The Leper's Bell Read online

  Also by Peter Tremayne

  Absolution by Murder

  Shroud for the Archbishop

  Suffer Little Children

  The Subtle Serpent

  The Spider’s Web

  Hemlock at Vespers

  Valley of the Shadow

  The Monk Who Vanished

  Act of Mercy

  Our Lady of Darkness

  Smoke in the Wind

  The Haunted Abbot

  Badger’s Moon

  Whispers of the Dead

  The Leper’s Bell

  An Ensuing Evil and Others

  Master of Souls*

  *forthcoming

  THE LEPER’S

  BELL

  Peter Tremayne

  St. Martin’s Minotaur New York

  THE LEPER’S BELL. Copyright © 2004 by Peter Tremayne. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  ISBN 0-312-32343-3

  EAN 978-0-312-32343-1

  First published in Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing

  A division of Hodder Headline

  First St. Martin’s Minotaur Edition: January 2006

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Pat and Andrew Broadbent:

  the memories of lona will not fade

  nor the special festive hospitality

  of 2003

  … habebit vestimenta dissuta caput nudumos vesta contectum contaminatum ac sordidum se clamabit,

  omnu tempore quo leprosus est et immundus solus extra castra.

  And the leper in whom the plague is, his clothes shall be rent, and his head bare, and he shall put a covering upon his upper lip, and shall cry, Unclean, unclean.

  As long as he has the infection he remains unclean. He must live alone: he must live outside the city.

  Leviticus 13: 45-6

  Principal Characters

  Sister Fidelma of Cashel, a dálaigh or advocate of the law courts of seventh-century Ireland

  Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk, her companion

  At Cashel

  Colgú, king of Muman, Fidelma’s brother

  Finguine, his tanist or heir apparent, cousin to Colgú and Fidelma

  Ségdae, bishop of Imleach

  Brehon Dathal, chief judge of Muman

  Cerball, bard to Colgú

  Capa, commander of the king’s bodyguard, Gobnat’s husband

  Gobnat, sister to the murdered nurse Sárait

  Caol, a warrior of Cashel

  Gormán, a warrior of Cashel

  Conchoille, a woodsman

  Delia, a former prostitute or bé táide

  Bishop Petrán of Cashel

  Brother Conchobar, an apothecary

  Cuirgí

  Cuan three hostage chieftains of the Uí Fidgente

  Crond

  At Ara’s Well

  Aona, the innkeeper

  Adag, his grandson

  Cathalán, a former warrior

  At the abbey of Imleach

  Brother Madagan, the steward

  Brother Buite of Magh Ghlas, leader of the pilgrims

  At Cnoc Loinge

  Fiachrae, the chieftain

  Forindain, a dwarf and leader of the crossan or travelling players

  At Rath na Drínne

  Ferloga, the innkeeper

  At the Well of the Oak Grove

  Conrí, warlord of the Uí Fidgente

  At Sliabh Mis

  Corb, an itinerant herbalist

  Corbnait, his wife

  Uaman, lord of the passes of Sliabh Mis

  Basil Nestorios, a Persian healer

  Ganicca, an old man

  Nessán, a shepherd of Gabhlán

  Muirgen, his wife

  Chapter One

  Amist was rolling down from the upper reaches of the mountains, cascading like a silent smoky-white tide towards the lower slopes, silently shrouding everything in its swift forward motion. Strangely, there appeared to be no wind disturbing the noiseless air, but the mist must have been activated by some cold, soft breath to start its avalanche-like movement.

  The hungry vapour reached and enshrouded Nessán the shepherd as he moved swiftly down the rocky incline, following alongside the path of the frothy river, which rose in the now invisible high peaks above him. As the chilly fingers of the mist swept over him, he halted for a moment to adjust to the sudden change in visibility. Although he was no stranger to these mountains, he was thankful for the guidance of the river at his right hand side, for he knew that it flowed down to the lowlands, north into the sea, and he would not get lost. It had been a foolish thing to do: to venture into these mountains when the changeable weather could not be taken for granted. Many people had paid with their lives for such folly.

  Yet had he really been foolish to ascend the mountains in the first place? He shivered again, though this time not with cold. He had dared the climb, in spite of the condemnation of the New Faith, in order to make supplication to the old gods. He had told no one about his intention, not even his wife Muirgen, even though it was for her that he had taken such a dangerous step as to ignore the priests of Christ.

  He had started his ascent of the mountains at dawn, climbing up by the foaming river and passing the lake, deep, black and still, in the speckled hollow. He had gone on up to the high ridges until he came to the spot where the river rose and then cascaded in a spectacular long waterfall as it began its descent through the lake and down the mountainside. This was the Top of the Three Hollows, Barr Tri gCom, where the ancients claimed that this world and the Otherworld met, where the fate of the five kingdoms had been decided by the gods.

  Nessán the shepherd knew the stories well enough, for the old storytellers had passed them down to his people as they huddled round the flickering fires of their hearths. It was here that the sons of Milidh had fought with the ancient gods and goddesses of the Children of Danu and broken their power, driving them into the hills and relegating them from powerful deities to small, mischievous sprites. But before that had happened, on these same slopes, three goddesses of Danu - Banba, Fódhla and Eire - came to the sons of Milidh and each had made a plea, acknowledging the victory of the sons of Milidh, that their names be given to the land. So it came to pass. While poets often hailed the land of Banba and Fódhla, the ordinary people accepted that they lived in the land of Eire.

  The slopes of these same mountains, according to the ancient storytellers, had been drenched with blood, for the victory of the sons of Milidh was not easily come by. Indeed, on these very slopes fell Scota, daughter of the pharaoh Nectanebus, wife to Milidh, and her druid Uar; Fas, wife to the great hero Uige, who became ruler of Connacht, also perished with her druid Eithiar, and there fell three hundred of the greatest warriors who had followed the sons of Milidh. But in contrast, or so the stories went, there perished ten thousand followers of the Children of Danu, before the battle was conceded to Milidh’s sons.

  Indeed, these misty slopes had been fertilised by the ancient blood of the combatants. However, even that history was not the reason why these mountains were considered forbidding and often avoided by those who dwelt in their shadows.

  It was said that in the time of Cormac the son of Art the Solitary, who was hailed as the 126th High King to rule at Tara, there was an attempt to invade the five kingdoms of Éireann by the army of Dáire Donn, who called himself King of the World. That
formidable force landed on the very shores of the peninsula on which these same mountains rose. Cormac son of Art sent his great general, Fionn Mac Cumhail, and his élite warriors, the Fianna, to meet Dáire Donn. At a place called Fionntragha, the fair strand, by the shores of the sea, Fionn met the invaders and slaughtered every warrior of them.

  Among the army was the daughter of Dáire Donn, a girl named Mis, who came upon her father’s body on the battlefield. She began to drink the blood of his wounds and thus demented fled into the mountains, which took their name Sliabh Mis from her. Here she dwelt in her blood frenzy, killing every animal and human that passed her way and drinking their blood.

  It required great courage for Nessán to brave these bloodstained mountains, but he felt desperate and desperation can give valour even to the most timid.

  So he had ascended to the black waterfall, and, as he had heard his ancestors had done in the centuries before the New Faith arrived on these shores, he had snared a rabbit to make a sacrifice and called upon Dub Essa, the dark lady of the waterfall, to grant his wish. But not by a single sign did he receive an answer. He waited, trying not to show impatience, but he had no wish to spend a night on the upper reaches of the mountain. All was quiet, and eventually he saw the smoky mist rolling in from the sea. After a moment more of indecision, he reluctantly left the waterfall and began to follow the river downwards. He was on the lower slopes when the mist suddenly came down and engulfed him.

  He continued determinedly along the path, hearing the gushing sounds of the river close by, oddly muffled by the mist that encompassed him. Beyond the length of a fertach, some three metres, the mist obscured everything and he concentrated his gaze on the ground immediately at his feet.

  He was descending now to the level path at the foot of the mountains which he would take to the left, away from the river, around the base of the mountains towards his home. He was feeling a sense of relief that he had left the brooding, shrouded peaks behind him.

  A hand bell jangled with a high, strident note in the mist ahead of him. It was a sharp sound even though it was somewhat muffled in the gloom.

  He halted nervously.

  There was a shadow seated by the dark rising trunk of a tree a short distance ahead. He could just make out the form in the swirling mist.

  The hand bell jangled again.

  ‘May the gods look down on you this day, Nessán the shepherd,’ came a high-pitched and curiously singsong voice, its quality not sounding quite human in the distortion of the murkiness.

  Nessán screwed up his eyes to focus better, feeling the same chill as when the mist had first engulfed him.

  ‘Who speaks?’ he replied gruffly, trying to disguise his nervousness.

  ‘I speak,’ came the same voice, with what seemed a parody of a chuckle. The hand bell rang sharply again. ‘Salach! Salach!’ The words were an automatic cry as the shepherd moved closer.

  Nessán took an involuntary pace backwards. ‘Are you a leper?’

  He could not recognise the figure sitting at the bole of the tree because, from head to foot, it was covered in a hooded robe which did not reveal any features or show any flesh apart from one white - almost snow-white - claw that was the hand that held the small bell.

  ‘I am,’ came the response. ‘I think that you know me, Nessán of Gabhlán.’

  Nessán hesitated. A cold fear seized him as he realised who the leper was. Who had not heard of the Lord of the Passes, whose very name was a byword for terror and horror among the surrounding valleys?

  ‘I know you, lord,’ he whispered, ‘but how do you know my name?’

  This time the curious sound that came back through the mist was definitely a chuckle.

  ‘I know many things, for are these not my lands and are you not of my people? Do I not know, Nessán, shepherd of Gabhlán, why you have been up to the Top of the Three Hollows? Do I not know why you have called on the dark lady of the waterfall even though it is forbidden by those who preach the New Faith?’

  Nessán swallowed hard. ‘How do you know these things?’ He tried to sound defensive and demanding but only succeeded in sounding frightened.

  ‘That is not for you to understand, Nessán.’

  ‘What do you want of me, lord? I have done you no harm.’

  This question brought another convulsion of mirth from the seated figure.

  Nessán drew himself up. ‘How do I know that you have the knowledge you claim?’ He suddenly found a degree of defensive courage. ‘You say that you know why I have been in the mountains. Anyone may guess reasons when they see a man descend from these peaks.’

  The hand bell jangled again, as if to silence him.

  ‘I have been sitting waiting for your return along this path, shepherd.’ The voice had taken on a menacing tone. ‘Why did you go and sacrifice a rabbit to the dark lady of the waterfall? I will tell you. A decade has passed since you wed your wife Muirgen. One child has recently been born to you and that stillborn. The midwife has told you that you will never be blessed with a child. Your wife Muirgen still has the milk destined for your dead infant. Muirgen is desperate in her desire for a child and, seeing her longing, witnessing her desperation, you in your turn have become desperate.’

  Nessán stood rooted to the spot, listening to the recital with growing fear. The seated figure seemed to be penetrating his very thoughts.

  ‘Last week, shepherd, you went to pray with Muirgen at the little chapel at the ford of the Imigh. You asked the visiting priest to intercede with the Christ and His Holy Mother. You knew that your supplications and prayers would go unanswered. That is why you have returned to the old ways, the Old Faith. You went to ask Dub Essa to grant that Muirgen would, by some miracle, have a child.’

  Nessán’s head lowered on his chest and his shoulders sagged. He felt like a boy who had been discovered in the act of some misdemeanour and now awaited the inevitable punishment.

  ‘How … how do you know all this?’ It was one last whispered attempt at regaining some self-respect.

  ‘I have said, shepherd, that is not for you to understand. I am lord of these dark valleys and brooding peaks. I am here to tell you what you need to know. Return to your home. You will find that your supplication has fallen on favourable ears. The wish of Muirgen is now granted.’

  Nessán raised his head sharply.

  ‘You mean…?

  ‘Go home. Go back to Gabhlán. You will find a boy child on your doorstep. Do not ask from where or why he has come to you. Let no one know the way he came. Henceforth he shall be your child and you will name him Díoltas. You will raise him as a shepherd on these mountains.’

  Nessán frowned, puzzled.

  ‘Díoltas? Why should an innocent child be named “vengeance”?’

  ‘Do not ask from where or why he has come to you,’ repeated the figure with heavy emphasis. ‘You will be observed and any transgression of these conditions shall be punished. Is this clear in your mind, shepherd?’

  Nessán thought for a moment and then bowed his head again in acceptance. Who was he to argue with the ancient gods, who must surely have heard his prayers and sent this awesome leper as their messenger?

  It is clear,’ he agreed quietly.

  Then go, but tell no one of our meeting. Forget that it was I who answered your prayers. Forget that it was I who bestowed this gift on you but simply remember that you owe me a debt. I may ask you to repay it by some favour one day that may or may not be forthcoming. Until then - go! Go swiftly!’

  Nessán hesitated but a moment more and the figure raised an arm. He saw the dead white flesh and a skeletal finger that pointed into the gloom of the path before him. The shepherd uttered no further word but strode away from the seated figure. He went three or four paces and then some instinct made him glance back into the swirling mist. A breeze had come up and soon the vapour would be dispelled.

  The tree was discernible to his eye but there was no one sitting under it. His mouth agape, Nessán glanced
swiftly round. It seemed that he was alone on the track. A cold feeling tingled at the base of his neck. Turning, he began to move hurriedly along the path towards his home, his mouth dry, his face hot and sweaty with the fear that had come over him.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Brother Eadulf, the king is expecting you.’

  Capa, the warrior who commanded the king of Muman’s bodyguard, greeted the Saxon monk as he entered the antechamber to the king’s apartments in the ancient palace of Cashel. He was a tall, handsome man with fair hair and blue eyes and wore his golden necklet of office with an unconscious pride. But he did not smile in greeting as the sad-faced religieux made his way across the reception room. Neither did the several dignitaries who stood waiting in ones and twos to be called into the king’s presence. They all knew Brother Eadulf but now they dropped their eyes and no one made any attempt to greet him. Eadulf seemed too preoccupied to notice them.

  Capa moved to a tall oak door, tapped discreetly on it and then, without waiting for a response, threw it open.

  ‘Go straight in, Brother Eadulf,’ he instructed in a soft tone, as if he were issuing a condolence.

  Brother Eadulf crossed the threshold and the door closed silently behind him.

  Colgú, king of Muman, a young man with red, burnished hair, was standing before a great hearth in which a log fire crackled. He stood, feet apart, hands behind his back. His face was grave. As Brother Eadulf entered the room, the young man came forward with hands outstretched to greet him. There was anxiety on his features and his green eyes, which usually danced with merriment, appeared pale and dead.

  ‘Come in, Eadulf,’ he said, gripping the Saxon’s hand in both his own. ‘Come in, be seated. Do not stand on ceremony. How is my sister?’ The words came out all in one breathless rush.

  Brother Eadulf gestured a little helplessly by letting his shoulders slump as he took the seat indicated by the king.