Peter Tremayne - The Leper's bell

‘I thought someone might be in trouble,’ continued Corb, ‘and so I took my staff and, leaving my wife in the wagon with our young one, I decided to walk back along the track. I could hear no further noise from the hound or the shouting voice. But I was no more than a hundred and fifty metres from the wagon when I heard a sound to my right. I stopped. I know enough about babies to recognise the sound of a baby’s cry, though, in honesty, this infant was not crying as such. It was more or less gurgling — the sort of noise babies make, not unhappy, not distressed. I peered round. There seemed to be no one about, for the moon was high and bright in spite of the time of year. I began to move forward and almost immediately I saw the light covering of a shawl.’

Eadulf was leaning forward now. ‘And?’ he pressed eagerly.

‘There it was — an abandoned baby.’

‘What makes you think it was abandoned?’

The herbalist laughed harshly. ‘The baby was alone in the middle of a wood. There was no one else around. What was worse was that it was placed well away from the main roadway to Cashel, even well off the woodland path that I had turned my wagon down. Had I not been disturbed, the child would never have been discovered. It would have died of the chill or worse … for there are wolves and other animals wandering the woods.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘What could I do? I picked it up and took it back to my wife. It seemed well nourished and its clothing bore the signs of wealth. Why it had been abandoned, I do not know. It worried us. Clearly there were evil people about. So we decided to move on right away and continued along the path round Cashel, crossing northwards. At dawn we stopped and slept again.’

‘And you say this happened before midnight? The sound of the hound, the shouting and the discovering of the baby?’

‘It did.’

‘It was a fine, healthy baby,’ the woman added. ‘No more than six months of age with fine strands of red hair across its forehead. He was wrapped in woollens that indicated wealth.’

The herbalist was suddenly firm.

‘Now, Saxon, what is your interest in this?’ he demanded. ‘We have told you much but you have told us nothing. We will say no more until you have told us what you want with the child.’

Eadulf regarded them both gravely.

‘The baby is Alchú, son of the lady Fidelma of Cashel. Its nurse was murdered close to where you say you were in your wagon. The child disappeared after her death. I have tracked it to you.’

The woman gave a little scream, and lifted a hand to her mouth to smother it. The herbalist blinked, his determination faltering.

‘And … and what is this matter to you, Saxon?’ he said hesitantly, still trying to sound defensive.

‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. I am the child’s father.’

There was a shocked silence. Then the woman started sobbing.

‘We swear that we had no hand in this matter other than what we have told you,’ she managed to utter between the choking sounds of her distress.

‘It is as my wife says; the story we told you is true,’ added her husband. ‘We know of no murder.’

‘Then I suggest you now produce my son.’

There was a silence.

‘We cannot,’ cried the woman.

Eadulf went cold.

‘Cannot?’ His voice grated.

‘We no longer have the child,’ said the herbalist in a flat tone.

Fidelma had frozen in her saddle as Conrí, war chief of the Uí Fidgente, approached her.

‘We are well met again, Fidelma of Cashel. We were riding to Cashel when one of my men spotted you entering the woods and we thought that we would come to meet you. In truth, it was you I sought.’

Fidelma tried to still her pounding heart, recovering from her shock and forcing herself to appear nonchalant.

‘What business have you at Cashel, Conrí? Or, indeed, with me?’

The warlord’s face was serious. ‘To put an end to a lie,’ he replied sharply.

‘A lie?’

‘The other day your brother sent a techtaire to the land of the Uí Fidgente with a message that was posted at every wayside inn. It told my people that we must prove that we hold your child, a babe called Alchú, and show that he was safe and well, before you released three of the chieftains of the Uí Fidgente whom your brother has held as hostages since our defeat at Cnoc Áine.’

Fidelma controlled her expression as she met the warlord’s gaze.

‘My brother, Colgú of Cashel, did send such a message. Do you come in response to it?’

Conrí’s eyes narrowed in anger. ‘I do.’

Fidelma’s mouth was dry. ‘And will you return my child?’

‘I will not, for the simple reason that we are not guilty of any kidnapping.’

‘But…’ Fidelma began in a surge of emotion, but the Uí Fidgente warlord held up a hand.

‘Listen to me, Fidelma of Cashel. I had barely returned to my people when your herald arrived. No Uí Fidgente knows of this matter. You may think the worst of us, for we have long been in enmity, but we are not beasts that take children as hostages. As children are sacred to you, they are equally sacred and dear to us. I have made inquiries among the clans. No one, I repeat, not even those who have suffered in the recent war at your brother’s hands, would use the innocence of a child to cause you suffering. I pledge this is the truth by the innocence of my own two sons.’

His voice was low but intense and Fidelma stared at him, trying to comprehend what he was saying.

‘But the demand for the release of the Uí Fidgente chieftains to secure the release of my son…? After our herald’s demand for proof, we were sent Alchú’s little shoe. The three chieftains were released and given horses to ride back to their country. We now await the release of my child.’

Conrí was frowning.

‘You have already released the three chieftains? You mean Cuirgí, Cuán and Crond are free?’

‘They were released yesterday at midday,’ Fidelma confirmed.

The warlord was shaking his head as if in disbelief.

‘There is something very wrong here, Fidelma. Let me be honest with you. Some of my people have been led into wars against the Eóghanacht that have brought death and destruction on them. Eoganán and his family, who plotted to overthrow your brother and seize the kingdom, have led them. Eoganán paid with his life for that ambition at Cnoc Áine, as did many of his clan. Indeed, for every member of his family that died, one hundred of the Uí Fidgente died by their folly. We are a decimated people, Fidelma. The three chieftains whom your brother captured at Cnoc Áine were fanatical followers of their kinsman, Eoganán. Cuirgí, Cuán and Crond are no loss to my people.’

Fidelma was frowning, following his words and trying to understand what he was saying.

‘What do you mean, Conrí? You are warlord of the Uí Fidgente.’

Conrí smiled quickly. ‘I was elected to lead the remnants of my people after our great defeat. But cannot a warlord have wisdom? Is it not a saying of the ancients that peace is better than even an easy war?’

‘Go on. I still do not follow you.’

‘We do not want the release of the old chieftains. We do not want them to start stirring enmities and hatreds. We want a time of peace. We want to build up our crops, our herds and flocks and start to live again. For those reasons, it was not the Uí Fidgente who kidnapped your son to secure the release of those who have led us so badly in the past.’

Fidelma was silent for a while.

‘Perhaps there are some among you who have taken this means to secure their release without your knowing?’

Conrí shook his head. ‘While I can accept that as a possibility, I do not think it is probable. I came here, with a few of my men, at the request of my people to tell you the truth, and to offer our help. If it is shown that anyone of the Uí Fidgente are involved in such a plot, then we will punish them.’