Peter Tremayne - Valley of the Shadow

Eadulf, nervous and still sickened by the sight he had witnessed, began to look around immediately for some cover. There was none.

Fidelma halted her horse and sat at ease, merely awaiting the appearance of the riders, and curtly ordered him to do likewise.

A moment or so later, a column of about a score of warriors burst out of the gorge on to the plain just in front of them. Their leader, a slender figure, saw them at once and, without faltering, led the column at a breathless pace to within a yard or so of them. Then, as if at some given signal not obvious even to the discerning eye, the band of horses halted in a cloud of dust with a sound of snorting breath and an occasional whinny of protest.

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she examined the leader of the band of horsemen. The rider was a slightly built woman of about thirty years. Dark hair, almost the colour of jet, tumbled in a mass of curls from her shoulders. A thin band of twisted silver around her forehead kept it in some semblance of order. She wore a cloak and carried a long scabbard with a workman-like sword and an ornate knife on her right side. The woman’s face was slightly rounded, almost heart-shaped and not unattractive. The lips full and red. The skin pale. The eyes were dark, flashing with challenge.

‘Strangers!’ Her voice was harsh and seemed at odds with her appearance. ‘And Christians at that. I know you from your attire. Know that you are not welcome in this place!’

Fidelma’s mouth was a thin line at the discourtesy of this greeting.

‘The king of this land would be displeased to know that I am not welcome here,’ she replied softly.

Only Eadulf could recognise the quiet tone which bespoke her suppressed anger.

The dark-haired woman frowned slightly.

‘I think not, woman of the god Christ. You are speaking to his sister.’

Fidelma simply raised an eyebrow in cynical query.

‘You claim to be the sister of the king of this land?’ she asked in disbelief.

‘I am Orla, sister to Laisre, who rules this land.’

‘Ah.’ Fidelma realised that the woman had placed a different interpretation on what was meant by king. ‘I do not speak of Laisre, chieftain of Gleann Geis; I speak of the king of Cashel to whom Laisre must bend his knee.’

‘Cashel is a long way from here,’ shot back the woman in annoyance.

‘But Cashel’s reach is sure and firm and it extends justice into all the far corners of the kingdom.’

Fidelma spoke with such assured firmness that Orla’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. She appeared to be unused to being answered with confidence and as an equal.

‘Who are you, woman, who rides so unconcerned into the land of Laisre?’ Her dark eyes flashed in dislike at Eadulf, who sat quietly behind her. ‘And who are you who dares to bring a foreign cleric into this land?’

A burly warrior from the column of horsemen edged his mount forward. He was an ugly looking man, with a bushy black beard and a scar above one eye, the mark of an old wound.

‘Lady, no need to ask more of these people who wear the emasculate robes of their alien religion. Let them be gone or let me drive them forth.’

The woman, Orla, gave the warrior a glance of irritation.

‘When I need advice, Artgal, I shall consult you.’ And with this dismissal, she turned back to Fidelma. There was no change of expression on her hostile features. ‘Speak, woman, and tell me who dares lecture the sister of the chieftain of Gleann Geis on the duties of her brother.’

‘I am Fidelma … Fidelma of Cashel.’

Whether by design or accident, Fidelma made a slight movement in her saddle at which the cross of the Golden Chain, hidden in the folds of her clothing, slipped out and the sunlight struck it momentarily causing the dark eyes of Orla to glimpse it. They widened perceptibly as she recognised it for what it was.

‘Fidelma of Cashel?’ Orla repeated in a hesitant tone. ‘Fidelma, sister of Colgú, king of Muman?’

Fidelma did not bother to answer the question but assumed that Orla knew the answer already.

‘Your brother, Laisre, is expecting my embassy from Cashel,’ she went on, as if disinterested in the reaction she had provoked. She reached behind her into her saddle bags and drew out the white wand with the golden stag atop it, the symbol of her embassy from the king of Cashel.

There was a silent pause as Orla stared as if mesmerised by it.

‘Do you accept the white wand or do you choose the sword?’ Fidelma demanded with a hint of a smile on her features. Envoys going into a hostile land presented either the wand or the sword as a symbolic challenge to peace or war.

‘My brother is expecting a representative of Cashel,’ Orla admitted slowly, raising her eyes from the wand to Fidelma’s face, her expression unsure. There was an unwilling note of respect in her voice now. ‘But that representative is one who should be qualified to negotiate with Laisre on ecclesiastical matters. Someone qualified to …’

Fidelma suppressed an impatient sigh.

‘I am an advocate of the Brehon Courts, qualified to the degree of anruth. I am the negotiator whom he is expecting and I speak in the stead of my brother, Colgú, his king.’

Orla failed to disguise her surprise. The qualification of anruth was only one degree below the highest that the ecclesiastical and secular colleges of Ireland could bestow. Fidelma could walk and talk with kings, even the High King, let alone petty chieftains.

The dark-haired woman swallowed hard and, while she was undoubtedly impressed, her features remained harsh and unfriendly.

‘As representative of Laisre of Gleann Geis, I bid you welcome, techtaire. ’ It took Eadulf some moments to recognise the ancient word for an envoy. Orla continued: ‘But as representative of the new religion of Christ, I say that you are not welcome in this place. Nor is the foreigner whom you bring with you.’

Fidelma leant forward, her voice sharp and clear.

‘Does that imply a threat? Are the sacred laws of hospitality abrogated in the land of Laisre? Is it the sword you accept instead of this?’

She held up the white wand again, thrusting it forward almost aggressively towards Orla. The sun sparkled brightly on the gold figure of the stag.

Orla’s cheeks coloured and she raised her chin defiantly.

‘I imply no threat to your life. Nor even his life.’ She jerked her head towards Eadulf. ‘No harm will come to you nor to the foreigner while you extend your protection to him. We are not barbarians in Gleann Geis. Envoys, under law, are regarded as sacred and inviolable and are treated with utmost respect even though they be our bitterest enemies.’

Eadulf moved uneasily for there was still a deadly serious threat behind what she was saying.

‘That is good to know, Orla,’ Fidelma replied easily, relaxing and replacing the wand in her saddle bag. ‘For I have seen what happens to people to whom such immunity from death is not given.’

Eadulf’s jaw slackened and he felt a sudden panic. If Orla and her warriors were responsible for the deaths of the young men across the valley then Fidelma, in admitting knowledge of the corpses, was putting their lives in considerable danger. He had thought she was going to be circumspect about the gruesome find. Then he suddenly became aware of the distant squawking of the birds of prey and he glanced anxiously over his shoulder. It was obvious that something was amiss across the glen in the direction where the corpses lay and the warriors of Orla’s bodyguard must surely have spotted the ravening carrion birds anyway.

Yet Orla was regarding Fidelma with some bewilderment. She had apparently not taken in the swirling cloud of distant ravens.