Valley of the Shadow

discomfited by her drunken companion.

Laisre was turning to apologise to Fidelma but Fidelma rose to her feet. She allowed a soft smile to spread as if she was sharing Murgal’s joke.

‘Murgal has made a good song,’ she announced to the company,‘although I have heard better and certainly in better tune. Perhaps I might bring him the latest composition of the bards of Cashel?’

Then without more ado, she tossed back her hair from her face and began to sing, softly at first but then with growing resonance. Fidelma had the gift of music and the lilting soprano of her voice caused a stillness to fall within the feasting hall.

‘He is no branch of a withered tree,

Colgú, prince of the Eóghanacht,

Son of Faílbe Fland of noble deeds,

Lofty descendant of Eoghan Mór,

Sprung from the race of Eber the Fair

Who ruled Eireann from the banks of the Boyne -

south to the Wave of Cliodhna.

‘He is of the stock of a true prince,

A tree sprung,from the roots of the forest

sanctuary of Eireann,

The just heir of Milesius,

The sum of a great harvest with fruit of many trees,

Each as ancient as the oldest oak,

The crown above a multitude of branches.’

She sat down amidst an uncomfortable silence. Then Eadulf, not really understanding the nuances of the exchange, and carried away by his indulgence in alcohol, hearing only that Fidelma had sung as sweet a song as ever he had heard, began to clap loudly. His applause eventually caused Laisre to follow his example and soon a polite tribute rippled around the chamber. When it died away Laisre turned to his musicians and bid them play softly.

In her song, Fidelma had answered Murgal’s cynical sneer that the Cashel kings were mortal and their authority was only brief. She had pointed out how the Eóghanacht claimed to be descended from the Eber, son of Milesius, leader of the Milesians, the first Gaels to land in Ireland. From Eber had descended Eoghan Mór, the founder of the royal dynasty of the Eóghanacht. The subtlety of the song reminded her listeners of the status she held.

Laisre glanced at her contritely.

‘I apologise for Murgal’s lack of etiquette.’

He referred to the fact that it was a rigid rule that a guest was not to be insulted within a feasting hall.

Fidelma spoke without rancour.

‘As you rightly observed, Laisre, it was the wine that made him forget though, as Theoginis once said, wine is wont to show the mind of man.’

The sound of someone being smacked across the face was so abrupt that the soft music of the cruit player faltered and died away for there was a series of sounds which followed in quick succession. First a chair went over backwards, crockery plates crashed and splintered on the floor and there came an angry but almost suppressed exclamation. All eyes in the feasting hall were drawn to the table where Murgal was standing swaying on his feet once again; this time, however, one hand was nursing a reddening cheek, his eyes were glowering at the fair-haired woman who had been sitting next to him and who now was on her feet as well, standing facing the Druid.

It was the slim woman whom Fidelma had noticed. Her face was now contorted with anger.

‘Pig and son of a pig!’ she hissed and then turned abruptly and exited from the feasting hall without a backward glance. A plump woman rose from another table and went trotting out with an angry look in Murgal’s direction. Fidelma realised it was the hostel keeper, Cruinn.

Murgal seemed to quiver with anger and then he, too, left the feasting hall. A moment later one of the warriors, the fair-haired Rudgal, rose and hurriedly followed Murgal from the room.

Fidelma, watching, turned with a glance of inquiry towards Laisre.

‘Some domestic matter, I suppose?’ she asked innocently.

‘No, Marga is not wife to Murgal,’ Orla replied cattily before her brother could speak. ‘But Murgal has a wandering eye.’

Esnad, the young daughter of Orla, began to chuckle and then, catching sight of an angry glance from her father, Colla, pouted and made no further sound.

Laisre flushed slightly.

‘It is not a matter to be commented on before strangers at a feasting,’ he snapped at his sister. Orla grimaced at her brother to express her annoyance before sitting back. Laisre resumed a more considered expression towards Fidelma.

‘Suffice to say, wine can make a lout of the best of us,’ he observed, trying to make a joke out of the matter.

‘Wine is like rain. If it falls on a bog, it makes it the more foul. But on good soil, it wakens it to bloom and radiance,’ observed Colla, who had not spoken at the table for some time. It was clear that he had little respect for Murgal.

‘This Marga is an attractive woman,’ Fidelma observed. ‘Who is she?’

‘She is our apothecary,’ replied Laisre distantly. Fidelma observed a colour on his cheeks. Then, as if he felt he should reply to her comment, added: ‘Yes, an attractive woman.’

Fidelma was surprised.

‘So young and an apothecary!’

‘She is qualified under the law.’ It was said defensively by Laisre.

‘I would have expected no less.’ Fidelma’s soft reply had a note of rebuke in it. ‘Does she reside in the ráth?’

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’ Colla asked sharply.

‘Oh,’ Fidelma decided to turn the subject at the suspicion voiced in Colla’s reply, ‘it is always wise to know where an apothecary resides.’

One of the musicians had resumed his interrupted long, interminable song, singing in a form without instrumental accompaniment, his voice rising and falling. It was an old, old song, about a young girl who was being lured by unseen forces towards a mountain top where she would eventually meet the fate which the gods had set for her. Fidelma suddenly felt an empathy with the heroine of the song. Something had drawn her to this valley and it seemed there were unseen forces dictating her fate.