Peter Tremayne - The Leper's bell

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.

Fidelma left the palace alone, in spite of the protests of the guards on duty at the gate who wanted to send a warrior with her as escort, in view of the perceived threat from the Uí Fidgente. She rode down the hill into the township below. Dusk was settling across the buildings and a thin mist was just rising, making everything seem gloomy and chill. She made her way across the nearly deserted square. At the far end was the inn on whose door she could see the demand for proof that the abductors had Alchú. It was tacked to the doorpost, illuminated by the lantern light, for every inn, whether in the country or in the town, was required by law to hang a lantern outside during the hours of darkness. She presumed that Cerball had finished his work and that Capa had now set off to get these notices set up as instructed.

The noise of music and laughter came from the inn. It sounded carefree and boisterous. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps she should have let Eadulf know where she was going. She became aware of a group of children outside the inn; two or three older children who she guessed were awaiting one or other of their parents who were inside. They seemed engrossed in some game by the light of the lantern. She made a sudden decision and called to them.

‘Would one of you like to earn a pingín by taking a message up to the palace?’

The tallest child, a boy, looked up at her.

‘Only a pingín?’ he protested. ‘It was worth a screpall last time.’

Fidelma gazed at him in surprised silence for a moment. Then she said: ‘Last time?’

‘You asked me if I would take a message to the palace before, and you promised to pay me a screpall. Last week, it was.’

‘Are you sure it was me?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Well,’ the boy hesitated, head to one side, ‘it was a woman in a fine cloak. Can’t be sure. She was in the shadows by the corner of the inn there.’

‘But you didn’t accept her offer?’

‘I didn’t. I was about to when my dad came out of the inn. That’s where he is now. I had to take him home. Too much corma’

His companions were chuckling but apparently the boy did not mind.

Fidelma experienced a feeling of both excitement and satisfaction. The question that had been irritating her for a while was answered. How was it that the woman had chosen the dwarf to take the message? She had just learnt the answer. It was an accident. The mysterious woman had been waiting to choose someone who would not question her. She had deliberately kept in the shadows so as not to be recognised. She had tried to get this boy to take it and he could not. Then the dwarf had come along.

‘Anyway,’ the boy was still speaking, ‘I’m not running errands for less than you promised before.’

Fidelma did not bother to reply but tossed the youth a little bronze pingín coin. Deep in thought, she let her horse walk on. She was still pensive when she came to a house on the edge of the township. The building stood a little way apart from the others; a medium-sized structure with its own outhouse and barn. Dark had descended now but the warmth of the township kept the rising mist at bay.

A short distance from the house Fidelma came out of her reverie and suddenly reined in her mount. Outside the very house that was her destination, she saw the dark shape of a tethered horse. Even as she was wondering whether to go on, the door opened. A lantern hung over the porch and by its light she recognised the tall, broad-shouldered warrior with black hair. It was Gorman. He stood for a moment holding the hand of the woman who remained on the threshold.

‘Take care of yourself, Gorman,’ came the woman’s voice. ‘Do nothing precipitous.’

The warrior replied in a low voice but Fidelma could not hear the words. Then he bent forward with an intimate embrace before he mounted his horse and was gone into the night. Thankfully he did not come towards the township along the road where Fidelma had halted. After waiting a few moments, she continued on to the house. She slid from her horse and slipped the reins over the post by the door.

Her footsteps creaked on the wooden plank of the porch and at once the door was flung open.

‘Gorman, have you-’

The woman who stood there allowed her voice to fade away as her eyes fell on Fidelma. She suddenly seemed embarrassed.

‘Good evening, Delia.’

A woman of short stature stood framed in the doorway. Her look of dismay quickly changed into a smile of welcome. She was in her forties, yet maturity had not dimmed the youthfulness of her features or the golden abundance of her hair. She was clad in a close-fitting dress that emphasised a good figure whose hips had not broadened and whose limbs were still shapely.

Fidelma took the hands that the older woman held out in greeting to her.

‘Fidelma! It is good to see you.’

‘It has been a long time, Delia,’ Fidelma returned.

The woman looked deeply into Fidelma’s eyes. Her expression was one of deep sympathy.

‘I have heard of your sorrow. Is there any further news of Alchú?’

Fidelma shook her head and Delia stood aside, motioning her to enter the house.

‘Take a seat, lady. There, that seat close by the fire, for the day is chill. A drink? There is corma or I have a sweet drink made from the flowers of trom , the elder tree.’

Fidelma seated herself and opted for a drink of elderflower wine. Delia brought the drink and sat down opposite her.

‘I am sad for you, and also sad that my friend has lost her life in this tragedy.’

Fidelma did not hide her surprise. ‘Your friend?’

‘Sárait.’

‘I did not know that you knew Sárait.’

Delia frowned for a moment. ‘I thought that was why you had come to see me.’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘The reason can wait for a moment. Tell me more about you and Sárait. When did you become friends?’

‘Oh, after her husband was slain … or rather murdered.’

‘So you have heard the rumours about his death at Cnoc Áine? From whom?’

‘From the mouth of Sárait herself.’

‘She knew that he had been murdered?’

‘She would not say much but … well, let me tell you what I know. Sárait was always pleasant to me, even when I was a bé-táide , a prostitute. Her sister, Gobnat, was too prim and proper. She would always ignore me and she still does. But Sárait was a kindly and a friendly soul. Some months after her husband was killed she came to me and she was in a state of anguish. It looked as if she had been beaten.’