Read Valley of the Shadow Online
Authors: Peter Tremayne
Tags: #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Fiction, #tpl, #_NB_Fixed, #Mystery, #Historical, #Clerical Sleuth, #Medieval Ireland
Valley of the Shadow (7 page)
Orla nodded.
‘It is hard to find a husband for her. I fear that she has her own ideas. She is a trial, that one.’
She continued on, leading them to a large two-storey building set against one of the outer walls of the ráth. Orla opened the door and stood aside.
‘I will send the hostel keeper to you and, when you are refreshed, she will bring you to Laisre’s chamber.’
She inclined her head briefly to Fidelma and then left them to their own devices.
In the security of the main room of the guests’ hostel, a room where the guests obviously ate and where meals were prepared, Fidelma threw her saddle bags on to the table and sank into the nearest chair, giving a deep sigh of exhaustion.
‘I have spent too long on horseback, Eadulf,’ she remarked. ‘I have forgotten what it is to relax in a chair.’
Eadulf glanced around at the accommodation. It was a comfortably decorated room with a fire already lit above which a cooking pot was steaming and emitting pleasant aromas.
‘At least Laisre’s guests seem well provided for,’ he muttered. The room stretched the entire length of the building and there was a long table with benches on either side and a couple of more elaborate wooden chairs. This was obviously the dining area. At the far end, by the fire, were all the accoutrements for cooking. There were four doors leading to other rooms on the lower level. Eadulf put down his saddle bags and crossed to them, taking a quick look inside.
‘Two bathing rooms,’ he announced. He opened the other doors, grunted in disgust and crossed himself. ‘The others are
the fialtech.
’ The Irish term came easily to him for the ‘veil house’ was a colloquialism for a privy and had been picked up from the Roman concept. Many religious believed that the Devil dwelt within the privy and it had become the custom to make the sign of the cross before entering it.
the fialtech.
’ The Irish term came easily to him for the ‘veil house’ was a colloquialism for a privy and had been picked up from the Roman concept. Many religious believed that the Devil dwelt within the privy and it had become the custom to make the sign of the cross before entering it.
A wooden staircase led to the upper level. Here Eadulf found there were four small rooms, cell-like affairs. He peered into each one in turn, noticing the wooden cots already laid out with their straw mattresses, woollen blankets and linen sheets. After a moment or so he retraced his steps downstairs to where Fidelma was still stretched in her chair.
‘There seems to be two other guests,’ he observed. ‘Rich guests by the look of their baggage in the cubicles. And one is obviously a cleric.’
Fidelma looked up in surprise.
‘I was not told to expect anyone else at this meeting. Who could it be?’
‘Perhaps Bishop Ségdae has sent some other cleric to represent him and the abbey?’ hazarded Eadulf.
‘Hardly likely since he concurred with Colgú’s delegation of me. No, no cleric from Imleach would come here.’
Eadulf gave a shrug.
‘Didn’t the woman, Orla, say that Ultan of Armagh had sent an emissary to them? Well, we shall know soon enough who the cleric is and who his companion is. We …’
He was cut short when the door of the hostel burst open and a portly, elderly woman bustled in. She wore a beaming smile and walked with a rapid gait, hands folded in front of her. She
bobbed swiftly towards Fidelma and then made a similar obeisance to Eadulf. Her eyes twinkled from beneath deep folds of flesh. She seemed almost spherical in girth.
bobbed swiftly towards Fidelma and then made a similar obeisance to Eadulf. Her eyes twinkled from beneath deep folds of flesh. She seemed almost spherical in girth.
‘Are you the hostel keeper?’ asked Eadulf, regarding her with slight awe, for she seemed to fill the room with her presence.
‘That I am, stranger. I bid you welcome. Tell me how may I serve you?’
‘A bath,’ Fidelma requested immediately. ‘And then …’
‘Food,’ interposed Eadulf, in case she neglected his order of preference.
The wreaths of flesh quivered.
‘A bath you shall have and that immediately, lady. Since we already have guests, the water is even now heated. And there is food ready to be served.’
Fidelma rose and indicated her satisfaction.
‘Then proceed to draw a bath for me … what is your name?’
The hostel keeper bobbed again towards her.
‘I am called Cruinn, lady.’
Fidelma tried hard to keep a straight face for the name implied one who was round and the name certainly fitted the circular shape of the hostel keeper. The woman stood smiling, apparently unaware of the struggle taking place to mask her features.
‘Tell me, Cruinn,’ Eadulf intervened, catching Fidelma’s eye and distracting the woman in case Fidelma lost her struggle, ‘who is staying in the hostel with us?’
The fat woman turned to him.
‘Why, someone who believes in your God. A noble from the north, I think he is.’
‘A noble from the north?’ Fidelma intervened, abruptly serious.
‘Well, he is richly dressed and with much fine jewellery on him.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No. That I don’t. But the other, his companion, is called Brother Dianach and is his servant, so I believe.’
‘They are from the north, you say?’ repeated Fidelma as if to make sure there was no mistake.
‘From the distant kingdom of Ulaidh, I am told.’
Fidelma stood thoughtfully.
‘If this is Ultan’s emissary, I wonder what Armagh seeks in this …’ She nearly said ‘godforsaken place’ but it seemed, as the populace did not believe in God, it was not the best of descriptions. Orla had said that Ultan of Armagh had sent gifts to Laisre the chieftain. Gifts from Armagh. But that didn’t make any sense. Why
would Armagh send gifts to a pagan chieftain in a kingdom where it had no jurisdiction and where the people did not even follow the Faith? The rotund hostel keeper interrupted her thoughts.
would Armagh send gifts to a pagan chieftain in a kingdom where it had no jurisdiction and where the people did not even follow the Faith? The rotund hostel keeper interrupted her thoughts.
‘I have little idea who they are or what they want. I only know that people come and stay and then I must work. Better people stay where they belonged than travelled from one place to another.’ Cruinn sighed deeply, a curious wheezy sound and an action which caused her figure to wobble dangerously. ‘Well, it is not my place to complain but that is my view. Come, lady, I will draw your bath first.’
‘I will wait here,’ Eadulf offered, ‘and perhaps there is mead that I might refresh myself with while I am waiting?’
‘You will find it in the cask there,’ indicated Cruinn, speaking over her shoulder as she propelled Fidelma to one of the bathing chambers. ‘But the second bathing tub is ready should you wish to take your bath now.’
Eadulf caught Fidelma’s eye and bit his lip.
‘In that case, it will save time if I bathed now.’ He gave in reluctantly.
As a Saxon he always found the bathing customs of the people of Éireann somewhat extreme. They washed twice daily, with the second wash being a full body bath. Every guests’ hostel had its bath house or houses, each with a large tub or vat for which there were several names but most usually
dabach.
After the bath, guests would anoint themselves with sweet scented herbal potions.
dabach.
After the bath, guests would anoint themselves with sweet scented herbal potions.
Not content with a complete bath in the evening, which was called
fothrucud,
they would, immediately on rising in the morning, wash their face and hands. In both bathing and washing they used a tablet of a scented fatty substance called
sléic
or soap, which they applied with a linen cloth and worked into a lather. They would even have, at certain times, ritual steam baths in what they called
Tigh ’n alluis
or ‘sweating houses’ where, in a small stone cabin, great fires were kindled so that the place became heated like an oven and the bather would enter and stay until they were perspiring after which they came out and plunged straight into a cold stream. Eadulf disapproved of this practice vehemently. Surely this was a way to an early grave? His own people were not so enamoured of bathing.
fothrucud,
they would, immediately on rising in the morning, wash their face and hands. In both bathing and washing they used a tablet of a scented fatty substance called
sléic
or soap, which they applied with a linen cloth and worked into a lather. They would even have, at certain times, ritual steam baths in what they called
Tigh ’n alluis
or ‘sweating houses’ where, in a small stone cabin, great fires were kindled so that the place became heated like an oven and the bather would enter and stay until they were perspiring after which they came out and plunged straight into a cold stream. Eadulf disapproved of this practice vehemently. Surely this was a way to an early grave? His own people were not so enamoured of bathing.
The upper classes of the Saxons bathed weekly, usually a swim being deemed sufficient for the cleansing process. Eadulf was not a dirty person in body, manners or habit but he still felt that the bathing rituals of Éireann were excessive.
An hour later they were finishing their meal when the door of the
hostel opened and in came a heavy-jowled man. That he was a cleric was not in question. He wore the tonsure of St Peter but he was clad not in the simple robes that most religieux wore but in elegant silks and embroidered linens and with a bejewelled crucifix the like of which neither Fidelma nor Eadulf had seen since they were in Rome together. Fidelma eyed the man in disapproval. Here was someone whose riches seemed to betray the very teachings of Christ.
hostel opened and in came a heavy-jowled man. That he was a cleric was not in question. He wore the tonsure of St Peter but he was clad not in the simple robes that most religieux wore but in elegant silks and embroidered linens and with a bejewelled crucifix the like of which neither Fidelma nor Eadulf had seen since they were in Rome together. Fidelma eyed the man in disapproval. Here was someone whose riches seemed to betray the very teachings of Christ.
The eyes of the man were dark and watchful. They had a curious quality of staring, unblinkingly, like the eyes of an animal watching its prey. The eyes were made small by the largeness of the surrounding features. He was a short man, stocky rather than fat, although the fleshy face made one think he was obese until one noticed the powerful muscular shoulders and thick arms.
‘I am Brother Solin,’ he announced officiously, ‘secretary to Ultan, archbishop of Armagh.’ He intoned his introduction in accents which corroborated that he was from the kingdom of the Uí Néill of Ulaidh. There was something about him which caused Fidelma to take an immediate dislike to him. Perhaps it was the way he stared at her with an almost speculative gaze which left no doubt that he was a man judging her as a woman and not as a person. ‘Orla has informed me of your arrival. You are Sister Fidelma and you must be the foreign cleric.’
‘You are a long way from Armagh, Solin.’ Fidelma rose, unwillingly, but courtesy prompted her to be civil in respect to the position of the northern religieux.
‘As you are from Cashel,’ the stocky man replied, unperturbed, coming forward and seating himself.
‘Cashel is the royal seat of this kingdom, Solin,’ responded Fidelma coldly.
‘Armagh is the royal seat of the Faith in all five kingdoms,’ the man replied with an airy dismissal.
‘That is a question to be debated,’ snapped back Fidelma. ‘The bishop of Imleach makes no such recognition of Armagh.’
‘Well, it is a debate of such delicacy that we should leave it for a future time.’ Solin dismissed the matter with an air of boredom.
Fidelma stood her ground. She decided to be direct.
‘Why is the secretary of Ultan of Armagh in this small corner of my brother’s kingdom?’
Solin poured a mug of mead from the jug on the table.
‘Does Cashel forbid wandering clerics?’
‘That is no answer,’ Fidelma responded. ‘I think you are hardly in the category of a
peregrinator pro Christo
.’
peregrinator pro Christo
.’
An angry look came into Solin’s eyes.
‘Sister, I think you forget yourself. As secretary to Ultan …’ he protested.
‘You secure no privileges of rank before me. I am envoy to my brother, the king of Cashel. Why are you here?’
The blood drained momentarily from Solin’s face as he fought his rage at being so bluntly addressed. Then he regained his composure with a tight smile.
‘Ultan of Armagh has sent me to the farthest corners of the five kingdoms to see how the Faith prospers. He has sent me with gifts to distribute …’
The door opened again with abruptness.
It was Orla. She entered with an annoyed expression furrowing her features.
‘What does this mean?’ she snapped. ‘My brother is being kept waiting. Is this the courtesy Cashel extends to its chieftains?’
Solin smirked, rising from his seat.
‘I was just trying to persuade the good sister to accompany me to the chieftain’s council chamber,’ he said obsequiously. ‘She seemed more concerned with the reasons for my presence in Gleann Geis.’
Fidelma opened her mouth to challenge his lie but then snapped it shut. She turned to Orla and met her anger with a stony look.
‘I am ready. Precede us.’
Orla raised an eyebrow, disconcerted for the moment by the haughty expression on Fidelma’s face for she was quite unused to having her authority challenged. Without a further word, she led the way from the hostel. Eadulf and Solin brought up the rear.
The chambers of Laisre were housed in the largest of the buildings in the ráth. A centrally situated three-storey building which, when entered by the great door, revealed a large reception chamber with passageways leading left and right and with a stone stairway to the rooms above. A tall inner door then gave entrance into a large chamber. There were several people gathered there in the high-ceilinged, smoky room. Large tapestries draped the walls and hanging lamps illuminated the room, although the central fire, on which logs were blazing, gave out a strong glowing light and was the cause of the smoky atmosphere.
A couple of deer hounds lay at full length before the roaring fire. To one side of them was a large ornate carved oak chair. Clustered around it were several men and women of the chieftain’s immediate circle. Two warriors guarded the interior door and a third stood just behind the oak chair of office. Fidelma recognised this third warrior as the black-bearded man,
named Artgal, who had accompanied Orla when they had first encountered her.
named Artgal, who had accompanied Orla when they had first encountered her.
It needed no introduction to identify Laisre, the chieftain of Gleann Geis, even if he had not been sprawling in the great oak chair. Knowing that Orla was his sister Fidelma could distinguish him at once for the resemblance was truly remarkable. He had the same structure of face, the same dark eyes and hair and the same manner of expression. Had he not worn a long wispy dark moustache she would have said they were two peas from the same pod. In fact, as she examined him more closely, she realised that he and Orla must be twins. He was a man of slender looks and handsome with, perhaps, the fault of knowing it. He was not remotely like the image that Fidelma had conjured of a pagan chieftain at Cashel. She had imagined a wild, unruly man. But, pagan as he was, Laisre was poised, impeccable in his manners and with all the appearance of civility.
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