The Leper's Bell (10 page)

Gorman put his head round the inn door without observing the newcomer.

‘The horses are ready, lady.’

Fidelma paused a moment and then smiled at the former warrior.

‘I am grateful for this information, Cathalán. Do not think that I am not. It may or may not be of relevance. Probably not. But all information is of help.’ She turned back to Aona. ‘Once more we are indebted for your welcome hospitality, Aona.’ She pressed some coins into his reluctant hand.

‘I am always pleased to serve you, lady.’ The old innkeeper smiled. ‘There is no person in this kingdom, having heard of your plight, who does not wish you success in tracking down the culprit.’

Eadulf pursed his lips cynically. ‘Surely one would have to accept there must be at least one person in this kingdom who does not, Aona,’ he said dryly as he turned and followed Fidelma from the inn. It took Aona a moment or two before he understood what Eadulf meant, by which time the door had closed behind him.

Within a short time they were following the north bank of the River Ara while, to the south, the long wooded ridge of Slievenamuck stood
framed against the lighter sky. The heavy storm clouds had passed over to the east and it looked as though the late afternoon was going to be fine. The sun was in the western sky but not low as yet. Eadulf was trying to remember the name of the hills to the north of them, some miles distant. Fidelma had told him when they had first made their journey along this road.

Fidelma, as though she had read his thoughts, at that moment leant over and touched him on the arm.

‘The Slieve Felim mountains,’ she said, pointing. ‘Beyond those are the lands of the Uí Fidgente. Not a place to go wandering without protection.’

When they emerged from the woodland and into an open hilly area, Eadulf recognised his surroundings immediately.

Imleach Iubhair: ‘the borderland of yew trees’. The great stone walls surrounded the abbey of St Ailbe, who had first preached Christianity in Muman. They dominated the little township that stretched before them. He found it hard to accept that it was here that he and Fidelma had nearly lost their lives. He felt very much at home as he looked on the stretches of grazing land, edged with forests of yew trees, tall and round-headed.

The first time he had seen Imleach it was deserted, but now the market place, directly in front of the abbey, was bustling. People were thronging the stalls and pens in which cattle patiently stood waiting to be sold, and goats, pigs and sheep moved impatiently in their confines. Traders were shouting their wares; cheesemakers, blacksmiths, bakers and a hundred and one others trying to attract customers.

‘Not like the last time I came here,’ Eadulf remarked humorously.

‘Life has returned to normal,’ observed Fidelma shortly as she led the way through the market square towards the sad-looking, burnt-out remains of a massive yew tree that had once dominated even the great walls of the abbey. Once it had risen nearly twenty-two metres in height. Fidelma, with Capa and the other warriors, halted her horse before it and bowed her head. Eadulf remembered that this was once the sacred totem of the Eóghanacht, their ‘Tree of Life’, which was said to have been planted by the hand of Eibhear Foinn, son of Milidh, from whom the Eóghanacht claimed to have descended. Eadulf remembered the time when the enemies of the Eóghanacht had attacked and tried to destroy it. He and Fidelma had been sheltering in the abbey and impotent to halt the destruction. Yet halted it had been.

‘In spite of our enemies,’ Gorman smiled proudly, pointing to some green shoots on some of the higher branches, ‘our tree still thrives.’

Eadulf was surprised that the ancient tree was still living. It remained the symbol of Eóghanacht power. It was an ancient belief that the tree was a symbol of the vitality of the Eóghanacht dynasty and if the tree flourished, they flourished. If it were destroyed … then the dynasty would fall and be no more. But the dynasty, like the tree, had survived; survived, if the ancient bards were to be trusted, for fifty-nine generations since Eibhear Foinn established it.

They turned from the tree and moved on to the abbey. The gatekeeper had already spotted their approach and the great oak doors stood open. A familiar figure stood ready to receive them. It was Brother Madagan, the
rechtaire
or steward of the abbey.

Chapter Five

T
hey sat in Brother Madagan’s chamber, from where the steward administered the great abbey of Imleach. As
rechtaire
, he assumed control in the absence of Bishop Ségdae, who was not only bishop but also abbot of Imleach. The mood was sombre. Brother Madagan had sat silently while Fidelma had explained the reason for their visit to the abbey. During the course of her explanation he continually raised a hand to finger the scar on his forehead. Both Fidelma and Eadulf knew well how he had received the wound during the attack on Imleach.

When Fidelma had finished telling Brother Madagan what had brought them to the abbey again, they sat sombrely in front of the crackling fire. The steward was filled with concern at the news and offered to give what help he could. Fidelma had told him about the pilgrims and the other travellers who had passed through Cashel.

‘So you are wishing to question the pilgrims who have come to pray in the chapel of the Blessed Ailbe?’

‘I am indeed,’ Fidelma affirmed. ‘I hope they are still here?’

Brother Madagan nodded. ‘But the others you mentioned … Brother Tanaide, and the stranger from beyond the seas, are no longer here. They have already continued their journey westward after one night of hospitality.’

‘Who is Brother Tanaide?’ asked Eadulf.

‘The young monk who was guide and interpreter for the stranger from Persia.’

‘What did this stranger from Persia want here?’

‘He calls himself Brother Basil Nestorios and speaks Greek and Latin as well as his native tongue. He has a lively discourse and spoke much about his homeland and beliefs. I felt sad that he could only spend a
night here before travelling on to the abbey of Coimán. You surely don’t need to speak to them?’ Brother Madagan hesitated and then shook his head. ‘I am sure that neither of these brothers of the Faith could have had anything to do with the matter that brings you hither.’

Fidelma smiled tiredly. ‘I am sure you are right. It is merely a matter of questioning to hear if they observed anything that might help us. What may be seen and discarded as unimportant by a bystander, when collected, like a piece of a puzzle, and compared to other accounts might create a complete picture.’

‘Where is this abbey of Coimán?’ asked Eadulf.

To the west, standing by the sea at the mouth of the River Maighin, the river of the plain,’ explained the steward. ‘It is at least one day’s journey from here if one rode a fast horse.’

‘It stands at the beginning of the lands of the Corco Duibhne, the land of Duibhne’s people,’ added Fidelma. ‘To get there it means crossing Uí Fidgente territory.’

‘Are the Corco Duibhne part of your brother’s kingdom?’

‘Their sub-king Slébéne pays tribute to Cashel. However, they are a fierce and independent people who still claim a pagan goddess named Duinech as their foster-mother. She was said to have regenerated herself into seven periods of youth so that she became mother to the widely scattered tribes of the Múscraige. The abbey of Coimán lies on the edge of his territory, which is guarded by a vicious Uí Fidgente warlord who, so reports tell us, claims to be lord of the passes through the mountains there. I, for one, would prefer to avoid Slébéne’s petty kingdom.’

Brother Madagan, seeing Eadulf’s puzzled look, leant forward in agreement.

‘His kingdom is not what we would call Christian. The land is a long peninsula, mountainous and wild, and Slébéne’s capital is so isolated, at the end of the peninsula, that few venture to it. It is said to be an evil place.’

Eadulf smiled wryly. ‘I think I have enough experience dealing with non-Christians to worry little about them. Christian or not, people do not vary one from another simply because of religion. When I was in Rome, I went to see a play called
Asinaria.
The lesson was that pride and avarice are the causes of man’s evil to man, not religion. Man is a wolf to man.’

Fidelma was bitter.

‘Lupus est homo homini,’
she murmured. ‘Yet the author, Titus Plautus,
mistook the main point - wolves do not attack one another. Only man attacks his own kind without cause.’ Then she rose abruptly. ‘Let us see the leader of the pilgrim band, Brother Madagan.’

Apparently the pilgrims from Cashel were, at that moment, praying in the chapel that housed the relics of the Blessed Ailbe. The steward suggested that Fidelma and Eadulf remain in his chambers while he went to fetch their leader, Brother Buite.

Eadulf expressed his surprise. ‘Praying in the chapel? You don’t mind a poor body afflicted with leprosy wandering freely about the abbey?’

It was Brother Madagan’s turn to look surprised.

‘What makes you think that any of these pilgrims have leprosy?’ he queried.

Fidelma turned sharply to him.

‘Among the band of pilgrims that came from Cashel there was supposed to be one that looked like a misshapen child who rang a leper’s bell. Is he not among this band?’

Brother Madagan shook his head. ‘No such misshapen pilgrim was among them. Certainly no leper came with them. But Brother Buite did say that they had come through Cashel recently.’

Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully and glanced towards Eadulf. Then she shrugged and turned back to Brother Madagan.

‘We will hear what Brother Buite has to tell us.’

Fidelma and Eadulf sat together in silence for a while, Fidelma leaning back in the comfortable wooden chair of the steward while only her tapping fingers, drumming a strange but rhythmic tattoo, showed her agitation. It was the first time they had been entirely alone for some time

‘At some stage, we must talk,’ Eadulf finally said.

Fidelma closed eyes momentarily and Eadulf waited for some outburst.

‘About what?’ Her voice was equally soft.

‘About ourselves. There is much left unsaid.’

She turned round and he was surprised at the sad smile that broke on her features.

‘You are right, Eadulf. Much has been left unsaid between us since we returned from Rath Raithlen. That is my fault. But be patient for a little while longer. At this time, I need your strength. We will speak soon. I promise.’

Eadulf turned his gaze to the fire and fell silent.

Fidelma was grateful for his sensitivity. She felt enough of a sense of
guilt already not only because of the missing child but because, for the last several months, she had been questioning her relationship with Eadulf. Since little Alchú had been born she had been in a constant state of depression. It had taken her a long time to agree to become Eadulf’s
ben charrthach
, his wife for a year and a day. It was one of the nine forms of recognised marital relationship in which the woman’s status and rights were acknowledged under the law of the
Cáin Lánamnus.

Fidelma had long avoided the inevitable outcome of her attraction to Eadulf. She had already experienced one unhappy affair with a warrior named Cian and thought that she would never undergo the agony of falling in love again. But some inner spark had ignited when she first met Eadulf at the great Council of Whitby, even though he was a Saxon and an advocate for the acceptance of the teachings of Rome. She had tried to argue that she cared too much for Eadulf to rush into easy decisions; that she had tried to avoid any close relation because, under the laws of the five kingdoms, it would be a marriage of unequal persons. Fidelma was of royal rank and Eadulf, as a stranger in the land and not even of royal status, would not have equal property rights with his wife.

Then it seemed that all was well. She had made the decision. During the trial marriage she had become pregnant and their son Alchú was born. Had she resented the birth of Alchú? Her mind had dwelt on the freedom she had lost and she had begun to resent Eadulf and the idea of a life confined to Cashel. The request of her brother, Colgú the king, to go to Rath Raithlen and solve the mystery of the slaughtered young women had been a godsend to her. She had been dwelling on her personal problems as she and Eadulf had ridden back to Cashel having been successful in resolving the mystery. She had been considering whether she should end the trial marriage now, for the year and a day would soon be over. Then she had learnt the news about her baby son.

She gave a sharp intake of breath as the pain of the news struck her once again.

‘What is it?’ demanded Eadulf, concern on his features.

She glanced at him and grimaced.

‘I was just think of something Publilius Syrus once wrote…’

At another time Eadulf might have made some humorous aside, for Fidelma was always ready to quote a moral axiom of the former slave of Rome. She seemed to know them all by heart. Instead he just said: ‘Yes?’

‘How unhappy are they who cannot forgive themselves,’ she replied sadly.