Valley of the Shadow

of the business of Armagh. You think that you are immune because of those whom you serve? Well, there are greater powers than your master and they will not tolerate interference.’

There was an angry intake of breath from the younger man.

‘Make no idle threats with me, pompous cleric, for your cloth will be no protection from the wrath of him I serve.’

There was a sudden silence.

Cautiously, Fidelma raised her head over the edge of the wooden stall again and this time saw the stocky figure of Brother Solin standing alone by the door, staring out of it. It seemed his adversary must have left. Brother Solin stood for a moment or two, as if deep in thought, and then he shrugged his shoulders and also left.

Fidelma came out of the stall and stood undecided for a while, trying to put an interpretation on what she had heard. Suppressing a sigh at the impossibility of the task, she turned back and picked up the saddle bags. She went to the door, hesitating to make sure no one observed her. She caught sight of Brother Solin entering the apothecary shop across the courtyard.

She hurried across the courtyard to the guests’ hostel.

Cruinn, the portly hostel-keeper, was preparing the midday meal. She looked up with a fleshy smile as Fidelma entered.

‘Your companion, the foreigner, has gone to bed,’ she announced with some amusement. ‘But there be many men in the ráth doing likewise this day. Will you sit down to a meal?’

Fidelma indicated that she would and that she would first have a word with Eadulf to see how he fared. She was about to go up when the portly woman cleared her throat as if embarrassed.

‘Might I have a word, lady, while we are alone?’

Intrigued, Fidelma turned back to her in curiosity.

‘Feel free to speak,’ she invited.

‘I have been told that you are a dálaigh, familiar with our laws. Is that so?’

Fidelma nodded affirmatively.

‘Do you know all about the laws on marriage?’

Fidelma was not expecting such a question and raised her eyebrows in surprise.

‘I know the text of the Cáin Lánamna, yes.’ She smiled encouragement at the nervous woman. ‘Are you thinking of marriage,Cruinn? Best you should consult with Murgal. He would know your pagan ceremonies.’

The hostel keeper shook her head, wiping her hands on a large saffron-coloured apron.

‘No; not him. I want some advice. I will pay, though I have not much.’

So anxious was her face that Fidelma took her by the arm and made her sit down on a bench at the table while she took a seat opposite.

‘You may ask my advice for nothing, Cruinn. If it is so important to you. How may I help?’

‘I want to know …’ The elderly woman hesitated and then proceeded carefully. ‘I want to know whether a woman of lowly position can marry a person of chiefly blood. Is there danger that the marriage might not be legal?’

Fidelma was quietly amused. She was about to ask what chief Cruinn planned to marry but felt that it was a silly mockery on her part.

‘It depends on the position of the chieftain. Is he of royal lineage?’

‘No. He is an aire coisring, a chieftain of a small clan,’ the woman replied immediately.

‘I see. Well, usually, the more formal types of union should be of partners from the same social class. Even a bó-aire is expected to marry the daughter of a man of equal rank. But such marriages between the lower class and higher class are known.’

Cruinn looked up swiftly, almost eagerly.

‘And is the marriage valid?’

‘Oh, of course. But I warn you that the financial burden of a socially mixed marriage falls more heavily on the family of the partner of the lower class. I will tell you this: if it is the woman who is of the lower class, as you seem to indicate, then her family has to supply two thirds of the cattle of joint wealth. It is a great step to take and think well on it, Cruinn, before you agree to any such liaison.’

Cruinn shook her head and smiled thinly.

‘Oh no, it is not my marriage, for I have been most happily married and have a child. Though my man is dead, I am content. No, I ask on behalf of someone I know who would never bother to ask.’

Fidelma hid her smile. The woman would surely not ask such questions for a friend. Fidelma was sure that it was a personal matter but could not imagine Cruinn winning the heart of eventhe lowest lord of a clan. She realised that she was prejudiced, of course, but that realisation could not prevent the feeling of amused cynicism arising.

‘Tell your friend to think well on it, then, for there is an ancient triad which says it is a misfortune for the offspring of a commoner to aspire to marriage with the offspring of even the lowest grade of lord.’

Cruinn stood up and bobbed in gratitude.

‘I will remember and am grateful for your advice, lady. Now I will prepare your meal.’

Thinking it was a curious world, Fidelma hurried up the stairs to deposit her saddle bags in her room before turning into Eadulf’s chamber with his bags.

Eadulf lay stretched on his bed with his eyes shut.

‘How are you?’ she asked sympathetically, putting his bags on a nearby table.

Eadulf winced at the sound of her voice and did not open his eyes.

‘I think it is time to sing a cepóc for me but do not sing it too loudly.’

Fidelma grinned. A cepóc was a funeral dirge, a lament for the passing of someone into the Otherworld.

‘Have you tried the infusion that Marga gave you?’ she inquired, feeling solicitous.

‘I will, as soon as that portly virago vanishes from the kitchen.’

‘The woman Cruinn?’

‘The same,’ sighed Eadulf. ‘She tried to make me eat some squishy mess when I came in. Another herbal remedy. I swear she is trying to kill me. She told me that it would help me recover and that she ought to know good medicines for she was often gathering herbs for the apothecary.’

‘Well, you are no use to me until you recover your senses, Eadulf,’ Fidelma said. ‘I am going down to eat now. Get better as soon as you can.’

Downstairs she found that Brother Dianach had arrived and was already seated at his meal. Cruinn had already laid out the food and departed. Fidelma greeted the young monk and sat down. There was no sign of Brother Solin nor of the newcomer to the ráth.

‘Is Brother Solin ailing?’ she asked, suddenly remembering that she had last seen him entering the apothecary shop.

Brother Dianach looked up in surprise.

‘Ailing? No. What makes you think so?’

Fidelma decided to keep her own council.

‘So many people seem caught with the affliction of the bad wine of last night.’

Brother Dianach sniffed in disapproval.

‘I did warn Brother Eadulf this morning that like does not cure like.’

‘So you did,’ Fidelma replied absently picking at her food. ‘I thought I heard that there was another guest arriving here in the ráth?’

Again Brother Dianach was unresponsive.

‘I have not heard so.’

‘It was another traveller from Ulaidh.’

‘No. You are surely mistaken.’

There was a sound on the stair and Eadulf, pale and wan, came down and, without a word to them, began to prepare some infusion from a small bag of medicines that he usually carried. Fidelma noticed that he did not