The Leper's Bell (12 page)

‘Which was…?’ demanded Eadulf when she paused.

‘A pair of enchanted shoes which enabled the king to travel over water as easily as over dry land.’

‘And did they get their freedom?’

‘They did so, after a year and a day…’

Fidelma’s voice trailed off. A year and a day. She stirred uneasily at her thoughts about her marriage. Her own year and a day, which marked the time when she must decide her future with Eadulf, was rapidly nearing and yet how could she make any decision in the current situation? Her mind was already confused about her relationship and even now more confused by the tragedy of Alchú.

Eadulf had not noticed her sudden melancholy. He was continuing to talk.

‘I have noticed here that dwarfs are not usually treated as figures of fun. It is different in other lands.’

Fidelma stirred herself and continued combing her red tresses. She
tried to turn her mind away from her dark thoughts and concentrate on what Eadulf was saying.

‘Why should they be regarded as other than people? Are they so different? In the days before the New Faith, two of the old gods, the children of Danu, were dwarfs. Luchta was one of the three great wrights who crafted shields and spearshafts. Abcán, whose very name means “little dwarf’, was a poet to the gods and goddesses and used to sail a curious metal boat on the waters of Eas Ruadh, the red cataract, which lies in a great river to the north of here. And you will find that little folk are often employed as poets and musicians at the great courts. Even Fionn Mac Cumhail had a harpist named Cnú Deireóil who was a dwarf. He was very handsome, with golden hair and such a sweet voice that he could lull you to sleep by the sound of his singing. Those who are small in stature are not necessarily small in mind.’

Eadulf was silent for a moment.

‘I noticed that when you speak of them you always use the term
abacc
, while some people use the terms
droich
and
drochcumtha.
Which is the proper term for a small person?’

‘Abacc
is the better word for them, for it carries no connotation of anything bad or misshapen about a person,’ she said. That implies an arrogance on the part of the speaker which is unworthy.’

Eadulf moved to the window and looked out at the dark cloistered courtyard beyond. One of the abbey’s brethren was going round lighting the torches that hung in their iron braziers on the walls. Eadulf peered up at the patch of blackness above the courtyard and sighed.

The month of Cet Gaimred,’ he used the Irish name, ‘and the clouds are so thick and dark that we cannot see this first of the winter moons.’ He shivered abruptly. ‘I am never happy at this time of year,’ he said.

Fidelma glanced across at him.

‘You cannot deny the natural order of things. Before rebirth there is always a period of darkness. That is why we consider our year begins with the darkness of winter. It is a time when we can rest and contemplate as Nature does before springing forth anew into light and growth.’

Eadulf turned and smiled softly.

‘I never knew why your festival of Samhain should be considered as marking the start of the year.’

‘Isn’t it natural to sit, rest and meditate before one rises up into action? The crops rest, the trees rest, the people rest in their houses awaiting the
first sign of the spring. As a baby rests in the darkness of its mother’s womb, gaining strength, before plunging into the world.’

‘You cannot be advocating that we should be doing nothing but waiting for the start of spring.’ Eadulf leant back against the window and brushed a hand against the hair hanging over his forehead. ‘Are we to do nothing until the feast that marks the ewes’ coming into milk? There are times, such as this, when we must eschew contemplation and deny ourselves that rest.’

Almost as he said it, he realised it was not a good thing to say in the circumstances. Fidelma seemed to wince for a moment, as if struck by a physical pain, and he stepped quickly across to her with his hands held out. She did not take them, but turned her head away, leaving him frozen for a moment in the gesture. Then she sniffed and rose, brushing by him.

‘You are right, Eadulf. Now is not the time for doing nothing.’

‘I did not mean—’

‘The refectory bell will sound in a moment,’ she went on, ignoring his hurt and guilty look. ‘Time to make a decision on what we should do now.’

Eadulf cleared his throat, wondering whether to challenge her behaviour, then he dropped his hands to his side and shrugged.

‘As I see it, we can move west hoping that we might catch up with the little leper,’ Fidelma said.

‘I would agree that we could do so,’ Eadulf replied. ‘However, do we really know where he was heading, even if we accept that he was the strange figure seen by Caol, bringing the message to Sárait? What hope have we of finding this Forindain if we only know a general direction? He could go anywhere, not necessarily to the fair. It might be like looking for a needle in a stack of hay. What if he only said he was going west to Brother Buite? What if he went south, or north, or even returned east? I agree that we should perhaps follow any lead, however fragile and faint, but we might waste valuable time on this course of action.’

Fidelma looked thoughtful. ‘Is there an alternative?’

‘I think we could admit that this trail has gone cold.’

Fidelma sniffed slightly. ‘There is always an alternative to any action in life. Life is governed by the fact that when a decision is made there are always two paths to choose from.’

‘What else, then?’ Eadulf pressed, perhaps a little aggressive now in his feeling of irritated hurt.

The refectory bell began to toll, summoning the brethren to the evening meal. Fidelma turned towards the door without answering.

‘A moment!’ snapped Eadulf.

Fidelma turned back to him, surprised at the sudden anger in his voice.

‘I think,’ Eadulf said, his voice suddenly cold, his tone measured, ‘that you should tell me what you intend to do before we join the others. You should tell me, even if you have no respect for me as your husband, for the sake of the fact that I am the father of Alchú, who is my son as well as yours.’

Fidelma flushed in annoyance. For a moment she said nothing as a strange combination of guilt and anger welled in her, rose up until her tongue was ready to articulate it. Then something seemed to spread like a cooling tide through her mind. Her guilt suddenly outweighed her impulse to anger.

She realised that the fault lay with her. She had taken Eadulf for granted and she had used arrogance to disguise her feelings of guilt for fear of showing them. Eadulf was right. Had she pushed the good nature of the Saxon too far? She stared at his resolute features. They seemed so alien now, so cold and impassive. She had never seen him look so controlled and distant before.

‘Eadulf…’ she began, but found her lips suddenly dry.

He waited a moment.

‘Well?’ he demanded harshly. ‘What do you intend? Am I to be told or do you prefer to make decisions without informing me? Don’t let it concern you. I am used to those at Cashel nudging one another, smirking and treating me with disrespect. There goes the foreigner! It is right that he is treated like a servant for he is not worthy of marriage to our princess.’

Fidelma stared at him, shocked.

‘Who says this about you?’ she demanded after a pause.

Eadulf’s features formed into a sneer. She had never seen him like this before.

‘Are you claiming that you are blind to what happens at Cashel? Are you deaf to the whispers in the corridors of your brother’s palace? It is obvious that I am not thought worthy of you and you have often demonstrated that you share that opinion. I am considered…’

The angry words faded away as he failed to find suitable ones to express the months of built-up frustration and anger that lay within him.

Fidelma stood still, watching him. She suddenly felt that he had become
a stranger to her. She was shocked by his suppressed passion. He stared back, his mouth a thin line, waiting for her to react. Finally, she sighed deeply.

‘I was going to suggest that we continue west until we reach Cnoc Loinge, the Hill of the Ship, to see if we can learn anything further about the dwarf Forindain,’ she said quietly.

‘That,’ replied Eadulf in a tight voice, ‘is acceptable to me.’

He brushed quickly by her and left her staring in confusion after him.

Chapter Six

T
he next morning, Fidelma turned her horse westward. She had hardly spoken to Eadulf since their harsh words of the night before and a long, uncomfortable silence hung between them. To Capa she had merely said: ‘I am in a mind to go to Cnoc Loinge, the Hill of the Ship. It will take us a few hours out of our journey, that is all.’

Capa had protested.

There is nothing there, lady.’

‘Except a fair that I have a mind to see.’

Capa raised his eyebrows in surprise but said nothing further. After a while, Fidelma decided to unbend and confided in Capa and his men what the purpose of going to Cnoc Loinge was.

Capa was clearly not enthusiastic.

‘You say that this dwarf, Forindain, might be the messenger that lured my sister-in-law from the palace? A leper? And we are going to Cnoc Loinge to see a band of travelling players among whom this Forindain might be hiding? It sounds a waste of time to me.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Fidelma assured him, ‘that is why we are going there.’

Capa glanced at Eadulf, who had remained silent. It was clear that he recognised the unease between them. He regarded them with a troubled expression but said no more.

The distinctively shaped hill lay scarcely five kilometres from the abbey of Imleach. It was a pleasant and easy ride through wooded countryside until they came to the settlement nestling under the long, narrow hill. But just before they reached their destination, Eadulf saw that several travellers were joining the road. Soon the track was crowded and they had to pick their way among all manner of pedestrians, riders and those driving carts drawn by sturdy donkeys. It was clear that they were all
heading for the fair, and when they reached the settlement they became aware of festivities taking place.

Apart from the wooden buildings of the village, there were stalls and tents erected on the main green, an area called the
faithche
that was set aside for the purpose. Fidelma knew that the smaller fairs throughout the country were presided over by the local chieftain, who assigned certain people to clear away the brambles and rubbish from the area on which the fair was to be held. Fences and mounds marked out the ground on which stalls were erected, and there was also an area set aside for sports such as jumping and running, and displays of weaponry and wrestling. To one side, she could see a
cluichi mag
had been prepared. This was a grassy level, where the ancient game of
camán
or hurling would be played. A local fair like this was called an
oirecht
as as opposed to the major festivals of the
Féis.

However, for such a small fair, there were a lot of people attending. It was probable that most of the population of the outlying areas had come to attend or participate in the sports or be entertained by the travelling players.

The stalls were crowded with people selling their wares, from farmers selling goats and pigs to those selling fruits and baked produce such as pies. Above the hubbub and shouting of the crowds came the sound of music. Here and there an
airfidig
or solitary minstrel wandered, singing ballads and reciting poetry, while in one corner a group of musicians, including a
cruit
or harp player, a
cnamh-fhir
or bone man who played bone castanets, and a drummer, entertained a crowd, with
cuirsig
, pipes and flutes.

Fidelma’s sharp eye caught a small stage. It was empty but had obviously been erected for an entertainment. A notice attached to a pole read, ‘The Love of Bebo of the Faylinn to be played here.’ So the dwarfs were still here, she noted with satisfaction. Of course, it did not mean that the leper, Forindain, was with them, but she felt intuitively that she would find him.

She drew her horse to a halt and called to a man, who looked like a local, who was standing by a stream that meandered along the edge of the fairground where people could water their horses. This man, however, held a great wolfhound on a lead, and it was lapping at the waters.

‘Greetings, my friend. Where is the
suide-dála
, the convention seat, and will your chieftain be there?’

The man, tall with ginger hair and the look of a smith rather than a farmer, glanced quickly at her with bright blue eyes, his gaze travelling from her attire to the golden necklets of her companions announcing them to be the élite of the king of Cashel’s warriors. He inclined his head in obeisance.

‘You are welcome to Cnoc Loinge, lady.’ He had obviously deduced that she was no mere religieuse but someone of importance. ‘If you follow this stream here you will come to the convention seat by the
camán
field, the large blue tent, where our chieftain, Fiachrae, takes his rest before the game starts.’