Valley of the Shadow

belongs to Orla.’

Eadulf had barely opened his mouth to reply when the dark-haired woman came abruptly round a corner of the granite rock, saw them and halted her horse.

‘I could not let you enter Gleann Geis without the courtesy of an escort. I have left my men to deal with …’ She hesitated and made a gesture with her hand as if it would describe the horrendous scene of the dead bodies on the plain behind. ‘Artgal will report anything he may find which can help to solve the riddle of this slaughter. I shall accompany you to my brother’s ráth.’

Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgment.

‘We appreciate your courtesy, Orla.’

The dark-haired woman edged her horse forward into the lead and they proceeded at a walking pace.

Fidelma opened the conversation again.

‘I am led to understand that you disagree with your brother, Laisre, that the Faith should be recognised in this land?’

Orla smiled sourly.

‘My brother has accepted that the word of your Faith is strong in the five kingdoms. There is scarcely a petty kingdom or chief who disputes the message of this foreign god. Laisre is chieftain but we may not all agree with his action.’

Eadulf went to say something but ended up in a fit of coughing as he caught Fidelma’s warning eye.

‘So? You feel that the Christ is an alien god and not the one god of all the world?’ mused Fidelma.

‘We have our own gods who have served us since the beginning of time. Why abandon them now, especially in favour of one who is borne to this country on the tongues of Romans and Roman slaves who could never conquer us in warfare but now conquer us with their god?’

‘A unique way of looking at things,’ remarked Fidelma. ‘But you forget that our people have accepted a god of the east as the universal god but we worship him in our own way, not in the ways dictated by Rome.’

Orla pursed her lips cynically.

‘That is not what I hear. There are those of your Faith who, as you rightly say, refuse to accept the dictates of Rome but many otherswho do. Ultan of Armagh, for example, who says he has authority throughout the five kingdoms and sends his representatives to all the corners of this land, demanding allegiance.’

A frown passed Fidelma’s brow so quickly that it might not have been noticed.

‘Have you received such envoys from Ultan?’

‘We have,’ Orla admitted unabashed. ‘This same Ultan who calls himself the Comarb, the successor of Patrick, who brought the Faith of Christ to this land. This same Ultan who claims that all dues of the new Faith should be his.’

Fidelma felt obliged to point out that the scribes of the abbey at Imleach disputed Patrick’s claims to be the first to have brought the Faith to Éireann and especially Muman. Had not Muman been converted by the Blessed Ailbe, son of Olcnais, who served in the house of a king? Had not Ailbe befriended and encouraged Patrick? Had it not been Patrick and Ailbe, working together, who had converted Oengus Mac Nad Froich, king of Cashel, to the Faith? And it was Patrick who agreed that the royal city of Cashel should be the seat of Ailbe’s church in Muman. All this came tripping to her tongue, but she remained silent. Much could also be learnt through silence.

‘I have no liking for your Faith or those who propound it,’ confessed Orla honestly. ‘Your Patrick converted the people by fear.’

‘How so?’ asked Fidelma keeping her voice calm.

Orla thrust out her chin, the better to make her point.

‘We may live in a remote part of the world, but we have bards and scribes who have recounted the stories of how your Faith was spread. We know that Patrick went to Tara where he caused the Druid Luchet Mael to be burnt in a pyre and when the High King, Laoghaire, protested, Patrick brought about the death of others who refused to accept the new Faith. Even the High King Laoghaire was told that he would die on the spot unless he accepted the new Faith. Didn’t Laoghaire summon his council and tell them: “It is better for me to believe than to die” — is this a logical way to win people to a Faith?’

‘If what you say is the truth then it is not a logical way,’ Fidelma agreed quietly, though with a slight emphasis on the word ‘if’.

‘Do members of your Faith lie, Fidelma of Cashel?’ the woman sneered. ‘Ultan of Armagh sent my brother a gift of a book, Life of Patrick, written by one who knew him, one called Muirchú, and in which these truths are recorded. Not only that but we are told that Patrick journeyed to the fortress of Míliucc of Slemish, where he had lived before running away to Gaul and converting to thenew Faith. Hearing Patrick was nearing his fortress, so fearful of this Patrick was the chieftain, that he gathered all his valuables and his household, his wife and children, and he shut himself in his ráth and set fire to it. What fear could a man stir in another to make him end his life so horribly? Do you deny that this is so recorded?’

Fidelma sighed softly.

‘I know it is so recorded,’ she admitted.

‘And as it was written, so was it done?’

‘We are told to believe the word of Muirchú, but it was the chieftain’s decision to end his life rather than believe and serve the eternal God.’

‘Under the ancient laws, we are told that what we believe is a matter for our conscience only. Belief is our choice so long as what we believe does not harm others. Your Patrick’s conversion of the five kingdoms was through a presentation of a single choice — believe or die by his hand.’

‘By the hand of God!’ snapped Eadulf, finally no longer containing his silence.

Orla raised her eyebrows and turned in her saddle.

‘So? The foreigner speaks our language. I had begun to think that you did not or else that you were dumb. What land do you come from?’

‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk.’

‘And where is that?’

‘It is one of the Saxon kingdoms,’ explained Fidelma.

‘Ah, I have heard of the Saxons. Yet you speak our language well.’

‘I have studied in this land some years.’

‘Brother Eadulf is under the protection of the hospitality of my brother Colgú of Cashel,’ interposed Fidelma. ‘He is an envoy from the archbishop of Canterbury in the land of the Saxons.’

‘I see. And the good Saxon brother disputes my understanding of Muirchú’s account of Patrick’s life?’

‘Some things may not be taken so literally.’ Eadulf felt moved to make a defence.

‘The book is not true then?’

Fidelma groaned softly as Eadulf reddened in annoyance.

‘It is true, but …’

‘How can it be true and yet not to be taken literally?’ smiled Orla icily. ‘There is some necromancy here, surely?’

‘Some things are symbolic, meaning to impress the concept by means of stating a myth.’

‘So none of the people Patrick is said to have killed were actually killed?’

‘That is not what …’

Fidelma interrupted.

‘We are coming to the end of the gorge,’ she announced thankfully as she saw that the ravine was widening into a broad valley. ‘Is this Gleann Geis?’

‘It is the Forbidden Valley,’ confirmed Orla, turning away from Eadulf and gazing up at the cliff above them. She suddenly issued a shrill whistling sound like a bird cry. At once, a deeper answering cry sounded. The figure of a sentinel appeared high above them, gazing down. It was then that Fidelma realised this passage into Gleann Geis was well protected for no one could move in or out without the consent of those who controlled this narrow pass.