Peter Tremayne - The Leper's bell

He hurried from his chambers and made his way down to the stables.

A stableboy obligingly saddled his horse for him. Eadulf was not the most expert horseman; when it came to horses he liked to leave matters in the hands of those with better knowledge. Once it was saddled, he led the beast across the courtyard to the gates.

Caol was on duty there and saluted Eadulf.

‘I am going for a ride. I need some exercise,’ Eadulf said before being asked.

‘A good morning for it, Brother,’ replied Caol. ‘Though I had not thought of you as being one who rides for pleasure,’ he added, with a wry grin.

‘I mean to find a spot in the hills yonder,’ he indicated southward, ‘and then walk for a while.’

‘Due south is a lake, Loch Ceann,’ confirmed the warrior. ‘You’ll find good walking there.’

‘Due south? Is that near where the woodsman Conchoille works?’ Eadulf asked innocently.

‘Fairly near. The place where he is felling trees is close by at Rath na Drínne. Did you wish to see him, Brother?’

‘A few questions do occur to me now that you mention it. So I may take the opportunity to look for him.’

Eadulf thanked the warrior, mounted and trotted down the incline that led from the mound on which Cashel was built, twisting down to the start of the township below. But he avoided the edge of the town, keeping to the road that ran along its eastern border and then joined the track into the woods.

It was not Loch Ceann that he was heading for but Rath na Drínne, where the woodsman Conchoille was working. It did not take him long before the small hill rose before him and just before it was the old wooden inn with the sign swinging in the gentle morning breeze. He halted and dismounted.

There was no one inside as he entered the dark interior. It was too early in the day. However, only a few seconds passed after the door banged shut behind him before a short, rotund man, sleeves rolled up and wearing an apron, came from a side room and examined him with curious eyes for a moment before greeting him.

‘Good day, Brother, and what can I do for you?’

‘I’ll take a mug of your mead,’ replied Eadulf with a smile, ‘and the answers to some questions.’

The innkeeper frowned as he spoke.

‘A Saxon by your accent? Would you be Brother Eadulf, husband to our lady, Fidelma of Cashel?’

Eadulf gave an affirmative nod. ‘And your name would be Ferloga?’

‘I am he, and most sorry to hear of your troubles, Brother Eadulf. The lady Fidelma is well respected in these parts. I hear that the gossip is that it is our old enemies, the Uí Fidgente, who are behind this evil.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Eadulf, moving to a chair near the log fire in the corner of the taproom.

Ferloga had poured a pottery mug of mead and brought it to him. He sat down opposite Eadulf.

‘We are a small community, Brother. Many of my customers live or work in Cashel.’

‘Like Conchoille?’

‘Like Conchoille,’ the innkeeper agreed. ‘There is little that happens at Cashel that we do not hear about.’

Eadulf sipped thoughtfully at his mead. It was sweet with the honey.

‘Conchoille was in here just before he found the body of Sárait,’ he said, making it a statement rather than a question, for he already knew the answer.

Ferloga looked reflectively into the fire.

‘I remember that night well. I didn’t hear the details until the next morning, you understand. But because of that, when Conchoille came here and told me, I went over the events of the evening.’

‘Conchoille came to tell you the details?’ asked Eadulf innocently.

‘Of course.’

‘How did he describe what happened?’ asked Eadulf persuasively. ‘You see, it is my experience that a story can often be distorted in the retelling of it. By the time that Fidelma and I came along and heard it from Conchoille’s lips, he must have told it a hundred times. You would have been among the first to hear exactly what happened. You see? Your version may contain an important item that has been overlooked.’

Ferloga chuckled. ‘I doubt that Conchoille would have overlooked anything. He is not only a woodsman but also a fine senchaid , one of the best in this area.’

Eadulf knew that a senchaid was a reciter of stories, keeper of an ancient and oral tradition. Stories were handed down from one generation to the next in word-perfect fashion. He knew, from experience in attending such storytelling gatherings, that the audience would often know a tale as well as the reciter and woe betide the senchaid who faltered or put a word in the wrong place. They would be severely corrected.

‘Yet a senchaid is not infallible, Ferloga. Tell me what was said from your own memory.’

Ferloga leant back and closed his eyes for a moment as if to help him in the recollection.

‘Conchoille usually comes here for an evening meal and a drink when he is working in the district. He is a widower so has no woman to cook for him. So that evening, when the sky was darkening, he came in and had his meal and a few drinks, and stayed for some time exchanging a story or two. Then he left.’

‘It was late?’

‘It was so, for we had a few tales to tell each other.’

Eadulf looked at the innkeeper.

‘Tales such as … what?’

‘Local gossip, local news. That is an innkeeper’s stock in trade. I had a tale to tell of the itinerants who had been in earlier with their baby, and I about to throw them out when my wife intervened and gave them food in exchange for a salve for an infection on her leg. Anyway, Conchoille lit his lantern and set off along the track to Cashel.’

‘And what did he tell you happened then?’

Ferloga smiled. ‘He said that he was nearly at the outskirts of Cashel when he tripped over a bloodstained shawl. That was when he discovered the body of the nurse Sárait. She was quite dead.’

‘And then?’

‘He left the body and went straight to Sárait’s sister, Gobnat, who dwelt with her husband not far away. The husband, as well you will know, was Capa of the king’s warrior guard. Capa went with Conchoille to recover the body and along the way they encountered a warrior on his way to the palace and told him to raise an alarm, for Sárait was known to be in service to our lady, Fidelma. But when Caol and his guards arrived it was realised that Sárait had left the palace with lady Fidelma’s … with your baby. A search was mounted immediately without result.’

‘And that was all?’

Ferloga shrugged. ‘Only that the search was maintained by torchlight for some time and then resumed again the next morning. Both village and woods were searched.’

Eadulf sat back in thought.

Ferloga’s retelling of the tale had not materially added to his knowledge. He had not expected that it would. But there was something that was bothering him; something at the back of his mind which he could not quite place.

‘Conchoille has not added anything to this account since he first told you?’

Ferloga was frowning now.

‘Is it that you suspect Conchoille of something?’ he demanded. ‘He is a trustworthy man who fought in many battles against the Uí Fidgente.’

Eadulf turned thoughtful eyes upon him.

‘Including Cnoc Áine?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Many of us were at Cnoc Áine,’ confirmed Ferloga.

‘Including Sárait’s husband, Callada.’

Ferloga drew his brows together quickly. ‘There is no denying that fact. He was killed there.’

‘And you are saying that you and Conchoille were there? Forgive me, aren’t you too old to be in battle? Cnoc Aine was scarcely two years ago.’

Ferloga raised his chin defensively. ‘A man is as young as he feels.’