The Leper's Bell

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Go on, Gorman.’

  ‘I came here and began to look round. The body was not exactly hidden and so I came upon it quite easily.’

  ‘And was it in the position that I first saw it?’

  ‘Exactly so, lady. I touched nothing, but, ascertaining the little man was dead, and certainly not wishing to touch a leper, I ran back and found Capa who was still searching the fair with Caol. We came here and then Capa returned to the fair for a moment. He said that he had told a man to go to fetch you.’

  Caol moved forward. ‘Capa and Gorman remained with the body while I waited on the edge of the wood for you.’

  ‘And so, Gorman, when you came upon the body, there was no sign of anyone else nearby?’

  ‘No, lady. As soon as I saw in what manner the little man had died, I looked quickly round, so far as my eyes could penetrate the wood, but saw no one nor any sign of anyone.’

  Fidelma nodded slowly and turned her gaze on Capa.

  ‘I need to be clear in my own mind about the sequence of events. How did the woman know you were looking for a dwarf in religious clothing with a leper’s bell? If the woman told you that she had seen the dwarf lurking at the edge of the woods here, why did you not come to investigate yourself?’

  Capa’s smiled was disarming.

  ‘I was asking some people if they had seen signs of the dwarf. I thought it might quicken our search if I did so. No one had seen him except this woman. I would estimate that she was some farmer’s daughter. She told me that she had seen this strange fellow while she was at the stream drawing water for her animals. Almost immediately, I saw Gorman,’ he indicated the raven-haired young warrior, ‘and told him to investigate. I went on asking people … and, shortly after, Gorman returned. The rest was as he narrated it, lady.’

  Fidelma sighed deeply.

  ‘Let us return to your tent, Fiachrae. Wait here,’ she added to Capa and his men, ‘for the coming of the herbalist. Impress upon him that I want a thorough examination of the body for sign of any affliction that he may have suffered from, and when it is done, one of you come to Fiachrae’s tent to report to me. Then I will come and speak to him. Make sure he is thorough in his examination.’

  Capa raised a hand in acknowledgement and Fidelma, with Fiachrae and Eadulf at her side, walked back towards the tent of the chieftain.

  ‘I don’t understand, cousin,’ protested Fiachrae. ‘I don’t follow any of this.’

  ‘No reason why you should,’ Fidelma replied shortly.

  Eadulf cleared his throat meaningfully. After all, this was Fiachrae’s village over which he had jurisdiction. Fidelma unbent a little.

  ‘I think this is the dwarf we were looking for. But I do not believe the dwarf was a leper.’

  Eadulf’s eyes rounded a little. ‘He did carry a leper’s bell.’

  ‘That is why I have asked that the body be examined by someone who can confirm my suspicion.’

  Back in the chieftain’s tent, Fiachrae went immediately to the jug of mead, pouring himself a large measure. Then he remembered his manners and turned, jug in hand, to Fidelma and Eadulf.

  ‘Will you join me?’

  This time Eadulf shook his head while Fidelma accepted.

  ‘A small measure,’ she added when she saw that her cousin was prepared to be generous with his liquor.

  ‘This has put a black cloud in the sky of our fair, cousin,’ muttered Fiachrae. ‘Who is this little religieux and who killed him? The slaughter was done in my territory and I am responsible for finding the evildoer.’

  ‘As a dálaigh, even though just visiting your territory, I take responsibility in that matter, cousin,’ Fidelma assured him.

  ‘But who is he?’ demanded Fiachrae. His eyes widened as if a thought had suddenly struck him. ‘I nearly overlooked something. I’d better inform the crossan, the little gleemen, just in case they know this dwarf.’

  ‘Good for you!’ exclaimed Fidelma. ‘I was nearly forgetting … ask them to gather at the place where the herbalist is making his examination. But on no account let them enter until I have seen the herbalist.’

  When Fiachrae left, Eadulf leant quickly forward to Fidelma.

  ‘I have formed a theory. The young warrior, Gorman - he had the ideal opportunity to kill the dwarf.’

  She returned his gaze evenly.

  ‘Why would you think that, Eadulf?’

  ‘He was more than keen to accompany us. He admitted he was in love with Sárait and wanted vengeance. Those are good reasons.’ His eyes widened suddenly. ‘If Aona is right, why, Gorman might even have been responsible for the death of Sárait’s husband Callada, and—’

  Fidelma interrupted him. ‘I think we are racing ahead without evidence. It is fascinating to speculate but as I have often told you, Eadulf, speculation without facts will take us nowhere. Why would he kill the dwarf? We have no knowledge that the dwarf killed Sárait, only that a figure, which Caol deemed a misshapen child, brought a message to her and she went out of the palace in answer to it. We are working on supposition.’

  Eadulf looked glum. ‘I had forgotten it was Caol who saw the misshapen child that night. Perhaps he recognised the dwarf and…’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘Let’s stop speculating until we hear further,’ she said.

  It was not long before Caol summoned them to the herbalist’s shop. It was a wooden hut hung with dried herbs and flowers and a fire smouldered in a hearth at one end, enhancing the thick aromatic atmosphere to the point where Eadulf started to cough and even Fidelma had to catch her breath. Even though it was still daylight, the interior was lit with lamps as the small windows let in hardly any light.

  The herbalist was old and querulous.

  ‘Well, the dwarf is dead,’ he snapped as they entered, peering in shortsighted fashion at them. ‘Dead,’ he repeated. ‘Why am I bothered further?’

  Fidelma moved forward to face the old man.

  ‘A fool can tell that he is dead. I instructed that you look for signs of any affliction.’

  The herbalist stared myopically at her.

  ‘Of course he was afflicted,’ he snapped. ‘He was a dwarf, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Again that is obvious,’ replied Fidelma sharply. ‘Did he suffer from leprosy?’

  ‘Did he … what?’ The herbalist was even more irritable. ‘I am being asked to teach a class in basic medicine?’

  Fiachrae had joined them and moved close to the herbalist.

  This is the sister of King Colgú, a dálaigh of the courts. Answer her questions in civil fashion or you may find that you will no longer be practising your art here,’ he said quietly.

  The herbalist blinked, peering once again at Fidelma.

  The dwarf did not suffer from leprosy,’ he said shortly.

  ‘So far as you could tell, has he ever done so?’

  ‘He has never done so. You do not, so far as I have knowledge, recover from of such a pestilence, even though some strangers claim such miraculous cures.’

  Fidelma compressed her lips.

  That is exactly what I wanted to confirm.’ Then she frowned. ‘What do you mean about strangers claiming cures?’

  The old man sniffed in deprecation.

  ‘A day or so ago, a stranger came through here… his companion translated his words as he did not have much of our language. His companion told me that he was a healer in his own land. He claimed he knew of various herbs which might cure the disease. I knew none of them except burdock, but that I only know as a plant whose juices can be used to treat burns and sores.’

  ‘And we eat the young stalks in salads,’ added Eadulf, who, having spent some time studying the apothecary’s art, knew a little of such matters. ‘But what were the others that this stranger spoke of?’

  The herbalist glanced at him in disfavour.

  Things with strange foreign names. Not even the blessed Fintan of Teach Munna in Laigin was able to cure himself once he contracted the disease. I heard Bishop Petrán once
argue that Fintan was cursed with the affliction because, during the great Synod of Magh Lene that was held when I was a young man some thirty-five years old, Fintan had argued against Rome’s authority. He went so far as to criticise some of the pronouncements of the Bishops of Rome, such as their approval of the Edict of Lyons when it was decreed that lepers should be cast out of society and go about ringing bells to warn others of their coming.’

  Fidelma gave an intake of breath showing her impatience.

  ‘I am sure we are not interested in curses, apothecary, nor, at this moment, in the rights and wrongs of our culture and our church.’ She glanced to where the body lay on the table on which the apothecary had conducted his investigation. It was now clothed in the robe again and laid out in a manner ready for burial. The small child-like form was a pathetic sight.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Herbalist, we need to take over your shop for a few minutes. Will you wait outside with my guard? Fiachrae, remain with me. Eadulf, ask Capa to tell the crossan to come in.’

  Eadulf escorted the disgruntled herbalist to the door and looking out saw Capa and his men standing with a group of half a dozen small people in garish clothing who were obviously the gleemen.

  ‘Let them come in now,’ he called to Capa.

  The warrior nodded and the gleemen moved forward curiously, passing Eadulf into the apothecary’s hut and peering about.

  They had hardly set foot inside the door when a wail suddenly came from one of them, who had pointed towards the body on the table. A great outcry arose from the others, anguish and despair rending the air. Fidelma had no need to ask if they recognised the dead man.

  One of them ran forward, tugging at the body as if to ascertain whether it was alive or not. Fidelma saw a strong likeness between his face and that of the corpse. Of the gleemen, he seemed the most distraught, and it was pitiful to see his distress.

  She moved forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I am sorry to have done this without forewarning. I just wanted to know if you or any of your companions would recognise the body.’

  The dwarf, blinking back tears, gazed up at her. His grief was plain.

  ‘Of course I recognise him. He was my brother and one of our company.’ He spoke as many of his companions did with a slight lisp in his speech.

  ‘And his name was Forindain?’

  The dwarf stared at her for a moment and then shook his head.

  ‘His name was Iubdán. Forindain was a part that I played.’

  Fidelma hid her bewilderment. ‘Your name is Forindain?’

  ‘I am known as such,’ replied the dwarf. ‘None of these are our real names. We use the names of the characters we play. I play Forindain in our little love tale of Bebo.’

  ‘You are not a religious, Forindain?’

  ‘That is the part of my character - Brother Forindain the Leper who betrays the Fay linn in the story. Why do you ask this…?’ The little man’s eyes wandered to the body of his brother, taking in the costume he wore. ‘Ah, I see.’

  Fidelma pursed her lips for a moment.

  ‘Which is more than I do. Forindain, I am sorry for the death of your brother. Believe me. But I am a dálaigh, and I am concerned to find out how and why he was killed…’

  ‘Was he murdered?’ demanded the dwarf, suddenly noticing the mark of the ligature round his brother’s neck. ‘Who would kill a crossan, a travelling player, who had no enemy in the world?’

  ‘That is what I must find out. Come with me to Fiachrae’s tent and let me discuss this with you and then, I promise, I will let you and your fellows mourn in peace.’

  The crossan hesitated, glanced again at his brother’s body, and turned to his companions.

  ‘We must contain our grief for a moment. One of you must go and inform the people that we must cancel our play. Another must ask that the body of our friend, my brother, be wrapped in a recholl, a shroud, and we need someone to prepare the fuat, the bier, to bear him to his grave. I also need to speak to the chieftain, Fiachrae, and find out where he can be buried. Do these things, my friends, that I ask of you while I go and speak with this learned dálaigh. When they are done, then we, together, may start on the time of watching and make this coming night into day with the blaze of our torches while we raise our voices in the traditional caoine”

  Fidelma was surprised by the intense cadences of his voice, the articulate phrases of his speech, until she realised that she had been overlooking the fact that the little man was a player, one of the crossan.

  Fiachrae led the small party back to the convention seat. Fidelma had despatched Capa and his men to refresh themselves until such time as they were called for. In the tent, Fiachrae indicated that everyone should sit, and called for an attendant to bring corma. To his obvious surprise everyone else refused it while he, himself, poured a liberal measure of the fiery alcohol into his mug.

  ‘You are in charge here, cousin,’ he said. ‘Handle it in your way.’

  ‘Thank you, Fiachrae,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. She had been prepared to do so anyway. She turned to the dwarf. ‘Now, how shall I address you? As Forindain?’

  The crossan inclined his head. ‘Since I joined the travelling players, it has become my name, Sister. My parents cast me out as soon as they could legally dispose of me … my brother and I, that is. We were fostered by an obláire, the chief of a company of players, and taught his skills so that we could use those attributes nature endowed us with for the entertainment of our fellows. You may call me Forindain as, after such a passage of time, I can answer to no other name.’

  Thank you. You know this is Fiachrae, the chieftain of Cnoc Loinge, and this is Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the land of the South Folk beyond the seas.’

  Forindain’s gaze swept them all before returning to Fidelma.

  ‘And you are a dálaigh, you say?’

  ‘My name is Fidelma, Fidelma of Cashel.’

  Forindain blinked in recognition. ‘Are you sister to Colgú, king of Muman?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I am. And you know of me?’

  ‘I have heard that you are a great dálaigh!

  ‘Nothing else?’

  The dwarf frowned. ‘Is there anything else that I should know?’ he countered.

  Fidelma was silent for a moment. Then she said: ‘Let us speak of your brother, Iubdán. Tell me about him.’

  ‘Little to tell. His life paralleled mine until it was cruelly taken away. Since we were fostered by the obláire we have been among the same crossan. We ran our small company of players together.’

  ‘And when did Iubdán join you here at Cnoc Loinge?’

  Forindain frowned momentarily. ‘Join us? He came with the company. I joined the company here and—’

  He paused abruptly and stared at her. Then his face went pale and a hand came up to his throat.

  ‘What troubles you, Forindain?’ Fidelma asked, trying to read what he was thinking by the expression in his amber-coloured eyes. Then she suddenly made an intuitive leap.

  ‘You were the one who came here from Cashel and not your brother, weren’t you?’

  ‘I will tell you my story, Fidelma of Cashel,’ Forindain said slowly, ‘and now I should like that drink of corma, Fiachrae.’

  Bewildered, Fiachrae rose and poured the drink. The dwarf swallowed it in one quick mouthful.

  ‘We were performing in Tailltenn, before the High King himself,’ he began reflectively. ‘We had planned a tour which took in the township by the abbey of Cluain Mic Nois and then that of Tír dhá Ghlas before we came here. We also planned to go to the town of Ros Cairbre and others, working our way east along the coast to Ard Mhór and then up to Cluain Meala and Cashel the capital itself.’

  Fidelma sat back, regarding him thoughtfully.

  ‘And why tell us this itinerary?’

  ‘Our company set out from Tailltenn all together, but at Tír dhá Ghlas, the land of the two streams, where we played before the settlement aroun
d the monastery there, I left the company.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We have never played in Cashel and so I decided to visit it before the company went there. I wanted to know whether it was a suitable place. Unfortunately, I was late reaching there. It was late afternoon and already dark. I knew that I could only spare a short time the following morning to look at the township. There was some disturbance going on and I felt it better to leave with a band of pilgrims who were heading west. I merely glanced round the main area of the township and then joined them at the inn.’

  ‘And you travelled to Cashel in your guise of Brother Forindain the Leper?’

  Forindain grimaced. ‘I often find it a useful method of travelling. It keeps people at a distance, as there are many in the land who think they can take advantage of one of my size. We do not dwell in a perfect world.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Eadulf, seeing the logic of the explanation.

  ‘Why was your brother clad in your costume?’ Fidelma asked the question with sudden sharpness.

  Forindain blinked.

  ‘We were preparing for the performance later this afternoon,’ he replied after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We always perform stories of the Faylinn, the little people, as it suits the whimsy of our presentation. I always play Brother Forindain the Leper. Iubdán often likes to try his hand at other parts and, in this manner, we can insure if one or other of our company is ill. There is always someone who can step into his or her part. So, this morning, Iubdán took my robe and bell and went off into the woods to rehearse.’

  ‘And he paid with his life,’ Fidelma said quietly. ‘He was mistaken for you.’

  Eadulf looked shocked. He had not reached that conclusion at all.

  ‘You have a quick mind, Sister … I mean, lady,’ the dwarf said slowly. It was obvious that the thought had occurred to him. ‘But I do not understand why he was killed - or, rather, why anyone would want to kill me.’

  ‘It was for something you did at Cashel,’ replied Fidelma.

  The dwarf looked puzzled. ‘Nothing happened at Cashel.’

  ‘Think back. Something happened to you,’ pressed Fidelma.

  ‘Little of consequence, except that I earned myself a screpall and then slept in a barn before joining the pilgrims who were going to Imleach. I prefer to travel on my own but, as I said, with the fuss going on, I could become anonymous among the pilgrims. I utilised their company on the road to Imleach. Company, I should say, in the broadest sense for I walked a distance behind them with my bell to serve as warning should they come too close. It is amazing how quickly one can travel as a leper.’