The Leper's Bell (21 page)

F
idelma sat opposite Eadulf as they breakfasted together on goat’s milk, freshly baked bread, cheese and apples. Fidelma had been reticent about the details of her meeting with Delia on the previous evening. She had told him about the boy at the inn and went so far as to tell him that Delia had once possessed the green and red silk cloak. She had also mentioned seeing Gorman, but little else, and Eadulf had not bothered to press her further. In fact, he had come late to their chamber, when she was almost asleep, for he had discovered in the library of Cashel a copy of
Historia Francorum
, a history of the Franks, by Bishop Gregory of Tours. Eadulf was always interested in the history of various peoples. The
scriptor
in the library had told him that this had been one of the last books to be copied at the great book-copying centre in Alexandria. The story was told with much verve and enthusiasm and Eadulf soon discovered that Gregory was no Frank but a Gaul, a Romanised Gaul it was true, but not above pointing out the error of Frankish ways and praising his own people. The time had passed quickly and so, returning to their chamber, he had found Fidelma already in bed. He re-emerged into the real world with a feeling of guilt that a mere book could provide him with escape from his problems for a few hours.

‘So what can we do now?’ Eadulf asked, as he poured a drink from the jug of goat’s milk.

‘There is little we can do but wait,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Let us hope we get a quick response to our demand for proof.’

‘Do you think that we shall?’

‘If Alchú has really been kidnapped and if his kidnappers are serious about the exchange - yes. But there is nothing to be done until we hear. Anyway, old Conchobar has asked me to go and play
brandubh
with him this morning. He probably knows that I need some distraction.’

Brandubh
was ‘black raven’, an ancient board game which Eadulf prided himself on being rather good at. Before the coining of the Faith to the five kingdoms, it was said that the great god of arts and crafts, Lugh, had invented it and most of the kings and heroes were thought little of unless they were masters of the game.

Conchobar was an elderly apothecary and physician who dwelt at Cashel and had known Fidelma since she was born.

‘You might ask him if he can discover where Alchú is,’ Eadulf said with some bitterness in his voice.

Conchobar was not only a physician but also an adept at making speculations from the patterns of the stars. Indeed, medicine and astrology were often twins in the practice of the physician’s lore and the study of the heavens,
nemgnacht
, was an ancient art in this land where most people who could afford to do so had a chart cast for the moment of their children’s birth which was called
nemindithib
, a horoscope.

‘That is nothing to joke about,’ Fidelma replied sharply.

Eadulf sat back and gazed thoughtfully at her.

‘Who said I was joking?’ he countered. ‘Your astrologers claim to be able to answer all manner of questions and even find people, don’t they?’

Fidelma rose abruptly, her mouth a thin disapproving line.

‘I am going to join Conchobar for a game of
brandubh!’

There was almost a flounce in her gait as she left the room and slammed the door shut behind her.

Eadulf sniffed in irritation and stretched in his seat, gazing at the closed door for a moment or two. Everything he said seemed to upset Fidelma. Yet he had been half serious in his suggestion, because he knew that Fidelma was not one to dismiss the ancient beliefs and customs of her people. Old Conchobar himself had often told him that Fidelma had shown a talent for casting star charts and several times her knowledge had come in handy to solve a particularly puzzling mystery. So he was not exactly being sarcastic when he suggested that the answer to Alchú’s kidnapping might be found in some astrological map of the heavens.

He finished his meal slowly and rose reluctantly, wondering how he should occupy his day. He already felt guilty at wasting time reading when he should have been thinking about how to investigate further. He went to the window and stared out across the grey walls of the palace complex. The late autumnal day was bright. There did not seem to be a cloud in the clear blue of the sky and yet the weather was not unduly
cold. At this time or year when the sky was clear, it usually meant the day was cold and frost would lie on the ground. Clouds often meant the day would not be so cold even though they might bring rain.

His view from the window gave access to the south where the forest stretched from the far side of the township down towards the distant River Suir.

It was then that the notion struck him. It would probably result in hearing the same information but to pursue the idea would be better than just sitting around doing nothing.

He hurried from his chambers and made his way down to the stables.

A stableboy obligingly saddled his horse for him. Eadulf was not the most expert horseman; when it came to horses he liked to leave matters in the hands of those with better knowledge. Once it was saddled, he led the beast across the courtyard to the gates.

Caol was on duty there and saluted Eadulf.

‘I am going for a ride. I need some exercise,’ Eadulf said before being asked.

‘A good morning for it, Brother,’ replied Caol. ‘Though I had not thought of you as being one who rides for pleasure,’ he added, with a wry grin.

‘I mean to find a spot in the hills yonder,’ he indicated southward, ‘and then walk for a while.’

‘Due south is a lake, Loch Ceann,’ confirmed the warrior. ‘You’ll find good walking there.’

‘Due south? Is that near where the woodsman Conchoille works?’ Eadulf asked innocently.

‘Fairly near. The place where he is felling trees is close by at Rath na Drínne. Did you wish to see him, Brother?’

‘A few questions do occur to me now that you mention it. So I may take the opportunity to look for him.’

Eadulf thanked the warrior, mounted and trotted down the incline that led from the mound on which Cashel was built, twisting down to the start of the township below. But he avoided the edge of the town, keeping to the road that ran along its eastern border and then joined the track into the woods.

It was not Loch Ceann that he was heading for but Rath na Drínne, where the woodsman Conchoille was working. It did not take him long before the small hill rose before him and just before it was the old wooden
inn with the sign swinging in the gentle morning breeze. He halted and dismounted.

There was no one inside as he entered the dark interior. It was too early in the day. However, only a few seconds passed after the door banged shut behind him before a short, rotund man, sleeves rolled up and wearing an apron, came from a side room and examined him with curious eyes for a moment before greeting him.

‘Good day, Brother, and what can I do for you?’

‘I’ll take a mug of your mead,’ replied Eadulf with a smile, ‘and the answers to some questions.’

The innkeeper frowned as he spoke.

‘A Saxon by your accent? Would you be Brother Eadulf, husband to our lady, Fidelma of Cashel?’

Eadulf gave an affirmative nod. ‘And your name would be Ferloga?’

‘I am he, and most sorry to hear of your troubles, Brother Eadulf. The lady Fidelma is well respected in these parts. I hear that the gossip is that it is our old enemies, the Uí Fidgente, who are behind this evil.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Eadulf, moving to a chair near the log fire in the corner of the taproom.

Ferloga had poured a pottery mug of mead and brought it to him. He sat down opposite Eadulf.

‘We are a small community, Brother. Many of my customers live or work in Cashel.’

‘Like Conchoille?’

‘Like Conchoille,’ the innkeeper agreed. ‘There is little that happens at Cashel that we do not hear about.’

Eadulf sipped thoughtfully at his mead. It was sweet with the honey.

‘Conchoille was in here just before he found the body of Sárait,’ he said, making it a statement rather than a question, for he already knew the answer.

Ferloga looked reflectively into the fire.

‘I remember that night well. I didn’t hear the details until the next morning, you understand. But because of that, when Conchoille came here and told me, I went over the events of the evening.’

‘Conchoille came to tell you the details?’ asked Eadulf innocently.

‘Of course.’

‘How did he describe what happened?’ asked Eadulf persuasively. ‘You see, it is my experience that a story can often be distorted in the retelling
of it. By the time that Fidelma and I came along and heard it from Conchoille’s lips, he must have told it a hundred times. You would have been among the first to hear exactly what happened. You see? Your version may contain an important item that has been overlooked.’

Ferloga chuckled. ‘I doubt that Conchoille would have overlooked anything. He is not only a woodsman but also a fine
senchaid
, one of the best in this area.’

Eadulf knew that a
senchaid
was a reciter of stories, keeper of an ancient and oral tradition. Stories were handed down from one generation to the next in word-perfect fashion. He knew, from experience in attending such storytelling gatherings, that the audience would often know a tale as well as the reciter and woe betide the
senchaid
who faltered or put a word in the wrong place. They would be severely corrected.

‘Yet a
senchaid
is not infallible, Ferloga. Tell me what was said from your own memory.’

Ferloga leant back and closed his eyes for a moment as if to help him in the recollection.

‘Conchoille usually comes here for an evening meal and a drink when he is working in the district. He is a widower so has no woman to cook for him. So that evening, when the sky was darkening, he came in and had his meal and a few drinks, and stayed for some time exchanging a story or two. Then he left.’

‘It was late?’

‘It was so, for we had a few tales to tell each other.’

Eadulf looked at the innkeeper.

‘Tales such as … what?’

‘Local gossip, local news. That is an innkeeper’s stock in trade. I had a tale to tell of the itinerants who had been in earlier with their baby, and I about to throw them out when my wife intervened and gave them food in exchange for a salve for an infection on her leg. Anyway, Conchoille lit his lantern and set off along the track to Cashel.’

‘And what did he tell you happened then?’

Ferloga smiled. ‘He said that he was nearly at the outskirts of Cashel when he tripped over a bloodstained shawl. That was when he discovered the body of the nurse Sárait. She was quite dead.’

‘And then?’

‘He left the body and went straight to Sárait’s sister, Gobnat, who dwelt with her husband not far away. The husband, as well you will
know, was Capa of the king’s warrior guard. Capa went with Conchoille to recover the body and along the way they encountered a warrior on his way to the palace and told him to raise an alarm, for Sárait was known to be in service to our lady, Fidelma. But when Caol and his guards arrived it was realised that Sárait had left the palace with lady Fidelma’s … with your baby. A search was mounted immediately without result.’

‘And that was all?’

Ferloga shrugged. ‘Only that the search was maintained by torchlight for some time and then resumed again the next morning. Both village and woods were searched.’

Eadulf sat back in thought.

Ferloga’s retelling of the tale had not materially added to his knowledge. He had not expected that it would. But there was something that was bothering him; something at the back of his mind which he could not quite place.

‘Conchoille has not added anything to this account since he first told you?’

Ferloga was frowning now.

‘Is it that you suspect Conchoille of something?’ he demanded. ‘He is a trustworthy man who fought in many battles against the Uí Fidgente.’

Eadulf turned thoughtful eyes upon him.

‘Including Cnoc Áine?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Many of us were at Cnoc Áine,’ confirmed Ferloga.

‘Including Sárait’s husband, Callada.’

Ferloga drew his brows together quickly. ‘There is no denying that fact. He was killed there.’

‘And you are saying that you and Conchoille were there? Forgive me, aren’t you too old to be in battle? Cnoc Aine was scarcely two years ago.’

Ferloga raised his chin defensively. ‘A man is as young as he feels.’

‘Was the service compulsory?’

‘Love of our leader is a better duress than compulsion under law.’

‘Did you see how Callada was killed?’

Ferloga actually chuckled sarcastically.

‘I think I know what you are getting at, Saxon. There is a story abroad that Callada was killed by one of our own and not by the enemy.’

‘And have you a comment on that?’

Ferloga shrugged. ‘It seems far-fetched. Anyway, Conchoille and I were not in the fore ranks of that charge at Cnoc Áine but held in reserve
by Colgú lest the Uí Fidgente break through our lines. When we finally marched forward it was merely to take prisoners and pursue the disorganised rabble.’