Deep within her she knew that she felt like screaming as any other mother would when their baby was taken from them. It was her logic that kept her from doing so, not her lack of feeling for her child. What good was there in giving way to emotion in these circumstances? It would not bring her one step nearer to discovering the truth of this mystery. There would be plenty of time for emotion later.
A line from Euripides came into her mind: ‘Logic can challenge and overthrow terror itself.’
Her features suddenly relaxed as she gave an inward sigh.
Yes, plenty of time to give way to emotion later.
Colgú had come to the gates of the palace as they rode up the slope to the great complex of Cashel. Finguine, the heir apparent, was at his side. It would have been obvious even to an inexperienced eye that there was some important news they were waiting to impart. Her heart began to beat faster.
‘You have returned in time, sister,’ called Colgú as she halted her horse.
‘In time for what? What is it?’ demanded Fidelma, quickly dismounting and facing her brother with an anxious expression. ‘Is there news? News of Alchú?’
‘There is,’ Colgú replied quickly, reaching out a hand to lay reassuring fingers on his sister’s arm. ‘The baby is alive. We have just received a note demanding ransom for him.’
Behind her, Fidelma heard Capa exclaim: ‘Then we should have waited here instead of setting off on a wild goose chase.’ She did not turn but continued to gaze apprehensively at her brother, trying to work out this new development and not succeeding.
‘A ransom note? Where is it?’
‘It is in my chambers.’ He motioned the servants forward to take the horses and then began to lead the way to the main building with Fidelma at his side. Eadulf fell in step beside Finguine and Capa brought up the rear, having dismissed Caol and Gorman to the stables.
‘So it was a kidnapping, after all?’ Capa made the statement into a question.
‘It would seem so,’ Finguine replied, his words flung back over his shoulder.
‘What manner of note is it? How was it delivered? What are its demands?’ Fidelma’s questions came out almost in a breathless rush.
‘As to the note, you will see it soon enough.’ Colgú’s voice was quiet. ‘The manner of its delivery was that it was found attached to the door of the local inn with instructions for it to be delivered here, to me. Its demands are simple. As you know, after the battle of Cnoc Áine, we took several Uí Fidgente as prisoners. Among them were three prominent chieftains, cousins of the former petty king, Eoganán. We made them hostages for the good behaviour of their people.’
Fidelma frowned impatiently. ‘And?’ she prompted. ‘What is the connection?’
‘The note demands their release,’ he replied. ‘When they are freed then Alchú will be returned to us safe and sound.’
There was a brief silence.
‘So it was some new Uí Fidgente plot.’ Capa sounded almost triumphant.
‘It looks that way,’ admitted Finguine.
Colgú led them straight to his private chambers. On the table lay a single piece of bark. Fidelma picked it up at once and scrutinised it carefully.
‘Bark, as was the material on which the note was written that was given to the dwarf, Forindain, to bring to Cashel,’ she said quietly to Eadulf.
Colgú opened his mouth to ask a question but then closed it. His sister would explain in her own time.
Bark was a fairly common material for writing. The white epidermis of birch bark had been found by ancient scribes to be separable into thin layers which, when flattened and dried, could be written on. Fidelma examined it carefully.
‘It does not appear to be written in a hand that is used to the forming of letters. They are almost childish in the way they have been shaped, as if the person was copying some unfamiliar forms.’
Capa laughed cynically. ‘Who said the Uí Fidgente are literate?’
Fidelma ignored him. It was Eadulf who, leaning forward, pointed out that the formation of the letters might simply be a means to disguise the authorship.
‘Why disguise it?’ Finguine seemed amused by the idea. ‘The authorship is clear: it is a message on behalf of the Uí Fidgente. That cannot be disguised.’
Fidelma replaced the note on the table and looked round. ‘Before we can accept this note as genuine,’ she said quietly, ‘what proof do we have to support that conclusion?’
They stared at her in surprise.
‘You doubt that it is genuine?’ Colgú asked, puzzled.
‘It is no secret that my baby has been stolen, Fidelma replied. ‘Why wait nearly a week before issuing such a demand? It could well be someone trying to take advantage from the situation.’
Finguine was shaking his head in disagreement.
‘Had it been a demand for financial reward, then that might be a matter for consideration. But this is a political demand. Why would anyone demand the release of the Uí Fidgente chieftains if they were not in possession of the baby?’
‘It would be dangerous to dismiss the note as not genuine,’ added Capa. ‘The child’s life is at stake.’
‘I am the mother of the child in question,’ snapped Fidelma, angered by the implication that she did not care about Alchú. Then she added with firmness: ‘We must proceed logically.’ At the word ‘logically’ she felt a spasm of guilt but pressed on. She raised the note again and scrutinised the text. ‘It demands that the three chieftains of the Uí Fidgente should be released…’ She counted briefly. ‘From the time stipulated, they are to be released before the end of two more days…’
‘And they are then to be allowed time to cross the border into the territory of the Dál gCais at which time Alchú will be released and not before,’ finished Colgú.
‘It seems a curious gamble,’ Eadulf commented with a frown. ‘I am inclined to agree with Fidelma that we need some proof of the child’s well-being. If someone could be dishonest and take the opportunity to make a demand for financial gain, we should consider that someone could be dishonest enough to make an equivalent demand for political gain. Power and money are not dissimilar motives.’
Fidelma glanced across at him in appreciation. Eadulf could be trusted to accept logic when confronted with it.
‘It is also a gamble whether the Uí Fidgente are to be relied upon to fulfil their part of the bargain,’ she said.
‘In that matter, I agree with you,’ Finguine rejoined.
‘It is my opinion that, whoever “they” are, they should provide some proof that they hold Alchú before we release these chieftains.’
Everyone turned to Eadulf, who had spoken quietly.
‘Come, man, it is your own son about whom we are talking,’ Capa admonished, his handsome face flushed. ‘We should be making every effort to free him and return him to Cashel.’
Eadulf turned to face Capa directly. He spoke slowly and softly.
‘Do you think that I am not aware that I speak of my own son? I hope everyone present concedes the fact that I am as much concerned in his welfare as anyone else.’ Fidelma coloured a little and there was an uncomfortable silence. She had automatically opened her mouth to explain that, under law, Eadulf was wrong. While the welfare and rearing of a child in normal circumstances was the responsibility of both parents, if the father was a cúl glas, a foreigner, a stranger to the mother’s people, the full responsibility for how the child should be raised fell on the mother. But this was a time for such facts to remain unexpressed. Eadulf was continuing: ‘But this note, as Fidelma has said, is not proof that the person who wrote it has possession of the child, nor are any guarantees offered for his release. That is, in itself, strange when demanding a ransom. We need more information before acting.’
‘You would jeopardise your own son’s life?’ asked Capa, aghast. There was a murmur of support for Capa’s protest. Fidelma held up a hand to still it.