The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (17 page)

She stood for a moment in uncertainty. Finally she turned, to build up the fire again before sitting down in the chair and pulling the blanket around her for more warmth. Somehow she had no inclination to go to lay down on the bed of the absent occupants.

There were only two possibilities for what had occurred. She had either imagined things or they had been real. And if they were real, then there must be an explanation. She had not been imagining things. Of that, she was absolutely sure. She
had
heard voices, and she had heard the thuds that shook the cabin.

Even before the coming of Christianity, her people had implicit belief in the Otherworld. Gods and mortals could pass freely between the Otherworld and this world. The old religion was based on the unchanging nature of the elements of this visible world as well as the invisible Otherworld. They were part of one entity. Both worlds were without barriers for, although parallel, they were not mutually exclusive. Fidelma did not reject the concept for it was still a living faith in many parts of the country in spite of the changes put in place by the advocates of the New Faith. When a soul died in this world, it was reborn in the other, and when a soul died in the Otherworld, it was reborn in this. A constant interchange of souls was taking place. And yet, it was said that at midnight on one special day of the year, the Otherworld could be both seen and heard. She shook her head. She had been raised with reason – taught that only facts counted, that everything could be explained by logic if one had sufficient information to do so. Just because she did not have the information to make an explanation, it did not mean to say that an explanation did not exist.

In trying to analyse the matter, sleep stole up on her again.

She woke feeling stiff and uncomfortable. She stretched and eased her limbs before rising to her feet. A faint light was filtering through the snow-covered widow and she could her the distant clucking of chickens. It was past dawn. She took some wood and placed it on the dying fire. Then she found the bowl of cold water, its edges showing where it had begun to freeze. She had used it on the previous night. She splashed her face – used the items from her
ciobhog
, her comb-bag, to freshen herself – dressed, and looked for something to eat. The milk was cold and still drinkable. Feeling thus refreshed, she went to the door, unbarred it and looked out.

The gusting winds of the night had blown away the snow-clouds and, amazingly, the sky was azure with the pale sun hanging above the eastern peaks. The snow carpeted the mountains, lit in bright white and, seemingly, undisturbed. Everything seemed calm and peaceful. She made her way to the barn to attend to the animals. While she was feeding them, she turned her attention yet again to the mystery, and what she should do next. There was no choice but to ride on to Béal Átha Gabhann although it meant abandoning the animals. Also, if the occupants had come to mishap on the mountains and survived the night, it meant abandoning them too. But what else could she do alone? She was not even sure exactly where she was except that she must be somewhere in the Sliabh Eibhline mountain range, an area she did not know except for the main route through them which, with the snows of last evening, she had managed to miss.

Outside the barn she stood and examined the shapes of the mountains but there was none she recognized. Not that she was expecting much, for she had only travelled this route a few times, but thought she might have retained some memory of the shape of the hills that were always an important guide to travellers.

She returned to the barn and saddled Aonbharr in readiness. The sooner she left, the sooner she might be able to find someone who could help either look after the animals or find the missing occupants.

She made her way back to the cabin to collect her
sursaing-bholg
, the girdle bag with her belongings. She opened the door and froze abruptly. In the chair before the fire – the chair where she had slept for a few uncomfortable hours – sat a man. He turned his head sharply in surprise at her entrance.

He was tall, thin and with a shock of white hair but without beard or moustache. His high-domed forehead accentuated a thin nose with strangely arched nostrils and high bridge. His pale skin stretched tightly over his sharply etched features. Indeed, there seemed no colour in his cheeks at all. He seemed a man who avoided the excesses of the weather but, in spite of his thin features, the pale hands that spread palm downward on his knees, bespoke strength.

Controlling his surprise, he rose from the chair and stood regarding her with pale, almost colourless eyes.

“Who are you?” Fidelma demanded, also recovering her poise.

“I should ask you that question first,” the man replied, with a thin smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you the owner of this farmstead?” she persisted, not put off by his counter question. Then she relented a little. “I am Fidelma of Cashel. I was on my way to Béal Átha Gabhann last night when I lost my way, saw this cabin and came here to seek shelter.”

At her name, the man showed some recognition.

“Fidelma the
dálaigh
?” he asked sharply. “The lawyer and sister to the King?”

“I am an advocate of the law courts,” she confirmed. “And now it is your turn to identify yourself.”

“I am … I am brother to Cianat, wife to Cuilind, who owns this farm,” he replied, shortly. “I came to visit them. I tend goats on the far side of this valley? You say that you came here last night?”

“I found this cabin deserted. There is no sign of the occupants. The animals were in need of tending and, most worryingly, the guard dog was laying by the cabin door, still tethered, but its skull crushed in.”

It was impossible to judge the man’s expression in the shadows of the cabin; he breathed out sharply but said nothing.

“You say that you are kin to the people here?” pressed Fidelma. “What is your name?”

“I am known as Fáelur,” he replied. “What do you know of … of the disappearance of Cianat and Cuilind?”

“I have told you all I know,” responded Fidelma. “I suppose that you know these mountains well? They might have had an accident in the snowstorm.”

Fáelur pursed his lips as he thought about it.

“Maybe they have gone to visit someone else in the valley. It would be unusual for anything to happen, because Cuilind knows the mountains well, as does my sister.”

“No matter how well a person thinks they know mountains, in a snowstorm mistakes can be made,” Fidelma assured him. “
Cotidiana vilescunt
,” she added the Latin phrase automatically, meaning that familiarity breeds contempt.

Fáelur nodded slowly in agreement.

“Perhaps you are right. One thinks one knows the land well but snow obliterates the features, no matter how familiar they have been. Indeed, they may have come to grief on the mountain in the snowstorm. Anything could have happened, a broken leg or some such accident.”

“I presume there are people here who could form a search party for them?”

“I can certainly raise some … some local people.”

“The one thing that bothered me was that I found the dog still tied up and killed, its skull smashed. I dragged it from the door and piled stones and snow over it as there were wolves in evidence in the mountains last night.”

Fáelur glanced at her quickly. “That is worrying. What do you make of it?”

“There is nothing I can make of it without information,” replied Fidelma. “Anyway, I suggest that if there are others living in this valley, you should organize a search for your sister and her husband. Alas, I cannot stay longer. I must try to find the way to Béal Átha Gabhann for I was expected there last night.”

For a passing moment, it seemed a look of relief came into the man’s eyes and then he sighed.

“I will take care of things now.”

“I have fed the animals. But they will need tending to later on. The cow particularly.”

“That is no problem. I will collect some friends and look after things here. As you say, a search must be organized.” There was a hesitation. “Are you rested well, for it will be a hard ride to Béal Átha Gabhann?”

“I was warm and comfortable in the cabin last night. I wish I could stay to help in the search for the owners. I will endeavour to make amends for their hospitality once I have completed my business.”

Something had made her withhold telling Fáelur about her disturbed night. She did not know why. Perhaps it was because he seemed anxious about her having had a good rest.

She moved to the table and collected her things, her comb-bag, and placed them all in her
sursaing-bholg
and hung it over her shoulder. She turned to the man with a smile.

“Now I will get my horse and if you can point me in the right direction …?”

The man came with her to the door of the cabin and waited while she collected Aonbharr.

“There is a path down there that leads back to a main track,” he said, pointing in the direction she had climbed to the cabin from on the previous night. “Best lead your horse down to it. Then you turn northwards,” he indicated the direction. “You see that peak there, on the far side of the valley? That is Sliabh Coimeálta, Keeper’s Hill. Keep that on your left and this track comes down through a valley, at the end of which you’ll find the streams that rise in these hills, all converging into a broad stream called Glaise an Ghleanna. Follow the bank and that will lead you directly to the main river, the Mhaoilchearn. You’ll see a small stone circle by it. It is easy to ford the river there and beyond it you will see the pass that will bring you through the mountains called Sliabh an Airgid. Once through the pass, you will find your destination.”

Fidelma thanked him and offered her best wishes that his search for his missing sister and brother-in-law would prove successful and that all would be well with them. He nodded thoughtfully and stood by the cabin door watching her as she led her horse back down the path to the main track. It was difficult, as the snowfall of the previous night had completely covered any recognisable signs of where it lay. It was only when she reached a flat area of snow that ran in both directions that she realized she had reached the main track. She mounted Aonbharr before glancing back. It was as if the man had not moved, for he still stood watching her. She raised a hand in acknowledgement and set off at a quick walking pace northward on her journey.

It was only sometime later that she realized what had been causing an irritation in the back of her mind. As she had led Aonbharr from the cabin down the path to the main track, the path had been completely covered in snow, so that she had to feel her way down. It had been completely covered in the snowfall, smooth and white, except where a single set of tracks followed it. They could have been the tracks of a dog but Fidelma knew that they had doubtless been made by one of the wolves that had been howling near the cabin during the night. But that was not what was causing the growing unease. It was the question, how had a man called Fáelur come to the cabin? Surely he would have left tracks in the snow? And there were none.

***

“We were worried about you, Fidelma. We were afraid that you were lost in the snowstorm. Eadulf was very concerned.” It was Fidelma’s cousin Scoth, the daughter of Prince Gilcach of the Eóghanacht Airthir Chliach, who chided her as she ushered her into the hall of her father’s hunting lodge.

Fidelma had reached the settlement at Béal Átha Gabhann by mid-afternoon, when the sky had already begun to darken again. There she had found not only Eadulf, waiting anxiously for her, but also her cousin. Prince Gilcach kept a small hunting lodge at the settlement and Scoth was currently in residence, insisting that Eadulf and Fidelma stay with her. Soon Fidelma was relaxing in a chair before a crackling log fire with a glass of mulled wine. Seated by her were Eadulf and Scoth.

Scoth was younger than Fidelma by five or six years; an attractive girl with golden-red hair who seemed to treat everything and everyone with an intense curiosity. Her family shared a common descent with the Eóghanacht of Cashel from Óengus – the first Christian King of Muman. Scoth was always lively and loved nothing more than to gossip.

“Scoth suggested that we should form a search party for you,” admitted Eadulf, Fidelma’s stoic partner, “for there were violent snowstorms across the peaks last night.”

Fidelma glanced at Eadulf with a quick, reassuring smile.

“There was no need to worry on my account. I found shelter for the night.”

“Where did you find hospitality?” demanded Scoth in surprise. “These mountains are sparsely populated and the tracks are few and far between.” When Fidelma explained the route she had taken, a worried expression formed on the face of her cousin. “I know where you went wrong. You must have left the main track in the valley and headed through the high pass between Sliabh Coimeálta and An Cnoc Fionn. You should have remained in the valley and followed the track to the east of An Cnoc Fionn.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door and one of the female attendants entered.

“Excuse me, my lady,” she said, speaking directly to Scoth. “A messenger has arrived and needs a private word.”

Scoth looked irritable. “I am with my cousin. Can’t they wait?”

“They told me to tell you that it is news of Rechtabra.”

Scoth rose quickly with an apologetic expression. “Rechtabra is my wayward cousin,” she said to Fidelma. “You may remember him? I will be but a moment.”

She was, indeed, back before hardly any time had passed. “What were we talking about? You said that you missed the valley track east of An Cnoc Fionn.”

“It was in the blizzard that I lost the path. There was no track to follow,” countered Fidelma.

Scoth looked serious. “But no one lives up along that high pass. There is scarcely a track you can follow on foot, let alone one to ride.”

Fidelma smiled thinly. “I found that out for myself.”

Scoth seemed clearly worried. “So where did you find shelter? It is said that there are caves in those mountains but they are thought to be the lairs of wolves that haunt that area. Surely you didn’t shelter in a cave?”