Authors: Peter Tremayne
Tags: #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Fiction, #tpl, #_NB_Fixed, #Mystery, #Historical, #Clerical Sleuth, #Medieval Ireland
The Spider's Web (19 page)
‘Through Teafa, of course. He communicates through Teafa. What has she to say?’
‘Ah …’ Fidelma let her breath expel slowly, regretting that she had not explained fully.
Gadra was looking at her curiously.
‘Something has happened to Teafa? I can read that much in your expression.’
‘Yes. Teafa is dead.’
Gadra sat very still and upright.
‘I will say a prayer for a good rebirth in the Otherworld,’ he said softly. ‘She was a good woman and possessed of a great soul. How did she die? Was she killed by Eber? Was that when the boy struck back, in defence of Teafa?’
Fidelma shook her head, trying to stop her tumbling thoughts reacting to what the old man had said.
‘Móen also stands accused of having killed Teafa, stabbing her with a knife, and then going to Eber’s chambers and stabbing him.’
‘Can this be true?’
Gadra, in spite of his years of self-discipline, at controlling his emotions, was clearly distressed.
‘The accusation is true. But I have come to ascertain the facts.’
‘These facts you state must be in error then,’ Gadra replied decisively. ‘While I can concede that Móen could, if sufficiently provoked, turn on Eber, he would never strike at Teafa. Teafa has been his mother.’
‘Sons have killed their mothers before now,’ Eadulf intervened.
Gadra ignored him.
‘Has anyone been able to communicate with Móen since Teafa’s death?’
Fidelma shook her head.
‘I was told that only Teafa could communicate with Móen. No one else knew how. He cannot hear, he cannot see and he cannot speak.’
Gadra was sorrowful.
‘There are other forms of communication. The boy can touch, he can smell, he can feel vibration. If the fates deny us some of our senses, then we can develop others. So no one has communicated with him since this terrible thing happened?’
‘I have been unable. That is why I am here. I have heard that you might understand how this method of communication is accomplished.’
‘It is so. As I said, I taught the boy with Teafa. I must come back with you to the
rath
of Araglin at once and speak with him,’ said the old man decisively.
rath
of Araglin at once and speak with him,’ said the old man decisively.
Fidelma was surprised. She had been hoping for some advice but never dared to consider that the old man would insist on coming to the
rath
himself.
rath
himself.
‘If you can accomplish this thing then I will believe in all the miracles without reservation.’
‘It can be so,’ Gadra assured her grimly. ‘Poor Móen. Can you imagine what it must be like for someone imprisoned in such a body unable to know or communicate with those around him? He must be frightened and desperate for he will not know what has happened.’
Eadulf leaned forward again.
‘If he is innocent of the accusations then he is going through a terrifying ordeal,’ he conceded. ‘But someone else at the
rath
must have known how Móen was able to communicate apart from Teafa?’
rath
must have known how Móen was able to communicate apart from Teafa?’
Gadra glanced across to Eadulf with a shake of his head.
‘You are practical, Saxon. The answer to your question is that only Teafa had the patience to learn the skill from me. She might have tried to pass it on. But I do not think she did. I think she felt it better that it was kept a secret.’
‘Why?’
‘That answer has doubtless died with her.’
Gadra rose to his feet and Fidelma followed his example.
‘I have no horse,’ the old man said, ‘so it may take me a while to reach the
rath
of Araglin.’
rath
of Araglin.’
‘You may ride behind either Dubán or Brother Eadulf. There is no problem.’
‘Then I will ride with Brother Eadulf,’ the old man announced. Eadulf went to get the horses and Gadra lowered his voice to Fidelma.
‘Your Eadulf speaks our language well.’
She coloured hotly.
‘He is a visitor to our country. A Saxon monk who has been trained in our colleges.’ She paused and added quietly, ‘And he is not
my
Eadulf.’
my
Eadulf.’
The amused bright eyes were suddenly fixed on her questioningly.
‘There is a warmness in your voice when you speak of this Saxon.’
Fidelma found her cheeks colouring even more fiercely.
‘He has been a good friend to me,’ she replied defensively.
Gadra studied her face closely.
‘Never deny your feelings, child, especially not to yourself.’
The old man went into his cabin before Fidelma could frame any reply. For a moment she felt annoyed and then she found herself smiling. Pagan or not, she liked the sincerity and wisdom in the old man. She turned to Dubán and found him watching her inquisitively.
‘I see that you like the old man in spite of your religious differences.’
‘Perhaps the differences are not so much once we remove the names we give to things. We are all sprang from the same common ancestry.’
‘Perhaps.’
The old man returned a moment later with a travelling cloak
and a
sacculus,
a bag on a strap strung across his shoulder, in which he had obviously put the items he needed for the journey.
and a
sacculus,
a bag on a strap strung across his shoulder, in which he had obviously put the items he needed for the journey.
‘Tell me, brother Saxon,’ he said, as Eadulf helped him to mount the horse, ‘I presume my old antagonist Gormán is still at the
rath?’
rath?’
‘Father Gormán is the priest at Araglin.’
‘Not my father,’ muttered Gadra. ‘I do not object to calling anyone my brother or my sister but there are not many on this earth that I would acknowledge have the right to be called my father, especially one whose intolerance is like a canker eating away at his soul.’
Eadulf exchanged a glance with Fidelma at the old man’s vehemence but the Saxon’s amusement did not find a resonance in Fidelma’s eyes. She was solemn.
‘Have no concern of Gormán,’ she told the old man, as she swung up on her own mount. ‘Mine is the authority by which you come to the
rath
of Araglin.’
rath
of Araglin.’
Gadra laughed or, at least, his sinewy body quivered with amusement.
‘Each person is their own authority, Fidelma,’ he said.
They began to make the return journey along the path through the great mountain forests. It seemed that some mutual unspoken agreement caused them to lapse into silence so that only the heavy snorting breath of their horses, treading the forest path, could be heard. Even the dark woods themselves were without sound in spite of the fact that it was still daylight above the gloomy canopy.
Fidelma was head down, deep in thought, trying to puzzle how this old man and, indeed, Teafa, could form any meaningful communication with someone who had Móen’s disabilities. She gave up the attempt after a while. The fact that he said he could do so was good enough for her for she accepted without question that Gadra was a man who spoke the truth. Didn’t the old wise ones use to say that by Truth the earth endures and by Truth we are delivered from our enemies?
She glanced back to Eadulf and wondered what he was thinking. He must be uncomfortable about the proximity of someone who rejected the New Faith and adhered to the ways of the ancient ones. Gadra had been right in his one word summation of Eadulf. He was practical; down to earth and pragmatic. He accepted what he was taught and once accepted he would adhere to those teachings without question or deviation. He was like a ponderous ship ploughing a stately way across an ocean. If so, then she was a light bark, speeding hither and thither, darting across the waves. Did she do him an injustice? She suddenly found herself remembering a maxim of Hesiod. Admire the little ship but put your cargo in a big one.
She gave a mental sigh and turned her mind back to the task in hand. She reflected on the evidence she had so far heard but at the end of her contemplation she realised there was nothing to be done until Gadra learnt what he could from Móen. Fidelma felt annoyance and, having questioned her annoyance, realised that she was impatient to get back to the
rath
and learn what Móen could tell them. Impatience was, she acknowledged, her biggest fault. She accepted Eadulf’s remonstration about her irritability and impatience. But she admitted that a restless spirit was at least a sign of being alive.
rath
and learn what Móen could tell them. Impatience was, she acknowledged, her biggest fault. She accepted Eadulf’s remonstration about her irritability and impatience. But she admitted that a restless spirit was at least a sign of being alive.
She was abruptly aware that Dubán had drawn rein and had raised one hand up to halt them.
He held his head cocked to one side in a listening attitude.
They stayed still for a moment or two. The warrior turned and gestured for them to dismount.
‘What is it?’ whispered Fidelma.
‘Several heavy-shod horses,’ replied Dubán in the same soft tone, ‘and riders who make little attempt to disguise their passage. Listen!’
She held her head to one side and found she could actually hear voices raised, shouting to one another.
Eyes narrowed, Dubán was looking around him.
‘Quickly,’ he instructed, still keeping his voice low, ‘let us lead our horses off the path into the forest. Through there,’ he thrust out a hand to indicate a route, ‘there are some rocks behind which we can conceal ourselves.’
Questions rose in Fidelma’s throat but she bit them back. When a trained warrior issued such advice it was not her place to debate with him.
They followed him as silently and rapidly as possible from the track into the forest, through the brush to the outcrop of rocks he indicated. Eadulf held the horses with Gadra by his side while Dubán and Fidelma moved to the edge of the rocks and crouched there observing the path.
The sound of a number of men on horseback was now easily identifiable and the noisy laughter and shouting of the riders showed they feared no opposition to their passage through the forests.
Fidelma glanced sideways at Dubán. The middle-aged warrior was frowning as he peered towards the path. He was clearly anxious.
‘What gives you concern?’ she whispered. ‘These are the forests of Araglin and you command the bodyguard of the chieftains. Why are we hiding?’
Dubán did not move his head and spoke softly out of the side of his mouth.
‘A warrior is told never to test the depth of a river with both feet.’
He paused, holding his head to one side.
‘Listen.’
Fidelma listened to the sounds of the approaching horses.
‘I am no warrior, Dubán. What do you hear?’
‘I hear the rattle of war harness, of swords bumping on shields, of the tread of heavy-shod horses. It tells me that the riders are armed men. If I see a hound in a sheep pen, I look first to see if it means harm to the sheep.’
He motioned her to silence.
The outline of figures on horseback could be seen through the brush and trees that stood between them and the forest track. There were about a dozen riders. They sat at ease on their mounts. Several of them wore light riding cloaks and carried rounded shields slung on their arms. A few of them carried long pointed spears.
At the end of the column of horsemen, being guided by long lead reins by the last riders, were half a dozen asses, sturdy pack animals, on whose backs were large covered panniers which appeared loaded and heavy.
That the riders had no idea that they were being observed was obvious. Coarse laughter echoed from their ranks and someone was exchanging ribald remarks about some member of the company.
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed. Bringing up the rear of this procession, after the asses, rode a man without a cloak. She could make out a bow, slung over one shoulder. But the other shoulder was in bandages with the arm supported by a sling.
She drew in a sharp breath.
The line of horsemen proceeded on its noisy way through the forests. They waited in silence until they could hear nothing more of the riders.
Slowly, Dubán rose to his feet, followed by Fidelma, and turned back to where Eadulf and Gadra stood by the horses.
‘I do not understand,’ Eadulf said immediately. ‘Why do we hide from these horsemen?’
Dubán was absently fingering his black beard.
‘I believe that they are the cattle raiders who have been worrying the farmsteads of Araglin.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Fidelma.
‘I saw a body of well-armed men who are strangers in this glen. Why are they here? We know that armed men have been raiding some of our farmsteads. Is it not logical that these are the same men?’
‘Logical enough,’ conceded Eadulf reluctantly.
‘If they were cattle raiders, why are they transporting those heavily laden asses? And to where?’
‘This road leads south out of these valleys towards the coast. You can be in Lios Mhór or Ard Mór in a short time from here,’ Gadra explained.
‘Is this a faster way of reaching Lios Mhór than the road which leads by Bressal’s hostel?’ queried Fidelma, remembering what Bressal had told her.
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