Peter Tremayne - Valley of the Shadow

‘What did your companion mean?’

‘Only that a man can be many things,’ he replied indifferently. ‘As you know, Sister, I am a wagon maker by trade and yet I am called to serve Gleann Geis as a warrior when needed. Just as Ronan is a farmer as well as a warrior.’

‘Has this horse trader moved on? Or is he staying in the ráth?’

‘We have no room at the guests’ hostel, so Laisre has suggested that the merchant stay at Ronan’s farmstead.’

‘Is he there now?’

‘He has returned to the ráth and is in conversation with Laisre in the council chamber.’

‘I see. And where is his merchandise? Is that at Ronan’s farmstead?’

Rudgal frowned.

‘Merchandise?’

Fidelma was patient.

‘If he is a trader in horses, he must have horses to trade. I am interested in horses. I would like to see what he has to offer. We can see Ronan’s pastures below us from here. I see no herd of horses grazing there among the cows.’

For a moment Rudgal looked baffled.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps you should speak with him.’

Fidelma gazed after the disappearing warrior for some moments as Rudgal swung down the hill away from the ráth.

She suddenly became aware of someone hurrying by and she turned, finding herself contemplating the angry face of Orla, wife of the tanist, as the woman headed towards a building near the gates.

‘You look distressed, Orla,’ she called, forcing the wife of the tanist to stop in her tracks. ‘Can I be of service?’

The handsome woman stared at her a moment; she swallowed hard but the anger did not go from her features.

‘May the goddess of death and battles curse all you Christians,’ she said with venom. ‘You claim piety, chastity and humility but you are nought but animals!’

Fidelma was astonished.

‘I do not know what you mean. Perhaps you should explain.’

Orla thrust out her chin.

‘I will kill that fat pig, Solin, if he comes near me again!’

‘I hope you did not waste good wine on him,’ smiled Fidelma, suddenly remembering Brother Solin’s appearance.

Orla stared at her.

‘Wine?’

‘I presume it was you who doused Brother Solin with wine?’

Orla shook her head.

‘Not I. I would not waste even bad wine on the pig.’ Without another word, Orla passed on leaving Fidelma with a thoughtful expression on her features. Fidelma turned back into the ráth and began making her way across the courtyard.

A voice hailed her.

It was Marga, the apothecary, who approached.

‘Do you take me for a fool?’

Fidelma kept her features composed. Two angry women in as many minutes?

‘Why would you think that I might do so?’ she countered with interest.

‘This morning you came to me and sought a cure for your foreign friend’s hangover. Were you testing me?’

‘Why would I be testing you?’

‘Who knows your motives? Your Saxon friend had enough knowledge to provide his own medication. I learnt that he has studied at Tuam Brecain and is learned enough without the necessity of consulting me.’

Fidelma remained quiet for a moment.

‘How did you learn that he studied at Tuam Brecain?’ she asked after a moment’s consideration.

Marga was exasperated.

‘You answer my questions with questions! Don’t think that you can keep secrets in such a small place as the ráth of Laisre.’

‘Forgive me,’ smiled Fidelma gently. ‘It is a habit. I have been a dálaigh for too long to change it. Ah, but I think I know. Brother Solin paid you a visit this morning.’

Obviously, young Brother Dianach had told Solin and Solin had passed on the information when he went into Marga’s apothecary that morning.

Marga shot her a look of dislike and spun on her heel and strode off.

Fidelma stood looking after her a moment or two before resuming her path towards the main building of the ráth where the council chamber was.

The saturnine figure of Murgal greeted her at the door.

‘So you have decided to come back?’

He evinced no pleasure in the fact.

‘That much is obvious, Murgal. Why do you seek to make your chieftain’s task difficult?’

Murgal smiled thinly.

‘You must already know that I disagree with what my chieftain is doing. Why, then, should I make his path easier?’

‘I was led to believe that a decision was already made. If so, you should abide by that decision.’

‘A decision made arbitrarily is not binding on all the people.’

‘Are you telling me that Laisre made the decision to send to Imleach and Cashel without discussing the matter with his council?’

Murgal hesitated, made to open his mouth and then thought better of it.

Fidelma waited a moment and when Murgal continued his silence she added: ‘We may not agree on a common faith but one thing we both believe, Murgal, and that is the rule of the law. Your chieftain’s word is inviolable once given. You are a Brehon, Murgal. You have sworn an oath; an oath that is sacred, and that oath is to uphold the law.’

Murgal shook his head disdainfully.

‘But my oath is not valid according to your Faith because it is not an oath to your God.’

‘You are not speaking to any foreign cleric, Murgal. Christian or not, I am of the same bloodline as Eber the Fair. You have sworn your oath even though the sea rise and engulf you or the sky fall upon you. You are sworn to hold fast to the law. You will do so.’

‘You are a strange woman, Fidelma of Cashel.’

‘I am a product of my people, just as you are.’

‘I am an enemy to your Faith.’

‘But you are not an enemy to our people. If Laisre’s word was given in accordance with the law, then you know you are sworn to uphold it.’

The doors of the council chamber opened and Laisre came out. He was followed by the young man Fidelma had seen at the door of the stable. She examined the newcomer carefully.

He was about thirty. Not tall but muscular in spite of the loose clothing he wore. His dress was not that of a warrior and certainly not the finery of a noble. But her quick eyes saw what the warrior at the gate of the ráth had observed. The young man carried himself in a particular way. He wore a sword slung on his hip and a dagger in his belt. They gave the impression that they were not for show. The deep brown eyes of the man were restive, examining and assessing things as quickly as did Fidelma. His brown hair was well cut, his moustache was trimmed. The clothes did not seem to suit his figure at all, as if he had put them on by mistake.

Laisre had evidently not been expecting to see Fidelma and Murgal together.

He halted, his eyes darting from one to the other in question and then seeing that they were not overtly in enmity he stepped forward again with a forced smile.

‘We have another stranger travelling through our land. Fidelma of Cashel, Murgal, may I present Ibor of Muirthemne?’

The young man took a step forward and jerked his head forward in a perfunctory bow.

‘Lady, your reputation precedes you. Your name is spoken of with affection even at Tara.’

‘You are gracious, Ibor,’ Fidelma replied. ‘And you are also many miles from your home in Muirthemne.’

‘It is the lot of a merchant to seldom stretch his limbs beside his own hearth, lady.’

‘I am told that you are a horse trader.’

The young man nodded affirmation. He had a warm, open face, Fidelma thought, almost boyish.

‘You have been told correctly, lady.’

‘Then I would like to see your horses for I am much interested. Where is your herd grazing?’

‘I have no herd,’ the young man returned without embarrassment.

It was Murgal who spoke now, framing the question that Fidelma was about to ask.