Peter Tremayne - The Spider's Web

The air was still, the quiet broken only by the heavy snorting breath of the horses as they moved upwards. Now and again they could hear the excited yap of wild dogs and the protesting howl of a wolf, warning against intrusion into its territory.

The sun was already dipping below the peaks to the west and long shadows were spreading rapidly. As the sun began to disappear, the air turned chill. Fidelma was reminded that tomorrow would be the feast in remembrance of Conlaed of blessed name, a skilled metalworker of Kildare who had fashioned the sacred vessels for Brigid’s monastery. She must remember to light a candle in his name. But the thought caused her to acknowledge that they were already into the month regarded as the first month of the summer period which ended with the feast of Lughnasa, one of the popular pagan festivals which the new Faith had been unable 30to abolish. The horses climbed slowly and deliberately and Eadulf began to cast nervous glances towards the glowing tip of sunlight behind them to the west.

‘It will be dark before long,’ he observed unnecessarily.

‘It is not far now,’ Archú assured him. ‘See that bend in the road to our right? We take the small path there, leaving this main track, and moving higher into the mountains along the side of the stream which crosses our road there.’

They fell silent again as they turned into the dark oak forests where there was now room for only one horse to tread the clearly unfrequented path. One behind the other the two horses plodded through the narrow defile amidst sedate oaks and tall yews. A further hour passed. Twilight descended rapidly.

‘Are you sure that we are on the right path?’ demanded Eadulf, not for the first time. ‘I see no sign of a tavern.’

Patiently, the youth, Archú, pointed forward.

‘You will see it once we reach the next bend in the track,’ he guaranteed the Saxon monk.

It was beyond dusk now; in fact, it was almost dark and they could barely see the turning along the tree lined path. Although there were no clouds in the sky, the trees also hid a clear view of the night sky. Only a few bright stars could be clearly seen through the canopy of branches. Among them Fidelma noticed the bright twinkling of the evening star dominating the heavens. They had been climbing along this mountain path for a full hour, wending their precarious way through the darkening trees which oppressed them on every side. They had encountered no one else on the road since they left the main thoroughfare. Even Fidelma was beginning to wonder whether it was unwise to press further. Perhaps it would be better to halt, prepare a fire and make the best of it for the night.

She was about to make this suggestion when they came to the bend in the path. It abruptly opened out into a broader track.

They saw the light as soon as they reached the bend.

‘There it is,’ announced Archú with satisfaction. ‘Just as I said it would be.’

A short distance ahead of them, by the side of the track, a lantern flickered from the top of a tall post on a short stretch of faitche, or lawn, which stretched to a stone building. Fidelma knew that, according to law, all taverns or public hostels, bruden as they were called, had to announce themselves by displaying a lighted lantern all through the night.

They halted their horses by the post. Fidelma saw, incised in the Latin script on the wooden name-board below the lantern, the name ‘Bruden na Réaltaí’ — the hostel of the stars. Fidelma glanced up to the sky, for the canopy of branches no longer obscured it, and saw the myriad of twinkling silver lights spread across the heavens. The hostel was aptly named.

They had barely halted when an elderly man threw open the door of the hostel and came hurrying forward to greet them.

‘Welcome, travellers,’ he cried in a rather high pitched voice. ‘Go inside and I will attend to your horses. Get you in, for the night is chill.’

Inside, the hostel seemed deserted. A great log fire was crackling in the hearth at one end of the room. In a large cauldron, an aromatic broth simmered above the flames, its perfume permeating the place. It was warm and comforting. The lanterns were lit and flickering against the polished oak and red deal panels of the room.

Fidelma’s eye was caught by a table on one side of the room on which, at first glance, seemed to be a scattered assortment of common rocks. She frowned and stooped to examine them closely, picking up one and feeling its heavy metallic weight. The rocks were polished and appeared to be placed as someone might arrange ornaments to give atmosphere to the room.

Shaking her head slightly in perplexity, Fidelma led the way to a large table near the fire but did not sit down. Hours in the saddle made her appreciate the comfort of standing a while.

It was Archú who approached her nervously.

‘I am sorry, sister. I should have mentioned this before but neither Scoth nor I have any means to pay the hosteller. We will withdraw and camp the night in the woods outside. That was what we were going to do. It is a dry night and none too cold in spite of what our hosteller says,’ he added.

Fidelma shook her head.

‘And you an ocáire?’ she gently chided. ‘You have wealth enough now that you have won your plea to the courts. It would be churlish of me not to advance you the price of food and lodging for the night.’

‘But …’ protested Archú.

‘No more of this,’ Fidelma interrupted firmly. ‘A bed is more comfortable than the damp earth and this simmering broth has a wonderful, inviting aroma.’

She gazed with curiosity around the deserted hostel.

‘It seems that we are the only travellers on this road tonight,’ Eadulf observed as he sprawled on a chair near the fire.

‘It is not a busy road,’ Archú explained. ‘This is the only road which leads into the country of Araglin.’

Fidelma was immediately interested.

‘If that is so and this is the only hostel along the route, it seems odd that we have not encountered your cousin Muadnat here.’

‘God be thanked that we have not,’ muttered Scoth as she took her seat at the table.

‘Nevertheless, he and his companion …’

‘That was Agdae, his cowman and nephew,’ supplied Scoth.

‘He and Agdae,’ continued Fidelma, ‘left Lios Mhór before us and they would surely have taken this road if it is the only one to Araglin.’

‘Why worry about Muadnat?’ Eadulf yawned, his eyes coveting the broth.

‘I do not like questions that are unresolved,’ Fidelma explained in a vexed tone.

The door opened. The elderly man appeared. They could seein the light of the room that he was a man of fleshy features, greying hair and a pleasant manner that befitted his calling. His face was red, round and wreathed in a permanent smile.

He regarded the company warmly.

‘Welcome again. I have stabled and attended your horses. My name is Bressal and I am entirely at your service. My house is yours.’

‘We will require beds for the night,’ Fidelma announced.

‘Certainly, sister.’

‘We will also require food,’ added Eadulf quickly, looking longingly at the simmering contents of the cauldron once again.

‘Indeed, and good mead to slack your thirst, no doubt?’ agreed the hostel keeper breezily. ‘My mead is regarded as the best in these mountains.’

‘Excellent,’ agreed Eadulf. ‘You may serve …’

‘We shall eat after we have washed the dust of travel from us,’ Fidelma interrupted sharply.

Eadulf knew that it was the Irish custom to have a bath every evening before the main meal of the day. It was a custom that he had never really grown accustomed to for the ritual of daily bathing was not a practice of his own people. However, here it was regarded as a lack of social etiquette not to bathe before the evening meal.