Peter Tremayne - Valley of the Shadow

‘Twice twenty,’ the woman replied indifferently.

‘Did you have a visitor last night?’

‘A visitor? We had several. My man was at the feasting, as was his right, and three cousins stayed with us, having come down the valley to attend. It is a long journey back at night, especially when one has drink taken.’

Fidelma smiled, trying to put the still hostile woman at ease.

‘You are wise, Bairsech. But were there any other visitors, other than your cousins, that stayed here? I mean,’ she decided to be explicit, ‘a thick-set man who is currently a guest at the ráth.’

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

‘Thick-set? A man with his head cut in that ridiculous manner which your companion wears?’

Eadulf flushed in irritation at the reference to his tonsure but kept silent.

‘The same.’

‘A man in fine clothes? Oh yes, he was here. I saw him leaving this morning when I was up to milk the cows, leaving my man still snoring abed. Yes. He was here.’

‘Does he know your man, then — know Ronan?’

‘I said he was here in the settlement. He was not staying with our household.’

She jerked her head towards a small building set apart from the others with its own stable and an adjacent field in which half-a-dozen cattle were grazing peacefully.

‘That is where he stayed.’

Fidelma turned to gaze upon the small building with interest.

‘And who dwells there?’

‘A woman of the flesh,’ replied the other disapprovingly. It was a euphemism for a prostitute.

Fidelma’s eyes widened in astonishment. She had not expected a prostitute to be dwelling in this isolated valley, let alone in such a small hamlet.

‘And does she have a name, this woman of the flesh?’

‘She is called Nemon.’

‘Nemon? An inappropriate name for one of her calling it would seem.’

Nemon was the name of one of the ancient war goddesses. It meant ‘battle-fury’.

‘I spit on the name,’ the burly woman suited the word to the action, ‘I have told my man that she should be driven away from here. Yet the farmstead is her property and she is under the protection of Murgal.’

‘She is? And you say that the man I described stayed with her last night?’

‘I did.’

‘Then we will go and see what Nemon has to say about this. Thank you, Bairsech, for your time and courtesy.’

They left the woman still scowling in suspicion after them.

Eadulf had slid off his horse by now and together they walked across the settlement, leading their horses.

‘Who would have thought our pious brother from the north was a frequenter of women of the flesh,’ he chuckled.

‘We do not know that for sure,’ Fidelma reproved him. ‘All we know is that he did not return to the guests’ hostel and appears to have stayed the night at the house of a prostitute. It does not imply that he is a frequenter of such places. The fact that this Nemon is under the protection of Murgal is a more interesting aspect of this affair.’

They walked up to the door of the cabin and tapped upon its oak wood panels.

A moment later it opened and a woman stood regarding them with the same hostility on her features as that of the farmer’s wife.

She was a fleshy woman, in her fourth decade of life, with straw-coloured hair and ruddy features. Her face was heavy with make-up, the eyebrows dyed with berry juice and her lips crimsoned. She had been attractive once; but that must have been some years ago and now she had a voluptuousness that was gross rather than alluring. She examined them for a moment with her dark eyes and then focussed over their shoulder to where Bairsech, the wife of Ronan, still stood watching their every move with unconcealed curiosity.

‘Her nose grows longer each day,’ the woman muttered. ‘Bairsech is a name which suits her well.’ Fidelma suddenly realised that the name could be applied to a brawling woman. Then the woman stood aside and motioned them in. ‘Come inside and do not give her the pleasure of examining us further.’

They hitched their horses to a small post outside the building and entered.

It was a comfortable room but not inviting.

‘Are you Nemon?’

The woman nodded.

‘You are strangers to the valley.’ It was a statement not a question.

‘You do not know why we are here?’

‘I know nothing and care less. I care only for my comfort and my time is gauged in what I may profit from it.’

Fidelma turned to Eadulf.

‘Give Nemon a screpall ,’ she instructed.

Unwillingly Eadulf took the coin out of his purse and handed it to the woman. She almost snatched it out of his hand and examined it suspiciously.

‘Money is rare in this valley. We usually barter. But money is therefore thrice welcome.’

She assured herself that the coin was genuine before regarding them with a question on her features.

‘What is it you want? Not my services,’ she added, laughing lewdly, ‘that’s for sure.’

Fidelma shook her head, hiding her distaste at even the suggestion.

‘We want a few moments of your time, that’s all. And the answers to some questions.’

‘Very well. Ask your questions.’

‘I am told that you had a guest here last night.’

‘Yes.’

‘A man from the ráth? Thick-set. Wearing fine clothes with his head in a tonsure … cut in the fashion of my friend here?’

‘What of it?’ Nemon made no attempt to disguise the fact.

‘When did he come?’

‘Late. After midnight, I believe. I had to dispense with two customers to accommodate him.’

‘Why?’

‘He paid me.’

‘Yet a stranger … would you not have been better served to continue with your local clients than serve a stranger who might visit you only once?’

Nemon sniffed.

‘True enough. But Murgal was with him and told me that I would not lose by it.’

‘Murgal?’

‘Yes. He brought the man to me. Solin was the man’s name. I remember now.’

‘And Murgal the Druid to Laisre brought the man from the ráth to you and asked you to … to bestow your favours on him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did Murgal give you a reason why you should do this?’

‘Do you think that people give me reasons for what they do? I ask no questions so long as I receive money for my services.’

‘Have you known Murgal long?’

‘He is my foster-father. He looks after me.’

‘Your foster-father? And he looks after you?’ Fidelma’s voice took on an air of cynicism. ‘Have you known any other life but the one you now pursue?’

Nemon laughed disdainfully.

‘You are disapproving? Do you think I should be like Ronan’s woman across the yard there? Look at her, a woman who is younger than I am but who looks old enough to be my mother. Old before her time because she is condemned to go out into the fields at the crack of dawn and milk the cows while her husband lies in a drunken slumber. She has to plough fields and dig and sow and harvest while he rides about pretending to be a great warrior, not a lord, as he claims, but merely a sub-chieftain of this pitiful collection of hovels. No, I want no other life than the one I have. At least I sleep in fine linen sheets and for as long as I like.’

The derision on the woman’s face was plain.

‘Yet I notice that you have a small farm to run,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘There are cows outside to be milked. Who does your work if you do not?’

Nemon screwed up her face in an ugly gesture.

‘I only keep them because they are money. I would sell them tomorrow if the price was right. They are too much hard work. But, as I said, this valley is mainly a place of barter, so I must expect cows, goats, chickens, eggs and the like in place of coins.’