Valley of the Shadow

Chapter Five

Gleann Geis was spectacular. The floor of the valley was a level plain through which a fair-sized river pushed its sedate way, apparently rising at the far end from a turbulent mountain stream, cascading over precipitous waterfalls that dropped for incredible distances. Then it raced its way into another fissure, much like the dried-up gorge through which they had made their entrance. It passed through the gap in the granite barrier on its journey out of the glen. The valley floor was covered mainly in cereal and grain fields, cultivated yellowing squares of corn and wheat, set among swathes of grazing land on which cattle herds stood out as bright groups of brown, white and black against the green carpet. A few small white flocks of sheep and goats were dotted among them.

It occurred to Eadulf immediately that here was a fruitful valley; rich with pastoral land as well as cultivated areas. It was surrounded by a natural fortification. The walls of the encircling mountains stretched away with their lofty, unscalable heights which sheltered the valley from the winds. He was able to pick out buildings which seemed to cling to the sides of the mountains. Most of them appeared to be erected on little terraces. The same blue-grey granite blocks that were used in the walls of the buildings were also used in the barriers which created the terraces.

There was no need to ask which of the several buildings in the glen was the ráth of Laisre. Towards the head of the valley, in splendid isolation and set upon a single large mound of a hill, were the walls of a large ráth, or fortress, its bulwarks following the contours of the hill. Eadulf was unsure whether the hill, perhaps hillock was a better description for it rose less than a hundred feet from the valley floor, or so he estimated, was a natural phenomenon or not. Eadulf knew that some of the heights on which such fortresses were built were man-made and he wondered at the incredible time and labour of ancient times involved in producing such an elevation. They were too far away to see the detail but he knew that the great walls must stand twenty feet high.

It was an impressive valley — yes; but even with its width andits length, Eadulf felt an overwhelming claustrophobia as he gazed upwards at the surrounding mountains. He had a feeling of being shut in, of being imprisoned. He glanced at Fidelma and found that she, too, had been intently examining the breath-taking landscape and there was the same degree of awe on her features.

Orla had been watching their expressions as they surveyed their surroundings with a faintly scornful smile of satisfaction on her lips.

‘You may now understand why this is called the Forbidden Valley,’ she observed.

Fidelma regarded her gravely.

‘Inaccessible — yes,’ she agreed, ‘but why forbidden?’

‘The bards of our people sing of the time beyond time. It was in the days when Oillil Olum was said to have sat in judgment at Cashel and when we dwelt outside the boundaries of this place. We dwelt in the shadow of a mighty Fomorii lord who devastated our lands and our peoples by his greed and lust. Eventually our chieftain decided to move our people away from the reach of the Fomorii tyrant, seeking a new land to settle in. So it was we eventually came to this place. It was, as you see, a natural fortification against the enemies of our people. There is only one path into it and the same path out …’

‘Except the river,’ Eadulf pointed out.

The woman laughed.

‘Only if you are a salmon can you hope to enter the valley that way. The river cuts through the rock and over many rapids and waterfalls. No boat can get up or down. No, this is a natural fortress and only those we invite in may enter. To those we do not wish to greet in friendship, it remains the Forbidden Valley. A few sturdy warriors may hold the gorge, as you have seen.’

‘I also see that you have an abundance of warriors, unusual in a small clan,’ observed Fidelma.

Orla was deprecating.

‘None are professional such as those that you have at Cashel. Our clan is too small. Each of our warriors has other tasks to fulfil. Artgal, for example, is a blacksmith and has a small farm. Each man, in turn, serves when needed to ensure our safety against potential enemies. Though, for the most part, we are secured by nature’s decree.’

‘An enclosed form of life,’ Eadulf sighed. ‘How many dwell under the rule of Laisre?’

‘Five hundred,’ Orla admitted.

‘It occurs to me that if you have lived here for generations, surely it restricts your growth as a people?’

Orla frowned trying to understand Eadulf’s oblique point.

‘What my brother in Christ is saying,’ intervened Fidelma, conscious of his line of thought, ‘concerns the matter of incestuous marriage.’

Orla looked surprised.

‘But incest is forbidden by law.’

‘Surely in a small community, locked within this valley for years …’ Eadulf began to explain.

Orla understood and stared at him in disapproval.

‘The Cáin Lánamna states that there can only be nine types of marriage and this we adhere to. We are not as primitive as you would paint us, Saxon. Our bards keep strict genealogies and we have the services of a matchmaker who travels on our behalf.’

‘Who administers the law among you?’ interrupted Fidelma intrigued.

‘My brother’s Druid, Murgal. He is our Brehon as well as spiritual guide. His reputation is without equal in this part of the country. You will soon encounter him for he will negotiate for Laisre. But we delay, let us proceed to my brother’s ráth.’

Fidelma glanced surreptitiously at the woman. She began to respect Orla’s firmness of mind and easy authority, although she disagreed with her philosophy.

The road they were taking led from the gorge slightly downhill to a large sprawl of granite boulders. From their midst, standing by the roadside, there arose a large carved statue of a male figure, almost three times as big as a man. It was sitting cross-legged, one leg slightly tucked under the body. From its head great antler horns rose up. Around the neck, was a hero’s gold torc. The arms were held up so that the hands were on a level with each shoulder. In the left hand, a second hero’s torc was grasped while in the right hand a long snake was held, the hand gripping the serpent just behind the head.

Eadulf’s eyes almost started from their sockets as he viewed the great pagan idol.

‘Soli Deo gloria!’ he gasped. ‘What is that?’

Fidelma was unperturbed.

‘It is Lugh Lamhfada — Lugh of the Long Hand — who was worshipped in ancient times …’

‘And still is, here,’ Orla reminded her grimly.

‘An evil apparition!’ breathed Eadulf.

‘Not so,’ Orla said sharply. ‘He is a god of light and learning,renowned for the splendour of his countenance; the god of all arts and crafts; the father of the hero Cúchulainn by the mortal woman Dechtíre. The god whose festival we celebrate at the feast of Lughnasadh which is next month when we harvest our crops.’

Eadulf crossed himself swiftly as they passed the impassive seated figure whose grey stone eyes stared at them indifferently.

They rode silently along the valley road towards the distant ráth. Eadulf found himself confirmed in his first thoughts that this was a wealthy enclave. The mountains which gave protection from the winds also encouraged crops to grow while, at the same time, by catching the rain clouds, causing the valley to be fertile. Here and there, the heavy rainfalls over the millennia had formed little patches of bogland but, all in all, it was fecund country with trees bearing fruits as well as an abundance of grain crops. Sheep, goats and cattle held to the high ground pastures.

As they passed, now and then, people stopped to stare at them; some greeted Orla with familiarity which she acknowledged. Fidelma had the impression from their appearance that here, in spite of a difference of religion, dwelt a content and self-sufficient people. It puzzled her for it did not seem to balance with the terrible sight which had met their eyes in the glen outside this valley.

As they approached the grey granite walls of the ráth, Fidelma saw that it was no mere ornamental fortress. In spite of the natural defences of the valley which surrounded it, its great walls and battlements, as well as its situation at the head of the valley, were so constructed that, should a hostile force break through the gorge, a few warriors could still defend it from an entire army. It had been constructed by experts in the martial arts. Again the question crossed Fidelma’s mind why such a small clan would need to have such defensive structures in a valley already naturally defended?

Of course, in the old days, when tribe fought against tribe for the best territories and to increase their wealth, such fortresses were widely spread throughout the five kingdoms. Cashel itself had been raised to protect the E6ghanacht from their more jealous neighbours, just as the other great fortress capitals of Tara, Navan, Ailech, Cruachan and Ailenn had also been built. But, while this ráth was nowhere near the size of the others, it was a strong and well-built fortress with several buildings of two and even three storeys in height. She could even observe a large squat watch tower.

She was aware of several sentinels staring down at their approach from the walls of the ráth and women as well as men were crowding to see their arrival. Two warriors stood before the open gates of the fortress. Fidelma noticed that these were heavy timber doors of oak, reinforced with iron and iron hinges. She noticed that the hinges were well greased and the doors, though standing wide open, had the appearance of being other than mere ornaments. Above this gateway, a banner of blue silk on which was embroidered a hand holding a sword aloft, was fluttering in the breeze — the emblem of the chieftain of Gleann Geis.

A tall, fair-haired warrior, standing by the gate, held up his hand in respectful greeting.

‘You have returned without your escort but with two strangers, Orla. Is anything amiss?’

‘I am escorting the emissary from Cashel to my brother, Rudgal. Artgal and the others will follow soon. There was … was a matter they had to investigate.’

The fair warrior’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as his glance fell first on Fidelma and then on Eadulf. But he stood aside respectfully while Orla led the way through the gates into a large flagged courtyard surrounded by a large complex of buildings. The square was traditional with a large oak tree growing in its centre. Eadulf was now observant enough about custom to know that the tree was the crann betha, the tree of life, or totem of the clan. Eadulf knew that the tree symbolised the moral and material well-being of the people. If disputes arose between opposing clans that one of the worst things that could happen was that the rival clan raided the other clan’s territory to cut down or burn their rival’s sacred tree. Such an act demoralised the clan and caused their rivals to claim victory over them.

Two young boys came running forward as Orla slid from her horse.

‘The stable lads will take your horses,’ Orla announced as Fidelma and Eadulf followed her example and dismounted. The boys took the reins from them while they unstrapped their saddle bags.

‘I presume you will want to refresh yourselves from the arduous journey before you meet my brother and the others?’ the wife of the tanist continued. ‘I will show you to our guests’ hostel. After you have bathed and eaten, my brother Laisre will doubtless want to greet you in the council chamber.’

Fidelma indicated that arrangement suited them well. One or two people crossing the courtyard of the ráth greeted Orla and thenturned their gaze on Fidelma and Eadulf with undisguised interest. Orla made no attempt to explain who they were. A young girl came running forward.

‘What brings you back so early, Mother?’ she demanded. ‘Who are these strangers?’

Fidelma could see the likeness between Orla and the girl immediately. The girl was about fourteen, not much more. Her manner of dress and jewellery showed that she was past the age of choice in that she was regarded as an adult. She had her mother’s dark, abundantly curly hair and flashing eyes. In spite of her youth she was attractive and aware of her allure for she carried herself with a coquettish self-aware attitude.

Orla greeted her daughter with absent-minded distance.

‘Who are these Christians, Mother?’ insisted the girl, obviously recognising their manner of dress. ‘Are they prisoners?’

Orla frowned slightly and shook her head.

‘They are emissaries from Cashel, Esnad. Guests of your uncle. Now be off with you. Plenty of time to greet them later.’

The young girl, Esnad, turned an openly speculative gaze on Eadulf.

‘That one is foreign but quite handsome for a foreigner,’ she ventured with a flirtatious expression.

Fidelma tried to hide her amusement while Eadulf blushed furiously.

‘Esnad!’ snapped her mother in irritation. ‘Be off!’

The girl turned with a backward smile at Eadulf and walked slowly across the courtyard, her hips swaying slightly suggestively. Orla heaved a sigh of exasperation.

‘Your daughter is at the age of choice?’ observed Fidelma.

Orla nodded.

‘It is hard to find a husband for her. I fear that she has her own ideas. She is a trial, that one.’

She continued on, leading them to a large two-storey building set against one of the outer walls of the ráth. Orla opened the door and stood aside.

‘I will send the hostel keeper to you and, when you are refreshed, she will bring you to Laisre’s chamber.’

She inclined her head briefly to Fidelma and then left them to their own devices.

In the security of the main room of the guests’ hostel, a room where the guests obviously ate and where meals were prepared, Fidelma threw her saddle bags on to the table and sank into the nearest chair, giving a deep sigh of exhaustion.

‘I have spent too long on horseback, Eadulf,’ she remarked. ‘I have forgotten what it is to relax in a chair.’

Eadulf glanced around at the accommodation. It was a comfortably decorated room with a fire already lit above which a cooking pot was steaming and emitting pleasant aromas.

‘At least Laisre’s guests seem well provided for,’ he muttered. The room stretched the entire length of the building and there was a long table with benches on either side and a couple of more elaborate wooden chairs. This was obviously the dining area. At the far end, by the fire, were all the accoutrements for cooking. There were four doors leading to other rooms on the lower level. Eadulf put down his saddle bags and crossed to them, taking a quick look inside.

‘Two bathing rooms,’ he announced. He opened the other doors, grunted in disgust and crossed himself. ‘The others are the fialtech.’ The Irish term came easily to him for the ‘veil house’ was a colloquialism for a privy and had been picked up from the Roman concept. Many religious believed that the Devil dwelt within the privy and it had become the custom to make the sign of the cross before entering it.

A wooden staircase led to the upper level. Here Eadulf found there were four small rooms, cell-like affairs. He peered into each one in turn, noticing the wooden cots already laid out with their straw mattresses, woollen blankets and linen sheets. After a moment or so he retraced his steps downstairs to where Fidelma was still stretched in her chair.

‘There seems to be two other guests,’ he observed. ‘Rich guests by the look of their baggage in the cubicles. And one is obviously a cleric.’

Fidelma looked up in surprise.

‘I was not told to expect anyone else at this meeting. Who could it be?’

‘Perhaps Bishop Ségdae has sent some other cleric to represent him and the abbey?’ hazarded Eadulf.

‘Hardly likely since he concurred with Colgú’s delegation of me. No, no cleric from Imleach would come here.’

Eadulf gave a shrug.

‘Didn’t the woman, Orla, say that Ultan of Armagh had sent an emissary to them? Well, we shall know soon enough who the cleric is and who his companion is. We …’

He was cut short when the door of the hostel burst open and a portly, elderly woman bustled in. She wore a beaming smile and walked with a rapid gait, hands folded in front of her. Shebobbed swiftly towards Fidelma and then made a similar obeisance to Eadulf. Her eyes twinkled from beneath deep folds of flesh. She seemed almost spherical in girth.

‘Are you the hostel keeper?’ asked Eadulf, regarding her with slight awe, for she seemed to fill the room with her presence.

‘That I am, stranger. I bid you welcome. Tell me how may I serve you?’

‘A bath,’ Fidelma requested immediately. ‘And then …’

‘Food,’ interposed Eadulf, in case she neglected his order of preference.

The wreaths of flesh quivered.

‘A bath you shall have and that immediately, lady. Since we already have guests, the water is even now heated. And there is food ready to be served.’

Fidelma rose and indicated her satisfaction.

‘Then proceed to draw a bath for me … what is your name?’

The hostel keeper bobbed again towards her.

‘I am called Cruinn, lady.’

Fidelma tried hard to keep a straight face for the name implied one who was round and the name certainly fitted the circular shape of the hostel keeper. The woman stood smiling, apparently unaware of the struggle taking place to mask her features.

‘Tell me, Cruinn,’ Eadulf intervened, catching Fidelma’s eye and distracting the woman in case Fidelma lost her struggle, ‘who is staying in the hostel with us?’

The fat woman turned to him.

‘Why, someone who believes in your God. A noble from the north, I think he is.’

‘A noble from the north?’ Fidelma intervened, abruptly serious.

‘Well, he is richly dressed and with much fine jewellery on him.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘No. That I don’t. But the other, his companion, is called Brother Dianach and is his servant, so I believe.’

‘They are from the north, you say?’ repeated Fidelma as if to make sure there was no mistake.

‘From the distant kingdom of Ulaidh, I am told.’

Fidelma stood thoughtfully.

‘If this is Ultan’s emissary, I wonder what Armagh seeks in this …’ She nearly said ‘godforsaken place’ but it seemed, as the populace did not believe in God, it was not the best of descriptions. Orla had said that Ultan of Armagh had sent gifts to Laisre the chieftain. Gifts from Armagh. But that didn’t make any sense. Whywould Armagh send gifts to a pagan chieftain in a kingdom where it had no jurisdiction and where the people did not even follow the Faith? The rotund hostel keeper interrupted her thoughts.

‘I have little idea who they are or what they want. I only know that people come and stay and then I must work. Better people stay where they belonged than travelled from one place to another.’ Cruinn sighed deeply, a curious wheezy sound and an action which caused her figure to wobble dangerously. ‘Well, it is not my place to complain but that is my view. Come, lady, I will draw your bath first.’

‘I will wait here,’ Eadulf offered, ‘and perhaps there is mead that I might refresh myself with while I am waiting?’

‘You will find it in the cask there,’ indicated Cruinn, speaking over her shoulder as she propelled Fidelma to one of the bathing chambers. ‘But the second bathing tub is ready should you wish to take your bath now.’

Eadulf caught Fidelma’s eye and bit his lip.

‘In that case, it will save time if I bathed now.’ He gave in reluctantly.

As a Saxon he always found the bathing customs of the people of Éireann somewhat extreme. They washed twice daily, with the second wash being a full body bath. Every guests’ hostel had its bath house or houses, each with a large tub or vat for which there were several names but most usually dabach. After the bath, guests would anoint themselves with sweet scented herbal potions.

Not content with a complete bath in the evening, which was called fothrucud, they would, immediately on rising in the morning, wash their face and hands. In both bathing and washing they used a tablet of a scented fatty substance called sléic or soap, which they applied with a linen cloth and worked into a lather. They would even have, at certain times, ritual steam baths in what they called Tigh ’n alluis or ‘sweating houses’ where, in a small stone cabin, great fires were kindled so that the place became heated like an oven and the bather would enter and stay until they were perspiring after which they came out and plunged straight into a cold stream. Eadulf disapproved of this practice vehemently. Surely this was a way to an early grave? His own people were not so enamoured of bathing.

The upper classes of the Saxons bathed weekly, usually a swim being deemed sufficient for the cleansing process. Eadulf was not a dirty person in body, manners or habit but he still felt that the bathing rituals of Éireann were excessive.

An hour later they were finishing their meal when the door of thehostel opened and in came a heavy-jowled man. That he was a cleric was not in question. He wore the tonsure of St Peter but he was clad not in the simple robes that most religieux wore but in elegant silks and embroidered linens and with a bejewelled crucifix the like of which neither Fidelma nor Eadulf had seen since they were in Rome together. Fidelma eyed the man in disapproval. Here was someone whose riches seemed to betray the very teachings of Christ.

The eyes of the man were dark and watchful. They had a curious quality of staring, unblinkingly, like the eyes of an animal watching its prey. The eyes were made small by the largeness of the surrounding features. He was a short man, stocky rather than fat, although the fleshy face made one think he was obese until one noticed the powerful muscular shoulders and thick arms.

‘I am Brother Solin,’ he announced officiously, ‘secretary to Ultan, archbishop of Armagh.’ He intoned his introduction in accents which corroborated that he was from the kingdom of the Uí Néill of Ulaidh. There was something about him which caused Fidelma to take an immediate dislike to him. Perhaps it was the way he stared at her with an almost speculative gaze which left no doubt that he was a man judging her as a woman and not as a person. ‘Orla has informed me of your arrival. You are Sister Fidelma and you must be the foreign cleric.’

‘You are a long way from Armagh, Solin.’ Fidelma rose, unwillingly, but courtesy prompted her to be civil in respect to the position of the northern religieux.

‘As you are from Cashel,’ the stocky man replied, unperturbed, coming forward and seating himself.

‘Cashel is the royal seat of this kingdom, Solin,’ responded Fidelma coldly.

‘Armagh is the royal seat of the Faith in all five kingdoms,’ the man replied with an airy dismissal.

‘That is a question to be debated,’ snapped back Fidelma. ‘The bishop of Imleach makes no such recognition of Armagh.’

‘Well, it is a debate of such delicacy that we should leave it for a future time.’ Solin dismissed the matter with an air of boredom.

Fidelma stood her ground. She decided to be direct.

‘Why is the secretary of Ultan of Armagh in this small corner of my brother’s kingdom?’

Solin poured a mug of mead from the jug on the table.

‘Does Cashel forbid wandering clerics?’

‘That is no answer,’ Fidelma responded. ‘I think you are hardly in the category of a peregrinator pro Christo.’

An angry look came into Solin’s eyes.

‘Sister, I think you forget yourself. As secretary to Ultan …’ he protested.

‘You secure no privileges of rank before me. I am envoy to my brother, the king of Cashel. Why are you here?’

The blood drained momentarily from Solin’s face as he fought his rage at being so bluntly addressed. Then he regained his composure with a tight smile.

‘Ultan of Armagh has sent me to the farthest corners of the five kingdoms to see how the Faith prospers. He has sent me with gifts to distribute …’

The door opened again with abruptness.

It was Orla. She entered with an annoyed expression furrowing her features.

‘What does this mean?’ she snapped. ‘My brother is being kept waiting. Is this the courtesy Cashel extends to its chieftains?’

Solin smirked, rising from his seat.

‘I was just trying to persuade the good sister to accompany me to the chieftain’s council chamber,’ he said obsequiously. ‘She seemed more concerned with the reasons for my presence in Gleann Geis.’

Fidelma opened her mouth to challenge his lie but then snapped it shut. She turned to Orla and met her anger with a stony look.

‘I am ready. Precede us.’

Orla raised an eyebrow, disconcerted for the moment by the haughty expression on Fidelma’s face for she was quite unused to having her authority challenged. Without a further word, she led the way from the hostel. Eadulf and Solin brought up the rear.

The chambers of Laisre were housed in the largest of the buildings in the ráth. A centrally situated three-storey building which, when entered by the great door, revealed a large reception chamber with passageways leading left and right and with a stone stairway to the rooms above. A tall inner door then gave entrance into a large chamber. There were several people gathered there in the high-ceilinged, smoky room. Large tapestries draped the walls and hanging lamps illuminated the room, although the central fire, on which logs were blazing, gave out a strong glowing light and was the cause of the smoky atmosphere.

A couple of deer hounds lay at full length before the roaring fire. To one side of them was a large ornate carved oak chair. Clustered around it were several men and women of the chieftain’s immediate circle. Two warriors guarded the interior door and a third stood just behind the oak chair of office. Fidelma recognised this third warrior as the black-bearded man,named Artgal, who had accompanied Orla when they had first encountered her.

It needed no introduction to identify Laisre, the chieftain of Gleann Geis, even if he had not been sprawling in the great oak chair. Knowing that Orla was his sister Fidelma could distinguish him at once for the resemblance was truly remarkable. He had the same structure of face, the same dark eyes and hair and the same manner of expression. Had he not worn a long wispy dark moustache she would have said they were two peas from the same pod. In fact, as she examined him more closely, she realised that he and Orla must be twins. He was a man of slender looks and handsome with, perhaps, the fault of knowing it. He was not remotely like the image that Fidelma had conjured of a pagan chieftain at Cashel. She had imagined a wild, unruly man. But, pagan as he was, Laisre was poised, impeccable in his manners and with all the appearance of civility.

As Orla conducted them into the chamber Laisre rose from his chair of office and came forward to greet Fidelma in token of her rank, of which Orla must have informed him. His hand was outstretched.

‘You are well come to this place, Fidelma of Cashel. I trust your brother, the king, is well?’

‘He is, by the grace of God,’ replied Fidelma automatically.

There was a smothered exclamation from one of the men in the room. Fidelma turned an inquiring look in the direction of the group.

Laisre grimaced apologetically. There was a humour in his eyes.

‘Some here may ask the question, by the grace of which god?’

Fidelma’s eyes found the man from whom the sound had come. He was a tall, thin man, with iron-grey hair and distinctive particoloured robes, embroidered with gold thread, and a gold chain of office around his neck. He met her gaze with unconcealed hostility. His face had an almost bird-like quality, scrawny with a prominent Adam’s apple which bobbed furiously as he swallowed, which seemed to be a constant habit. His deep black eyes, unblinking like a serpent, smouldered with a deep emotion.

‘Murgal is entitled to express his opinions,’ she observed coldly, turning back to Laisre.

Fidelma was aware that the thin man had started in surprise. Even Laisre was astonished that she could identify Murgal.

‘Do you know Murgal?’ the chieftain asked hesitantly, unable to see the simple logic by which she had arrived at her identification.

Fidelma suppressed a smile of self-satisfaction at the effect she had caused.

‘Surely everyone knows the reputation of Murgal and that he is a man of principle and learning … and of propriety,’ she replied solemnly, determined to take the best advantage she could before entering into the negotiations with Laisre. It was always best to start out by wrong-footing one’s adversaries. She had merely made a deduction. Orla had boasted about Murgal, her brother’s Druid and Brehon. She had, in fact, never heard of Murgal before. But who else would be standing so close to his chieftain and wearing such a chain of office? It was pure bluff and she had succeeded with it. The knowledge of the envoy of Cashel would now be whispered around the council chamber of Gleann Geis.

Murgal’s mouth had compressed. His eyes became hooded as he regarded her, assessing her qualities as his opponent.

The significance of the interaction of the initial clash was lost upon all but Fidelma and Murgal.

‘Come forward, Murgal, and greet the envoy and sister of Colgú of Cashel,’ Laisre ordered.

The tall man came forward and bowed slightly in deference to her rank.

‘I, too, have heard of Fidelma, daughter of Faílbe Fland of Cashel,’ he greeted in a curious whispering pitch, a slightly wheezing tone as if he were a sufferer from asthma. ‘Your reputation has preceded you. The Uí Fidgente have long memories and their defeat last winter has been attributed to you.’

Was there some subtle threat implied in his words?

‘The defeat of the Uí Fidgente, after they tried to overthrow the rightful king of Cashel, was brought about only by their own vanity and avarice,’ replied Fidelma calmly. ‘For that they have been justly punished. However, as a loyal servant of Cashel, I am pleased when any who nurture treachery to Cashel are uncovered, just as I am sure that Laisre, as a loyal servant of Cashel, is also pleased.’

Murgal blinked slowly, the lids of his eyes drooping as if he were tired and needed to close them. He was beginning to realise that he had met an opponent of wit and perception who would need to be treated with skill and discretion.

‘Your principles are a thing to be admired — the surety of knowledge that one serves a rightful cause against wrong must surely be a comfort?’ he replied.

Fidelma was about to respond when Laisre, smilingly, took her arm and turned her from Murgal saying, ‘Well, there is nothing wrong in principle though it is often easier to fight for a principlethan to adhere to its precepts. Come, Fidelma, let me introduce you to my tanist, Colla, the husband of my sister Orla.’

The man standing next to Orla took a pace forward and inclined his head in salutation. The tanist was the heir-elect in any tribe or kingdom. Colla was the same age as Laisre but standing a good head taller than his chieftain. That he was a man of action there was little doubt. He had the build of a warrior. His skin was bronzed by the sun which contrasted with the fiery copper redness of his hair and bright blue eyes. He was not handsome but had a subtle masculine attractiveness which Fidelma could not fail to notice. Perhaps it was his manner, some inner quality of strength or the lazy smile on his features, which made him seem easy going and affable but did not conceal the steel of his character to the discerning eye. He was dressed in accoutrements for war and his sword was slung in workman-like fashion.

‘I rejoice at your safe arrival here, Fidelma,’ he greeted in a deep, booming voice that caused Fidelma to start for a moment. ‘My wife, Orla, has told me of the horror which you encountered in the glen beyond and I can only assure you that I will do everything in my power to find the culprits and bring them to justice. The reason for that senseless slaughter must be uncovered for it does not reflect well upon our people.’

Fidelma regarded him gravely for a moment and then asked in an innocent tone: ‘Why do you say it was senseless slaughter?’

The tanist started in surprise.

‘I do not know what you mean.’

‘If you do not know the reason for it, why do you say it was senseless slaughter?’ she explained carefully.

There was an awkward silence for a moment or two and then Colla shrugged.

‘It is just a matter of expression …’

Laughter interrupted him. Laisre was consumed with mirth.

‘You have a sharp wit, Fidelma. Our negotiation will prove interesting. But, in seriousness, when Orla and Artgal reported this matter, we were all perplexed. The Uí Fidgente have been quiet since your brother’s army crushed them at the Hill of Áine last year. Until that time they had been the only hostile raiders in this land. Some of the tribes beyond this valley had their herds depleted by raids. But why kill these strangers and in such a fashion? Who are these strangers that have been killed? Where did they come from? No one seems to offer any answers to these perplexing questions as yet.’

Fidelma was suddenly interested.

‘Are we certain that they are strangers?’

Laisre was self-assured.

‘Artgal examined the features of each corpse in turn. We are not such a large community here that thirty of our young men can go missing without our knowing of it. He recognised no one.’

‘Thirty-three, in fact,’ replied Fidelma, turning purposefully to Murgal. ‘Thirty-three corpses. A strange number is thirty-three. Thirty-three spread in a sunwise circle. Each corpse slain by three different methods — The Threefold Death.’

There was a chill silence in the council chamber; so quiet that one could hear the soft snoring of one of the deerhounds against the crackle of the fire. No one made any reply. All understood the significance of what she was saying. The symbolism meant much to those who followed the old paths of worship. Finally Murgal took an angry step forward.

‘Speak on, envoy of Cashel. I believe there is an accusation behind your speech.’

Laisre looked uncomfortably towards his Brehon.

‘I hear no accusation, Murgal,’ he admonished. Then turning to Fidelma he continued pleasantly, ‘The idea that we of the old religion hold human sacrifices, which is what I have heard some of the clerics of your Faith preach, is a nonsense. Even in the ancient stories about the worship of the idol Cromm, it was the Druids who are said to have stood against the king, Tigernmas, who introduced the worship of Cromm, and it was they who brought about his destruction and an end to that vile cult.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Fidelma pressed, ‘I merely point out the symbolism of these deaths. Such symbolism draws one to the inevitable questions and ones that need to be answered.’

Orla, who had taken a stand near her husband, sniffed deprecatingly.

‘I have already explained to Fidelma of Cashel that she cannot look to Gleann Geis for responsibility for these deaths.’

‘I did not suggest that the responsibility lay in Gleann Geis. But responsibility rests somewhere. I would ask permission to withdraw from your council for a few days and proceed with an investigation immediately, before the signs are destroyed by wind and rain.’

It was clear that Laisre was not happy at the proposal. Yet it was Colla who spoke for him.

‘Obviously, there is much to be discussed between Gleann Geis and Cashel,’ he ventured, speaking directly to Laisre. ‘The negotiations are important. Time cannot be wasted. Because of that factor, let me then make a suggestion, my chieftain. Give mepermission to ride out with half-a-dozen warriors and investigate in the place of Fidelma of Cashel. While she concludes the business that brought her to Gleann Geis, I will see what can be learnt about these deaths and then return to make a report to her.’

Laisre appeared relieved at the suggestion.

‘An excellent idea. We are agreed to it.’

Fidelma was about to express her dissatisfaction and point out that as a trained dálaigh of the courts she had more experience in assessing such matters than Laisre’s tanist but the chieftain went on: ‘Yes; make ready, Colla. Take Artgal and as many men as you feel that you need. You do not have to leave until dawn tomorrow. So tonight we will hold our feast to welcome the envoy of Cashel as we have planned.’ He turned to Fidelma with a smile. ‘A commendable plan of action, do you not think so, Fidelma of Cashel?’

Fidelma was still going to disagree when Murgal interrupted with a tone of satisfaction.

‘I am sure that Colla will find that there is no blame that will attach itself to Gleann Geis.’

Fidelma glanced at him with irritation.

‘I am sure your tanist will discover that.’

Murgal returned her look and knew what she was implying. He clearly debated momentarily whether he should take open offence at her words but she turned away to conceal her annoyance at how she had been deflected from her purpose.

Eadulf was a little concerned and wondered whether Fidelma would press the matter further. It did not need someone with prudence to realise that there was no way that Fidelma would be given permission by the chieftain of Gleann Geis to leave the negotiations and follow an investigation concerning the slain men. Thankfully, so far as Eadulf was concerned, Fidelma seemed to realise as much for she finally inclined her head in acceptance of the situation.

‘Very well, Laisre,’ she said, ‘I shall accept this proposal. I will need to make a full report on this matter to my brother when I return to Cashel, so all that Colla can discover, however much he deems it of insignificance, will be of interest to me.’

‘Then I shall leave with my men at break of day, Fidelma of Cashel,’ the tanist assured her.

Laisre beamed with satisfaction.

‘Excellent. Now let us turn our minds to other matters. I have neglected my duties as host. Have you met Solin, secretary to Ultan of Armagh and a leading cleric of your Faith?’

Fidelma did not bother to turn in Brother Solin’s direction. Outof the corner of her eye she had been aware that Solin had been standing with Eadulf and had been whispering in his ear. Eadulf looked uncomfortable and had removed himself a pace or two.

‘I have already met Brother Solin,’ she said in a voice which evinced no pleasure at the meeting.

‘And Brother Dianach, my scribe?’ queried Solin coming forward. ‘I do not think that you have met him?’

There was something pompous about the way he said it, as if making the point that he was a man important enough to have a scribe with him. Fidelma turned to examine the thin, slightly effeminate young man whom Solin now pushed forward. He was hardly out of his teens with a pale, spotted face and a badly shaved tonsure in the manner of those of the Roman creed. The boy was nervous and his dark eyes would not meet her gaze, giving him the appearance of shiftiness. She felt sorry for the gauche youngster.

‘Salve, Brother Dianach,’ she greeted in Roman fashion, trying to put the boy at his ease.

‘Pax tecum,’ he stammered in reply.

Fidelma turned back to Laisre.

‘I would also take this opportunity to introduce Brother Eadulf, an envoy from the Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury in the land of Kent.’

Eadulf took a pace forward and bowed slightly from the neck, first to the chieftain and then generally to the assembly.

‘You are welcome to this place, Eadulf of Canterbury,’ greeted Laisre, having a little difficulty in pronouncing the foreign names. ‘For what purpose do you honour our little valley with a visit? The Archbishop Theodore, of the distant land you come from, has surely no interest in what transpires in this part of the world?’

Eadulf was diplomatic.

‘I am sent as an envoy to the king of Cashel only. But while enjoying his hospitality, I have taken the opportunity to visit the far corners of his kingdom to discover how his people prosper and in what manner.’

‘Then you are thrice welcome to observe how we do so,’ replied Laisre solemnly. He glanced again at Fidelma. ‘And now …’

‘Now,’ Fidelma said, reaching into her robe and bringing forth the white wand of office and, at the same time, drawing out her dagger. ‘We must observe custom.’ She held out the dagger hilt towards Laisre in one hand and the wand with the stag’s head in the other.

Laisre knew the protocol. He reached out a hand and lightly tapped the wand with his forefinger.

‘We receive you as envoy of Colgú,’ he intoned solemnly before stepping back and waving his hand to the hovering servants who brought chairs and placed them in a semi-circle before his chair of office. Several of the people stood back while Laisre indicated Fidelma and Eadulf to be seated. Murgal, Colla, Orla and Solin were the only others who seated themselves while the chieftain returned to his chair.

‘Now to the purpose of the negotiation …’ Laisre began.

‘As I understand it,’ intervened Fidelma, ‘the purpose is to agree a means whereby the abbot-bishop of Imleach is empowered to build a church of the Faith here in Gleann Geis as well as a school. Am I correct?’

Laisre seemed disconcerted for the moment at her swift summary.

‘You are correct,’ he agreed.

‘And, in return, what is it that you expect from Imleach?’ asked Fidelma.

‘What makes you think that we expect anything of Imleach?’ Murgal intervened in a suspicious tone.

Fidelma smiled at him with an expression which showed little humour.

‘The very word we are using to describe what we are about to do — negotiation — makes me think so. Negotiation implies a bargain. A bargain means to make some form of agreement involving a compromise. Or am I mistaken?’

‘You are not mistaken, Fidelma,’ Laisre replied. ‘The bargain is simple — in return for permission to build a church and to teach children here in Gleann Geis we would want assurances that there will be no interference in the religious life of Gleann Geis, in our pursuing the faith of our forefathers, in following the path of our ancient beliefs.’

‘I see.’ Fidelma frowned slightly as she considered the matter. ‘But why should we build a church and a school if we are not allowed to proselytise the people? Why have a church or a school at all if no one is allowed to go to them?’

Laisre exchanged a glance with Murgal and then seemed to weigh his words carefully.

‘The fact is, Fidelma of Cashel, we do have a Christian community here in Gleann Geis.’

Fidelma was surprised but tried not to show it.

‘I do not understand. I have always been told that Gleann Geis was a bastion of the old faith, the old ways. Is this not so?’

‘So it is,’ interrupted Murgal, his voice brittle. ‘And so it should remain.’

‘This is a wrong attitude,’ Laisre rebuked him. ‘The times have changed and we must move with them or perish.’

Fidelma turned to examine him with interest. She wondered if she had underestimated the chieftain. It was clear that some among his people disapproved of his contact with the bishop of Imleach but now he was displaying the quality of a firm leader of his people.

Murgal gave a loud hiss of annoyance.

There was an uncomfortable silence before Laisre proceeded.

‘Over the years our men and women have intermarried with surrounding clans and through this means we have maintained our strength as a people. We have obeyed the ancient laws against incest and so we have survived strong and healthy. But the wives and husbands who have been brought into our midst have often been of the new religion. They have come to Gleann Geis bringing the new Faith and many have raised their children in it. This community is so sizable now that they demand a church and a priest of the Faith to see to their spiritual needs; they demand a school where they may learn about their Faith.’

Colla muttered something indiscernible.

Laisre ignored him. He turned directly to Fidelma.

‘There are some among us who recognise the inevitability of the triumph of your Faith. In these last two centuries the five kingdoms have been transformed whether some of us like it or not.’

‘A fundamental tenet of our law is that no one dictates what gods or goddesses we follow,’ Murgal intervened. ‘Since the time when those of the new Faith subverted our kings, we have been told which gods we can pray to. We are told that we can only pray to three …’

‘There is only one God!’ exploded Eadulf, unable to keep aloof from the argument.

‘One?’ Murgal sneered. ‘Do you not know your own Faith? There are three, those you call the Holy Trinity. And do you not also pray to a goddess, the mother of your Christ?’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘That is not how we, of the Faith, view these matters, Murgal,’ she remonstrated softly. Then to Laisre she said, ‘But surely this is no place to discuss theology, nor was it for that purpose that I came to Gleann Geis.’

The chieftain lowered his head for a moment in thought and then he indicated his agreement.

‘We may discuss the freedom of the individual and the freedom of religion at some other time,’ Fidelma added.

‘Then remember,’ Murgal said, ‘when you speak of freedom, our religion is wedded to the soil of this place; it is the religion of our ancestors for countless generations going back into the mists of time itself. Know then, that it is a hard thing to eradicate entirely from the soil in which it has grown, in which it has been nurtured and borne fruit. Remember that freedom from the bondage of soil is no freedom for the tree.’

Fidelma began to realise that Murgal was no mere unquestioning spokesman of a dying faith. He was a spiritual man of deep thought. In him, Fidelma realised that she had found an adversary not to be underrated.

‘I shall remember what you say, Murgal,’ she acknowledged. ‘But our immediate task is to make an agreement, that is, if you wish to have a church and school in this valley. I had been given the impression that the council had already agreed to this for I did not come here merely to debate theology.’

Laisre coloured a little.

‘I called you here, Fidelma, because it is my wish that my people have these things so that all their beliefs are satisfied. While some of my council inevitably disagree to changes, the greater good of the greater number of my people must remain my guide.’

‘Then I am ready to discuss these practical matters.’

Laisre stood up abruptly.

‘I have decreed that the opening session of our negotiations will begin tomorrow morning at the sounding of the horn. We shall meet here in the council chamber and discuss such matters as may be pertinent. But as for this evening, I have provided a feasting and an entertainment to welcome you into our valley. The horn will summon you to the chamber for the feast.’