Valley of the Shadow

Chapter Four

They had barely ridden a mile across the valley when they heard the sound of approaching horses. Immediately before them was an entrance to what appeared to be a ravine, opening between two granite heights and through which the track they were taking disappeared. It was from this direction that the sound of the horses could clearly be heard.

Eadulf, nervous and still sickened by the sight he had witnessed, began to look around immediately for some cover. There was none.

Fidelma halted her horse and sat at ease, merely awaiting the appearance of the riders, and curtly ordered him to do likewise.

A moment or so later, a column of about a score of warriors burst out of the gorge on to the plain just in front of them. Their leader, a slender figure, saw them at once and, without faltering, led the column at a breathless pace to within a yard or so of them. Then, as if at some given signal not obvious even to the discerning eye, the band of horses halted in a cloud of dust with a sound of snorting breath and an occasional whinny of protest.

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she examined the leader of the band of horsemen. The rider was a slightly built woman of about thirty years. Dark hair, almost the colour of jet, tumbled in a mass of curls from her shoulders. A thin band of twisted silver around her forehead kept it in some semblance of order. She wore a cloak and carried a long scabbard with a workman-like sword and an ornate knife on her right side. The woman’s face was slightly rounded, almost heart-shaped and not unattractive. The lips full and red. The skin pale. The eyes were dark, flashing with challenge.

‘Strangers!’ Her voice was harsh and seemed at odds with her appearance. ‘And Christians at that. I know you from your attire. Know that you are not welcome in this place!’

Fidelma’s mouth was a thin line at the discourtesy of this greeting.

‘The king of this land would be displeased to know that I am not welcome here,’ she replied softly.

Only Eadulf could recognise the quiet tone which bespoke her suppressed anger.

The dark-haired woman frowned slightly.

‘I think not, woman of the god Christ. You are speaking to his sister.’

Fidelma simply raised an eyebrow in cynical query.

‘You claim to be the sister of the king of this land?’ she asked in disbelief.

‘I am Orla, sister to Laisre, who rules this land.’

‘Ah.’ Fidelma realised that the woman had placed a different interpretation on what was meant by king. ‘I do not speak of Laisre, chieftain of Gleann Geis; I speak of the king of Cashel to whom Laisre must bend his knee.’

‘Cashel is a long way from here,’ shot back the woman in annoyance.

‘But Cashel’s reach is sure and firm and it extends justice into all the far corners of the kingdom.’

Fidelma spoke with such assured firmness that Orla’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. She appeared to be unused to being answered with confidence and as an equal.

‘Who are you, woman, who rides so unconcerned into the land of Laisre?’ Her dark eyes flashed in dislike at Eadulf, who sat quietly behind her. ‘And who are you who dares to bring a foreign cleric into this land?’

A burly warrior from the column of horsemen edged his mount forward. He was an ugly looking man, with a bushy black beard and a scar above one eye, the mark of an old wound.

‘Lady, no need to ask more of these people who wear the emasculate robes of their alien religion. Let them be gone or let me drive them forth.’

The woman, Orla, gave the warrior a glance of irritation.

‘When I need advice, Artgal, I shall consult you.’ And with this dismissal, she turned back to Fidelma. There was no change of expression on her hostile features. ‘Speak, woman, and tell me who dares lecture the sister of the chieftain of Gleann Geis on the duties of her brother.’

‘I am Fidelma … Fidelma of Cashel.’

Whether by design or accident, Fidelma made a slight movement in her saddle at which the cross of the Golden Chain, hidden in the folds of her clothing, slipped out and the sunlight struck it momentarily causing the dark eyes of Orla to glimpse it. They widened perceptibly as she recognised it for what it was.

‘Fidelma of Cashel?’ Orla repeated in a hesitant tone. ‘Fidelma, sister of Colgú, king of Muman?’

Fidelma did not bother to answer the question but assumed that Orla knew the answer already.

‘Your brother, Laisre, is expecting my embassy from Cashel,’ she went on, as if disinterested in the reaction she had provoked. She reached behind her into her saddle bags and drew out the white wand with the golden stag atop it, the symbol of her embassy from the king of Cashel.

There was a silent pause as Orla stared as if mesmerised by it.

‘Do you accept the white wand or do you choose the sword?’ Fidelma demanded with a hint of a smile on her features. Envoys going into a hostile land presented either the wand or the sword as a symbolic challenge to peace or war.

‘My brother is expecting a representative of Cashel,’ Orla admitted slowly, raising her eyes from the wand to Fidelma’s face, her expression unsure. There was an unwilling note of respect in her voice now. ‘But that representative is one who should be qualified to negotiate with Laisre on ecclesiastical matters. Someone qualified to …’

Fidelma suppressed an impatient sigh.

‘I am an advocate of the Brehon Courts, qualified to the degree of anruth. I am the negotiator whom he is expecting and I speak in the stead of my brother, Colgú, his king.’

Orla failed to disguise her surprise. The qualification of anruth was only one degree below the highest that the ecclesiastical and secular colleges of Ireland could bestow. Fidelma could walk and talk with kings, even the High King, let alone petty chieftains.

The dark-haired woman swallowed hard and, while she was undoubtedly impressed, her features remained harsh and unfriendly.

‘As representative of Laisre of Gleann Geis, I bid you welcome, techtaire.’ It took Eadulf some moments to recognise the ancient word for an envoy. Orla continued: ‘But as representative of the new religion of Christ, I say that you are not welcome in this place. Nor is the foreigner whom you bring with you.’

Fidelma leant forward, her voice sharp and clear.

‘Does that imply a threat? Are the sacred laws of hospitality abrogated in the land of Laisre? Is it the sword you accept instead of this?’

She held up the white wand again, thrusting it forward almost aggressively towards Orla. The sun sparkled brightly on the gold figure of the stag.

Orla’s cheeks coloured and she raised her chin defiantly.

‘I imply no threat to your life. Nor even his life.’ She jerked her head towards Eadulf. ‘No harm will come to you nor to the foreigner while you extend your protection to him. We are not barbarians in Gleann Geis. Envoys, under law, are regarded as sacred and inviolable and are treated with utmost respect even though they be our bitterest enemies.’

Eadulf moved uneasily for there was still a deadly serious threat behind what she was saying.

‘That is good to know, Orla,’ Fidelma replied easily, relaxing and replacing the wand in her saddle bag. ‘For I have seen what happens to people to whom such immunity from death is not given.’

Eadulf’s jaw slackened and he felt a sudden panic. If Orla and her warriors were responsible for the deaths of the young men across the valley then Fidelma, in admitting knowledge of the corpses, was putting their lives in considerable danger. He had thought she was going to be circumspect about the gruesome find. Then he suddenly became aware of the distant squawking of the birds of prey and he glanced anxiously over his shoulder. It was obvious that something was amiss across the glen in the direction where the corpses lay and the warriors of Orla’s bodyguard must surely have spotted the ravening carrion birds anyway.

Yet Orla was regarding Fidelma with some bewilderment. She had apparently not taken in the swirling cloud of distant ravens.

‘I have no understanding of your meaning.’

Fidelma indicated across the valley with one arm in a careless gesture.

‘Can you see the black of the battle ravens there? They feed on corpses.’

‘Corpses?’ Orla jerked her gaze up, apparently seeing the birds for the first time.

‘Thirty-three young men who have suffered The Threefold Death.’

Orla’s jaw suddenly clenched; her face was white as she brought her gaze back to Fidelma. It took her a moment or two to frame an answer.

‘Is this some jest?’ she demanded coldly.

‘I do not jest.’

Orla turned to the black-bearded warrior whom she had previously rebuked for his interruption.

‘Artgal, take half of our men and see what this evil gathering means.’

Artgal was glowering with suspicion.

‘It may be some Christian trap, lady.’

The woman’s eyes flashed angrily.

‘Do as I say!’ The voice was like a whiplash.

Without another word, the warrior, Artgal, signalled a section of the mounted warriors to follow him and he rode off in the direction where the distant birds were circling and diving.

‘The Threefold Death, you claim?’ the woman almost whispered after he had gone. ‘Are you sure this was the manner of death, Fidelma of Cashel?’

‘I am sure. But your man, Artgal, will confirm what I say on his return.’

‘The blame for this is not to be laid on the people of Laisre,’ the woman protested. There was a curious expression on her features as if she was trying to overcome her fear. ‘We know nothing of this matter.’

‘How can you be so sure that you speak for all the people of Laisre?’ asked Fidelma ingenuously.

‘I am sure. I speak not only for my brother but as wife of his tanist, the heir-elect, Colla. You have my word.’

‘A great evil has been committed in this valley, Orla. I am charged by my oath to discover the cause of it and who is responsible. That I mean to do.’

‘But you will not find the answer in Gleann Geis,’ replied Orla sullenly.

‘Yet it is to Gleann Geis that we are now proceeding,’ Fidelma said with confidence. ‘The sooner we get there the better. So my companion and I will leave you to await the return of your warriors and continue on.’ She looked towards Eadulf and gave a brief motion of her head, as if indicating him to follow, and, without another word, she nudged her horse forward, passing Orla and the remaining mounted warriors. After but a moment or so’s delay, Eadulf followed. The warriors were staring in some bewilderment at Orla who sat still, doing nothing to impede their progress.

Confidently, Fidelma walked her horse into the mouth of the gorge where the pathway became stony, indicating it had once been the bed of a flowing stream. How long it had been dried up was difficult to tell; perhaps for centuries. It twisted and turned with precipitous granite walls rising over a hundred feet on either side almost cutting out the light. They were in a semi-gloom from the moment they entered the passage. From an entrance of perhaps ten yards’ width, the gorge narrowed until there was only room for two horses to move comfortably abreast.

It was only after they had ridden some way that Eadulf decided to break the silence.

‘Do you …?’ he began but stopped suddenly as his voice boomed back in resounding echo against the walls of the narrow defile. He paused a moment and then lowered his voice to a whisper but even the whisper sounded like sepulchral echo. ‘Do you think that the woman, Orla, and her warriors killed those young men?’

Fidelma contrived to shrug without articulating a reply. Her face was set and stern.

‘The surprise on Orla’s face seemed genuine enough,’ Eadulf went on doggedly.

‘Nevertheless, had I not been who I am, I doubt that we would be proceeding with our journey. Orla and her warriors seem to have little liking for those of our Faith.’

Eadulf shivered and raised a hand to cross himself then caught himself and dropped it to his side. Habit caused action to lose meaning.

‘I did not know such heathen areas existed in this land. There is much to fear here.’

‘Fear is self-destructive, Eadulf. And you should not fear someone because they do not share your belief,’ chided Fidelma.

‘If they are prepared to use the sword against those whose belief is not their own — yes, there is much to fear,’ Eadulf replied, almost hotly. ‘We have doubtless seen some grotesque ritual sacrifice back there in the valley, perpetrated by these pagans. I fear for our safety.’

‘Fear is not required. But caution is the watchword. Remember what Aeschylus said — excessive fear always makes men powerless to act? So rid yourself of any fear and apply watchfulness and caution and by this means we will discover what is the truth.’

Eadulf sniffed disdainfully.

‘Perhaps fear is a means of protection,’ he protested, ‘because fear makes us cautious.’

‘Fear never makes anything virtuous. I give you an aphorism of Pubilius Syrus — what we fear comes to pass more speedily than what we hope. If you fear in this place, your fear will create that unnameable thing you fear. You have nothing to fear but fear itself. There is nothing to fear here but the evil deeds of men and women and we have stood up to evil men and women before and been victorious. So let it be now.’

She broke off, holding her head to one side.

They became aware of the sound of a horse behind them moving rapidly through the gorge.

‘They are coming after us,’ hissed Eadulf, turning in his saddle, but the ravine twisted and turned so much there would be nothing to see until the rider was almost upon them.

Fidelma shook her head.

‘They? See what fear does to judgment? It is only one horse coming along behind us and that undoubtedly belongs to Orla.’

Eadulf had barely opened his mouth to reply when the dark-haired woman came abruptly round a corner of the granite rock, saw them and halted her horse.

‘I could not let you enter Gleann Geis without the courtesy of an escort. I have left my men to deal with …’ She hesitated and made a gesture with her hand as if it would describe the horrendous scene of the dead bodies on the plain behind. ‘Artgal will report anything he may find which can help to solve the riddle of this slaughter. I shall accompany you to my brother’s ráth.’

Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgment.

‘We appreciate your courtesy, Orla.’

The dark-haired woman edged her horse forward into the lead and they proceeded at a walking pace.

Fidelma opened the conversation again.

‘I am led to understand that you disagree with your brother, Laisre, that the Faith should be recognised in this land?’

Orla smiled sourly.

‘My brother has accepted that the word of your Faith is strong in the five kingdoms. There is scarcely a petty kingdom or chief who disputes the message of this foreign god. Laisre is chieftain but we may not all agree with his action.’

Eadulf went to say something but ended up in a fit of coughing as he caught Fidelma’s warning eye.

‘So? You feel that the Christ is an alien god and not the one god of all the world?’ mused Fidelma.

‘We have our own gods who have served us since the beginning of time. Why abandon them now, especially in favour of one who is borne to this country on the tongues of Romans and Roman slaves who could never conquer us in warfare but now conquer us with their god?’

‘A unique way of looking at things,’ remarked Fidelma. ‘But you forget that our people have accepted a god of the east as the universal god but we worship him in our own way, not in the ways dictated by Rome.’

Orla pursed her lips cynically.

‘That is not what I hear. There are those of your Faith who, as you rightly say, refuse to accept the dictates of Rome but many otherswho do. Ultan of Armagh, for example, who says he has authority throughout the five kingdoms and sends his representatives to all the corners of this land, demanding allegiance.’

A frown passed Fidelma’s brow so quickly that it might not have been noticed.

‘Have you received such envoys from Ultan?’

‘We have,’ Orla admitted unabashed. ‘This same Ultan who calls himself the Comarb, the successor of Patrick, who brought the Faith of Christ to this land. This same Ultan who claims that all dues of the new Faith should be his.’

Fidelma felt obliged to point out that the scribes of the abbey at Imleach disputed Patrick’s claims to be the first to have brought the Faith to Éireann and especially Muman. Had not Muman been converted by the Blessed Ailbe, son of Olcnais, who served in the house of a king? Had not Ailbe befriended and encouraged Patrick? Had it not been Patrick and Ailbe, working together, who had converted Oengus Mac Nad Froich, king of Cashel, to the Faith? And it was Patrick who agreed that the royal city of Cashel should be the seat of Ailbe’s church in Muman. All this came tripping to her tongue, but she remained silent. Much could also be learnt through silence.

‘I have no liking for your Faith or those who propound it,’ confessed Orla honestly. ‘Your Patrick converted the people by fear.’

‘How so?’ asked Fidelma keeping her voice calm.

Orla thrust out her chin, the better to make her point.

‘We may live in a remote part of the world, but we have bards and scribes who have recounted the stories of how your Faith was spread. We know that Patrick went to Tara where he caused the Druid Luchet Mael to be burnt in a pyre and when the High King, Laoghaire, protested, Patrick brought about the death of others who refused to accept the new Faith. Even the High King Laoghaire was told that he would die on the spot unless he accepted the new Faith. Didn’t Laoghaire summon his council and tell them: “It is better for me to believe than to die” — is this a logical way to win people to a Faith?’

‘If what you say is the truth then it is not a logical way,’ Fidelma agreed quietly, though with a slight emphasis on the word ‘if’.

‘Do members of your Faith lie, Fidelma of Cashel?’ the woman sneered. ‘Ultan of Armagh sent my brother a gift of a book, Life of Patrick, written by one who knew him, one called Muirchú, and in which these truths are recorded. Not only that but we are told that Patrick journeyed to the fortress of Míliucc of Slemish, where he had lived before running away to Gaul and converting to thenew Faith. Hearing Patrick was nearing his fortress, so fearful of this Patrick was the chieftain, that he gathered all his valuables and his household, his wife and children, and he shut himself in his ráth and set fire to it. What fear could a man stir in another to make him end his life so horribly? Do you deny that this is so recorded?’

Fidelma sighed softly.

‘I know it is so recorded,’ she admitted.

‘And as it was written, so was it done?’

‘We are told to believe the word of Muirchú, but it was the chieftain’s decision to end his life rather than believe and serve the eternal God.’

‘Under the ancient laws, we are told that what we believe is a matter for our conscience only. Belief is our choice so long as what we believe does not harm others. Your Patrick’s conversion of the five kingdoms was through a presentation of a single choice — believe or die by his hand.’

‘By the hand of God!’ snapped Eadulf, finally no longer containing his silence.

Orla raised her eyebrows and turned in her saddle.

‘So? The foreigner speaks our language. I had begun to think that you did not or else that you were dumb. What land do you come from?’

‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk.’

‘And where is that?’

‘It is one of the Saxon kingdoms,’ explained Fidelma.

‘Ah, I have heard of the Saxons. Yet you speak our language well.’

‘I have studied in this land some years.’

‘Brother Eadulf is under the protection of the hospitality of my brother Colgú of Cashel,’ interposed Fidelma. ‘He is an envoy from the archbishop of Canterbury in the land of the Saxons.’

‘I see. And the good Saxon brother disputes my understanding of Muirchú’s account of Patrick’s life?’

‘Some things may not be taken so literally.’ Eadulf felt moved to make a defence.

‘The book is not true then?’

Fidelma groaned softly as Eadulf reddened in annoyance.

‘It is true, but …’

‘How can it be true and yet not to be taken literally?’ smiled Orla icily. ‘There is some necromancy here, surely?’

‘Some things are symbolic, meaning to impress the concept by means of stating a myth.’

‘So none of the people Patrick is said to have killed were actually killed?’

‘That is not what …’

Fidelma interrupted.

‘We are coming to the end of the gorge,’ she announced thankfully as she saw that the ravine was widening into a broad valley. ‘Is this Gleann Geis?’

‘It is the Forbidden Valley,’ confirmed Orla, turning away from Eadulf and gazing up at the cliff above them. She suddenly issued a shrill whistling sound like a bird cry. At once, a deeper answering cry sounded. The figure of a sentinel appeared high above them, gazing down. It was then that Fidelma realised this passage into Gleann Geis was well protected for no one could move in or out without the consent of those who controlled this narrow pass.