Valley of the Shadow

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘I came in and saw you bending over him. There was no one else here.’

  ‘What have you to say in reply to this, Fidelma?’ asked Laisre, regarding her in some bewilderment.

  ‘I was following Brother Solin,’ Fidelma explained. ‘I lost him on the path outside. I was turning back to the hostel when I heard a sound from the stable. A figure came out and disappeared into the night. Then I heard a groan. I went inside and found Brother Solin. He was dying. He whispered something to me that does not make sense. A piece of Latin. Then he expired. I was just about to call the watch when Artgal stuck the point of his sword against my back.’

  Artgal guffawed in derision.

  ‘There was no one here except you,’ he repeated.

  ‘You have the word of a dálaigh of the Brehon courts for the truth of what I say as well as the word of an Eóghanacht princess!’

  ‘Perhaps that is not enough,’ replied Artgal, refusing to be intimidated by her.

  Laisre held up his hand for silence.

  ‘In this case, Fidelma of Cashel, Artgal is right. Your word is not enough. Why were you following Solin in the first place?’

  ‘Because …’ Fidelma hesitated, not wishing to reveal her suspicions. If there was some plot to overthrow Cashel, she wondered who else would be involved. Artgal misread her hesitation for guilt and turned in triumphant amusement.

  ‘Because she was angry at his presence,’ the warrior interposed. ‘We all saw her anger in the council meeting yesterday. There is always some conflict among these Christians. I heard her saying that Armagh and Imleach were rivals, both seeking power over our lives. They are squabbling with one another for the right to dictate to us. That’s the root of this matter, believe me.’

  Everyone knew of the animosity between Solin and Fidelma. Laisre cast a dubious look at her.

  ‘It is a plausible motive.’

  ‘No. My reason to be suspicious of Brother Solin was a simple one.’ Fidelma had been thinking furiously. ‘He rose in the night and left the hostel. What good intention does someone have for so doing? I was suspicious of that. So I followed him.’

  ‘You claim that you saw a person standing at the stable door?’ Laisre reflected. ‘I don’t suppose that you could identify who it was?’

  ‘Of course she can’t!’ interrupted Artgal.

  ‘Let her reply,’ advised Laisre, gazing intently at Fidelma.

  Fidelma felt a conflict, not wishing to reveal Orla’s presence until she had investigated herself, but she realised that she must now justify herself to Laisre.

  ‘Yes, I can,’ she answered to Laisre’s visible surprise. ‘But I would prefer not to reveal the name until I have had a chance to investigate.’

  ‘Investigate?’ They were startled by the voice of Murgal who had entered the stable unnoticed. ‘If there is an investigation, it is not you, lady, who shall conduct it. I am the Brehon here.’

  Laisre glanced at his Druid as if he would dispute this but then shrugged.

  ‘Murgal is right, Fidelma of Cashel. You are a suspect in a murder. You can no longer act as a dálaigh. So you must cooperate with us. Tell us the name of the person who you saw outside the stable.’

  ‘If you can,’ Artgal added with a sneer.

  ‘I saw the lady Orla,’ Fidelma said quietly.

  Laisre gave a sharp intake of breath. There was an expression of astonishment on his face.

  ‘What perfidy is this?’ demanded Artgal angrily. ‘She seeks to put the blame of her deed on the sister of our chieftain! The wife of our tanist!’

  ‘I seek only the truth,’ replied Fidelma firmly.

  Murgal was staring at her with open suspicion.

  ‘Will this bring the truth nearer, by insulting your host, the chieftain of Gleann Geis, by claiming the lady Orla is a murderess?’

  ‘I said that I saw her emerge from the stable …’

  ‘The lady Orla, indeed?’ snapped Artgal. ‘This is an affront to all our people, Laisre!’

  Laisre’s face had grown taut.

  ‘If you had given any other name but that one, Fidelma, I might have inclined to a lenient approach and might have even believed you.’

  Fidelma thrust out her chin defiantly.

  ‘I can only speak the truth. Find Orla and bring her forth to deny my truth.’

  Laisre stood undecided for a moment.

  ‘This is a bad business, Fidelma of Cashel. But this business is better discussed in my council chamber. Artgal, go to the chambers of Colla and Orla and request my sister’s presence. Do not even hint at what has happened here or why she is summoned.’ He turned abruptly to Murgal. ‘You are my Brehon. You will come with us and advise on procedure and judgment.’

  Murgal inclined his head gravely. He signalled to Rudgal and the other guard to come forward.

  ‘One of you stay here with the body. Ensure that nothing is touched until I say so. The other may accompany us.’

  ‘Wait!’ cried Fidelma as Rudgal moved forward and took her by the arm.

  Laisre was moving through the door but halted and turned to regard Fidelma questioningly.

  ‘What is it? Do you wish to change your story?’ he demanded.

  ‘How can I alter what is the truth?’ replied Fidelma in irritation. ‘No; if I am supposed to have killed Solin, even as Artgal entered the stable, then I would have used a knife to kill him. Examine the wound in the body, Murgal. You are a Brehon. How did he die?’

  Murgal moved over and took the torch from her hand, bending over the body and examining it carefully.

  ‘One wound, a stab straight through the lower rib cage,’ he announced.

  ‘It is not disputed that Brother Solin was stabbed to death,’ Laisre said, with a quick glance at Artgal, who had also stayed after Fidelma had called out.

  ‘Artgal says that he saw me bending over Brother Solin’s dying form; saw me rising from the body, believing that I had just killed the man.’

  ‘That is exactly as I saw it,’ Artgal agreed.

  ‘Very well. I demand to be searched now for the knife.’

  ‘What?’ frowned Murgal.

  ‘Search me for the weapon with which I killed Brother Solin. I have not moved from this spot since Artgal came upon me. There has been no time for me to have concealed or cast away that weapon.’

  Laisre hesitated and exchanged a hesitant glance with Murgal.

  The saturnine Druid rose from the body and handed the torch to Rudgal.

  ‘Then with your permission, Fidelma of Cashel … ?’

  He moved forward and ran his hands impersonally through her clothing. His search was thorough, systematic and dispassionate.

  ‘She has no weapon hidden on her person,’ he reported.

  ‘Now look on the floor by the body,’ instructed Fidelma. She knew that no weapon would be found there as she had already cast around in a quick examination when she had seen how Brother Solin had come by his mortal wound.

  Laisre sighed deeply.

  ‘We will search, Fidelma. Though you must already be sure that we will find nothing.’

  ‘I am only sure that I did not commit this killing.’

  Murgal turned to Rudgal’s companion, for Rudgal himself had taken up a position just behind Fidelma in the manner of her escort.

  ‘Search, then, and if you find anything at all, bring it to us in the council chamber. Artgal, you have your instructions. Bring Orla to the chamber. Rudgal, you will escort Fidelma of Cashel.’

  With Laisre leading the way and Murgal following, they made their way across the courtyard. Only a few people had been disturbed by the noise of Artgal’s alarm and had gathered, whispering among themselves in the courtyard. Fidelma looked anxiously for Eadulf but he was not there. However, she saw the white-faced Brother Dianach at the hostel door.

  Rudgal leant close to her and whispered apologetically in her ear.

  ‘I hope that we will be able to solve this mystery quickly, Sister. But there will be much ill feelin
g at your accusation of Orla. She is well liked in Gleann Geis.’

  In the council chamber Laisre clapped his hands and a servant came forward to relight the oil lamps and stir the embers of the grey fire into a dancing display of sparks before adding fuel to rekindle it.

  Laisre sat uncomfortably in his chair of office and motioned Murgal to be seated at his side. He indicated Fidelma to be seated before them while Rudgal took up a discreet position just behind her chair.

  ‘This is a very bad business, Fidelma,’ muttered Laisre uneasily. ‘This morning we were due to conclude an agreement.’

  ‘I am fully aware of that.’ There was coldness in Fidelma’s voice. ‘Perhaps that is no coincidence? We have already been prevented from such a discussion once before.’

  She stared directly at Murgal when she spoke. His face showed anger as he realised her implication.

  ‘My chieftain,’ he said harshly, ‘as your Brehon, I should conduct this matter from now on.’

  Laisre gestured that he relinquished the matter to Murgal. The Brehon gave Fidelma a sallow smile.

  ‘At the moment your case is not good, Fidelma. What have you to say to the proposition put forward by Artgal as to your motive?’

  ‘No argument on theology is worth resorting to violence as a resolution,’ replied Fidelma.

  ‘Yet it is not unknown that people of your Faith have violent arguments on matters which are pointless to most people. We know, for example, how many clerics here argue against the authority of Rome and now we hear that Imleach does not even agree with the authority of Armagh. Surely you all worship the same God?’

  Fidelma smiled thinly.

  ‘That itself is arguable.’

  ‘This Brother Solin was so certain that he represented the true way to your God and that all others dwelt in ignorance. I suppose you also argue that your way is the only way?’

  Fidelma shook her head.

  ‘I would not be that impertinent, Murgal. There are many paths to the same objective. We can be absolutely certain only about those things that we do not properly comprehend. To have a path through life made certain is the aspiration of most people in this unclear and uncertain existence. But certainty is often an illusion. We are born to doubt. Those who know nothing, doubt nothing.’

  Murgal’s expression was one of amazement.

  ‘If I did not see that you carry the symbols of the new Faith, Fidelma of Cashel, I would swear that you were of the old Faith. Perhaps you are wearing the wrong cloak?’

  ‘My Faith is the best armour in which to travel through life but it is the worst cloak.’

  There was a silence as they tried to work out her meaning. It was broken by the sounds of voices outside and Artgal threw open the door. Colla, looking as if he had just risen from bed, a cloak wrapped around him, entered. Behind him, came Orla, looking sleepy and tousled-haired. Fidelma was surprised to see Orla’s dishevelled appearance as if she, too, had just been awakened from a deep sleep. She also had a cloak wrapped around her nightgown.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Colla. ‘What demands our presence in the middle of the night? What has happened? There are people standing around the courtyard in whispering groups.’

  Fidelma noticed that Artgal was standing just inside the door with a grin of satisfaction on his features.

  ‘Has Artgal not informed you of what has taken place?’ Fidelma asked suspiciously.

  Colla shook his head emphatically.

  ‘He simply roused us and told us that Laisre wished to see us in the council chamber at once.’

  Murgal intervened in annoyance.

  ‘I am in charge of these proceedings,’ he announced. ‘I am conducting these proceedings in my office as Brehon.’ He turned to Orla. ‘Orla, were you at the stables within the last hour?’

  Orla’s look of bewilderment could surely not be feigned. Fidelma began to have a sinking feeling. Could she have been mistaken? No; she was certain.

  ‘Are you making some jest, Murgal? If so, it is in poor taste.’

  ‘I am not jesting. Where have you been this last hour?’

  ‘In the same place that I have been since returning after last evening’s festivities,’ Orla replied perplexed. ‘In my husband’s bed. We have not stirred until Artgal came knocking upon our door.’

  The tanist’s wife was very convincing.

  ‘And Colla will doubtless confirm this?’ smiled Murgal grimly.

  ‘Of course I will,’ Colla snapped irritably. ‘We have not stirred these last few hours. Now, what does this mean?’

  ‘I can sympathise with your annoyance, Colla,’ Murgal replied. ‘There is worse to come. The cleric from Armagh, Solin, was stabbed to death in the stable within this last hour.’

  Colla let out a low whistle of astonishment and Orla’s expression of bewilderment seemed to grow broader.

  ‘But what has this to do with us? Why do you ask if I had been at the stable … ? Oh!’ Her eyes grew rounded as she stared at Fidelma. ‘I had told you that I would kill that pig! You think that … but it was just a figure of speech. I did not do so.’

  Laisre intervened diplomatically.

  ‘Someone thought that they had seen you there.’

  ‘Well, it was not I,’ replied Orla firmly.

  ‘And I can vouch for that,’ added Colla.

  Murgal glanced at Fidelma.

  ‘I do not think there is anything to be gained in pursuing this matter, Fidelma. Do you?’

  However, Fidelma turned to Orla.

  ‘Yet you do remember telling me that if you met Brother Solin again you would kill him? That was yesterday afternoon?’

  Orla flushed.

  ‘Yes, but, as I said, I did not mean …’

  ‘You said that you would kill him,’ repeated Fidelma firmly. ‘Why was that?’

  Orla bit her lip, glancing at Colla under lowered eyebrows.

  ‘He insulted me.’

  ‘In what way?’ Fidelma pressed.

  ‘He … he made a lewd suggestion.’

  Colla started angrily at his wife’s confession.

  ‘What? You did not tell me this.’

  Orla was dismissive.

  ‘I was able to deal with the lascivious pig. I slapped him hard. When I said that I would kill him if I saw him again …’

  ‘You did not mean it?’ intervened Laisre. ‘Of course, we understand.’ He looked at Fidelma. ‘The fact is, my sister’s movements are now accounted for whatever opinions she held of Brother Solin.’

  Fidelma opened her mouth to protest but then shrugged her shoulders in silent acquiescence.

  The testimony of Colla and the apparently genuine look of astonishment on Orla’s face told her that no amount of questioning would change their story. Fidelma was a pragmatist. She knew that it was no use pounding away at an immovable object even if she had irresistible force on her side and that she had not. Only she knew what she had seen at the stable door had been a reality.

  ‘I will not pursue the matter for the moment. Let Orla and her husband return to their disturbed slumber.’

  Colla hesitated. He looked to Murgal and to Laisre in curiosity. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with a belligerence.

  ‘Just what is going on here? Why does Fidelma of Cashel accuse my wife of this deed apart from those hasty words which she uttered?’

  Murgal held up a hand in pacification.

  ‘As to who killed Solin, we have yet to be certain, Colla. And it seems that it was only a mistake of identity by someone passing in the darkness that involved Orla. Best go to bed now and we will discuss this in the morning.’

  Reluctantly, Colla escorted his wife from the chamber.

  Artgal was still standing, with folded arms, grinning smugly at Fidelma.

  ‘I was right all along, eh?’ he sneered at her. ‘Your ruse did not work.’

  Murgal appeared annoyed at the warrior’s attitude.

  ‘I would return to your tasks, Artgal. You may leave Fidelma of Cash
el with us and remember this, she is still the sister of the king at Cashel. Respect is her due, whatever she has done.’

  Artgal ground his teeth in anger at this rebuke but turned on his heel and left.

  Murgal returned a troubled look to Fidelma.

  ‘Artgal is in many ways primitive to the extent that he has little respect for anything which cannot hurt him. Cashel and the reach of its king is too abstract a thought to him. He cannot give you respect unless he experiences the power your brother represents.’

  Fidelma shrugged indifferently.

  ‘If you have shame, forebear to pluck the beard of a dead lion.’

  ‘An interesting thought,’ Murgal mused. ‘Is that your own epigram?’

  ‘Martial. A Latin poet. But I do not want respect for who my ancestors or relatives are. Only for what I am.’

  ‘That is an argument that might not count with Artgal,’ interposed Laisre. ‘At the moment you are someone accused of murder.’

  Fidelma felt that they had fenced enough.

  ‘The one thing that I am sure of is that I saw Orla at the stable.’

  ‘It cannot be so,’ Laisre rebuked her. ‘Unless you now accuse both Orla and Colla of lying.’

  ‘I can only say what I saw,’ Fidelma insisted.

  ‘Orla is my sister.’ Laisre was unhappy. ‘I can assure you that she is not one to lie. Colla is my tanist, my heir-elect. You accuse him of lying to protect his wife? If that is the sum total of your defence then you would do well to reflect on matters.’

  ‘So you have both decided that I am as guilty as Artgal claims that I am?’

  Murgal’s expression was dour.

  ‘You are a dálaigh, Fidelma. You know the procedure that must now be undertaken. Tell me, what else am I to conclude from what I have heard? We have a witness in Artgal. In counter claim, you have accused the sister of our chieftain. Her husband is a witness to the fact that she was not where you claim she was. And your only argument is to call her and her husband liars.’

  Laisre was flushed. It appeared that the offence of Fidelma’s charge had finally sunk into him. He was unable to restrain the anger from his voice.

  ‘I have to warn you, Fidelma of Cashel, and with all respect to your rank, when you accuse my sister of murder and then lying, you go too far.’