The Spider's Web

Chapter Eleven

Dubán and Fidelma led the way along the narrow track that wound through the great oaks of the forest which spilled through the mountain passes. Brother Eadulf rode behind them. His eyes were watchful. With all this talk of raiding brigands, it occurred to him that whole warbands could hide in such gloomy places and not be noticed by wayfarers who might pass their concealment within yards and not even notice them, so dense and impenetrable were the rich woodlands that spread across the mountains which surrounded Araglin. So close together did the trees grow that they shut out all sight of the blue canopy of the sky and the warm spring sunshine. The air felt chill and Eadulf observed that few spring flowers were blooming but there were plenty of dark evergreens and plants that liked the cold dark musty atmosphere of the woodlands.

Eadulf rode with watchful eyes but his body was at ease, letting his mount match the leisurely walking pace of the lead horses.

The quiet was almost oppressive. Now and then something rustled through the underbrush and Eadulf had noticed that few bird songs trilled through the woodland.

‘A bleak, black place to dwell,’ Eadulf called, breaking the silence in which they had ridden since first entering this part of the woodlands.

Dubán half turned with a brief smile.

‘It is the nature of hermits to dwell in places that others are not attracted to, Saxon,’ he replied.

‘I have known healthier places,’ Eadulf responded. ‘What is the point of dwelling as a hermit if it costs you your health?’

‘A good argument, Saxon,’ the warrior chuckled. ‘Yet they say that Gadra has lived over four score years. And, if he continues to live, I shall be surprised.’

‘So you keep telling us,’ intervened Fidelma wearily. ‘Tell us some more of your knowledge of Gadra. We know he is a hermit and we know that he appears to be a man of wisdom. What else do you know of him?’

‘Little to tell. Gadra is Gadra. He has always been the same age to me.’

‘Is anything known of his origin?’ pressed Fidelma.

Dubán shrugged.

‘They say that he was a religious of the pagan times.’

‘A Druid?’ demanded Fidelma. It was true that here and there among the five kingdoms were still to be found followers of the old gods. Fidelma herself had encountered such members of the recluse; those who still clung to the old ways, the old beliefs. Even Fidelma found herself admiring many of their philosophies. The new Faith of Christ had not been long enough established in the land for the old ways to be anachronistic.

‘I suppose one would call him so. We were told stories of old Gadra when I was a boy. He has always been old to us. We were warned to stay away from him because the priest said he performed human sacrifices to ancient gods in these fierce oak forests.’

Fidelma sniffed deprecatingly.

‘There is always talk of human sacrifice when one does not understand the truth of a religious cult. The founder of my own house at Kildare, Brigid of blessed name, was a Druidess and the daughter of a Druid. There is nothing to fear from such as they. But tell me more about this Gadra. Is it known when he came to this place?’

‘Not in Eber’s time, that’s for sure,’ replied Dubán. ‘I think he came when Eber’s father was a little boy. He had the gift of healing and of wisdom.’

‘How could he have a gift of healing unless he believed in theTrue Faith?’ interrupted Eadulf a little indignantly.

Fidelma grinned at her companion.

‘One cannot argue with such logic,’ she replied mischievously.

Eadulf was not sure whether she was making fun of him.

‘Does he perform his healing in the name of the Christ Saviour?’ he demanded.

‘He simply heals those who go to him with affliction. He does so in the name of no one,’ replied Dubán. ‘Of course, Father Gormán used to denounce any he found who had sought a cure from Gadra. But I have not heard of Gadra for some years now. I say he is dead and we waste time on this journey.’

Eadulf was about to speak further when Dubán suddenly raised a hand to bid them draw rein on their horses.

‘I see a clearing ahead. I think we are close to the glade where he once dwelt.’

Fidelma peered forward eagerly.

‘Is this the spot where Gadra lives?’

Dubán nodded.

‘Stay here. Let me go first,’ he said softly, ‘for if he still lives, I think he will recognise me.’

He manoeuvred his horse in front of her and began to walk it carefully along the track towards the bright area of the clearing before them.

Fidelma saw that the clearing was only a small glade and she could hear, in the silence of the forest, the gushing and gurgling of a stream. Fidelma thought she saw a wooden building ahead through the trees.

Suddenly Dubán’s voice echoed loudly back.

‘Gadra! Gadra! It is Dubán of Araglin! Do you still live?’

There was silence for a while.

Then they heard a voice reply. It was a voice of age, yet deep and resonant.

‘If I do not, Dubán of Araglin, then it is surely a wraith who answers you.’

Dubán’s voice came again, lower in tone. Neither Fidelma nor Eadulf could hear what was being said. After a while, Dubán’s voice called loudly upon them to come forward into the glade.

On a level piece of land by a surging, tumbling mountain stream, stood a wooden cabin, well built and thatched. The glade showed signs of cultivation. A small garden of herbs and vegetables and some fruit trees surrounded it. Dubán had dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby bush and was standing a few feet from another figure. He was a short, elderly figure, with a shock of white hair, leaning on a staff of polished blackthorn. He looked, at first sight, frail. But Fidelma realised that the frailness was misleading. He was thin but sinewy. He wore loose robes dyed with saffron and round his neck was a golden circlet bearing ancient symbols the like of which Fidelma had not seen before.

Fidelma swung from her horse and handed the reins to Eadulf and moved forward towards the elderly figure. She halted a few paces away.

‘Blessings on you, Gadra,’ she greeted, inclining her head slightly.

She found herself looking into a kindly face, whose nut-brown, weather-tanned skin was highlighted by piercing bright eyes. They seemed grey rather than blue. The cascade of snow-white hair surrounded the face. It was shoulder length from the head and merged indivisibly into a silken-like beard that was cut short so that the circlet showed where it hung on his chest. That Gadra was old was not in dispute but it was impossible to estimate his age for his face was still youthful and unlined and only the rounded shoulders gave an impression of the passing years.

She found the face regarding her with good humour.

‘You are well come to this place, Fidelma, daughter of Failbe Flann.’

Fidelma started a little.

‘How did …?’

She saw the man laughing and she caught herself and smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

‘What else did Dubán tell you?’

Gadra nodded approvingly.

‘You have a quick mind, Fidelma.’ He glanced across her shoulder to where Eadulf was tying the horses to a bush. ‘Come forward, Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. Come forward and let us sit ourselves down and speak for a while.’

Fidelma, as she used to do when she was a young pupil of Morann of Tara, sank cross-legged on the grass before the old man, like a novice before a master. Gadra smiled approvingly. Brother Eadulf, more awkwardly, preferred to prop himself up on a nearby rounded boulder, using it as an uncomfortable seat. Dubán similarly seemed to think his dignity would be affronted to be seated on the ground and found another boulder. Gadra, as if he were still youthful, squatted down on the grass before Fidelma.

‘Before we talk,’ Gadra began, at the same time raising his hand to finger the golden crescent which hung around his neck, ‘does this bother you?’

Fidelma glanced at the emblem.

‘Why should it bother me?’

Gadra pointed to her own crucifix.

‘Is it not at odds with that?’

Fidelma slowly shook her head.

‘Your crescent stood as a symbol of light and knowledge among our people for countless centuries. I have no need to fear it. Why should it offend me?’

‘Yet it offends many who embrace the New Faith.’

Eadulf stirred uncomfortably for he found it distracting to be in the company of someone wearing a symbol of a pagan faith.

‘You have not embraced the Faith of Christ?’ he demanded.

Gadra looked up at him and smiled softly.

‘I am an old man, brother Saxon. In me, the ancient gods and goddesses of our people take a long time a dying. Yet I do not grudge you your new ways, your new thoughts and your new hopes. It is in the nature of things that the old should die and the newshould live. It is also the danger of this world as well as its blessing. That is the nature of the children of Danu, the Mother Goddess. Life dies and is reborn. Life is reborn and it dies. It is a never ending cycle. The old gods die, the new are born. The time will come when they will also die and new gods will arise.’

Fidelma heard Eadulf’s splutter of indignation but she said hastily: ‘We are all the prisoners of our times.’

Gadra chuckled approvingly.

‘You have perception, Fidelma. Or is it merely sensitivity? Can you tell me what is swifter than the wind?’

‘Thought,’ replied Fidelma at once, knowing immediately the game that the old man was playing.

‘Ah. Then what is whiter than snow?’

‘Truth,’ she replied sharply.

‘What, then, is sharper than a sword?’

‘Understanding.’

‘Then we understand one another well, Fidelma. I am the repository of the old and much will be lost when I am gone. But that is the way of it. And that is why I have come to the forests to die.’

Fidelma was silent a moment.

‘Has Dubán told you the news from Araglin?’

‘He has told me who you are. That and no more. That you have come to seek something from me is obvious.’

‘Eber, the chieftain of Araglin, has been murdered.’

Gadra did not appear surprised.

‘In my time we would celebrate the death of a soul in this world for it meant that a soul was reborn in the Otherworld. It was the custom to mourn birth, for it meant a soul had died in the Otherworld.’

‘The death of Eber is of more concern to me, Gadra, for I am an advocate of the courts of the five kingdoms.’

‘Forgive me if I spoke as a philosopher. Of course, the manner of his going to the Otherworld is of concern. I presume that Muadnat is chieftain of Araglin now?’

Fidelma stared in surprise.

‘Crón is tanist and will be chieftain when the derbfhine of her family confirm her as such.’

Gadra gave her a curious sideways glance but made no further reference to Muadnat.

‘So Eber is dead? Murdered? And you, child, are a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts come to investigate?’

For once Fidelma did not mind being called ‘child’ by this elderly mystic.

‘This is so.’

‘What would you have of me?’

‘Móen was found by Eber’s body with a bloody knife in his hand.’

For the first time, the calm humour of the old man’s face was creased by an expression of amazement. But it was quickly gone. He had tremendous control.

‘Are you telling me that Móen is supposed to have murdered Eber?’ His voice was still composed.

‘He stands accused of that murder,’ Fidelma confirmed.

‘If I had not lived a long life and seen many things, I would say that the boy was not capable of taking life.’

Fidelma frowned, leaning forward.

‘I am not sure that I follow. Do you accept that he committed the murder?’

‘In special circumstances even the most docile of human beings will turn to kill. Móen is the most docile of human beings.’

Fidelma made a wry face.

‘Docile is not a word that others would use.’

Gadra sighed softly.

‘Believe me, the boy is sensitive and of a calm nature. I know for I have watched him grow from a baby. Teafa and I taught him all he knows.’

Fidelma regarded the old man for a few minutes.

‘You taught him?’ she prompted with emphasis.

‘I have said so. What does the boy say about this charge? What does Teafa say?’

‘Móen is one who is deaf, dumb and blind. How can he tell us anything?’

Gadra snorted impatiently.

‘Through Teafa, of course. He communicates through Teafa. What has she to say?’

‘Ah …’ Fidelma let her breath expel slowly, regretting that she had not explained fully.

Gadra was looking at her curiously.

‘Something has happened to Teafa? I can read that much in your expression.’

‘Yes. Teafa is dead.’

Gadra sat very still and upright.

‘I will say a prayer for a good rebirth in the Otherworld,’ he said softly. ‘She was a good woman and possessed of a great soul. How did she die? Was she killed by Eber? Was that when the boy struck back, in defence of Teafa?’

Fidelma shook her head, trying to stop her tumbling thoughts reacting to what the old man had said.

‘Móen also stands accused of having killed Teafa, stabbing her with a knife, and then going to Eber’s chambers and stabbing him.’

‘Can this be true?’

Gadra, in spite of his years of self-discipline, at controlling his emotions, was clearly distressed.

‘The accusation is true. But I have come to ascertain the facts.’

‘These facts you state must be in error then,’ Gadra replied decisively. ‘While I can concede that Móen could, if sufficiently provoked, turn on Eber, he would never strike at Teafa. Teafa has been his mother.’

‘Sons have killed their mothers before now,’ Eadulf intervened.

Gadra ignored him.

‘Has anyone been able to communicate with Móen since Teafa’s death?’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘I was told that only Teafa could communicate with Móen. No one else knew how. He cannot hear, he cannot see and he cannot speak.’

Gadra was sorrowful.

‘There are other forms of communication. The boy can touch, he can smell, he can feel vibration. If the fates deny us some of our senses, then we can develop others. So no one has communicated with him since this terrible thing happened?’

‘I have been unable. That is why I am here. I have heard that you might understand how this method of communication is accomplished.’

‘It is so. As I said, I taught the boy with Teafa. I must come back with you to the rath of Araglin at once and speak with him,’ said the old man decisively.

Fidelma was surprised. She had been hoping for some advice but never dared to consider that the old man would insist on coming to the rath himself.

‘If you can accomplish this thing then I will believe in all the miracles without reservation.’

‘It can be so,’ Gadra assured her grimly. ‘Poor Móen. Can you imagine what it must be like for someone imprisoned in such a body unable to know or communicate with those around him? He must be frightened and desperate for he will not know what has happened.’

Eadulf leaned forward again.

‘If he is innocent of the accusations then he is going through a terrifying ordeal,’ he conceded. ‘But someone else at the rath must have known how Móen was able to communicate apart from Teafa?’

Gadra glanced across to Eadulf with a shake of his head.

‘You are practical, Saxon. The answer to your question is that only Teafa had the patience to learn the skill from me. She might have tried to pass it on. But I do not think she did. I think she felt it better that it was kept a secret.’

‘Why?’

‘That answer has doubtless died with her.’

Gadra rose to his feet and Fidelma followed his example.

‘I have no horse,’ the old man said, ‘so it may take me a while to reach the rath of Araglin.’

‘You may ride behind either Dubán or Brother Eadulf. There is no problem.’

‘Then I will ride with Brother Eadulf,’ the old man announced. Eadulf went to get the horses and Gadra lowered his voice to Fidelma.

‘Your Eadulf speaks our language well.’

She coloured hotly.

‘He is a visitor to our country. A Saxon monk who has been trained in our colleges.’ She paused and added quietly, ‘And he is not my Eadulf.’

The amused bright eyes were suddenly fixed on her questioningly.

‘There is a warmness in your voice when you speak of this Saxon.’

Fidelma found her cheeks colouring even more fiercely.

‘He has been a good friend to me,’ she replied defensively.

Gadra studied her face closely.

‘Never deny your feelings, child, especially not to yourself.’

The old man went into his cabin before Fidelma could frame any reply. For a moment she felt annoyed and then she found herself smiling. Pagan or not, she liked the sincerity and wisdom in the old man. She turned to Dubán and found him watching her inquisitively.

‘I see that you like the old man in spite of your religious differences.’

‘Perhaps the differences are not so much once we remove the names we give to things. We are all sprang from the same common ancestry.’

‘Perhaps.’

The old man returned a moment later with a travelling cloakand a sacculus, a bag on a strap strung across his shoulder, in which he had obviously put the items he needed for the journey.

‘Tell me, brother Saxon,’ he said, as Eadulf helped him to mount the horse, ‘I presume my old antagonist Gormán is still at the rath?’

‘Father Gormán is the priest at Araglin.’

‘Not my father,’ muttered Gadra. ‘I do not object to calling anyone my brother or my sister but there are not many on this earth that I would acknowledge have the right to be called my father, especially one whose intolerance is like a canker eating away at his soul.’

Eadulf exchanged a glance with Fidelma at the old man’s vehemence but the Saxon’s amusement did not find a resonance in Fidelma’s eyes. She was solemn.

‘Have no concern of Gormán,’ she told the old man, as she swung up on her own mount. ‘Mine is the authority by which you come to the rath of Araglin.’

Gadra laughed or, at least, his sinewy body quivered with amusement.

‘Each person is their own authority, Fidelma,’ he said.

They began to make the return journey along the path through the great mountain forests. It seemed that some mutual unspoken agreement caused them to lapse into silence so that only the heavy snorting breath of their horses, treading the forest path, could be heard. Even the dark woods themselves were without sound in spite of the fact that it was still daylight above the gloomy canopy.

Fidelma was head down, deep in thought, trying to puzzle how this old man and, indeed, Teafa, could form any meaningful communication with someone who had Móen’s disabilities. She gave up the attempt after a while. The fact that he said he could do so was good enough for her for she accepted without question that Gadra was a man who spoke the truth. Didn’t the old wise ones use to say that by Truth the earth endures and by Truth we are delivered from our enemies?

She glanced back to Eadulf and wondered what he was thinking. He must be uncomfortable about the proximity of someone who rejected the New Faith and adhered to the ways of the ancient ones. Gadra had been right in his one word summation of Eadulf. He was practical; down to earth and pragmatic. He accepted what he was taught and once accepted he would adhere to those teachings without question or deviation. He was like a ponderous ship ploughing a stately way across an ocean. If so, then she was a light bark, speeding hither and thither, darting across the waves. Did she do him an injustice? She suddenly found herself remembering a maxim of Hesiod. Admire the little ship but put your cargo in a big one.

She gave a mental sigh and turned her mind back to the task in hand. She reflected on the evidence she had so far heard but at the end of her contemplation she realised there was nothing to be done until Gadra learnt what he could from Móen. Fidelma felt annoyance and, having questioned her annoyance, realised that she was impatient to get back to the rath and learn what Móen could tell them. Impatience was, she acknowledged, her biggest fault. She accepted Eadulf’s remonstration about her irritability and impatience. But she admitted that a restless spirit was at least a sign of being alive.

She was abruptly aware that Dubán had drawn rein and had raised one hand up to halt them.

He held his head cocked to one side in a listening attitude.

They stayed still for a moment or two. The warrior turned and gestured for them to dismount.

‘What is it?’ whispered Fidelma.

‘Several heavy-shod horses,’ replied Dubán in the same soft tone, ‘and riders who make little attempt to disguise their passage. Listen!’

She held her head to one side and found she could actually hear voices raised, shouting to one another.

Eyes narrowed, Dubán was looking around him.

‘Quickly,’ he instructed, still keeping his voice low, ‘let us lead our horses off the path into the forest. Through there,’ he thrust out a hand to indicate a route, ‘there are some rocks behind which we can conceal ourselves.’

Questions rose in Fidelma’s throat but she bit them back. When a trained warrior issued such advice it was not her place to debate with him.

They followed him as silently and rapidly as possible from the track into the forest, through the brush to the outcrop of rocks he indicated. Eadulf held the horses with Gadra by his side while Dubán and Fidelma moved to the edge of the rocks and crouched there observing the path.

The sound of a number of men on horseback was now easily identifiable and the noisy laughter and shouting of the riders showed they feared no opposition to their passage through the forests.

Fidelma glanced sideways at Dubán. The middle-aged warrior was frowning as he peered towards the path. He was clearly anxious.

‘What gives you concern?’ she whispered. ‘These are the forests of Araglin and you command the bodyguard of the chieftains. Why are we hiding?’

Dubán did not move his head and spoke softly out of the side of his mouth.

‘A warrior is told never to test the depth of a river with both feet.’

He paused, holding his head to one side.

‘Listen.’

Fidelma listened to the sounds of the approaching horses.

‘I am no warrior, Dubán. What do you hear?’

‘I hear the rattle of war harness, of swords bumping on shields, of the tread of heavy-shod horses. It tells me that the riders are armed men. If I see a hound in a sheep pen, I look first to see if it means harm to the sheep.’

He motioned her to silence.

The outline of figures on horseback could be seen through the brush and trees that stood between them and the forest track. There were about a dozen riders. They sat at ease on their mounts. Several of them wore light riding cloaks and carried rounded shields slung on their arms. A few of them carried long pointed spears.

At the end of the column of horsemen, being guided by long lead reins by the last riders, were half a dozen asses, sturdy pack animals, on whose backs were large covered panniers which appeared loaded and heavy.

That the riders had no idea that they were being observed was obvious. Coarse laughter echoed from their ranks and someone was exchanging ribald remarks about some member of the company.

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed. Bringing up the rear of this procession, after the asses, rode a man without a cloak. She could make out a bow, slung over one shoulder. But the other shoulder was in bandages with the arm supported by a sling.

She drew in a sharp breath.

The line of horsemen proceeded on its noisy way through the forests. They waited in silence until they could hear nothing more of the riders.

Slowly, Dubán rose to his feet, followed by Fidelma, and turned back to where Eadulf and Gadra stood by the horses.

‘I do not understand,’ Eadulf said immediately. ‘Why do we hide from these horsemen?’

Dubán was absently fingering his black beard.

‘I believe that they are the cattle raiders who have been worrying the farmsteads of Araglin.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Fidelma.

‘I saw a body of well-armed men who are strangers in this glen. Why are they here? We know that armed men have been raiding some of our farmsteads. Is it not logical that these are the same men?’

‘Logical enough,’ conceded Eadulf reluctantly.

‘If they were cattle raiders, why are they transporting those heavily laden asses? And to where?’

‘This road leads south out of these valleys towards the coast. You can be in Lios Mhór or Ard Mór in a short time from here,’ Gadra explained.

‘Is this a faster way of reaching Lios Mhór than the road which leads by Bressal’s hostel?’ queried Fidelma, remembering what Bressal had told her.

‘It is a full half a day quicker to reach Lios Mhór by this road than by Bressal’s hostel,’ confirmed the old man.

‘Whoever those men were,’ interposed Eadulf, ‘surely they would not harm us? I may be a stranger here but this I have learnt, it is not the custom to offer violence to those wearing the cloth of the Faith.’

‘My Saxon brother,’ Gadra laid a thin hand on Eadulf’s arm, ‘given a strong incentive, even the most established of customs may be broken. For protection you should rely only on your own common sense and not on what clothes you wear.’

‘Good advice,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘For we have met at least one of these men before.’

Eadulf’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

‘We have?’ he asked.

‘Where?’ demanded Dubán.

‘The one with his arm in the sling,’ went on Fidelma, unperturbed by their consternation, ‘was one of those shot by Eadulf two mornings ago when the hostel of Bressal was attacked. The arrow bit deep.’

‘Eadulf shot the attacker with an arrow?’

Old Gadra was gazing at Eadulf in unconcealed amazement. Then he began to chuckle.

Eadulf sniffed in annoyance.

‘Sometimes I rely on other means apart from the clothes I wear to defend myself,’ he said dryly.

Gadra clapped him on the shoulder.

‘I think I shall like you, brother Saxon. Sometimes I forget the need for the pragmatic. You cannot row across a river unless you have oars to do so.’

Eadulf was not quite sure how to interpret the old man’s remark but decided it was meant as something complimentary.

Dubán was still looking serious.

‘Are you sure that these are the men who attacked Bressal’s hostel?’

Fidelma nodded affirmatively.

‘We were witnesses to it.’

‘I think we must get back to the rath of Araglin as quickly as possible.’

‘What of Menma?’ Eadulf began, only to be silenced by Fidelma with a look of anger that made him blink.

Dubán turned to him with a frown, missing her warning glance.

‘What about Menma?’ he asked.

‘Eadulf was thinking of the need to protect the rath if these bandits attacked,’ Fidelma explained hastily.

Dubán shook his head.

‘Menma will not be of much help. But there is young Crítán and other of my warriors there. However, those outlaws are riding away from the direction of the rath so I would have no concern for the safety of it, brother.’

Eadulf shrugged, realising that for some reason or other Fidelma wanted to keep to herself her belief that Menma had been one of the raiding party at Bressal’s hostel. Fidelma gave him a withering look and began to lead her horse after Dubán.

Eadulf realised that Gadra was examining him with a knowing expression.

He turned irritably and began to lead his horse after Dubán and Fidelma, back to the track.

This time Dubán led them at a much faster pace than before, breaking into a canter whenever the path through the narrow defilesand under the low, overhanging branches allowed an easy passage.

It was after some minutes that Gadra, hanging on behind Eadulf, moved his mouth close to his ear.

‘Be comforted, my Saxon brother,’ the old man called so that only he could hear. ‘If you think twice before you speak, you will speak twice the better.’

Eadulf’s mouth closed in a tight line and he silently cursed the old man’s prescience.