The Leper's bell

Chapter Twelve

Eadulf had spent the night at a wayside inn a short way to the west of Cnoc Loinge. He had not really wanted to be beholden to the hospitality of Fiachrae the loquacious chieftain of the settlement and so he had skirted it and ridden on for a while. Aware of the oncoming dusk and a mist rolling down from the surrounding hills, he had started to wonder whether he had made the right decision when he saw the bobbing light in the distance, set by a crossroads. A moment later he had halted his horse under the lantern, which was swaying in the evening breeze whispering through the trees that towered on all sides. The sign said ‘Bruden Slige Mudán’.

Eadulf never ceased to admire the concept of hospitality expressed in the five kingdoms by the establishment everywhere of public hostels for free lodging and entertainment of all who chose to claim them. Each clan appointed a public hostel manager or innkeeper called a brugaid whose duty was to keep an open house for travellers. The brugaid was allotted a tract of land and other allowances to defray the expenses of the inn. His office was held in high regard. Most public hostellers were of the rank of bo-aire, magistrate, and were empowered to give judgement on certain cases brought before them. In local terms, each was able to hold court in his course for the election of a chieftain of his clan. At least one bruden was maintained in its territory by each clan.

Not all inns were free, however. Ferloga’s inn, like Aona’s at Ara’s Well, as Eadulf had discovered, was an independent inn at which guests had to pay.

Eadulf had spent a pleasant night in the hostel of Mudán’s road, as it was called, at least so far as his physical wants were concerned. The food and drink were excellent and the bed very comfortable. The hosteller was friendly and answered Eadulf’s questions as to the exact directions to the abbey of Coimán. There had been several travellers on the road recently, he said, but he could not recall anyone specifically during the period that Eadulf was concerned about. However, he did warn him that within a short distance the road would enter the country of the Uí Fidgente at its most southerly border. The hosteller had little respect for his neighbours and uttered some colourful curses which Eadulf was hard pressed to understand. His host several times expressed a desire that cats should eat the women of the Uí Fidgente, but the man had not been able to tell him the origin of such a curse.

Eadulf rode on. The day had turned out to be cold and there were one or two snow flurries from the greying sky but, thankfully, the snow had not lain and the flurries eventually ceased. In spite of the shortness of the day, Eadulf made good time. Although not an expert horseman, he seemed to hold his own when Fidelma was not there to criticise his efforts. The journey through the long stretches of forest which covered the broad plain that spread westward from Cnoc Loinge was without incident. It was an easy ride and there were no signs of hostility from the Uí Fidgente. On the contrary, the natives of the area, on the occasions when he encountered them, seemed as courteous as anyone else. It took some time to cross the broad tree-covered plain and now and then, when on a rise through the thickets of the trees, he could see mountains rising to the south which the road skirted across their foothills. A mist was hanging on the mountain tops when he rode through a pass between higher hills and came to a broad river.

Frustrated, he turned southward along its bank searching for a ford or a bridge. He had not gone far when he came across a woodcutter. The man instructed him as to the location of a ford and told him that the broad expanse of water was called Fial’s River. Eadulf made the mistake of wondering aloud who Fiai might be and the woodsman was nothing loath to tell him that she was the elder sister of Emer daughter of Forgall Manach. And when Eadulf made the further mistake of saying he did not know these personages, the man began to explain that the great hero of Ulaidh, Cúchulainn, had rejected Fiai as his lover and turned to her young sister Emer. The lecture delayed him considerably. Darkness was already beginning to fall when he managed to find the ford across the river.

He sat hesitating for a moment, wondering if he should chance the crossing. But there was no shelter that he knew of on this side of the water and he could just make out a light in the gloom on the far side of the ford. One thing that Eadulf had learnt from Fidelma was that a horse was intelligent and left to its own devices would usually find a surefooted crossing. He coaxed the animal forward into the dark waters, and sure enough the crossing was accomplished without mishap.

On the far side, Eadulf urged his mount in the direction of the light. He could just discern that he had joined a wide track, but with dusk now given way to darkness he could not make out what type of countryside he was riding through. All he knew was that he must be moving southward. He could see no stars nor moon. Heavy clouds hung low in the sky creating the blackness. Only the small light in the distance guided him.

After what seemed an eternity, and feeling that the track was beginning to ascend steeply, he arrived at the lantern that was the source of the light and knew that he had reached an inn. Thankfully, he slid from his horse and found a hitching rail lit by the lantern. He felt stiff and cold. He entered the inn and was immediately cosseted by the encompassing warmth of a roaring fire. Closing the door behind him, he stamped his feet to restore the circulation and glanced around. The inn was empty of guests, or so it seemed. Then a small, dark-featured and smiling woman appeared from another door. A tall, hook-nosed man with dark suspicious eyes followed her.

‘Good evening, stranger. You are late on the road,’ he said, without much warmth.

Eadulf took off his cloak and saw the couple exchange a glance as they perceived he was a religious.

‘I am not sure of the road at all,’ he confessed, moving unbidden closer to the fire. ‘I have a horse outside,’ he added.

The man nodded, frowning a little.

‘I will attend to it, Brother. By your accent, I gather that you are a Saxon.’

‘I am. I am journeying to the abbey of Coimán.’

The innkeeper shrugged. ‘Of course. There is no other religious foundation near here. If you follow the road southwards through these mountains, and across the plain beyond, passing the mountain range that you will see to your right — that is, to the west — you will come upon the abbey. It stands at the head of a large inlet. It is an easy ride from here. If you leave here after sunrise you will be there before midday.’

The innkeeper turned for the door while his wife offered food and drink. Eadulf stretched on a seat before the fire.

‘What place is this?’ he asked.

The woman continued to smile. It seemed her normal expression.

‘We call this the Inn of the Hill of the Stone Forts.’

‘Cnoc an gCaiseal?’ repeated Eadulf. ‘Has the name significance?’

The woman poured a beaker of corma.

‘In the hills above us there are many ancient forts of stone that were used in the ancient times.’

‘What are these mountains called?’

‘Sléibhte Ghleann an Ridire.’

Eadulf frowned. ‘Mountains of the Valley of the Warriors?’ he repeated.

‘In ancient times gods and warriors fought one another in these mountains,’ she declared solemnly.

Eadulf decided not to pursue the matter.

‘Do you have many travellers passing through here?’

‘A fair number, Brother.’

‘A week or so ago, would a herbalist with his wife and two babies in a wagon have passed this way?’

The door slammed as her husband returned. He was looking at Eadulf in suspicion.

‘Why do you ask?’ he demanded. There was a defensive tone in his voice.

Eadulf smiled easily. ‘They passed through Cashel some days ago and I am interested in catching up.’

‘As my wife says, many people pass through here and we cannot remember them all.’

There was little point in pursuing a conversation that was not welcome.

‘No matter,’ Eadulf said, dismissing the subject. ‘I take it you have a bed for the night and are able to take care of my horse?’

‘You horse is already stabled and my son is giving the beast a rub down and will feed her. I have brought your saddle bag in, Brother.’ He produced the bag and placed it beside Eadulf.

‘Thank you, innkeeper. I will take another bowl of your wife’s excellent stew and most certainly another beaker of corma’

The man went to fetch the drink while his wife filled another dish with the stew and placed it before him. As she did so, bending down to set the plate on the table, she whispered: ‘The people you seek did pass this way about a week ago. They told me that they planned to stay awhile at the abbey of Coimán so you might yet catch up with them there.’ She grimaced apologetically. ‘My husband is old-fashioned and thinks that a traveller’s business is his own.’

The innkeeper came across with the corma and looked suspiciously at them.

‘I was just complimenting your wife on this stew,’ Eadulf assured him. ‘I was trying to pry her secret from her.’

The innkeeper sniffed in disapproval as he put down the drink.

‘You are kind to us, Brother. However, we would soon be out of business if we told passing strangers all our secrets.’

‘Then I shall not trouble you further except for a bed after I have eaten,’ replied Eadulf solemnly.

It was the waiting that irritated Fidelma. She could hear the voice of her old mentor, the Brehon Morann, intoning, ‘The person who prevails is the person who is patient, Fidelma.’ It had always been her major fault, if fault it were. ‘Impatience,’ she had once told the old judge, ‘is a sign that we have not resigned ourselves to mere hope of a solution but to its pursuit. To say, let us wait and see what fate provides, is no virtue. I would rather be doing something than sitting in inactive expectation.’ Brehon Morann had shaken his head sadly. ‘Learn patience, Fidelma, when patience is needed. Be impetuous and restless when that is needed. Above all, learn to differentiate between the need for either, for it is said that those who do not understand when patience is a virtue have no wisdom.’

The morning after Eadulf ’s departure, Fidelma had risen with a thousand thoughts cascading through her mind. For the rest of the day, following the departure of the Uí Fidgente chieftains, she had wandered the palace, pacing nervously, unable to settle to anything. Nothing distracted her from the worries that flooded her mind. Even old Brother Conchobar had not returned and Brehon Dathal was growing impossible. She found herself moving irritably from one room to another, from one place to the next. Now, as she rose to face a new day, she realised she could not go through yet another period of inactive frustration.

She went to the chapel and was relieved that there was no one about. Taking a seat in a dark corner, she closed her eyes, feeling the silence encompassing her.

She tried to concentrate, to clear her mind, seeking refuge in the art of the dercad, the action of meditation by which countless generations of the ascetics of her people had achieved the state of sitcháin, or peace, quelling extraneous thoughts and mental irritations. She tried to relax and calm the riot of thoughts that troubled her mind. Fidelma had been a regular practitioner of the ancient art in times of stress. Yet it was a practice which many leading religious in the churches of the five kingdoms were now denouncing. Even the Blessed Patrick, a Briton who had been prominent in establishing the Faith here, had expressly forbidden some of the meditative forms of self-enlightenment. However, the dercad, while frowned upon, was not as yet proscribed.

It was no use. The one time when she needed patience, she could not engage the ancient techniques. She surprised herself, for she had thought herself an adept in the method.

She rose abruptly and left the chapel.

Almost without knowing it she found herself at the stables. There was no one about, and she uttered a prayer of thanks for it. She wanted to be alone. To face the fears that dwelt in her mind. She found her horse, her favourite black mare, and after a short time she was leading it out through the gates of the palace complex.

The guards were standing around awkwardly.

‘Lady,’ one saluted her, ‘we have a duty to ask you not to go out alone. Not with the possibility of Uí Fidgente about.’

‘And your duty is therefore done,’ Fidelma replied curtly. ‘Have no concern. I am only going out for a ride.’

Before the man could protest, she had mounted and was urging the horse down the slope from the gates. The township which had grown up around the ancient fortress of the Eóghanacht, the capital of their great kingdom of Muman, lay to the south of the limestone rocky hill on which the palace rose, towering nearly two hundred feet above the plain which surrounded it. Instead of making for the township, she turned along the track that led round the rock and northward across the plain. Once out of the shadow of the palace complex, she dug in her heels and gave her mount its head.

Fidelma had learnt to ride almost before she could walk. She loved the experience of being at one with such a powerful beast, rider and horse working together in unison, speeding across the plain. Leaning forward, close to the mare’s neck, she cried words of encouragement as it thundered forward, and sensed the animal’s enjoyment at the lack of restriction, the freedom of movement, being able to fly like the wind without constraint.

It was only when she felt the sweat on the beast’s neck, and began to hear a slightly stertorous note enter its breathing, that she started to draw rein, to slow its pace and ease it to a trot, so that the sudden deceleration would not harm it. She finally reined it to a halt where the River Suir was joined by the Clodaigh, rushing down from the distant peak of Cnoc an Loig. She glanced up at the sun and realised it was well after noon and that her early morning ride had taken her many kilometres north of Cashel. Indeed, she realised to her surprise that she had come so far that, at this time of year, it would be dark by the time she had ridden back, and her horse was already tired from the exertion.

She sat undecided. Her brother kept a hunting lodge a few kilometres to the south-east at a vale called the Well of the Oak Grove, beside a little stream whose spring gave the spot its name. She could, at least, get a meal there before heading back to Cashel. The lodge was used as a hostel for those her brother chose to send there. There was no reason to ruin a good horse by riding it when it was so exhausted. She felt cheered by her decision.

She leant forward and patted the beast’s neck reassuringly, and then turned its head in the direction of the woods that surrounded the hunting lodge.

The way was, at least, across flat ground, for the great plain that spread north of Cashel stretched almost undisturbed as far as the eye could see from the top of the great rock on which the Eóghanacht palace stood. She walked her horse carefully along the track, which she knew led to her destination, moving slightly eastward through the forest.

Now that she had slowed her pace, and her mind was not preoccupied with the thrill of the gallop, her thoughts turned again to Eadulf and she felt both guilt and anxiety. Guilt for her own attitude and anxiety about the matter of Bishop Petrán. And why had Gorman ridden to the west? She was sure that he had gone after Eadulf — but why? Did Gorman believe that Eadulf was guilty? Brehon Dathal had said he would send someone after Eadulf. Had he instructed Gorman to go? And there was Gormán’s relationship with Delia. He claimed that he had loved Sárait. But he appeared intimate with Delia and Delia was surely twice his age. She shook her head in confusion.

What it came down to in the end was her attitude to Eadulf. Why did she not take him into her confidence and discuss things with him as she had in the early days? Why did she find herself indulging in constant contention with him? She knew deep within her that she had many faults — she did not like to share, not even confidences; she liked to work things out on her own without discussion with others. It was not just Eadulf she did not confide in. She was too self-centred.

She did not like revealing her emotions. Showing passion had hurt her when she was a young student. That was what made her reticent with Eadulf, or so she told herself. There were moments when she felt warm and tender towards him. And then a word, a look, and she felt the bitter words tumbling out and his responses causing more bitter words until she felt such anger that she could hardly control herself. Was there something wrong with her? Or was it simply a wrong chemistry between them? Or was it something simple — as simple as Eadulf’s being a foreigner? He wanted to return to his own land where he had status and she wanted to remain in her country where she had status and, moreover, where she could practise the occupation she loved most — the pursuit of the law. If there was to be some compromise, she could not make it. A trip to Rome, a trip to the Saxon kingdoms, had been enough for her. She could never live anywhere but Muman. This was her country, her life. There could be no concessions on her part, but would Eadulf ever compromise? He would surely see it as submission.

Could there be any future for them as man and wife?

It was the one time she felt that the ascetics were right. The religious should not marry but lead a life of celibacy. Once again she was starting thinking about the fact that the end of the trial marriage was approaching, when, under the law, without renewing their vows, she and Eadulf could claim incompatibility and go their separate ways.

It happened without warning and she momentarily cursed her lack of those senses that should have warned her.

Suddenly, two mounted warriors emerged on to the track, blocking the path before her. There was a sound behind her and glancing swiftly over her shoulder she saw a dozen or so more gathering on the path at her back. She did not need a close examination of the banner and arms they carried to realise they were Uí Fidgente.

She turned back to face their leader.

He was a tall, well-muscled man, with a shock of black hair, grey eyes and the livid white of a scar across his left cheek.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

‘Conrí!’

Conrí, warlord of the Uí Fidgente, smiled complacently as he came forward.

When Eadulf awoke, the morning was bright but cold. A frost lay on the ground and only a few wispy clouds, high up, stood out against the soft blue of the sky, hardly moving at all. There was no wind to speak of. Eadulf set out early from the inn and crossed into the valley beyond. Within a few hours he began to smell the salt tang of the open sea. He could just see a strip of blue slightly to the south-west.

The road was easy and before long he spotted the grey buildings of an abbey complex standing where a river emptied into a bay. Around the abbey were several buildings, a small settlement which stretched on both sides of the river. To the north-west of these he saw foothills rising swiftly into tall and spectacular mountains.

He rode towards the complex. Before the abbey’s walls was a broad green. His heart beat faster when he saw a covered wagon drawn up nearby, away from the buildings of the little settlement. Two horses were grazing nearby. There was a fire lit close to the wagon, and a man was stirring something in a small cauldron that hung on a tripod over it. Seated on the step of the wagon was a woman feeding a baby from her ample bosom. Under an awning Eadulf saw a table on which various herbs and plants were arrayed, and strips of dried plants were hanging from poles. It was clearly the stall of a herbalist. Scarcely daring to believe his luck at tracking down those he sought, Eadulf guided his horse towards the wagon and dismounted.

The man straightened from where he had been stirring the cauldron. He was of middle age, with thin, dark features. He smiled as he surveyed Eadulf’s attire.

‘God be with you, Brother.’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph be your guides,’ replied Eadulf solemnly. ‘I am called Eadulf.’

He watched for any hint that the name might mean something to the man, but it did not appear to carry any significance. Instead, he was waved to a seat by the fire.

‘Come, join us, for the day is chill, Brother Eadulf. I perceive that you are a Saxon. I am called Corb and that is my wife Corbnait. What manner of potion or balm do you seek, my friend?’

Eadulf regarded the herbalist for a moment. He glanced at the woman with the baby, who smiled in greeting to him. Then he decided not to prevaricate.

‘In truth, Corb, I came in search of you and your wife. I have followed you from Cashel.’

The woman’s smile changed into an anxious look and it seemed she held the baby more tightly to her breast.

‘We have done nothing wrong,’ she said at once. The man threw her what was clearly a warning glance.

‘I did not say you had,’ replied Eadulf mildly. ‘Is there any reason why I should think so?’

‘What do you want with us?’ demanded the man called Corb, slightly belligerently. ‘Have you followed us in search of cures?’

‘You have come from Cashel.’ Eadulf made it a statement.

‘We are from the kingdom of Laigin. It is true that our route here lay through Cashel.’

‘I see you have a fine, bouncing baby there.’

Corbnait blinked nervously.

‘God was good to me,’ she muttered. ‘I am blessed with my son.’

Eadulf tried not to sound excited.

‘So this is your only child?’

‘It is. We call him Corbach.’

‘Yet you have been seen travelling on the road with two babies.’ Eadulf’s voice was suddenly sharp.

The woman gave an audible gasp and her features went pale. Corb tried to sound defensive.

‘Who says so?’ he demanded.

Eadulf smiled up at him. ‘Come, herbalist. Do you remember travelling through Cashel?’

Corb hesitated. ‘We did not travel through Cashel.’ He placed an accent on the word.

‘By Cashel, round Cashel. Do not play semantics with me. Do you remember going into an inn for food — Ferloga’s inn, just south of Cashel?’

The herbalist’s lips thinned. ‘If you check with the innkeeper’s wife at that place, she will tell you that we only had one baby.’

‘Exactly so.’ Eadulf’s voice was tight. ‘That is what brought me all this way after you. You only had one baby when you were at Ferloga’s inn. Yet witnesses along the road saw that your wife carried two babies. How did this miracle come about?’ He sat back and stared interrogatively at the herbalist and then at his wife.

Corbnait was clearly confused.

‘We cannot be accused of anything,’ she suddenly said. ‘The child was unwanted.’

Eadulf sighed deeply. He hid the smile of satisfaction.

‘I think that you should start to explain,’ he said softly. ‘Where did you pick up this “unwanted” child?’

The man seemed about to protest but the woman shook her head.

‘The Saxon brother has followed us from Cashel, husband. We must tell the truth.’ She turned to Eadulf. ‘My husband, Corb, is a herbalist and we are poor. We rely on what we sell by way of cures and potions. My husband was expelled from his clan several years ago, as was I. You see, we eloped. We were both married to others at the time but we could not help our love for one another. So our union was forbidden and our child born of this union is outcast. That is why we have taken to the roads, selling where we can without hope of settling down in one place.’

She paused. The herbalist was nodding in agreement with her account.

‘Go on,’ Eadulf said. ‘What happened in Cashel?’

Corb took up the story.

‘We wanted to stay at the inn for it was a cold night. Ferloga’s inn, that is. But while the innkeeper’s wife would have been happy to accommodate us in exchange for a medicine that I had given her, a salve for a lesion on her leg, the innkeeper was still hostile. He would have none of us. So we left the inn and drove our wagon further along the road towards Cashel. Night was upon us but we found a small track by a stream and turned along it, coming to a clearing. We decided to stay in our wagon for the night.’

‘You lit no fire? Surely that is unusual?’ Eadulf asked.

‘Perhaps,’ replied the man. ‘But I was uneasy about attracting attention. Some people, like the innkeeper, dislike those who take to the roads. I did not even unharness the horses but threw a blanket over them as they stood in the shafts. I meant only to sleep for an hour or so and then move to the north-east so that we might avoid passing through Cashel. I wanted to avoid any hostility.

‘It was well before midnight when I was awoken. It was a clear night and I could see from the position of the moon and stars that it was still fairly early. Something had disturbed me. A hound was howling nearby.’

His wife, Corbnait, nodded in agreement. ‘The hound also awakened me. Then I heard someone shouting.’

‘I thought someone might be in trouble,’ continued Corb, ‘and so I took my staff and, leaving my wife in the wagon with our young one, I decided to walk back along the track. I could hear no further noise from the hound or the shouting voice. But I was no more than a hundred and fifty metres from the wagon when I heard a sound to my right. I stopped. I know enough about babies to recognise the sound of a baby’s cry, though, in honesty, this infant was not crying as such. It was more or less gurgling — the sort of noise babies make, not unhappy, not distressed. I peered round. There seemed to be no one about, for the moon was high and bright in spite of the time of year. I began to move forward and almost immediately I saw the light covering of a shawl.’

Eadulf was leaning forward now. ‘And?’ he pressed eagerly.

‘There it was — an abandoned baby.’

‘What makes you think it was abandoned?’

The herbalist laughed harshly. ‘The baby was alone in the middle of a wood. There was no one else around. What was worse was that it was placed well away from the main roadway to Cashel, even well off the woodland path that I had turned my wagon down. Had I not been disturbed, the child would never have been discovered. It would have died of the chill or worse … for there are wolves and other animals wandering the woods.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘What could I do? I picked it up and took it back to my wife. It seemed well nourished and its clothing bore the signs of wealth. Why it had been abandoned, I do not know. It worried us. Clearly there were evil people about. So we decided to move on right away and continued along the path round Cashel, crossing northwards. At dawn we stopped and slept again.’

‘And you say this happened before midnight? The sound of the hound, the shouting and the discovering of the baby?’

‘It did.’

‘It was a fine, healthy baby,’ the woman added. ‘No more than six months of age with fine strands of red hair across its forehead. He was wrapped in woollens that indicated wealth.’

The herbalist was suddenly firm.

‘Now, Saxon, what is your interest in this?’ he demanded. ‘We have told you much but you have told us nothing. We will say no more until you have told us what you want with the child.’

Eadulf regarded them both gravely.

‘The baby is Alchú, son of the lady Fidelma of Cashel. Its nurse was murdered close to where you say you were in your wagon. The child disappeared after her death. I have tracked it to you.’

The woman gave a little scream, and lifted a hand to her mouth to smother it. The herbalist blinked, his determination faltering.

‘And … and what is this matter to you, Saxon?’ he said hesitantly, still trying to sound defensive.

‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. I am the child’s father.’

There was a shocked silence. Then the woman started sobbing.

‘We swear that we had no hand in this matter other than what we have told you,’ she managed to utter between the choking sounds of her distress.

‘It is as my wife says; the story we told you is true,’ added her husband. ‘We know of no murder.’

‘Then I suggest you now produce my son.’

There was a silence.

‘We cannot,’ cried the woman.

Eadulf went cold.

‘Cannot?’ His voice grated.

‘We no longer have the child,’ said the herbalist in a flat tone.

Fidelma had frozen in her saddle as Conrí, war chief of the Uí Fidgente, approached her.

‘We are well met again, Fidelma of Cashel. We were riding to Cashel when one of my men spotted you entering the woods and we thought that we would come to meet you. In truth, it was you I sought.’

Fidelma tried to still her pounding heart, recovering from her shock and forcing herself to appear nonchalant.

‘What business have you at Cashel, Conrí? Or, indeed, with me?’

The warlord’s face was serious. ‘To put an end to a lie,’ he replied sharply.

‘A lie?’

‘The other day your brother sent a techtaire to the land of the Uí Fidgente with a message that was posted at every wayside inn. It told my people that we must prove that we hold your child, a babe called Alchú, and show that he was safe and well, before you released three of the chieftains of the Uí Fidgente whom your brother has held as hostages since our defeat at Cnoc Áine.’

Fidelma controlled her expression as she met the warlord’s gaze.

‘My brother, Colgú of Cashel, did send such a message. Do you come in response to it?’

Conrí’s eyes narrowed in anger. ‘I do.’

Fidelma’s mouth was dry. ‘And will you return my child?’

‘I will not, for the simple reason that we are not guilty of any kidnapping.’

‘But…’ Fidelma began in a surge of emotion, but the Uí Fidgente warlord held up a hand.

‘Listen to me, Fidelma of Cashel. I had barely returned to my people when your herald arrived. No Uí Fidgente knows of this matter. You may think the worst of us, for we have long been in enmity, but we are not beasts that take children as hostages. As children are sacred to you, they are equally sacred and dear to us. I have made inquiries among the clans. No one, I repeat, not even those who have suffered in the recent war at your brother’s hands, would use the innocence of a child to cause you suffering. I pledge this is the truth by the innocence of my own two sons.’

His voice was low but intense and Fidelma stared at him, trying to comprehend what he was saying.

‘But the demand for the release of the Uí Fidgente chieftains to secure the release of my son…? After our herald’s demand for proof, we were sent Alchú’s little shoe. The three chieftains were released and given horses to ride back to their country. We now await the release of my child.’

Conrí was frowning.

‘You have already released the three chieftains? You mean Cuirgí, Cuán and Crond are free?’

‘They were released yesterday at midday,’ Fidelma confirmed.

The warlord was shaking his head as if in disbelief.

‘There is something very wrong here, Fidelma. Let me be honest with you. Some of my people have been led into wars against the Eóghanacht that have brought death and destruction on them. Eoganán and his family, who plotted to overthrow your brother and seize the kingdom, have led them. Eoganán paid with his life for that ambition at Cnoc Áine, as did many of his clan. Indeed, for every member of his family that died, one hundred of the Uí Fidgente died by their folly. We are a decimated people, Fidelma. The three chieftains whom your brother captured at Cnoc Áine were fanatical followers of their kinsman, Eoganán. Cuirgí, Cuán and Crond are no loss to my people.’

Fidelma was frowning, following his words and trying to understand what he was saying.

‘What do you mean, Conrí? You are warlord of the Uí Fidgente.’

Conrí smiled quickly. ‘I was elected to lead the remnants of my people after our great defeat. But cannot a warlord have wisdom? Is it not a saying of the ancients that peace is better than even an easy war?’

‘Go on. I still do not follow you.’

‘We do not want the release of the old chieftains. We do not want them to start stirring enmities and hatreds. We want a time of peace. We want to build up our crops, our herds and flocks and start to live again. For those reasons, it was not the Uí Fidgente who kidnapped your son to secure the release of those who have led us so badly in the past.’

Fidelma was silent for a while.

‘Perhaps there are some among you who have taken this means to secure their release without your knowing?’

Conrí shook his head. ‘While I can accept that as a possibility, I do not think it is probable. I came here, with a few of my men, at the request of my people to tell you the truth, and to offer our help. If it is shown that anyone of the Uí Fidgente are involved in such a plot, then we will punish them.’

Fidelma exhaled sharply.

‘The punishment is enacted by law,’ she said automatically, ‘and prescribed by law.’

Conrí frowned, glancing up through the trees as if searching for something.

‘It must be well after noon,’ he muttered. ‘Do you know what route the chieftains took?’

Fidelma hesitated a moment or two before replying.

‘They were supposed to ride north from Cashel to join the Suir. I think that they were crossing at the ford by what is called the High Hill, Ard Mael, and heading through the mountains of Slieve Felim.’

‘Once through those mountains, they will be within an easy ride of our country,’ the Uí Fidgente war chief muttered reflectively. ‘I think they’ll have skirted the mountains to the south and headed up through the valley of the Bilboa.’ He suddenly snapped his fingers. ‘If my men and I took the route across the shoulder of Cnoc an Loig and along the road past Cnoc an Báinsí, we could intercept them at Crois na Rae before dawn tomorrow.’

Fidelma looked at him in surprise. ‘Then what?’

‘If there is some evil plan and they and their accomplices are responsible for the kidnapping of your child, we shall discover it. Whatever befalls, if your child has not been returned by tomorrow, you will know that whoever was responsible did not intend to keep their word. There was to be no exchange.’

Fidelma’s face became a taut mask hiding her anguish. What Conrí was saying was correct.

Conrí reached forward a hand and touched her lightly on the arm.

‘I am sorry for your troubles, Fidelma of Cashel. Believe me. But this matter must be resolved. When we find the chieftains and those responsible, where may we find you? At Cashel?’

Fidelma was about to confirm it but then changed her mind. ‘It is not exactly safe for Uí Fidgente warriors to be seen near Cashel at the moment. My horse is exhausted and I was going to seek rest at my brother’s hunting lodge, which is not far from here, at a place called the Well of the Oak Grove. It is only a few miles in that direction.’ She indicated with a wave of her hand. ‘The keeper of the lodge has a son whom I can send back to Cashel with a message that I am resting there for two nights. When you have discovered your quarry you will find me there. But the day after tomorrow I must start back for Cashel.’

Conrí gave her a quick smile of reassurance.

‘With God’s grace, lady, we will find you at the Well of the Oak Grove before tomorrow evening.’

He raised his hand in salute to her and then urged his horse along the path towards the west, followed by his companions.

She felt a curious pang of isolation after they had departed. Now her thoughts were even uneasier than before as she turned the events over in her mind. There were only two possibilities. Conrí was lying to her. Or, if he spoke the truth, there was some plot among the Uí Fidgente to overturn Conrí and the new chiefly house by reinstating the three hostage chiefs, which would mean a return to war between the Uí Fidgente and the Eóghanacht. Her lips thinned as she contemplated the prospect. She sat thinking for a few moments. Then she sighed when she realised that she could come to no conclusions. She eased her tired horse into motion.

Eadulf was aghast as he regarded the herbalist and his wife.

‘You no longer have Alchú? What did you do with him?’

The woman looked nervously at her husband.

‘Speak!’ demanded Eadulf in a tone of anger as he rose from his seat, almost in a threatening manner.

‘Had we known what you have just told us, we would have come directly to the palace of Cashel, believe me,’ muttered the herbalist.

‘Speak!’ demanded Eadulf again. ‘What happened?’

The man raised a shoulder as if to indicate helplessness.

‘Believe me, Brother, we thought the baby had been abandoned. We sold the child to a worthy protector.’

‘Sold …?’

Eadulf sat back down abruptly. The shock took all animation from him. He looked wordlessly from one to the other of them.

‘You see, we had our son,’ went on the herbalist. ‘Our own flesh and blood. We thought that we had been the instrument of saving the other baby for a reason … to help us, as it is a hard life travelling from settlement to settlement in the hope of selling cures and potions and salves. When we fell in with the lord of… you see, it was a means of obtaining some money so that we might settle in one place.’

‘The lord of where?’ Eadulf spoke coldly. ‘What lord?’

‘During our journey here we camped further up the valley near those mountains you see to the north. Well, we were encamped within the shadow of them. We were sitting before our fire and my wife had fed our son and the baby with red hair. We were resting when we heard a bell sound…’

‘A bell?’

‘Into the light of our lantern and campfire came a grey-cloaked figure. He was clad from poll to foot in his robes so that we could see nothing of him, but he rang a bell to announce his approach. Behind him, in the shadows, stood a tall warrior, dark and menacing. The figure seated himself on a log on the far side of the fire and asked for a drink and food.’

The herbalist paused a moment before continuing.

‘I gave him food and like any passing traveller he asked who we were, where we had come from and about the two babies. Now I reflect, he asked us if we had come from Cashel.’

‘Did you tell him of the story of finding Alchú?’ demanded Eadulf.

‘I saw no harm in that, although I did not know the baby was called Alchú, nor anything other than what I told you.’

‘The man said that we had been good servants of the Faith by performing the act of charity in saving the baby,’ the woman said hastily.

‘What then?’

‘He suggested that if we wished to disburden ourselves of the child, he was lord of the territory and he would take the child to his church to be brought up in comfort and in the service of the Christ.’

‘And you agreed?’ gasped Eadulf.

‘The man placed three silver screpalls on the log to compensate us for our trouble.’

‘We thought that we were doing the right thing,’ added the woman.

‘So you handed the baby to a total stranger…?’

‘Not exactly. He told us that he was a lord of that area. Lord of the passes, he said. A warrior attended him, the one who waited silently in the shadows. On our agreement, the tall warrior picked up the child. I am unsure whether this lord had the use of both arms. He certainly had a dragging foot. I found it curious that he carried a hand bell.’

‘What name did you say this man gave you?’ Eadulf asked.

‘We do not know. The warrior simply called him lord.’

‘You know no more? What direction did he ride in? Those mountains are tall and spread widely.’ There was now an anguished helplessness in Eadulf’s voice.

‘There can be few lords in this region of his description,’ offered the herbalist. ‘For myself, I have no wish to know who he was, nor do I wish to encounter him again.’

‘Why so?’

‘In truth, Brother, I felt there was something evil about him.’

‘Yet you handed a innocent baby to his care?’ Eadulf was aghast.

The herbalist and his wife exchanged another look. The woman grimaced towards Eadulf.

‘We did not know for certain that there was anything ill about the man. It was a feeling. The warrior treated him with respect and the man promised to take the child to a sanctuary. We thought that we were doing it for the best. For the sake of the baby. We thought that he had been abandoned.’

Eadulf gestured to the walls of the abbey behind them.

‘I am told that this is the biggest abbey in these parts. The only sanctuary. Have you spoken with the steward? Perhaps this lord brought the child here?’

Again the herbalist looked at his wife.

‘Corbnait insisted that I make an inquiry. She became worried later. No, the man did not bring the child here. But those mountain passes are the gateway to a great peninsula which is the land of the Corco Duibhne. Perhaps the man took the child there.’

Eadulf suppressed a deep sigh. Then a thought occurred to him, and he stood up with an impatient gesture. His next step was clear. Perhaps the steward at the abbey of Coimán would be able to identify the leper who was a lord in this territory. Eadulf stared sternly at the herbalist and his wife.

‘Let me tell both of you this fact. I have no authority in this kingdom, although I am husband to the lady Fidelma of Cashel. You may know that she is a dálaigh and highly respected by the Brehons of the five kingdoms of Eireann. We speak not only of my child but of hers, and she is sister to Colgú who rules this kingdom. Whereas I accept your story and believe that you acted in all innocence, it may be that you also acted in greed. You say you thought you were giving the baby up for its own future well-being. I shall say this to you … it is a matter that still has to be argued before the Brehons of Cashel. I cannot compel you to do anything. But if you were to ask my advice as to what you should do now, I would tell you this. Return to Cashel, ask for Fidelma, and if she is not there ask for Colgú the king himself and tell either one your story. Tell them neither lies nor embellishments. The truth must be told. You will not lose by telling that truth.’

The herbalist looked nervous. ‘Will you be there to speak for us?’

‘God willing, I shall be,’ answered Eadulf determinedly. ‘But first I have to find this leper lord and retrieve my son.’

He turned, and taking his horse he walked slowly to the gates of the abbey.

It was but a few moments before he was admitted to the chambers of the rechtaire, the steward of the abbey. He was a pleasant man, anxious to help once he knew Eadulf’s status and influence.

‘We are loyal to the primacy of Imleach, Brother. Bishop Ségdae, who holds the pallium of the Blessed Ailbe, patron of all Muman, is our guide. How can we help you?’

‘Evil has befallen Cashel,’ Eadulf began, but to his surprise the steward nodded.

‘News travels quickly, and bad news travels faster than a plague. We have known of the disappearance of the lady Fidelma’s child — your child,’ he hastened to add, ‘for over a week.’

‘Did the herbalist and his wife bring you this news?’ asked Eadulf thoughtfully.

The steward made a negative gesture.

‘Some messenger from Cnoc Loinge brought it, I think. But you refer to the travelling herbalist and his wife who camp outside the abbey? They seem to take no interest in anything, although the man recently asked me if a baby had been brought into the safe care of this abbey, at which I told him no.’

‘Did he mention anything else?’

The steward was looking thoughtful.

‘Do you suspect them of abducting the child?’ he asked. ‘Why, I…’

Eadulf shook his head. ‘They were the engine by which the child was brought into this part of the country, Brother Steward,’ he said, ‘but it was, I believe, by accident. I do not think that they knew the identity of the child.’

The steward was shaking his head. ‘Well, they have kept their own counsel, whatever it is.’

‘The herbalist did not ask about a lord in this land, one who called himself “lord of the passes” and seemed physically impaired to some extent?’

The reaction was surprising. The steward reared back in his seat and actually crossed himself.

‘You obviously know this person,’ Eadulf observed sharply.

The steward swallowed hard.

‘There is only one who fits that description. Uaman the Leper. Uaman, son to Eoganán. Eoganán was the prince of the Uí Fidgente who was slain at Cnoc Áine a few years ago.’

Eadulf groaned aloud.