Peter Tremayne - The Leper's bell

‘Was the service compulsory?’

‘Love of our leader is a better duress than compulsion under law.’

‘Did you see how Callada was killed?’

Ferloga actually chuckled sarcastically.

‘I think I know what you are getting at, Saxon. There is a story abroad that Callada was killed by one of our own and not by the enemy.’

‘And have you a comment on that?’

Ferloga shrugged. ‘It seems far-fetched. Anyway, Conchoille and I were not in the fore ranks of that charge at Cnoc Áine but held in reserve by Colgú lest the Uí Fidgente break through our lines. When we finally marched forward it was merely to take prisoners and pursue the disorganised rabble.’

‘So, as far as you are concerned, the story of Callada’s death was only a rumour?’

Ferloga gestured diffidently. ‘Strange stories circulate after a battle, especially when it was as bloody and as vicious as that one. Whether there was truth in it, I cannot say.’

Eadulf decided to switch the topic.

‘Did you take part in the search for Alchú?’

‘By the time I was told, which was midday on the day following the finding of Sárait’s body, there was little I could do. By then, the king’s guard had been scouring the countryside for some time.’

‘I see.’

Eadulf was disappointed, although he had known that little information would come of his visit to the inn. However, he had had just a small hope that Ferloga might have remembered some significant incident. He sat back with a sigh.

‘Well, as I am here and it approaches noon, I will eat something light. Some cheese and bread, perhaps. Or did you say your wife cooks? Ah yes, you mentioned she had some infection. I trust the salve cured that. You see, I studied the art of the apothecary at Tuaim Drecain.’

Ferloga smiled.

‘My wife is visiting her sister at the moment, Brother Eadulf. Thank you, the salve worked well. Perhaps it was a lucky thing that she came when she did to prevent me throwing out the itinerants.’

‘I thought the law of hospitality would have prevented the refusal of hospitality, not your wife.’

Ferloga flushed at being reminded of his duties under law as an innkeeper.

‘This is not a public inn, a bruiden , where everyone has to be accommodated. This is my own inn. I do not like itinerants. They are usually untrustworthy. Beggars. You know the sort.’

‘I thought these beggars were selling salves.’ Eadulf accented the word ‘beggars’.

Ferloga sniffed in irritation.

‘Salves, balms, herbs. They were selling things but they were itinerants nevertheless. Itinerants with their noisy, bawling child.’

‘It sounds as though you have good reason to be thankful to them.’

Ferloga was obviously reluctant to give credit.

A sudden thought occurred to Eadulf.

‘A man and wife and child, did you say?’

‘Indeed, a couple with their baby. He said that he was a herbalist and en route to the abbey of Coimán.’

‘When exactly did they pass by here?’

‘That’s easy. It was the same day that Sárait’s murder took place, but the day had scarcely darkened when they left here. That was long before Conchoille arrived. That was why I was telling him the story about them.’ Ferloga’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘You don’t think that they killed Sárait, surely?’

Eadulf did not respond to the question.

‘You say that they were itinerants. Could they have been Uí Fidgente?’

Ferloga immediately shook his head.

‘Not Uí Fidgente, that’s for sure. They had the accent of the people of Laigin. There is always a reason why people take to the road in the five kingdoms, Brother Eadulf. Usually it is because they have fallen foul of the law and cannot redeem themselves or their honour price. They cannot put down roots again and are doomed to wander.’

Eadulf drained his mug and stood up. He had made a decision.

‘Thank you for your help, Ferloga. You have been most helpful.’

The innkeeper raised his brows in question.

‘What of your food?’

‘I realise that I must return to Cashel,’ Eadulf excused himself. ‘I have remembered something I must do.’

Eadulf had ridden not more than a hundred yards when he urged the horse into a canter. Anyone who knew Eadulf would realise that this was unusual behaviour. However, he was full of excitement. A thought was irritating him, sparked by the innkeeper’s words. If he were correct, perhaps the mystery was not as insoluble as he had, at first, thought.

Fidelma was sitting frowning at the gaming board.

Conchobhar was winning the game of black raven. It was a difficult game, for the board was divided into forty-nine squares, seven by seven. In the centre of the board, the middle square stood for the royal palace of Tara and held the piece representing the High King. On the squares immediately next to the High King, north, south, east and west were pieces representing the four provincial kings whose task was to protect the High King. On the outside squares at the edge of the board were the attacking pieces representing the forces of chaos, each piece moved on the throw of the dice. The object of the game was to ensure the safety of the High King piece by allowing it to move, through the encircling pieces, to the side of the board or to one of the four squares allotted to the provincial kings.

Usually it was a challenge Fidelma enjoyed, but today her mind was not on the game. She had already lost two defending pieces.

Conchobar, the elderly religieux whose apothecary shop stood in the shadow of the royal chapel in the palace grounds, was regarding her with a concerned expression.

Fidelma caught his eye and shrugged.

‘I am sorry, old friend,’ she said, for she had known him all her life. ‘I cannot concentrate.’

Conchobar regarded her with a sharp eye.

‘It is understandable. It does not need my arts to tell me that. Yet I had hoped the game would be a means of distraction. We will continue another time.’

Fidelma sighed deeply. She had been thinking about Eadulf’s suggestion about astrology and realised that he had simply voiced something in the back of her mind that she was trying to suppress. In her desperation she felt she should try anything within reason.

‘I would use your arts to find my child, Brother Conchobar,’ she said quietly.

The old man shook his head regretfully.

‘You know that is not possible.’

‘But you are the greatest adept in the field of making speculations from the patterns of the stars.’

‘I would not claim as much. Though I did study under Mo Chuaróc mac Neth Sémon, the greatest astrologer that Cashel has ever produced, yet my skill is not beyond criticism.’

‘I have heard that a good réalt-eolach , one who gathers knowledge from the stars, could cast a chart to trace the location of an object. Why not do so for my baby?’

Conchobar was sympathetic.

‘Alas, Fidelma, I once tried to teach you the art of charting the heavens and, had you stuck to it, you might have made an excellent interpreter of the portents. The one thing that you should remember is that there is always a correct time to ask a question of the stars.’

‘What if I ask now?’

‘It would not work. Asking a question of the stars must be timed for the exact birth of the question. It is like drawing up a natal chart for a person. The chart must be timed for the exact moment and location otherwise it is useless. I do not mean just a day, or a specific day in a specific year, but the exact time of that day, for the stars move quickly through the heavens. What is correct for one person will be wrong for another born even ten minutes later in the same location.’

‘I understand that. But what are you saying?’