Table of Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Principal Characters
HISTORICAL NOTE
Also by
Copyright Page
For Father Joe McVeigh of Fermanagh – in memory of our public debate on the values of the Celtic Church and the Brehon Law system at the Irish Book Fair, March, 1994. Thanks for being a supporter of Sister Fidelma!
Even though I walk through the valley of the
shadow, I will fear no evil, for You are with me,
Your staff and crook are my comfort.
Psalm 23
Chapter One
Hunters were coming. Humans. The baying of their hounds echoed eerily through the narrow glen. Rising swiftly from the waters of a small central lake, a speckled, white-rumped, curlew flapped upwards, announcing its annoyance at having to leave a potential meal of choice crab behind; its long down-curved beak giving forth a haunting, plaintive cry – ‘coo-li!’, ‘coo-li!’. It rose upwards into the air until it became a mere black speck, moving in ever widening circles, against the cloudless azure sky. The only other object in that blue canopy was the large, bright, gold-white orb of the sun now settling towards the western half of the sky and whose rays caused the indigo waters of the lake to sparkle like a myriad of bright, glittering jewels as the beams caught it.
It was a hot, lazy day. But now, the sluggish atmosphere was being disturbed as a general alarm began to spread. An otter, with its long body and powerful tail curving behind, ran swiftly for cover with a hunched and rolling gait. On a mountain track, a fallow deer buck, with broad blade antlers, still covered by velvet growth, which would shortly be discarded when the rutting season arrived, halted with its nostrils quivering. Had the baying of the hounds not warned it, the peculiar scent of man, its only feared predator, would have caused the beast to turn and scramble upwards, over the shoulder of the hill away from the approaching menace. Only a single animal remained nibbling on the gorse and heather, apparently unconcerned by the frenzy which seized its fellow beasts. On a rocky protrusion stood a small, shaggy-haired, sure-footed feral goat, with its spreading horns. With its jaws rhythmically munching, it continued in its indifferent, lethargic stance.
Below, part of the valley was covered with a thicket of shrubs and trees which came down almost to the lakeside. This wood spilled through the northern end of the valley, tumbling to within fifty yards of the lake where low gorse and heather took over and spread through the rest of the basin. Most of the woodland growth consisted of the thorny brushwood of the blackthorn, with its tooth-edged toughened branches, looking little different from the cherry plums which grew amidst it, thickening the spread of the broad trunk oaks with their massive crooked branches and spreading crowns. Along a narrow, dark passage through this forest came the sound of a physical presence pushing rapidly through the restraining branches and the clinging shrubbery.
Out of the woodland thicket there burst the figure of a young man. He skidded to a halt, his chest heaving as he vainly sought to control his erratic, gasping breath. His eyes widened in dismay as he saw the vast, coverless expanse of valley before him, the sides moving gently upwards to the rock-strewn hills. A soft groan of despair came to his lips as he sought for a means of concealment in the bare landscape before him. He turned back towards the thicket but the sounds of his pursuers were close. Behind him, still concealed by the dense wood, he could hear them. The baying of the hounds had turned into frenetic yelps of excitement as they sensed the nearness of their prey.
Grim desperation etched the young man’s features. He began to stumble forward again. He wore a long costume of rough brown homespun, the habit of a religious. It was torn and some thorny branches had attached themselves to it where the wool had proven too strong for the smaller twigs to rip entirely away. Mud and even blood, where the thorns had encountered flesh, stained the young man’s clothing. Two things confirmed that the garment was, indeed, that of a religious. Firstly, he wore his head shaven at the front to a line from ear to ear, his hair flowing long at the back, in the fashion of the tonsure of St John which was affected by the religieux of Ireland. Secondly, around his neck he wore a silver chain on which was hung a silver crucifix.
The young man, who was in his early twenties, would have been handsome but now his features were twisted in anxiety, his face bore the numerous scratch marks of passing undergrowth. Traces of blood and bruising were to be observed on his ruddy cheeks. Above all, it was the fear in his wide dark eyes that distorted his features. The young man had given himself up to fear, his entire body oozed fear like the sweat which poured from it.
With a smothered cry, he turned and began to run towards the lake, his hands grabbing at his long habit, to stop it encumbering his feet and make his progress easier. He had long ago lost his sandals. His feet were bare, lacerated and caked with mud and blood. He was oblivious to the pain, for pain was the last thing that seemed to permeate his thoughts. Around his left ankle he wore an iron circlet of the sort hostages or slaves wore, for there was a circular link through which a chain or rope might be passed.
The young man had only proceeded a few yards towards the lake when he realised the futility of seeking any sanctuary there. There were only a few shrubs around it and nothing else. It had, for too long, been used as a watering spot by the wild life for there was not even long grass or gorse growing around it. Countless creatures had masticated the verdure into a short stubble over the years. There was no place for concealment.
With a curious whine of desperation, the young man paused and threw up his arms in a helpless gesture. Then he spun round towards the sloping hills where the feral goat still stood in aloof indifference. He began to scramble desperately upwards. His foot caught on the rag of the torn hem of his habit and he tripped and fell heavily; the little breath he had left was knocked from him.
It was at that moment that the first of his pursuers emerged from the forest behind.
Three men on foot came running out of the woods, each holding a leash at the end of which was a large mastiff, each beast straining and pulling, jaws slavering, yelping eagerly as they saw their prey. The three huntsmen spread out slightly but the young man was too exhausted to endeavour to escape. He had raised himself on an elbow and half lay, half sat, gasping as the men approached. There was a fearful resignation on his features.
‘Don’t unleash the hounds,’ he cried breathlessly, anxiety edging his voice, as the huntsmen came within earshot. ‘I will not run any more.’
None of the three made any reply but came to a halt before the young man, their hands firm upon the leashes so that the great hounds were almost within touching distance of him. They strained forward, whining in their eagerness to be at him, the spittle on their muzzles, their great rough tongues almost able to touch his skin. He could feel their hot breath and he cringed away.
‘Keep them back, for the love of God!’ cried the young man as his backward evasive movement caused them to strain forward further with snapping jaws.
‘Do not move!’ ordered one of the huntsmen roughly to the young man. He gave a swift tug on the l
eash to bring his animal under control. The other men quieted their dogs.
Now, out of the woods, came a fourth figure on horseback. At the sight of this figure, the young man’s eyes flickered nervously. The corners of his mouth pinched as though he feared this figure more than the straining mastiffs before him. The figure was slender, seated at ease in the saddle, and rode with loose rein, allowing the horse to amble forward as if out for a morning ride without an urgency to be anywhere. The rider paused for a moment, gazing upon the scene.
The rider was a young woman. A helmet of burnished bronze encased her head, under which no hair escaped so tight did it fit. A thin band of twisted silver was set around the helmet meeting at the centre with a gleaming semi-precious stone. Apart from that single circlet of silver, she wore no other jewellery. No cloak adorned her shoulders and her clothing was a simple saffron-coloured linen dress pulled in at the waist with a man’s heavy leather belt with a purse attached. From this belt, an ornate knife in a leather scabbard hung on her right side while on her left a longer scabbard was balanced with the intricately worked handle of a sword protruding from it.
The face was slightly rounded, almost heart-shaped and not unattractive. The skin was pale although there was a slight blush on the cheeks. The lips were well shaped but a trifle pale. The eyes cold and sparkling like ice. A cursory glance would have made one think the woman was young and innocently attractive but a second glance might cause one to dwell on the hardness of the mouth and the curious menacing glint in the fathomless eyes. The corner of her mouth twisted slightly as she saw the huntsmen and their dogs threatening the figure of the young man on the ground.
The leader of the huntsmen glanced over his shoulder and smiled with satisfaction as the woman walked her horse across to them.
‘We have him, lady,’ he called, stating the obvious with satisfaction.
‘That you do,’ agreed the woman in an almost pleasant tone which made her voice sound the more menacing.
The young man had recovered some of his breath now. His right hand was twisting nervously at the silver crucifix which he wore around his neck.
‘For pity’s sake …’ he began but the woman held up a hand in a gesture calling for silence.
‘Pity? Why do you expect pity, priest?’ she demanded in a hectoring tone. ‘I have enough pain of my own to cry for another’s pity.’
‘I am not responsible for your pain,’ returned the young man defensively.
The woman gave a sharp bark of staccato laughter which caused even the straining hounds to turn their heads momentarily at the unexpected discordant noise.
‘Are you not a priest of the Faith of Christ?’ she sneered.
‘I am a servant of the True Faith,’ the young man agreed, almost defiantly.
‘Then there is no mercy for you in my heart,’ the woman replied sourly. ‘On your feet, priest of Christ. Or do you wish to begin your journey to the Otherworld laying down? It makes little difference to me.’
‘Mercy, lady. Let me depart in peace from these lands and, I swear, you will never see my face again!’
The young man scrambled to his feet and would have rushed to her stirrup to plead at her foot had he not been held back by the threatening hounds.
‘By the sun and the moon,’ the woman smiled cynically, ‘you almost persuade me that I should not pour water on a drowning mouse! Enough! Nothing emboldens wrong doing more than mercy. Bind him!’
The last order was directed to her huntsmen. One of them handed the leash of his dog to another, drew a large dagger-like knife and moved to the nearest clump of blackthorn, cutting a stout pole some five feet in length. He returned, taking a rope, which he had carried wound around his shoulder, and motioned the young man to come forward. Reluctantly he did so. The pole was placed behind his back, between it and his elbows, and then the arms were tied so that the wood acted almost in the manner of a painful halter.
The woman looked on approvingly. When the binding was completed, by the expedient of another piece of rope tied loosely around the neck of the young man with the other end held in the hand of a huntsman, the woman nodded in satisfaction. She glanced up at the sky and then back to the group before her. The hounds had quieted, the excitement of the hunt having receded.
‘Come, we have a long journey before us,’ she said, turning her horse and moving off at a walking pace back towards the forest path.
The huntsman leading the prisoner advanced after her with the other two and the hounds bringing up the rear.
Stumbling, the young priest cried out once more.
‘For the love of God, have you no mercy?’
The huntsman jerked quickly on the rope, tightening it around the hapless young man’s neck. He turned to his charge with a black-toothed grin.
‘You’ll survive longer, Christian, if you save your breath.’
Ahead of them, the mounted figure of the woman continued on without concern. She stared straight ahead with a fixed expression. She rode as if she were alone, ignoring those who came behind her.
High up on the hillside, the feral goat stood, watching their disappearance back into the wood, with the same indifference that it had displayed throughout the encounter.
And eventually the circling curlew returned downwards to the lakeside in search of its interrupted meal.
Chapter Two
The religieux sat on a small boulder by the side of the gushing mountain stream, soaking his feet in the crisp cold water with an expression of bliss on his upturned face. He had his homespun brown wool habit hitched to his knees and his sleeves were rolled up as he sat in the hot summer sunshine, allowing the water to gurgle and froth around his ankles. He was young, and thick-set and wore the corona spina, the circular tonsure of St Peter of Rome, on his otherwise abundant head of brown, curly hair.
He suddenly opened his eyes and gazed reprovingly at a second figure standing on the bank of the stream.
‘I believe that you disapprove, Fidelma,’ he said chidingly to the tall, red-haired religieuse who was watching him. The young, attractive woman regarded him with eyes of indiscernible colour, perhaps blue, perhaps green, it was difficult to say. The downward droop of her mouth indicated her displeasure.
‘We are so near our journey’s end that I merely feel we should be moving on instead of indulging ourselves in pampering our bodies as if we had all the time in the world.’
The young man smiled wryly.
‘Voluptates commendat rarior usus,’ he intoned by way of justification.
Sister Fidelma sniffed in annoyance.
‘Perhaps the indulgence is rare and thereby the pleasure is increased,’ she admitted, ‘nevertheless, Eadulf, we should not delay our journey longer than is necessary.’
Brother Eadulf rose from his perch with a sigh of reluctance and waded to the bank. His face, however, wore an expression of satisfaction.
‘O si sic omnia,’ he announced.
‘And if everything were thus,’ rejoined Fidelma waspishly, ‘we would have no progress in life because it would be one long indulgence in bodily pleasure. Thank God that winter was created as well as summer to balance our sensitivities.’
Eadulf dried his feet roughly on the hem of his habit and slipped on his leather sandals.
They had paused in this spot to take a midday meal and fodder their horses on the green grass along the bank of the stream. Fidelma had tidied away the remains of their meal and repacked the saddle bags. It had been the strong midday summer sun that had persuaded Eadulf to cool his feet in the cold stream. He knew, however, that it was not his indulgence that really perturbed Fidelma. He had observed her growing anxiety these last twenty-four hours even though she did her best to keep her apprehension hidden from him.
‘Are we really so near?’ he asked.
Fidelma replied by pointing to the tall peaks of the mountains whose foothills they had entered that morning.
‘Those are the Cruacha Dubha, the black ricks. This is the border of
the lands of the clan of Duibhne. By mid-afternoon we should be in the country of Laisre. It is an almost hidden valley up there by that high peak which is reputed to be the highest mountain in this land.’
Brother Eadulf stared upwards at the bald peak which towered among the surrounding heights.
‘Are you regretting that you rejected your brother’s offer to send warriors to accompany us?’ he asked gently.
Fidelma’s eyes flashed a moment and then she shook her head as she realised that Eadulf meant well.
‘What point is there in this entire journey if warriors have to protect us? If we have to spread our teachings and Faith at the point of a sword then those teachings and our Faith must surely not be worth the hearing.’
‘Sometimes men, like children, will not sit and listen until they are made to,’ observed the Saxon philosophically. ‘A stick for the child – a sword for the adult. It helps concentrate the mind.’
‘Something to be said in that,’ agreed Fidelma. She paused and added: ‘I have known you too long to attempt to keep the truth from you, Eadulf. Certainly, I am apprehensive. Laisre is a law unto himself. While honour and duty make him answerable to my brother in Cashel, Cashel might be a million miles away.’
‘It is hard to believe that there is still an area of this land where the Faith is unknown.’
Fidelma shook her head.
‘Not exactly unknown; rather it is known but rejected. The Faith reached these shores scarce two hundred years ago, Eadulf. There are still many isolated parts where the old beliefs die hard. We are a conservative people who like to hang on to old ways and ideas. You have been educated at our ecclesiastical schools yourself. You know how many cleave to the old path and the old gods and goddesses …’
Eadulf nodded reflectively. Only a month ago he had returned with Fidelma to Cashel after spending a short time in the valley of Araglin where they had encountered Gadra, a hermit, who held staunchly to the old religion. But the Faith was still young in many other lands. Eadulf, himself, had been converted only after he had reached young manhood. He had once been hereditary gerefa or magistrate to the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk before he had fallen in with an Irishman named Fursa who had brought the Word of Christ and a new religion to the pagan Saxons. Soon Eadulf had forsworn the dark gods of his fathers and became so apt a pupil that Fursa had sent him to Ireland, to the great ecclesiastical schools of Durrow and Tuam Brecain.
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