Peter Tremayne - The Spider's Web

Fidelma restrained herself from an angry retort.

‘Nevertheless, what caused Dubán to ride off?’ she pressed.

‘Word came of a cattle raid against one of the isolated farmsteads across the mountains.’

‘A raid?’ She was interested at once. ‘Is it known by whom?’

‘That is what they went to discover. Presumably by the same raiders who made a foray into this valley a few weeks ago. I should have gone with Dubán but, instead, I have been instructed to remain here and look after the creature, Móen. It is not fair.’

Fidelma thought the young warrior appeared more like a sulky child than a grown man.

‘To be a warrior,’ Fidelma said carefully, ‘you are not bound by duty unless you have freely accepted it as your obligation.’

Crítán looked annoyed.

‘I do not understand what you mean.’

‘Exactly so. Tell me, Crítán,’ she changed the subject quickly. ‘Tell me, does the name Gadra mean anything to you?’

The young man grimaced with ill-temper.

‘He is said to be a bogeyman who steals children’s souls. People here about use his name to frighten their children.’

‘Does he have a real existence?’

‘I have heard Dubán speak of him. I do not believe in bogeymen, so once I asked about him.’

‘And what did Dubán say?’ pressed Fidelma.

‘He told me that in his youth, Gadra was a hermit who dweltin the mountains and refused to accept the new Faith.’

‘Is he still living?’

‘It was many years ago. He lived in the forests up in a small mountain valley. I do not know where. I think Dubán might know.’

Fidelma thanked the young man and turned back into the guests’ hostel to report to Eadulf.

‘What now?’ Eadulf asked.

‘Now? There is no more to be done than to wait until tomorrow.’

It was well after midnight that Fidelma awoke to hear the sounds of a horse entering the rath. She could hear Eadulf still deep in slumber in his cubicle. She rose, draping her cloak around her shoulders, and picked her way, barefoot, to the window which gave a view to the front of the hostel.

A man was dismounting by the gates. By the light of the blazing brand torches, she could see it was the stableman, Menma. She was about to turn back to her bed when a shadow detached itself from the front of the hall of assembly. It moved into the light of the torches and greeted the red-haired man.

It was Father Gormán. His body seemed animated and he waved his arms. His voice was intense but not loud and she could not make out his words.

To her surprise, Menma appeared to be answering with equal vehemence.

Father Gormán was waving a hand towards the guests’ hostel. Plainly Eadulf and herself were the subject of their argument. She wondered why?

After a moment or two, Menma yanked at the reins of his horse and drew the beast away from the priest towards the stables.

For some moments Father Gormán stood, hands on hips, staring after Menma. Then he, too, turned abruptly and strode away towards his chapel.

Thoughtfully, Fidelma returned to her bed.

The sun was shining brightly when Fidelma joined Eadulf for the breakfast which Grella had brought. She could feel the warmthof the sun’s rays through the window of the guests’ hostel. Eadulf had just finished eating and now sat back, allowing Fidelma to break her fast in silence. Only when she had finished did he ask rhetorically: ‘Do you think Dubán has returned?’

‘I shall go in search of him now and see if he can tell us more about this hermit.’

She instructed Eadulf to see if he could pick up any further information from the inhabitants of the rath while she went in search of the warrior.

Fidelma walked from the hostel around the stone wall of the hall of assembly.

The sound of voices and the bark of harsh laughter halted her. The timbre of the voice sounded familiar.

She paused in the shelter of the wall and looked across to the group of buildings from where the sound had emanated. There was a horseman, apparently newly arrived for the dust of travel was still on him. He had dismounted and stood with the reins of his mount over his arm. Fidelma recognised the tall, stocky man at once. It was Muadnat, the farmer, against whom she had given judgment at Lios Mhór. What took her breath away was the figure whom he was clasping in his arms, who was returning his kiss for kiss with the passion of a young girl. She was a tall, fair-haired woman clad in a parti-coloured cloak.

Only when she broke away from the fierce embrace did Fidelma recognise the woman as Cranat, the widow of Eber.

Some instinct made Fidelma move back further into the shadows of the wall in order to examine the burly farmer more closely. For one who had just lost seven cumals of land, Muadnat seemed happy as he embraced the widowed chieftainess. It did not need experience to see the easy intimacy between them. Muadnat gave another bellow of laughter, to which Cranat placed a finger against her lips and cast a nervous glance around and then beckoned him in a conspiratorial fashion into the building behind them. Muadnat paused only to hitch his horse to a railing outside.

Fidelma waited until they had vanished and then, head bent in thought, she continued her way to the entrance of the hall of assembly. The doors stood open. She did not know what instinct made her hesitate instead of announcing her presence. Then she entered. Maybe she had subconsciously caught the sound of voices and the anxious tone of conversation. The first voice was that of Dubán.

‘I think you should be more respectful to her,’ he was saying earnestly. ‘At least, do not go out of your way to incur her enmity.’

‘Why not? She should not be here that long. I think she is exceeding her instructions.’

Fidelma frowned for the second voice was that of Crón. The voices were coming from a side room to which the door stood ajar. Fidelma trod with cat-like silence nearer to the door.

‘I know she is Colgú’s sister. But do you think he would send her here merely because of that? She is a clever woman. Little escapes those quizzical green eyes.’

‘Ah! You’ve noticed the colour of her eyes?’ The retort was sullen. Fidelma’s eyes widened as she heard the tone of jealousy in the voice of the tanist.

Dubán responded with a chuckle.

‘I’ve noticed that she is someone not to be fooled with. The less her hostility is aroused the better, pulse of my heart.’

Fidelma blinked at the easy endearment which came from his lips.

‘Surely she cannot really believe that Móen is innocent?’ Crón’s tone was slightly mollified.

‘I think she suspects it. Father Gormán believes that she is determined to prove it. He was quite upset when I saw him last night after he had spoken with her.’

‘I thought this matter would be easily resolved. If only my mother had let well alone.’

‘Nothing is ever easy, my dear. If she does believe Móen is innocent, then she will look elsewhere for those who might havemurdered him. You would do well to make her into a friend.’

There was a slight intake of breath.

‘She might discover how much I hated my father. Is that what you mean?’

‘She will eventually discover how much everyone hated him,’ replied Dubán. ‘Anyway, you must deal with that idiot Muadnat. He would choose this moment to come to the rath to create trouble. Can’t you tell him to go away? To return next week when all this is over?’

‘How can I do that, my dear? He is not sensitive enough to understand why. He might present problems. No, I must deal with the matter. Tell Muadnat of my decision and tell him to be here in the hall of assembly at noon.’

‘Then please treat the sister with more grace.’