They had barely ridden a mile across the valley when they heard the sound of approaching horses. Immediately before them was an entrance to what appeared to be a ravine, opening between two granite heights and through which the track they were taking disappeared. It was from this direction that the sound of the horses could clearly be heard.
Eadulf, nervous and still sickened by the sight he had witnessed, began to look around immediately for some cover. There was none.
Fidelma halted her horse and sat at ease, merely awaiting the appearance of the riders, and curtly ordered him to do likewise.
A moment or so later, a column of about a score of warriors burst out of the gorge on to the plain just in front of them. Their leader, a slender figure, saw them at once and, without faltering, led the column at a breathless pace to within a yard or so of them. Then, as if at some given signal not obvious even to the discerning eye, the band of horses halted in a cloud of dust with a sound of snorting breath and an occasional whinny of protest.
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she examined the leader of the band of horsemen. The rider was a slightly built woman of about thirty years. Dark hair, almost the colour of jet, tumbled in a mass of curls from her shoulders. A thin band of twisted silver around her forehead kept it in some semblance of order. She wore a cloak and carried a long scabbard with a workman-like sword and an ornate knife on her right side. The woman’s face was slightly rounded, almost heart-shaped and not unattractive. The lips full and red. The skin pale. The eyes were dark, flashing with challenge.
‘Strangers!’ Her voice was harsh and seemed at odds with her appearance. ‘And Christians at that. I know you from your attire. Know that you are not welcome in this place!’
Fidelma’s mouth was a thin line at the discourtesy of this greeting.
‘The king of this land would be displeased to know that I am not welcome here,’ she replied softly.
Only Eadulf could recognise the quiet tone which bespoke her suppressed anger.
The dark-haired woman frowned slightly.
‘I think not, woman of the god Christ. You are speaking to his sister.’
Fidelma simply raised an eyebrow in cynical query.
‘You claim to be the sister of the king of this land?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘I am Orla, sister to Laisre, who rules this land.’
‘Ah.’ Fidelma realised that the woman had placed a different interpretation on what was meant by king. ‘I do not speak of Laisre,
chieftain
of Gleann Geis; I speak of the king of Cashel to whom Laisre must bend his knee.’
‘Cashel is a long way from here,’ shot back the woman in annoyance.
‘But Cashel’s reach is sure and firm and it extends justice into all the far corners of the kingdom.’
Fidelma spoke with such assured firmness that Orla’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. She appeared to be unused to being answered with confidence and as an equal.
‘Who are you, woman, who rides so unconcerned into the land of Laisre?’ Her dark eyes flashed in dislike at Eadulf, who sat quietly behind her. ‘And who are you who dares to bring a foreign cleric into this land?’
A burly warrior from the column of horsemen edged his mount forward. He was an ugly looking man, with a bushy black beard and a scar above one eye, the mark of an old wound.
‘Lady, no need to ask more of these people who wear the emasculate robes of their alien religion. Let them be gone or let me drive them forth.’
The woman, Orla, gave the warrior a glance of irritation.
‘When I need advice, Artgal, I shall consult you.’ And with this dismissal, she turned back to Fidelma. There was no change of expression on her hostile features. ‘Speak, woman, and tell me who dares lecture the sister of the chieftain of Gleann Geis on the duties of her brother.’
‘I am Fidelma … Fidelma of Cashel.’
Whether by design or accident, Fidelma made a slight movement in her saddle at which the cross of the Golden Chain, hidden in the folds of her clothing, slipped out and the sunlight struck it momentarily causing the dark eyes of Orla to glimpse it. They widened perceptibly as she recognised it for what it was.
‘Fidelma of Cashel?’ Orla repeated in a hesitant tone. ‘Fidelma, sister of Colgú, king of Muman?’
Fidelma did not bother to answer the question but assumed that Orla knew the answer already.
‘Your brother, Laisre, is expecting my embassy from Cashel,’ she went on, as if disinterested in the reaction she had provoked. She reached behind her into her saddle bags and drew out the white wand with the golden stag atop it, the symbol of her embassy from the king of Cashel.
There was a silent pause as Orla stared as if mesmerised by it.
‘Do you accept the white wand or do you choose the sword?’ Fidelma demanded with a hint of a smile on her features. Envoys going into a hostile land presented either the wand or the sword as a symbolic challenge to peace or war.
‘My brother is expecting a representative of Cashel,’ Orla admitted slowly, raising her eyes from the wand to Fidelma’s face, her expression unsure. There was an unwilling note of respect in her voice now. ‘But that representative is one who should be qualified to negotiate with Laisre on ecclesiastical matters. Someone qualified to …’
Fidelma suppressed an impatient sigh.
‘I am an advocate of the Brehon Courts, qualified to the degree of
anruth.
I am the negotiator whom he is expecting and I speak in the stead of my brother, Colgú, his king.’
Orla failed to disguise her surprise. The qualification of
anruth
was only one degree below the highest that the ecclesiastical and secular colleges of Ireland could bestow. Fidelma could walk and talk with kings, even the High King, let alone petty chieftains.
The dark-haired woman swallowed hard and, while she was undoubtedly impressed, her features remained harsh and unfriendly.
‘As representative of Laisre of Gleann Geis, I bid you welcome,
techtaire.
’ It took Eadulf some moments to recognise the ancient word for an envoy. Orla continued: ‘But as representative of the new religion of Christ, I say that you are not welcome in this place. Nor is the foreigner whom you bring with you.’
Fidelma leant forward, her voice sharp and clear.
‘Does that imply a threat? Are the sacred laws of hospitality abrogated in the land of Laisre? Is it the sword you accept instead of this?’
She held up the white wand again, thrusting it forward almost aggressively towards Orla. The sun sparkled brightly on the gold figure of the stag.
Orla’s cheeks coloured and she raised her chin defiantly.
‘I imply no threat to your life. Nor even his life.’ She jerked her head towards Eadulf. ‘No harm will come to you nor to the foreigner while you extend your protection to him. We are not barbarians in Gleann Geis. Envoys, under law, are regarded as sacred and inviolable and are treated with utmost respect even though they be our bitterest enemies.’
Eadulf moved uneasily for there was still a deadly serious threat behind what she was saying.
‘That is good to know, Orla,’ Fidelma replied easily, relaxing and replacing the wand in her saddle bag. ‘For I have seen what happens to people to whom such immunity from death is not given.’
Eadulf’s jaw slackened and he felt a sudden panic. If Orla and her warriors were responsible for the deaths of the young men across the valley then Fidelma, in admitting knowledge of the corpses, was putting their lives in considerable danger. He had thought she was going to be circumspect about the gruesome find. Then he suddenly became aware of the distant squawking of the birds of prey and he glanced anxiously over his shoulder. It was obvious that something was amiss across the glen in the direction where the corpses lay and the warriors of Orla’s bodyguard must surely have spotted the ravening carrion birds anyway.
Yet Orla was regarding Fidelma with some bewilderment. She had apparently not taken in the swirling cloud of distant ravens.
‘I have no understanding of your meaning.’
Fidelma indicated across the valley with one arm in a careless gesture.
‘Can you see the black of the battle ravens there? They feed on corpses.’
‘Corpses?’ Orla jerked her gaze up, apparently seeing the birds for the first time.
‘Thirty-three young men who have suffered The Threefold Death.’
Orla’s jaw suddenly clenched; her face was white as she brought her gaze back to Fidelma. It took her a moment or two to frame an answer.
‘Is this some jest?’ she demanded coldly.
‘I do not jest.’
Orla turned to the black-bearded warrior whom she had previously rebuked for his interruption.
‘Artgal, take half of our men and see what this evil gathering means.’
Artgal was glowering with suspicion.
‘It may be some Christian trap, lady.’
The woman’s eyes flashed angrily.
‘Do as I say!’ The voice was like a whiplash.
Without another word, the warrior, Artgal, signalled a section of the mounted warriors to follow him and he rode off in the direction where the distant birds were circling and diving.
‘The Threefold Death, you claim?’ the woman almost whispered after he had gone. ‘Are you sure this was the manner of death, Fidelma of Cashel?’
‘I am sure. But your man, Artgal, will confirm what I say on his return.’
‘The blame for this is not to be laid on the people of Laisre,’ the woman protested. There was a curious expression on her features as if she was trying to overcome her fear. ‘We know nothing of this matter.’
‘How can you be so sure that you speak for all the people of Laisre?’ asked Fidelma ingenuously.
‘I am sure. I speak not only for my brother but as wife of his tanist, the heir-elect, Colla. You have my word.’
‘A great evil has been committed in this valley, Orla. I am charged by my oath to discover the cause of it and who is responsible. That I mean to do.’
‘But you will not find the answer in Gleann Geis,’ replied Orla sullenly.
‘Yet it is to Gleann Geis that we are now proceeding,’ Fidelma said with confidence. ‘The sooner we get there the better. So my companion and I will leave you to await the return of your warriors and continue on.’ She looked towards Eadulf and gave a brief motion of her head, as if indicating him to follow, and, without another word, she nudged her horse forward, passing Orla and the remaining mounted warriors. After but a moment or so’s delay, Eadulf followed. The warriors were staring in some bewilderment at Orla who sat still, doing nothing to impede their progress.
Confidently, Fidelma walked her horse into the mouth of the gorge where the pathway became stony, indicating it had once been the bed of a flowing stream. How long it had been dried up was difficult to tell; perhaps for centuries. It twisted and turned with precipitous granite walls rising over a hundred feet on either side almost cutting out the light. They were in a semi-gloom from the moment they entered the passage. From an entrance of perhaps ten yards’ width, the gorge narrowed until there was only room for two horses to move comfortably abreast.
It was only after they had ridden some way that Eadulf decided to break the silence.
‘Do you … ?’ he began but stopped suddenly as his voice boomed back in resounding echo against the walls of the narrow defile. He paused a moment and then lowered his voice to a whisper but even the whisper sounded like sepulchral echo. ‘Do you think that the woman, Orla, and her warriors killed those young men?’
Fidelma contrived to shrug without articulating a reply. Her face was set and stern.
‘The surprise on Orla’s face seemed genuine enough,’ Eadulf went on doggedly.
‘Nevertheless, had I not been who I am, I doubt that we would be proceeding with our journey. Orla and her warriors seem to have little liking for those of our Faith.’
Eadulf shivered and raised a hand to cross himself then caught himself and dropped it to his side. Habit caused action to lose meaning.
‘I did not know such heathen areas existed in this land. There is much to fear here.’
‘Fear is self-destructive, Eadulf. And you should not fear someone because they do not share your belief,’ chided Fidelma.
‘If they are prepared to use the sword against those whose belief is not their own – yes, there is much to fear,’ Eadulf replied, almost hotly. ‘We have doubtless seen some grotesque ritual sacrifice back there in the valley, perpetrated by these pagans. I fear for our safety.’
‘Fear is not required. But caution is the watchword. Remember what Aeschylus said – excessive fear always makes men powerless to act? So rid yourself of any fear and apply watchfulness and caution and by this means we will discover what is the truth.’
Eadulf sniffed disdainfully.
‘Perhaps fear is a means of protection,’ he protested, ‘because fear makes us cautious.’