Peter Tremayne - Valley of the Shadow

It was an impressive valley — yes; but even with its width andits length, Eadulf felt an overwhelming claustrophobia as he gazed upwards at the surrounding mountains. He had a feeling of being shut in, of being imprisoned. He glanced at Fidelma and found that she, too, had been intently examining the breath-taking landscape and there was the same degree of awe on her features.

Orla had been watching their expressions as they surveyed their surroundings with a faintly scornful smile of satisfaction on her lips.

‘You may now understand why this is called the Forbidden Valley,’ she observed.

Fidelma regarded her gravely.

‘Inaccessible — yes,’ she agreed, ‘but why forbidden?’

‘The bards of our people sing of the time beyond time. It was in the days when Oillil Olum was said to have sat in judgment at Cashel and when we dwelt outside the boundaries of this place. We dwelt in the shadow of a mighty Fomorii lord who devastated our lands and our peoples by his greed and lust. Eventually our chieftain decided to move our people away from the reach of the Fomorii tyrant, seeking a new land to settle in. So it was we eventually came to this place. It was, as you see, a natural fortification against the enemies of our people. There is only one path into it and the same path out …’

‘Except the river,’ Eadulf pointed out.

The woman laughed.

‘Only if you are a salmon can you hope to enter the valley that way. The river cuts through the rock and over many rapids and waterfalls. No boat can get up or down. No, this is a natural fortress and only those we invite in may enter. To those we do not wish to greet in friendship, it remains the Forbidden Valley. A few sturdy warriors may hold the gorge, as you have seen.’

‘I also see that you have an abundance of warriors, unusual in a small clan,’ observed Fidelma.

Orla was deprecating.

‘None are professional such as those that you have at Cashel. Our clan is too small. Each of our warriors has other tasks to fulfil. Artgal, for example, is a blacksmith and has a small farm. Each man, in turn, serves when needed to ensure our safety against potential enemies. Though, for the most part, we are secured by nature’s decree.’

‘An enclosed form of life,’ Eadulf sighed. ‘How many dwell under the rule of Laisre?’

‘Five hundred,’ Orla admitted.

‘It occurs to me that if you have lived here for generations, surely it restricts your growth as a people?’

Orla frowned trying to understand Eadulf’s oblique point.

‘What my brother in Christ is saying,’ intervened Fidelma, conscious of his line of thought, ‘concerns the matter of incestuous marriage.’

Orla looked surprised.

‘But incest is forbidden by law.’

‘Surely in a small community, locked within this valley for years …’ Eadulf began to explain.

Orla understood and stared at him in disapproval.

‘The Cáin Lánamna states that there can only be nine types of marriage and this we adhere to. We are not as primitive as you would paint us, Saxon. Our bards keep strict genealogies and we have the services of a matchmaker who travels on our behalf.’

‘Who administers the law among you?’ interrupted Fidelma intrigued.

‘My brother’s Druid, Murgal. He is our Brehon as well as spiritual guide. His reputation is without equal in this part of the country. You will soon encounter him for he will negotiate for Laisre. But we delay, let us proceed to my brother’s ráth.’

Fidelma glanced surreptitiously at the woman. She began to respect Orla’s firmness of mind and easy authority, although she disagreed with her philosophy.

The road they were taking led from the gorge slightly downhill to a large sprawl of granite boulders. From their midst, standing by the roadside, there arose a large carved statue of a male figure, almost three times as big as a man. It was sitting cross-legged, one leg slightly tucked under the body. From its head great antler horns rose up. Around the neck, was a hero’s gold torc. The arms were held up so that the hands were on a level with each shoulder. In the left hand, a second hero’s torc was grasped while in the right hand a long snake was held, the hand gripping the serpent just behind the head.

Eadulf’s eyes almost started from their sockets as he viewed the great pagan idol.

‘Soli Deo gloria!’ he gasped. ‘What is that?’

Fidelma was unperturbed.

‘It is Lugh Lamhfada — Lugh of the Long Hand — who was worshipped in ancient times …’

‘And still is, here,’ Orla reminded her grimly.

‘An evil apparition!’ breathed Eadulf.

‘Not so,’ Orla said sharply. ‘He is a god of light and learning,renowned for the splendour of his countenance; the god of all arts and crafts; the father of the hero Cúchulainn by the mortal woman Dechtíre. The god whose festival we celebrate at the feast of Lughnasadh which is next month when we harvest our crops.’

Eadulf crossed himself swiftly as they passed the impassive seated figure whose grey stone eyes stared at them indifferently.

They rode silently along the valley road towards the distant ráth. Eadulf found himself confirmed in his first thoughts that this was a wealthy enclave. The mountains which gave protection from the winds also encouraged crops to grow while, at the same time, by catching the rain clouds, causing the valley to be fertile. Here and there, the heavy rainfalls over the millennia had formed little patches of bogland but, all in all, it was fecund country with trees bearing fruits as well as an abundance of grain crops. Sheep, goats and cattle held to the high ground pastures.

As they passed, now and then, people stopped to stare at them; some greeted Orla with familiarity which she acknowledged. Fidelma had the impression from their appearance that here, in spite of a difference of religion, dwelt a content and self-sufficient people. It puzzled her for it did not seem to balance with the terrible sight which had met their eyes in the glen outside this valley.

As they approached the grey granite walls of the ráth, Fidelma saw that it was no mere ornamental fortress. In spite of the natural defences of the valley which surrounded it, its great walls and battlements, as well as its situation at the head of the valley, were so constructed that, should a hostile force break through the gorge, a few warriors could still defend it from an entire army. It had been constructed by experts in the martial arts. Again the question crossed Fidelma’s mind why such a small clan would need to have such defensive structures in a valley already naturally defended?

Of course, in the old days, when tribe fought against tribe for the best territories and to increase their wealth, such fortresses were widely spread throughout the five kingdoms. Cashel itself had been raised to protect the E6ghanacht from their more jealous neighbours, just as the other great fortress capitals of Tara, Navan, Ailech, Cruachan and Ailenn had also been built. But, while this ráth was nowhere near the size of the others, it was a strong and well-built fortress with several buildings of two and even three storeys in height. She could even observe a large squat watch tower.

She was aware of several sentinels staring down at their approach from the walls of the ráth and women as well as men were crowding to see their arrival. Two warriors stood before the open gates of the fortress. Fidelma noticed that these were heavy timber doors of oak, reinforced with iron and iron hinges. She noticed that the hinges were well greased and the doors, though standing wide open, had the appearance of being other than mere ornaments. Above this gateway, a banner of blue silk on which was embroidered a hand holding a sword aloft, was fluttering in the breeze — the emblem of the chieftain of Gleann Geis.