The Spider's Web

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘By all means search the farmstead.’ Archú threw out his arms eloquently. ‘We have nothing to hide.’

  Fidelma took the vellum from his hands and rolled it up.

  ‘The message appears specific when it says “look beneath the farmstead”, Archú,’ she pointed out. ‘What lies beneath the farmstead?’

  The young man thought for a moment.

  ‘Nothing lies underneath the farmstead.’

  ‘Is there no area of recently dug earth that you have noticed? Perhaps …’

  Archú suddenly startled them by snapping his fingers.

  ‘I think I know what is meant.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Scoth.

  ‘I have remembered something my mother told me about a subterranean chamber. This farmstead was built on an ancient site when, in the times past, they built underground chambers for storing food to prepare against any period of hardship or inclement weather.’

  ‘Have you ever seen it?’

  ‘I can’t remember it. My mother said it was closed when I was a few years old because one of the children of a servant here was caught down there and died. Father Gormán was visiting at the time and it was he who fetched the child out and suggested the chamber be sealed up. So far as I know, it has never been opened since then. I had almost forgotten all about it until you prompted me.’

  Fidelma sniffed slightly.

  ‘It seems that the author of this letter has not. We must search out the entrance to it.’

  ‘That is impossible. I do not know where to start.’

  ‘Not so impossible. Our letter writer expects us to find it. Therefore it must have been in use recently.’

  The floor of the farmhouse was stone-flagged and some time spent tapping the stones revealed nothing. There was no hollow sounding echo nor was there any looseness of the flags.

  ‘Perhaps it is outside?’ Scoth suggested.

  They walked around the farmhouse but nothing seemed to invite them to investigate further.

  ‘What of that barn?’ demanded Fidelma, pointing to a nearby outhouse. It stood next to the one that was now a charred ruin.

  ‘It has not been cleaned and converted yet,’ Archú assured her.

  ‘It was used for keeping pigs in.’

  ‘Then this might be the best place to look,’ Fidelma suggested, leading the way to it.

  The place stank and the obnoxious odours caught at her throat. Archú had been right when he said that it had been used as a pigsty and barely cleaned.

  In spite of the fact that it was daylight, the place was gloomy and dank.

  ‘I have moved the pigs out and have been meaning to clean the place,’ Archú explained as Fidelma stood hesitating in the gloom.

  ‘Best get a lamp.’

  ‘I will get one,’ offered Scoth.

  It was some moments before she returned.

  Fidelma, holding the lamp high, entered the foul smelling barn and peered about. The floor was similarly flagged with stones. They seemed firm enough but then Fidelma noticed that in a corner of the straw covered floor there was a raised area of planking. Scraping the wet straw away with her foot she discovered it was a trapdoor. Bolts held it down to the floor.

  ‘This must be the entrance,’ she observed in satisfaction. ‘Hold this lamp, Scoth. Give me a hand, Archú. Let us clear this area and open the trapdoor.’

  It took them a while before the large wooden square was unbolted and raised back against one wall. Below, as she had guessed there might be, was a flight of rough hewn stone steps leading downwards. The man-made cavern was lined with dry stone walling surmounted by large lintels forming the roof.

  Fidelma took the lantern from Scoth and descended without a word. The steps led into a main passage, too low to stand up in but not so low that one would have to crouch on all fours. As Archú had said, in olden times these places were called uaimh talamh, an underground cave in which food was placed for storage to be used in hard times. The main passage was called a ‘creep way’ from which little chambers led off. The place smelled vile and its lack of use was certainly evident.

  Fidelma did not have to go far to see what she had come for. She was expecting something but was still not quite prepared for the body which revealed itself in the light of her lamp.

  It was Dignait. Her throat was cut. It needed no expert to see that. The wound was still red and gaping, even though the blood was congealing. Dignait had been dead for some hours. Fidelma forced herself to examine the wound carefully. It was but a single wound caused by a sharp implement almost severing the head from the neck. She had seen this type of wound twice before and again she was reminded of the slaughter of some animal.

  Archú helped extract the body from the underground storage space. Its removal was difficult but they finally hauled it up the stone steps and into the pigsty. Scoth had gone to fetch a lantern and by its light Fidelma carefully examined the body for anything which might explain this gruesome mystery. There was nothing.

  It was obvious to Fidelma that Menma must have brought the body of Dignait to this spot. She recalled how he had ridden out of the rath early that morning leading the ass with the heavy pannier on its back. She ground her teeth. Dignait’s body must have been in that pannier.

  ‘Was Menma left alone while he was here?’ she demanded.

  ‘After he delivered the message to Dubán’s men, who were with me in the high meadow, he came back to the buildings here on his own. But Scoth was here.’

  ‘I was in the house,’ Scoth affirmed. ‘Menma came to the house to make his farewell.’

  ‘Did you observe him arrive from the high field?’

  Scoth shook her head.

  ‘I was doing some washing and did not notice him until he called out to me.’

  ‘Then plenty of time for him to come back from the high meadow, see he was not observed and take Dignait’s body from the pannier and put it into the underground chamber before calling out to Scoth.’

  Scoth stared in horror at Fidelma.

  ‘The body was in the pannier? But how did Menma know where to put it? He must have known where the underground chamber was.’

  ‘Menma was related to Muadnat,’ Archú pointed out. ‘Muadnat knew this farm as well as his own.’

  They were interrupted by the sound of a horse cantering along the track.

  Archú swung round nervously but he immediately relaxed.

  ‘It is only Dubán,’ he said, adding unnecessarily, ‘that is why his men did not warn us of his approach.’

  Fidelma had an immediate feeling of unease as she saw the burly warrior approaching. She was still unsure of his motive for killing Menma.

  Dubán swung off his horse and greeted them with a warm smile. Then he saw the body at their feet.

  ‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘It’s Dignait!’

  ‘We found her in an underground storage space,’ Archú announced.

  The warrior crouched down to examine the body. Then he straightened up.

  ‘Well, that ends one mystery,’ he breathed softly. ‘I was told this morning that Dignait had disappeared after, apparently, feeding the Saxon poisonous mushrooms. What does this mean, sister?’

  Fidelma forced herself to appear at ease with the warrior.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘How did you make the discovery?’

  ‘I discovered this piece of vellum.’ Fidelma hastened to explain before anyone could mention Menma. She held it out to Dubán, watching his face closely. It seemed clear from his lack of reaction that he had not seen it before.

  ‘I do not understand,’ he commented. ‘This tells you to come here to search. But how does the discovery of Dignait’s body explain the mystery of the deaths in Araglin?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Fidelma carefully retrieved the vellum, ‘perhaps I am supposed to believe that Dignait was responsible for the deaths.’

  ‘Well that can’t be,’ Dubán pointed out. ‘It is obvious that the same hand who
killed Muadnat also slew Dignait. The knife wounds are too similar for it to be a separate hand.’

  ‘You are observant, Dubán,’ Fidelma agreed quietly.

  ‘War and death are my profession, sister. I am used to observing wounds. But whoever wrote that vellum gave us an unintentional clue.’

  ‘A clue?’

  ‘It is written in Latin. Few people in Araglin know Latin.’

  ‘Ah, just so,’ mused Fidelma. ‘And certainly, as I pointed out to Scoth, Agdae does not. So that rules him out. Do you know Latin, Dubán?’

  The warrior did not hesitate.

  ‘Of course. Most educated people know some. Even Gadra knows Latin as pagan as he is.’

  Fidelma turned to Archú.

  ‘I want you and Scoth to come into the rath at noon tomorrow,’ she told him and while he was attempting to protest she went on. ‘Dubán will instruct his warriors to escort you.’ She turned to Dubán. ‘And you will also instruct your warriors to bring in Agdae …’

  ‘We have not been able to find Agdae,’ protested Dubán.

  ‘You will find him at the brothel of Clídna. Make sure he has been sobered up by the time he reaches the rath. Oh, and bring Clídna with you as well.’

  Dubán was shocked.

  ‘Do you know what you are requesting?’ he demanded.

  ‘Exactly. Tomorrow I think we will be able to sort out the entire mystery.’

  Dubán’s eyes widened perceptibly.

  ‘Is this so?’

  Fidelma smiled without humour.

  ‘Will you instruct your men now about escorting those I have mentioned?’

  The warrior hesitated then inclined his head in agreement before moving off into the gloom hailing his men as he went.

  Fidelma turned quickly towards her horse.

  ‘Wait, sister!’ called Scoth. ‘Surely you do not mean to leave us. Why it is dusk. You will not get back to the rath until long after nightfall.’

  ‘Do not worry about me. I know the way by now. And there are things that I must do. I will see you and Archú at the rath tomorrow at midday.’

  She swung into the saddle and sent her horse into the enveloping gloom, urging it forward in a quick trot.

  She had not ridden more than half a mile into the darkness when she heard the sound of galloping behind her. She glanced about seeking shelter but the road here was long and open. There was not even a hedgerow behind which she could find cover.

  ‘Hóigh! Sister!’

  It was Dubán’s voice. Reluctantly she halted and turned in her saddle.

  Dubán drew up sharply alongside her.

  ‘It is not wise to ride off in the darkness,’ he admonished. ‘The finding of Dignait’s body does not make this valley safe.’

  Fidelma smiled thinly but her expression was lost in the gloom.

  ‘I did not think it would be,’ she replied.

  ‘You should have waited. I am going back to the rath, anyway. We will go together.’

  Fidelma would have preferred her own company rather than have to proceed in Dubán’s after what she had witnessed at the mine but there was no excuse. She must accept Dubán’s company or challenge him with her suspicions and her knowledge that he had killed Menma.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But I can handle most two-legged predators.’

  ‘So I have heard,’ Dubán agreed with a laugh. ‘However, I was thinking of four-legged beasts. Archú tells me that there has been trouble from wolves in the last day or so through the Black Marsh.’

  ‘Wolves are the least of my trouble.’

  They began to walk their horses leisurely together.

  ‘Ah, you are thinking of Agdae …’

  ‘More of Crítán,’ she spoke abruptly. ‘Remember, I had a fight with that young man and he may wish revenge.’

  Was there a hesitation in Dubán’s tone when he finally spoke?

  ‘Of course. I had forgotten. You need have no fear of Crítán. I am told that he has left Araglin for Cashel. Do you really mean it when you say that you think matters might be resolved after tomorrow?’

  ‘I usually mean what I say,’ Fidelma replied waspishly.

  ‘Then that will be a relief to Crón.’

  ‘And doubtless you …’

  What she was about to say was cut short by a plaintive lowing of nearby cattle. It was an odd, frenzied cry of fear.

  Dubán reined in his horse abruptly and gazed across the hillside into the twilight. Fidelma halted her mount beside him.

  She could see the shadows of the shaggy haired cattle moving restlessly in the semi-gloom and hear their curious protest.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, finding herself whispering.

  ‘I do not know,’ confessed Dubán. ‘I think something is worrying them. An animal, perhaps. I’d better have a look.’

  He slid from his horse and handed the reins to Fidelma.

  She sat watching the warrior move cautiously off towards the cattle into the gloom.

  It was chilly and she drew her cloak firmly around her shoulders. After a moment she became aware of Dubán’s horse snorting and tugging against its rein.

  ‘Whoa!’ she called irritably. ‘Hold still, beast.’

  Then, without warning, her own mount reared back on its hind legs, causing her to lose her grip and go tumbling over its flank, hitting the ground with her shoulder. It was lucky that the turf was soft and springy for it cushioned her fall and she lay winded for a moment, feeling more indignant than hurt that she had taken the tumble. She raised herself to her knees and began to rub her right arm which had taken most of the impact. She felt embarrassment that she had allowed herself to fall like some novice who had never been astride a horse in their life.

  ‘Hey!’ she cried, as both mounts began to trot off into the descending darkness.

  She took a hesitant step after them and a sudden coldness gripped her. Her ears detected the soft rustle of undergrowth nearby. Was that the sound of a low growl that she heard?

  She stood perfectly still.

  A long, low black shape emerged from the nearby underbrush and stopped. The eyes glinted in the gloom and its muzzle drew back showing sharp white canine teeth.

  The wolf stared up at her and let forth a deep throaty growling.

  Fidelma knew that if she made the slightest move the mighty animal would be on her, its great jaws seeking her throat, ripping and tearing. She tried to prevent herself from blinking; from even breathing. Fidelma had seen wolves before, had even been threatened but always when she was able to out-pace them on horseback or had some other means of protection. Wolves were the commonest predator in the five kingdoms but they usually kept to the mountain fastness or forest passes and attacked only when disturbed or found an unfortunate unarmed wayfarer on foot. There was easier prey in the country than humans such as the better tasting meat of farm animals or wild game like the deer herds.

  But here she was alone on foot with no weapons and only yards separating her from a large animal in search of prey. Her rational mind, working alongside the fearful emotions which swept through her, recognised the animal as a bitch, a hungry mother needing food to bring to its whelps.

  It seemed that an eternity passed as wolf and human stood gazing upon one another. Fidelma felt her body begin to shake and she knew that any sudden movement would be fatal.

  Then she felt something fly past her. Something seemed to hit the wolf for it uttered a terrible cry, a wild yelp, a rough hand caught her and propelled her aside, and even as it did so she saw the wolf turning and disappearing into the undergrowth.

  Then she swung round and was facing Dubán in the gloom.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the warrior demanded. His voice was anxious.

  She gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘I am not sure that I shall ever be all right again,’ she confessed. She breathed deeply several times to recover her equilibrium. She rubbed her arm carefully where he had grasped her. ‘You have rough hands for a warrior.’<
br />
  Dubán chuckled.

  ‘Leather gloves, sister. They save callouses. Now, we’d best find the horses. That wolf might bring the pack back in search of us.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ Fidelma was contrite.

  ‘For what?’ demanded the warrior.

  ‘For being such a fool as to lose the horses.’

  Dubán shrugged indifferently.

  ‘Even the best horseman cannot provide for every contingency, sister. The wolf was unnerving the cattle. It must have been circling through the underbrush behind you and suddenly startled the horses. I heard the cry and came hurrying back. Thank God there were a few stones on the ground and I let fly with them. You did well not to move for any movement would have been fatal.’ He paused and added. ‘But you were not hurt in the fall?’

  ‘Only my dignity is hurt,’ smiled Fidelma in the gloom. And the sense of pride in my own logic, she added silently. Had Dubán been the sort of person she was suspecting him to be then she would be lying back there with her throat ripped out by the ravening wolf.

  ‘Thank God it was only that and nothing more,’ replied Dubán. They turned and began to walk across the springy turf.

  ‘Do you really think the wolf might come back?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘From the size of it, it was a bitch.’ Dubán confirmed her own estimate of the wolf’s sex. ‘She’ll be back looking for food for her hungry cubs.’

  ‘Do they often come this close to the farmlands?’

  ‘More often in winter than in spring or summer. Sometimes they have been known to break into the rath itself and make off with chickens and even a piglet as I recall.’

  He halted and pointed.

  ‘Look, there are our horses standing by those trees. They did not go far.’

  Fidelma utter a silent prayer of thanks. She did not fancy a long trudge through the night.

  The two horses actually seemed pleased to see their erstwhile riders and moved towards them. They allowed themselves to be caught and mounted without any fuss.

  After a while, as they began to ride on Fidelma said: ‘You saved my life there, Dubán.’

  The warrior shrugged. He seemed embarrassed.

  ‘I took my warrior’s oath before Maenach, when he was king of Cashel, and swore to protect those in need.’