The Leper's bell

Chapter Eleven

Bishop Petrán was dead. He lay on his bed, his skin pale, like tightly stretched parchment, but with a curious blue tinge on his lips. There was nothing that Brother Conchobar could do except pronounce him dead.

Two of Bishop Petrán’s attendants, young brothers of the Faith, were present in the chamber, obviously anguished by the death of their elderly mentor. Fidelma had accompanied Brother Conchobar to the bishop’s room primarily out of curiosity. The previous day the bishop had seemed in remarkably good health and his argument with Eadulf had demonstrated his mental agility. She was about to ask Brother Conchobar what he thought the cause of death was, but as she framed the question the door suddenly opened and Brehon Dathal, the chief judge of Muman, came in followed by Finguine, the tanist.

Brehon Dathal glanced about him in an officious manner, frowning in annoyance when he saw Fidelma.

‘I shall take over the investigation of this matter, Fidelma,’ he said sharply, as if she would argue with him.

She smiled thinly. ‘You are welcome to do so, Dathal, although there is no investigation as yet. I merely came along with Brother Conchobar for I was playing brandubh with him when he was called to attend the bishop by these young brothers.’

Brehon Dathal turned to Brother Conchobar. ‘I see that Bishop Petrán is dead. What was the cause of death?’

Brother Conchobar simply shrugged. That I cannot tell you for certain at this moment. I have not begun a thorough examination.’

Brehon Dathal glanced down at the corpse.

‘Blue lips, blue lips,’ he muttered. ‘Surely a sign of poison?’

‘Not necessarily,’ the old apothecary protested.

‘Always in my experience,’ Brehon Dathal replied testily.

‘I had not realised that you are a qualified physician,’ replied Brother Conchobar blandly.

Brehon Dathal was bending over the corpse and did not appear to hear him. Brother Conchobar coughed loudly to attract his attention.

‘I need to do some further tests in my workroom.’

Brehon Dathal turned away from the bed and sniffed.

‘Superfluous. Clearly poison but, if you want to waste time, I have no objection. I am proceeding with the fact that he was poisoned and that this is a case of murder.’

Astonished, Fidelma gazed at him. ‘Isn’t that a little … a little precipitate?’ she said quietly.

Brehon Dathal stared at her in irritation.

‘I thought you were not involved in this matter?’

‘Neither am I.’

‘Then I need not detain you.’ He turned sharply to the two young religieux. ‘When did you discover the bishop?’

‘We came a short while ago to escort him to luncheon. We found him thus. I went to fetch Brother Conchobar while my companion stayed with him.’

‘When did you last see him alive?’

‘Shortly after he had performed the morning’s dismissal. He said he was feeling tired for it was only the day before yesterday that we had returned from the west coast.’

‘Apart from fatigue after his journey, he was in good health?’

‘Bishop Petrán was always in good health. He was never tired and this morning was the first time I had ever heard him admit to fatigue.’

‘Just so, just so,’ muttered Brehon Dathal. ‘So we can say that the poison was administered when he returned to his chamber…?’

Brother Conchobar let out a gasp of protest.

‘I have not yet stated a cause of death. I need to examine-’

Brehon Dathal waved him aside.

‘A formality, a formality that is all.’ He was already looking at a couple of pottery mugs on a side table. He picked them up and sniffed suspiciously at them. Behind his back, Finguine glanced across to Fidelma and raised his eyes to the ceiling with a shrug. Brehon Dathal was stroking his chin. ‘He came in, drank the poison in innocence and thus died.’

Suddenly he swung back to the two religieux. ‘Did the bishop have any enemies that you know of? Has he been in recent arguments?’

One of the two young men glanced at Fidelma before dropping his gaze. ‘On our return to Cashel, he was seen to have a very fierce argument,’ he said quietly.

‘With whom?’ pressed Brehon Dathal eagerly.

‘With the Saxon. The same Saxon with whom he had a fierce argument nearly a month ago.’

‘The Saxon?’ demanded Brehon Dathal.

‘He means Eadulf,’ Fidelma said quietly. She had gone suddenly cold at the implied accusation.

‘That’s right. With Brother Eadulf,’ confirmed the religieux.

‘What were these arguments about?’

‘I can tell you that…’ began Fidelma but Brehon Dathal waved her into silence.

‘Let an unbiased witness speak. You are the wife to this Saxon and therefore will present a bias in his favour.’

‘I think it was on matters of religious disagreement,’ said the brother. ‘They argued with harsh words and I know that on both occasions, when I attended the bishop afterwards, he was upset and went so far as to say that Cashel was the poorer when the sister of the king consorted with a-’

‘I cannot listen to this!’ snapped Fidelma.

Brehon Dathal turned on her disapprovingly.

‘I have already suggested that your presence here is not needed. You may go, and tell Brother Eadulf to hold himself ready to answer some questions.’

Finguine glanced sympathetically at her as she left. Behind her she heard old Brother Conchobar demanding permission to remove Bishop Petrán’s body so that he could examine it properly.

Eadulf was not in their chambers when she glanced in. She hurried down the grey stone corridor, trying not to run. Crossing the yard she saw Caol, the warrior, grooming a horse.

‘Have you seen my husband, Caol?’ she asked him, slightly breathless.

The warrior smiled in greeting as he stood up, brush in hand.

‘Not so long ago. I’ve just rubbed his horse down before he left again.’

She stared at him.

‘Left again?’ she said with emphasis.

The warrior nodded. ‘He went out early this morning, after breakfast. He said he was going for a ride but I think he went to see Conchoille, the woodsman. Then he came back, apparently in a hurry, and asked me to prepare his horse to go out again. While I was doing so, he disappeared for a short while, returning with a filled saddle bag, and then was off.’

Fidelma was standing still in her astonishment. ‘With a full saddle bag?’

‘It looked as though it was packed for a long trip.’

‘Did you see which way he went when he left Cashel?’

‘I did not. I needed to start rubbing down my own horse.’ He gestured to the horse that he had been attending to.

Fidelma paused for a moment before turning and making her way to the main buildings, again trying not to run. She returned to her chambers. Entering, she peered round more carefully this time. There was a note on the pillow of their bed, left in such a manner that it should have been immediately spotted. It was from Eadulf.

I could not wait. I have a lead, which I think it important that I should follow. I need to go to the abbey of Coimán in the west. I may be gone several days.

She sat down abruptly, head in hands, and groaned aloud.

For Fidelma, the rest of the day passed in a turmoil of thought. Her mind was not only filled with worry for Alchú but now for Eadulf as well. She even found herself thinking the unthinkable. Had Eadulf really left Cashel to follow a clue or was Brehon Dathal’s suspicion correct? She had witnessed the verbal violence of his anger against old Petrán and she had seen his unusual explosive temper on several occasions now. Had he been involved in the killing of the elderly bishop? Surely Eadulf had not killed Petrán! That was a ridiculous idea. But why had he vanished from Cashel at this particular time?

When Brehon Dathal had come to their chambers to question Eadulf and she had shown him the note, a triumphant gleam had come into the judge’s eye. She knew exactly what he was thinking. The old Brehon had left saying that he would have to send someone in search of Eadulf. That could have only one interpretation. Brehon Dathal believed in Eadulf’s guilt. She had gone to her brother, who was discussing the matter with Finguine.

Colgú had regarded her anxious features sympathetically.

‘I cannot interfere in the actions of a Brehon while pursuing an investigation, Fidelma. You know that well enough.’

Finguine had softened the blow a little by adding: ‘Brehon Dathal should have waited for Brother Conchobar’s report before making his mind up about poison.’

‘Why hasn’t Brother Conchobar finished his examination?’ she demanded angrily.

‘Brother Conchobar has just been called to Lios Mhór on some errand of mercy. The living require his medical skills as well as the dead,’ Colgú replied. ‘He told his assistant that he had completed his examination of Petrán’s body, but no one seems to know what conclusion he had reached.’ He glanced anxiously at his tanist. ‘Finguine and I have been discussing this matter. We have become worried about Dathal’s behaviour recently. I think it might be time to consider his retirement as Chief Brehon. It has been noticed that he is too fond of leaping to conclusions before he is apprised of all the facts. I think it is a sign of age. He and Bishop Ségdae are constantly at one another’s throats. It is not good to have that conflict in government.’

Fidelma shook her head immediately. ‘That must not happen until Eadulf’s name is cleared of this accusation. You can imagine what stories will spread if you dismiss Dathal while this matter is outstanding.’

It was Finguine who answered.

‘Yet it will be for the good of the kingdom that it is done, cousin.’

‘But not for the good of Eadulf,’ she replied.

‘We were hoping to get your advice as a dálaigh about how to enforce Dathal’s retirement,’ Colgú said.

‘I cannot advise you on that, brother, at a time when I have such vested interests. I do believe Brehon Dathal has acted precipitately in the case of Petrán’s death but then I would have to say that, wouldn’t I? You might imagine what a good dálaigh would make of the purpose behind my advice if I agreed with you.’

Colgú regarded his sister with an expression of sorrow.

‘You are right. We should not have mentioned it,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless, it is on my mind and must soon be dealt with. Dathal was — is — a just man and has been a good guide for this kingdom. But, as I say, I have had several recent reports of bad judgements.’

‘At the moment things rest with Brother Conchobar. When will we hear his report?’

‘When he returns from Lios Mhór. Meanwhile, what news of Eadulf?’

‘None except the note he left me.’

‘What could have possibly sent him to the abbey of Coimán?’ Her brother was puzzled. ‘And alone? He has to cross Uí Fidgente territory to get to it and if it is true that we have to contend with some Uí Fidgente plot, then he could be in a great deal of danger.’

Fidelma shivered slightly. But she had not wanted to admit just how scared she was for Eadulf.

‘He has been in danger before, and remember how he survived Uí Fidgente when fate took me to the abbey of the Salmon of the Three Wells?’

Colgú smiled. ‘That seems many lifetimes ago, Fidelma.’

‘I feel it so,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘You had best have some supper and get to bed. Eadulf is capable of taking care of himself, but I do confess that I wish he had not left Cashel at this time.’

Fidelma had left him. She had no stomach to eat when the evening mealtime came. When she retired she found slumber difficult and it was only after many hours of wakeful agonising on the events of the day that she had finally fallen into a fitful sleep.

It was early the next morning when an attendant came to wake her.

‘Lady, the king your brother has sent me. Would you attend him in his chambers as soon as you are ready?’

Fidelma rose to a sitting position and tried to focus on the woman from under heavy lids.

‘What has happened?’ she asked, rubbing her eyes.

‘I am told that Gorman has come to the palace with something of importance connected with the baby, Alchú,’ the attendant replied.

‘Tell my brother I will join him directly,’ she said, her heart beginning to beat faster.

As the woman left, Fidelma rose from the bed, shaking her head from side to side as if the action would clear it. She still felt exhausted. What new disaster did this portend? Gorman had news of Alchú — but what news?

When Fidelma entered her brother’s chamber, she found Finguine and Gorman standing together talking with her brother. Before them, on the table, was a strip of birch bark and a single cuarán, a tiny baby shoe whose upper was of lee find, undyed wool, mounted on a small sole of half tanned hide, retaining its softness and pliability like rawhide. As her eyes fell on it, Fidelma gave an involuntary intake of breath.

She recognised the shoe as belonging to Alchú.

She snatched it up, holding it closely before her eyes, examining it to make sure. Colgú appeared a little embarrassed as he stood helplessly by.

‘I have already identified it, Fidelma. The pair was a present from me. I can confirm that because I had it made by our local cuaránaidhe’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘Indeed, I remember getting the shoemaker to make sure of the softness of the rawhide and I examined it myself. I know the patterning well.’

Fidelma straightened her shoulders. ‘Only one shoe was sent?’

Colgú glanced across to Gorman. The big warrior coughed nervously and then spread his hands almost in a defensive gesture.

‘I was the one brought it here, lady. It was found together with that note. Just the one little shoe.’

Fidelma’s eyes travelled back to the table where the strip of birch bark lay. She put down the baby shoe and picked up the note. There were only a few words on it. She noticed that it was written in the same ill-formed hand as the first note had been.

Your proof, it said simply. Now follow our previous instructions.

Fidelma turned back to Gorman with a look of interrogation.

‘Where exactly did you find this?’

‘I was passing the inn in the township this morning when the innkeeper hailed me. He found the shoe hung in a little leather bag on his door — the same place where the first note was apparently found, lady,’ the big warrior replied. ‘The note was with it.’

Her eyes went to the small leather bag. She picked it up. It had no distinguishing marks on it, a small bag of worn kidskin that fastened, sack-like, with a leather thong round its top. It was barely big enough to cover a man’s fist if pushed inside. Fidelma turned the bag inside out and peered into the creases caused by the seams. Seeds and bits of dried vegetable matter clung along them.

She made no comment but returned the bag to its original shape. Then she picked up the shoe again. It was clean. There was no sign of dirt on it at all.

‘There is no question now, cousin,’ Finguine was saying.

She turned her attention sharply to him with a frown.

‘No question? Of what?’

Finguine raised his hands in an encompassing gesture.

That this is some Uí Fidgente plot. They hold your son in return for the release of the three Uí Fidgente chieftains.’

Colgú was nodding in agreement.

‘There is nothing for it, Fidelma. We will have to release the three chieftains. We have no other way of tracking down those who hold the baby.’

Finguine looked almost apologetically at her.

‘Your brother is right. However, it is my task to point out that no guarantees have yet been offered about the return of Alchú. It seems that we now have to take the word of the Uí Fidgente that they will do so once the chieftains cross the border.’

‘We have to trust them,’ Colgú echoed in resignation.

‘Once they have crossed into the territory of the Dál gCais,’ Finguine reminded her, ‘the first note said the baby would be returned.’

‘Has Capa returned from the Uí Fidgente country yet?’ Fidelma suddenly asked.

Finguine shook his head.

‘From the swiftness of the response, we may presume that whoever holds the baby is hiding within proximity to Cashel,’ said Colgú.

Fidelma inclined her head thoughtfully.

‘It is a logical deduction,’ she admitted.

‘Well, we can follow the chieftains once they are released,’ Finguine suggested. ‘Follow them and see who contacts them and then we will know who holds the baby.’

‘That would be pointless,’ Fidelma replied. They regarded her in surprise.

‘Pointless?’ Colgú made the word into a question.

‘The chieftains, on their release, will start presumably for the country of the Dál gCais. Those who hold the child will be watching them. Doubtless watching them from the very moment of their release. What do you think they would do if they saw anyone following them?’

Colgú immediately realised the implication.

‘They would continue to hold the child. So, are you saying that we have to let the chieftains go without following them?’

Gorman had been looking thoughtful for some time. ‘Forgive me, lady, but where is Brother Eadulf? Surely he should be here with us to make this decision?’

‘Were you not in the palace yesterday?’ she asked.

‘No, lady.’ He hesitated. ‘Well, I stayed with a friend last night before returning this morning.’

Finguine looked a little embarrassed.

‘Eadulf left the palace yesterday. He left a note saying that he had found something that might resolve the mystery.’

‘Where has he gone?’

‘He rode off to the abbey of Coimán.’

Gorman appeared surprised. ‘Ridden off … without escort? That is across Uí Fidgente territory.’

Fidelma smiled tightly. ‘I think Eadulf can find his way about without an escort.’

Gorman made a whistling sound between his teeth.

‘Even so, he would have done better in these troubled times to take a warrior with him.’

Fidelma pursued her lips in annoyance.

‘I have no worries. Eadulf is capable of finding his own way.’

‘There is something else that Gorman should know,’ added Finguine quietly. ‘Bishop Petrán was found dead yesterday. Brehon Dathal thinks Eadulf poisoned him.’

Gorman burst out laughing. They looked at him in surprise.

‘It is such a ridiculous idea,’ he explained, controlling his mirth. ‘I do not know Brother Eadulf well, but I know men. Poison is not how he would deal with anyone who irritated him in a discussion on theology.’

Fidelma appraised him quickly.

‘You knew there was some antagonism between Eadulf and the bishop on matters of theology?’

‘Several people heard of the argument he had with Petrán when we returned to the palace the other evening.’

Fidelma hesitated for a moment and then turned to Finguine.

‘Has Brother Conchobar returned to Cashel as yet?’

Finguine shook his head

‘Do we know what it was that sent Brother Eadulf riding west?’ pressed Gorman, returning to the subject. ‘Any information should be shared.’

‘I was not informed,’ replied Fidelma. ‘I did not see him before he left. He wrote me a note. All I know is that he was going to the abbey of Coimán.’

Gorman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Beyond Cnoc Loinge it is not wise that he travel alone.’

Colgú was impatient. ‘Well, let us return to the matter in hand. Are we all agreed to release the chieftains?’

‘Reluctantly,’ affirmed Finguine. ‘But shouldn’t the council meet and approve such a decision? Bishop Ségdae, Brehon Dathal… perhaps we should wait for Capa’s return?’

Colgú shook his head. ‘The response urges prompt action. If the deed is to be done, let us do it now. Capa might not return for several days. Bishop Ségdae has ridden to Imleach. Brehon Dathal is involved in the matter of Petrán and I am not sure that his advice…’ He paused and shrugged. ‘Let the rest of the council be told of our decision when they are available and they can question it when we all meet later.’

Fidelma said: ‘But I want a word with the chieftains before they are released.’

‘You want to speak with these Uí Fidgente?’ Her brother raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘Do you have an objection?’

‘Very well, Fidelma,’ he replied. ‘So be it. I shall send for the giall-chométaide to escort you. Unless you want me to come with you?’ The giall-chométaide was the jailer in charge of the hostages. Fidelma replied in the negative, and Colgú turned to Gorman.

‘I will want you to escort the chieftains to the northern road as soon as Fidelma has finished with them.’

The big warrior was looking thoughtfully at Fidelma. He suddenly frowned and turned to Colgú.

‘To the northern road?’

‘At least you can point them in the direction of their home,’ the king explained patiently. ‘We will not then have long to wait for a response.’

It was a while before the giall-chométaide, a wiry little man, with ferret features and a ready smile that Fidelma did not exactly trust, entered the room to receive his instructions from Colgú. When he was told that the three chieftains were to be released, he showed no sign of surprise but impassively acknowledged the order.

At the back of the palace complex was an area that was separated from the rest of the buildings by a high wall through which only someone with permission from the king or his tanist could enter. It was known by the ancient name Duma na nGiall — the mound of hostages. The old word duma once applied to a tumulus and then to a man-made mound often named Duma Dala for a place of assembly. Now, whether a mound of assembly or one of encampment, it was used in the context of a place where prisoners were held. On passing through the gates, preceded by the jailer, Fidelma found herself in a series of austere but well-appointed apartments.

The ferret-faced jailer chuckled at her expression as she looked round.

This is where we keep the nobles taken prisoner in war who will not give their gell — their word of honour — to the king,’ the jailer explained.

A gellach was one who took a pledge under law and by the Creator not to abuse any freedom he was given, as in the manner of a parole. Usually prisoners of war gave their pledge and were allowed the freedom of the clan area or even the kingdom. It had even been known for such prisoners to marry or be adopted by their captors and settle happily in the area. The fact that the Uí Fidgente chieftains preferred to retain their status as prisoners without freedom told Fidelma a lot about their characters.

She found them all together. They were seated in a chamber having finished their first meal of the day. The giall-chométaide announced her.

The lady Fidelma of Cashel, daughter of Failbe Flann, sister to Colgú, king of Muman.’

The men hesitated and then one of them rose to his feet, followed somewhat reluctantly by his companions. They stared at her, their dislike mingled with curiosity.

Fidelma swept all three with a quick scrutiny. One was elderly with features she could only describe as cunning. A large nose and eyes close set, dark, speculative eyes which seemed to bore through her as if searching for a weakness. The lips were fleshy and the face carried a scar of battle, distorting one eyebrow. The other two were younger, swarthy and aggressive-looking — perhaps with a cast of arrogance in their features. One thing that they all held in common was the belligerence of their features as they greeted her.

‘Who has not heard of Fidelma of Cashel,’ the elderly man said slowly, ‘who played such a distinctive role in the overthrow of our lord Eoganán?’ His voice showed that her name was not pleasing to him.

‘And you are?’ Fidelma asked, seating herself and regarding him without expression.

‘I am Cuirgí of Ciarraige. These are my cousins Cuan and Crond.’

‘Sit down and we will talk,’ Fidelma said, turning to the jailer and dismissing him. The Uí Fidgente glanced at one another in surprise.

‘You do not fear to be left alone with the mortal enemies of your people?’ sneered Cuirgí.

‘Do I need to fear?’ replied Fidelma.

They realised that they were still standing before her and Cuirgí promptly sat down, stretching arrogantly. He did not bother to reply to her question.

‘And have you come to lecture us, Fidelma of Cashel?’ he asked, still slightly sneering his words. ‘And in what capacity do you come? As an Eóghanacht princess? As a religieuse? Or as a dálaigh?’

Fidelma folded her hands in her lap. ‘I come as a mother.’

Cuan, one of the younger of the men, smiled bleakly.

‘We have heard that you have decided to partner some foreigner and given birth to his brat.’

Fidelma’s green eyes seemed to change into cold blue and her glance wiped the smile off the man’s face.

‘I am married to Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the distant land beyond the seas which is called the land of the South Folk,’ she said quietly. ‘Our son is Alchú.’

‘And what is your domestic arrangement to do with us, Fidelma of Cashel?’ asked Cuirgí.

‘Have you heard what has happened to my son?’

To her surprise the men looked blankly at her. Cuirgí said: ‘We hear little talk in our palatial incarceration. What game is this that you are playing?’

Fidelma controlled her features.

‘Are you saying no word has come to you, either by way of palace gossip or through other means, of what has taken place here during the last week?’

Cuirgí leaned forward belligerently.

‘You — an Eóghanacht — are now questioning the word of an Uí Fidgente? Say what it is you have come to say and then begone.’

‘Very well. My son has been kidnapped. He is apparently being held by your supporters in exchange for your release.’

There was no faking the looks of astonishment on the faces of the men before her.

It was Cuirgí, who appeared to be their leader, who recovered first.

‘You appear to be bringing us glad tidings, Fidelma of Cashel.’

‘You will be released.’

The younger men let out gasps of pleasure.

‘You will be released and allowed to ride north for your own lands. Once you have crossed the mountains your confederates have promised that they will release my son. You knew nothing of this plan?’

Cuirgí was smiling triumphantly and ignored the question.

‘When do we depart from this place?’

‘What guarantees do we have, do I have, that your confederates will keep their word?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘The word of the Uí Fidgente is as good as that of an Eóghanacht!’ snapped the younger man, Cuan.

Fidelma snapped back: ‘Then the value of the word of the Uí Fidgente has changed since your prince, Eoganán, swore an oath of service to my brother and within the year led the Uí Fidgente in an attempt to topple him from the throne of Muman. I am not here to argue the relative worth of the words of the Uí Fidgente and the Eóghanacht. I am here to find out whether the promise of your followers is good or not. It is my baby that is the pawn in this game.’

Cuirgí sat back and gazed at her thoughtfully, and then he shrugged.

‘I have told you that we do not know these confederates. We did not have any knowledge of their plans. But it is good to hear that our defeat at Cnoc Áine has not utterly destroyed the manhood of the Uí Fidgente. If they have encompassed this means of having us released from the grey prison walls of Cashel, then my heart sings praises to them and I will say that whatever they do, I am for it.’

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed into glowing points of ice.

‘Very well. When you meet your deliverers, Cuirgí of Ciarraige, tell them this from me — they must keep their promise and Alchú must be delivered without harm into my arms. If they even contemplate not doing so, I swear, by all I hold holy, to hunt them down. Each one of them, each one’s son and each one’s son’s son, even to the last generation so not one of them shall have anyone to remember him.’

Her voice was quiet but so cold that her sincerity could not be questioned. Cuirgí was surprised by her vehemence.

‘A religieuse, issuing curses?’ He tried to put derision into his tone but failed.

‘It is not the religieuse but the mother who issues the curse,’ Fidelma replied softly. ‘And lest you be in doubt, I am acquainted with the ancient ways as well as the new. I will have no compunction, no reservation at all, at pronouncing the glam dicín?

Cuirgí’s jaw dropped suddenly.

‘But that is expressly forbidden by the New Faith.’

The three Uí Fidgente chieftains saw something in her eyes that caused an involuntary shiver to visit them.

‘There any many things the New Faith disapproves of, Cuirgí,’ she said softly. ‘Disapproval does not cause them to evaporate into thin air nor does it stop their use. For a thousand years and even a thousand years before that, our druids knew the power of the glam dicín and passed it on, and who are we religious but the druids in new guise?’

The glam dicín was a potent incantation directed against a particular person or persons — a curse which was feared to the extent that it could put the recipients under a sense of shame powerful enough to result in sickness and death and even prevent their rebirth in the Otherworld. Those under the glam dicín were rejected by their families and all levels of society, and were doomed to remain outcasts without hope in this world or the next unless the curse was lifted. It was a curse that was ancient, ancient before time began.

‘You could not do that,’ Cuirgí muttered but his voice was not confident.

‘You cannot know the pain of a mother whose child is threatened if you think I would refrain from any means to protect my baby,’ replied Fidelma quietly.

Cuirgí examined her for a moment and then shrugged.

‘When we meet our deliverers, I shall pass on your message.’

Fidelma stood up abruptly.

‘Then gather what things you need to take. The jailer will take you to the gates shortly and you will be escorted to the northern road and set upon it.’

She left the chamber before they could stand or respond.

The ferret-faced jailer let her out of the Duma na nGiall back into the main complex of the palace. She went straight to her chamber and poured a beaker of corma and swallowed it in one draught. She felt weak and angry with herself, for she had not meant to go so far as to threaten anything so serious as the glam dicín. If that threat came to the ears of even Bishop Ségdae, who was a fair-minded and progressive member of the Faith, she could be excommunicated. It was a serious matter. Yet the primitive anger that welled within her as she thought of her baby had got the better of Fidelma’s emotions. She could think of no other weapon to threaten the Uí Fidgente with.

She sat down on the bed and groaned aloud, holding her head in her hands.

‘Oh, Eadulf! Where are you when I need your calm strength?’ she whispered. She rocked to and fro on the edge of the bed for a few moments and then, with a sniff, she tried to draw himself together. What was he up to? Where had he gone?

She rose, hearing movement in the yard outside. Leaning from the window she looked down and saw horses being prepared. Colgú was even giving the chieftains mounts to allow them to make the journey back to their land at speed and in comfort.

She left her chamber and hurried along the corridor and down the stairs into the yard. She looked round for Gorman, who was to escort the Uí Fidgente chieftains. There seemed no sign of him but she spotted Caol leading a horse forward from the stables.

‘Where is Gorman?’ she asked curiously.

‘Gone,’ replied Caol laconically. It was clear that he was preparing his own mount for the escort of the chieftains.

‘I thought he was going to escort the Uí Fidgente and put them on the northern road?’

Caol shrugged. ‘All I know is that Gorman asked me to do this duty and said he had important matters that took him from Cashel.’

‘Important matters?’

‘He had his horse saddled.’

Caol mounted as the three Uí Fidgente were escorted forward. Fidelma hurried on to the gate where Finguine was waiting to watch the former hostages make their departure.

‘Do you know what mission has sent Gorman from Cashel?’ she asked without preamble.

Finguine looked at her blankly.

‘No mission of mine, cousin, that’s for sure. I thought he was escorting the chieftains.’

‘Caol has been asked to undertake that task. He and the chieftains are leaving any moment.’

‘Ah well, maybe it was some personal business that he had to deal with.’ Finguine turned to one of the guards at the gates. ‘Did Gorman tell you what business drew him from Cashel?’

The guard shook his head. ‘No, lord Finguine. He rode past me a short time ago but said nothing.’

Fidelma was frowning.

‘I don’t suppose you happened to see what direction he took?’ she asked on impulse.

‘I watched him go down the hill then turn through the township. He took the west road.’

Fidelma suddenly felt a chill sensation. So Gorman had turned west, west along the road that Eadulf had said he was taking; west to the abbey of Coimán.