The Leper's bell

Chapter Eight

Fidelma and Eadulf rode the entire way back to Cashel without exchanging more than a few words. Although they had been more at ease at Cnoc Loinge, the underlying tension between them remained. In addition, Fidelma had not been open with Eadulf about who it was in Cashel who wore such distinctive clothing as had been described by Forindain the dwarf. The knowledge had made her reel inside for she had counted that person as a friend. She felt she could not reveal this knowledge to anyone as yet, least of all to Eadulf. That made her feel doubly guilty about the argument they had had at Imleach. She glanced at him once or twice in surreptitious fashion as they rode along. Eadulf, his brow drawn in a permanent frown, appeared to have sunk deep into his own thoughts. Apart from her astonishment at hearing Forindain’s description of the woman who had sent the dwarf to the palace to persuade Sárait to meet her killer, Fidelma was still feeling slightly shocked at Eadulf’s outburst. Perhaps she had taken his placidity too much for granted. She had long ago realised that she was too used to having her own way, exerting authority not simply thanks to her privileged background but more to her own hard-won status as a dálaigh. The very thing that she had liked most about Eadulf was that he had accepted her faults. He seemed to absorb snappishness and outbursts of temper. That he had suddenly turned in such a fashion had astonished her, almost driving her preoccupation with her lost child momentarily from her mind.

She realised, as if it were a sudden revelation, that she needed to question herself more rigorously.

She had never really looked on herself as a religieuse. Her passion was law. It was a distant cousin, Abbot Laisran of Durrow, who had persuaded her to join the double-house of St Brigid at Kildare, for practically everyone involved in the professions and arts was to be found among the religious as had, a few generations before, their predecessors been part of the druid orders. She had not been long in learning that life in an abbey was not for her, and when the abbess of Kildare placed herself above the law Fidelma had left and returned to her brother’s capital of Cashel.

She was a dálaigh first and foremost, a princess of the Eóghanacht, and then a religieuse. She suddenly compressed her lips, for she had left wife and mother out of that equation. Her knowledge of scripture, of theology and philosophy, could scarcely be attained by many who promoted the New Faith. She knew Latin and Greek almost as well as she knew her native tongue, and she had fluency in the language of the Britons as well as a working command of the tongue of the Saxons, thanks mainly to Eadulf. But it was law that always demanded her attention. She had no problems in her life in identifying what she should be doing in that respect.

But what of being a wife and mother?

Eadulf had not been her first love. That had been Cian and he had betrayed her trust. Well, she had sorted that out, although the final strands had not come together until her recent and curious voyage to Iberia where she had gone on a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Blessed James in order to sort out her feelings about Eadulf and her commitment to the religious life. She had not reached the object of the pilgrimage in physical terms but she had realised that her feelings about Eadulf could not be dismissed as easily as she had come to the decision that being a member of the religious was simply a means to an end for her to pursue her commitment to law.

Now she had to sort out her feelings as a wife, albeit a ben charrthach. And she was also a mother. Mother! A sudden pang went through her as she realised how selfish she was being. She knew now that she had not bonded with little Alchú. It had been a painful birth and she had begun to resent the child for keeping her confined in her brother’s palace, instead of pursuing her passion for law. She knew that Eadulf suspected that she resented the birth of their baby. That made her more angry with him.

Eadulf had tried to make her drink some noxious brew made from brachlais — St John’s Wort as he called it in his own tongue. Fidelma was not stupid. She knew that the apothecaries of Éireann applied it to women who became dispirited and despondent after giving birth.

Her child had been kidnapped or worse, his nurse had been killed, and now she was trying to form some logical analysis of her thoughts and fears. Whereas other women might be tearing their hair and prostrate in grief, Fidelma remained calm and logical. It was her gift, or was it a curse? What was it that her mentor, the Brehon Morann, once told her? ‘You have a gift for logic, Fidelma, especially when it comes to your personal affairs. Try to develop your intuitive qualities, for logic can sometimes be like a dagger without a handle. It may cut the person who tries to use it.’

Deep within her she knew that she felt like screaming as any other mother would when their baby was taken from them. It was her logic that kept her from doing so, not her lack of feeling for her child. What good was there in giving way to emotion in these circumstances? It would not bring her one step nearer to discovering the truth of this mystery. There would be plenty of time for emotion later.

A line from Euripides came into her mind: ‘Logic can challenge and overthrow terror itself.’

Her features suddenly relaxed as she gave an inward sigh.

Yes, plenty of time to give way to emotion later.

Colgú had come to the gates of the palace as they rode up the slope to the great complex of Cashel. Finguine, the heir apparent, was at his side. It would have been obvious even to an inexperienced eye that there was some important news they were waiting to impart. Her heart began to beat faster.

‘You have returned in time, sister,’ called Colgú as she halted her horse.

‘In time for what? What is it?’ demanded Fidelma, quickly dismounting and facing her brother with an anxious expression. ‘Is there news? News of Alchú?’

‘There is,’ Colgú replied quickly, reaching out a hand to lay reassuring fingers on his sister’s arm. ‘The baby is alive. We have just received a note demanding ransom for him.’

Behind her, Fidelma heard Capa exclaim: ‘Then we should have waited here instead of setting off on a wild goose chase.’ She did not turn but continued to gaze apprehensively at her brother, trying to work out this new development and not succeeding.

‘A ransom note? Where is it?’

‘It is in my chambers.’ He motioned the servants forward to take the horses and then began to lead the way to the main building with Fidelma at his side. Eadulf fell in step beside Finguine and Capa brought up the rear, having dismissed Caol and Gorman to the stables.

‘So it was a kidnapping, after all?’ Capa made the statement into a question.

‘It would seem so,’ Finguine replied, his words flung back over his shoulder.

‘What manner of note is it? How was it delivered? What are its demands?’ Fidelma’s questions came out almost in a breathless rush.

‘As to the note, you will see it soon enough.’ Colgú’s voice was quiet. ‘The manner of its delivery was that it was found attached to the door of the local inn with instructions for it to be delivered here, to me. Its demands are simple. As you know, after the battle of Cnoc Áine, we took several Uí Fidgente as prisoners. Among them were three prominent chieftains, cousins of the former petty king, Eoganán. We made them hostages for the good behaviour of their people.’

Fidelma frowned impatiently. ‘And?’ she prompted. ‘What is the connection?’

‘The note demands their release,’ he replied. ‘When they are freed then Alchú will be returned to us safe and sound.’

There was a brief silence.

‘So it was some new Uí Fidgente plot.’ Capa sounded almost triumphant.

‘It looks that way,’ admitted Finguine.

Colgú led them straight to his private chambers. On the table lay a single piece of bark. Fidelma picked it up at once and scrutinised it carefully.

‘Bark, as was the material on which the note was written that was given to the dwarf, Forindain, to bring to Cashel,’ she said quietly to Eadulf.

Colgú opened his mouth to ask a question but then closed it. His sister would explain in her own time.

Bark was a fairly common material for writing. The white epidermis of birch bark had been found by ancient scribes to be separable into thin layers which, when flattened and dried, could be written on. Fidelma examined it carefully.

‘It does not appear to be written in a hand that is used to the forming of letters. They are almost childish in the way they have been shaped, as if the person was copying some unfamiliar forms.’

Capa laughed cynically. ‘Who said the Uí Fidgente are literate?’

Fidelma ignored him. It was Eadulf who, leaning forward, pointed out that the formation of the letters might simply be a means to disguise the authorship.

‘Why disguise it?’ Finguine seemed amused by the idea. ‘The authorship is clear: it is a message on behalf of the Uí Fidgente. That cannot be disguised.’

Fidelma replaced the note on the table and looked round. ‘Before we can accept this note as genuine,’ she said quietly, ‘what proof do we have to support that conclusion?’

They stared at her in surprise.

‘You doubt that it is genuine?’ Colgú asked, puzzled.

‘It is no secret that my baby has been stolen, Fidelma replied. ‘Why wait nearly a week before issuing such a demand? It could well be someone trying to take advantage from the situation.’

Finguine was shaking his head in disagreement.

‘Had it been a demand for financial reward, then that might be a matter for consideration. But this is a political demand. Why would anyone demand the release of the Uí Fidgente chieftains if they were not in possession of the baby?’

‘It would be dangerous to dismiss the note as not genuine,’ added Capa. ‘The child’s life is at stake.’

‘I am the mother of the child in question,’ snapped Fidelma, angered by the implication that she did not care about Alchú. Then she added with firmness: ‘We must proceed logically.’ At the word ‘logically’ she felt a spasm of guilt but pressed on. She raised the note again and scrutinised the text. ‘It demands that the three chieftains of the Uí Fidgente should be released…’ She counted briefly. ‘From the time stipulated, they are to be released before the end of two more days…’

‘And they are then to be allowed time to cross the border into the territory of the Dál gCais at which time Alchú will be released and not before,’ finished Colgú.

‘It seems a curious gamble,’ Eadulf commented with a frown. ‘I am inclined to agree with Fidelma that we need some proof of the child’s well-being. If someone could be dishonest and take the opportunity to make a demand for financial gain, we should consider that someone could be dishonest enough to make an equivalent demand for political gain. Power and money are not dissimilar motives.’

Fidelma glanced across at him in appreciation. Eadulf could be trusted to accept logic when confronted with it.

‘It is also a gamble whether the Uí Fidgente are to be relied upon to fulfil their part of the bargain,’ she said.

‘In that matter, I agree with you,’ Finguine rejoined.

‘It is my opinion that, whoever “they” are, they should provide some proof that they hold Alchú before we release these chieftains.’

Everyone turned to Eadulf, who had spoken quietly.

‘Come, man, it is your own son about whom we are talking,’ Capa admonished, his handsome face flushed. ‘We should be making every effort to free him and return him to Cashel.’

Eadulf turned to face Capa directly. He spoke slowly and softly.

‘Do you think that I am not aware that I speak of my own son? I hope everyone present concedes the fact that I am as much concerned in his welfare as anyone else.’ Fidelma coloured a little and there was an uncomfortable silence. She had automatically opened her mouth to explain that, under law, Eadulf was wrong. While the welfare and rearing of a child in normal circumstances was the responsibility of both parents, if the father was a cúl glas, a foreigner, a stranger to the mother’s people, the full responsibility for how the child should be raised fell on the mother. But this was a time for such facts to remain unexpressed. Eadulf was continuing: ‘But this note, as Fidelma has said, is not proof that the person who wrote it has possession of the child, nor are any guarantees offered for his release. That is, in itself, strange when demanding a ransom. We need more information before acting.’

‘You would jeopardise your own son’s life?’ asked Capa, aghast. There was a murmur of support for Capa’s protest. Fidelma held up a hand to still it.

‘Eadulf is absolutely right,’ she said firmly. ‘A note appears out of nowhere with demands; demands that might eventually lead to endangering the kingdom, for these particular Uí Fidgente chieftains are bitter and remorseless enemies who were kin to their leader Eoganán who tried to overthrown my brother from the kingship and died in that attempt. We need proof that they hold Alchú.’

Finguine’s jaw was thrust out pugnaciously.

‘And just how do we get in touch with the anonymous writer of this demand, cousin?’ he asked with a tone of sarcasm. ‘There is neither name nor location on it. There is no way that we can send a return note.’

Fidelma regarded him with equal sarcasm.

‘What you say is true, cousin,’ she replied. ‘But a little imagination will work wonders. I suspect that the writer of this note will have good communications in or around Cashel and will soon pick up our response.’

Colgú pursed his lips thoughtfully.

‘We can make an announcement in the square of the town demanding that some proof must be furnished before we contemplate releasing the three chieftains.’

Fidelma nodded agreement.

‘I would also suggest that a herald be sent to place a similar message in every inn between here and the border of the Uí Fidgente country,’ added Finguine. ‘And that the message be sent to the current chieftain of the Uí Fidgente. In that way, the word will certainly get back to the writer of this demand.’

‘But what proof could be furnished?’ Capa frowned. ‘What proof short of producing the baby himself?’

‘No difficulty in that,’ Eadulf replied immediately. ‘Perhaps some item of clothing could be shown, something Alchú was wearing when he was taken. I am sure that Fidelma and I would recognise any such thing.’

He glanced towards Fidelma who nodded quickly. ‘Let it be done at once.’

‘Who shall I order to ride to the country of the Uí Fidgente?’ demanded Capa uneasily.

‘Perhaps you will volunteer?’ smiled Finguine. There was a quiet sarcasm in his voice and Fidelma had a feeling that there was no love lost between the two men.

The handsome commander seemed affronted. ‘I am commander of the guard here and not a techtaire — a herald. Moreover, I command the Nasc Niadh, the élite guard of the Cashel kings.’

Finguine smiled broadly. ‘I admit, it may be too dangerous for you to go among the Uí Fidgente.’

Colgú was shaking his head in disapproval at both men.

‘You both know well enough that the safety of a herald is sacred and inviolable — even the most bitter enemies treat a techtaire with the utmost respect. It is not merely the law but a matter of honour that any herald has a guarantee of safe passage even through enemy territory. Capa, it is because you are my guard commander that I send you on this task. I will ask Cerball the scribe to write several copies of our demand that you may take with you. Make sure one is posted on the door of the inn here and thence all inns between here and the country of the Uí Fidgente.’ He looked towards his sister, who indicated her approval of his action.

Capa was clearly not happy at the order. He appeared to think that the role of a techtaire was beneath him. But he said nothing further, bowing his head in reluctant obedience towards the king.

‘I am sure that by this means we will find whoever wrote this ransom demand,’ Fidelma said in satisfaction. ‘And we will soon know whether it is a genuine demand or a means of tricking us into releasing our enemies.’

‘I’ll find Cerball and tell him to come here,’ Finguine offered.

Colgú agreed, adding: ‘While we wait for Cerball to draw up the notices requesting proof, Capa, you’d better fetch my standard, which you will carry as a techtaire. You will find it in the chamber at the end of the corridor where my sister’s chambers are situated.’

Fidelma and Eadulf stayed with Colgú awhile to bring him up to date with the results of their trip to Imleach and Cnoc Loinge before returning to their own chambers. As they were passing along a cloistered walkway by an open courtyard, Eadulf suddenly paused by an arch and looked across the stone quadrangle. Frowning, Fidelma paused also, glancing across Eadulf’s shoulder.

‘We weren’t told that he was back in Cashel,’ Eadulf said softly.

The object of his scrutiny was the tall, gaunt figure of a religieux, standing talking with an elderly member of the cloth.

‘Bishop Petrán,’ Fidelma observed. ‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’

Eadulf admitted as much. ‘I remember what your brother suggested about enemies within. Do you think that Petrán or any of his followers are capable of kidnapping?’

‘He is a human being, and once fanaticism takes over as our faith we are capable of anything, Eadulf,’ she pointed out. ‘But I doubt whether Petrán would have conspired to release the Uí Fidgente chieftains. He has always been loyal to the Eóghanacht and not to the Dál gCais. But I thought my brother said that Petrán had been sent on a tour of the western islands about a week ago? He could not have completed such a task already. So what has brought him back to Cashel?’

As if he had heard her whispered question, Bishop Petrán had turned and spotted them. He said something to his companion, then walked across the quadrangle towards them. He halted in front of the archway under which they stood.

‘God be with you, Fidelma, and with you, Brother Eadulf.’ The elderly bishop greeted them in a manner that sounded more suited to intoning the last rites. It was a hollow voice of mourning.

Eadulf’s eyes narrowed in dislike but Fidelma replied in formal manner.

‘God and Mary be your guide, Bishop Petrán. What brings you back to Cashel so soon? I was told that you had only recently departed to the western islands.’

The bishop sniffed dismissively.

‘An unexpected matter arose and I proceeded no further than the abbey of Coimán on the coast. I did not even set foot on shipboard.’

‘Nothing serious, I trust?’

The bishop shook his head. Obviously he did not feel the necessity to speak further on the subject. He cleared his throat hesitantly.

‘I have just heard of your loss. My … er, my condolences. I will say a mass for the repose of the soul of Sárait, who was an obedient daughter of the Faith…’ he hesitated again, ‘and I will pray for the safe return of the child.’

Eadulf grimaced sourly.

‘You will pray for our son, Alchú?’ he asked with emphasis. ‘My wife is most appreciative of such a gesture.’

Bishop Petrán blinked at the quiet belligerence in his voice.

‘It is not a gesture but my duty as a servant of the Faith.’

‘But I thought you disapproved of our son? Indeed, you do not even approve of our marital union,’ Eadulf continued, without disguising the sneer in his voice. Fidelma tried to give him a warning glance but he was not looking.

Bishop Petrán’s pale cheeks had reddened a little.

‘I have my beliefs, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham,’ he replied irritably. ‘It does not prevent me from being concerned with the fate of the son of the sister of my temporal king.’

‘Or my son?’ snapped Eadulf. ‘You surprise me. I thought you condemned all marital unions between the members of the religious as inspired by evil, especially those unions wrought between women of your land and the men of my country?’

Fidelma stirred uncomfortably at his side. She had been shocked into silence by Eadulf’s verbal attack on the elderly bishop. Once again, she was dumbfounded at seeing this new, angry side to Eadulf’s nature. It both astonished and concerned her.

‘This is not the time to speak of theological differences, Eadulf,’ she admonished. ‘We should thank the bishop for his spiritual concern.’

Eadulf snorted in disgust.

‘I have spoken of your appreciation. Yet I do not give thanks for that which should be a natural reaction. Petrán and I both know well that we hold differences that are irreconcilable. I have to say, however, that I find his words sanctimonious and lacking in sincerity.’

Bishop Petrán took a step backward, his eyes wide. The flush deepened as his expression hardened into dislike.

‘I have no knowledge of how your people treat their bishops, Saxon,’ he said coldly. ‘Indeed, I know that only a generation or so ago they had not even heard the Word of the True Faith, let alone had bishops to guide them. My people had to teach them, so maybe you are still in the process of learning. However, in this land, the bishops are treated with respect.’

Eadulf’s eyes were like pinpricks of fire. His face, too, was flushed with anger.

‘Respect is something that a Saxon, whether bishop or king, has to earn, Petrán. It is not given as a right. I have spent enough time in Rome and Gaul to know that you hold a very narrow view of the Faith. I upheld Rome at the great Council of Whitby and not even the Bishop of Rome, who is the Father of the Faith, preaches or condones those things that you teach.’

Bishop Petrán actually smiled, albeit a grimace without warmth.

‘I presume that you mean my teaching that for the religious only celibacy is the true path to God?’ he demanded. ‘In that case, I should remind you what the great Gregory of Rome said — that all sexual desire is sinful in itself.’

Eadulf uttered a short sharp bark of laughter.

‘Then he must mean that desire itself is intrinsically evil. How can that be? Did God not create men and women and the means to procreate? Do you say that God created something that is fundamentally evil? Something that is sinful?’

Bishop Petrán’s face darkened for a moment.

‘Do not question the word of a great saint. Gregory the Great is God’s infallible word. He is not to be challenged.’

‘Then you must condemn the great abbot and missionary Columbanus who defied him? Columbanus adhered to the ecclesiastical customs and teachings of the five kingdoms of Éireann, and when challenged by Gregory he wrote in defence of those teachings. Do you argue that the Faith is closed to such challenge and debate?’

‘Columbanus was a Laigin man who should have been content to remain abbot of Bangor in the northern kingdom. His pride in arguing with Gregory was sinful.’

Eadulf shook his head sadly. ‘You are prejudiced in your beliefs. That makes you a bigot.’

Bishop Petrán twisted his lips into an ugly sneer. ‘Heraclitus wrote that bigotry was a sacred disease.’

‘And that prejudice is the child of ignorance,’ riposted Eadulf.

‘And Aristotle pointed out that some men are just as sure of the truth of their opinions as are others of what they know,’ intervened Fidelma, raising her voice sharply as she tried to mediate in the argument.

‘When I travelled in Rome,’ went on Eadulf, ignoring her, as did Bishop Petrán, ‘I learnt that even Christ’s own people in Judaea believed that marriage was the prominent symbol for the relationship of God to his people, that marriage and family were in the centre of life and celibacy was not recognised as having any religious value. Very few Bishops of Rome have so far argued that the only route to God would come through celibacy.’

Bishop Petrán scowled as he replied.

‘The Faith, the congregation of bishops, is moving slowly to an acceptance of the teaching that the way of achieving greater devotion to God and victory over the world’s evils is to live the celibate life. For those religious who achieve it, it is to achieve a place in the hereafter as great as martyrdom.’

‘And I have no intention of achieving either martyrdom or celibacy,’ replied Eadulf. ‘Nowhere is it decreed by God or Christ that those who follow the Faith must abandon a normal life. Even those who a few centuries ago started to practise sexual abstinence as though it was a possible vocation did so in the belief that it was a transitory ritual during the brief time they thought they had to wait while the form of this world was passing away before the Kingdom of Christ arrived.’

The bishop shook his head in exasperation.

‘I have my belief, Saxon. I know I am right. I am fighting to keep the truth safe.’ He suddenly held out his hands, each balled into a fist. ‘I grasp that truth tight in these hands for protection.’

‘And your grip might kill it, Petrán,’ interposed Fidelma softly, speaking again in an attempt to end the argument. ‘Let each of you have his own truth for the time being. We have other matters of more immediate concern. I thank you, Petrán, for your prayers and good wishes.’

She turned, with a meaningful look at Eadulf, and began to walk away. After a second’s hesitation, Eadulf reluctantly followed after her.

‘What are you doing, verbally and outrageously attacking Bishop Petrán?’ she hissed as they turned into the corridor leading to their chambers. A shadow was standing near their door. It was the tall warrior, Gorman.

‘Are you look for us, Gorman?’ asked Fidelma.

The warrior looked embarrassed.

‘No, lady. I was looking for Capa. He went to fetch the herald’s standard. I think the king is awaiting his return.’

Fidelma indicated further along the corridor.

‘The room of the techtaire, the herald’s room with the standards, is at the end of this corridor. The door to your left. That is where Capa should be.’

‘Thank you, lady,’ grunted the warrior, raising a hand in salute before moving off.

Eadulf paused to open the door to their chambers and stood aside while Fidelma entered. He was still truculent about his argument.

‘That hypocrite!’ he muttered, referring to Bishop Petrán. ‘If he has been behind the kidnapping of Alchú, I want him to know that I will not pander to his insincerity.’

‘And if he is behind it, you have certainly alerted him to your dislike,’ Fidelma admonished irritably.

A female servant, piling logs on the fire, rose in haste with a quick bob towards Fidelma.

‘I was just tidying your chambers. Is there anything you need, lady?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘A jug of wine,’ snapped Eadulf before Fidelma had a chance to respond.

The servant looked at Fidelma, who made a neutral gesture that the servant took as an affirmative. When she had disappeared, Eadulf flung himself into the seat before the fire and glared moodily at the flames.

‘I would, at times, give much to live the Faith as Bishop Petrán argues it,’ he muttered.

Fidelma stared at him in surprise.

‘What do you mean, Eadulf? I swear your reasoning is beyond me at times.’

Eadulf scowled back.

‘Bishop Petrán is known to believe in the literal word of scripture — would he not argue that we must obey the epistles of Paul? That to Ephesians, perhaps? “Wives, be subject to your husbands as to the Lord; for the man is the master of the woman, just as Christ is the head of the church. Christ is, indeed, the Saviour of the body; but just as the church is subject to Christ, so must women be subject to their husbands in everything.” Yet it seems your laws deny Holy Scripture. Here women are not subject to their husbands but husbands seem subject to their women.’

Fidelma’s brows came together in anger.

‘I swear that you can be boorish at times, Eadulf. Here, no woman is subject in her own home nor is any man her master. And no man is subject to his wife.’

Eadulf chuckled sardonically.

‘Except when a woman takes a foreigner as husband. Then he remains on sufferance of the woman and her family, without rights, without even respect. I cannot even ask wine from a servant without her looking at you for approval.’

Fidelma coloured a little. There was some truth in what Eadulf said. She knew it. Yet it was the way of her people. How was it growing into the problem that was causing Eadulf to behave so belligerently?

‘Eadulf, you have never talked this way before,’ she said defensively.

‘Perhaps I have been too compliant. It is, indeed, my great fault that I have not done so before now.’

‘You do not believe what you are saying, Eadulf. I know you too well to accept that you believe in the dictums of Paul of Tarsus on the obedience of women to men.’

Eadulf’s truculent features suddenly dissolved into an expression of sadness.

‘Fidelma, I am a Saxon, not an Éireannach. I was taught that my ancestors sprang from the loins of Woden, that no one was as great as we were and no other Saxon was as great as those of the South Folk. People trembled at our word. Were we not of the race of Wegdaeg, son of Woden, and of Uffa, who drove the Britons from the land we then took as our own?’

Fidelma gazed at him in astonishment.

She had heard such diatribes from Saxon princelings and warriors about the glories of their people but she had never heard it from the lips of Eadulf before. She did not know how to answer him.

Eadulf gazed at her with an agonised look.

‘What I am trying to say, Fidelma, is that imbued with such spirit I have tried to accept the mantle of charity and brotherhood that is the mark of the Faith. Fursa, a wandering monk of your own race, taught me, when I had scarcely reached manhood. I was not brought up in the Faith but I forsook and forswore the old gods of the South Folk on my twentieth birthday. I was hereditary gerefa, magistrate, of the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham. I have pride, Fidelma. I have self-esteem. I have the vanity of my race. It is sometimes hard for me to find myself here. I am a stranger in a strange land.’

Fidelma felt the bewildered misery in his voice.

‘I thought that you liked this country,’ she said, trying to formulate her thoughts.

‘I do, otherwise I would not have spent so much time here. I came here to learn the canons of the Faith long before I met you. But it is hard to completely turn one’s back on one’s homeland and one’s culture. During this last year, I have especially been reminded of what it is that I miss.’

‘This last year? Since we married? Since we had little Alchú?’

Eadulf gestured helplessly with his arms.

‘You want to return to your own land?’

‘I don’t know. I think so.’

‘I could never live in that country, Eadulf. That is why I tried to keep our relationship at a distance.’

‘I know.’

She hesitated and then took a step towards him.

‘Eadulf…’ she began.

There was a knock on the door and the servant came back with a jug of Gaulish wine and pottery mugs. The moment of intimacy had gone.

‘Do you want me to continue cleaning, lady?’ the woman asked. ‘I had only just come to the chamber when you entered.’

Fidelma shook her head. She was turning aside when her eye was caught by a garment hanging out of a small wooden chest, not properly folded away. The chest stood near Alchú’s cot. She shivered slightly, not wishing to go near it.

‘Just tuck that in before you go,’ she instructed the servant. ‘I do not like to see things left untidy. If you are to clean these chambers, make sure that such things are put away.’

The servant seemed about to speak but then she shrugged and went to carry out the instruction. There was silence until she left the room.

Eadulf was helping himself liberally to the wine. His movements still implied suppressed anger.

Fidelma spoke with a considered calm.

‘Eadulf, we are both in a state of emotional uncertainty. We have a crisis confronting us. There must be peace between us if we are to overcome this matter.’

Eadulf glanced at her. His expression did not change. He shrugged.

‘I cannot continue like this, Fidelma,’ he said simply. ‘When we did not have any formal marriage between us, I did not feel the antipathy that I am now subjected to by the people who surround you. What I cannot stand is the way that your actions and attitude to me now seem to condone the antagonism that is ranged against me.’

Fidelma considered for a while before responding.

‘I cannot change my character, Eadulf. For a long while, as you well know, I refused to make any decision about a resolution of the feelings we had for one another. I knew that, if you settled here in Cashel with me, you would be classed as a foreigner in our law, a landless foreigner with restricted rights. There are decisions that I have to make under our law which you cannot make.’

‘Your law is not my law, Fidelma. There is much we must consider about the future.’

‘Shall it be peace between us until we have regained our son?’ she asked quietly.

Eadulf pursed his lips and thought for a moment.

‘Let it be peace,’ he finally said. ‘As soon as Alchú is returned safely to us and those responsible are discovered, then we shall talk. Absit invidia,’ he added. Let ill will be absent.

Fidelma smiled sadly. ‘Mox nox in rem’ she said solemnly, using the Latin phrase to answer his. Soon night, to the business.

‘What can we do until there is an answer to our request for some proof that the ransom note is genuine?’

‘I have some inquiries to make about a certain green silk cloak, remember?’ Fidelma reminded him. ‘And that I am about to do now.’ Eadulf made a move to join her but she shook her head quickly. This time, I shall have go alone. The matter is … personal.’

Eadulf was worried. ‘Where are you going? I should know if there is danger beyond these walls.’

‘I do not think there is danger for me, Eadulf. Otherwise I would tell you. In this matter, I have to keep my own counsel in case I am making a mistake. But I can assure you of this: I am not going beyond the confines of the township below and I will be back soon.’

Eadulf was reluctant to let it go at that.

‘I swear, Eadulf,’ she went on, ‘as soon as I return, we will eat and I will tell you where my suspicions have taken me.’

Eadulf knew when to accept the inevitable.