Peter Tremayne - Valley of the Shadow

Rudgal caught Eadulf’s anxious gaze and chuckled softly.

‘With God’s help, the weather will pass us by on the other side of the mountains.’

They continued on their way skirting Ronan’s farmstead and Nemon’s dwelling, before climbing the hill towards the small cabin perched above, which Rudgal had indicated belonged to Artgal. The fair-haired warrior wagon-maker led the way up a steep path whose ascent had been made easier by the placing of large stones every so often. This gave the path the appearance of a stairway. Fidelma followed next and then Eadulf. There was little conversation between them except when Rudgal pointed out areas along the path to be avoided, springy patches of boggy turf or the occasional pit hidden by gorse.

They came to a narrow shelving area of stone-hedged small fields among which stood the grey stone cabin. It was a simple beehive-shaped cabin with a straw-thatched roof and a fence around it. Adjacent to the cabin was a smithy’s shop but with the fire dead. It looked as if it had not been used in some considerable time. Even some of the tools were rusting.

Fidelma could see no sign of any cattle in the vicinity.

They paused at the entrance of the cabin to recover their breath. Then Fidelma called sharply: ‘Artgal!’

There was no answer. A curious silence permeated the place.

‘Artgal!’ echoed Rudgal more loudly. Then in an aside he added apologetically: ‘I was sure that he would come here. Perhaps he has already been here, taken the cows and fled. But he could not have gone far in the valley herding cows. We would surely have seen him.’

When there was no reply from the second call, Rudgal pushed open the door of the cabin and went inside. The others followed. The cabin seemed deserted but its few meagre possessions were placed in orderly fashion. There was no indication that the owner had made a hurried departure. The only object out of order was a cloth lying on the floor as if dropped unobserved by its owner. Fidelma went over to it and picked it up. She suddenly realised thatit was an apron. She placed it on a nearby hook, thinking it was a curious item for a man like Artgal to have. But then it did seem to fit in with the tidy personality of the cabin. It was probably normal for Artgal to wear such an outsized garment to protect him if he were so fastidious.

‘Perhaps I was wrong,’ muttered Rudgal. ‘Perhaps he has gone elsewhere but where I would not know.’

‘I saw no sign of the cows around here,’ Eadulf remarked.

‘And if he took them we would surely have spotted him,’ Rudgal repeated. ‘A lone herdsman and two cows in this countryside are easy to observe.’

This was true for there were few trees in the valley itself.

‘But there seems to be no other explanation,’ he added. ‘Artgal must have gone and taken the cows with him. I will see if there are any tracks which we may follow.’

He left the cabin. Fidelma was still standing in the middle of the single room, her sharp eyes moving cautiously around it, examining every nook and cranny keenly. She suddenly realised that there were two pottery beakers standing on the table. It seemed that Artgal had had a visitor recently; recently enough for him not to clear away the remains of a shared drink and to have failed to observe the discarded apron on the floor.

She bent to examine the beakers, sniffing cautiously at the aroma left by their contents. She had scented the distinctive pungent fragrance before but, for the moment, she could not place it.

‘This Artgal is a very tidy man for a blacksmith and warrior,’ she reflected softly.

Eadulf grinned.

‘Are blacksmiths and warriors invariably untidy, then?’

‘You have seen Artgal. I would have expected Artgal not to be so fastidious. One may tell much from a person’s attention to their clothing. Yet the cabin here is scrupulously clean.’

‘I have known of such people who are slovenly in their appearance but fastidious in their homes and vice versa,’ Eadulf observed.

There came a sudden cry of alarm outside the cabin.

‘Sister! Brother!’

It was Rudgal’s voice raised in horror.

Eadulf and Fidelma exchanged a glance and hurried outside. Rudgal was at the back of the cabin. He was standing staring down at something on the ground. It was sprawled half in and half out of a small shed. Eadulf recognised it by the clothing.

It was the body of Brother Dianach.

‘I was walking round the cabin to look for tracks when I stumbled across the body,’ Rudgal explained unnecessarily.

Eadulf genuflected while Fidelma went down on one knee beside the body.

The young religieux lay on his side, his feet and lower body were in the small shed, the torso was sprawled outside, face down, one arm flung in front of him. There was fresh blood staining the ground. Cautiously, Fidelma pushed the body over on its back. Blood was everywhere. It was clear that Dianach had had his throat cut; one long stabbing cut had cleaved through the neck almost to the back.

Fidelma suddenly looked at the lips and gums of the dead religieux. They had a faint blue tinge about them which she could not explain. Clearly the knife cut had caused his death and the wound was still bleeding. Distastefully, she reached out a hand to touch the skin. It was still warm. Brother Dianach had only recently died, probably even as they had entered the cabin.

She sprang to her feet and looked around. Her eyes scanned the landscape.

‘Did you see anyone near here, Rudgal?’

The wagon maker dragged his fascinated gaze away from the corpse and regarded her in bewilderment.

Fidelma was impatient.

‘The boy has only just been killed. Perhaps while we were in the cabin. Look, the shed is small, you have to bend down to peer inside. Perhaps Dianach was hiding from us when we approached the cabin. His killer must have come upon him in this fashion and slit his throat. It happened only moments ago.’

Rudgal whistled softly.

‘I walked around the cabin but there was no one in sight, it was only when I was looking for the tracks of the cattle that I suddenly saw the body.’

Eadulf had moved swiftly to a stone wall and clambered up. He swept the surrounding countryside with his keen gaze.

‘Can you see anything?’ demanded Fidelma.

Eadulf shook his head in disappointment.

‘No,’ he replied in disgust. ‘There are so many gullies and walls around here that anyone, knowing the area, could hide themselves easily from our sight.’

‘Any sign of the cattle?’

‘None at all. But while a man might hide among these gullies, I would say that it would be difficult to hide cattle.’

Fidelma turned back to the body in frustration.

‘Why kill him, I wonder?’ Rudgal said. ‘And what was the lad doing up here anyway?’

‘When Artgal said that he had been offered the bribe by someone with a northern accent, Dianach grew upset,’ she reflected. ‘He jumped up to deny that it was him.’

‘But Artgal corroborated that by saying it was a deeper voice whereupon Ibor of Muirthemne disappeared from the ráth not attempting to deny the logical conclusion that it was he who had bribed Artgal,’ Eadulf called from the wall, still scrutinising the surrounding countryside. ‘And now Ibor has fled the valley.’

‘If it was not Ibor of Muirthemne who tried to bribe Artgal, why did he disappear?’ added Rudgal.

There was no escaping the logic.

Eadulf had jumped down from the wall and joined them again.

‘Moreover, why would Artgal disappear?’ he asked. ‘Surely Laisre’s wrath is not so terrible. Artgal would have to pay a fine under your law to reinstate his honour but better to do that than flee to a life of wandering exile outside his clan?’