Peter Tremayne - Valley of the Shadow

‘Untie them at once!’ he said firmly.

Reluctantly, the red-haired man drew out his knife and severed Fidelma’s bonds and then the rope which tied Eadulf’s wrists. They stood for a moment rubbing their chaffed wrists and examining Ibor in curiosity. Now he was clothed as a warrior, a costume that seemed to fit him better than his previous form of dress. Fidelma smiled grimly as the former assessment that Ibor looked more a warrior than a horse trader now appeared to be correct. The erstwhile trader from Muirthemne was obviously a fighting man.

‘Be seated and accept my hospitality,’ invited Ibor as politely as if he had simply invited them as guests to his ráth. ‘It is rather poor hospitality since we are camped out here …’

‘Hiding from lawful authority,’ interjected Eadulf sourly.

Ibor shook his head and his smile broadened.

‘Not hiding but merely not wishing to announce our presence. Come, be seated. You shall not be harmed while you are my guests.’

Reluctantly, but with no other option, Fidelma and Eadulf sat on the rugs which had been indicated.

‘Why did you allow the people in Gleann Geis to believe that it was you who bribed Artgal?’ Fidelma opened without preamble.

‘I thought that they had already decided that without my help,’ replied Ibor humorously.

‘By running away you simply confirmed it.’

‘A strategic withdrawal to join my men.’

‘And to do what exactly?’

Ibor shrugged, still smiling.

‘Who knows? Maybe to destroy that nest of vermin.’

‘Brother Dianach is dead. I know that he was the person who bought the cows to bribe Artgal with and not you.’

The young man did not look surprised.

‘And Artgal? What does he say now?’

‘Artgal is missing.’

There was a silence but Ibor’s composure did not alter.

‘As soon as Artgal started to lie about Brother Dianach, I knew that suspicion would fall on me. I knew that I would be apprehended for something I did not do … even as you were, Fidelma.’

‘You knew that I was innocent?’ Fidelma could not hide her surprise.

‘I knew that you had little reason to kill Brother Solin,’ he confirmed. ‘I was hoping to be able to find out who did before it became necessary for me to withdraw from Laisre’s ráth.’

‘It is hard to believe that you claim innocence,’ Fidelma observed skeptically. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

‘You know already that I am Ibor; Ibor, lord of Muirthemne.’

‘That is a proud title. It is not the title of a trader in horseflesh.’

‘I am proud to bear it. It is an ancient lineage. Was not my ancestor named Setanta of Muirthemne who men called Cúchulainn, the hound of Culainn?’

Fidelma looked into Ibor’s eyes and saw a pride in his ancestry.

‘You have not explained why the lord of Muirthemne in Ulaidh was skulking in Gleann Geis in the guise of a merchant. This is a curiously isolated part of the world for a band of warriors from the north to stumble on without some evil intent?’

‘In truth, we did not stumble on it and we did come here with a specific purpose.’

‘At least you are honest with me. Why?’

Ibor smiled disarmingly.

‘I would ask you to promise that you will be circumspect as to what I tell you.’

Fidelma held her head slightly to one side. Her expression one of curiosity.

‘Circumspect? You do not ask me for secrecy?’

Ibor shook his head.

‘I trust your discretion and honesty as I hope you will trust mine once you hear my story. I know of your reputation. I told you sobefore. And I also see that you wear the cross of the order of the Golden Chain. This is why I shall put my trust in you.’

Fidelma continued to gaze at him thoughtfully.

‘I would answer that I apply discretion in all things but as to accepting your honesty, that remains to be seen.’

‘I would expect no more in the circumstances.’ The young lord of Muirthemne glanced quickly at Eadulf. ‘Your voice also speaks for the Saxon brother?’

‘You may be assured of Brother Eadulf’s discretion as you are of mine.’

‘Discretion is all I ask.’

‘You can expect little more, especially when you hold that gold torc which I found at the site of the slaughter of thirty-three young men,’ Fidelma added quietly.

Ibor glanced down at the torc in his hand and nodded absently.

‘It is a torc fashioned for the warriors of Ailech,’ he commented absently. ‘You will hear the explanation for this shortly. To begin, my men and I have been following Brother Solin of Armagh this past week.’

‘On whose authority?’ Fidelma asked at once.

‘On the authority of Sechnassuch, High King at Tara.’

‘With what purpose?’

‘With the purpose of discovering his reason for coming to this land.’

‘You say that as if you suspected him of some transgression against the law?’ intervened Eadulf.

The lord of Muirthemne chuckled grimly.

‘I would venture that my view has long passed the point of mere suspicion. And as for transgressing the law, he has transgressed every moral code that I know of.’

‘I do not understand,’ Fidelma said. ‘You are a man of the north and yet you appear to be claiming that you are an enemy of Brother Solin? Why is this? Is Brother Solin not only a man of the north but also of the cloth? He maintained that he was on a mission for the Faith.’

‘A mission for the Devil!’ snapped Ibor. Then he leaned forward, his voice grave. ‘Surely you know something about the dissensions among the kings of the north? You have been to Tara and you have also been to Armagh.’

‘Is it a coincidence that Brother Solin once asked me this very same question? I have been to Tara and I have been to Armagh but I was not privy to any internal disputes there.’

Ibor sat back.

‘I will explain the divisions as simply as I can. First you must know that I am an emissary of the High King, Sechnassuch. As you know, he is of the southern Uí Néill, of the seed of Aedo Slaine. Here is his royal seal as proof of my word.’ He reached beneath his shirt and brought out a gold seal on a golden chain and held it out for her inspection. ‘You have been to Tara and know it well.’

Fidelma glanced at the gold medallion. On it was stamped a regal upright hand symbolising the duty of the king to reach out his hand to protect his people, for in ancient times it was said that both words rí for king and reach were the same. Fidelma recognised the seal of the Uí Néill immediately.

‘Go on,’ she invited. ‘Tell us your story.’

‘Brother Solin was secretary to Ultan of Armagh.’

‘That I know,’ Fidelma said, a trifle impatiently.

‘Ultan has secretly sworn to support the claims of the dynasty of the northern Uí Néill, the kings who sit at Ailech.’

Fidelma had never had dealings with the northern Uí Néill kingdom. She only knew that Ailech was a fortress city in the extreme north-west of the country where the king was currently Mael Dúin, who also claimed descent from the great High King, Niall of the Nine Hostages.

‘Your man said that the torc was made in Ailech,’ she observed quietly.

Ibor nodded.

‘There is little love lost between the two dynasties of the Uí Néill, northern and southern,’ he explained. ‘Mael Dúin is not the first king of the northern Uí Néill line to argue that his dynasty are the true heirs of the kingship of all the north, and not only the kingship of Ulaidh but he claims the right to the High Kingship at Tara. He further claims that the High Kingship should not be a matter of conferred honour among the provincial kings but a reality and that the High King should have a real power over all the five kingdoms of Éireann.’