Eadulf was not shocked. He had heard similar tales about deaths in battles.
‘You mean that he turned coward on the field? I have heard enough stories of battles to know that often a man has been slain when he showed cowardice and endangered the lives of his comrades.’
That I know. But Callada was no coward. He was a good warrior and descended from a line of great warriors. Yet these stories have persisted. However he died, he was slain at Cnoc Áine. Now Sárait has come by a violent death as well. It is a sad, sad family in which death comes in violent ways and no one is left to sing the praises of the deeds of the past generations.’
Fidelma said nothing for a moment. Then she grimaced.
‘Well, Aona, we have seen our fair share of violence. It would be pleasing now if we could take ourselves off to some isolated valley high up in the mountains and begin to live in peace with ourselves and our surroundings.’
Aona’s face was sad.
There is no permanent sanctuary against the violence of mankind. It is a permanent condition, I fear, lady.’
Fidelma stood up and gazed through the window at the lightening sky.
‘I think Adag is being proved correct. The sky is brighter. The storm is passing. We must soon be on our way to Imleach.’
The old innkeeper rose in response.
‘I wish you well in your quest, lady. May you have all success in finding your child and bringing the murderer of Sárait to justice.’
Capa and his men had also risen.
‘Are we continuing the journey to Imleach, lady?’ Capa asked. At Fidelma’s affirmative, he went on: ‘We will go and prepare the horses, then. No need to trouble the young lad, innkeeper.’ Adag had gone to the brewery at the side of the inn to carry out some jobs for Aona.
The warriors had just left when the door opened again and a thickset, middle-aged man entered. His features showed good humour and he seemed to have a commanding presence.
‘Greetings, Adag. I see your guests are just leaving, warriors by the look of them…’
His eyes suddenly fell on Fidelma and Eadulf and he halted in confusion. Aona turned to Fidelma with a smile.
‘On the very subject of which we have been speaking — this is Cathalán. He fought at Cnoc Áine. Cathalán, this…’
The newcomer had crossed the room and bowed his head in respect.
‘Lady, I had the honour to serve your brother at Cnoc Áine. I recognise you and have heard of your trouble, for which I am sorry.’
Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgement.
‘Cathalán, we were speaking a short time ago of Sárait’s husband and the manner of his death.’
‘Were you a witness to how he died?’ Eadulf asked.
Cathalán shook his head at once.
‘Not a witness, no. I merely heard stories. In battle, Brother Eadulf, one hears a story from someone. When you question them, they say they heard it from someone else and that someone saw it happen. When you ask that person, then they, too, have heard it from someone who, they say, saw it happen. But the story that Callada was killed by one of our own warriors came from two separate sources. One was an Uí Fidgente and the other was one of our own men. I doubt it not. But we have not been able to discover anything further for we have found no one who could be claimed as a true witness.’
‘Was the matter reported to a Brehon?’ queried Fidelma.
‘It was. Brehon Dathal said he had examined the matter but found nothing over which action could be taken.’
‘I see. So you were one of the warriors who were merely repeating what others told you.’
Cathalán hesitated for a moment.
‘There is something else?’ prompted Fidelma.
‘I was Callada’s cenn-feadhna? Eadulf took a moment to remember that the military structures of Éireann were well organised and a cenn-feadhna was the captain of a buden or company of one hundred warriors. ‘We lost sight of one another in the heat of the battle on Cnoc Áine. In fact, several of my company — fourteen men in all — perished that day because we were one of the first to be ordered forward into the centre of the Uí Fidgente.’ He paused. ‘I knew that there was something troubling Callada on the evening before the battle, as we sat round the fire. I asked him what ailed him and he was reluctant to say anything at first. But as he was troubled and I pressed the matter, he finally told me that he had good reason to believe that his wife Sárait was unfaithful to him.’
‘That she was having an affair with another man?’ Eadulf asked, making sure he understood.
‘That she might have been having an affair with another.’ The former warrior corrected the emphasis with a grave expression.
‘Who else knew of this?’ It was Fidelma who posed the question.
‘He spoke to me reluctantly. I do not think that he had told his suspicions to anyone else…’ He suddenly frowned. ‘You think there is some connection with Sárait’s death?’ He shook his head immediately. ‘But no, she was nursing your child and the baby has been kidnapped. There is surely no relation?’
‘Yet all possibilities must be considered,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘Sárait is now dead. She was enticed from the palace to her death. Was it a means to kidnap my child? If so, then-’
She suddenly snapped her mouth shut, realising that she was thinking aloud. She focused her green-blue eyes on Cathalán.
‘Did Callada say whom he suspected of having an affair with his wife?’
‘Alas, he did not.’
‘And hearing this rumour, how he met his death, you are presuming … what exactly?’
Cathalán shrugged. ‘I was not made a cenn-feadhna for presuming things, lady. I merely reported the facts to old Brehon Dathal. Those facts may be connected and thus they pose a question. That is all I am saying.’
Gorman put his head round the inn door without observing the newcomer.
‘The horses are ready, lady.’
Fidelma paused a moment and then smiled at the former warrior.
‘I am grateful for this information, Cathalán. Do not think that I am not. It may or may not be of relevance. Probably not. But all information is of help.’ She turned back to Aona. ‘Once more we are indebted for your welcome hospitality, Aona.’ She pressed some coins into his reluctant hand.
‘I am always pleased to serve you, lady.’ The old innkeeper smiled. ‘There is no person in this kingdom, having heard of your plight, who does not wish you success in tracking down the culprit.’
Eadulf pursed his lips cynically. ‘Surely one would have to accept there must be at least one person in this kingdom who does not, Aona,’ he said dryly as he turned and followed Fidelma from the inn. It took Aona a moment or two before he understood what Eadulf meant, by which time the door had closed behind him.
Within a short time they were following the north bank of the River Ara while, to the south, the long wooded ridge of Slievenamuck stood framed against the lighter sky. The heavy storm clouds had passed over to the east and it looked as though the late afternoon was going to be fine. The sun was in the western sky but not low as yet. Eadulf was trying to remember the name of the hills to the north of them, some miles distant. Fidelma had told him when they had first made their journey along this road.
Fidelma, as though she had read his thoughts, at that moment leant over and touched him on the arm.
‘The Slieve Felim mountains,’ she said, pointing. ‘Beyond those are the lands of the Uí Fidgente. Not a place to go wandering without protection.’
When they emerged from the woodland and into an open hilly area, Eadulf recognised his surroundings immediately.
Imleach Iubhair: ‘the borderland of yew trees’. The great stone walls surrounded the abbey of St Ailbe, who had first preached Christianity in Muman. They dominated the little township that stretched before them. He found it hard to accept that it was here that he and Fidelma had nearly lost their lives. He felt very much at home as he looked on the stretches of grazing land, edged with forests of yew trees, tall and round-headed.