Valley of the Shadow

more interested in asking him questions about life in the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and, having learnt that Eadulf had actually been to Rome, would answer no question until Eadulf had talked about the city and the great churches there. Eadulf, in fact, learnt little and, the wine souring his mouth, he drank more mead than was good for him. Wisely, the young cleric had started with a beaker of ale which he made last throughout the meal and which he only sipped at.

‘My father was a warrior of the Dál Fiatach in the kingdom ofUlaidh until he lost his arm at Magh Ráth,’ Brother Dianach finally replied in answer to Eadulf’s insistence. In fact, Eadulf’s indulgence had caused him to lose any subtlety in his questioning. ‘But that was long before I was born. I was sent to Armagh to study with the religious and that was when I learnt to be a scribe.’

‘But how did you come here?’

‘With Brother Solin,’ replied the young man innocently to Eadulf’s exasperation.

‘This I know, but why were you chosen to accompany Brother Solin?’

‘Because I was a good scribe, I suppose,’ Brother Dianach replied. ‘Also because I was fit. It is a long journey from Armagh to this kingdom.’

‘Why send Brother Solin here at all?’ Eadulf encouraged.

The young man heaved a sigh at Eadulf’s continued repetition of this particular question.

‘That is something known only to Brother Solin. I was taken aside by my superior and told to report to Brother Solin with my stylus and writing boards and told to do as he bid me do.’

‘Surely you were told more?’ Eadulf demanded, the alcohol making him sound aggressive.

‘Only that we would be on a long journey and to prepare myself for such. I was told that I would be doing the work of God and Armagh.’

‘And Brother Solin explained nothing of the purpose for this journey? Not even some stray comment as you passed along the way?’

Brother Dianach shook his head emphatically.

‘But assuredly you were curious?’ Eadulf was like a dog worrying a bone.

‘Why are you so interested in the business of Brother Solin?’ the young man finally was pressed into asking. ‘Brother Solin says that curiosity, with ambition, are two scourges of the unquiet soul.’

Eadulf was exasperated but he realised that he had pressed the point too far.

‘Surely he who is not curious is an enemy of knowledge? How can you learn anything when you are not curious?’ he responded defensively.

Brother Dianach regarded Eadulf’s flushed face with distaste. He would say no more about the matter and turned to Mel, the elderly scribe, on his other side, ignoring Eadulf who suddenly felt a little foolish. He was not that imbued with alcohol that he had lost allsensitivity. He cursed himself for having mixed the bad wine with the potent mead.

At the top table Fidelma knew that it was bad manners to inquire further of Laisre or his tanist about matters concerning the forthcoming negotiations. The feasting hall was the place where weapons and matters of politics and business were traditionally left outside. So Fidelma had turned the conversation to the history of the people of Gleann Geis for she liked to learn as much as she could about various parts of the country. But the conversation was somewhat guarded and stilted.

She was, therefore, somewhat thankful when some musicians were admitted to the hall. Laisre had explained that, unlike most chieftains, he refused the presence of musicians during the feast. Only after the meal had been eaten did he allow them to enter and provide entertainment.

‘To play music during a meal insults both cook and musician and kills conversation,’ he explained.

Now, as more wine and mead were circulating among the guests, a harper entered and came forward, carrying a small hand-held cruit, or harp, and sat himself cross-legged on the floor in front of his chieftain on the other side of the table. He struck up an energetic tune, nimble fingers moving with an astonishing and complex motion, striking the difficult modulations in perfect harmony, completing the cadences in a rich yet delicate manner. The tinkling of the higher notes, supporting the deeper tones of the bass strings, was soothing to the ears.

At the end of the piece, Orla leant towards Fidelma: ‘You see that even we poor pagans can find enjoyment in our music.’

Fidelma ignored Orla’s furtive gibe.

‘My mentor, the Brehon Morann of Tara, once said that where there is music there can be no evil.’

‘A wise observation,’ Laisre agreed. ‘Now choose a song, Fidelma, and my musicians shall demonstrate their talent for you.’

The cruit player had been joined by another harpist who played a ceis, a smaller harp which was square shaped and, as Fidelma knew, was used to accompany the cruit. A timpan player, with his eight-stringed instrument, played with a bow and a plectrum, also joined the group together with a piper and his cruisech.

There were usually three kinds of music which were popular at feasting. The gen- traige, which incited the listeners to merriment and laughter and produced lively dance tunes; the gol-traige which expressed sorrow and laments, sad songs of the death of heroes;and the súan-traige which was a softer form of music, like songs of unrequited love and lullabies.

Music had always been an essential part of Fidelma’s childhood. The palace at Cashel was never wanting in musicians, songsters and ballad makers.

She was thinking about a choice of song when Murgal, who was seated alongside Brother Solin at the adjacent table, lurched to his feet. His face was flushed and Fidelma saw at once that he had indulged freely in the wine.

‘I know a song that will be to the taste of an Eóghanacht princess,’ he sneered. ‘I will sing it:

‘The fort on the great Rock of Muman,

Once it was Eoghan’s, once it was Conall’s,

It was Nad Froích’s, it was Feidelmid’s.

It was Fíngen’s, it was Faílbe Fland’s.

Now it is Colgú’s;

‘The fort remains after each in his turn -

And the kings sleep in the ground.’

There was a roar of laughter from the warriors at their table and many banged their knife handles on the wooden boards in appreciation.

There was no doubting what Murgal was saying. The message was that the authority of the kings of Cashel was transitory.

Laisre’s face became an angry mask.

‘Murgal, the wine is in and your wit is out! Would you insult your chieftain by demeaning him in the eyes of his guests?’

Murgal turned to his chieftain, still smiling a slightly vacuous grin, the wine giving him courage.

‘Your Eóghanacht guest desired a song. I merely supplied one which paid tribute to her brother at Cashel.’

He sat down heavily in his seat, still smiling. Fidelma saw Brother Solin smirking at what he imagined was her discomfort. She became aware of a young woman on the other side of Murgal, a slender blonde-haired woman, rather attractive. Her face was without emotion and she was looking at the table before her, clearly