortified residence of a chieftain or a larger fortress.’

  ‘So now it is a small religious community,’ Fidelma commented. ‘I have never been there even though it is so near.’

  ‘It used to be the residence of the chieftain of the Sítae,’ Della revealed. ‘As I remember, it still looks very much like a fortress. The approach from the south is difficult as there are small cliffs. I was told that it was built above a complex of caves. When the New Faith was sweeping the land, a woman called Gobnait came to the area. She had joined the Abbey of the Blessed Finnbarr of Corcach Mór, learned the gift of healing and was famous for her production of honey. She eventually became Abbess of Baile Bhúirne in the land of the Cenél Lóegairi. One of the stories told was that a brigand was robbing her church and she sent her swarm of bees after him to exact retribution. They stung him to death.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like a nice thing to do,’ Fidelma said. ‘I have seen what happens when a swarm descends on a young child or an animal.’

  ‘Nevertheless, her church was never robbed again,’ Della pointed out with a touch of black humour.

  ‘But Baile Bhúirne is far to the west from here,’ Eadulf said, trying to follow the story. ‘I thought you said she founded this abbey at Ráth Cuáin?’

  ‘So it is claimed,’ replied Della. ‘Apparently she persuaded the chieftain of the Sítae to turn his fortress into an abbey. Well, there are plenty of stories that are not necessarily true.’

  ‘So this place, Ráth Cuáin, is now a small religious community?’ Eadulf strove for clarification.

  When Della confirmed it, Fidelma said, ‘Strange … I do not recall poor Ségdae, when he was alive and Abbot of Imleach, ever mentioning the place. Yet Ráth Cuáin would be in his jurisdiction and he was so particular about keeping in touch with all the churches and communities in the kingdom.’

  Della shrugged. ‘I really can’t say. I only went there when I was young to learn about the art of keeping bees, but I found that they no longer kept up the tradition of Gobnait. That was many years ago.’

  ‘It is odd that we seem to have had no communication at all with the place even though it is such a short journey from here. I can’t even recall my brother ever inviting the chieftain of the Sítae to any council or meeting at Cashel.’

  ‘As I said, it is a rough, unfriendly countryside. The hills are not high but there are plenty of rocks and marshlands to the south-west, as well as the great forests that surround the hills. The River Siúr forms the western border. It’s no wonder traders built roads that circumnavigate the area rather than go through it.’

  ‘It sounds an inhospitable area. All the same, I am surprised that we have had no contact with the place,’ Aidan agreed with Fidelma.

  ‘Have you really never been there?’ queried Della. ‘I would have thought that members of the King’s bodyguard would have known every hill, wood and track around the palace … especially when a chieftain’s fortress stands so close to Cashel.’

  ‘But you said it was now an abbey,’ Aidan reminded her. ‘I’ve never heard of this Ráth Cuáin before. I can’t remember any of the warriors of the Golden Collar ever talking about it.’

  Fidelma was baffled that so few people were really knowledgeable about the area.

  ‘We must make ourselves acquainted with the territory of the Sítae,’ she announced firmly.

  ‘It sounds from what Della says that there are few tracks or paths to follow. Perhaps we might need someone to be a guide?’ Eadulf suggested.

  ‘Surely you underestimate Aidan’s abilities? Being a warrior of the Golden Collar, he ought to be able to track through the twelve mountains of Na Comeraigh with a blindfold on.’ Della smiled.

  It was just her mischievous humour but Aidan flushed. ‘Indeed. Have no concern. A warrior of the Golden Collar is guide enough through any territory,’ he declared. Then he added an afterthought: ‘Although, I mean … it is best to know something of a country in which one has never been.’

  ‘Well, we won’t get there by thinking about it.’ Fidelma remounted her horse and glanced down at Della and Aibell. ‘Try not to speak about this more than is necessary, my friends, although thanks to Rumann’s loose tongue, there is plenty of gossip spreading through the town already.’

  ‘We will keep it to ourselves,’ promised Della. ‘How long do you expect to be gone?’

  ‘Long enough to pick up some information about Spelán and try to find out who might have done this to him – and why.’

  ‘Don’t forget I promised you that jar of honey which Eadulf was going to collect this morning.’

  ‘We’ll collect it on our return,’ Eadulf assured her.

  The trio turned their horses towards the track that was known as the Road of Rocks. It led up a small hill through a large woodland bordering the fringe of the great southern Plain of Femen which crossed to the high mountains called the Sléibhte an Comeraigh, of which Sliabh na mBan – the Mountain of Women – dominated. It was a vast area of pastoral and agricultural wealth which contributed to the affluence and power of the Eóghanacht Kings of Cashel. But it was also a place associated with the legends and origins of the people; here, every hillock, rock or forest was said to be associated with heroes and gods, heroines and goddesses – some good, some evil; a place of dark, primordial origins.

  Eadulf had learned much of the lore of the Plain of Femen; of its underground caves that were entrances to the Otherworld. The hills here were the homes of the Everlasting Ones, such as Bodh the Red, divine son of the great god the Dagda, whose curse turned people into demons that flew through the air in search of sacrifice. And it was here that the legendary warrior, Fionn Mac Cumhaill, commander of the Fianna, the High King’s bodyguard, fell under an enchantment caused by the Otherworld folk. Eadulf shivered slightly and was glad that their route would take them away from the sites of spirits and demons. Of course he had crossed the plain many times before with Fidelma, for that way lay the Fields of Honey, Cluain Meala, and on to the great Abbey of Lios Mór where they had had so many adventures. But today, at this dark time of year, with the nearness of Samhain, and aware of its equivalent in his own culture, the events that were unfolding made him feel that
he would sooner not chance putting his faith to the test.

  He found himself pulling a face, an expression of his guilt that he could even think that the old ways had validity compared to the new teachings that had come from the east in the form of the New Faith. He had logically rejected the old ways but the emotional acceptance was something else. He had been brought up accepting the gods and goddesses of his people: Hretha, god of the earth; Tiw, god of war; Thunor, god of thunder; and the most feared, Woden, with his two wolves and mighty horse with eight legs. Eadulf could recite their names even now, and knew the names of the spirits and demons under their command who laid traps for the unwary. Fidelma’s people had also worshipped similar beings – so why should he feel guilty that some part of his mind could still believe in their existence and their capacity for evil?

  He glanced furtively around but neither Fidelma nor Aidan seemed to have noticed the expressions that chased one another across his face.

  The autumnal day had turned out bright. There were few clouds in the sky but the temperature was not warm, and now and then a cold breeze promised to turn into an icy wind later. They came to a division of the track. Eadulf knew that the left-hand path led through the woods towards Ráth na Drinne, the Place of Contentions, where there was a tavern run by Ferloga and his wife; this was a frequent resting place when they had passed on to Lios Mór or Cluain Meala. But now Fidelma was turning to lead the way towards the right, to the south-west, with the track steepening ahead of them.

  They emerged through the trees on the northern side of a series of small hills and found themselves in countryside of open rocky land interspersed with brambles and thorns. There did not appear to be a suitable track through it. A small path was the only available route, and it forced their horses to go in single file. Here and there were deep gullies which they came upon so suddenly that, had their horses not been so sure footed, they would have stumbled into them and could have easily broken a leg.

  ‘If Spelán was the drunk that he was reputed to be,’ called Aidan from the rear of their procession, ‘then it is a wonder he survived so long, coming this way after a night’s drinking in Rumann’s tavern.’