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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Fiction, #tpl, #_NB_Fixed, #Mystery, #Historical, #Clerical Sleuth, #Medieval Ireland

Valley of the Shadow (13 page)

BOOK: Valley of the Shadow
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Fidelma stared at Eadulf for a moment and then smiled broadly.
‘Sometimes you remind me of the obvious, Eadulf,’ she said. She paused reflectively. ‘He was certainly lying about where he has been during the night. Yet when I asked him where he had walked this morning, he was able to describe exactly where without hesitation. Perhaps that was where he actually was? I think, after this morning’s negotiation is over, we might restore ourselves by going for a walk in that direction and seeing what we can discover.’
She glanced through the window. The hour was growing late.
‘We do not have long before the council is in session. I think we should have a brief walk now, if only to clear our heads.’
Brother Eadulf looked pained.
‘I fear it will take more than a walk to clear my head, Fidelma. That bad wine even now permeates my body from head to toe. I feel I need more than fresh air to sustain myself for the morning.’
As ailing as he felt, Eadulf, nevertheless, allowed Fidelma to cajole him into accompanying her. He would have rather flopped back on his bed and gone to sleep again. He felt nauseous and faint. His skin was sweaty and irritating and his mouth was dry.
Outside in the ráth, several people were abroad and hurrying about their day’s tasks in spite of the fact that the feast had not ended until dawn for many of them. Eadulf and Fidelma were greeted without any sign of animosity and, indeed, a few were most friendly. All, however, seemed curious as they examined Fidelma. Her reply to Murgal’s song seemed to be a topic of gossip.
As they were crossing the courtyard of the ráth towards the gates, Fidelma halted and indicated a cart being dragged through the gates by a small, sturdy ass. It appeared loaded with plants of many sorts. Urging on the ass to greater exertion as it struggled to pull its load was a tall, slender woman.
Fidelma nudged Eadulf.
‘Isn’t that Murgal’s erstwhile companion at last night’s feast?’ she whispered. Eadulf raised his bleary eyes and recognised the woman immediately, in spite of the cloak and hood wrapped around
her. She wore a dress which was more drab than the one she had worn on the previous evening.
Fidelma moved immediately towards her and Eadulf followed.
‘Marga, is it not?’
The woman swung round to face her. Fidelma found herself looking into pale blue eyes, so pale that they reminded her of ice. There seemed no expression in the pallid features on which she looked. The long tresses were the colour of harvest corn. Fidelma had been right in her assessment on the previous evening. The woman was attractive. She did not alter that appraisal. Marga was tall and in spite of the long flowing black cloak, which seemed to enhance her pallidness and fair hair, Fidelma knew that her body was supple and well shaped, from the previous evening, and she appeared to move with a lithe, cat-like agility.
Her voice, when she spoke, was no more than a sibilant whisper.
‘I do not know you, Fidelma of Cashel. How come you make so free with my name?’
‘Your name was told me just as someone has told you my name and so I greet you. Am I incorrect that you are Marga the apothecary?’
‘I am Marga and I heal in the name of Airmid, the goddess who guards Dian Cécht’s secret Well of Healing.’
Her statement was issued as a challenge but Fidelma did not rise to it.
Airmid was one of the old goddesses. Fidelma knew the story well. She was daughter of the god of medicine, Dian Cécht, and sister of Miach, who was also a physician-god. When Miach proved to be a better physician than his father, the angry god slew his son. Out of his grave there grew three hundred and sixty-five herbs of healing. Airmid was said to have gathered the herbs from her brother’s grave and laid them out on her cloak in order of their various healing properties. Dian Cécht, still jealous of Miach, overturned the cloak in a rage and hopelessly confused the herbs so that no human would ever learn the secret of immortality by their use.
‘May health be your portion, Marga the Healer,’ replied Fidelma gravely. ‘I hope that you have learnt some of the secrets that your god, Dian Cécht, would have kept from us.’
Marga’s eyes narrowed fractionally.
‘Do you challenge my knowledge, Fidelma of Cashel?’ she whispered threateningly.
‘Why would I do that?’ Fidelma asked innocently, realising that
the girl was of a tempestuous nature. ‘My knowledge of the ancient tales is a poor one. But everyone knows what Dian Cécht did in anger in order to prevent the knowledge of healing being fully learnt by mortals. I thought …’
‘I know what you thought,’ snapped Marga, bending to the ass’s harness. ‘By your leave, I have much to attend to.’
‘As do we all, each in his or her own way. But there are some questions I would like to put to you.’
Marga bridled immediately.
‘But I do not wish to answer them. Now …’
She made to move but Fidelma, smilingly, put out a hand to stay her. Fidelma had a powerful grip and Marga actually winced.
‘I have no other time to put them.’ Fidelma examined the cart closely. ‘You appear to have been gathering herbs and plants for remedies?’
Marga was unbending.
‘As you can plainly see,’ she replied stiffly.
‘And you practise your apothecary within the ráth?’
‘I do.’
Her eyes flickered momentarily to a corner of some buildings across the courtyard, focussing on a tall building of three storeys with a curious squat tower at one end. Fidelma followed the involuntary movement and saw a mart at one corner. Outside the door, bundles of dried herbs were hanging.
‘So that is your apothecary shop?’
Marga shrugged almost insolently but Fidelma did not appear to mind.
‘I cannot see the purpose of these questions,’ the pale-faced herbalist said impatiently.
‘Forgive me,’ replied Fidelma contritely. ‘It is my friend here …’
Eadulf was momentarily startled and then tried to compose his features.
The pale blue eyes flickered over him without changing expression.
‘You see,’ Fidelma went on confidentially, ‘my friend imbibed too much of the juice of the vine last night.’
‘Gaulish wine!’ sniffed Marga. ‘It rots in the transport unless it is good. But Laisre is unable to afford better except for himself and his family. Well, there were plenty of others who took more of it than was good for them.’
‘You mean Murgal?’ Fidelma asked quickly.
There was a pause.
‘You have sharp eyes, Christian. Yes, I mean Murgal. But that is none of your business …’
‘Of course not,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘But my friend here is in need of a herbal remedy for his distemper. He thought that he might be able to purchase something from you.’
Eadulf was surprised at the lie for he knew as much about herbal remedies as most, having studied the subject. Marga eyed him sourly. Eadulf flushed before her withering gaze.
‘I suppose you have a headache and feel uncomfortable in the stomach?’
Eadulf nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
The apothecary turned and rummaged in her cart. She drew forth some root leaves eight inches in length, tapering below into a winged stalk, with veins on it. Eadulf recognised them at once. The thimble shape of the foxglove was a common enough plant in the hedges, ditches and wooded slopes.
‘Use the leaves only, boiled in water. You drink the infusion. It will taste bitter but you will eventually feel its advantageous effects. Do you understand, Saxon?’
‘I do,’ responded Eadulf quietly.
He took the leaves from her and reached into his purse.
‘A
screpall
is the smallest coin I have,’ he muttered, handing it to her, but Marga shook her head.
‘We have no use for coins in our valley, Saxon. We rely mainly on barter even if we deal with the outside world. Keep your coin and take the leaves as the charity of a pagan to a Christian.’
Eadulf began to thank her gravely but Fidelma interrupted with a smile.
‘I suppose a number of people have been struck with the effect of bad wine?’
‘Not many. Those who drink wine in preference to mead have developed the capacity to accept its potency.’
‘Were there any affected last night, though?’
Marga shrugged.
‘A few. Most of the pigs prefer to lay about and sleep it off.’
‘Does Murgal usually consume so much?’
Marga’s eyes narrowed in temper and then she seemed to change her mind and relax.
‘Well, he has not sought my aid nor would I have given it to him. I’ll applaud you for this, Fidelma of Cashel: last night you answered the pig well.’
‘You do not like him?’
‘Hadn’t you noticed?’ Marga jeered.
‘I had.’
‘Murgal thinks that he can take what he wants in life. He dared
lay his sweaty paws on me. Now he has reason to know that he should not take such liberties.’
‘I see,’ Fidelma said gravely.
Marga glared at her in suspicion.
‘Is that what you wanted to know?’ she demanded with some petulance.
‘Not all,’ Fidelma smiled. ‘Eadulf here truly did want something to purge him of his feelings of discomfiture.’
Marga examined them suspiciously for a moment before going to the ass’s head and beginning to lead it away across the courtyard. Then she halted abruptly and turned back to Eadulf.
‘Have a care with that infusion of those leaves, Saxon,’ she called. ‘Unless taken correctly the plant has a poisonous property. The correct dosage varies in each person. For you, I would say no more than a sip or two.’
Then she turned again, dragging the ass after her in the direction of her apothecary.
Eadulf let out a sigh of relief and wiped his brow.
‘I am glad she finally said as much,’ he observed quietly, staring in disgust at the leaves.
‘Why so?’ Fidelma queried with interest.
‘Because, knowing herbs as I do, I thought she was doing her best to poison me. Had she not warned me, and had I known nothing about these leaves, I might be dead soon after drinking the brew. A sip is one thing but drinking the entire concoction is something else.’
Fidelma turned her head and glanced after the disappearing figure of the apothecary with interest.
‘Maybe she didn’t like you at first, Eadulf,’ she smiled thinly.
‘As a stranger, as a Christian or as a man?’ mused the Saxon.
Fidelma chuckled.
‘Well, at least she now likes you well enough to advise against your premature death.’
A horn blast shattered the air.
‘That is the signal for the start of the council,’ Fidelma advised Eadulf. ‘Put those leaves away and let us make our attendance.’
Eadulf groaned loudly.
‘I do not think I can last out such a meeting,’ he protested. ‘I swear I feel like death.’
‘You may die after the council,’ she replied cheerfully. Unwillingly, Eadulf followed her towards the chieftain’s building in the ráth.
Several people were moving towards it but they stood aside to allow Fidelma and Eadulf to enter first. In the antechamber, the tall, fair-haired warrior, Rudgal, was waiting for them. As they entered, he moved towards them and saluted Fidelma solemnly.
‘Please accompany me, Sister.’ Then, after a moment, he added: ‘You, also, Brother.’
He led them through the door into the council chamber where Laisre was already seated on his chair of office. The signs of the feasting of the previous night had been cleared away and a semi-circle of chairs had been arranged before Laisre. To the chieftain’s right was an empty seat where the tanist should have sat. Clearly Colla had already departed on his errand of investigation. Behind Colla’s empty chair was seated Orla but there was no sign of her daughter, Esnad.
To the left was a seat with Murgal sprawled on it. He looked as bad as Eadulf felt with red-rimmed eyes and pale face. There was still an angry red mark on his cheek. Behind him was a small table at which the elderly scribe, Mel, with whom Eadulf had spoken the previous evening, sat ready with his stylus and clay writing tablets.
Fidelma was shown to a chair in the centre of the semi-circle. A chair had also been placed for Eadulf, just to one side of Fidelma’s seat. Behind, Brother Solin and Brother Dianach were seated. The other chairs were filled with the lesser dignitaries of Gleann Geis while behind them, pressing around, some of the people of the
valley were crowded to hear what their chieftain would negotiate with the representative of the distant king of Cashel. The hubbub was loud and it was not until the horn blasted again that the noise eventually died away.
Murgal rose slowly to his feet.
‘The council is now in session and, as Druid and Brehon to my chieftain, it is my right to speak first.’
Eadulf started in surprise at the man’s discourtesy when he declared that he should speak before his chieftain. Fidelma, seeing Eadulf s concern, leant towards him and whispered: ‘It is his right under the law, Eadulf. A Druid may speak before a king.’
Murgal apparently did not notice this exchange for he moved to the side of Laisre’s chair of office.
‘You will know that I am opposed to this negotiation. Let my objection be recorded.’
He glanced to Laisre who nodded and added for the benefit of Mel, the scribe: ‘So it is said, so let it be written.’ He turned back to Murgal and indicated that he should continue.
‘Laisre’s ancestors ruled us well. They kept us from outside harm over the years, refusing to have anything to do with those who looked enviously at our pleasant valley. It is a rich fertile valley. Uncorrupted. Why? Because we have forbidden this valley to those who would bring changes from outside. Three years have passed since we accepted Laisre as our chieftain, for his
derbfhine
elected him in due manner to be the head of his household and made him lord over us.
‘But now my chieftain has seen fit to send to Cashel and ask for an embassy for the purpose of discussing the establishment of an alien religion in our land.’
In spite of his feeling of indisposition, Eadulf felt he could not let the matter pass without protest.
‘A religion that all the kings of Éireann have accepted and which has been freely practised for over two centuries in the five kingdoms.’ He was sarcastic, unable to keep his annoyance under control. ‘Foreign religion, indeed!’
There was a gasp of horror from the assembly and even Fidelma looked uncomfortable. Murgal had turned in annoyance to Laisre. He was about to open his mouth but the chieftain stayed him with an upraised hand. Laisre leaned forward in his chair and addressed himself to Eadulf directly.
‘I shall overlook your outburst this time, Saxon, because you are a stranger in this land and do not know its ways sufficiently to curb your tongue. You do not have the right to speak at this council. It
is only that you travel as a companion with Fidelma of Cashel that you are even allowed to sit in this chamber. Even if you had the right to speak you may not interrupt the opening addresses. Only when the opening arguments have been placed will the accredited delegates debate their worthiness.’
Eadulf flushed with mortification and sank down into his chair. Fidelma was glaring at him in disapproval.
Murgal smiled triumphantly and continued.
‘We have seen what this alien religion brings. Strangers from over the water who do not know our ways or customs and who would dictate to us. Strangers who insult our procedures so that they have to be rebuked.’
Eadulf ground his teeth at the way Murgal had seized on his lack of knowledge about protocol to strengthen his argument.
‘Our brethren outside of the protection of these mountains may well have succumbed to the foreign teachings. It does not make it right nor is it an argument that we must also accept this religion. I say it must be rejected and our mountain barriers used to exclude its pernicious teachings. That is my position as Druid, Brehon and advisor to the chieftain of Gleann Geis.’
Murgal sat down amidst the many mutterings of approval from the people in the chamber.
Laisre nodded to the horn player who let out another blast to silence the chamber.
‘Murgal has a right to speak before all others. It is my right to speak next. I am, like Murgal, an adherent of the true deities of our people, the gods and goddesses whom our forefathers worshipped and who have protected us since time began. But my duty as chieftain is to extend the hand of protection to all the people of this clan. Before I sent to the bishop of Imleach to suggest that we could negotiate a settlement for those of this clan who have adopted the ways of the new Faith, I pondered the matter carefully. I decided that he could send someone to discuss how best we could reach such an agreement. Imleach has long wanted to build a Christian church and a school in our valley.
‘But I am a pragmatist. Because many of our people have married outside of this valley, we have to accept some of us now believe in this new Faith. Some have tried to hide that fact because they think it will displease me. In truth, it does make me unhappy. I will not deny it. Suppress the new Faith was one argument that I was counselled. But the people of Gleann Geis are my children.’
Murgal looked defiantly at him but he kept silent. Laisre paused a moment to reflect and then continued.
‘That would have been a short-sighted policy, for what one prohibits becomes something that is eagerly sought after. So rather than give sustenance to those who would worship the new Faith, I now say give it freedom and let it wither naturally.’
Another outburst of low muttering followed Laisre’s speech.
Fidelma, looking slightly puzzled, stood up.
‘I am here not to argue for the new Faith or against the old Faith. I am here as an envoy of Cashel to negotiate with you on matters which I had been informed your mind was already agreed upon.’
To Eadulf’s surprise, she sat down. The brevity of her statement even surprised Laisre who looked disconcerted.
‘Surely you would want to make some argument for your Faith?’ he faltered.
Even Murgal was looking nonplussed.
‘Perhaps she has no arguments?’ he sneered.
Eadulf leaned forward.
‘You can’t let these pagans denigrate the Faith,’ he whispered. He used the Irish term
pagánach.
Murgal had good hearing.
‘Did I hear the Christian Saxon call us pagans?’ he cried out in a loud voice.
Eadulf was about to reply when he remembered the proscription against speaking. He said nothing.
‘Let him confirm that he called us pagan, lord,’ urged Murgal.
‘Your hearing is as good as anyone’s,’ Laisre replied. ‘It is the term that those of the new Faith often call us.’
‘I know it,’ affirmed Murgal. ‘And the very word
pagánach
is not even a word in the language of the children of Eireann. What better proof of their alien philosophy is this use of that word?’
‘We do not seek to argue that
pagánach
is a word now adopted into our language,’ intervened Brother Solin wheezily. ‘It is from the Latin
paganus.’
Murgal was smiling broadly.
‘Exactly! Even in Latin it describes correctly what I am – a person of the country,
pagus –
as opposed to the
milites
or the soldiers who march through the country devastating it. You Christians are proud to call yourselves
milites,
enrolled soldiers of Christ, and look down on the civilians or
paganus
who you would trample on. I am proud to be called
pagan
! It is an honourable estate.’
Fidelma had known that Murgal was a clever man but she was
surprised that he had such a knowledge of Latin. She rose to her feet once more.
‘I repeat, I am not here to discuss theology. I am here only to discuss how best we might agree a practical matter.’
Orla rose abruptly from behind Colla’s empty chair. She was clearly enjoying the argument.
‘If my husband were here, he would challenge this representative of Cashel. But I have a right to speak at this council not only in my husband’s stead but as the sister of the chieftain.’
‘Let Orla speak!’ came a cry which gathered momentum from the seated dignitaries and those standing behind them.
Laisre motioned his sister, Orla, forward.
‘There is no secret that I and Colla, my husband, have disagreed with Laisre, my brother. He has refused Imleach’s attempt to bring Christianity to this valley for years and now he has invited members of the Faith to bring their alien teachings here. My brother, Laisre, is foolish if he thinks that allowing this new Faith to be practised here would see a swift destruction of it. Look at the position of this Faith throughout the five kingdoms. Two centuries ago Laoghaire of Tara took such a view that there was always room for another religion in the land and that suppressing it would merely make it breed faster. He allowed the followers of the Briton, Patrick, to have freedom to worship their God. Two centuries later there are only a few tiny outposts in the five kingdoms where we still follow the gods of our ancestors. The new religion dominates everywhere. Give it breathing space and it will choke the rest of us.’
There was a banging of feet and applause as Orla resumed her seat.
To Fidelma’s irritation, Brother Solin had risen to his feet.
‘Since Fidelma of Cashel will not debate with you, I, as representative of the Comarb of Patrick, who sits in Armagh, feel that I should take up the challenge she discards so lightly. I ask your indulgence to address this council.’
Fidelma’s face had taken on a stony look and she was staring straight ahead. Her mind was working rapidly. This was not the negotiation that she had been expecting. No one had given her any indication that this was to be a debate on theology in which her task was to seek proselytes. She felt that she was being manoeuvred into a debate as a distraction. But why?
Laisre asked Brother Solin to stand forward and invited him to speak.
Brother Solin shot a glance of triumph at Fidelma.
‘What is it that you fear about the religion of Christ?’ he demanded looking at Murgal.
‘Simply, that it destroys the old.’
‘And is that a bad thing?’
Murgal smiled threateningly.
‘We worship the ancient gods and goddesses who are the Ever Lasting Ones. Your Christ was executed and died. Was he therefore a powerful warrior? Did he have thousands defending him? No, he was a lowly carpenter who, irony of ironies, died on a tree!’
Murgal looked around him with a self-satisfied grin and added: ‘You see, I have studied some of this religion of Christ.’
Brother Solin had reddened at the gibe.
‘It was so ordained that the Christ, who was the Son of God, should die to bring peace to the world. God so loves this world, we are told, that he gave his only son to die for it.’
‘Such a god,’ sneered Murgal. ‘He had to kill his own son to show love! Was he jealous of his son? Your God’s son is as poor as his father!’
Brother Solin began to choke angrily.
‘How dare you … ?’
‘Loss of temper is no argument.’ Clearly, Murgal was enjoying himself. ‘Tell us what your God taught? We would like to hear. Was he a strong god? Did he teach resistance to those who would enslave people? Did he teach self-reliance or the practice of what is good and just? Did he teach resistance to those who do wrong? No, for I have heard it with my own ears. He taught poverty of spirit. It is written in your sacred texts – “Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven”. Your God’s heaven is not the Otherworld where justice, morality and manly self-reliance are rewarded in the hall of the heroes who sit with the Ever Living Ones.
BOOK: Valley of the Shadow
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