Fidelma frowned impatiently. ‘And?’ she prompted. ‘What is the connection?’
‘The note demands their release,’ he replied. ‘When they are freed then Alchú will be returned to us safe and sound.’
There was a brief silence.
‘So it was some new Uí Fidgente plot.’ Capa sounded almost triumphant.
‘It looks that way,’ admitted Finguine.
Colgú led them straight to his private chambers. On the table lay a single piece of bark. Fidelma picked it up at once and scrutinised it carefully.
‘Bark, as was the material on which the note was written that was given to the dwarf, Forindain, to bring to Cashel,’ she said quietly to Eadulf.
Colgú opened his mouth to ask a question but then closed it. His sister would explain in her own time.
Bark was a fairly common material for writing. The white epidermis of birch bark had been found by ancient scribes to be separable into thin layers which, when flattened and dried, could be written on. Fidelma examined it carefully.
‘It does not appear to be written in a hand that is used to the forming of letters. They are almost childish in the way they have been shaped, as if the person was copying some unfamiliar forms.’
Capa laughed cynically. ‘Who said the Uí Fidgente are literate?’
Fidelma ignored him. It was Eadulf who, leaning forward, pointed out that the formation of the letters might simply be a means to disguise the authorship.
‘Why disguise it?’ Finguine seemed amused by the idea. ‘The authorship is clear: it is a message on behalf of the Uí Fidgente. That cannot be disguised.’
Fidelma replaced the note on the table and looked round. ‘Before we can accept this note as genuine,’ she said quietly, ‘what proof do we have to support that conclusion?’
They stared at her in surprise.
‘You doubt that it is genuine?’ Colgú asked, puzzled.
‘It is no secret that my baby has been stolen, Fidelma replied. ‘Why wait nearly a week before issuing such a demand? It could well be someone trying to take advantage from the situation.’
Finguine was shaking his head in disagreement.
‘Had it been a demand for financial reward, then that might be a matter for consideration. But this is a political demand. Why would anyone demand the release of the Uí Fidgente chieftains if they were not in possession of the baby?’
‘It would be dangerous to dismiss the note as not genuine,’ added Capa. ‘The child’s life is at stake.’
‘I am the mother of the child in question,’ snapped Fidelma, angered by the implication that she did not care about Alchú. Then she added with firmness: ‘We must proceed logically.’ At the word ‘logically’ she felt a spasm of guilt but pressed on. She raised the note again and scrutinised the text. ‘It demands that the three chieftains of the Uí Fidgente should be released…’ She counted briefly. ‘From the time stipulated, they are to be released before the end of two more days…’
‘And they are then to be allowed time to cross the border into the territory of the Dál gCais at which time Alchú will be released and not before,’ finished Colgú.
‘It seems a curious gamble,’ Eadulf commented with a frown. ‘I am inclined to agree with Fidelma that we need some proof of the child’s well-being. If someone could be dishonest and take the opportunity to make a demand for financial gain, we should consider that someone could be dishonest enough to make an equivalent demand for political gain. Power and money are not dissimilar motives.’
Fidelma glanced across at him in appreciation. Eadulf could be trusted to accept logic when confronted with it.
‘It is also a gamble whether the Uí Fidgente are to be relied upon to fulfil their part of the bargain,’ she said.
‘In that matter, I agree with you,’ Finguine rejoined.
‘It is my opinion that, whoever “they” are, they should provide some proof that they hold Alchú before we release these chieftains.’
Everyone turned to Eadulf, who had spoken quietly.
‘Come, man, it is your own son about whom we are talking,’ Capa admonished, his handsome face flushed. ‘We should be making every effort to free him and return him to Cashel.’
Eadulf turned to face Capa directly. He spoke slowly and softly.
‘Do you think that I am not aware that I speak of my own son? I hope everyone present concedes the fact that I am as much concerned in his welfare as anyone else.’ Fidelma coloured a little and there was an uncomfortable silence. She had automatically opened her mouth to explain that, under law, Eadulf was wrong. While the welfare and rearing of a child in normal circumstances was the responsibility of both parents, if the father was a cúl glas, a foreigner, a stranger to the mother’s people, the full responsibility for how the child should be raised fell on the mother. But this was a time for such facts to remain unexpressed. Eadulf was continuing: ‘But this note, as Fidelma has said, is not proof that the person who wrote it has possession of the child, nor are any guarantees offered for his release. That is, in itself, strange when demanding a ransom. We need more information before acting.’
‘You would jeopardise your own son’s life?’ asked Capa, aghast. There was a murmur of support for Capa’s protest. Fidelma held up a hand to still it.
‘Eadulf is absolutely right,’ she said firmly. ‘A note appears out of nowhere with demands; demands that might eventually lead to endangering the kingdom, for these particular Uí Fidgente chieftains are bitter and remorseless enemies who were kin to their leader Eoganán who tried to overthrown my brother from the kingship and died in that attempt. We need proof that they hold Alchú.’
Finguine’s jaw was thrust out pugnaciously.
‘And just how do we get in touch with the anonymous writer of this demand, cousin?’ he asked with a tone of sarcasm. ‘There is neither name nor location on it. There is no way that we can send a return note.’
Fidelma regarded him with equal sarcasm.
‘What you say is true, cousin,’ she replied. ‘But a little imagination will work wonders. I suspect that the writer of this note will have good communications in or around Cashel and will soon pick up our response.’
Colgú pursed his lips thoughtfully.
‘We can make an announcement in the square of the town demanding that some proof must be furnished before we contemplate releasing the three chieftains.’
Fidelma nodded agreement.
‘I would also suggest that a herald be sent to place a similar message in every inn between here and the border of the Uí Fidgente country,’ added Finguine. ‘And that the message be sent to the current chieftain of the Uí Fidgente. In that way, the word will certainly get back to the writer of this demand.’
‘But what proof could be furnished?’ Capa frowned. ‘What proof short of producing the baby himself?’
‘No difficulty in that,’ Eadulf replied immediately. ‘Perhaps some item of clothing could be shown, something Alchú was wearing when he was taken. I am sure that Fidelma and I would recognise any such thing.’
He glanced towards Fidelma who nodded quickly. ‘Let it be done at once.’
‘Who shall I order to ride to the country of the Uí Fidgente?’ demanded Capa uneasily.
‘Perhaps you will volunteer?’ smiled Finguine. There was a quiet sarcasm in his voice and Fidelma had a feeling that there was no love lost between the two men.
The handsome commander seemed affronted. ‘I am commander of the guard here and not a techtaire - a herald. Moreover, I command the Nasc Niadh, the élite guard of the Cashel kings.’
Finguine smiled broadly. ‘I admit, it may be too dangerous for you to go among the Uí Fidgente.’
Colgú was shaking his head in disapproval at both men.
‘You both know well enough that the safety of a herald is sacred and inviolable - even the most bitter enemies treat a techtaire with the utmost respect. It is not merely the law but a matter of honour that any herald has a guarantee
of safe passage even through enemy territory. Capa, it is because you are my guard commander that I send you on this task. I will ask Cerball the scribe to write several copies of our demand that you may take with you. Make sure one is posted on the door of the inn here and thence all inns between here and the country of the Uí Fidgente.’ He looked towards his sister, who indicated her approval of his action.
Capa was clearly not happy at the order. He appeared to think that the role of a techtaire was beneath him. But he said nothing further, bowing his head in reluctant obedience towards the king.
‘I am sure that by this means we will find whoever wrote this ransom demand,’ Fidelma said in satisfaction. ‘And we will soon know whether it is a genuine demand or a means of tricking us into releasing our enemies.’
‘I’ll find Cerball and tell him to come here,’ Finguine offered.
Colgú agreed, adding: ‘While we wait for Cerball to draw up the notices requesting proof, Capa, you’d better fetch my standard, which you will carry as a techtaire. You will find it in the chamber at the end of the corridor where my sister’s chambers are situated.’
Fidelma and Eadulf stayed with Colgú awhile to bring him up to date with the results of their trip to Imleach and Cnoc Loinge before returning to their own chambers. As they were passing along a cloistered walkway by an open courtyard, Eadulf suddenly paused by an arch and looked across the stone quadrangle. Frowning, Fidelma paused also, glancing across Eadulf’s shoulder.
‘We weren’t told that he was back in Cashel,’ Eadulf said softly.
The object of his scrutiny was the tall, gaunt figure of a religieux, standing talking with an elderly member of the cloth.
‘Bishop Petrán,’ Fidelma observed. ‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’
Eadulf admitted as much. ‘I remember what your brother suggested about enemies within. Do you think that Petrán or any of his followers are capable of kidnapping?’
‘He is a human being, and once fanaticism takes over as our faith we are capable of anything, Eadulf,’ she pointed out. ‘But I doubt whether Petrán would have conspired to release the Uí Fidgente chieftains. He has always been loyal to the Eóghanacht and not to the Dál gCais. But I thought my brother said that Petrán had been sent on a tour of the western islands about a week ago? He could not have completed such a task already. So what has brought him back to Cashel?’
As if he had heard her whispered question, Bishop Petrán had turned and spotted them. He said something to his companion, then walked across the quadrangle towards them. He halted in front of the archway under which they stood.
‘God be with you, Fidelma, and with you, Brother Eadulf.’ The elderly bishop greeted them in a manner that sounded more suited to intoning the last rites. It was a hollow voice of mourning.
Eadulf’s eyes narrowed in dislike but Fidelma replied in formal manner.
‘God and Mary be your guide, Bishop Petrán. What brings you back to Cashel so soon? I was told that you had only recently departed to the western islands.’
The bishop sniffed dismissively.
‘An unexpected matter arose and I proceeded no further than the abbey of Coimán on the coast. I did not even set foot on shipboard.’
‘Nothing serious, I trust?’
The bishop shook his head. Obviously he did not feel the necessity to speak further on the subject. He cleared his throat hesitantly.
‘I have just heard of your loss. My … er, my condolences. I will say a mass for the repose of the soul of Sárait, who was an obedient daughter of the Faith…’ he hesitated again, ‘and I will pray for the safe return of the child.’
Eadulf grimaced sourly.
‘You will pray for our son, Alchú?’ he asked with emphasis. ‘My wife is most appreciative of such a gesture.’
Bishop Petrán blinked at the quiet belligerence in his voice.
‘It is not a gesture but my duty as a servant of the Faith.’
‘But I thought you disapproved of our son? Indeed, you do not even approve of our marital union,’ Eadulf continued, without disguising the sneer in his voice. Fidelma tried to give him a warning glance but he was not looking.
Bishop Petrán’s pale cheeks had reddened a little.
‘I have my beliefs, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham,’ he replied irritably. ‘It does not prevent me from being concerned with the fate of the son of the sister of my temporal king.’
‘Or my son?’ snapped Eadulf. ‘You surprise me. I thought you condemned all marital unions between the members of the religious as inspired by evil, especially those unions wrought between women of your land and the men of my country?’
Fidelma stirred uncomfortably at his side. She had been shocked into silence by Eadulf’s verbal attack on the elderly bishop. Once again, she was dumbfounded at seeing this new, angry side to Eadulf’s nature. It both astonished and concerned her.
‘This is not the time to speak of theological differences, Eadulf,’ she admonished. ‘We should thank the bishop for his spiritual concern.’
Eadulf snorted in disgust.
‘I have spoken of your appreciation. Yet I do not give thanks for that which should be a natural reaction. Petrán and I both know well that we hold differences that are irreconcilable. I have to say, however, that I find his words sanctimonious and lacking in sincerity.’
Bishop Petrán took a step backward, his eyes wide. The flush deepened as his expression hardened into dislike.
‘I have no knowledge of how your people treat their bishops, Saxon,’ he said coldly. ‘Indeed, I know that only a generation or so ago they had not even heard the Word of the True Faith, let alone had bishops to guide them. My people had to teach them, so maybe you are still in the process of learning. However, in this land, the bishops are treated with respect.’
Eadulf’s eyes were like pinpricks of fire. His face, too, was flushed with anger.
‘Respect is something that a Saxon, whether bishop or king, has to earn, Petrán. It is not given as a right. I have spent enough time in Rome and Gaul to know that you hold a very narrow view of the Faith. I upheld Rome at the great Council of Whitby and not even the Bishop of Rome, who is the Father of the Faith, preaches or condones those things that you teach.’
Bishop Petrán actually smiled, albeit a grimace without warmth.
‘I presume that you mean my teaching that for the religious only celibacy is the true path to God?’ he demanded. ‘In that case, I should remind you what the great Gregory of Rome said - that all sexual desire is sinful in itself.’
Eadulf uttered a short sharp bark of laughter.
‘Then he must mean that desire itself is intrinsically evil. How can that be? Did God not create men and women and the means to procreate? Do you say that God created something that is fundamentally evil? Something that is sinful?’
Bishop Petrán’s face darkened for a moment.
‘Do not question the word of a great saint. Gregory the Great is God’s infallible word. He is not to be challenged.’
‘Then you must condemn the great abbot and missionary Columbanus who defied him? Columbanus adhered to the ecclesiastical customs and teachings of the five kingdoms of Éireann, and when challenged by Gregory he wrote in defence of those teachings. Do you argue that the Faith is closed to such challenge and debate?’
‘Columbanus was a Laigin man who should have been content to remain abbot of Bangor in the northern kingdom. His pride in arguing with Gregory was sinful.’
Eadulf shook his head sadly. ‘You are prejudiced in your beliefs. That makes you a bigot.’
Bishop Petrán twisted his lips into an ugly sneer. ‘Heraclitus wrote that bigotry was a sacred disease.’
‘And that prejudice is the child of ignorance,’ riposted Eadulf.
‘And Aristotle pointed out that some men are just as sure of the truth of their opinions as are others of what they know,’ intervened Fidelma, raising her voice sharply as she tried to mediate in the argument.
; ‘When I travelled in Rome,’ went on Eadulf, ignoring her, as did Bishop Petrán, ‘I learnt that even Christ’s own people in Judaea believed that marriage was the prominent symbol for the relationship of God to his people, that marriage and family were in the centre of life and celibacy was not recognised as having any religious value. Very few Bishops of Rome have so far argued that the only route to God would come through celibacy.’
Bishop Petrán scowled as he replied.
‘The Faith, the congregation of bishops, is moving slowly to an acceptance of the teaching that the way of achieving greater devotion to God and victory over the world’s evils is to live the celibate life. For those religious who achieve it, it is to achieve a place in the hereafter as great as martyrdom.’
‘And I have no intention of achieving either martyrdom or celibacy,’ replied Eadulf. ‘Nowhere is it decreed by God or Christ that those who follow the Faith must abandon a normal life. Even those who a few centuries ago started to practise sexual abstinence as though it was a possible vocation did so in the belief that it was a transitory ritual during the brief time they thought they had to wait while the form of this world was passing away before the Kingdom of Christ arrived.’
The bishop shook his head in exasperation.
‘I have my belief, Saxon. I know I am right. I am fighting to keep the truth safe.’ He suddenly held out his hands, each balled into a fist. ‘I grasp that truth tight in these hands for protection.’
‘And your grip might kill it, Petrán,’ interposed Fidelma softly, speaking again in an attempt to end the argument. ‘Let each of you have his own truth for the time being. We have other matters of more immediate concern. I thank you, Petrán, for your prayers and good wishes.’
The Leper's Bell Page 13
