Valley of the Shadow

by Peter Tremayne

  Eadulf’s eyes almost started from their sockets as he viewed the great pagan idol.

  ‘Soli Deo gloria!’ he gasped. ‘What is that?’

  Fidelma was unperturbed.

  ‘It is Lugh Lamhfada – Lugh of the Long Hand – who was worshipped in ancient times …’

  ‘And still is, here,’ Orla reminded her grimly.

  ‘An evil apparition!’ breathed Eadulf.

  ‘Not so,’ Orla said sharply. ‘He is a god of light and learning, renowned for the splendour of his countenance; the god of all arts and crafts; the father of the hero Cúchulainn by the mortal woman Dechtíre. The god whose festival we celebrate at the feast of Lughnasadh which is next month when we harvest our crops.’

  Eadulf crossed himself swiftly as they passed the impassive seated figure whose grey stone eyes stared at them indifferently.

  They rode silently along the valley road towards the distant ráth. Eadulf found himself confirmed in his first thoughts that this was a wealthy enclave. The mountains which gave protection from the winds also encouraged crops to grow while, at the same time, by catching the rain clouds, causing the valley to be fertile. Here and there, the heavy rainfalls over the millennia had formed little patches of bogland but, all in all, it was fecund country with trees bearing fruits as well as an abundance of grain crops. Sheep, goats and cattle held to the high ground pastures.

  As they passed, now and then, people stopped to stare at them; some greeted Orla with familiarity which she acknowledged. Fidelma had the impression from their appearance that here, in spite of a difference of religion, dwelt a content and self-sufficient people. It puzzled her for it did not seem to balance with the terrible sight which had met their eyes in the glen outside this valley.

  As they approached the grey granite walls of the ráth, Fidelma saw that it was no mere ornamental fortress. In spite of the natural defences of the valley which surrounded it, its great walls and battlements, as well as its situation at the head of the valley, were so constructed that, should a hostile force break through the gorge, a few warriors could still defend it from an entire army. It had been constructed by experts in the martial arts. Again the question crossed Fidelma’s mind why such a small clan would need to have such defensive structures in a valley already naturally defended?

  Of course, in the old days, when tribe fought against tribe for the best territories and to increase their wealth, such fortresses were widely spread throughout the five kingdoms. Cashel itself had been raised to protect the E6ghanacht from their more jealous neighbours, just as the other great fortress capitals of Tara, Navan, Ailech, Cruachan and Ailenn had also been built. But, while this ráth was nowhere near the size of the others, it was a strong and well-built fortress with several buildings of two and even three storeys in height. She could even observe a large squat watch tower.

  She was aware of several sentinels staring down at their approach from the walls of the ráth and women as well as men were crowding to see their arrival. Two warriors stood before the open gates of the fortress. Fidelma noticed that these were heavy timber doors of oak, reinforced with iron and iron hinges. She noticed that the hinges were well greased and the doors, though standing wide open, had the appearance of being other than mere ornaments. Above this gateway, a banner of blue silk on which was embroidered a hand holding a sword aloft, was fluttering in the breeze – the emblem of the chieftain of Gleann Geis.

  A tall, fair-haired warrior, standing by the gate, held up his hand in respectful greeting.

  ‘You have returned without your escort but with two strangers, Orla. Is anything amiss?’

  ‘I am escorting the emissary from Cashel to my brother, Rudgal. Artgal and the others will follow soon. There was … was a matter they had to investigate.’

  The fair warrior’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as his glance fell first on Fidelma and then on Eadulf. But he stood aside respectfully while Orla led the way through the gates into a large flagged courtyard surrounded by a large complex of buildings. The square was traditional with a large oak tree growing in its centre. Eadulf was now observant enough about custom to know that the tree was the crann betha, the tree of life, or totem of the clan. Eadulf knew that the tree symbolised the moral and material well-being of the people. If disputes arose between opposing clans that one of the worst things that could happen was that the rival clan raided the other clan’s territory to cut down or burn their rival’s sacred tree. Such an act demoralised the clan and caused their rivals to claim victory over them.

  Two young boys came running forward as Orla slid from her horse.

  ‘The stable lads will take your horses,’ Orla announced as Fidelma and Eadulf followed her example and dismounted. The boys took the reins from them while they unstrapped their saddle bags.

  ‘I presume you will want to refresh yourselves from the arduous journey before you meet my brother and the others?’ the wife of the tanist continued. ‘I will show you to our guests’ hostel. After you have bathed and eaten, my brother Laisre will doubtless want to greet you in the council chamber.’

  Fidelma indicated that arrangement suited them well. One or two people crossing the courtyard of the ráth greeted Orla and then turned their gaze on Fidelma and Eadulf with undisguised interest. Orla made no attempt to explain who they were. A young girl came running forward.

  ‘What brings you back so early, Mother?’ she demanded. ‘Who are these strangers?’

  Fidelma could see the likeness between Orla and the girl immediately. The girl was about fourteen, not much more. Her manner of dress and jewellery showed that she was past the age of choice in that she was regarded as an adult. She had her mother’s dark, abundantly curly hair and flashing eyes. In spite of her youth she was attractive and aware of her allure for she carried herself with a coquettish self-aware attitude.

  Orla greeted her daughter with absent-minded distance.

  ‘Who are these Christians, Mother?’ insisted the girl, obviously recognising their manner of dress. ‘Are they prisoners?’

  Orla frowned slightly and shook her head.

  ‘They are emissaries from Cashel, Esnad. Guests of your uncle. Now be off with you. Plenty of time to greet them later.’

  The young girl, Esnad, turned an openly speculative gaze on Eadulf.

  ‘That one is foreign but quite handsome for a foreigner,’ she ventured with a flirtatious expression.

  Fidelma tried to hide her amusement while Eadulf blushed furiously.

  ‘Esnad!’ snapped her mother in irritation. ‘Be off!’

  The girl turned with a backward smile at Eadulf and walked slowly across the courtyard, her hips swaying slightly suggestively. Orla heaved a sigh of exasperation.

  ‘Your daughter is at the age of choice?’ observed Fidelma.

  Orla nodded.

  ‘It is hard to find a husband for her. I fear that she has her own ideas. She is a trial, that one.’

  She continued on, leading them to a large two-storey building set against one of the outer walls of the ráth. Orla opened the door and stood aside.

  ‘I will send the hostel keeper to you and, when you are refreshed, she will bring you to Laisre’s chamber.’

  She inclined her head briefly to Fidelma and then left them to their own devices.

  In the security of the main room of the guests’ hostel, a room where the guests obviously ate and where meals were prepared, Fidelma threw her saddle bags on to the table and sank into the nearest chair, giving a deep sigh of exhaustion.

  ‘I have spent too long on horseback, Eadulf,’ she remarked. ‘I have forgotten what it is to relax in a chair.’

  Eadulf glanced around at the accommodation. It was a comfortably decorated room with a fire already lit above which a cooking pot was steaming and emitting pleasant aromas.

  ‘At least Laisre’s guests seem well provided for,’ he muttered. The room stretched the entire length of the building and there was a long table with benches on either side and a couple
of more elaborate wooden chairs. This was obviously the dining area. At the far end, by the fire, were all the accoutrements for cooking. There were four doors leading to other rooms on the lower level. Eadulf put down his saddle bags and crossed to them, taking a quick look inside.

  ‘Two bathing rooms,’ he announced. He opened the other doors, grunted in disgust and crossed himself. ‘The others are the fialtech.’ The Irish term came easily to him for the ‘veil house’ was a colloquialism for a privy and had been picked up from the Roman concept. Many religious believed that the Devil dwelt within the privy and it had become the custom to make the sign of the cross before entering it.

  A wooden staircase led to the upper level. Here Eadulf found there were four small rooms, cell-like affairs. He peered into each one in turn, noticing the wooden cots already laid out with their straw mattresses, woollen blankets and linen sheets. After a moment or so he retraced his steps downstairs to where Fidelma was still stretched in her chair.

  ‘There seems to be two other guests,’ he observed. ‘Rich guests by the look of their baggage in the cubicles. And one is obviously a cleric.’

  Fidelma looked up in surprise.

  ‘I was not told to expect anyone else at this meeting. Who could it be?’

  ‘Perhaps Bishop Ségdae has sent some other cleric to represent him and the abbey?’ hazarded Eadulf.

  ‘Hardly likely since he concurred with Colgú’s delegation of me. No, no cleric from Imleach would come here.’

  Eadulf gave a shrug.

  ‘Didn’t the woman, Orla, say that Ultan of Armagh had sent an emissary to them? Well, we shall know soon enough who the cleric is and who his companion is. We …’

  He was cut short when the door of the hostel burst open and a portly, elderly woman bustled in. She wore a beaming smile and walked with a rapid gait, hands folded in front of her. She bobbed swiftly towards Fidelma and then made a similar obeisance to Eadulf. Her eyes twinkled from beneath deep folds of flesh. She seemed almost spherical in girth.

  ‘Are you the hostel keeper?’ asked Eadulf, regarding her with slight awe, for she seemed to fill the room with her presence.

  ‘That I am, stranger. I bid you welcome. Tell me how may I serve you?’

  ‘A bath,’ Fidelma requested immediately. ‘And then …’

  ‘Food,’ interposed Eadulf, in case she neglected his order of preference.

  The wreaths of flesh quivered.

  ‘A bath you shall have and that immediately, lady. Since we already have guests, the water is even now heated. And there is food ready to be served.’

  Fidelma rose and indicated her satisfaction.

  ‘Then proceed to draw a bath for me … what is your name?’

  The hostel keeper bobbed again towards her.

  ‘I am called Cruinn, lady.’

  Fidelma tried hard to keep a straight face for the name implied one who was round and the name certainly fitted the circular shape of the hostel keeper. The woman stood smiling, apparently unaware of the struggle taking place to mask her features.

  ‘Tell me, Cruinn,’ Eadulf intervened, catching Fidelma’s eye and distracting the woman in case Fidelma lost her struggle, ‘who is staying in the hostel with us?’

  The fat woman turned to him.

  ‘Why, someone who believes in your God. A noble from the north, I think he is.’

  ‘A noble from the north?’ Fidelma intervened, abruptly serious.

  ‘Well, he is richly dressed and with much fine jewellery on him.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘No. That I don’t. But the other, his companion, is called Brother Dianach and is his servant, so I believe.’

  ‘They are from the north, you say?’ repeated Fidelma as if to make sure there was no mistake.

  ‘From the distant kingdom of Ulaidh, I am told.’

  Fidelma stood thoughtfully.

  ‘If this is Ultan’s emissary, I wonder what Armagh seeks in this …’ She nearly said ‘godforsaken place’ but it seemed, as the populace did not believe in God, it was not the best of descriptions. Orla had said that Ultan of Armagh had sent gifts to Laisre the chieftain. Gifts from Armagh. But that didn’t make any sense. Why would Armagh send gifts to a pagan chieftain in a kingdom where it had no jurisdiction and where the people did not even follow the Faith? The rotund hostel keeper interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘I have little idea who they are or what they want. I only know that people come and stay and then I must work. Better people stay where they belonged than travelled from one place to another.’ Cruinn sighed deeply, a curious wheezy sound and an action which caused her figure to wobble dangerously. ‘Well, it is not my place to complain but that is my view. Come, lady, I will draw your bath first.’

  ‘I will wait here,’ Eadulf offered, ‘and perhaps there is mead that I might refresh myself with while I am waiting?’

  ‘You will find it in the cask there,’ indicated Cruinn, speaking over her shoulder as she propelled Fidelma to one of the bathing chambers. ‘But the second bathing tub is ready should you wish to take your bath now.’

  Eadulf caught Fidelma’s eye and bit his lip.

  ‘In that case, it will save time if I bathed now.’ He gave in reluctantly.

  As a Saxon he always found the bathing customs of the people of Éireann somewhat extreme. They washed twice daily, with the second wash being a full body bath. Every guests’ hostel had its bath house or houses, each with a large tub or vat for which there were several names but most usually dabach. After the bath, guests would anoint themselves with sweet scented herbal potions.

  Not content with a complete bath in the evening, which was called fothrucud, they would, immediately on rising in the morning, wash their face and hands. In both bathing and washing they used a tablet of a scented fatty substance called sléic or soap, which they applied with a linen cloth and worked into a lather. They would even have, at certain times, ritual steam baths in what they called Tigh ’n alluis or ‘sweating houses’ where, in a small stone cabin, great fires were kindled so that the place became heated like an oven and the bather would enter and stay until they were perspiring after which they came out and plunged straight into a cold stream. Eadulf disapproved of this practice vehemently. Surely this was a way to an early grave? His own people were not so enamoured of bathing.

  The upper classes of the Saxons bathed weekly, usually a swim being deemed sufficient for the cleansing process. Eadulf was not a dirty person in body, manners or habit but he still felt that the bathing rituals of Éireann were excessive.

  An hour later they were finishing their meal when the door of the hostel opened and in came a heavy-jowled man. That he was a cleric was not in question. He wore the tonsure of St Peter but he was clad not in the simple robes that most religieux wore but in elegant silks and embroidered linens and with a bejewelled crucifix the like of which neither Fidelma nor Eadulf had seen since they were in Rome together. Fidelma eyed the man in disapproval. Here was someone whose riches seemed to betray the very teachings of Christ.

  The eyes of the man were dark and watchful. They had a curious quality of staring, unblinkingly, like the eyes of an animal watching its prey. The eyes were made small by the largeness of the surrounding features. He was a short man, stocky rather than fat, although the fleshy face made one think he was obese until one noticed the powerful muscular shoulders and thick arms.

  ‘I am Brother Solin,’ he announced officiously, ‘secretary to Ultan, archbishop of Armagh.’ He intoned his introduction in accents which corroborated that he was from the kingdom of the Uí Néill of Ulaidh. There was something about him which caused Fidelma to take an immediate dislike to him. Perhaps it was the way he stared at her with an almost speculative gaze which left no doubt that he was a man judging her as a woman and not as a person. ‘Orla has informed me of your arrival. You are Sister Fidelma and you must be the foreign cleric.’

  ‘You are a long way from Armagh, Solin.’ Fidelma rose, unw
illingly, but courtesy prompted her to be civil in respect to the position of the northern religieux.

  ‘As you are from Cashel,’ the stocky man replied, unperturbed, coming forward and seating himself.

  ‘Cashel is the royal seat of this kingdom, Solin,’ responded Fidelma coldly.

  ‘Armagh is the royal seat of the Faith in all five kingdoms,’ the man replied with an airy dismissal.

  ‘That is a question to be debated,’ snapped back Fidelma. ‘The bishop of Imleach makes no such recognition of Armagh.’

  ‘Well, it is a debate of such delicacy that we should leave it for a future time.’ Solin dismissed the matter with an air of boredom.

  Fidelma stood her ground. She decided to be direct.

  ‘Why is the secretary of Ultan of Armagh in this small corner of my brother’s kingdom?’

  Solin poured a mug of mead from the jug on the table.

  ‘Does Cashel forbid wandering clerics?’

  ‘That is no answer,’ Fidelma responded. ‘I think you are hardly in the category of a peregrinator pro Christo.’

  An angry look came into Solin’s eyes.

  ‘Sister, I think you forget yourself. As secretary to Ultan …’ he protested.

  ‘You secure no privileges of rank before me. I am envoy to my brother, the king of Cashel. Why are you here?’

  The blood drained momentarily from Solin’s face as he fought his rage at being so bluntly addressed. Then he regained his composure with a tight smile.

  ‘Ultan of Armagh has sent me to the farthest corners of the five kingdoms to see how the Faith prospers. He has sent me with gifts to distribute …’

  The door opened again with abruptness.

  It was Orla. She entered with an annoyed expression furrowing her features.

  ‘What does this mean?’ she snapped. ‘My brother is being kept waiting. Is this the courtesy Cashel extends to its chieftains?’