Peter Tremayne - Valley of the Shadow

‘Did you hear what passed between us then?’ interrupted Fidelma sharply.

‘I did. I thought …’

‘Brother Solin is obviously concealing something,’ Fidelma interrupted. ‘Ultan of Armagh would have no concern about this backwater. There is something else going on here. But what? I am most frustrated. What is Solin really up to?’

‘There is a philosophy that if you have to lie then you should incorporate as much of the truth in the lie as permissible,’ Eadulf volunteered.

Fidelma stared at Eadulf for a moment and then smiled broadly.

‘Sometimes you remind me of the obvious, Eadulf,’ she said. She paused reflectively. ‘He was certainly lying about where he has been during the night. Yet when I asked him where he had walked this morning, he was able to describe exactly where without hesitation. Perhaps that was where he actually was? I think, after this morning’s negotiation is over, we might restore ourselves by going for a walk in that direction and seeing what we can discover.’

She glanced through the window. The hour was growing late.

‘We do not have long before the council is in session. I think we should have a brief walk now, if only to clear our heads.’

Brother Eadulf looked pained.

‘I fear it will take more than a walk to clear my head, Fidelma. That bad wine even now permeates my body from head to toe. I feel I need more than fresh air to sustain myself for the morning.’

As ailing as he felt, Eadulf, nevertheless, allowed Fidelma to cajole him into accompanying her. He would have rather flopped back on his bed and gone to sleep again. He felt nauseous and faint. His skin was sweaty and irritating and his mouth was dry.

Outside in the ráth, several people were abroad and hurrying about their day’s tasks in spite of the fact that the feast had not ended until dawn for many of them. Eadulf and Fidelma were greeted without any sign of animosity and, indeed, a few were most friendly. All, however, seemed curious as they examined Fidelma. Her reply to Murgal’s song seemed to be a topic of gossip.

As they were crossing the courtyard of the ráth towards the gates, Fidelma halted and indicated a cart being dragged through the gates by a small, sturdy ass. It appeared loaded with plants of many sorts. Urging on the ass to greater exertion as it struggled to pull its load was a tall, slender woman.

Fidelma nudged Eadulf.

‘Isn’t that Murgal’s erstwhile companion at last night’s feast?’ she whispered. Eadulf raised his bleary eyes and recognised the woman immediately, in spite of the cloak and hood wrapped aroundher. She wore a dress which was more drab than the one she had worn on the previous evening.

Fidelma moved immediately towards her and Eadulf followed.

‘Marga, is it not?’

The woman swung round to face her. Fidelma found herself looking into pale blue eyes, so pale that they reminded her of ice. There seemed no expression in the pallid features on which she looked. The long tresses were the colour of harvest corn. Fidelma had been right in her assessment on the previous evening. The woman was attractive. She did not alter that appraisal. Marga was tall and in spite of the long flowing black cloak, which seemed to enhance her pallidness and fair hair, Fidelma knew that her body was supple and well shaped, from the previous evening, and she appeared to move with a lithe, cat-like agility.

Her voice, when she spoke, was no more than a sibilant whisper.

‘I do not know you, Fidelma of Cashel. How come you make so free with my name?’

‘Your name was told me just as someone has told you my name and so I greet you. Am I incorrect that you are Marga the apothecary?’

‘I am Marga and I heal in the name of Airmid, the goddess who guards Dian Cécht’s secret Well of Healing.’

Her statement was issued as a challenge but Fidelma did not rise to it.

Airmid was one of the old goddesses. Fidelma knew the story well. She was daughter of the god of medicine, Dian Cécht, and sister of Miach, who was also a physician-god. When Miach proved to be a better physician than his father, the angry god slew his son. Out of his grave there grew three hundred and sixty-five herbs of healing. Airmid was said to have gathered the herbs from her brother’s grave and laid them out on her cloak in order of their various healing properties. Dian Cécht, still jealous of Miach, overturned the cloak in a rage and hopelessly confused the herbs so that no human would ever learn the secret of immortality by their use.

‘May health be your portion, Marga the Healer,’ replied Fidelma gravely. ‘I hope that you have learnt some of the secrets that your god, Dian Cécht, would have kept from us.’

Marga’s eyes narrowed fractionally.

‘Do you challenge my knowledge, Fidelma of Cashel?’ she whispered threateningly.

‘Why would I do that?’ Fidelma asked innocently, realising thatthe girl was of a tempestuous nature. ‘My knowledge of the ancient tales is a poor one. But everyone knows what Dian Cécht did in anger in order to prevent the knowledge of healing being fully learnt by mortals. I thought …’

‘I know what you thought,’ snapped Marga, bending to the ass’s harness. ‘By your leave, I have much to attend to.’

‘As do we all, each in his or her own way. But there are some questions I would like to put to you.’

Marga bridled immediately.

‘But I do not wish to answer them. Now …’

She made to move but Fidelma, smilingly, put out a hand to stay her. Fidelma had a powerful grip and Marga actually winced.

‘I have no other time to put them.’ Fidelma examined the cart closely. ‘You appear to have been gathering herbs and plants for remedies?’

Marga was unbending.

‘As you can plainly see,’ she replied stiffly.

‘And you practise your apothecary within the ráth?’

‘I do.’

Her eyes flickered momentarily to a corner of some buildings across the courtyard, focussing on a tall building of three storeys with a curious squat tower at one end. Fidelma followed the involuntary movement and saw a mart at one corner. Outside the door, bundles of dried herbs were hanging.

‘So that is your apothecary shop?’

Marga shrugged almost insolently but Fidelma did not appear to mind.

‘I cannot see the purpose of these questions,’ the pale-faced herbalist said impatiently.

‘Forgive me,’ replied Fidelma contritely. ‘It is my friend here …’

Eadulf was momentarily startled and then tried to compose his features.

The pale blue eyes flickered over him without changing expression.

‘You see,’ Fidelma went on confidentially, ‘my friend imbibed too much of the juice of the vine last night.’

‘Gaulish wine!’ sniffed Marga. ‘It rots in the transport unless it is good. But Laisre is unable to afford better except for himself and his family. Well, there were plenty of others who took more of it than was good for them.’

‘You mean Murgal?’ Fidelma asked quickly.

There was a pause.

‘You have sharp eyes, Christian. Yes, I mean Murgal. But that is none of your business …’

‘Of course not,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘But my friend here is in need of a herbal remedy for his distemper. He thought that he might be able to purchase something from you.’

Eadulf was surprised at the lie for he knew as much about herbal remedies as most, having studied the subject. Marga eyed him sourly. Eadulf flushed before her withering gaze.

‘I suppose you have a headache and feel uncomfortable in the stomach?’

Eadulf nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

The apothecary turned and rummaged in her cart. She drew forth some root leaves eight inches in length, tapering below into a winged stalk, with veins on it. Eadulf recognised them at once. The thimble shape of the foxglove was a common enough plant in the hedges, ditches and wooded slopes.