‘When was this?’
‘Two weeks ago, according to Crítán. Eber was so outraged by Gormán that he struck him.’
‘Eber struck the priest?’ Even Fidelma was surprised.
‘It is so.’
‘Were there witnesses?’
‘According to Crítán he witnessed this himself for it took place in the stables. They did not see him because he was in the hayloft.’
‘What was the row about?’
‘You should ask Crítán.’
‘I doubt that he would tell me. Don’t worry. If you tell me what Crítán said I shall see that you are not implicated if any of the information needs to be acted upon.’
‘Crítán was in the hayloft of the stables. He was apparently asleep there. He was awakened by the sounds of an altercation. It was the priest with Eber and Teafa. He could not hear precisely what the argument was about except that Father Gormán was censuring them both for their lack of morality. Crítán said something was mentioned about Móen. It was then that Eber actually struck the priest.’
‘What happened then?’ prompted Fidelma when the woman paused.
‘Father Gormán fell to the ground. Crítán said that he cried out words to the effect that Eber would be struck dead in return for that blow.’
Fidelma leant forward with interest.
‘He said those very words?’
‘According to Crítán.’
‘What were the exact words … according to Crítán?’
‘I think he said that Father Gormán cried out – “Heaven will strike you dead for that blow” – or something like that.’
‘Ah, heaven. He did not say that the blow would be struck by himself?’
Clídna shook her head.
‘Well, I shall not implicate you in this. Tell me, though,’ Fidelma smiled briefly, ‘is Agdae a good landlord?’
‘No better or worse than any other man,’ Clídna was self-consciously offhand.
‘But you like him more than any other man?’
‘It is nice to dream beyond one’s station in life,’ she admitted.
‘What can you tell me about Muadnat?’
‘Hot-headed. He was always used to his own way.’
‘Did Muadnat and Agdae both frequent your … your house?’
Clídna laughed humorously.
‘They and half of Araglin. I am not ashamed. It is what I do.’
‘Did you ever hear either of them speak about a mine?’
‘A mine? Do you mean a mine here in Araglin?’
‘Yes. Or in the Black Marsh, on Muadnat’s land, for example.’
‘No. Nor anywhere else in this land.’
Fidelma was disappointed.
Clídna was rising from her seat when she suddenly turned round, frowning.
‘Mind you … it may be nothing …’
Fidelma waited expectantly.
‘Menma said something once.’
Fidelma was patient but her mind fully alert at the mention of the red-haired man.
‘Menma said something about a man who found a rock which would make him rich.’
‘What?’
‘I did not understand then neither do I understand now, sister. Menma is often here and often drunk. Some weeks ago he was talking in his cups about extracting riches from the earth. I had no idea of what he was talking about. Then he said something about a man knowing the secret of making rock turn to wealth and wealth buying more power than even Eber could imagine.’
‘Did he mention who this man was?’
‘It was a name like Mór … Mór something.’
‘Morna?’ queried Fidelma.
‘I think so. Now that you have mentioned mines. Don’t the rocks yield up precious metals?’
‘Have you heard any other talk? Did Muadnat ever say anything?’
‘Nothing. One interesting thing, though, during this same period Menma and Muadnat appeared to become close friends. Muadnat had never been friendly with the stableman before. It was curious. I know because Agdae once complained to me that Muadnat and Menma often went hunting in the hills and he felt excluded.’
Slowly, thoughtfully, Fidelma rose from her seat.
‘I am most grateful for all the information you have given me, Clídna. You have been of much help to me.’
Clídna grimaced sceptically.
‘I cannot see how, sister.’
Fidelma handed her back the empty pottery mug.
‘I thank you for your hospitality. May you be happy in your life.’
Fidelma mounted her horse and headed towards the valley of the Black Marsh, deep in thought.
Chapter Eighteen
Her first plan had been to set out in search of Dubán to see if he had discovered where Dignait might have fled to. But she was troubled. Even though Clídna had told her that there were others in Araglin whom she would suspect of murder before the burly warrior, Fidelma was suspicious. If he hated Eber, why had Dubán returned to Araglin and taken service with him? And if he loved Crón, the death of Eber was of benefit to them both. She had already become suspicious of the pair of them because of the lies that they had told her. She found herself unconsciously guiding her horse directly over the hills towards the mine.
The journey was tedious for several times did Fidelma think it was better to hide herself from the occasional traveller, or to give buildings a wide berth, rather than allow herself to be observed. She had a strong feeling that things were beginning to draw together like the strands of a spider’s web, closer and closer to the centre where the shadowy figure of one great manipulator sat, tugging on the various threads.
Fidelma reached the stretch of forest in which she and Eadulf had discovered the cave entrance and seen Menma emerging from it. She wondered how close she could get without being spotted, how many workers were there around the cave? But she knew, instinctively, that the cave was going to provide her with one of the keys to unlock this curious mystery.
Her senses sharpened as she rode through the forest, through sombre oaks whose catkins were yellowing, inconsequentially noticing the white and red, and even pink flowers of the sturdy hawthorns, and the yews which had just ceased flowering. All the beeches stood out with their leaves a brilliant green. It seemed so peaceful, so idyllic. It was hard to imagine that mayhem and death lurked in this pleasant land.
Her horse suddenly shied nervously and, from nearby, came the curious high-pitched bark of a fox in search of its prey.
It was wise to remember that even in an idyllic setting such as this there were also predators searching for their weak victims.
She drew near the spot where she and Eadulf had previously tethered their horses and decided it would be best to repeat the exercise and approach on foot. It was just as well for as she reached the edge of the woods she heard the sound of hooves and slunk down into the undergrowth. Not far away, along the trail, a horse galloped by from the direction of the glade. Fidelma saw a slight figure crouched low over its neck, a bright parti-coloured cloak flying in the wind. Then the horse and rider were gone. Fidelma paused a moment. She thought she suddenly heard a cry from the glade and turned, moving carefully towards it. Soon she was staring across into the open glade against the side of the hill, where the cave entrance was. Two horses were standing patiently tethered there. She crouched low behind the cover of the bushes.
There was no sign of the heavy wagon which had been there previously and the fire was now a charred, blackened patch, although the tools were still stacked nearby. She listened carefully but it was quiet save the trill of bird songs arising from the forest and the gentle whisper of a breeze against the mountain slopes. Fidelma examined the horses carefully. They were saddled and were certainly not farm horses, more the sort of beasts that warriors would ride. One of them was particularly familiar and she rebuked her memory that she could not recall where she had seen it and who was riding it.
She was about to rise and move nearer the cave when it happened so fa
st that she could scarcely draw breath before it was all over.
One moment she was trying to recall why the horses were so familiar and where she had seen them before and then the next she was pole-axed by a curious wailing scream. Her eyes darted towards the cave mouth. A dishevelled figure appeared. It paused for a moment, gave a sobbing gulp of breath and began to run towards the horses.
It was the red-haired Menma. The stableman had almost made it to his horse when a second figure appeared at the cave mouth. It strode leisurely from the dark with a bow and an arrow strung to it.
‘Menma!’
The voice was low but the intensity carried across the glade.
The man spun round. Even from this distance, Fidelma saw the terror on his face.
‘For the love of God!’ he almost jabbered. ‘I can pay you! I can …’
Then he made a grab for a sword hanging from his saddle and turned round to face his pursuer. He began to run forward swinging the blade in desperation.
The second figure unhurriedly raised his bow. Menma was running forward full pelt now, trying to close the gap. There was a dull thud. Menma jerked back on the ground, his sword flying out of his hand. The shaft of an arrow was protruding from his chest. He struggled for a moment and lay still.
The second figure walked slowly up to his inert form and gazed dispassionately down. He touched the body with the toe of his boot, as if to make sure that the man was dead. Then he reached down and pulled the arrow out of his chest. Even from this distance, Fidelma saw the little fountain of blood gush forth as the arrow was pulled. Calmly, the second figure put the arrow back in his quiver, unstrung his bow and turned to his horse, untying the reins and swinging himself up. He then leant forward, untied the reins of Menma’s mount and proceeded from the glade, leading the second horse after him.
Only when he had disappeared along the forest path, did Fidelma give a long, shuddering exhalation of breath. She felt chilly with shock.
The second figure had been that of Dubán.
It was some time before Fidelma rose from her hiding place and moved slowly forward to where the body of Menma lay. She could see that he was beyond earthly help and so she genuflected and muttered a blessing for the repose of his soul. She had no liking for the ill-smelling stableman but she wondered whether such a death was deserved. What reason had Dubán to shoot the red-haired man down in such a callous manner?
Her eye caught something tucked into the stableman’s waistband, something she did not quite equate with him. She bent down and tugged it out. It was a piece of vellum with writing on. As she tugged at it something else fell out. It was a small plainly wrought gold Roman crucifix. She picked it up. The gold was rich and red from an admixture of copper in the ore. She turned to the vellum. The writing on it was in Latin. She translated it easily enough. ‘If you want to know the answer to the deaths in Araglin, look beneath the farmstead of the usurper Archú.’
She frowned as she stared at it. It was simple Latin but clearly expressed and grammatically correct. She glanced down at Menma’s body. He had tucked the vellum in his waistband and clearly Dubán had not noticed it. It was no good asking what it meant at this stage. She folded it carefully and put it into her marsupium together with the gold crucifix.
‘Terra es, terram ibis,’ she muttered as she gazed down at the body. It was true enough. In a world of uncertainties it was the only dependable eventuality. We all came from dust and to the dust we would all return some day.
She turned towards the cave entrance. She was sure that now Dubán had departed there was no one else around. The cave was dark and silent. There were tools in the entrance and she saw an oil lamp with flint and tinder nearby. It was the work of a moment to light the lamp and move on into the darkness. There were signs that the cave had been recently worked.
She had not gone far when she observed the confirmation of her suspicions. There was a spot where there was a concentration of tool marks; a glittering stream along one wall almost at shoulder height. She moved towards it and reached out her hand to touch it. It flickered red gold in the light of the lamp.
A gold mine.
So was this what the mystery was really about?
She examined the stream of gold carefully. She had some knowledge of gold for it was mined in several parts of the five kingdoms, even at Kildare, in whose great religious house, founded by Brigid, she had spent most of her life as a religieuse. It was said that the Tigernmas, the twenty-sixth High King who ruled Eireann a thousand years before the birth of Christ, was the first to smelt gold in the land. Whether it was true or not, gold had almost replaced cattle as a unit by which goods, services and obligations could be measured. Gold, because of its durable quality, had many advantages over the traditional barter system. It was a common form of currency along with other metals such as silver, bronze and copper. Whoever exploited this mine would gain much wealth.
Indeed, things were beginning to fit into a pattern but there were still several pieces missing before she could fit them into a whole. Morna, the brother of Bressal, had been a miner and his knowledge had exploited this mine. Now Morna was dead. This was why Muadnat had so desperately tried to cling on to this land. But he was dead. Menma? Menma had apparently worked for Muadnat. But he did not really have the brains to exploit this mine on his own. And now Menma was dead. And what of Dubán who had killed Menma?
She turned hurriedly from the cave and made her way out into the welcoming daylight.
Menma’s body still lay on its back in the glade. The sun still shone and the song of the birds remained undiminished. It seemed so unreal.
What madness was passing through the valley of Araglin?
Fidelma crossed the glade and hurried into the shelter of the forest, making her way quickly towards her horse. The next step lay at Archú’s farmstead, she decided. For the second time, within a comparatively short space, she found herself pulling her horse over the rounded shoulder of the hills which separated her from the L-shaped valley of the Black Marsh in which Archú dwelt.
It was late afternoon when she began to descend towards his farmstead.
Scoth came running forward and greeted Fidelma with a warm smile.
‘It is good to see you so soon, sister. Where is Brother Eadulf?’
Fidelma told her, trying to keep her voice unemotional but the girl saw through the veil at once and reached out a hand.
‘Is there anything that can be done?’
Fidelma tried to shake herself free of the gloomy foreboding.
‘Nothing. Nothing until the fever breaks … if it breaks. Where is Archú?’
‘He is up at the top meadowland repairing a fence with one of Dubán’s warriors. There is news of a ravening wolf hereabouts and …’
Fidelma was disapproving and anxious.
‘It is not right that you should be left here alone. Surely one of the warriors should be here to guard you?’
‘The other is within call,’ Scoth assured her. ‘I do not think I need have any fear. Archú is easily able to observe if any strangers enter the valley.’
‘I came up over the hill. He has not appeared to have noticed my entrance.’
‘He saw you coming over the hill half an hour ago and told me to expect you,’ Scoth replied brightly. ‘I am not neglected. But you are here for a purpose, sister. I can see it in your eyes.’
‘Let us go into your house for a moment,’ suggested Fidelma.
‘Is it something to do with Archú?’ demanded the girl anxiously.
Fidelma guided her by the arm into the farmhouse.
‘It is probably nothing but …’ She reached into her marsupium and pulled out the piece of vellum. ‘Can you read Latin, Scoth?’
The girl wistfully shook her head.
‘I was only a kitchen servant. Archú says that he will teach me my letters when we are settled. His mother taught him.’
‘Well, this is a message in Latin. It tells me that if I require answers to the death
s in Araglin I should start looking here.’
Scoth coloured angrily.
‘That’s wicked. Who would try … oh,’ the girl broke off. ‘I suppose it was Agdae.’
‘Agdae?’ Fidelma shook her head. ‘I doubt if Agdae is capable of such a literate clue.’
‘A what?’
‘I do not think he wrote this. Why would he write it in Latin?’
‘I think it is part and parcel of the same plot to drive us off this land.’
‘What is?’
It was Archú standing at the door of the farmhouse regarding Scoth and Fidelma with a frown. He hesitated a moment and then continued. ‘I saw you arriving. I was finishing a fence in the high meadow. Is there more trouble?’
‘Someone has written to Fidelma telling her that we are responsible for the deaths in Araglin.’
Fidelma corrected her immediately.
‘That is not quite what I said, Scoth. I found a piece of vellum, Archú. Can read Latin?’
‘My mother taught me to decipher it,’ admitted the young man. ‘But I am not well versed in it.’
‘What do you make of this?’ She handed him the vellum. Archú took it and held it up.
‘If you want to know the answers to the deaths in Araglin look beneath the farmstead of the usurper Archú,’ he read in a hesitant fashion.
He looked at Fidelma in perplexity.
‘What does it mean?’
‘That is why I am here – to find out. I found it on the body of … a dead man.’
‘A dead man?’ he repeated bewilderedly.
‘Yes. Menma.’
The young farmer showed his astonishment.
‘But Menma was here this morning with a message.’
‘What was this message?’ Fidelma leant forward in surprise.
‘Something about Dignait being missing. I was to warn Dubán’s men to look out for her.’
‘Is this another attempt to blacken our name and drive us from the Black Marsh?’ demanded Scoth, clinging to Archú’s arm.
‘We must presume that some trail has been laid for me to follow. Let us see what we can find.’
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