Peter Tremayne - The Leper's bell

‘Sad?’ queried Eadulf sharply. ‘Did you know her family?’

‘Rather I knew the family of her husband,’ Aona amended. ‘I knew her husband’s father, Cathchern, very well indeed. He was one of my men and came from the Well of Ara. I watched his son Callada grow up and was not surprised when he followed his father into the bodyguard of the kings of Cashel. Callada and Sárait married here — yes, it was here in this very room that we had the feasting. That was three or four years ago.’

‘I did not know Callada well,’ admitted Fidelma.

‘He would have been about ten years older than you, lady.’

‘But why did you say the family was sad?’ Eadulf was puzzled.

‘Well, my old comrade Cathchern was killed in a battle against the Uí Néill when Callada had hardly reached the age of choice. Cathchern’s wife died of the Yellow Plague. Then Callada… he was killed at the battle of Cnoc Áine scarce two years ago.’

That I knew,’ Fidelma said. ‘And because of that, Sárait was given work at my brother’s palace when I returned there for my confinement. She became my nurse and nurse to my baby.’

‘I presume that Cathchern and his son Callada both freely chose life as warriors?’ asked Eadulf. ‘If so, death must be recognised as a constant companion, and many people died in the Yellow Plague. Yet you say they were a sad family?’

‘There were ugly stories.’

‘Ugly stories?’

Aona made an awkward gesture with his hands as if trying to dismiss what he had said. ‘Maybe it is not right to repeat them now.’

Eadulf snorted in annoyance. The time to have hesitated was before you hinted at some intrigue. Continue your tale now.’

Aona hesitated, shrugged and bent forward with lowered voice.

‘I heard from a couple of warriors who were at the battle of Cnoc Áine that Callada was slain not by the enemy — the Uí Fidgente — but by one of his own men.’

Eadulf was not shocked. He had heard similar tales about deaths in battles.

‘You mean that he turned coward on the field? I have heard enough stories of battles to know that often a man has been slain when he showed cowardice and endangered the lives of his comrades.’

That I know. But Callada was no coward. He was a good warrior and descended from a line of great warriors. Yet these stories have persisted. However he died, he was slain at Cnoc Áine. Now Sárait has come by a violent death as well. It is a sad, sad family in which death comes in violent ways and no one is left to sing the praises of the deeds of the past generations.’

Fidelma said nothing for a moment. Then she grimaced.

‘Well, Aona, we have seen our fair share of violence. It would be pleasing now if we could take ourselves off to some isolated valley high up in the mountains and begin to live in peace with ourselves and our surroundings.’

Aona’s face was sad.

There is no permanent sanctuary against the violence of mankind. It is a permanent condition, I fear, lady.’

Fidelma stood up and gazed through the window at the lightening sky.

‘I think Adag is being proved correct. The sky is brighter. The storm is passing. We must soon be on our way to Imleach.’

The old innkeeper rose in response.

‘I wish you well in your quest, lady. May you have all success in finding your child and bringing the murderer of Sárait to justice.’

Capa and his men had also risen.

‘Are we continuing the journey to Imleach, lady?’ Capa asked. At Fidelma’s affirmative, he went on: ‘We will go and prepare the horses, then. No need to trouble the young lad, innkeeper.’ Adag had gone to the brewery at the side of the inn to carry out some jobs for Aona.

The warriors had just left when the door opened again and a thickset, middle-aged man entered. His features showed good humour and he seemed to have a commanding presence.

‘Greetings, Adag. I see your guests are just leaving, warriors by the look of them…’

His eyes suddenly fell on Fidelma and Eadulf and he halted in confusion. Aona turned to Fidelma with a smile.

‘On the very subject of which we have been speaking — this is Cathalán. He fought at Cnoc Áine. Cathalán, this…’

The newcomer had crossed the room and bowed his head in respect.

‘Lady, I had the honour to serve your brother at Cnoc Áine. I recognise you and have heard of your trouble, for which I am sorry.’

Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgement.

‘Cathalán, we were speaking a short time ago of Sárait’s husband and the manner of his death.’

‘Were you a witness to how he died?’ Eadulf asked.

Cathalán shook his head at once.

‘Not a witness, no. I merely heard stories. In battle, Brother Eadulf, one hears a story from someone. When you question them, they say they heard it from someone else and that someone saw it happen. When you ask that person, then they, too, have heard it from someone who, they say, saw it happen. But the story that Callada was killed by one of our own warriors came from two separate sources. One was an Uí Fidgente and the other was one of our own men. I doubt it not. But we have not been able to discover anything further for we have found no one who could be claimed as a true witness.’

‘Was the matter reported to a Brehon?’ queried Fidelma.

‘It was. Brehon Dathal said he had examined the matter but found nothing over which action could be taken.’

‘I see. So you were one of the warriors who were merely repeating what others told you.’

Cathalán hesitated for a moment.

‘There is something else?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘I was Callada’s cenn-feadhna? Eadulf took a moment to remember that the military structures of Éireann were well organised and a cenn-feadhna was the captain of a buden or company of one hundred warriors. ‘We lost sight of one another in the heat of the battle on Cnoc Áine. In fact, several of my company — fourteen men in all — perished that day because we were one of the first to be ordered forward into the centre of the Uí Fidgente.’ He paused. ‘I knew that there was something troubling Callada on the evening before the battle, as we sat round the fire. I asked him what ailed him and he was reluctant to say anything at first. But as he was troubled and I pressed the matter, he finally told me that he had good reason to believe that his wife Sárait was unfaithful to him.’

‘That she was having an affair with another man?’ Eadulf asked, making sure he understood.

‘That she might have been having an affair with another.’ The former warrior corrected the emphasis with a grave expression.

‘Who else knew of this?’ It was Fidelma who posed the question.

‘He spoke to me reluctantly. I do not think that he had told his suspicions to anyone else…’ He suddenly frowned. ‘You think there is some connection with Sárait’s death?’ He shook his head immediately. ‘But no, she was nursing your child and the baby has been kidnapped. There is surely no relation?’

‘Yet all possibilities must be considered,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘Sárait is now dead. She was enticed from the palace to her death. Was it a means to kidnap my child? If so, then-’

She suddenly snapped her mouth shut, realising that she was thinking aloud. She focused her green-blue eyes on Cathalán.

‘Did Callada say whom he suspected of having an affair with his wife?’

‘Alas, he did not.’

‘And hearing this rumour, how he met his death, you are presuming … what exactly?’

Cathalán shrugged. ‘I was not made a cenn-feadhna for presuming things, lady. I merely reported the facts to old Brehon Dathal. Those facts may be connected and thus they pose a question. That is all I am saying.’