Our Lady of Darkness (21 page)

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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #blt, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #Suspense, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Our Lady of Darkness
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Coba shook his head sympathetically.
‘I cannot hold out that explanation for his actions, Sister,’ he replied. ‘When we arrived at my fortress yesterday, I explained to him most carefully the consequences that would follow should he attempt to leave it. I followed the procedure carefully and sent a messenger to the abbey last night to inform the abbess of what I had done.’
‘The abbess knew last night that Eadulf had been taken to your fortress?’ broke in Abbot Noé.
‘I told you,’ repeated Coba, ‘I followed the procedures of the law most carefully. I am certain that the Saxon understood. I only wish I could give you comfort in that matter, Sister.’
Abbot Noé muttered:
‘Ignorantia legis neminen excusat.’
Coba glanced at the religious. ‘But surely, ignorance of the law in a
foreigner may be argued as a mitigation?’
‘It is unlike Eadulf to take such an action,’ Fidelma said softly, almost speaking to herself.
Abbot Noé’s face was grim.
‘According to you, Sister, it is unlike the Saxon to have raped and murdered a young novitiate. Perhaps you do not know this Saxon as well as you like to think you do?’
Fidelma raised her head to meet the eyes of her old antagonist.
‘Perhaps there is a truth in that,’ she admitted. ‘But if there is no truth in it, as I do believe, then there is something curious happening in this place. I mean to reveal every aspect of this matter.’
The abbot smiled but without humour.
‘Life is curious, Sister. It is the cauldron of God in which we are placed to test our souls.
Ignis aurum probat, miseria fortes viros.’
‘Fire tests gold, adversity tests the strong,’ repeated Fidelma softly. ‘The line of Seneca has much wisdom in it.’
Abbot Noé suddenly rose and moved to stand in front of Fidelma. He peered at her with an intense expression in his eyes.
‘We have clashed in the past, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he observed softly.
‘That we have,’ she agreed.
‘The guilt or innocence of your Saxon friend aside, I want you to know that I care about the Church in this kingdom and do not want to see it damaged in any way. Sometimes the Abbess Fainder can be overly enthusiastic in the cause of the Rule of the Penitentials; she is a zealot, if you like. I say this in spite of the fact that she is a distant cousin of mine.’
His statement caused Fidelma to glance up in curiosity.
‘Abbess Fainder is your cousin?’
‘Of course, that is why she is qualified to be in charge of the abbey. Anyway, she sees things in simple terms of right and wrong; of white and black, without any subtle shades of grey. You and I both know there is more in life than such extremes.’
Fidelma frowned at him.
‘I am not sure that I know what you mean exactly, Father Abbot. If I recall correctly, you were never a supporter of Rome’s rules.’
The thin-faced abbot sighed momentarily and inclined his head.
‘A man can be won to an argument,’ he admitted. ‘I have spent many years in contemplation of the arguments. I followed the debate at Whitby very carefully. I believe that Christ gave the keys of heaven to Peter and
told him to build his Church and that Peter built that Church in Rome where he suffered martyrdom. I now make no pretence of that. What I am saying is that people may choose different paths to their objective. Sometimes people have to be won by argument and not by order. I was won by years of meditating on the arguments. Others should follow the same path and not be ordered to change. Alas, I am a lone voice in these councils.’
He left the inn without another word.
Coba stood looking confused for a moment and then he glanced at Fidelma.
‘I must return to my fortress. I have organised a search for the Saxon. I am sorry about your friend, Sister. In trying to help, I have only made matters worse. There is the old saying that friends should keep clear of an unfortunate man. We may be well advised to heed that saying. I am truly sorry that things have turned out this way.’
After he had left, Fidelma heard a gentle cough behind her.
Dego and Enda had come down the stairs.
‘Did you hear all that?’ she asked.
‘Not all,’ confessed Dego, ‘but enough to know that the elderly man, Coba, gave Brother Eadulf sanctuary and now he has fled from that sanctuary. That is not good.’
‘No, it is not,’ agreed Fidelma solemnly.
‘What about Gabrán?’ demanded Enda. ‘What was said about him?’
Fidelma quickly repeated what she had been told about the river-boat man.
They breakfasted for the most part in silence. There was no one else in the inn or at least no one who came to breakfast while they were there.
It was midday and Eadulf began to feel a gnawing pang of hunger. It was still very cold but the frost had dispersed, and the morning sunshine spread a pleasant warmth in the unshaded areas. The warmth was deceptive however because the moment a cloud crossed the face of the sun, or a tall tree blocked its rays, the cold became sharp again. Eadulf eased the cloak around his shoulders and thanked God that he had had the sense to remove it from his assailant.
He had followed the banks of the broad river north through a valley for about a kilometre or so, away from Cam Eolaing, until the river began to narrow. The hills rose steeply on all sides, black, brooding peaks in spite of the pale sun. A little further on he came to a curious intersection of waters. The river was fed on either side, though not exactly at the same point, by two gushing smaller rivulets; one flowed from the south-east and the other from the west, tumbling down from the surrounding hills through smaller valleys.
Eadulf looked cautiously around before deciding to rest a moment, perching himself on a fallen tree. The log was bathed in the bright rays of the sun.
‘It is time for decisions,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Which way to go?’
If he crossed the main river and headed through the easterly valley, he presumed that he would eventually strike the sea. It could not be more than ten kilometres away. At the coast he could seek safety on a ship sailing for home. It was very tempting to head that way, to find a ship and leave Laigin – but Fidelma was uppermost in his thoughts.
Fidelma had hurried back from her pilgrimage to the Tomb of St James when she had heard of his troubles, and she had come to defend him. He could not leave her now; leave without seeing her, leave and let her think that he did not … He frowned. Think that he did not – what? He felt confused at the complexity of his own thoughts. Then he made up his mind. Fidelma was still in Fearna. He had no choice: he must return and find her.
‘Ut fata trahunt!’
he muttered, standing up. The Latin literally meant
‘as the fates drag’, an expression that recognised that he had limited control over his destiny. It was the only way that he could explain the decision that he felt had already been made for him.
He turned and began to walk along the bank of the rivulet, facing the flow of its gushing waters and moving up towards the hills. A few kilometres in the distance, the tall peaks began to rise more steeply in a line, their rounded tops stretching like a barrier before him. He had no plan; he did not know how he would contact Fidelma once he returned to Fearna. Indeed, having heard of his removal from the abbey, Fidelma might have already left town. The thought niggled at him. Yet he could not leave without making the attempt to contact her. He left it to the mercy of destiny.
 
Dego and Enda exchanged an anxious glance.
Since finishing her breakfast, Fidelma had fallen into a silent meditation. The two young warriors became impatient.
‘What now, lady?’ Dego finally ventured, in a loud voice. ‘What should we do?’
Fidelma stirred after a moment. She looked blankly at Dego before registering his question in her mind. Then she smiled wryly at her companions.
‘I am sorry,’ she said contritely. ‘I have been turning over the facts in my mind and I seem to be getting no nearer to discovering a thread which links the events, let alone finding a motive as to why these people have been killed.’
‘Is knowing the motive so important?’ asked Dego.
‘Know the motive and you usually know the culprit,’ affirmed Fidelma.
‘Did we not agree the other night that Gabrán appeared to be the thread?’ Enda reminded her.
‘It was precisely his role in this mystery that I have been attempting to analyse.’
‘Why don’t we seek Gabrán out and ask him?’ returned Enda.
Fidelma chuckled softly at his directness.
‘While I am wasting my time in trying to put those pieces into some order, you come straight to the point. You have reminded me that I am ignoring my own rule; that of not making assumptions before gathering the facts.’
Dego and Enda rose together eagerly.
‘Then let us find this boatman, for the sooner he is found, lady, the sooner you will have your facts,’ Dego said.
 
Smoke was rising from a small copse a little distance ahead of Eadulf: it must be smoke from someone’s fire. Hunger, cold and weariness made Eadulf’s decision for him. He moved on through the small wood and found a large clearing beyond, in which was situated a cabin by a tiny stream. It was a sturdy, stone-built affair; low-roofed and thatched. He paused for he realised that there was something curious about the clearing. It was flat and seemed to have been raked free of any obstacles except, at various points surrounding the cabin, and at unequal distances from it, heavy posts had been driven into the ground. It was as if they formed a pattern. On the top of each post were notches that had been chipped into them.
Eadulf had been long enough in the five kingdoms of Éireann to realised that the notches were Ogham, the ancient writing named after the old god of literacy and learning, Ogma. Fidelma could read the old script easily but he had never mastered it, for it represented words that were archaic and obscure. He wondered what these posts symbolised. He had, at first, thought he was coming to a woodsman’s cabin but he had never seen one with such a curious structure of posts around it.
He took a few steps forward, noting the dead and dying autumnal leaves which seemed to be scattered in profusion at a certain distance from the cabin and then, curiously, everything was swept clear of leaves all around the cabin within this border. Eadulf was perplexed and took another step forward, feeling the crunch of leaves underfoot.
‘Who is it?’ demanded a strong masculine voice, and a man appeared in the door of the cabin.
Eadulf saw that he was of medium height with long straw-coloured hair. His face was in the shade of the doorway but Eadulf saw that he was a well-muscled man with a warrior’s build and, indeed, the impression seemed to be confirmed by the balance of his body, the way he stood poised as if ready to meet any threat.
‘Someone who is cold and hungry,’ answered Eadulf lightly, taking a step forward.
‘Stay still!’ snapped the man in the doorway. ‘Keep on the leaves.’ Eadulf frowned at the request. ‘I am no threat to you,’ he offered, wondering whether the man was deranged in some way.
‘You are a stranger – a Saxon, by your accent. Are you alone?’
‘As you can see,’ replied Eadulf in growing puzzlement.
‘
Are
you alone?’ insisted the man.
Eadulf became irritated. ‘Don’t you trust the evidence of your own eyes?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Of course I am alone.’
The man in the doorway inclined his head a fraction and in that movement the shadow left his face. It had been a handsome face but there was an old burn mark across his brow and eyes, searing the flesh.
‘Why, you are blind!’ Eadulf ejaculated in surprise.
The man started back, nervously.
Eadulf held up a hand, palm outwards in a gesture of peace, and then, realising the futility of the gesture, let it fall.
‘Have no fear. I am alone. I am Brother …’ he hesitated. Perhaps his name might have travelled through this kingdom even to the blind. ‘I am a Saxon Brother of the Faith.’
The man tilted his head to one side.
‘You seem unwilling to give me your name. Why is that?’ he asked sharply.
Eadulf glanced round. The place seemed isolated enough and surely this blind man could do him no harm.
‘My name is Brother Eadulf,’ he said.
‘And you are alone?’
‘I am.’
‘What are you doing alone in this area? It is bleak and isolated. Why would a Saxon Brother be travelling through these hills?’
‘It is a long story,’ replied Eadulf.
‘I have plenty of time,’ returned the other grimly.
‘But I am weary and, moreover, cold and hungry.’
The man hesitated as if making a decision.
‘My name is Dalbach. This is my cabin. You are welcome to a bowl of broth. It is fresh made from badger meat and I have bread and mead to complement it.’
‘Badger meat? Now that is good fare, indeed,’ observed Eadulf, knowing that many of the people of Éireann considered it a choice dish. In the ancient tale, didn’t Moiling the Swift, as a sign of esteem, promise to procure a dish of badger meat for the great warrior Fionn Mac Cumhail?
‘Over your meal you may tell me something of your story, Brother Eadulf. Walk forward now, directly to me.’
Eadulf walked towards him and Dalbach held out his hand in greeting.
Eadulf took it. It was a firm grasp. Still gripping his hand, the blind man raised his other to lightly touch Eadulf’s face and trace his features. Eadulf was not startled by this for he remembered the case of Móen, the blind, deaf mute of Araglin whose method of ‘seeing’ was by touch. He stood patiently until the blind man was satisfied as to his investigation.
‘You are used to the inquisitiveness of the blind, Brother Saxon,’ he finally observed, dropping his hand.
‘I know that you but wish to “see” my features,’ agreed Eadulf.
The man smiled. It was the first time he had done so.
‘You can tell much from a person’s face. I trust you, Brother Saxon. You have sympathetic features.’
‘That is a nice way of describing a lack of handsomeness,’ grinned Eadulf.
‘Does that trouble you? That you consider yourself not blessed with good looks?’
Eadulf realised that the faculties of the man were sharp and missed nothing.
‘We are all a little vain, even the ugliest of us.’
‘
Vanitas vanitatum, omnis vanitas,’
laughed the man.
‘Ecclesiastes,’ acknowledged Eadulf. ‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.’
‘This is my house. Come in.’
With that, the man turned and went into the cabin. Eadulf was impressed by the tidiness of it. Dalbach moved with unerring accuracy around the obstacles. Eadulf realised that the items of furniture must have been placed so that he could memorise their position.
‘Place your cloak on the back of the chair and sit down, there at the table,’ instructed Dalbach, while he went straight to a cauldron hanging over a glowing fire. Eadulf took off his sheepskin cloak. He watched as Dalbach, with dexterity, picked up a bowl from a shelf and ladled the broth into it. He moved directly back to the table and put down the bowl, almost in front of Eadulf.
‘You will forgive any inaccuracy?’ he smiled. ‘Bring the bowl to you and pick up a spoon that should lie on the table. There is bread there, too.’
Indeed there was and Eadulf did not even wait to mutter a
gratias
before he was tucking in.
‘You were not telling a lie then, Saxon,’ Dalbach observed when he returned with his own bowl of broth. He held his head in a listening position.
‘A lie?’ mumbled Eadulf, between mouthfuls.
‘You are, indeed, very hungry.’
‘Thanks to your kind hospitality, friend Dalbach, the hunger is diminishing and I am also feeling warm again. It is a cold day out there. The Lord must have guided my footsteps to your cabin. Surely, though, this is an isolated spot for a … for a …’
‘For a blind man, Brother Eadulf? Do not be nervous of the term.’
‘What made you pick this lonely spot to live?’
Dalbach’s mouth twisted cynically. The expression did not suit him.
‘It chose me rather than I chose it.’
‘I do not understand. I would have thought life in a town or village would be more easy with other people close by in case you needed assistance.’
‘I am forbidden to live in them.’
‘Forbidden?’
Eadulf looked at his host nervously. He knew that among his own people lepers were often forbidden to live in the towns and villages. Yet Dalbach did not appear to be suffering from leprosy.
‘I am an exile,’ explained Dalbach. ‘Blinded and sent out from my people to fend for myself.’
‘Blinded?’
Dalbach raised a hand to the scar across his eyes and smiled sardonically.
‘You did not think that I was born like this, Brother Eadulf?’
‘How were you blinded and why?’
‘I am the son of Crimthann who ruled this kingdom thirty years ago. When he died, his Cousin Faelán claimed the crown …’
‘The same King of Laigin who died last year, after which young Fianamail came to the throne?’
Dalbach inclined his head.
‘I know your Saxon kingship succession is very different to ours. Do you know our Brehon law of succession?’
‘I do. The man best suited among the royal family is elected by his
derbhfine
to be King.’

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