Our Lady of Darkness

‘Warriors from Muman!’ The man frowned, as his eyes wandered over them, taking in their manner of clothing and weapons. The tone of his voice was not welcoming. ‘We do not often see your kind in this land these days. Do you come in peace?’

Dego halted on the step below him and scowled. ‘We come seeking your hospitality, Morca. Do you refuse to grant it?’

The ponderous innkeeper stared at him for a moment, trying to recognise him in the shadowy light.

‘You know my name, warrior. How so?’

‘I have often stayed here before. We are an embassy from the King of Cashel to the King of Laigin. I say again, do you refuse us hospitality?’

The innkeeper shrugged indifferently.

‘It is not my place to refuse, especially if the company is so eminent as emissaries from the King of Cashel to my own King. If you seek the hospitality of this inn then you shall have it. Your silver is doubtless as good as any other’s.’

He turned ungraciously, without a further word, and went back into the main room of the inn.

This large room had a fire burning in the hearth at one end. There were several tables at which people sat in various stages of eating and drinking. There was an old man at one end who was strumming a cruit, a small U-shaped harp. No one seemed to be paying any attention to his aimless wandering over the strings. Some of those present were obviously locals who had come to be sociable and drink with their neighbours while others were travellers enjoying an early evening meal. The whisper of ‘warriors of Muman’ had spread rapidly through the room and the assembly fell silent as they entered. Even the harpist hesitated and his fingers became still.

Dego glanced nervously around, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

‘Do you see what I mean, lady?’ he whispered to Fidelma. ‘Thereis antagonism here and we must be wary.’

Fidelma gave him a swift smile of reassurance and led the way to an unoccupied table, setting down her saddle bag before seating herself. Dego, Enda and Aidan followed her example, yet the eyes of the warriors were not still. The score or so of other people remained quiet, watching them surreptitiously. The innkeeper had removed himself to the far side of the room, deliberately ignoring his new guests.

‘Innkeeper!’ Fidelma’s voice cut sharply across the room.

Reluctantly, the burly man came across to them in the icy silence.

‘You seem unwilling to perform your duties under the law.’

The man called Morca was obviously not expecting her belligerent comment. He recovered from his surprise and glowered at her.

‘What does a religieuse know of the laws of innkeepers?’ he sneered.

Fidelma returned his taunt with an even voice. ‘I am a dálaigh, qualified to the level of anruth. Does that answer your question?’

The atmosphere seemed to grow even colder.

Dego’s hand brushed against the hilt of his sword again; his muscles tensed.

Fidelma held the innkeeper’s eyes in her own fiery green orbs like a snake ensnaring a rabbit. The man seemed transfixed. Her voice remained soft and mesmeric.

‘You are obliged to provide us with your services and to do it with good grace. If you do not, you will be deemed guilty of etech; that is refusal to fulfil the obligation placed on you by law. You would then have to pay to each and every one of us the sum of our honour price. If it is deemed that you acted in knowledge and malice towards us, then you could also lose the dire of this inn; it could be destroyed and no compensation need be given you. Do I make the law clear to you, innkeeper?’

The man stood staring at her as if trying to summon his lost voice. Finally, he dropped his eyes from her fiery gaze, shuffled his feet and nodded.

‘I meant no disrespect. The times … the times are difficult.’

‘Times may be difficult but the law is the law and you must obey it,’ she replied. ‘Now, my companions and I want beds for the night and we also want a meal — immediately.’

The man bobbed his head once again, his stance changed to one of anxiety to be of service.

‘It shall be provided at once, Sister. At once.’

He turned, calling for his wife and, as he did so, it seemed to be a signal for the silence to cease and the noise of conversation began again. The plaintive notes of the harp recommenced.

Dego sat back, relaxing with a wan smile.

‘The Laigin certainly have no liking for us, lady.’

Fidelma sighed softly. ‘They are, unfortunately, led, thinking they must obey the prejudices of their young King. However, the law must stand above all.’

The innkeeper’s wife came forward with a smile that seemed slightly artificial. She brought them bowls of stew from a cauldron that had been simmering over the fire. Mead and bread were also provided.

For a while, the four visitors concentrated on their meal, having ridden hard that day and not having paused for a midday repast. It was only after they had eaten their fill and were relaxing with their earthenware mugs of mead that Fidelma began to take more notice of her immediate surroundings and of the other guests in the inn.

The other travellers consisted of a couple of religieux in brown homespun and a small group of merchants. In addition to these were the locals, mostly farmers, and there was a blacksmith enjoying a drink and a chat. Seated at the next table were two farmers engaged in conversation. It was some time before Fidelma realised that their conversation was not the usual farmers’ discourse. She frowned, turning herself slightly to listen more attentively.

‘It is right to make an example of the man. The Saxon stranger merits all he gets,’ one of them was saying.

‘The Saxons have always been a plague to this land, raiding and plundering our ships and coastal settlements,’ the other agreed. ‘Pirates they are and we have been too lenient with them for long enough. A war against the Saxons would bring better profits to Fianamail than a war with Muman.’

One of the farmers suddenly saw that he had caught Fidelma’s attention. He became embarrassed, coughed and stood up.

‘Well, I must be to my bed. I am ploughing the lower field tomorrow.’ He turned and strode from the inn, bidding the innkeeper and his wife a good night.

Fidelma swung round on his companion. He was a younger man and she realised from his garb that he was a shepherd. Oblivious to the reason for his companion’s hurried departure, he was finishing his mead.

Fidelma greeted him with a friendly nod.

‘I overheard you speaking of Saxons,’ she began brightly. ‘Are you having problems with Saxon raiders in this land?’

The shepherd looked nervous at being addressed by a religieuse.

‘The coastal ports of the South-East have suffered many raids by Saxon pirates, Sister,’ he conceded gruffly. ‘I have heard that three trading vessels, one from Gaul, were attacked and sunk off Cahore Point, after being robbed, only a week ago.’

‘Did I understand from your conversation with your friend that one such pirate has been caught?’

The man frowned, as if to recollect the conversation, and then shook his head. ‘Not a pirate exactly. The talk is of a Saxon who murdered a religieuse.’

Fidelma leaned backwards trying not to show the shock on her features. The murder of a religieuse! Surely this was not her Eadulf whom the man was talking about? It was nine days since the news had caught up with her at the coastal port in Iberia. That meant that the crime with which Eadulf had been charged was at least three weeks old. The one thing that concerned Fidelma was that events might have moved rapidly on and she would arrive too late to defend him, even though her brother had sent a message to Fianamail requesting a delay in the proceedings. However, the idea that Eadulf could possibly be involved in the murder of a religieuse was beyond belief.

‘How could he have done such a terrible thing! Do you know the name by which this Saxon was called?’

‘That I do not, Sister. Nor do I wish to. He be just a murdering Saxon dog, that’s all I know or care.’