Peter Tremayne - Valley of the Shadow

Cruinn looked up swiftly, almost eagerly.

‘And is the marriage valid?’

‘Oh, of course. But I warn you that the financial burden of a socially mixed marriage falls more heavily on the family of the partner of the lower class. I will tell you this: if it is the woman who is of the lower class, as you seem to indicate, then her family has to supply two thirds of the cattle of joint wealth. It is a great step to take and think well on it, Cruinn, before you agree to any such liaison.’

Cruinn shook her head and smiled thinly.

‘Oh no, it is not my marriage, for I have been most happily married and have a child. Though my man is dead, I am content. No, I ask on behalf of someone I know who would never bother to ask.’

Fidelma hid her smile. The woman would surely not ask such questions for a friend. Fidelma was sure that it was a personal matter but could not imagine Cruinn winning the heart of eventhe lowest lord of a clan. She realised that she was prejudiced, of course, but that realisation could not prevent the feeling of amused cynicism arising.

‘Tell your friend to think well on it, then, for there is an ancient triad which says it is a misfortune for the offspring of a commoner to aspire to marriage with the offspring of even the lowest grade of lord.’

Cruinn stood up and bobbed in gratitude.

‘I will remember and am grateful for your advice, lady. Now I will prepare your meal.’

Thinking it was a curious world, Fidelma hurried up the stairs to deposit her saddle bags in her room before turning into Eadulf’s chamber with his bags.

Eadulf lay stretched on his bed with his eyes shut.

‘How are you?’ she asked sympathetically, putting his bags on a nearby table.

Eadulf winced at the sound of her voice and did not open his eyes.

‘I think it is time to sing a cepóc for me but do not sing it too loudly.’

Fidelma grinned. A cepóc was a funeral dirge, a lament for the passing of someone into the Otherworld.

‘Have you tried the infusion that Marga gave you?’ she inquired, feeling solicitous.

‘I will, as soon as that portly virago vanishes from the kitchen.’

‘The woman Cruinn?’

‘The same,’ sighed Eadulf. ‘She tried to make me eat some squishy mess when I came in. Another herbal remedy. I swear she is trying to kill me. She told me that it would help me recover and that she ought to know good medicines for she was often gathering herbs for the apothecary.’

‘Well, you are no use to me until you recover your senses, Eadulf,’ Fidelma said. ‘I am going down to eat now. Get better as soon as you can.’

Downstairs she found that Brother Dianach had arrived and was already seated at his meal. Cruinn had already laid out the food and departed. Fidelma greeted the young monk and sat down. There was no sign of Brother Solin nor of the newcomer to the ráth.

‘Is Brother Solin ailing?’ she asked, suddenly remembering that she had last seen him entering the apothecary shop.

Brother Dianach looked up in surprise.

‘Ailing? No. What makes you think so?’

Fidelma decided to keep her own council.

‘So many people seem caught with the affliction of the bad wine of last night.’

Brother Dianach sniffed in disapproval.

‘I did warn Brother Eadulf this morning that like does not cure like.’

‘So you did,’ Fidelma replied absently picking at her food. ‘I thought I heard that there was another guest arriving here in the ráth?’

Again Brother Dianach was unresponsive.

‘I have not heard so.’

‘It was another traveller from Ulaidh.’

‘No. You are surely mistaken.’

There was a sound on the stair and Eadulf, pale and wan, came down and, without a word to them, began to prepare some infusion from a small bag of medicines that he usually carried. Fidelma noticed that he did not use the foxglove leaves that Marga had given him. However, she knew that Eadulf was well enough trained in the art of herbal mixtures to trust he knew what he was doing.

After a while he came to the table with a beaker of some aromatic brew and began to sip it with closed eyes.

‘Similia similibus curantur?’ Brother Dianach gibed derisively.

‘Contraria contrariis curantur,’ replied Eadulf with a shudder. ‘I will see you later.’ He rose looking pale and unsteady, still bearing his beaker of liquid and retired to his room.

The door opened and Brother Solin entered. He seemed flushed and agitated.

‘Is the hostel keeper here?’ he demanded. ‘I am hungry.’

Fidelma was about to say that he could help himself to food when Brother Dianach leapt to his feet.

‘I will bring you the food, Brother Solin.’

Fidelma stared at the thick-set secretary in disapproval.

‘Your nose is bleeding, Solin,’ she remarked dispassionately. She also noticed that the front of the man’s linen shirt was badly stained with wine and there were some dried flecks over his forehead. Someone had recently thrown wine in the cleric’s face, of that she was certain.

Solin grimaced and drew out a cloth to hold to his nose. He offered no explanation but regarded her with censure in his eyes.

‘I hope this afternoon will see better progress on the matter of bringing the Faith to this place.’

‘You caused this morning to be wasted,’ she replied coldly.

Brother Dianach hurried back with the plate of food for his master and resumed his seat with an unhappy expression.

Solin scowled at Fidelma.

‘Wasted? There is no waste when one preaches the Word. If you would not defend your Faith before these pagans, then it was up to me to do so.’

In spite of their earlier argument, Solin could not apparently understand that he had incurred Fidelma’s censure.

‘Did you not see that Murgal was trying to lead me into the trap of arguing theology to waste time and avoid the main purpose of my visit here?’ she demanded.

‘I simply saw that, sooner than stand up for your Faith, you removed yourself from the hall and left the pagans victorious!’ snapped Solin. ‘And I will pass that information on to Ultan of Armagh to whom you may have to answer.’

‘Then you are blind as well as a fool, Solin. You may pass my opinion on to Ultan as well.’

Having finished her meal, Fidelma rose and left the hostel. She was intrigued as to who the mysterious young man from Ulaidh was but needed to discover the fact without arousing attention.

At the gate she recognised one of the two warriors who stood talking there. The fair-haired Rudgal, the secret Christian. She walked across the courtyard and greeted him by name, nodding in affable fashion to the second man.

‘I hear that there is another visitor to this ráth from the north?’ she began.

Rudgal gave her an appreciative glance.

‘There is little that escapes you, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he replied. ‘Yes, while you and the Saxon were down in Ronan’s hamlet below, a merchant arrived.’

‘A merchant? What is his merchandise?’

Rudgal did not seem particularly interested.

‘He is a dealer in horses, I believe,’ he said dismissively.

Rudgal’s companion grimaced cynically, an expression which was not lost on Fidelma. She turned to him inquisitively.

‘You disagree?’

‘A horse dealer?’ the man replied skeptically. ‘That one has the mark of a professional warrior on him.’

Fidelma examined Rudgal’s companion with interest.

‘You seem to have observed him closely. Why do you say he has the mark of a warrior?’

Rudgal coughed harshly. It was an obvious signal and the other man shrugged, leaving with a muttered apology about being needed elsewhere.

Rudgal was on the point of leaving also when Fidelma stayed him.