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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 (15 page)

BOOK: Valley of the Shadow
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‘We want to look around your pleasant valley a while. We shall return soon.’
Laisre hesitated and then shrugged.
‘Very well. Thank you for agreeing.’ He nudged his horse and went back in the direction of the ráth at a canter.
Eadulf looked wistfully after him.
‘I could have gone back to sleep for a while,’ he moaned. ‘I do not see the purpose in these games, Fidelma.’
‘It is called diplomacy, Eadulf,’ grinned his companion. ‘The problem is that I do not know who is representing whom. Now let us see if this group of houses will reveal the information I want to know.’
They rode across the bridge into a tiny square surrounded by half-a-dozen homesteads. The largest was a sizable farmhouse. The others appeared to be no more than cabins which could belong either to people with small fields to work or the workers on the larger farm.
A large, red-faced woman was standing leaning against the door of the big farmstead watching their approach with unconcealed curiosity. Fidelma had noticed her immediately they had paused by the bridge to talk with Laisre. The woman looked a typical farmer’s wife, she was thick-set with muscular arms, ready to do a day’s work in the fields. She had been studying them carefully and with a degree of hostility on her features.
‘Health on you, good woman,’ greeted Fidelma.
‘My man is at the council,’ snapped the woman in an unfriendly tone. ‘He is Ronan and he is lord of this place.’
‘I am come from the council myself.’
‘I know who you are.’
‘Good.’ Fidelma swung herself down from her horse. ‘Then I do not have to explain.’
The woman scowled discouragingly.
‘I told you that my man was away.’
‘It was not your man that I came to see. You say you know who I am. Good. What is your name?’
The woman looked suspicious.
‘Bairsech. Why do you want to know? What is it you want?’
‘To talk, that is all, Bairsech. Do you have many people living in this settlement?’
‘Twice twenty,’ the woman replied indifferently.
‘Did you have a visitor last night?’
‘A visitor? We had several. My man was at the feasting, as was his right, and three cousins stayed with us, having come down the valley to attend. It is a long journey back at night, especially when one has drink taken.’
Fidelma smiled, trying to put the still hostile woman at ease.
‘You are wise, Bairsech. But were there any other visitors, other than your cousins, that stayed here? I mean,’ she decided to be explicit, ‘a thick-set man who is currently a guest at the ráth.’
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
‘Thick-set? A man with his head cut in that ridiculous manner which your companion wears?’
Eadulf flushed in irritation at the reference to his tonsure but kept silent.
‘The same.’
‘A man in fine clothes? Oh yes, he was here. I saw him leaving this morning when I was up to milk the cows, leaving my man still snoring abed. Yes. He was here.’
‘Does he know your man, then – know Ronan?’
‘I said he was here in the settlement. He was not staying with our household.’
She jerked her head towards a small building set apart from the others with its own stable and an adjacent field in which half-a-dozen cattle were grazing peacefully.
‘That is where he stayed.’
Fidelma turned to gaze upon the small building with interest.
‘And who dwells there?’
‘A woman of the flesh,’ replied the other disapprovingly. It was a euphemism for a prostitute.
Fidelma’s eyes widened in astonishment. She had not expected a prostitute to be dwelling in this isolated valley, let alone in such a small hamlet.
‘And does she have a name, this woman of the flesh?’
‘She is called Nemon.’
‘Nemon? An inappropriate name for one of her calling it would seem.’
Nemon was the name of one of the ancient war goddesses. It meant ‘battle-fury’.
‘I spit on the name,’ the burly woman suited the word to the action, ‘I have told my man that she should be driven away from here. Yet the farmstead is her property and she is under the protection of Murgal.’
‘She is? And you say that the man I described stayed with her last night?’
‘I did.’
‘Then we will go and see what Nemon has to say about this. Thank you, Bairsech, for your time and courtesy.’
They left the woman still scowling in suspicion after them.
Eadulf had slid off his horse by now and together they walked across the settlement, leading their horses.
‘Who would have thought our pious brother from the north was a frequenter of women of the flesh,’ he chuckled.
‘We do not know that for sure,’ Fidelma reproved him. ‘All we know is that he did not return to the guests’ hostel and appears to have stayed the night at the house of a prostitute. It does not imply that he is a frequenter of such places. The fact that this Nemon is under the protection of Murgal is a more interesting aspect of this affair.’
They walked up to the door of the cabin and tapped upon its oak wood panels.
A moment later it opened and a woman stood regarding them with the same hostility on her features as that of the farmer’s wife.
She was a fleshy woman, in her fourth decade of life, with straw-coloured hair and ruddy features. Her face was heavy with make-up, the eyebrows dyed with berry juice and her lips crimsoned. She had been attractive once; but that must have been some years ago and now she had a voluptuousness that was gross rather than alluring. She examined them for a moment with her dark eyes and then focussed over their shoulder to where Bairsech, the wife of Ronan, still stood watching their every move with unconcealed curiosity.
‘Her nose grows longer each day,’ the woman muttered. ‘Bairsech is a name which suits her well.’ Fidelma suddenly realised that the name could be applied to a brawling woman. Then the woman stood aside and motioned them in. ‘Come inside and do not give her the pleasure of examining us further.’
They hitched their horses to a small post outside the building and entered.
It was a comfortable room but not inviting.
‘Are you Nemon?’
The woman nodded.
‘You are strangers to the valley.’ It was a statement not a question.
‘You do not know why we are here?’
‘I know nothing and care less. I care only for my comfort and my time is gauged in what I may profit from it.’
Fidelma turned to Eadulf.
‘Give Nemon a
screpall
,’ she instructed.
Unwillingly Eadulf took the coin out of his purse and handed it to the woman. She almost snatched it out of his hand and examined it suspiciously.
‘Money is rare in this valley. We usually barter. But money is therefore thrice welcome.’
She assured herself that the coin was genuine before regarding them with a question on her features.
‘What is it you want? Not my services,’ she added, laughing lewdly, ‘that’s for sure.’
Fidelma shook her head, hiding her distaste at even the suggestion.
‘We want a few moments of your time, that’s all. And the answers to some questions.’
‘Very well. Ask your questions.’
‘I am told that you had a guest here last night.’
‘Yes.’
‘A man from the ráth? Thick-set. Wearing fine clothes with his head in a tonsure … cut in the fashion of my friend here?’
‘What of it?’ Nemon made no attempt to disguise the fact.
‘When did he come?’
‘Late. After midnight, I believe. I had to dispense with two customers to accommodate him.’
‘Why?’
‘He paid me.’
‘Yet a stranger … would you not have been better served to continue with your local clients than serve a stranger who might visit you only once?’
Nemon sniffed.
‘True enough. But Murgal was with him and told me that I would not lose by it.’
‘Murgal?’
‘Yes. He brought the man to me. Solin was the man’s name. I remember now.’
‘And Murgal the Druid to Laisre brought the man from the ráth to you and asked you to … to bestow your favours on him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Murgal give you a reason why you should do this?’
‘Do you think that people give me reasons for what they do? I ask no questions so long as I receive money for my services.’
‘Have you known Murgal long?’
‘He is my foster-father. He looks after me.’
‘Your foster-father? And he looks after you?’ Fidelma’s voice took on an air of cynicism. ‘Have you known any other life but the one you now pursue?’
Nemon laughed disdainfully.
‘You are disapproving? Do you think I should be like Ronan’s woman across the yard there? Look at her, a woman who is younger than I am but who looks old enough to be my mother. Old before her time because she is condemned to go out into the fields at the crack of dawn and milk the cows while her husband lies in a drunken slumber. She has to plough fields and dig and sow and harvest while he rides about pretending to be a great warrior, not a lord, as he claims, but merely a sub-chieftain of this pitiful collection of hovels. No, I want no other life than the one I have. At least I sleep in fine linen sheets and for as long as I like.’
The derision on the woman’s face was plain.
‘Yet I notice that you have a small farm to run,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘There are cows outside to be milked. Who does your work if you do not?’
Nemon screwed up her face in an ugly gesture.
‘I only keep them because they are money. I would sell them tomorrow if the price was right. They are too much hard work. But, as I said, this valley is mainly a place of barter, so I must expect cows, goats, chickens, eggs and the like in place of coins.’
‘Thank you for speaking with us,’ Fidelma abruptly said, rising to leave.
‘No thanks are necessary. You paid me for my time. Come again, if you need more conversation.’
Outside the cabin of Nemon, Eadulf exchanged a wry look with Fidelma.
‘Do you think that Murgal was appeasing Brother Solin in some way?’
Fidelma looked speculative as she considered the question.
‘You mean, he bribed him? He used Nemon to put Solin in a good mood in order to take part in this morning’s play-acting at the council meeting?’
Eadulf nodded.
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Perhaps Brother Solin simply cannot resist the comfort that a woman like Nemon can provide. Maybe he
asked Murgal where he might find such comfort. Murgal seems to have ideas in that direction himself.’
‘You refer to the incident with Marga, the apothecary?’
Fidelma did not reply but mounted her horse.
Bairsech, the wife of Ronan, was still standing outside her door, her broad arms folded, and watching them with intense dislike as, together, they began to ride slowly away from the group of farm buildings over the bridge in the direction of the ráth.
‘I wonder if Ultan of Armagh knows that his secretary is the sort of person to visit a woman of the flesh?’ mused Eadulf.
Fidelma was serious.
‘I doubt it. Ultan is in favour of the new ideas emanating from Rome on the celibacy of clergy.’
‘It will never catch on,’ Eadulf averred. ‘It is true that there are always going to be some aesthetics but for all the clergy of the Faith to take such vows is demanding too much of human beings.’
Fidelma gave him a sideways glance.
‘I thought you approved of the idea?’
Eadulf coloured but did not answer.
‘Well, at least we have solved the mystery of where Brother Solin was last night,’ he said hurriedly.
‘Yes, but not why. We will have to keep a watch on both Murgal and our Brother Solin.’
Eadulf sighed.
‘All I want, at the moment, is to be able to stretch out and sleep until my head stops pounding.’
They rode slowly back to the ráth. There were only a few people about. It being midday, most had retired for the midday meal. Eadulf was still moaning about his headache and Fidelma, finally taking pity on him, suggested that he go straight to the hostel while she stabled the horses. He received the suggestion without demur and he left her outside the stables and made his way across the stone-flagged courtyard. Fidelma led the two horses inside and took them to the far stalls which were the only empty ones. There was no sign of the two boys who usually looked after the stables but it did not take her long to unsaddle the horses and provide them with fodder and water.
She was bending in the stalls to retrieve the discarded saddle bags when she heard someone enter the stable. She was about to stand up when she heard Brother Solin’s voice speaking in a defensive tone. She hesitated for a moment and then some instinct made her sink back to her knees behind the cover of the stall’s panels.
There were two voices. It was easy to recognise the sibilant wheezy tones of Brother Solin but she could not recognise the second voice. It was young and masculine. What made her hesitate in identifying herself was the fact that this second voice also spoke in a northern accent. She edged carefully to the entrance of the stall and managed a quick glance around its shelter. Brother Solin and a young man were standing just inside the doors of the stable. She darted back behind the cover of the wooden stall.
‘There,’ came Brother Solin’s tones, ‘at least we can be unobserved.’
‘It matters not whether we are observed or not,’ replied the younger voice. There was anger in his tone.
‘On the contrary,’ Brother Solin replied suavely, ‘if anyone here knew that you were here to spy among these people they would not take kindly to it. They might decide to do something … shall we say, drastic?’
‘A harsh word is “spy” especially from such as you,’ sneered the young man. ‘And what of your own mission here?’
‘Do you question my right to be in this place?’
‘Right? What right? I certainly question your intentions.’
‘Listen, my young friend,’ Brother Solin seemed unperturbed, ‘and listen to me well. I advise you to stay out of the business of Armagh. You think that you are immune because of those whom you serve? Well, there are greater powers than your master and they will not tolerate interference.’
There was an angry intake of breath from the younger man.
‘Make no idle threats with me, pompous cleric, for your cloth will be no protection from the wrath of him I serve.’
There was a sudden silence.
Cautiously, Fidelma raised her head over the edge of the wooden stall again and this time saw the stocky figure of Brother Solin standing alone by the door, staring out of it. It seemed his adversary must have left. Brother Solin stood for a moment or two, as if deep in thought, and then he shrugged his shoulders and also left.
Fidelma came out of the stall and stood undecided for a while, trying to put an interpretation on what she had heard. Suppressing a sigh at the impossibility of the task, she turned back and picked up the saddle bags. She went to the door, hesitating to make sure no one observed her. She caught sight of Brother Solin entering the apothecary shop across the courtyard.
She hurried across the courtyard to the guests’ hostel.
Cruinn, the portly hostel-keeper, was preparing the midday meal. She looked up with a fleshy smile as Fidelma entered.
‘Your companion, the foreigner, has gone to bed,’ she announced with some amusement. ‘But there be many men in the ráth doing likewise this day. Will you sit down to a meal?’
Fidelma indicated that she would and that she would first have a word with Eadulf to see how he fared. She was about to go up when the portly woman cleared her throat as if embarrassed.
‘Might I have a word, lady, while we are alone?’
Intrigued, Fidelma turned back to her in curiosity.
‘Feel free to speak,’ she invited.
‘I have been told that you are a
dálaigh,
familiar with our laws. Is that so?’
Fidelma nodded affirmatively.
‘Do you know all about the laws on marriage?’
Fidelma was not expecting such a question and raised her eyebrows in surprise.
‘I know the text of the
Cáin Lánamna,
yes.’ She smiled encouragement at the nervous woman. ‘Are you thinking of marriage,
Cruinn? Best you should consult with Murgal. He would know your pagan ceremonies.’
The hostel keeper shook her head, wiping her hands on a large saffron-coloured apron.
‘No; not him. I want some advice. I will pay, though I have not much.’
So anxious was her face that Fidelma took her by the arm and made her sit down on a bench at the table while she took a seat opposite.
‘You may ask my advice for nothing, Cruinn. If it is so important to you. How may I help?’
‘I want to know …’ The elderly woman hesitated and then proceeded carefully. ‘I want to know whether a woman of lowly position can marry a person of chiefly blood. Is there danger that the marriage might not be legal?’
Fidelma was quietly amused. She was about to ask what chief Cruinn planned to marry but felt that it was a silly mockery on her part.
‘It depends on the position of the chieftain. Is he of royal lineage?’
‘No. He is an
aire coisring,
a chieftain of a small clan,’ the woman replied immediately.
‘I see. Well, usually, the more formal types of union should be of partners from the same social class. Even a
bó-aire
is expected to marry the daughter of a man of equal rank. But such marriages between the lower class and higher class are known.’
Cruinn looked up swiftly, almost eagerly.
‘And is the marriage valid?’
‘Oh, of course. But I warn you that the financial burden of a socially mixed marriage falls more heavily on the family of the partner of the lower class. I will tell you this: if it is the woman who is of the lower class, as you seem to indicate, then her family has to supply two thirds of the cattle of joint wealth. It is a great step to take and think well on it, Cruinn, before you agree to any such liaison.’
Cruinn shook her head and smiled thinly.
‘Oh no, it is not my marriage, for I have been most happily married and have a child. Though my man is dead, I am content. No, I ask on behalf of someone I know who would never bother to ask.’
Fidelma hid her smile. The woman would surely not ask such questions for a friend. Fidelma was sure that it was a personal matter but could not imagine Cruinn winning the heart of even
the lowest lord of a clan. She realised that she was prejudiced, of course, but that realisation could not prevent the feeling of amused cynicism arising.
‘Tell your friend to think well on it, then, for there is an ancient triad which says it is a misfortune for the offspring of a commoner to aspire to marriage with the offspring of even the lowest grade of lord.’
Cruinn stood up and bobbed in gratitude.
‘I will remember and am grateful for your advice, lady. Now I will prepare your meal.’
Thinking it was a curious world, Fidelma hurried up the stairs to deposit her saddle bags in her room before turning into Eadulf’s chamber with his bags.
Eadulf lay stretched on his bed with his eyes shut.
‘How are you?’ she asked sympathetically, putting his bags on a nearby table.
Eadulf winced at the sound of her voice and did not open his eyes.
‘I think it is time to sing a
cepóc
for me but do not sing it too loudly.’
Fidelma grinned. A
cepóc
was a funeral dirge, a lament for the passing of someone into the Otherworld.
‘Have you tried the infusion that Marga gave you?’ she inquired, feeling solicitous.
‘I will, as soon as that portly virago vanishes from the kitchen.’
‘The woman Cruinn?’
‘The same,’ sighed Eadulf. ‘She tried to make me eat some squishy mess when I came in. Another herbal remedy. I swear she is trying to kill me. She told me that it would help me recover and that she ought to know good medicines for she was often gathering herbs for the apothecary.’
‘Well, you are no use to me until you recover your senses, Eadulf,’ Fidelma said. ‘I am going down to eat now. Get better as soon as you can.’
Downstairs she found that Brother Dianach had arrived and was already seated at his meal. Cruinn had already laid out the food and departed. Fidelma greeted the young monk and sat down. There was no sign of Brother Solin nor of the newcomer to the ráth.
‘Is Brother Solin ailing?’ she asked, suddenly remembering that she had last seen him entering the apothecary shop.
Brother Dianach looked up in surprise.
‘Ailing? No. What makes you think so?’
Fidelma decided to keep her own council.
‘So many people seem caught with the affliction of the bad wine of last night.’
Brother Dianach sniffed in disapproval.
‘I did warn Brother Eadulf this morning that like does not cure like.’
‘So you did,’ Fidelma replied absently picking at her food. ‘I thought I heard that there was another guest arriving here in the ráth?’
Again Brother Dianach was unresponsive.
‘I have not heard so.’
‘It was another traveller from Ulaidh.’
‘No. You are surely mistaken.’
There was a sound on the stair and Eadulf, pale and wan, came down and, without a word to them, began to prepare some infusion from a small bag of medicines that he usually carried. Fidelma noticed that he did not use the foxglove leaves that Marga had given him. However, she knew that Eadulf was well enough trained in the art of herbal mixtures to trust he knew what he was doing.
After a while he came to the table with a beaker of some aromatic brew and began to sip it with closed eyes.
‘Similia similibus curantur?’
Brother Dianach gibed derisively.
‘Contraria contrariis curantur,’
replied Eadulf with a shudder. ‘I will see you later.’ He rose looking pale and unsteady, still bearing his beaker of liquid and retired to his room.
The door opened and Brother Solin entered. He seemed flushed and agitated.
‘Is the hostel keeper here?’ he demanded. ‘I am hungry.’
Fidelma was about to say that he could help himself to food when Brother Dianach leapt to his feet.
‘I will bring you the food, Brother Solin.’
Fidelma stared at the thick-set secretary in disapproval.
‘Your nose is bleeding, Solin,’ she remarked dispassionately. She also noticed that the front of the man’s linen shirt was badly stained with wine and there were some dried flecks over his forehead. Someone had recently thrown wine in the cleric’s face, of that she was certain.
Solin grimaced and drew out a cloth to hold to his nose. He offered no explanation but regarded her with censure in his eyes.
‘I hope this afternoon will see better progress on the matter of bringing the Faith to this place.’
‘You caused this morning to be wasted,’ she replied coldly.
Brother Dianach hurried back with the plate of food for his master and resumed his seat with an unhappy expression.
Solin scowled at Fidelma.
‘Wasted? There is no waste when one preaches the Word. If you would not defend your Faith before these pagans, then it was up to me to do so.’
In spite of their earlier argument, Solin could not apparently understand that he had incurred Fidelma’s censure.
‘Did you not see that Murgal was trying to lead me into the trap of arguing theology to waste time and avoid the main purpose of my visit here?’ she demanded.
‘I simply saw that, sooner than stand up for your Faith, you removed yourself from the hall and left the pagans victorious!’ snapped Solin. ‘And I will pass that information on to Ultan of Armagh to whom you may have to answer.’
‘Then you are blind as well as a fool, Solin. You may pass my opinion on to Ultan as well.’
Having finished her meal, Fidelma rose and left the hostel. She was intrigued as to who the mysterious young man from Ulaidh was but needed to discover the fact without arousing attention.
At the gate she recognised one of the two warriors who stood talking there. The fair-haired Rudgal, the secret Christian. She walked across the courtyard and greeted him by name, nodding in affable fashion to the second man.
‘I hear that there is another visitor to this ráth from the north?’ she began.
Rudgal gave her an appreciative glance.
‘There is little that escapes you, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he replied. ‘Yes, while you and the Saxon were down in Ronan’s hamlet below, a merchant arrived.’
BOOK: Valley of the Shadow
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