Peter Tremayne - The Leper's bell

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.’