The Leper's Bell

by Peter Tremayne

  Fidelma looked at him in surprise. ‘Then what?’

  ‘If there is some evil plan and they and their accomplices are responsible for the kidnapping of your child, we shall discover it. Whatever befalls, if your child has not been returned by tomorrow, you will know that whoever was responsible did not intend to keep their word. There was to be no exchange.’

  Fidelma’s face became a taut mask hiding her anguish. What Conrí was saying was correct.

  Conrí reached forward a hand and touched her lightly on the arm.

  ‘I am sorry for your troubles, Fidelma of Cashel. Believe me. But this matter must be resolved. When we find the chieftains and those responsible, where may we find you? At Cashel?’

  Fidelma was about to confirm it but then changed her mind. ‘It is not exactly safe for Uí Fidgente warriors to be seen near Cashel at the moment. My horse is exhausted and I was going to seek rest at my brother’s hunting lodge, which is not far from here, at a place called the Well of the Oak Grove. It is only a few miles in that direction.’ She indicated with a wave of her hand. ‘The keeper of the lodge has a son whom I can send back to Cashel with a message that I am resting there for two nights. When you have discovered your quarry you will find me there. But the day after tomorrow I must start back for Cashel.’

  Conrí gave her a quick smile of reassurance.

  ‘With God’s grace, lady, we will find you at the Well of the Oak Grove before tomorrow evening.’

  He raised his hand in salute to her and then urged his horse along the path towards the west, followed by his companions.

  She felt a curious pang of isolation after they had departed. Now her thoughts were even uneasier than before as she turned the events over in her mind. There were only two possibilities. Conrí was lying to her. Or, if he spoke the truth, there was some plot among the Uí Fidgente to overturn Conrí and the new chiefly house by reinstating the three hostage chiefs, which would mean a return to war between the Uí Fidgente and the Eóghanacht. Her lips thinned as she contemplated the prospect. She sat thinking for a few moments. Then she sighed when she realised that she could come to no conclusions. She eased her tired horse into motion.

  Eadulf was aghast as he regarded the herbalist and his wife.

  ‘You no longer have Alchú? What did you do with him?’

  The woman looked nervously at her husband.

  ‘Speak!’ demanded Eadulf in a tone of anger as he rose from his seat, almost in a threatening manner.

  ‘Had we known what you have just told us, we would have come directly to the palace of Cashel, believe me,’ muttered the herbalist.

  ‘Speak!’ demanded Eadulf again. ‘What happened?’

  The man raised a shoulder as if to indicate helplessness.

  ‘Believe me, Brother, we thought the baby had been abandoned. We sold the child to a worthy protector.’

  ‘Sold …?’

  Eadulf sat back down abruptly. The shock took all animation from him. He looked wordlessly from one to the other of them.

  ‘You see, we had our son,’ went on the herbalist. ‘Our own flesh and blood. We thought that we had been the instrument of saving the other baby for a reason … to help us, as it is a hard life travelling from settlement to settlement in the hope of selling cures and potions and salves. When we fell in with the lord of… you see, it was a means of obtaining some money so that we might settle in one place.’

  ‘The lord of where?’ Eadulf spoke coldly. ‘What lord?’

  ‘During our journey here we camped further up the valley near those mountains you see to the north. Well, we were encamped within the shadow of them. We were sitting before our fire and my wife had fed our son and the baby with red hair. We were resting when we heard a bell sound…’

  ‘A bell?’

  ‘Into the light of our lantern and campfire came a grey-cloaked figure. He was clad from poll to foot in his robes so that we could see nothing of him, but he rang a bell to announce his approach. Behind him, in the shadows, stood a tall warrior, dark and menacing. The figure seated himself on a log on the far side of the fire and asked for a drink and food.’

  The herbalist paused a moment before continuing.

  ‘I gave him food and like any passing traveller he asked who we were, where we had come from and about the two babies. Now I reflect, he asked us if we had come from Cashel.’

  ‘Did you tell him of the story of finding Alchú?’ demanded Eadulf.

  ‘I saw no harm in that, although I did not know the baby was called Alchú, nor anything other than what I told you.’

  ‘The man said that we had been good servants of the Faith by performing the act of charity in saving the baby,’ the woman said hastily.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He suggested that if we wished to disburden ourselves of the child, he was lord of the territory and he would take the child to his church to be brought up in comfort and in the service of the Christ.’

  ‘And you agreed?’ gasped Eadulf.

  ‘The man placed three silver screpalls on the log to compensate us for our trouble.’

  ‘We thought that we were doing the right thing,’ added the woman.

  ‘So you handed the baby to a total stranger…?’

  ‘Not exactly. He told us that he was a lord of that area. Lord of the passes, he said. A warrior attended him, the one who waited silently in the shadows. On our agreement, the tall warrior picked up the child. I am unsure whether this lord had the use of both arms. He certainly had a dragging foot. I found it curious that he carried a hand bell.’

  ‘What name did you say this man gave you?’ Eadulf asked.

  ‘We do not know. The warrior simply called him lord.’

  ‘You know no more? What direction did he ride in? Those mountains are tall and spread widely.’ There was now an anguished helplessness in Eadulf’s voice.

  ‘There can be few lords in this region of his description,’ offered the herbalist. ‘For myself, I have no wish to know who he was, nor do I wish to encounter him again.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘In truth, Brother, I felt there was something evil about him.’

  ‘Yet you handed a innocent baby to his care?’ Eadulf was aghast.

  The herbalist and his wife exchanged another look. The woman grimaced towards Eadulf.

  ‘We did not know for certain that there was anything ill about the man. It was a feeling. The warrior treated him with respect and the man promised to take the child to a sanctuary. We thought that we were doing it for the best. For the sake of the baby. We thought that he had been abandoned.’

  Eadulf gestured to the walls of the abbey behind them.

  ‘I am told that this is the biggest abbey in these parts. The only sanctuary. Have you spoken with the steward? Perhaps this lord brought the child here?’

  Again the herbalist looked at his wife.

  ‘Corbnait insisted that I make an inquiry. She became worried later. No, the man did not bring the child here. But those mountain passes are the gateway to a great peninsula which is the land of the Corco Duibhne. Perhaps the man took the child there.’

  Eadulf suppressed a deep sigh. Then a thought occurred to him, and he stood up with an impatient gesture. His next step was clear. Perhaps the steward at the abbey of Coimán would be able to identify the leper who was a lord in this territory. Eadulf stared sternly at the herbalist and his wife.

  ‘Let me tell both of you this fact. I have no authority in this kingdom, although I am husband to the lady Fidelma of Cashel. You may know that she is a dálaigh and highly respected by the Brehons of the five kingdoms of Eireann. We speak not only of my child but of hers, and she is sister to Colgú who rules this kingdom. Whereas I accept your story and believe that you acted in all innocence, it may be that you also acted in greed. You say you thought you were giving the baby up for its own future well-being. I shall say this to you … it is a matter that still has to be argued before the Brehons of Cashel. I cannot compel you to d
o anything. But if you were to ask my advice as to what you should do now, I would tell you this. Return to Cashel, ask for Fidelma, and if she is not there ask for Colgú the king himself and tell either one your story. Tell them neither lies nor embellishments. The truth must be told. You will not lose by telling that truth.’

  The herbalist looked nervous. ‘Will you be there to speak for us?’

  ‘God willing, I shall be,’ answered Eadulf determinedly. ‘But first I have to find this leper lord and retrieve my son.’

  He turned, and taking his horse he walked slowly to the gates of the abbey.

  It was but a few moments before he was admitted to the chambers of the rechtaire, the steward of the abbey. He was a pleasant man, anxious to help once he knew Eadulf’s status and influence.

  ‘We are loyal to the primacy of Imleach, Brother. Bishop Ségdae, who holds the pallium of the Blessed Ailbe, patron of all Muman, is our guide. How can we help you?’

  ‘Evil has befallen Cashel,’ Eadulf began, but to his surprise the steward nodded.

  ‘News travels quickly, and bad news travels faster than a plague. We have known of the disappearance of the lady Fidelma’s child - your child,’ he hastened to add, ‘for over a week.’

  ‘Did the herbalist and his wife bring you this news?’ asked Eadulf thoughtfully.

  The steward made a negative gesture.

  ‘Some messenger from Cnoc Loinge brought it, I think. But you refer to the travelling herbalist and his wife who camp outside the abbey? They seem to take no interest in anything, although the man recently asked me if a baby had been brought into the safe care of this abbey, at which I told him no.’

  ‘Did he mention anything else?’

  The steward was looking thoughtful.

  ‘Do you suspect them of abducting the child?’ he asked. ‘Why, I…’

  Eadulf shook his head. ‘They were the engine by which the child was brought into this part of the country, Brother Steward,’ he said, ‘but it was, I believe, by accident. I do not think that they knew the identity of the child.’

  The steward was shaking his head. ‘Well, they have kept their own counsel, whatever it is.’

  ‘The herbalist did not ask about a lord in this land, one who called himself “lord of the passes” and seemed physically impaired to some extent?’

  The reaction was surprising. The steward reared back in his seat and actually crossed himself.

  ‘You obviously know this person,’ Eadulf observed sharply.

  The steward swallowed hard.

  ‘There is only one who fits that description. Uaman the Leper. Uaman, son to Eoganán. Eoganán was the prince of the Uí Fidgente who was slain at Cnoc Áine a few years ago.’

  Eadulf groaned aloud.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Well of the Oak Grove was a pleasant little vale that Fidelma had known from childhood. It was a spot where she and her best friend Liadin, who had grown up to be her anam chara, used to play. Fidelma felt a quick pang of anguish as she thought about her soul friend. If only Liadin had not tried to involve her in her murderous plot against her husband and child. The law was supposed to be about rehabilitation of the wrongdoer, about forgiveness, for was it not said that everyone has some means of redemption in them? Yet Fidelma could find no way of forgiving her friend for her betrayal of her.

  Some centuries before in the five kingdoms, when somebody was thought beyond redemption and refused to work for the welfare of the clan to restore his honour and pay the necessary reparation to his victims, then, reluctantly, the old Brehons were left with no other course than to put the wrongdoer in a boat, give him water and food for one day, and tow him out of sight of land, casting him adrift to be left to the mercy of the wind and the waves.

  The old storytellers told that such a wrongdoer had been named MacCuill, an unrepentant thief and murderer who dwelt in the land of Ulaidh. The Brehons had duly cast him adrift. But the wind and tide washed him ashore on an island sacred to the old ocean god, Mannánan Mac Lir. Having survived, he saw the error of his ways, converted to the New Faith and ended his days as a bishop on the island. And the people of the island had since called him ‘blessed’ and prayed for his spiritual intercession in their affairs. In Fidelma’s eyes, the story was told merely to demonstrate that even in those who were perceived as the worst of criminals there existed a hope of rehabilitation even when they were thought to be beyond redemption.

  She returned her mind to her surroundings.

  It was an idyllic spot. A thick oak wood spread itself through the vale and a tiny stream sang its way through the centre of the trees and crossed a clearing. To one side of this clearing rose a log-built hunting lodge, constructed for the kings of Muman so long ago that it was not recorded exactly when. The woods around were the habitation of good game, of wild deer, boar, pigs and other animals, and the stream carried trout as well as princely salmon.

  It had become a tradition for the kings of Muman to place a brugaid, a lodge keeper, there for such times as the king and his friends decided to use its facilities. In winter no one would be using the place, but Fidelma knew that Duach, the lodge keeper, would be there anyway. She could send his son Tulcha to Cashel with her message. She crossed the stream and halted before the lodge.

  ‘Duach! Tulcha!’ she called.

  The buildings looked deserted. No one came out.

  Could Duach have deserted the hostel? One heard many things in Cashel and she knew that Duach had been here just a few months ago. She had known him since she was a little girl; surely someone would have mentioned if Duach had left her brother’s service. She slid from her horse and stared up at the shuttered windows and closed doors.

  She called again.

  This time she caught the soft sound of the blowing of a horse in the stable building, impatiently expelling air through its nostrils. Her own mount caught the sound, twitching its ears and stamping a forefoot.

  Frowning, she walked to the stable door and tried it. It swung open and she glanced inside. There were four horses there and she noticed, curiously, that three of them looked strangely familiar to her.

  ‘Duach? Tulcha?’ she called again.

  One of the horses appeared skittish, a little nervous. It moved backward, kicking up the straw. As the stalks fell away, she caught sight of a human foot and lower leg. Eyes wide, she moved forward.

  There was a body concealed in the horse’s stall.

  She bent to examine it, and her hand came automatically up to her mouth in a gesture of astonishment and horror. The body of Duach lay there, his eyes wide and staring in death. Someone had cut his throat. Then she saw the second body. It was young Tulcha. She gasped, suddenly remembering why the three horses were familiar.

  At the stable door the shadowy forms of three men stood, blocking the entrance.

  ‘Well, now,’ came the sneering tones of Cuirgí of Ciarraige, who had recently been the hostage of her brother. ‘Well, now, it seems, my friends, that we have our own hostage now. We have a female whelp of the Eóganacht delivered into our hands. Now, indeed, have the fates been kind to us. Now, indeed, can we make our way safely back to our homeland so that we can pursue our path of vengeance against Cashel.’

  Eadulf was peering at the shocked features of the steward of the abbey of Coimán.

  ‘Where might I find this Uaman the Leper?’ he repeated.

  ‘What business do you have with that spawn of Satan?’ whispered the steward. ‘I would rather give you directions to the gates of Hell itself.’ Then he gasped again. His eyes widened as he guessed the reason for Eadulf’s enquiry. ‘You cannot mean that the herbalist has given the baby into Uaman’s custody?’

  ‘I do mean that. And now I must retrieve my son. So where can I find this man? He seems well known to you.’

  The steward’s face was pale.

  ‘He is well known to most people in this area, Brother Eadulf. Even in the days when Eoganán ruled the Uí Fidgente, Uaman, his son, was lord o
f the passes of Sliabh Mis. He was not yet a leper in those times but a warrior son of Eoganán, who, as you may know, was a ruthless tyrant who tried to overthrow the Eóghanacht of Cashel. Eoganán met his end at Cnoc Áine…’

  ‘I know.’ Eadulf nodded impatiently. ‘But what of Uaman?’

  ‘He was Eoganán’s youngest son and adviser and withal even worse than the despot himself. He made life unbearable among the abbeys and religious houses of the kingdom. He would come against us with warriors and demand tribute from us. But God punishes debauchery.’

  Eadulf frowned momentarily.

  ‘Ah, you mean the leprosy?’

  ‘Just so. Even before Cnoc Áine, he had contracted the scourge. Yet he somehow retained his power and, until the Uí Fidgente were overthrown, he remained lord of the passes here. After the defeat of his ill-fated father, he retreated into this corner of the kingdom where he still remains a tyrant and is followed by a small band of warriors. Thank God, not so many as he could command before. Now he has hardly six to guard him - poor, demented souls. They follow him because their souls and flesh are rotten as well as his. His soul is evil and decayed on the inside as his skin is decayed on the outside.’

  ‘Does he still raid the area?’

  ‘We are too strong for him now. But with only a few warriors he still controls the roads along the great peninsula to the north of us where the lands of the Corco Duibhne lie. The peninsula stretches nearly fifty kilometres into the wild western sea, mountainous and bleak, with tracks so narrow that he can force travellers to pay tribute to him for the privilege of passing through.’

  ‘Surely the chieftain of the Corco Duibhne can challenge him? If he has only six men to guard him, then he can surely be overthrown with ease.’

  ‘Not so easily, my friend. Uaman dwells in an impregnable fortress. It is a great stone stronghold whose walls rise like a round tower on a small island and is built in such a way that even great armies could not gain entry.’