The Spider's Web (15 page)

Read The Spider's Web Online

Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Fiction, #tpl, #_NB_Fixed, #Mystery, #Historical, #Clerical Sleuth, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: The Spider's Web
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She rose abruptly.
‘I thank you for your time, Father Gormán.’
Once outside she exchanged a glance with Eadulf.
‘So a tiny bit of the mist begins to clear away,’ she said with satisfaction.
Eadulf pulled a face. He was bemused.
‘About Pelagius?’ he hazarded.
Fidelma chuckled.
‘About Father Gormán,’ she reproved.
‘You suspect Father Gormán of some involvement?’
‘I suspect everyone of something. But you are right. It is clear that Gormán was, or is, passionately devoted to Cranat.’
‘At their age?’ Eadulf was indignant.
Fidelma turned to her companion in surprise.
‘Love between people can be felt at any age, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham.’
‘But a woman of her years and a priest … ?’
‘There are no laws forbidding priests from marrying, not even Rome prohibits it, though I admit that Rome disapproves of it.’
‘Are you saying that Father Gormán might have had reason for wishing Eber dead?’
Fidelma’s expression was almost impassive.
‘Oh, he had a reason right enough. But did he have the means of fulfilling his wish or arranging for its fulfilment?’
That evening they bathed and ate their meal alone. Crón had not invited them to dine in the hall of assembly, as protocol would naturally dictate. Eadulf was not particularly surprised at their isolation. When he considered the day’s events he realised that if Fidelma had made a friend of anyone in the
rath
of Araglin it was only the poor creature Móen. She had certainly not endeared herself to any of the others. That Crón and her mother, Cranat, did not want to associate themselves with her company was hardly a matter for wonder.
It was a nervous young girl who brought the trays of food to the guests’ hostel. She was dark-haired, about sixteen years old, almost unnaturally pale and seemed afraid of them. Fidelma did her best to reassure her by making friendly overtures.
‘What is your name?’
‘I am Grella, sister. I work for Dignait in the kitchens.’ Fidelma smiled encouragingly.
‘Are you happy in your work, Grella?’
The young girl frowned slightly.
‘It is the work I do,’ she said simply. ‘I was raised in the kitchens of the chieftain. I have no parents,’ she added, as if this would explain everything.
‘I see. You must have been saddened by the death of your chieftain, then, having been raised in his house.’
To Fidelma’s surprise the girl shook her head vehemently.
‘No … no, but I was saddened by the lady Teafa’s death. She was a kind lady.’
‘But Eber was not kind?’
‘Teafa was kind to me,’ the girl replied anxiously, apparently not wishing to speak ill of the dead chieftain. ‘The lady Teafa was kind to everyone.’
‘And Móen? Do you like Móen?’
Grella looked puzzled again.
‘I was uneasy when he was about. Teafa was the only one who could tell him what to do.’
‘Tell him?’ Fidelma immediately seized upon the phrase. ‘How did she tell him?’
‘She had some way of communicating with him.’
‘Do you know what it was?’ interrupted Eadulf eagerly.
The young girl shook her head.
‘I have no idea. Some form of finger-tapping it was said that both understood.’
Fidelma was intrigued.
‘Did you ever see it? Did Teafa ever tell you how it was done?’
‘I saw her doing it many times but I did not understand it. Perhaps it was just the familiar touch of a hand which calmed him.’
Fidelma was disappointed.
Grella held her head to one side in thought, as if dredging her memories. Then she smiled briefly.
‘I recall; she said that it was Gadra who taught her the art.’
‘Gadra? Who is Gadra?’ Hope sprang up again.
Grella shuddered and genuflected.
‘Gadra is a bogeyman. They say he steals the souls of naughty children. Now I must go or Dignait will be looking for me. I shall be in trouble.’
When she had gone they ate, for the most part in meditative silence. Eventually Eadulf felt courage enough to chance her displeasure by raising the matter which had long been troubling him.
‘Is it wise,’ he asked reflectively, ‘to purposefully arouse the ire of everyone?’
Fidelma raised her head from a contemplation of the food on her plate.
‘I hear the sound of disapproval in your tone, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham,’ she observed solemnly, although there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Eadulf grimaced as if in apology.
‘Forgive me, but I feel that sometimes a little tact and discretion might achieve the same ends as …’
‘You think I am unduly rude?’ interrupted Fidelma earnestly, like a pupil seeking the advice of a master.
Eadulf felt awkward. He did not trust Fidelma in such a mood and shook his head negatively.
‘My mother once told me that you cannot unpick a piece of embroidery with an axe.’
Fidelma stared at him in genuine surprise.
‘You have never mentioned your mother before, Eadulf.’
‘She no longer lives. But she was a wise woman.’
‘I accept her wisdom. Sometimes, however, when you find a thick wooden door of arrogance closed against you, you have to take the axe and splinter it before you can talk to the person inside. Often common courtesy is mistaken by arrogant people for weakness and even sycophancy.’
‘Have you really splintered your way through to the truth?’
Fidelma held her head to one side.
‘I have managed to get nearer the truth than I would otherwise have done if I had allowed the doors to remain shut. Yet I would agree that the complete truth is still very far away.’
‘Then how is it to be reached?’
‘When we have finished our meal I shall seek out Dubán. Perhaps we can find out whether this bogeyman, Gadra, truly exists. If he does and is able to show me a means of communicating with Móen then we may be that much nearer the truth. If we can discover what Móen knows …’
Eadulf was sceptical.
‘It was merely a child’s fairy tale. A bogeyman stealing children’s souls, indeed!’
‘There is usually a truth behind each fairy tale, Eadulf.’
‘You are presuming much, Fidelma.’
‘How so?’
‘You are presuming that this bogeyman exists. You are presuming that the child, Grella, reported correctly that this being, Gadra, taught Teafa a means of communication with Móen. You are even presuming that there is some means of communication with the creature. You are further presuming that there is also a mind in that unfortunate being. You are also presuming that he will tell you something that will cast a light on the matter. You are finally presuming that he is innocent.’
Fidelma sat back, placing her hands palm downward on the table on either side of her plate, and regarded Eadulf for a moment or two before responding.
‘My presumption is a faith in his innocence. I cannot explain it neither do I have the evidence to demonstrate it. It is a feeling, a belief that what seems false to my senses is, indeed, false. The logic being that which is argued as the truth, yet feels false, is false.’
Eadulf pursed his lips.
‘Is it not true that the greatest deception is self-deception?’
‘You believe that I am deceiving myself?’
‘I am trying to suggest that what seems so, may well be so.’
Fidelma chuckled softly, reached out a hand and laid it on his arm.
‘Eadulf, you are the voice of conscience. When I am too enthusiastic, you curb my intemperance. Nevertheless, we shall seek out this Gadra, the bogeyman, if he exists.’
Eadulf sighed.
‘I had no doubt that we would,’ he said in resignation as she rose and went in search of Dubán.
It was Crítán, standing on guard duty by the stables, who
eventually informed her that Dubán was not in the
rath
of Araglin. The brash young man was not very forthcoming for he had to be prompted several times before he explained.
‘He had to leave with some warriors and go to the high pastures.’
‘Is anything wrong?’ demanded Fidelma. ‘Why did they ride off at this hour with darkness descending?’
Crítán was sullen.
‘Nothing is wrong. You need have no fear while there are men to guard this
rath,
sister.’
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 dwelt
in 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 warmth
of 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.

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