The Leper's Bell (9 page)

The old innkeeper chuckled at their expressions.

‘I am Aona who once served as commander of the guard,’ he replied. ‘But you make me sound positively ancient, my young warrior.’ His grey eyes glinted like steel as he regarded the younger man. ‘So you are now commander of the guard, eh? Well, command is not merely in the strength of one’s muscles, young friend. Let us hope your mind is as agile as your body.’

Capa’s chin came up defensively.

‘I pride myself that Colgú has no cause to complain of me,’ he retorted.

I am glad to hear it,’ Aona assured him calmly. Then he glanced swiftly to Fidelma and winked. ‘You are fond of quoting Publilius Syrus, lady. Didn’t he say that there is but a step between a proud man’s glory and his disgrace?’

He gave the quotation in the original Latin and Capa apparently did not understand it. Fidelma restrained a smile for she knew that Aona had also spotted what she felt was Capa’s weakness - his arrogance. She turned and indicated that Capa and his men should seat themselves and order something to drink. She and Eadulf moved towards the fire while Aona, in answer to their request, placed a jug of reddish-coloured ale called
leann
, distilled from rye, and some pottery drinking vessels before the three warriors. They fell to with unconcealed eagerness. Fidelma motioned Aona to join them.

‘Before we sample your stew and your famous
corma
, Aona, have you heard or seen anything unusual on this road? You see…’

Aona interrupted with a shake of his head.

‘You do not have to explain, lady. I have heard of your distress. If there is anything I can do, you have only to command. There have been only a few travellers on the road from Cashel.’

Fidelma’s features expressed silent gratitude.

‘We are trying to pick up some lead,’ she explained. ‘Something to give us a clue to where my baby has been taken. I want to question some pilgrims who will have taken this road.’

Aona raised a hand and pushed back his hair, letting it run through his fingers.

‘Pilgrims? They did not venture near my tavern for which mercy, in truth, I uttered a prayer of thanks.’

‘Why would that be?’ Fidelma asked in surprise.

‘The pilgrims took the western road to Imleach but one of them, who walked in the rear, rang a leper’s bell to warn of his approach. I watched them cross the ford and pass through the settlement without stopping and, I would say, much to everyone’s relief.’ He held up a hand. ‘Do not lecture me on charity, lady. I have charity as much as the next man but even so I could not help feeling gratitude when they passed on, with the leper, without asking for alms or hospitality.’

‘But you saw them pass by?’ Eadulf pressed quickly. ‘Was one short in stature - perhaps a child or a youth?’

‘I only saw them from a distance. Even then they were clad from poll to foot in their robes. They wore cowls. I think that the one with the bell might have been shorter than the others. It was hard to tell. No one was carrying a baby, though.’ He frowned, tugging at his ear. ‘During this week it has been quiet on this road, lady. I’ve scarcely seen a dozen travellers and half of those are known to me. From some of them, I learnt about your baby’s disappearance. Of the strangers with babies … there was an itinerant herbalist with his wife and two babies in a wagon. I was fishing on the river so noticed their arrival. They came from the north, though, along the road from Cappagh, and joined the Cashel road just by the bridge.’

‘When was that?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Four or five days ago.’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘They had two babies with them, you say?’

Aona nodded.

‘No matter,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Has anyone else passed here? Any other strangers?’

‘Two more only. A short time before the apothecary and his wife, two religious passed here. One was from the northern kingdom, travelling with a stranger from beyond the seas. They rode good horses. The stranger from beyond the seas was unlike any foreign religious that I have seen.

At first, I thought him to be a Greek, because I have encountered several of those who have passed on their way to Imleach. Yet he was not quite the same as a Greek…’

That was probably the Persian,’ Eadulf intervened by way of explanation. ‘Was the one who came from the north a brother from the abbey at Ard Macha?’

Aona grimaced indifferently. ‘He could well have been, Brother Eadulf. He was a proud young man and mentioned with pride his king, Blathmac mac Máel Cobo…’

‘Of the Dál Fiatach of Ulaidh,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘How long did they stay here?’

‘Long enough for a meal. They said that they were passing on to Colmán’s abbey on the western coast.’ Aona paused and glanced at the warriors. ‘If you will excuse me, lady, I’d better attend to the food. I presume young Adag is looking after your horses?’

On learning this was the case Aona disappeared, to quickly reappear with bread, freshly baked, and hot bowls of savoury mutton stew.

Eadulf joined the others as they fell to the bowls of steaming soup. While they were so engaged, Aona went round filling pottery mugs with
corma
, the fiery barley distilled alcohol that he personally brewed on the premises. Eadulf remembered the first time he had been at Aona’s inn and how he had nearly choked as the fiery liquid left him gasping for breath. He asked for a jug of water and met with Aona’s knowing grin.

‘I see you remember my
corma
well, Brother Eadulf.’

Fidelma sat on a window seat, watching the rain splattering down and nibbling pensively on a dish of fruit that Aona had tempted her with.

Presently, when they were all more relaxed and oblivious of the thunderstorm raging outside, Fidelma and Eadulf drew their chairs before the fire and settled down with Aona to talk more about old times. Adag, having fed and settled the horses, came in then, pausing to shake the rain off his heavy woollen cloak.

‘Do you still reckon on an hour until the storm passes, youngster?’ Capa called cynically.

Adag grinned, unembarrassed. ‘Not much more than an hour, warrior. The mountain hid the full extent of the storm clouds from me. But already there is blue showing behind the clouds, so it will soon pass,’ he added confidently.

Amid the soft conversation of the warriors and the crackle of the fire
there appeared a lull in the exchange of the old comrades. Then Aona said sadly: ‘I was unhappy to hear that it was Sárait who had been murdered. A sad family.’

‘Sad?’ queried Eadulf sharply. ‘Did you know her family?’

‘Rather I knew the family of her husband,’ Aona amended. ‘I knew her husband’s father, Cathchern, very well indeed. He was one of my men and came from the Well of Ara. I watched his son Callada grow up and was not surprised when he followed his father into the bodyguard of the kings of Cashel. Callada and Sárait married here - yes, it was here in this very room that we had the feasting. That was three or four years ago.’

‘I did not know Callada well,’ admitted Fidelma.

‘He would have been about ten years older than you, lady.’

‘But why did you say the family was sad?’ Eadulf was puzzled.

‘Well, my old comrade Cathchern was killed in a battle against the Uí Néill when Callada had hardly reached the age of choice. Cathchern’s wife died of the Yellow Plague. Then Callada… he was killed at the battle of Cnoc Áine scarce two years ago.’

That I knew,’ Fidelma said. ‘And because of that, Sárait was given work at my brother’s palace when I returned there for my confinement. She became my nurse and nurse to my baby.’

‘I presume that Cathchern and his son Callada both freely chose life as warriors?’ asked Eadulf. ‘If so, death must be recognised as a constant companion, and many people died in the Yellow Plague. Yet you say they were a sad family?’

‘There were ugly stories.’

‘Ugly stories?’

Aona made an awkward gesture with his hands as if trying to dismiss what he had said. ‘Maybe it is not right to repeat them now.’

Eadulf snorted in annoyance. The time to have hesitated was before you hinted at some intrigue. Continue your tale now.’

Aona hesitated, shrugged and bent forward with lowered voice.

‘I heard from a couple of warriors who were at the battle of Cnoc Áine that Callada was slain not by the enemy - the Uí Fidgente - but by one of his own men.’

Eadulf was not shocked. He had heard similar tales about deaths in battles.

‘You mean that he turned coward on the field? I have heard enough
stories of battles to know that often a man has been slain when he showed cowardice and endangered the lives of his comrades.’

That I know. But Callada was no coward. He was a good warrior and descended from a line of great warriors. Yet these stories have persisted. However he died, he was slain at Cnoc Áine. Now Sárait has come by a violent death as well. It is a sad, sad family in which death comes in violent ways and no one is left to sing the praises of the deeds of the past generations.’

Fidelma said nothing for a moment. Then she grimaced.

‘Well, Aona, we have seen our fair share of violence. It would be pleasing now if we could take ourselves off to some isolated valley high up in the mountains and begin to live in peace with ourselves and our surroundings.’

Aona’s face was sad.

There is no permanent sanctuary against the violence of mankind. It is a permanent condition, I fear, lady.’

Fidelma stood up and gazed through the window at the lightening sky.

‘I think Adag is being proved correct. The sky is brighter. The storm is passing. We must soon be on our way to Imleach.’

The old innkeeper rose in response.

‘I wish you well in your quest, lady. May you have all success in finding your child and bringing the murderer of Sárait to justice.’

Capa and his men had also risen.

‘Are we continuing the journey to Imleach, lady?’ Capa asked. At Fidelma’s affirmative, he went on: ‘We will go and prepare the horses, then. No need to trouble the young lad, innkeeper.’ Adag had gone to the brewery at the side of the inn to carry out some jobs for Aona.

The warriors had just left when the door opened again and a thickset, middle-aged man entered. His features showed good humour and he seemed to have a commanding presence.

‘Greetings, Adag. I see your guests are just leaving, warriors by the look of them…’

His eyes suddenly fell on Fidelma and Eadulf and he halted in confusion. Aona turned to Fidelma with a smile.

‘On the very subject of which we have been speaking - this is Cathalán. He fought at Cnoc Áine. Cathalán, this…’

The newcomer had crossed the room and bowed his head in respect.

‘Lady, I had the honour to serve your brother at Cnoc Áine. I recognise you and have heard of your trouble, for which I am sorry.’

Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgement.

‘Cathalán, we were speaking a short time ago of Sárait’s husband and the manner of his death.’

‘Were you a witness to how he died?’ Eadulf asked.

Cathalán shook his head at once.

‘Not a witness, no. I merely heard stories. In battle, Brother Eadulf, one hears a story from someone. When you question them, they say they heard it from someone else and that someone saw it happen. When you ask that person, then they, too, have heard it from someone who, they say, saw it happen. But the story that Callada was killed by one of our own warriors came from two separate sources. One was an Uí Fidgente and the other was one of our own men. I doubt it not. But we have not been able to discover anything further for we have found no one who could be claimed as a true witness.’

‘Was the matter reported to a Brehon?’ queried Fidelma.

‘It was. Brehon Dathal said he had examined the matter but found nothing over which action could be taken.’

‘I see. So you were one of the warriors who were merely repeating what others told you.’

Cathalán hesitated for a moment.

‘There is something else?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘I was Callada’s
cenn-feadhna?
Eadulf took a moment to remember that the military structures of Éireann were well organised and a
cenn-feadhna
was the captain of a
buden
or company of one hundred warriors. ‘We lost sight of one another in the heat of the battle on Cnoc Áine. In fact, several of my company - fourteen men in all - perished that day because we were one of the first to be ordered forward into the centre of the Uí Fidgente.’ He paused. ‘I knew that there was something troubling Callada on the evening before the battle, as we sat round the fire. I asked him what ailed him and he was reluctant to say anything at first. But as he was troubled and I pressed the matter, he finally told me that he had good reason to believe that his wife Sárait was unfaithful to him.’

‘That she was having an affair with another man?’ Eadulf asked, making sure he understood.

‘That she
might
have been having an affair with another.’ The former warrior corrected the emphasis with a grave expression.

‘Who else knew of this?’ It was Fidelma who posed the question.

‘He spoke to me reluctantly. I do not think that he had told his suspicions to anyone else…’ He suddenly frowned. ‘You think there is some connection with Sárait’s death?’ He shook his head immediately. ‘But no, she was nursing your child and the baby has been kidnapped. There is surely no relation?’

‘Yet all possibilities must be considered,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘Sárait is now dead. She was enticed from the palace to her death. Was it a means to kidnap my child? If so, then—’

She suddenly snapped her mouth shut, realising that she was thinking aloud. She focused her green-blue eyes on Cathalán.

‘Did Callada say whom he suspected of having an affair with his wife?’

‘Alas, he did not.’

‘And hearing this rumour, how he met his death, you are presuming … what exactly?’

Cathalán shrugged. ‘I was not made a
cenn-feadhna
for presuming things, lady. I merely reported the facts to old Brehon Dathal. Those facts may be connected and thus they pose a question. That is all I am saying.’