Peter Tremayne - Badger's Moon

Fidelma opened her mouth to reply hotly and then she sighed. She leant forward from her horse and placed a hand on Eadulf’s arm.

‘ Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cinarea ,’ she said contritely.

After a moment’s reflection, Eadulf remembered the line from Horace, ‘I am not what I was under the reign of good Cynara.’ It was used to signify a change of character and behaviour. He made to reply but Fidelma raised a finger to her lips. Her expression was suddenly penitent.

‘Let us say no more at the present, Eadulf. Do not press me further until I am ready. Ever since Alchú came into this world I have felt strangely disturbed. It is as if my mood changes from moment to moment for no apparent reason.’

Eadulf looked concerned. ‘You did not tell me this before?’

She smiled thinly. ‘You should have noticed.’

‘I did but did not think that you were ill…’

She shook her head. ‘It is not an illness of the body. When I consider my actions with reason, I perceive myself as if some irrational fever has overtaken me. Sometimes I fear for myself. Yet it is only when I think of the baby, Eadulf. My logic remains when I concentrate on other matters. This makes me fear even more.’

Eadulf ran a hand through his hair as if to massage his mind into some line of positive thought. ‘I seem to recall…I was told that sometimes, after a birth, a mother can feel unhappy-’

‘I have resolved to see old Conchobhar when we return to Cashel,’ Fidelma intervened sharply. ‘Until then, let us speak about this no more.’

Conchobhar was chief apothecary at Cashel as well as an astrologer.

Eadulf realised that it was pointless to pursue the matter further. They rode on silently, entering the thickness of the woods where the trees grew close together down to the riverbank. They tried to keep the river to their left as they rode along but the track twisted and turned and once or twice they had to retrace their path to follow another route. But suddenly they emerged along a stretch which both Fidelma and Eadulf recognised.

‘There’s the hill,’ muttered Eadulf as they halted in a clear space by the river. ‘What was it that Accobrán called it?’

‘Cnoc a’ Bhile,’ replied Fidelma.

‘That’s it. Hill of the Sacred Tree.’ Eadulf sighed. ‘I think I have heard that such a tree relates to the habitation of the pagan gods.’

‘Bile was a sacred oak, according to the old ones, and when Danu, the divine water of heaven, flooded down it nurtured the oak and produced acorns and out of each acorn grew one of the ancient gods and goddesses. That is why the old deities are called the Tuatha de Danaan, the children of the goddess Danu.’

Eadulf looked uncomfortable. ‘I thought Bile was a god of darkness and death from the underworld.’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘Some of the New Faith who came here from Rome have viewed the old deity in that form. Our people still hold the great tree sacred and many of our chieftains are inaugurated under its branches, for it was symbolic of our kings, a place of origin of all the people. It is sacrilege to cut a sacred tree although the chief or king’s rod of office might be cut and carved from a branch of the tree to give him power. A few centuries ago the High King carried such a wand of office cut from a sacred ash tree. The tree was called Bile Dathí and it was classed as one of the six wondrous trees of Ireland.’

Eadulf frowned. ‘I thought that you said Bile was an oak tree?’

‘Language changes. Now any tree regarded as sacred is called by that name. Bile has also long been seen as a divine personification, a god who the ancients belived ferried souls along the sacred rivers, or by sea, to the Otherworld.’

Eadulf felt uncomfortable. He had grown to manhood before he had converted to the New Faith, and was still trying to deny his pagan past. Fidelma seemed more comfortable in the ancient lore of her people even though the people of Éireann had accepted Christianity several centuries before. But now a memory stirred.

‘I passed through Londinium once,’ he said reflectively. ‘It is mainly deserted these days but once it was a thriving Roman city.’

‘I have heard of it,’ Fidelma responded gravely.

‘The Welisc, who called themselves Britons, once dwelt there and continued to do so even when Rome ruled the city.’

Fidelma nodded, frowning slightly as she wondered what Eadulf was getting at.

‘I know the Welisc shared many ancient gods and goddesses with the Irish.’

‘This is true. What is your point?’

‘Near where I was staying was an ancient gate called Bile’s Gate which opened onto the great river Tamesis which flows past the city. An old man told me that in ancient times, when people died, their heads were severed from their bodies and taken through the gate and ferried downriver. Not far away a confluence called Welisc Brook emptied into the Tamesis and here the heads were thrown into the river with various items like swords, shields and so on. A terrible pagan custom.’

Fidelma smiled and nodded. ‘Not so terrible. The ancients believed that the soul dwelt in the head and to honour the dead they often removed the heads — which freed the souls — and deposited them in their most sacred places. It is fascinating that there is such a reminder of the ancient custom in the heart of what is now the land of the Angles and Saxons.’

Eadulf shook his head sadly.

‘ Semel insanivimus omnes ,’ he said. ‘We have all been mad once. I do not know whether people should be reminded of such things. It is a hard enough job to convert them to the true Faith without referring to the old one. We learnt that last year, didn’t we?’

Eadulf was obviously thinking of how many of the Saxon kingdoms had recently converted back to the old gods of the forefathers. Sigehere, king of the East Saxons, on the very borders of Eadulf’s own country of the East Angles, had reopened the pagan temples after the plague of two years before.

‘You cannot build the future by ignoring the past or trying to destroy past knowledge. But we all make such mistakes. I view with sadness the account by the Bishop Benignus, who became the successor of the Blessed Patrick at Armagh, when he wrote that Patrick burnt one hundred and eighty books of the Druids in his attempts to convert the people to the New Faith. The destruction of knowledge, any knowledge, does not provide a sure foundation for the future.’

‘You surely cannot disapprove of the destruction of the pagan faith when you are sworn to proselytise for the New Faith?’ Eadulf was aghast.

‘What I am saying is that mankind’s folly should be destroyed by laughter, not by creating martyrs. That is the tradition of our satirists and why our laws have strong punishments for those who satirise people without justification. Castigat ridendo mores .’

Eadulf pondered.

‘They correct customs by laughing at them?’ he hazarded.

Fidelma smiled. ‘In other words, laughter will succeed where threats, punishments and pious lectures will not.’

Eadulf sighed. ‘It is an interesting philosophy. I am sure there is an argument against it.’

‘Tell me, when you have discovered it. In the meantime, let us continue with our task.’

They moved their horses on at a slow walking pace towards the tree-covered hill where they had previously met Liag.

‘We’d better raise a shout,’ muttered Eadulf, glancing around nervously. ‘He might try to avoid us.’

‘Avoid you? Why?’

The harsh tones of Liag’s voice, speaking just behind them, caused them both to jerk nervously in their saddles. Eadulf, a less experienced rider than Fidelma, had to struggle to keep his horse from shying at the movement.