The Spider's Web

by Peter Tremayne

  The air was still, the quiet broken only by the heavy snorting breath of the horses as they moved upwards. Now and again they could hear the excited yap of wild dogs and the protesting howl of a wolf, warning against intrusion into its territory.

  The sun was already dipping below the peaks to the west and long shadows were spreading rapidly. As the sun began to disappear, the air turned chill. Fidelma was reminded that tomorrow would be the feast in remembrance of Conlaed of blessed name, a skilled metalworker of Kildare who had fashioned the sacred vessels for Brigid’s monastery. She must remember to light a candle in his name. But the thought caused her to acknowledge that they were already into the month regarded as the first month of the summer period which ended with the feast of Lughnasa, one of the popular pagan festivals which the new Faith had been unable 30 to abolish. The horses climbed slowly and deliberately and Eadulf began to cast nervous glances towards the glowing tip of sunlight behind them to the west.

  ‘It will be dark before long,’ he observed unnecessarily.

  ‘It is not far now,’ Archú assured him. ‘See that bend in the road to our right? We take the small path there, leaving this main track, and moving higher into the mountains along the side of the stream which crosses our road there.’

  They fell silent again as they turned into the dark oak forests where there was now room for only one horse to tread the clearly unfrequented path. One behind the other the two horses plodded through the narrow defile amidst sedate oaks and tall yews. A further hour passed. Twilight descended rapidly.

  ‘Are you sure that we are on the right path?’ demanded Eadulf, not for the first time. ‘I see no sign of a tavern.’

  Patiently, the youth, Archú, pointed forward.

  ‘You will see it once we reach the next bend in the track,’ he guaranteed the Saxon monk.

  It was beyond dusk now; in fact, it was almost dark and they could barely see the turning along the tree lined path. Although there were no clouds in the sky, the trees also hid a clear view of the night sky. Only a few bright stars could be clearly seen through the canopy of branches. Among them Fidelma noticed the bright twinkling of the evening star dominating the heavens. They had been climbing along this mountain path for a full hour, wending their precarious way through the darkening trees which oppressed them on every side. They had encountered no one else on the road since they left the main thoroughfare. Even Fidelma was beginning to wonder whether it was unwise to press further. Perhaps it would be better to halt, prepare a fire and make the best of it for the night.

  She was about to make this suggestion when they came to the bend in the path. It abruptly opened out into a broader track.

  They saw the light as soon as they reached the bend.

  ‘There it is,’ announced Archú with satisfaction. ‘Just as I said it would be.’

  A short distance ahead of them, by the side of the track, a lantern flickered from the top of a tall post on a short stretch of faitche, or lawn, which stretched to a stone building. Fidelma knew that, according to law, all taverns or public hostels, bruden as they were called, had to announce themselves by displaying a lighted lantern all through the night.

  They halted their horses by the post. Fidelma saw, incised in the Latin script on the wooden name-board below the lantern, the name ‘Bruden na Réaltaí’ – the hostel of the stars. Fidelma glanced up to the sky, for the canopy of branches no longer obscured it, and saw the myriad of twinkling silver lights spread across the heavens. The hostel was aptly named.

  They had barely halted when an elderly man threw open the door of the hostel and came hurrying forward to greet them.

  ‘Welcome, travellers,’ he cried in a rather high pitched voice. ‘Go inside and I will attend to your horses. Get you in, for the night is chill.’

  Inside, the hostel seemed deserted. A great log fire was crackling in the hearth at one end of the room. In a large cauldron, an aromatic broth simmered above the flames, its perfume permeating the place. It was warm and comforting. The lanterns were lit and flickering against the polished oak and red deal panels of the room.

  Fidelma’s eye was caught by a table on one side of the room on which, at first glance, seemed to be a scattered assortment of common rocks. She frowned and stooped to examine them closely, picking up one and feeling its heavy metallic weight. The rocks were polished and appeared to be placed as someone might arrange ornaments to give atmosphere to the room.

  Shaking her head slightly in perplexity, Fidelma led the way to a large table near the fire but did not sit down. Hours in the saddle made her appreciate the comfort of standing a while.

  It was Archú who approached her nervously.

  ‘I am sorry, sister. I should have mentioned this before but neither Scoth nor I have any means to pay the hosteller. We will withdraw and camp the night in the woods outside. That was what we were going to do. It is a dry night and none too cold in spite of what our hosteller says,’ he added.

  Fidelma shook her head.

  ‘And you an ocáire?’ she gently chided. ‘You have wealth enough now that you have won your plea to the courts. It would be churlish of me not to advance you the price of food and lodging for the night.’

  ‘But …’ protested Archú.

  ‘No more of this,’ Fidelma interrupted firmly. ‘A bed is more comfortable than the damp earth and this simmering broth has a wonderful, inviting aroma.’

  She gazed with curiosity around the deserted hostel.

  ‘It seems that we are the only travellers on this road tonight,’ Eadulf observed as he sprawled on a chair near the fire.

  ‘It is not a busy road,’ Archú explained. ‘This is the only road which leads into the country of Araglin.’

  Fidelma was immediately interested.

  ‘If that is so and this is the only hostel along the route, it seems odd that we have not encountered your cousin Muadnat here.’

  ‘God be thanked that we have not,’ muttered Scoth as she took her seat at the table.

  ‘Nevertheless, he and his companion …’

  ‘That was Agdae, his cowman and nephew,’ supplied Scoth.

  ‘He and Agdae,’ continued Fidelma, ‘left Lios Mhór before us and they would surely have taken this road if it is the only one to Araglin.’

  ‘Why worry about Muadnat?’ Eadulf yawned, his eyes coveting the broth.

  ‘I do not like questions that are unresolved,’ Fidelma explained in a vexed tone.

  The door opened. The elderly man appeared. They could see in the light of the room that he was a man of fleshy features, greying hair and a pleasant manner that befitted his calling. His face was red, round and wreathed in a permanent smile.

  He regarded the company warmly.

  ‘Welcome again. I have stabled and attended your horses. My name is Bressal and I am entirely at your service. My house is yours.’

  ‘We will require beds for the night,’ Fidelma announced.

  ‘Certainly, sister.’

  ‘We will also require food,’ added Eadulf quickly, looking longingly at the simmering contents of the cauldron once again.

  ‘Indeed, and good mead to slack your thirst, no doubt?’ agreed the hostel keeper breezily. ‘My mead is regarded as the best in these mountains.’

  ‘Excellent,’ agreed Eadulf. ‘You may serve …’

  ‘We shall eat after we have washed the dust of travel from us,’ Fidelma interrupted sharply.

  Eadulf knew that it was the Irish custom to have a bath every evening before the main meal of the day. It was a custom that he had never really grown accustomed to for the ritual of daily bathing was not a practice of his own people. However, here it was regarded as a lack of social etiquette not to bathe before the evening meal.

  ‘Your baths shall be prepared, but they will take a little while for I have no other help but my own two hands,’ Bressal explained.

  ‘I do not mind a cold bath,’ Eadulf offered quickly. ‘I am sure Archú is not bothered about a warm ba
th.’

  The youth hesitated and shrugged.

  Fidelma’s mouth turned down in disapproval. She believed in the correct ritual of purification.

  ‘Scoth and I will help Bressal heat the water for our baths,’ she volunteered. ‘You may do as you think fit,’ she added with a glance of reproof at Eadulf.

  Bressal spread his arms apologetically.

  ‘I regret the inconvenience, sister. Come, I will show you the way to the bath house. For you, brother, there is a stream running beside the hostel. You may take a lamp with you, if it is your wish to bathe there.’

  Archú picked up a lamp, although he looked somewhat reluctant having heard where the site of the bath house was located.

  ‘I will carry the lamp,’ he offered.

  Eadulf clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Come, little brother,’ he encouraged. ‘A cold wash never hurt anyone.’

  It was over an hour later before they finally sat down to eat. The broth was of oatmeal and leeks enlivened by some herbs. And there was a dish of trout to follow; trout caught in the local stream, served with freshly baked bread and honey sweetened mead. Bressal was no novice when it came to cooking.

  He kept up a lively conversation as he served them, recounting local pieces of information. But it was clear that he was isolated and he had certainly not yet heard of the murder of the chieftain of Araglin of which young Archú informed him, wishing to establish his new found position as a man of status in Araglin.

  ‘Are we the only travellers on this road tonight?’ Fidelma asked during a lull in the conversation.

  Bressal pulled a face.

  ‘You are the only travellers to stop here during the last week. Not many traverse this particular road to Araglin.’

  ‘Then there are surely other roads?’

  ‘Indeed there is one other. A track which runs from the east of the valley along which one might reach the south, Lios Mhór, Ard Mór and Dún Garbhain. This road is merely the one which joins the great road that runs north to Cashel or south to Lios Mhór. Why do you ask, sister?’ There was a glint of curiosity in the hostel keeper’s eyes.

  Archú was frowning.

  ‘I was told that this was the only road to Lios Mhór.’

  ‘By whom?’ demanded the hostel keeper.

  ‘Father Gormán of Araglin.’

  ‘Well, the eastern road is the quicker road to Lios Mhór,’ Bressal insisted. ‘He should know better.’

  Fidelma decided to change the subject and indicated the collection of rocks on the side table. ‘You have a curious collection of ornaments there, my friend.’

  Bressal was dismissive.

  ‘Not mine. I did not collect them. My brother, Morna, is a miner, working in the mines which lie to the west of here on the Plain of Minerals. He picked up these rocks during his work. I keep them for him.’

  Fidelma appeared to be very interested in the rocks, picking them up and turning them over in her hands.

  ‘They are very intriguing.’

  ‘Morna has been collecting them for years. It was only a couple of days ago that he came here, full of excitement, saying that he had discovered something that would make him rich. He had a rock with him. How a rock would make him rich I do not know. He spent a night here and left the next day.’

  ‘Which was the rock he brought with him?’ Fidelma asked, intrigued as she ran her eye over the collection.

  Bressal rubbed the back of his head.

  ‘I confess that I am not sure now.’ He picked one up. ‘This one I think.’

  Fidelma took it and held it in her hands, turning it over. To her untrained eye it was just an ordinary piece of granite. She handed it back to the hostel keeper. He replaced the rock on the table.

  ‘Can I get you anything else before you retire for the night?’ he asked, turning to the company.

  Archú and Scoth decided to retire while Eadulf asked for another cup of mead and announced he would sit by the fire awhile longer. Fidelma sat talking to Bressal for hostel keepers were always a good source of information. She turned the conversation to Eber. Bressal had only seen Eber half-a-dozen times passing from his territory on the road to Cashel. He had little knowledge to form an opinion of him, though he said that he had heard mixed opinions of the man. Some thought he was a bully while others praised him for his kindliness and generosity.

  It was still early when Fidelma announced that she would retire to bed. Bressal had allocated Fidelma a corner of the main sleeping area which consisted of the entire top floor of the hostel. It was a curtained off space, for it was unusual in tiny hostels to find separate rooms for those spending the night. The bed was no more than a straw palliasse on the floor and a rough woollen blanket. It was clean, warm and comfortable and she would ask no more.

  It appeared to her that her head had barely lain on the straw when she was startled awake. A warm hand was gripping her arm and squeezing gently. She blinked and began to struggle but a voice whispered: ‘Hush. It is I.’

  It was Eadulf’s voice.

  She lay still, blinking a moment.

  ‘There are some armed men outside the hostel,’ Eadulf continued, his voice pitched so low that she could barely hear it.

  Fidelma was aware that the window was filled with a curious grey light and while, through its uncurtained aperture, she could still see one or two tiny bright points of stars reluctant to leave the sky, she realised that dawn was not far away.

  ‘What is it that worries you about these armed men?’ she demanded, following Eadulf’s example and keeping her voice low.

  ‘The sound of horses woke me fifteen minutes ago,’ Eadulf explained quietly. ‘I peered out and saw the shadows of half a dozen riders. They rode up silently but did not come to the hostel. They hid their horses in the woods beyond and took up positions among the trees before the hostel door.’

  Fidelma sat up abruptly. She was wide awake now.

  ‘Outlaws?’

  ‘Perhaps. It seems to me that they mean no good to this hostel for they all carried bows with them.’

  ‘Have you alerted Bressal?’

  ‘I woke him first. He is downstairs securing the doors in case we are attacked.’

  ‘Has he been attacked before?’

  ‘Never. Sometimes the richer hostels along the main road between Lios Mhór and Cashel have been attacked and robbed by groups of outlaws. But why would anyone choose this isolated hostel to rob?’

  ‘Are the youngsters awake?’

  ‘The youngsters? Oh, you mean Archú and Scoth. Not yet. I came …’

  There was a curious whooshing sound from outside and Fidelma momentarily caught the smell of fire. A second whoosh barely registered on her ears as an arrow sped through the window and embedded itself in the wall beyond. Straw, fastened around the arrow, had been set alight. Now there came the sounds of a man calling orders from outside.

  Fidelma leapt from her bed.

  ‘Wake the others. We are being attacked.’ The last sentence was unnecessary as another flaming arrow flashed into the room and embedded itself into the floor. She ran forward and grasped it, without concern for the hungry flames. She turned and threw it through the window before reaching for the first arrow and sending it after the other through the window. Turning again, she grabbed her robe and dragged it over her head. Almost without pausing, she pulled down the curtained partitions in case an arrow ignited them. Archú, awakened by Eadulf, came running forward to help her.

  ‘Stay here,’ instructed Fidelma. ‘Keep down but if any lighted arrows land in the room make sure the flames are put out.’

  Without waiting for a reply she turned away and hurried down the stairs into the main room.

  Bressal, the hostel keeper, was busily stringing a bow. It was clear that he was unpractised for he was clumsy.

  He glanced up, his usually cheerful face was creased with anger.

  ‘Outlaws!’ he muttered. ‘I have never known outlaws in these woods. I must defend th
e hostel.’

  Eadulf now came racing down the stairs.

  ‘You said that you saw these men,’ Fidelma greeted him. ‘How many did you estimate there are?’

  ‘About half a dozen,’ replied Eadulf.

  Fidelma compressed her lips so hard that they almost hurt. She was trying hard to think of a means of defending the hostel.

  ‘Do you have any other weapons, Bressal?’ Eadulf demanded. ‘We have nothing to defend ourselves with.’

  The hostel keeper stared at him in surprise that a man of the Faith should be asking for weapons to defend himself with.

  ‘Quickly, man!’ snapped Eadulf.

  Bressal jerked in obedience.

  ‘I have two swords and this bow, that’s all.’

  Eadulf eyed the bow speculatively. It looked a good one, made of yew, strong and pliable, so far as he could judge.

  ‘How well can you use that?’

  ‘Not well,’ Bressal confessed.

  ‘Then give it to me. Take a sword.’

  Bressal was bemused.

  ‘But you are a brother of …’

  It was Fidelma who cut him short by stamping her foot.

  ‘Give the bow to him!’

  Eadulf almost grabbed the bow from his hand and strung it with an ease born of long experience.

  ‘Give me one of the swords,’ Fidelma instructed as Eadulf tested the string. There was no time to explain to the astounded hostel keeper that as daughter of a Failbe Flann, king of Cashel, she had grown up using a sword almost before she had learnt to read and write.

  Eadulf took the handful of arrows that were on the table.

  ‘Is there a back door?’ he questioned.

  Bressal gestured wordlessly in the direction of the rear of the hostel.

  Eadulf and Fidelma exchanged a quick glance.